#thinking about how this must feel like awful history repeating for saint

[fukiana]

DESTINY 2: LIGHTFALL (2023) dev. Bungie

[arrivisting]

wip amnesty: versailles

Did anyone else watch Versailles?

[crickets, probably]

I loved the first season of that show. The WIGS. The DRAMA. The GILT. It helped a lot that @gofuckinggentle and I watched the first season together in Paris, after a day-trip to Versailles, and in the after-throes of Les Mis/George Blagden passion. It was tremendous fun: the right show at the right place, at the right time, with the right person (<3). Season two was a tragic waste of potential and made me furious, and season three was unwatchable. But I adored season one - it was just the right mix of silliness, EMOTION, history, and fake history. I went off the deep end reading Bourbon history and began a lot of stories set after season one (and then season two happened and murdered them). Here is one:

We're leaving, Philippe said to the Chevalier, and we’re never coming back. He meant it at the time.

There are different types of wounds. Philippe’s no doctor, but he saw enough of them on the field to know; some you live through, and some you don’t. Some heal clean, without needing much fussing. Others need hot iron or tar to stop the bleeding. Still others fester, musket-holes where fragments of grapeshot, mud, and cloth linger; unexpected scratches that suddenly belch pus when you press on the hot and heated skin.

You die fast, or you die slow, or you get better.

At Saint-Cloud, Philippe gives orders to open up only his rooms, and then, after a moment’s thought, the kitchens.

“Are we not planning to entertain?” the Chevalier asks. “Silly me, I packed silk, not sackcloth and ashes.” When Philippe stares at him, appalled, he shrugs. “We’re expecting the king, aren’t we? Sooner or later.”

“I’m in mourning. Tell him I don’t want to see him.”

“That won’t work.”

“I won’t see him.”

“You’ll have to,” the Chevalier says. “I mean, for the funeral–”

“I won’t see him,” Philippe shouts. He shuts his eyes for a moment. When he speaks again, he’s in control of himself. “I only want to see you.”

The Chevalier blinks, then smolders at him. The effect is more affected than genuine, but that’s what Philippe wants from him right now. “Ah. Shall we christen the place, then, my love?”

Around them servants – his servants, not Louis’ - have been opening the shutters, removing the holland covers from the furniture, bringing in armfuls of new linen. They’re all not looking at him so pointedly it feels like he’s being stuck with pins. Someone he pays to attend to the niceties has begun hanging black cloth over the mirrors. Philippe should care about the example he’s setting.

“Take off your coat,” he says, and the room clears. Eventually.

-

Louis doesn’t come to Saint-Cloud. Which is a pity, really. Philippe would have liked to bar him from his rooms with pikesmen. They could see how he likes it.

“You wouldn’t,” the Chevalier says, languidly amused. The way he says it sounds like he’s saying you should.

“I wouldn’t,” Philippe agrees, giving it just the same intonation.

“You should order your mourning clothes,” the Chevalier adds, like he thinks Philippe won’t take offense if he slips it into the conversation in the same careless tone.

“We’re not discussing that.”

 “But you like new clothing–”

Philippe says nothing, but he takes the Chevalier’s chin in his fingers and pulls his face close like he might kiss him just to shut him up. Then he tightens his hold until the Chevalier’s smirk turns into a grimace. “We’re not discussing that.”

“We’re not discussing that,” the Chevalier repeats, and when Philippe lets his grip relax he shakes his head, tossing his long blond curls over his shoulder. After a moment, for effect, he gets to his feet, brushing invisible dust off his cuffs in the way that means he’s piqued and he wants Philippe to know it.

Well, the dust could be real. Saint-Cloud has been shut up for months while the court festered at Versailles in the marshes. Philippe will allow him the benefit of the doubt this time.

“All the same,” the Chevalier says softly. When he speaks that low, Philippe is allowed to pretend not to hear him, and the Chevalier to pretend not to have spoken. “You will need to do something, my darling.”

-

Louis doesn’t come to Saint-Cloud, because he’s too awful to give Philippe the satisfaction of having his entrance barred, or to suffer the displeasure of crooking his little finger and not having Philippe obey. Instead, because Louis is awful, he sends Bontemps himself, and two royal heralds in most stiff and ancient costumes, little portraits of Louis set around their necks.

“Oh,” the Chevalier says, sucking in his breath with intent. “How charming.”

Philippe batts his nose fondly, like he’s chastening a lapdog. “Shall I get you one for your birthday?”

“A necklace, or...?”

“I prefer the one on the left, don’t you? I know how you feel about redheads.”

“Your highness,” Bontemps says, sounding and looking pained and disappointed. Luckily, Philippe doesn’t share Louis’s transparent yearning for a father-figure, so it has no effect on him. If he’s wished that Louis had some similar need for a brother – well, that’s the past, and he left that behind at Versailles. “His majesty wishes you to know that the funeral of Madame will be held this Sunday. You are expected.”

“I am busy,” Philippe says, and gestures at his surroundings like they speak for his overwhelming state of preoccupation.

Bontemps glances at the lake – calm as a mill-pond, a clear mirror for a clear sky – and at the chateau – shut up like an abandoned property, or a house under siege, a house in mourning – and at the Chevalier, who wiggles two fingers at him.

He says, “You must attend, your highness.”

“I must do nothing, unless my brother commands me. Does he command me?”

He wouldn’t dare.

“He does,” Bontemps says.

-

The journey to Paris is miserable. Philippe only manages to vent a little of his spleen by loudly ordering Cosnac to expect his return to Saint-Cloud within the next week. Bontemps, block of wood that he is, doesn’t change expression, but he manages to radiate the tranquil assumption that as soon as Philippe is back in Louis’s orbit, his plans will change.

If Philippe has to spend the next two hours shut up in a landau with his brother’s valet, he’s going to stab someone. “And it might be you,” he tells the Chevalier, who has started exuding an irritating smugness that his sotto voce avocations about the need for action have been proved correct. If he has to spend that two hours with the pair of them, bouncing over the ruts in the dry, cracking road with the Chevalier fondling his knee and Bontemps staring straight ahead, he’ll definitely arrive in Paris in more of a murdering mood than a burying one. “I’m riding.”

“Don’t you think you’re arriving under enough of a disadvantage without arriving in dishabille?”

Philippe ignores him.

-

His thighs are burning by the time they reach the Palais Royal. He’s dusty, the pervasive white dust of the road thick on his boots, but it’s not like he’s going to be receiving in these clothes, in any case. The guards at the Palais are wearing black. He’s going to need to outfit his own men properly. He should have done it at Saint-Cloud.

He hadn’t wanted to bring death into the house where he and Henriette had been young. That’s no excuse for ignoring etiquette.

“My rooms,” he says curtly over his shoulder, tossing the reins of his horse to a waiting groom in the second courtyard. Louis isn’t there to greet him.

He should have draped the damn horse in black; he should have ridden in with a black cloak that covered its hindquarters, a black feather in his hat as long as his arm, and a face nearly as long. That’s what everyone expects from him. Drama.

“Of course, your highness,” the waiting equerry says. Philippe doesn’t know him. Versailles has sucked up all the best personnel from the residences, the way it’s sucked up all the money from Louis’s coffers, all the freedom from France. “My condolences, Monsieur.”

It’s better that Philippe doesn’t know him; doesn’t know any of the bowing black-clad guards and servants and maids he passes as he stalks down the familiar corridors to his own suite. They’d been young here too, once.

 There are white lilies and roses in clusters in their accustomed vases in the first of his rooms. Philippe stops dead for a moment.

They’re fresh; cut this morning, from the perfection of their petals. Their scent hangs heavy in the air, spring itself despite the late summer outside. It’s sweet and thick, and so familiar his throat closes for a moment and his fist clenches on the flower he’d reached out to touch, crushing it.

Did someone have them put out on purpose? For a moment, Philippe wonders. A mourning lady-in-waiting who’d admired his wife, perhaps.

Louis?

He shakes his head, angry at himself for the thought. It’s an order Henriette gave with a decisive clap of her hands a decade ago, and never revoked. Part of the pattern of this place, the pattern they all follow, weaving something greater together. The court hasn’t been at the Palais-Royal since his mother died, but the curtains are still drawn open and closed each day by the staff that remain, in case Louis should come: the gardens cared for, the flowers placed in his rooms as part of the usual preparation for Monsieur’s residence.

-

“There you are,” the Chevalier says, sounding aggrieved. “Do you know, I had to be quite firm with the guard on your doors before they would let me pass? You shouldn’t have ridden ahead like that and left the poor old fellow and I in your dust – Oh, good, you’ve found something suitable.”

Philippe turns around. The long black train of his mantle swirls around his ankles. “I’m being thrifty,” he says, the word in his mouth an unpleasant thing. “Am I quite out of fashion?”

The Chevalier smiles. “You look magnificent,” he says, and touches Philippe’s cheek with a fingertip. He smells like musk and ambergris, the scent of him usually enough to make Philippe’s stomach warm, his cock stir. Strong, powerful. Male. “Down to your shoe buckles. Jet?”

“Black diamonds,” Philippe says, giving him an appalled glance for the suggestion. “Oh, of course; you weren’t here for Mother’s funeral.”

“This is what you wore then?”

“I didn’t have time to order new clothes,” Philippe says, and the Chevalier glances at him, but forbears to mention the past three weeks at Saint-Cloud, enough time to turn out a full trousseau for even the least endowed of heiresses. “That will have to be attended to. There will be –” he swallows – “Ceremonies. Formal visits of condolence from members of the family, dignitaries of the court.”

“And then the funeral,” the Chevalier says. His eyes have gone soft, honey-hazel, salt-caramel. Henriette’s eyes were darker. 

“And then the funeral,” Philippe says, and closes his eyes. Admitting that feels like one of Louis’s victories; a humiliating defeat. A painful thing, lodging in his throat like a stone. It was easier in Saint-Cloud to pretend that Henriette was still at Versailles, where he left her. Alive, only in the next room. He doesn’t want the Chevalier to look at him like that.

“I’ll be by your side,” the Chevalier says, and his voice has gone soft, too. Gentle. It’s not a common tone for him, although he’s not incapable of careless kindness when it suits him. Genuine tenderness is rarer still.

“I shouldn’t have brought you,” Philippe says, and opens his eyes. “You can’t be by my side. Not for this.”

The Chevalier looks like he’s been slapped. “Philippe –”

“We have to be serious. I have to be serious.”

“I only want to help–”

“You can’t.” Philippe smiles, unhappily. “This time is for family.”

“God help you, then,” the Chevalier says, in a tone Philippe's more familiar with, and takes a step back.

-

Henriette is dead. His wife died in Louis’s bed, the way she lived, choking on black bile and her own blood and then the air itself, thick with the smell of lilies.

-

As soon as Philippe is officially in residence, the visits begin. They continue with monotonous regularity for the next three days. Philippe is scrupulously well-behaved with most of the useless courtiers, lies rolling around their mouths like marble. There are a few who look genuinely sorry. He’s icily, regally Bourbon with the ambassadors from Spain and from Venice and from Genoa, from the German princelings and Scandinavias. With the cardinal from Rome. He’s a little less well-behaved with the two-tongued lying bastard from the Netherlands who condoles with him, saying how the stories of Madame's beauty and grace gone before her; what a loss she must be to France!

"She is a great loss to me," Philippe says. "She had already brought the greatest possible glory to France."

 "Truly, your highness," the Dutchman says, and turns the sweaty colour of one of his pale cheeses. Philippe can only hope that he reports the conversation to his master verbatim. If William of Orange doesn't understand his meaning now, he'll understand it soon. 

"Philippe," the Queen says, and kisses his cheek. Of course she looks good in mourning. She's Spanish. She's at her most comfortable in a black mantilla and clutching a crucifix. 

Marie-Therese fills the formal role of queen admirably in court ceremonials, but she draws back her dignified skirts from the day-to-day of the court, the theatricals and the dances and the back-biting. It was Henriette's responsibility to be the female energy of the court, at the heart of each banquet, dancing the lead of each masque and court ballet. Louis overflows with meaning, produces it in excess, and one wife alone isn't enough to channel it for him, to fill all roles female for France the way Louis fills all male roles.

It'll be the Montespan's job, soon, if Philippe knows his brother - and he does. The women themselves are interchangeable to Louis. The work goes on.

"Sister," Philippe says, and kisses her cheek in turn. The lace of her veil is gritty under his lips. 

Marie-Therese regards him soberly when he draws back. She doesn't like him. Philippe's always known that she doesn't approve of him, even before she made it clear in the regency conseil chamber.

She looks tired. Her face is drawn more tightly than usual, her dark eyes heavy. It would touch Philippe, if he thought it was truly for Henriette. "My husband sends his regards."

"Funny, then, that he sends them through you," Philippe says.

Marie-Therese stares at him. People think Louis has poise, but he's easy enough to upset if you know his weak places and aren't afraid to put your fingers in them - which, in all fairness, most people are. Louis has nothing on his wife. "He has been otherwise engaged."

"I do believe I could put money on just how he's been engaging himself," Philippe says. "How is dear Athénaïs?"

"She is well," Marie-Therese says. "And the Chevalier de Lorraine?"

 "Prostrate with grief."

"Henriette is a great loss." 

"It was her left side," Philippe says. "I was trying to help. It was her left."

Marie-Therese’s face, still and regal as a wooden Madonna, doesn’t change. He can’t read in her face whether she believes him or not. He wants to shake her until a real emotion comes out. “It’s in God’s hands now.”

“You of all people should know better than to confuse the king with God,” he says.

-

 “Your highness,” Masson says. Her hands are clutched behind her back. She really is absurdly plain, brown from the sun and strained from whatever books she spends her time on. The male attire makes her look plainer. “Monsieur.”

There’s some kind of irony in the fact that Louis has made a pet of this girl dressed in boy’s clothing, but treats Philippe with such colossal scorn over his female finery. What’s her actual name? He can’t ask her that. Louis has forbidden it. The king states she is a man, and – voila! She is a man.  “Monsieur Masson.”

“I wanted to tell you how sorry I am.” Her eyes are earnest and blue in her simple face. Far too earnest for Louis’s court. “The damage done by the poison was simply too much. I wished so much – but I did all that could be done for her highness.”

“I’m sure you did,” Philippe says lightly. He holds his hand out to her to be kissed and looks pointedly to his left. “I thank you for your service.”

She doesn’t move.

Honestly.

“Etiquette,” Philippe says, “for male members of the King’s household, states that you go to one knee when dismissed by a son of France, mutter ‘It was my honor, your highness,’ kiss my rings, and get to your feet in one smooth motion. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Come now.”

“I came to make my report to you,” the boy-girl says, hands still clenched behind her. “About Madame la Duchesse’s death.”

“I was there. I know what happened.”

“Yes, your highness,” Masson says. Her eyes are still too sorry. He remembers them from that night.

What a horrid, intimate vigil it had been.

Henriette’s left hand in his, her blood gurgling in her throat; Louis on the other side of the bed, holding her right. She’d reached for him first, of course. Philippe had been the afterthought, her gesture to him the last attempt in a lifetime to balance the equation belatedly.

“You left the court after her highness’s death -"

 “I was there while she was alive.”

“Yes, your highness. What I meant is that you were not there to receive my report on her death.”

“You report to Louis.”

“I must also report to you.”

“Well, that’s a new line,” Philippe says. He recrosses his legs, one gleaming shin in its black silk stocking replacing its partner in the ascendant. “I assume he told you to come here today. When is my dear brother planning to make his own sympathy call?”

Masson says nothing. What can someone outside their particular knot of Bourbon blood and loyalty and fear say? It’s best to say nothing at all. Philippe would approve, if he didn’t read her adamant loyalty to Louis into her strained face.

Louis trusts her. How unfair that she seems to be worthy of it.

 “Well?”

 “I conducted the autopsy on Madame la Duchesse, on the king’s orders. The stomach was flooded with a fermented bile, and the organs of the abdominal cavity were in an advanced state of gangrene –”

“Stop,” Philippe says. 

He’s going to be sick. The room swims. His shoe-buckles glisten up at him, the dark diamonds in their silver settings performing marvelous feats of multiplication, dividing into twos and fours and eights.

Masson is holding his arm and saying, “Keep your head low, your highness. Take a full breath. And another. Do you have any scent?”

He needs her to stop touching him. No wonder she came into his apartments with her hands behind her back. Those hands had cut Henriette apart and opened her for study, had exposed the shadowy places in her heart, the secrets and the sadness. 

Masson’s advice helps, and after a few lungfuls Philippe has a hold on himself enough to wave her aside. “Finish your report. It was poison?”

“Antimony,” Masson says. She’s still too close, still watching him as though he’s her patient, but she drops back into her report. “As we had suspected, but my tests have now confirmed it. She would have felt pain in her right, your highness, as well as her left. I could not have saved her once the poison was ingested.” That helps, somewhat; and not at all. “That is my private report, known to the king and the queen, and to Marchal and Louvois. His majesty has had it given out that her highness died of a colic in an attack of cholera morbus.”

“Of course he has.” Louis can’t be blamed for it if Henriette died a natural death. “He sent you to tell me this.”

“He wished you to know.”

“How thoughtful of him.”

Masson is still looking at him with earnest, diagnostic eyes. Philippe offers his hand again, in distance and in dismissal, and this time she manages an almost acceptable bow before leaving.

-

[reynauldapologist]

Beau + 99? Or maybe Vvulf + 17? 🤔

@nandashibs i did both! hope that’s okay :) also, i’m seriously beginning to think that you’re a psychic. how the hell did you know which songs would fit them the best??

apologies for any weird formatting or typos. i wrote all of this on my phone. putting it under a readmore bc this got a bit long.

Beau - Bloody Mary by Lady Gaga

(for anyone who’s unfamiliar, Beauregard is a HWM oc from one of my fics)

Hieromania, but make it silly:

Love is just a history that they may prove

And when you're gone, I'll tell them my religion's you.

Beauregard felt like he was breaking in. He knew he wasn’t - the Sisters had made it clear that the abbey was open to all, at any hour - but he couldn’t help but feel as though he was invading a sacred place, tainting it with his mere presence. It didn’t help that he had decided to visit so late at night. He’d been in churches before, sure, but the small stone chapel of his childhood seemed almost blasphemous next to this lofty place.

Big fluted pillars and a ribbed ceiling stretched above him, so high that the light from the fluttering lanterns posted at regular intervals along the walls couldn’t reach it. His breath caught in his throat. Small. He felt so small. Like a mouse scuttering along beneath a moonless night sky, waiting for the harsh scrape of an owl’s talons against his back. The altar rose at the end of the sanctuary, old and opulent, surrounded by hordes of lit candles, framed by blood-red tapestries. Beauregard crept forwards, hardly daring to breathe, unsure of what he even meant to do there. Statues of saints lined the small alcoves between the grand stained glass windows. Some wept, some stretched their hands out like beggars, some clutched at weapons, and others cradled their dismembered body parts.

Beauregard shivered. How could anyone relax in a place like this?

A door squeaked open at the end of one of the transepts. Beauregard stopped, frozen, crouched low before he could think of what he was doing. He slunk down one of the rows, as silent as a shadow scudding across an open field.

Great. As if you didn’t already look like a robber…

Heavy footsteps coming closer. His eyes darted around the sanctuary, searching for a more permanent hiding place. They fell on a statue of a man without a right hand and a knife in his left. If there was space behind it...

A shadow stretched along the far wall, made grotesque by the weak lighting.

It’s now or never!

He slipped into the gap between the statue and the alcove. It was a tight fit, and it was dusty, but it was doable. His nose was less than a hair’s breadth away from the back of the statue’s neck and his arms were twisted oddly to account for its form. Awfully intimate…

The footsteps echoed strangely off of the stone walls, making it difficult for him to pinpoint exactly where they were heading. Beauregard focused on his breathing. Slow and steady, in and out through the mouth. Beauregard couldn’t see what was happening around the statue’s head. Surely it was just the abbot, or one of the Sisters, there to check on the candles… No worshippers came here this late. Right?

Wrong.

The footsteps stopped. Directly in front of his alcove. Out of all of the alcoves in the abbey...

Now, Beauregard was certain that the Light must truly exist. There was no other explanation for such a cruel joke.

The rustle of clothes. A deep sigh.

“O Saint Dismas…”

Beauregard knew that voice.It was Reynauld, the old crusader.

...Saint Dismas?

“...patron of repentant thieves, I humbly beseech thee for thine guidance.”

Beauregard’s nose began to itch.

No. Oh, gods, no. Please.

“I have faltered once again. Forgive me for my weakness, my repeated transgressions.”

His eyes were watering. His mouth was opening.

I’ll do anything. I’ll convert. I’ll become a monk. I’ll never so much as glance at a tavern again, please, don’t let me-

“I have taken-“

“AH-CHOO!”

It was like he had fired off his flintlock. The sneeze echoed for far longer than it had any right to. The silence that followed was deafening.

Light, if you’re out there, have mercy and strike me down now.

As the seconds trickled by and it became clear that Death would not be paying him a visit anytime soon, Beauregard forced himself to break the silence.

“I…er...” Beauregard swallowed. “...forgive you?”

“Beauregard? Is that you?”

“Who’s asking?”

Another heavy sigh. A groan and a rustle of clothes as Reynauld got to his feet.

“Come out, lad.”

“A-Alright, listen, I can explain-“

“Now.”

Beauregard disentangled himself from the statue. Reynauld had his arms crossed over his chest and a severe expression on his face. Beauregard ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck.

“What are you doing?”

“I… Well, y’see, I was on a walk anyways, and it’s awful cold out there, and windy too, and I thought-“

Reynauld held up a hand. Beauregard shut his mouth.

“No. What are you doing hiding behind Saint Dismas?”

“Uh… I was… Trying to get closer to the Saints?”

Reynauld stared at him. Beauregard hunched his shoulders, ready for a lecture.

Reynauld started to say something, paused, and cleared his throat. He let out something like a rolling grunt, his shoulders bobbing up and down.

He was… laughing? Beauregard relaxed and allowed himself a cautious smile. Reynauld shook his head and covered his eyes, little hints of teeth peeking out between his bristly beard. He inhaled sharply, then broke out into full laughter, leaning his head back. It bounced off the walls, low and hearty, but cracked around the edges, as though his throat was unused to making the sound.

Beauregard chuckled along, equal parts relieved to have avoided being chastised and delighted by this new side of Reynauld.

“It’s an unorthodox form of worship,” Reynauld said, still grinning, “but better than nothing.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your prayer. I just… I heard someone coming and I… panicked.”

“All is forgiven.”

“I’ll… um... leave you to it.”

“Are you headed back to the barracks?”

Beauregard nodded.

“I’ll accompany you. My heart no longer feels so heavy. Contrition can wait until the morning.”

As they left the abbey together, Beauregard turned over the statue in his mind. What an odd coincidence. Had Dismas’s parents named him after the saint on purpose? Who would name their child after a mutilated man who oversaw thieves?

“Reynauld?”

“Hm?”

“Who was Saint Dismas?” he asked, slipping his hands into his pockets. The cold air nipped at his cheeks.

“Oh, that’s quite a story,” Reynauld replied. “One best told in front of a roaring fire, I think.”

—

Vvulf - Take You Back (The Iron Hoof) by Orville Peck

uh oh it’s self-indulgent modern au time 😳

I've been around this world and now everything's a bore

I don't know that much, but I know about keeping score

And if there's one thing I know for sure

It'd be a long cold day in Hell when I take you back

“I knew you’d come crawlin’ back.” Vvulf blew smoke out through his nostrils. It formed a hazy wreath around his face. He leaned back in the ratty chair. “Sure as the sun rises…”

Dismas was sweating. And not just because he was stuck in the cramped, windowless backroom of a bar, in the dead of a sticky summer night, with a man nearly twice his size. It was one thing practicing his speech in front of a warped motel mirror, it was another thing entirely to face the real thing. He sucked in stale air between his teeth.

“I’m not crawlin’.” Desperate for something to do with his hands, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his leather jacket. He flicked it open and pushed one between his lips.

Vvulf smiled, cool and thin. Dismas repressed a shiver.

“Bit late for pride, ain’t it?”

Dismas lit his cigarette with trembling hands. He puffed on it slow to get it going. He sucked down a burning lungful, held it, then blew it out of the corner of his mouth.

“I didn’t have to come here, y’know.” A lie. He wouldn’t be here if he had any other choice. “I’m doin’ this as a favor to you.”

“A favor to me?” All traces of humor left his face. “You got a lotta nerve showing your face around here and talkin’ like that, boy.”

Boy. Dismas bit back a snicker. He was pushing forty.

Dismas shrugged. “If you don’t wanna hear what I got to say, fine. It’s your damn funeral.”

“What do you want?” Vvulf tapped ash off the end of his cigarette.

“You could stop puttin’ hits out on me. That’d be a start.”

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about...”

Dismas raised his eyebrows.

“...but I’ll see what I can do.”

Dismas nodded. Alright. He might actually swing this.

“That all?”

Here we go.

“I want protection,” he said plainly. Beating around the bush would just make Vvulf angry, and even less likely to grant his request. “He’s after me, too.”

Vvulf stared at him. Then he laughed. Harsh and mocking and gravelly. Like hail drumming against a tin roof. Sweat trickled down Dismas’s back.

“Don’t act like I ain’t ever put my neck out for you,” Dismas said, raising his voice to be heard over Vvulf’s laughter. “I’m just askin’ to borrow a safehouse for a couple weeks, until all this blows over, that’s it.”

“You got some serious balls on you, boy, I’ll give you that.” Vvulf took a hard drag off of his cigarette. He spewed the smoke at Dismas. “You dumb son of a bitch. What makes you think you’re leavin’ here alive at all?”

Dismas’s gut hardened. This had been a mistake. But what other choice had he had? It was either this or give up the ghost and turn himself in at the nearest police station. Anything was better than getting collared by the Widowmaker. He eyed the door over Vvulf’s shoulder. His gun weighed heavy at his hip.

“Now, here’s how I see this playin’ out.” Vvulf batted aside his denim vest, exposing a holstered pistol. “You can either tell me everything you know right now, and I’ll end things quick, or I could take you out back to the shed and get you nice and acquainted with a car battery, and then you tell me everything you know. Right before I gut you like a pig.”

“You know… Neither of those options are all that appealin’ to me.” Dismas shifted in his seat. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken Vvulf head-on in a fight. In a tight space like this, though, he didn’t like his chances.

“I had a feelin’ you’d say that. Which is why, as an acknowledgment of our long history together, I’ll open up a third option.” He grinned. “Just for you.”

Dismas clenched his jaw. He should’ve expected something like this…

“On one condition.” Vvulf stubbed his cigarette out on the sole of his boot. “You gotta beg for it.”

“Go to hell.

“After you.”

[suckmysupernatural]

Sunshine - Chapter 5

Series Masterlist

Word Count: 1810

Pairing: Sam x OC Sunny

Series Summary: The Winchesters meet a cheerful hunter named Sunny, who quickly captures Sam’s attention. Little do any of them know what lies in store when Sunny gets invited to join the brothers. Who can say how Sam, Dean, and Sunny will be some training days, a handful of hunts, romantic dates, a kidnapping, and one vengeful demon later.

Chapter Summary: Sunny and the Winchesters find a case.

Warnings: language

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“Hey, Sunny. We found a case. You want to come?” Sam offered as he walked into the library. Sunny had been immersed in a book of zombie lore but hearing the word ‘case’ caught her attention. 

“Yes! Yeah, yes yes!” Sunny answered excitedly. Sam laughed, nodding.

“Okay, we leave in 10. Pack for a few days,” Sam said. He left to go to the kitchen, leaving Sunny to hustle to her room. She grabbed her empty duffel bag from under the bed, shoving some clothes into the bag. She made sure to put a mix of hunting clothes and a couple of nicer outfits in case they went undercover. Sunny walked up to her nightstand, looking fondly at the photos that sat there. 

“I’ll see you guys later,” she smiled, kissing two of her fingers before touching each photo. This was a ritual that Sunny had set in place soon after her family had died. While she knew that her family was gone for good, she couldn’t help but talk to them sometimes. There were times when she would just talk to her sister about the hot guy at the bar or telling her dad a joke. It brought Sunny comfort. 

Reaching the Impala, she saw Dean on the driver’s side, waiting for her and Sam. Sunny looked around for Sam, but he must still be packing. Laughing to herself, she hopped into the passenger seat for the first time. Dean looked over and laughed.

“Sammy won’t be happy about this,” Dean pointed out. 

“Well, now he gets the pleasure of staring at me the whole trip,” Sunny winked. It was then that Sam walked into the garage. He approached the passenger side and stopped, surprised to see his seat taken. Sunny rolled the window down, looking up at him. “Hello, can I help you?” 

“Wow,” Sam said in mock offense, “how dare you.” Sunny giggled as Sam made his way into the backseat. Dean turned to face his brother, one arm resting on the back of the bench seat. 

“Www-chhhhh,” Dean mimicked the motion of a whip. Sunny gave Dean a small shove, trying to hide a laugh. Sam simply rolled his eyes at his brother’s teasing. He was used to it. Dean turned to face forward, reversing the car out of the garage. Sunny bent down to pick up the Impala’s cassette collection. She looked through the titles, smiling when she found one that had been shoved to the bottom. She slid it into the player and turned up the volume.

It didn’t take long for the familiar upbeat electric guitar to flow through the car’s speakers. Dean was already speeding down the road but the music broke his focus. He whipped his head to look at Sunny as the lyrics started.

What I want, you've got 

But it might be hard to handle

Like the flame that burns the -

Before the first verse could even finish, Dean pressed the eject button. He kept eye contact with Sunny as he rolled down the window, grabbed the cassette, and chucked it out of the car. 

“Dean -” Sunny started to complain but was quickly interrupted.

“NO HALL & OATES IN BABY,” Dean yelled. He reached into the box of tapes, pulling one out at random. Soon the tunes of AC/DC filled the car. Sam and Sunny sat in shock at first before bursting into laughter. Dean quickly joined them, chuckling as he continued onto the highway. 

“Okay, so what is the case boys?” Sunny asked, her eyes shifting between the brothers. 

“Blair, Nebraska. We already have six bodies waiting for us in the city’s morgue. They have all been brutally murdered, some were stabbed while others had their neck snapped.” Sam explained.

“Couldn’t this just be a serial killer?” Sunny asked. 

“At first, it looked that way. But for a couple of the victims, their families have described a rotten egg smell in the home. One had even been visited by an electrician that morning after complaining that the lights in her home had been flickering even after replacing the light bulbs,” Sam gave a knowing look at Sunny.

“So we’ve got ourselves a demon,” Sunny said.

“Yep, one with an anger management problem it seems.” 

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The drive to Blair, Nebraska was relatively short. Within four hours they had arrived at the city’s only motel. It was small, with only about a dozen rooms. The three checked in, only getting one room. Sam and Sunny had discussed it and decided to share a bed on hunting trips. They weren’t sharing one back at the bunker, but Sam felt better knowing that Sunny was in the same room when there was a dangerous monster roaming about. He knew that she was an incredible hunter, maybe even better than him, but didn’t want to take the risk. That was fine by Sunny as she liked knowing that Sam was safe as well. 

Going into the room, they all quickly changed into their FBI gear. They were all wearing suits by the time they had climbed back into the Impala. Sunny wasn’t a big fan of her gray pantsuit, wishing she could wear something brighter instead; she knew that neutral colors were best if she wanted to be taken seriously. 

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“Please tell me that you guys got some info on this demon,” Dean groaned as he flopped onto the motel bed. They had decided early on to split up, each covering two of the victim’s families. Each hunter got barely any information that could lead to the motive behind these murders. None of them had any major successes within the last ten years, so a demon deal was quickly eliminated from the list. 

“So I have a pediatric surgeon who recently gave a pro bono surgery to a child with cancer and a high school football coach with a nicotine addiction and a tendency to sleep with cheerleaders,” Sunny told the boys. 

“The older woman, Marge, volunteered at her church and had a book club. I also met the very distraught mother of the dead teenager. He was constantly in trouble and his browsing history was filled with porn,” Sam stated. Dean raised his eyebrows in approval at the mention of the teen’s pornography habits.

“I got the woman that ran the non-profit and knit caps for newborn babies and a man who had a bad gambling debt. Like 100,000 dollars worth of debt,” Dean said dully. There wasn’t much to go on and the boys thought that they had hit a roadblock. That was until Sunny spoke up.

“Wait guys, I think I found a pattern. We have three women who were giving and kind, amazing people. Then we have three guys that are on the bad side of things,” Sunny said. The boys’ faces lit up in understanding. 

“So, sinners and saints?” Sam asked, looking at the other two. 

“It’s weird but we’ve seen weirder,” Dean pointed out. Sam nodded in agreement.

“So tomorrow, we just research what? Awesome women and shitty men?” Sam asked.

“Sounds hard to narrow down,” Sunny laughed. Both of the brothers looked at her as if they were deeply offended. It didn’t last long, with both guys agreeing. The three of them got ready for bed, deciding to call it a night. They had been working all day and tomorrow would likely be the same.

Dean fell asleep quickly, his snores filling the motel room. The sound was like a white noise machine was playing so Sunny and Sam weren’t bothered by it. It wasn’t long until they were also in deep sleep, their cuddling keeping them warm throughout the night.

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

“Rise and Shine, lovers!” Dean yelled out from the foot of the bed that Sam and Sunny were sharing. They both groaned at the older brother, Sam throwing a pillow at him. “Hey, Woah. Is that any way to treat the man who got you coffee?”

Sam shot out of bed, quickly grabbing the cup from Dean’s hand. The brothers both shared a slight caffeine addiction, using coffee to get through the day. Sunny, on the other hand, often preferred tea. Dean had remembered that fact and handed her a cup of Earl Grey.

“Thanks, Dean,” Sunny inhaled the enticing aroma. Dean sat down on his bed, looking at the other two hunters.

“So, how do we find the next victims?” Dean asked. It was a question that none of them truly knew the answer to. 

“Um… maybe we can just ask around town? See what the gossip is?” Sunny offered. She wished that there was something more concrete, but this was all they had at the moment. 

“Yeah, I guess. I’ll check out the police station, see if they have any repeat offenders,” Dean said. 

“Okay, Sunny and I will look for some do-gooders,” Sam shrugged. Dean nodded, going to the bathroom to get ready. It didn’t take long, putting on the fed suit once again because he was going to the police station. Sunny and Sam, on the other hand, got to dress casually. Sunny was glad to leave behind the pantsuit, trading it in for a light blue, knee-length sundress with buttons down the front and pockets. 

“Wow, you are beautiful,” Sam said at the sight of her. She could feel a blush crawling up her cheeks as she gave him a large grin.

“Why, thank you,” Sunny gave a small curtsy. Sam laughed, offering his hand for her to take. The two, now hand-in-hand, left the motel room to walk towards the town’s center. The city was small so they would be fine without a car. In fact, Sunny found it rather enjoyable. The sun was shining down on them, the slight breeze keeping them from overheating. 

It was difficult to focus on the case at hand as both were distracted by one another. Sam couldn’t think of a time that he was this happy. Looking down at her, he couldn’t believe his luck. Her eyes were closed, letting the sun wash over her face and trusting Sam to guide her. He was in awe of Sunny, how she takes something as small as the sun on her face and lets it fill her with joy. Her eyes fluttered open to meet Sam’s.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing, I was just thinking about how I am the luckiest man alive,” Sam said matter-of-factly. Sunny let out a giggle that made his heart skip a beat.

“Okay, Mr. Luck. We gotta focus up, finish this case and I’ll show you just how lucky you are,” Sunny winked and gave his hand a squeeze. Sam’s eyebrows raised, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. 

“Let’s get to work then,” Sam said with determination as he increased his pace. Sunny laughed as she attempted to catch up with him and his long legs.

Chapter 6 ->

[vide0-nasties]

on the alabaster stones

2.9k words, arthur morgan/f!oc, sfw: arthur morgan and wildwood bordelon prepare for their ramshackle, spur-of-the-moment wedding. spoiler-heavy, specifically for chapter 5: saint denis and on.

It’s a funeral as much as a wedding, Wildwood straightening his collar-length hair pushing it from his face. Her eyes are bloodshot, brimming, and she sniffles and sighs in effort to keep herself composed.

Her hands shake, and Arthur is sorry for it. He catches them and kisses them when he can. When she tucks a yellow wildflower into the breast pocket on his vest. When she tucks a purple one behind his ear. He brings her knuckles to his lips, and speaks against her skin without meeting her eyes, “Actin’ like you’re laying me out for burial, Perdie.”

Calls her by the name her mother kept gentle in her cupped hands. Snags her, tugs the thread of history between them to still her hands and catch her eyes.

“I’m makin’ peace being your widow,” she tells him, voice deep and dark as the bottom of a dry well. Her skin is pink under the evening sun, her freckles a pretty chestnut against it all. “There’s coming a fuckin’ reckoning, and chances are I won’t get to bury you. I want to do you right, even if it’s right now.”

He’s dying—by bullet or his vengeful lungs—and he’s leaving her behind. The way things are going—the way she is acting—he will go first, but she won’t be trailing far behind him.

The train station is off a ways, Monroe and Calderón farther away from it then they are now. Arthur’s chest burns through every searing breath. He is being very careful now not to cough near her. He will not damn her if he can help it.

He worries for her, for everyone, but for her especially. Now, and in the future. He does not want her to be alone. Gets too sharp when she’s alone too long.

Her hands smell green from picking flowers, smell like gun oil and cordite from the shootout.

“I want you to go with John and Abigail after,” he says. “Take our horses, go do something decent.”

She gives him an empty look, as if she wants to fight him on this, just can’t figure out how. There’s been two plans ever since the return from Guarma and the diagnosis, forking in the road where he either lives or dies. The fork where he lives gets dimmer and more overgrown, less navigable with time and every mounting tragedy and fuck-up.

“It’s all our faults,” she sighs instead, letting him hold her hand to his chest, rubbing the side her thumb his own. “We all done killed ourselves, sprintin’ blind into the darkness, tryin’ to chase an endless summer that never existed.”

“Yeah, we just about did,” he agrees. Every death was senseless, every death was brought upon themselves. Greed and wantonness and recklessness. And now they’re almost all too far gone to escape the sink.

He worries. He worries.

“Are you going to be okay?” Part of him regrets asking. Part of him wants to hurt, the part that sees Wood for how low she’s been cast.

Thin and gaunt in her dirty shirt, wearing boots stolen off a soldier’s corpse, her rust-colored hair shorn shorter than any of them’s ever seen, and her seams literally fraying. The once rich embroidery on the lapels of her vest comes unsewn, blurring and ruining the original detail of the work. They used to be dripping poppies and willow switches on plum corduroy. Now it is a field of loose silk threads.

Her right eye, blind and milky, surrounded by angry, red scars that have yet to settle into her skin.

“I’m gonna live, even if it ain’t gonna be a happy life,” she admits. “It’s a bridge to burn if I reach it.”

Arthur can’t stand the defeat weighing her upper body down, like her arms and shoulders are too heavy to lift. Wood has never been accused of being an optimist, but she’d never faced her death with ‘when’ or 'if,’ only a faint, morbid curiosity. As if death was a thing that happened only to other people, and she was sure ponderous how life leaving the body felt.

A concept in the abstract. An animal’s understanding.

The first words he’d ever heard from her were screamed with the deepest offense he’d ever heard taken. “YOU can’t kill ME!” screeched almost eighteen years ago at the chicken-necked sheriff escorting her to the hanging rope for attempted murder, grand larceny, and horse theft. Disgusted that this lowly little lawman thought he could get his hands on her pelt for a trophy.

Little no-named outlaw. They all were, back then. Bunch of losers and wash-outs and orphans stuck on an ideal. Still are, in a way.

And, ah, fuck, it gets him laughing. She was pretty lamb-necked back then, herself, and the horse she’d stolen liked to eat meat and was renamed for the equine prince of hell.

“Perdie, we’re blowing up the bridge,” he says, feigning wide-eyed ignorance and misunderstanding in the face of her confusion. “I mean, if you wanna come with me and Johnny, all’s you gotta do is ask.”

He can only grin when her blank look slides fast into a sneer, trying half-heartedly to take her hand back. “Fais  pas ça! Arrête ça—bastard, little boy-child, tryin'a make a fool of me,” she tries to snap through her cackling. Even with her crows feet, even with the elastic lines hugging her mouth, she looks so young. He wishes things had happened differently.

He squeezes her hand, takes a step forward, then another, following her insincere retreat. “Never—I wouldn’t never,” he protests, reaching for her other arm as he smears a mockery of contrition over his expression.

“Enough, couillon,” she snorts, wearing her dimple and missing tooth out for his benefit. She swats away his arm without sting and sighs. Looks a little less close to crying. “Got a cleaner shirt in your saddlebag? And a dabber? Want this blood of my face, me.”

Finally, he lets go of her, but she tangles their fingers for the duration of their slow fall. “Sure, something’s clean enough. That blue one, I think, but it's  better torn up for rags.”

“Love that shirt.”

“I know you do. Wouldn’t surprise me none if you wore it til it fell apart on your back.”

Wood mutters to herself in that French of hers—the Cajun kind she spoke before she knew English, that she forgot with the blow to the head that turned her like spun-dime heads-or-tails from Perdita to Wildwood, and learned again—as she strips out of her layers. With her vest, shirt, and chemise thrown over the seat of his saddle, he gets a good look at the livid bruises cropping up on her ribs and the points of her hips.

But he refocuses—he knows he’s not a specimen of health, himself, right now—and concentrates on the ocean of freckles that turn her shoulders and elbows orange-brown, and that he knows her knees are almost as colorful. He concentrates on his shirt sliding over her arms, down her torso, too-too big but comfortable, and how he thinks she looks fine and lovely in that shade of blue.

He reminds himself to make sure that shirt is in her saddlebag if he feels like the end-all-be-all shit is about to go down. His buck skin jacket, too. Whatever he owns is hers, anyway.

“Hey, Wood?” he calls, using his thumb nail to scratch his adam’s apple, then drops his hand to his gun belt. When she looks over her shoulder—her left, now always her left—he shifts his weight and does his damnedest to make eye contact, though he ends up looking at her feet like a chastised dog. “I love you, is all. Just wanted to say that.”

“…I know you do, Arthur Morgan. I love you, too. Got a powerful love on for you."  

"Still don’t understand why,” he chuckles, a little bittersweet, “but I guess I’m luckier for your poor judgement.”

He can hear the frown in her voice, all the scars left on her through the years, “Ain’t neither'a us been loved any right kinda way, cher.”

If he tries to swallow that sentiment, he will choke to death on it. Too big, too many sharp edges. But fortune continues to favor him, because she  finishes up doing her borrowed buttons and does an about-face, hands on her hips. “You got them rings, boug?”

He does, and pats his satchel to show her. Pleased enough, she motions him closer, wetting an old bandana with water from her canteen. When he’s close enough to feel the warmth come off his Fox Trotter, smell the soap oil off her tack, he loads his repeater and shotgun back into the saddle scabbards. He pushes out of his shotgun coat after he’s slung the satchel’s strap over the saddle horn, layers it over Wood’s clothes already on the seat.

“Aw, Penny, thank you,” he croons, scratching her croup over her meaty haunches, watching her chew the bit and let her head droop. “Get treated like a clothesline and still actin’ like a proper lady.”

“She’s a good lil pony,” Wood agrees, “makes me feel awful for still missin’ Boadicea.”

“Penny ain’t little,” he says, half-offended, letting Wood strip him of his gloves and roll his shirtsleeves to the elbow. “Ain’t no pony either.”

Wood carefully takes the flower from behind his ear and flicks it back into the grass waving and rolling around their shins, maybe having decided she no longer preferred it, and keeps his hair pushed back with one hand as she begins to wipe the grime from his forehead.

The water is cool against his face, and, without his layers, he can feel the breeze that much better against his skin. He tries to keep from thinking about the way his body just look, how his face must look—bone and gristle and bruises and nothing else—feeling goosebumps prickle over his forearms.

“I know,” Wood hums. “Just miss Boadi, is all. Big ol’ beef steak, lazy as all kinds'a hell. But that’s just 'cause you spoiled her big ass. That’s your bad habit: spoilin’ things what love you, not disciplinin’ things what love you.”

“I…I dunno.” He can’t accuse her of being wrong. Boadicae had been fat and happy and slow until hell broke loose and he had to call on her for action, then she would drop her head and go to work like the devil’d lit a fire under her belly. Even Copper had never learned sit, drop, or stay, but he’d been loyal and unceasingly soft-mouthed and docile.

Isaac…

Arthur almost retreats from the memory. He’d seen so little of the boy through his short life. It felt wrong to tell him no for any reason. Eliza told him it made her feel like a villain when he showed up with a pack of chocolate bars and picture books and whatever little somethings had caught his eye. She hadn’t been unkind about it, either.

Said it with a peeved sort of fondness that told the intrusion was easily tolerated—even a little welcomed—because it would be forgotten a few days after he made himself gone again.

But, hell, even with Wood, he’d gone and inundated her in their new, short time. A saddle from the trapper, an Algernon Wasp hat and a corset, jewelry. Paid for their Saint Denis dinners, bought her ammo and a Litchfield repeater. He loves her, he needs her to know that, and he can’t figure a way to show better.

But she gave it back. Reciprocated. Cooked for him, took him dancing, killed them that tried to kill him first. Held him and made room for him and roared to silence rooms for his voice to be heard. Touched him and gentled him and tugged him outta the dark when he’d wanted to stay there.

She stole him a horse, one of the best he’s ever had.

The wind hits his face and dries to cool, clean sheen on his skin, making him shiver. It picks up his hair, and Wood’s, and in the dying light they both look a little golden.

She opens the collar of his shirt to clean his neck and chest, then moves to his forearms and hands. She pays extra attention to his fingers, the nail beds.

“What was I? Probably nineteen or twenty, when I told you I loved you that first time?”

“Yeah. 'Bout right. Made me that nice dinner.” Salmon seared in cast iron, crispy and drowning in butter and fresh pepper and lemon grass.

“Just askin’, 'cause I’d been sitting around with this picture of you in my head. Been down around Wyoming, saw that wild little scrub pony while we was getting, I dunno, something for camp. All hushed, you told me to watch, and you just walked right up to her, all slow and quiet. Started petting her, had her eating from your hand.”

He doesn’t remember that. They’re’ve been so many horses since then, wild or otherwise. It makes him ache he can’t remember her memory.

“It just crushed me. I never fell in love like that. And you looked a lot like you do now, with the sun going down behind your hair, giving you a halo. Like you one'a them saints in the cathedral glass, or like Mary holding a lamb.”

She sighs and wrings out the bandana, satisfied enough with his cleanliness. “Was always something holy 'bout you. Above and below and the middle of the world’s rot and distemper. Thought you were meant and due a different life than this the one we got.”

She re-wets the bandana and cleans herself up, with only a fraction of the gentleness she’d used on him. It is quick, and efficient, and if he sees her hands work over the quarter of her face with the blind eye a little rougher, a little more fearful, he says nothing.

“Uh, one night,” he starts, not understanding where he wants to go with this confession, “you were dancing with Dee, after he got you carrying Louis. And then you lost Louis not much later, and Dee left…I loved you, and I was real angry at the world for a long time about that happening to you. I was angry at myself. If I hadn’t left you that first time, you might not’ve been hurt like that.”

Already sober and sad, it gets worse. She’s dressing him for burial and marriage, both. Doing it now because she might not get to later. “You keep losing people, Wood. It ain’t right.”

“I have them a little while before I lose them. This life is short, and at the end of it there ain’t nothing but a dreamless dark-everlasting. Rather taste ash than nothin’ at all.”

Arthur feels a finality in those words, a hammer cocked on a pistol, aimed down at some un-bowed head. Rather taste ash than nothing at all. Looking back at a wreckage of a life, and pinpointing glitter of better times in the debris.

“I hate that I didn’t marry you the day we met,” he laughs, shaking his head.

“Would’ve been hard, what with that rope on my neck, and all them bullets flying. Y'all boys always knew how to brew a shitstorm,” she snorts back. “And, 'sides, we’re jumpin’ the broom now. Better late, et cet'ra.”

Speak of the devil, and he doth appear, or the saying goes, and Wood roots through his satchel to retrieve the little silk bag with their rings. Cleaned and refitted by a jeweler in Saint Denis, briefly abandoned during the catacylsmic exodus to Guarma, and used through the years in countless scams, they were familiar and, frankly, worth as much as a tin nickel outside of sentiment.

But they were emblematic, and they are theirs. Cheap yellow gold, fitted with that fraudulent hunk of green glass Margaret had passed off for a priceless emerald, polished to a spit-shine. History, old and new, something she could hopefully wear both pieces of after the inevitable comes to pass.

They marry as the sun dips fat and slow below the horizon, with only a mouthful of promises passed between them. They kiss, and they kiss, and they keep kissing, pressed close and shivering against each other’s bodies.

It makes Arthur hope and hurt and want to see the world that comes after this private apocalypse. The one where guns are put in the ground, where they spend their lives decently, atoning for the blood they cannot possibly wash from their hands.

Where the dreamless dark-everlasting is met with him hand-in-hand with the woman he’d spent his life with, and not kneeling head un-bowed facing down the barrel of divine retribution’s revolver.

“The world gonna remember the good you left in it, Arthur,” Wildwood Morgan tells him, her arms wrapped tight around his waist, “I’m thankful for having seen you rise into it.”

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Sun Myung Moon visits Hearst Street, Berkeley, Jan 1, 1976

extract from:

Crazy for God: The nightmare of cult life by Christopher Edwards

Every year, on January 1, the Family celebrated God’s Day. As December drew to a close. Family members whispered and giggled at the expectation of dressing up like adults. Perhaps Omma [Onni Durst] would even let us sleep a few extra hours that night.

I was living full-time in Oakland now with the deli crew, a Family sister named Jennifer, and Dr. Durst’s kids, whom I tutored and fathered when not working on the school project or at the deli. Since Dr. Durst and Omma were the True Parents for all us needy adults in the group, they did not have time to see their own children by Dr. Durst’s previous marriage. In fact, Omma considered these kids so fallen and satanic that she showed disgust when forced to touch them.

On the eve of God’s Day, I zoomed up into the parking lot at Hearst Street—as the lot filled with white vans unloading their troopers.

…

At a nudge by Omma, Oppa exclaimed:

“We have a special surprise for you. We have just received word that Father has flown into Berkeley to visit us on this most special occasion. For the next few hours you must fall into your work crews. Center men will receive instructions from me. Now, everybody lock arms and let’s have a big choo-choo!”

Four hundred voices resounded through the crowded house: “CHOO-CHOO-CHOO, CHOO-CHOO-CHOO, CHOO-CHOO-CHOO. YAY, YAY—POW!”

The morning of Father’s arrival dawned bright and beautiful. San Francisco Bay sparkled in the distance. Mail trucks rattled through the empty Berkeley streets, picking up their bundles at the blue sidewalk boxes. We heavenly children were exhausted. After polishing doorknobs, hanging new curtains, moving Father’s ornate furniture from storage into the living room, we were allowed to nap briefly, then awakened to prepare for the arrival of the Master. Despite my excitement at the chance to see Father in the flesh, I desperately hoped that some way, somehow, I could get another few minutes of sleep.

At the sound of the whistle, everyone jumped with a start. A watchful brother guarding the door popped his head into the hallway, shouting, “Father’s here! Father’s here!”

Omma and Oppa descended from their private bedroom to welcome the glorious Messiah and his retinue. Christine blew the whistle again, and brothers and sisters assembled in rows and columns. Christine started the chant to summon the spirit world. “Glory to Heaven, Peace on Earth, Glory to Heaven, Peace on Earth, Glory to Heaven, Peace on Earth…” The bells in the nearby church tolled six o’clock as two immense limousines pulled up to the entrance of the mansion. Guards in black suits jumped out of the vehicles, speedily opening back doors. Out of the first limousine stepped a short, squat Korean with sparse black strands of hair fringing his smooth, round head. The guards immediately bowed and shut the doors. Several other distinguished-looking Orientals climbed out of the remaining cars.

The man we called our Father marched briskly up the stairs and through the doorway. He rushed down the hall, passing me and the others in line, and burst into the living room as though he owned the entire world. Thirty paces behind him followed his sad-eyed fragile wife. They sat down together at Father’s Table, magnificently laid with silver goblets, Lenox china, and the finest Waterford crystal, which gleamed in the morning sunlight.

The atmosphere was electric. I had never seen Father before, but he seemed much smaller and much harder-looking than I had ever imagined. I marveled at my great fortune. Here I was living at the most crucial moment in history, in the center of the richest, most progressive nation on earth, face to face with the most important man in the history of the universe. As the Family stood at attention, the Messiah sipped silently from his glass, surveying the crowd with indifference.

The room was circled by guards, huge Asians and Europeans in black suits, well drilled in the martial arts. The doors were locked, the windows tightly shut. Christine shouted, “Bow!” and we complied, all four hundred of us simultaneously inclining from the waist for Father. Christine shouted, “Down!” and we immediately sank to our knees, dropping our heads three times for the Master.

The Messiah continued to sip his drink as his faithful translator. Colonel Pak, a former Korean military leader who carried himself like a polished diplomat, stepped up to the microphone. He addressed us softly, saying something like this:

“How fortunate you are that Father has agreed to talk to you today. He wants to tell you he loves you in spite of your fallen nature and even Heavenly Father loves you because you work so hard for him. And now, Master speaks!”

Reverend Moon pushed back his chair and stepped up to the microphone beside his translator. The crowd, sitting in rows, applauded wildly, and everybody rose on their knees to get a better look at their Messiah. The chunky Korean began to scream at the top of his lungs, pausing intermittently for his translator to interpret. I looked on in wonder as Father danced across the room, ranting and yelling. Colonel Pak spoke, and I remember hearing:

“Father asks you what you expect to see in the Messiah. Father wants you to know that he is human, too. Father wants you to know that even he goes to the bathroom. Have you ever thought that the Messiah is that human?”

The crowd cheered and laughed wildly.

“Father says you can be sure that he’s the Messiah because God made him the handsomest man on earth.” The children chuckled. Moon beamed.…

“Now, Father is very tired. He has been praying all night for you, so he has decided he will not speak to you today. You don’t mind, do you?” Pak asked mischievously.

“No, no, let him speak!” we shouted in unison. “We love Father, we love Father… !”

Moon clasped his hands and shouted something in Korean, smiling at us all the while. Colonel Pak translated: “Father loves you so much that he feels he must speak to you. He is willing to sacrifice his meal and sleep for you. God will surely judge you for this, so stay awake and listen to his word. If sleep spirits attack you, you must fight them off.”

Colonel Pak paused, and Father continued to speak, chopping the air with violent strokes, slashing at spirits, wrestling with invisible demons, throwing out kung-fu punches. We watched him with awe and delight. He suddenly twisted around, pulled Pak’s lapels, shook him, pretended to punch the colonel in the abdomen, then pushed his faithful translator away. Pak smoothed his hair and pushed at the bridge of his black-frame glasses, addressing the crowd in broken English.

“Father says that this room is filled with demons. Because his spiritual eyes are open to spirit world, he can see Jesus, Moses, Buddha, and all the sages of East and West struggling, fighting evil spirits trying to gain access to this room. Father explains that this is why he ordered the doors and windows shut. Higher spirits can penetrate windows and walls, but lower spirits cannot. Father tells us that we must keep fighting, for Satan himself is in this room, directing all the evil spirits of the universe.”

Colonel Pak raised his arms and shouted, “Repeat after me: SMASH OUT SATAN! SMASH OUT SATAN! We must drive the demons away.” The crowd screamed their response.

The Messiah leaped into the air, then barreled across the room, waving his arms, shouting in Korean, socking at evil spirits. Once again Colonel Pak translated the Master’s words as I sat spellbound. The words went something like this:

“Tonight I have important news for you. Because of my struggles in spirit world and the success of the Unification Church, a new dimension of spirit world has opened up for us. Good spirits have won many battles against evil spirits. As a result Heavenly Father has cleared a path for more good spirits to act on the physical plane, especially in the political sphere. We call this spiritual path the Principality of Air. Now more than ever, good spirits can work through you in flower-selling and witnessing, in fact in all your spiritual work. You will be successful, thanks to me, Father, and of course, Heavenly Father. Of all the saints and prophets sent by God, I am the most successful.”

The Messiah continued speaking, praising himself and repeating the standard gospel of the Divine Principle, which I had heard from Durst so often, pausing only for Colonel Pak’s translation. Two hours into the lecture I began to feel dizzy, drugged. My stomach was churning and I wondered how much longer I could last. My face burned with heat, and I was suddenly drowsy. Satan must be attacking me! Sleep spirits were attacking me! I must fight them off, for they want to prevent me from hearing the Messiah. My eyes started drooping until the lids finally shut. If only I had a safety pin like other Family members … then I could jab myself to stay awake and really show that snake, Satan!

The Messiah’s face swam before me as I fought my exhaustion. Was this really happening to me? I suddenly wondered. Was this really God’s special agent, my newfound spiritual father, the Lord of Creation and the center of the universe?

How could I love a man I didn’t even know? I asked myself dizzily. I was constantly being told about all he had done for me, but what had that actually been? Who was this man who claimed to be the Messiah, whose mind was one with God’s, this man who wanted to rule the world? Oh, my God. Of course! Satan was attacking me. He was planting evil doubts in my mind. He was destroying my faith. …

As the Master talked on and on, Oppa shifted nervously in his seat, clearly uncomfortable in this panel of holy ones. He nodded from time to time as though he could understand the prophet based on his sparse knowledge of Korean, the Mother Tongue of the Universe. I wondered what his colleagues in the English Department would think if they could see him now. Did they know that the most important American in our history was the same man who taught remedial spelling to their struggling freshmen?

I turned my attention back to Father, as Pak translated. Father was saying something about how he was planting spies in the Soviet Union, how we are steeped in world war, and how it is time for us to build the final phase of the material foundation. I heard him unveil his world plan, frightening us by telling us that God had given him only five more years to win the war. Five more years! If America did not accept the Unification Church, if everybody did not follow Father, God would then leave America once and for all.

I sat dumbfounded. God would leave America and never return? I recalled all the hushed conversations Family members had had with me over the past six months, these prophets telling me that men would crawl like animals over the earth for a thousand years as Satan’s slaves if Father didn’t win. I remembered discussing with older brothers our fantasies about fighting and dying for God, my dream of climbing into a cockpit, decked out in Unification Church army uniform, waving good-bye to my sisters of the Church as I left. Tears came to my eyes as I thought about how many times I had failed God, thinking of sleep in my exhaustion, looking at food during my three-day fasts—oh, my selfishness!

As Father told of his political plans for this country, I was ashamed of how I had doubted former President Nixon as Father came to his aid during Watergate, placing ads in major newspapers for Nixon, sending hundreds of Moonies to fast on the Capitol steps for three days and march with “God Loves Nixon” signs. I thought of how we Americans had persecuted this man even after Father declared him to be God’s choice for America. I thought of Father’s plans to take over New York City, as an older brother had told me once, and I thought of all my tired friends who had been promised they would become senators after only a few more years of grueling flower-selling. I thought of all the political work my brothers and sisters were doing in Washington, Christine and Omma’s secret missions to the Orient, lavish lunches with political power brokers in the Bay Area, rumors of Joey’s plans to run for mayor of Oakland—even talk that God would appoint Dr. Durst as the next President.

And suddenly it was all so clear. God did have a plan and only Father knew it. All we had to do was follow Father— that was it—that was all! The world was turning to Father for help and all the seeds that had been planted would soon be ready. We were buying up land, we were growing, one worldwide Family, and we were already millions strong— millions strong! Father had a timetable for everything, and if we worked, if we worked just a little bit harder … “Push us. Father,” I whispered. “Push us…”

Father began to scream, blood pumping madly through his swollen cheeks. Colonel Pak shouted:

“Heavenly Father will win! Heavenly Father will win! Heavenly Father will win! Repeat it after me!”

“Heavenly Father will win! Heavenly Father will win! Heavenly Father will win!” brothers and sisters shouted in unison. Father stepped back and sat down on the sofa. As he dabbed at his shiny forehead. Colonel Pak spoke once more: “Father is very tired. He has talked for four hours without stopping, showing you his love and heavenly determination. But Father remembers that you love him, too, and Father will show his father’s love now. He has promised to sing you a song, a heavenly song.”

We screamed with joy, jumping up and down with excitement. Father gulped from a glass, then returned to the microphone, slicking back his sparse threads of hair. His fatherly smile melted my doubtful heart. He really loved me. That’s why he was here; that’s why he had spoken. I had been yearning for this fatherly love for so many years.

Father began a simple Korean folk tune. The audience listened breathlessly, young women swooning and sighing. We softly rocked back and forth on our knees in time to the song, our faces beaming, each of us hoping to catch Father’s eye. At the end of the final verse. Father reached toward the sky with his massive hands and gave a shrill Korean yodel. He then sank back in his chair, smiling benignly at his children.

The crowd went wild, whistling, screaming, shouting, waving arms. Tears of joy streamed down our faces as we prayed to Heavenly Father in gratitude. Every heart in the room was touched with Father’s love. Imagine, the Messiah serving me by singing a song just for me! How unworthy I felt of this grace, this blessing from God.

The Master rose, approached the microphone, and shouted a Korean prayer through the crackling, electric air. At the end of each phrase, he paused, and the audience screamed fervently. “Yes, Father,” or “Yes, Heavenly Father.” After about ten minutes of prayer, the Master fell silent. We rubbed our aching necks and looked up at him. Father turned on his heel and headed full speed toward the front door, flanked by his bodyguards and followed by his entourage.

While younger brothers and sisters stood around in the main hall, overwhelmed by the Master’s performance, the older leaders ran out the door and jumped down the steps as the Korean Messiah entered his limo.

“Father, Father, Father, come back! We love you, Father,” we shouted like six-year-olds saying good-bye to their traveling dad after a weekend of ice cream and baseball games, hide-and-seek and hot dogs.

The gleaming cars proceeded down Hearst Street toward the airport, as Father headed off for a secret destination to rest and recover.

We pressed our faces against the front window, crying that our Messiah had left us and hoping that God would bless him on this, the world’s most important mission.

______________________________________________

The full story:

Crazy for God: The nightmare of cult life by Christopher Edwards

Building the “material foundation” for Sun Myung Moon

Boonville’s Japanese origins

Moonwebs by Josh Freed

Life Among the Moonies by Deanna Durham

Mitchell was lucky – he got away from the Unification Church

[elastigirl72]

Day 24 and 25

71km to go

Day 24, 25 and 26: Trikala>Lamia>Thiva

Thiva: 18:43

The sun came out! Three days ago, I gifted my overshoes to Kastoria. Two days, Trikala’s Airbnb owner now has a beautiful pair of threadbare, elasticity long gone Castelli leg warmers, and has no idea of the significance of this gift. This is a cyclist’s version of a striptease...which can also and was performed on the move in the last few days: the jacket, the arm warmers and then a few miles later, the leg warmers.

It was the first morning I left without having consider any layering choices. I felt an awful lot lighter after being charged €8 for two cappuccinos, and I found a bike shop who pumped up my tyres and sent me on my way with a new inner tube after my puncture set bounced off somewhere in the previous day’s ride. Maybe Hades horrors got THAT close. Enjoy, you savages!

Greece has really surprised me, in a multitude of ways. Firstly, it’s people. I know a few Greeks. In fact, Dmitri who is married to Katherine and currently looking after my house and dog, Nyla (how dogs should be) is from Corinthe. He and the other Greek seem lovely. However, here, if I’m totally honest, on the whole, appear to have a serious attitude problem or a chip on their shoulder. You’ll get what you need from them, but blimey, they won’t make it easy! And on the whole, everything they do for you seems to be a massive chore; they tend to look decidedly pissed off! Yet, despite this, I quite like them. It’s like they don’t really give a hoot what anyone else thinks about them. You’ll do things their way or you’ll go without. Is it because of the long and deep Greek tragedies and history that floods its many mountains and plains? I thought that Italians were expressive, which they are. But Greeks don’t want to be expressive but if you push them, you’ll probably see the wrong kind of expressive!

Take for example, the owner of the hotel I’m in right now. The pool is not in use, it’s in the middle of nowhere and whilst it’s clean, so is a travelodge or Premier Inn, but none typically have atmosphere and are extremely functional. Bed, check in, restaurant and bar if you’re lucky. As I rested for the first time by the lovely looking pool on this trip, the owner came over to speak to me declaring his position as if I should congratulate him. And then proceeded to try and get me to cancel my booking.com booking, drive up to the cash point with him in order to pay cash and get a €10 discount for the most expensive and overpriced hotel for the whole 25 days to date. After telling him I’d think it over for while, and the hassle of getting in a car to go to get cash, and concerned that cancelling the booking after the cancellation period had passed with the possibility of double payment and no recourse, I told him it’s not worth it. I’d also be charged a currency fee for the withdrawal (I haven’t mentioned it, but a few days ago, in supposed trusted company, I was set up and pickpocketed. That in itself was genius how it was staged. Luckily they only got away with coins from 8 different countries and my international card. But that has made the cash process a little tricky). Mr owner, who clearly thought very highly of his negotiation skills, stating Booking.com make billions, and me being a seasoned traveller must play the system all the time. Am I missing a trick here? Maybe, but after much insistence after his persistence, he got the message. But this is my experience of Greeks.

Moving to the cycling. I’d been warned by said Greeks that Greek drivers were about the worst you could find. Be careful, I was warned. The roads are very busy and Greeks don’t deal with cyclists at all well. This really set me up to see Greece as a country I needed to get through to get to Athens and the end of my cross-continent adventure. The truth is I have been totally amazed. It has been, day after day, the best cycling I’ve done anywhere in Europe, including Spain and France. Not only are the drivers considerate, stop and wait at intersections for the cyclist to pass, they indicate, pull out, wait, and many toot and wave encouragement. The roads are empty, generally in great condition and all around, the scenery continuously draws you in. The culture is rich, untouched. I saw my first living snake on one road, the same road I saw many geckos between Kastoria and Trikala. The sides of the roads are dressed with millions of poppies, Aloe Vera, cacti, hemp, olive trees. I’m yet to reach Athens but I haven’t once felt unsafe due to traffic. Wild dogs, yes. I’d rather not repeat those.

Both Lamia and Kastoria were gems on an unplanned route. I don’t feel like seeing Thiva as I’m full of hay fever and possibly a cold, so am uninspired. It does have an interesting past though and was an important as a city and in Greek mythology. But I’m very happy here in my apartment away from everywhere: the calm before the storm, returning to relative reality tomorrow.

I don’t know why this area for cyclists seems to be so undiscovered, but I’m so glad I made the decision to come inland. The coast will undoubtedly be much busier than this incredible, mountainous and flat landscape from Albania to Athens. I couldn’t be happier on my bike than I’ve been for the past four days.😊. The balance of vistas for this trip have been perfect: mainland, coast and now mountains. That pretty much covers it! I later hear from Mr Owner as he reluctantly demanded my card payment as he saw me sat on my balcony because he wasn’t there in the morning, that 30 Hungarian cyclists were arriving the next day. For them it’s a short flight away. They’re obviously in on this secret nirvana that is Greece.

The days have rolled by and here I am, one ride away from Athens. I’m still focused, but also excited. 71km till I pack up my bike, having dipped my feet and maybe even swum in the Aegean in the last few miles of my Odyssey...surely that is classed as a transcontinental bike ride? 😃.

Packing away my winter gear, my shorts and t-shirt for the last time, throwing away all the bits and pieces I no longer need, and counting the hours...one more sleep and Athens...

26 days have past

24 days of cycling (excluding the abandoned day after 10 miles)

11 countries

6 currencies

3414km recorded cycling (2133 miles)

27,345m ascent (climbing)

1 backpack and frame bag - weight 4kg

I train ride (not included in mileage) to avoid snow

Two ferries - English Channel and 500m at Montenegro

Crossed the Severn, English Channel, past the Mediterranean And Adriatic Seas...

Days in order of awesomeness:

1 Librazhd>Kastoria

2 Lamia>Thiva

3 Trikala>Lamia

4 Senj>Zadar

5 Shkoder>Librazhd

The four least enjoyable:

1 Como>Garda - weather and traffic

2 Bellinzona>Como - weather and traffic

3 Venice>Trieste - weather

4 Neum>Herceg Novi - traffic

Favourite people by country:

Albanian

Bosnian

Montenegrin

Croatian

Italian

English

French

Greek

Swiss

Best hospitality: Albania then Bosnia

Best meal: Albania then Greece

Best weather: Greece

Biggest surprise country: equal Albania and Greece

Favourite city: Split

Best hotel: Calais and Albania

Least favourite city: Saint Quentin

Hardest day: Venice - abandoning for the day and the following day prospect of another abandoned day

Favourite person: the elderly cafe owner in Albania

Best vista: over Lake Ohrie, Albania

12 May: 0656 - Thiva

The day has arrived, and still, with only 71km to go, I’m not 100% certain I’ll make it to Athens! I guess I will believe it and relax once I walk into the hotel, and ask for my bike box. Having received an overweight charge relating to my box apparently weighing 67kg heavier than the maximum for my shipping cost (which is 27kg and having weighed it before booking, know it’s actually 19kg), I am expecting to find an adult size stowaway inside. So the very first thing I will be doing on receipt is asking a member of staff to hold my phone and video me opening it as evidence to send to UPS, who will otherwise pursue an additional £146 shipping cost. I tell you this as I don’t want you to fall into the same cunning trap.

A fellow cyclist, Steve, currently pedalling through France, shared this lovely insight with me after I’d shared the view of the Aegean Sea af Lamia’s castle. Around 10k from me, I could have by rights, pedalled over, dipped my toe in the water and got aboard the nearest train to Athens. But didn’t! Steve shared this: In Xenophon’s Anabasis when the 10,000 Greek soldiers saw the Mediterranean after there march out of Persia they shouted for joy Thálatta! Thálatta! The sea The Sea! They knew they were home.

I haven’t got that excited yet, but I’ve placed my Sainsbury’s order...Istanbul tomorrow...by plane 😊

The bells have chimed outside, I’ve eaten two cereal bars, a banana and half a pint of milk for breakfast and I will be hauling my knackered, ageing body on to the bike just one more time here, for up to 3 hours...and then it’s done...hopefully! See you in Athens 😃

[rosylipsandcheeks]

Compassion and Suffering: The Redemption of Rodion Raskolnikov

I am a huge fan of the character of Kylo Ren/Ben Solo. I’ve been thinking about my favourite literary human disasters and their fates. Dostoyevsky’s Rodion Raskolnikov is high up in my ranking of protagonists so broken, so misguided, and so lost. Both Star Wars and Crime & Punishment carry a message that “It’s not too late [to make amends and choose the path of good]” and “No one’s ever really gone”. Thus this fan of both compiled the post below :)

A cursory knowledge of the plot and themes of the novel and its context is really handy, I encourage you to click through these if you never heard about C&P before (I provide a morsel of that under the cut):

Read a quick synopsis here 

Wikipedia 

Here’s an extra bonus, a fragment describing Raskolnikov’s appearance:

An expression of the profoundest disgust gleamed for a moment in the young man’s refined face. He was, by the way, exceptionally handsome, above the average in height, slim, well-built, with beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair.

tell me I’m not the only one casting Adam Driver in this role!

DISCLAIMER: I’m NOT claiming there’s a direct parallel between Rodion and Kylo Ren, nor Rodion/Sonia and Rey/Kylo Ren. These are very different stories: C&P is a realist novel while SW is a modern monomyth. Rey and Kylo Ren are equal protagonists (it’s her story) - the R/S dynamic IS a product of its era (19th c. tsarist Orthodox Russia). I’m a literature major and I believe in exploring the richness and thematic similarity across history, geography, and media.

I didn’t give much commentary - my main aim was to put some interesting quotes to the light. I’m open to discussion with merit. Pointless anti-ism and anti-intellectual arguments will not be addressed.  A long read-more, enjoy!

To quote this summary,

A former student, Raskolnikov lives in poverty and chaos and is eventually driven to murdering an aged woman (a pawnbroker) and her sister. He believes he has devised the perfect crime, as no one will regret the loss of his victims. It is a crime novel without a mystery, as from the very outset of the novel Dostoyevsky draws the reader into the interior of Raskolnikov’s mental life; the reader knows “who did it” (i.e., the crime) and sees his reasoning and can explain his actions.

The narrative’s feverish, compelling tone follows the twists and turns of Raskolnikov’s emotions and elaborates his struggle with his conscience and his mounting sense of horror as he wanders the city’s hot, crowded streets, and the novel’s status as a masterpiece is chiefly a result of its narrative intensity and moving depiction of the recovery of a diseased spirit.

The story is set in the 1860s, in the bowels of Saint Petersburg, tsarist Russia, bathed in the creed of the Eastern Orthodox Church. Dostoyevsky’s novel remains one of the most vital texts and literary achievements in European culture.

I have gathered several fragments of Rodion’s scenes with Sonia; I think the way they discuss morality, sin, and forgiveness could be an interesting reading for those interested in the theme of redemption in culture.

Rodion’s deed has been tormenting him increasingly.

‘Of course you’re right, Sonia,’ he said softly at last. He was suddenly changed. His tone of assumed arrogance and helpless defiance was gone. Even his voice was suddenly weak. ‘I told you yesterday that I was not coming to ask forgiveness and almost the first thing I’ve said is to ask forgiveness…. (...) I was asking forgiveness, Sonia….’

He tried to smile, but there was something helpless and incomplete in his pale smile. He bowed his head and hid his face in his hands. And suddenly a strange, surprising sensation of a sort of bitter hatred for Sonia passed through his heart. As it were wondering and frightened of this sensation, he raised his head and looked intently at her; but he met her uneasy and painfully anxious eyes fixed on him; there was love in them; his hatred vanished like a phantom. It was not the real feeling; he had taken the one feeling for the other. It only meant that that minute had come.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Sonia, dreadfully frightened.

He could not utter a word. This was not at all, not at all the way he had intended to ‘tell’ and he did not understand what was happening to him now. She went up to him, softly, sat down on the bed beside him and waited, not taking her eyes off him. Her heart throbbed and sank. It was unendurable; he turned his deadly pale face to her. His lips worked, helplessly struggling to utter something. A pang of terror passed through Sonia’s heart.

‘What’s the matter?’ she repeated, drawing a little away from him.

‘Nothing, Sonia, don’t be frightened…. It’s nonsense. It really is nonsense, if you think of it,’ he muttered, like a man in delirium. ‘Why have I come to torture you?’ he added suddenly, looking at her. ‘Why, really? I keep asking myself that question, Sonia….’

He had perhaps been asking himself that question a quarter of an hour before, but now he spoke helplessly, hardly knowing what he said and feeling a continual tremor all over.

‘Oh, how you are suffering!’ she muttered in distress, looking intently at him.

Her terror infected him. The same fear showed itself on his face. In the same way he stared at her and almost with the same childish smile.

‘Have you guessed?’ he whispered at last.

‘Good God!’ broke in an awful wail from her bosom.

She sank helplessly on the bed with her face in the pillows, but a moment later she got up, moved quickly to him, seized both his hands and, gripping them tight in her thin fingers, began looking into his face again with the same intent stare. In this last desperate look she tried to look into him and catch some last hope. But there was no hope; there was no doubt remaining; it was all true! Later on, indeed, when she recalled that moment, she thought it strange and wondered why she had seen at once that there was no doubt. She could not have said, for instance, that she had foreseen something of the sort—and yet now, as soon as he told her, she suddenly fancied that she had really foreseen this very thing.

‘Stop, Sonia, enough! don’t torture me,’ he begged her miserably.

It was not at all, not at all like this he had thought of telling her, but this is how it happened.

She jumped up, seeming not to know what she was doing, and, wringing her hands, walked into the middle of the room; but quickly went back and sat down again beside him, her shoulder almost touching his. All of a sudden she started as though she had been stabbed, uttered a cry and fell on her knees before him, she did not know why.

‘What have you done—what have you done to yourself?’ she said in despair, and, jumping up, she flung herself on his neck, threw her arms round him, and held him tightly.

Raskolnikov drew back and looked at her with a mournful smile.

‘You are a strange girl, Sonia—you kiss me and hug me when I tell you about that…. You don’t think what you are doing.’

‘There is no one—no one in the whole world now so unhappy as you!’ she cried in a frenzy, not hearing what he said, and she suddenly broke into violent hysterical weeping.

A feeling long unfamiliar to him flooded his heart and softened it at once. He did not struggle against it. Two tears started into his eyes and hung on his eyelashes.

‘Then you won’t leave me, Sonia?’ he said, looking at her almost with hope.

‘No, no, never, nowhere!’ cried Sonia. ‘I will follow you, I will follow you everywhere. Oh, my God! Oh, how miserable I am! … Why, why didn’t I know you before! Why didn’t you come before? Oh, dear!’

‘Here I have come.’

‘Yes, now! What’s to be done now? … Together, together!’ she repeated as it were unconsciously, and she hugged him again. ‘I’ll follow you to Siberia!’

He recoiled at this, and the same hostile, almost haughty smile came to his lips. ‘Perhaps I don’t want to go to Siberia yet, Sonia,’ he said.

Sonia looked at him quickly.

Again after her first passionate, agonising sympathy for the unhappy man the terrible idea of the murder overwhelmed her. In his changed tone she seemed to hear the murderer speaking.

‘And why, why did I tell her? Why did I let her know?’ he cried a minute later in despair, looking with infinite anguish at her. ‘Here you expect an explanation from me, Sonia; you are sitting and waiting for it, I see that. But what can I tell you? You won’t understand and will only suffer misery … on my account! Well, you are crying and embracing me again. Why do you do it? Because I couldn’t bear my burden and have come to throw it on another: you suffer too, and I shall feel better! And can you love such a mean wretch?’

‘But aren’t you suffering, too?’ cried Sonia.

Again a wave of the same feeling surged into his heart, and again for an instant softened it.

‘Sonia, I have a bad heart, take note of that. It may explain a great deal. I have come because I am bad. There are men who wouldn’t have come. But I am a coward and… a mean wretch. But … never mind! That’s not the point. I must speak now, but I don’t know how to begin.’ 

He paused and sank into thought.

‘Ah, we are so different,’ he cried again, ‘we are not alike. And why, why did I come? I shall never forgive myself that.’

‘No, no, it was a good thing you came,’ cried Sonia. ‘It’s better I should know, far better!’

(...)Do you understand now?’

‘N-no,’ Sonia whispered naïvely and timidly. ‘Only speak, speak, I shall understand, I shall understand in myself!’ she kept begging him.

‘Oh hush, hush,’ cried Sonia, clasping her hands. ‘You turned away from God and God has smitten you, has given you over to the devil!’

‘Then Sonia, when I used to lie there in the dark and all this became clear to me, was it a temptation of the devil, eh?’

‘Hush, don’t laugh, blasphemer! You don’t understand, you don’t understand! Oh God! He won’t understand!’

‘Hush, Sonia! I am not laughing. I know myself that it was the devil leading me. Hush, Sonia, hush!’ he repeated with gloomy insistence. ‘I know it all, I have thought it all over and over and whispered it all over to myself, lying there in the dark…. I’ve argued it all over with myself, every point of it, and I know it all, all! And how sick, how sick I was then of going over it all! I have kept wanting to forget it and make a new beginning, Sonia, and leave off thinking.

‘Don’t interrupt me, Sonia. I want to prove one thing only, that the devil led me on then and he has shown me since that I had not the right to take that path, because I am just such a louse as all the rest. He was mocking me and here I’ve come to you now! Welcome your guest! If I were not a louse, should I have come to you? Listen: when I went then to the old woman’s I only went to try…. You may be sure of that!’

‘And you murdered her!’

‘But how did I murder her? Is that how men do murders? Do men go to commit a murder as I went then? I will tell you some day how I went! Did I murder the old woman? I murdered myself, not her! I crushed myself once for all, for ever…. But it was the devil that killed that old woman, not I. Enough, enough, Sonia, enough! Let me be!’ he cried in a sudden spasm of agony, ‘let me be!’

He leaned his elbows on his knees and squeezed his head in his hands as in a vise.

‘What suffering!’ A wail of anguish broke from Sonia.

‘Well, what am I to do now?’ he asked, suddenly raising his head and looking at her with a face hideously distorted by despair.

‘What are you to do?’ she cried, jumping up, and her eyes that had been full of tears suddenly began to shine. ‘Stand up!’ (She seized him by the shoulder, he got up, looking at her almost bewildered.) ‘Go at once, this very minute, stand at the cross-roads, bow down, first kiss the earth which you have defiled and then bow down to all the world and say to all men aloud, ‘I am a murderer!’ Then God will send you life again. Will you go, will you go?’ she asked him, trembling all over, snatching his two hands, squeezing them tight in hers and gazing at him with eyes full of fire.

He was amazed at her sudden ecstasy.

‘You mean Siberia, Sonia? I must give myself up?’ he asked gloomily. ‘Suffer and expiate your sin by it, that’s what you must do.’

‘No! I am not going to them, Sonia!’

‘But how will you go on living? What will you live for?’ cried Sonia, ‘how is it possible now? Why, how can you talk to your mother? (Oh, what will become of them now?) But what am I saying? You have abandoned your mother and your sister already. He has abandoned them already! Oh, God!’ she cried, ‘why, he knows it all himself. How, how can he live by himself! What will become of you now?’

‘Don’t be a child, Sonia,’ he said softly. ‘What wrong have I done them? Why should I go to them? What should I say to them? That’s only a phantom…. They destroy men by millions themselves and look on it as a virtue. They are knaves and scoundrels, Sonia! I am not going to them. And what should I say to them—that I murdered her, but did not dare to take the money and hid it under a stone?’ he added with a bitter smile. ‘Why, they would laugh at me, and would call me a fool for not getting it. A coward and a fool! They wouldn’t understand and they don’t deserve to understand. Why should I go to them? I won’t. Don’t be a child, Sonia….’ ‘It will be too much for you to bear, too much!’ she repeated, holding out her hands in despairing supplication.

‘Perhaps I’ve been unfair to myself,’ he observed gloomily, pondering, ‘perhaps after all I am a man and not a louse and I’ve been in too great a hurry to condemn myself. I’ll make another fight for it.’

A haughty smile appeared on his lips.

‘What a burden to bear! And your whole life, your whole life!’

‘I shall get used to it,’ he said grimly and thoughtfully.

‘Listen,’ he began a minute later, ‘stop crying, it’s time to talk of the facts: I’ve come to tell you that the police are after me, on my track….’

‘Ah!’ Sonia cried in terror.

They sat side by side, both mournful and dejected, as though they had been cast up by the tempest alone on some deserted shore. He looked at Sonia and felt how great was her love for him, and strange to say he felt it suddenly burdensome and painful to be so loved. Yes, it was a strange and awful sensation! On his way to see Sonia he had felt that all his hopes rested on her; he expected to be rid of at least part of his suffering, and now, when all her heart turned towards him, he suddenly felt that he was immeasurably unhappier than before.

‘Sonia,’ he said, ‘you’d better not come and see me when I am in prison.’

(all quotes above from Part V, Chapter IV)

Raskolnikov decides to turn himself in, he visits Sonya though leaves her without a goodbye, goes to the market square and prostrates himself on the ground as she told him to, almost confessing his deed out loud. People think he’s drunk. At the station it turns out that the man who suspected him shot himself, Raskolnikov is relieved, but:

He went out; he reeled, he was overtaken with giddiness and did not know what he was doing. He began going down the stairs, supporting himself with his right hand against the wall. He fancied that a porter pushed past him on his way upstairs to the police office, that a dog in the lower storey kept up a shrill barking and that a woman flung a rolling-pin at it and shouted. He went down and out into the yard. There, not far from the entrance, stood Sonia, pale and horror- stricken. She looked wildly at him. He stood still before her. There was a look of poignant agony, of despair, in her face. She clasped her hands. His lips worked in an ugly, meaningless smile. He stood still a minute, grinned and went back to the police office. (Part VI, Chapter VIII)

EPILOGUE

Rodion confesses and is convicted to 8 years of penal servitude in Siberia after many people supplied evidence of him helping them and being a good but troubled man. His mother dies, his sister marries the man she wanted, Sonia follows him there.

His clothes were warm and suited to his manner of life. He did not even feel the fetters. Was he ashamed of his shaven head and parti-coloured coat? Before whom? Before Sonia? Sonia was afraid of him, how could he be ashamed before her? 

And yet he was ashamed even before Sonia, whom he tortured because of it with his contemptuous rough manner. But it was not his shaven head and his fetters he was ashamed of: his pride had been stung to the quick. It was wounded pride that made him ill. Oh, how happy he would have been if he could have blamed himself! He could have borne anything then, even shame and disgrace. But he judged himself severely, and his exasperated conscience found no particularly terrible fault in his past, except a simple blunder which might happen to anyone. He was ashamed just because he, Raskolnikov, had so hopelessly, stupidly come to grief through some decree of blind fate, and must humble himself and submit to ‘the idiocy’ of a sentence, if he were anyhow to be at peace.

Vague and objectless anxiety in the present, and in the future a continual sacrifice leading to nothing—that was all that lay before him. And what comfort was it to him that at the end of eight years he would only be thirty-two and able to begin a new life! What had he to live for? What had he to look forward to? Why should he strive? To live in order to exist? Why, he had been ready a thousand times before to give up existence for the sake of an idea, for a hope, even for a fancy. Mere existence had always been too little for him; he had always wanted more. Perhaps it was just because of the strength of his desires that he had thought himself a man to whom more was permissible than to others.

And if only fate would have sent him repentance— burning repentance that would have torn his heart and robbed him of sleep, that repentance, the awful agony of which brings visions of hanging or drowning! Oh, he would have been glad of it! Tears and agonies would at least have been life. But he did not repent of his crime.

Sonia works in the town, befriends the prisoners and their families, becomes a liaison between them. She’s adored while Rodion is disliked and people don’t understand why she’s there for him.

Here’s the very ending of the novel and the moment of Rodion’s change of heart.

On reaching the prison he learnt from the convicts that Sofya Semyonovna was lying ill at home and was unable to go out.

He was very uneasy and sent to inquire after her; he soon learnt that her illness was not dangerous. Hearing that he was anxious about her, Sonia sent him a pencilled note, telling him that she was much better, that she had a slight cold and that she would soon, very soon come and see him at his work. His heart throbbed painfully as he read it.

Again it was a warm bright day. Early in the morning, at six o’clock, he went off to work on the river bank, where they used to pound alabaster and where there was a kiln for baking it in a shed. There were only three of them sent. One of the convicts went with the guard to the fortress to fetch a tool; the other began getting the wood ready and laying it in the kiln. Raskolnikov came out of the shed on to the river bank, sat down on a heap of logs by the shed and began gazing at the wide deserted river. From the high bank a broad landscape opened before him, the sound of singing floated faintly audible from the other bank. In the vast steppe, bathed in sunshine, he could just see, like black specks, the nomads’ tents. There there was freedom, there other men were living, utterly unlike those here; there time itself seemed to stand still, as though the age of Abraham and his flocks had not passed. Raskolnikov sat gazing, his thoughts passed into daydreams, into contemplation; he thought of nothing, but a vague restlessness excited and troubled him. Suddenly he found Sonia beside him; she had come up noiselessly and sat down at his side. It was still quite early; the morning chill was still keen. She wore her poor old burnous and the green shawl; her face still showed signs of illness, it was thinner and paler. She gave him a joyful smile of welcome, but held out her hand with her usual timidity. She was always timid of holding out her hand to him and sometimes did not offer it at all, as though afraid he would repel it. He always took her hand as though with repugnance, always seemed vexed to meet her and was sometimes obstinately silent throughout her visit. Sometimes she trembled before him and went away deeply grieved. But now their hands did not part. He stole a rapid glance at her and dropped his eyes on the ground without speaking. They were alone, no one had seen them. The guard had turned away for the time.

How it happened he did not know. But all at once something seemed to seize him and fling him at her feet. He wept and threw his arms round her knees. For the first instant she was terribly frightened and she turned pale. She jumped up and looked at him trembling. But at the same moment she understood, and a light of infinite happiness came into her eyes. She knew and had no doubt that he loved her beyond everything and that at last the moment had come….

They wanted to speak, but could not; tears stood in their eyes. They were both pale and thin; but those sick pale faces were bright with the dawn of a new future, of a full resurrection into a new life. They were renewed by love; the heart of each held infinite sources of life for the heart of the other.

They resolved to wait and be patient. They had another seven years to wait, and what terrible suffering and what infinite happiness before them! But he had risen again and he knew it and felt it in all his being, while she—she only lived in his life.

On the evening of the same day, when the barracks were locked, Raskolnikov lay on his plank bed and thought of her. He had even fancied that day that all the convicts who had been his enemies looked at him differently; he had even entered into talk with them and they answered him in a friendly way. He remembered that now, and thought it was bound to be so. Wasn’t everything now bound to be changed?

He thought of her. He remembered how continually he had tormented her and wounded her heart. He remembered her pale and thin little face. But these recollections scarcely troubled him now; he knew with what infinite love he would now repay all her sufferings.

And what were all, all the agonies of the past! Everything, even his crime, his sentence and imprisonment, seemed to him now in the first rush of feeling an external, strange fact with which he had no concern. But he could not think for long together of anything that evening, and he could not have analysed anything consciously; he was simply feeling. Life had stepped into the place of theory and something quite different would work itself out in his mind.

Under his pillow lay the New Testament. He took it up mechanically. The book belonged to Sonia; it was the one from which she had read the raising of Lazarus to him. At first he was afraid that she would worry him about religion, would talk about the gospel and pester him with books. But to his great surprise she had not once approached the subject and had not even offered him the Testament. He had asked her for it himself not long before his illness and she brought him the book without a word. Till now he had not opened it. He did not open it now, but one thought passed through his mind: ‘Can her convictions not be mine now? Her feelings, her aspirations at least….’

She too had been greatly agitated that day, and at night she was taken ill again. But she was so happy—and so unexpectedly happy—that she was almost frightened of her happiness. Seven years, only seven years! At the beginning of their happiness at some moments they were both ready to look on those seven years as though they were seven days. He did not know that the new life would not be given him for nothing, that he would have to pay dearly for it, that it would cost him great striving, great suffering.

But that is the beginning of a new story—the story of the gradual renewal of a man, the story of his gradual regeneration, of his passing from one world into another, of his initiation into a new unknown life. That might be the subject of a new story, but our present story is ended.

If you made it this far, I hope you got something out of it! Read the book, it will leave you with the best literary fever :) 

[pope-francis-quotes]

25th September >> (@zenitenglish) #PopeFrancis #PopeInBaltics Estonia: Full Text of Pope’s Remarks to Ecumenical Meeting of Youth.

Estonia: Full Text of Pope’s Remarks to Ecumenical Meeting of Youth

‘Let us ask for the apostolic strength to bring the Gospel to others.’

 the remarks by Pope Francis during his September 25, 2018, Ecumenical Meeting with young people, in the Kaarli Lutheran Church, Tallinn.

The Holy Father’s Address

Dear Young People,

Thank you for your warm welcome, for your songs and for the testimonies of Lisbel, Tauri and Mirko. I am grateful to the Archbishop of the Estonian Evangelical Lutheran Church, Urmas Viilma, for his kind words of welcome, and for the presence of Archbishop Andres Põder, President of the Estonian Council of Churches, of Bishop Philippe Jourdan, Apostolic Administrator in Estonia, and of the other representatives from the different Christian confessions present in the country. I am also grateful for the presence of Madam President of the Republic.

It is always good to meet, to share our life stories, and to share with one another our thoughts and hopes; it is wonderful, too, for us to come together as believers in Jesus Christ. These meetings bring to fulfillment that dream of Jesus at the Last Supper: “That they may all be one, […] so that the world may believe” (Jn 17:21). If we try to see ourselves as pilgrims journeying together, we will learn how to entrust our heart to our traveling companions without fear and distrust, looking only to what we all truly seek: peace in the presence of the one God. Just as crafting peace is an art, so too, learning to trust one another is also an art and a source of happiness: “Blessed are the peacemakers” (Mt 5:9). And we do not go on this road, on this path only with believers, but with all. All have something to say to us. We have something to say to all.

The great painting in the apse of this church contains a phrase from the Gospel of Saint Matthew: “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Mt 11:28). You, as young Christians, can identify with some elements in this passage of the Gospel.

In the preceding narrations, Matthew tells us that Jesus is accumulating disappointments. First He laments because it seems that those who heard Him simply did not understand what He was trying to say (cf. Mt 11:16-19). Frequently you too, as young people, can feel that the adults around you do not appreciate your hopes and desires; sometimes, when they see you very happy, they get suspicious; and if they see you anxious about something, they downplay it. In the consultation prior to the forthcoming Synod, in which we will reflect on young people, many of you expressed the desire to have a companion along the way, someone who can understand you without judging and can listen to you as well as respond to your questions (cf. Synod on Young People, Instrumentum Laboris, 132). Our Christian Churches – and I would dare say this of every institutionally structured religious process – at times bring attitudes that make it easier for us to talk, give advice, speak from our own experience, rather than listen, rather than be challenged and learn from what you are experiencing. Many times Christian communities close themselves, without realizing it, and do not listen to your anxieties. We know that you want and expect “to be accompanied not by an unbending judge, or by a fearful and hyper-protective parent who generates dependence, but by someone who is not afraid of his weakness and is able to make the treasure shine that, like an earthen vessel, it holds within (cf. 2 Cor 4:7)” (ibid., 142). Today, I am here to tell you that we want to mourn with you when you mourn, to accompany your joys with our applause and our laughter, and to help you to be followers of the Lord. You, boys and girls, young people, know this: when a Christian community is truly Christian, it does not engage in proselytism. It only listens, welcomes, accompanies and walks, but does not impose anything.

Jesus also complains about the cities He visited, where he worked great miracles and demonstrated signs of great tenderness and closeness, and He deplores their inability to see that the change He came to bring was urgent and not to be delayed. He even says that they are more stubborn and obdurate than Sodom (cf. Mt 11:20-24). When we adults refuse to acknowledge some evident reality, you tell us frankly: “Can’t you see this?” Some of you who are a bit more forthright might even say to us: “Don’t you see that nobody is listening to you anymore, or believes you?” We ourselves need truly to be converted; we have to realize that in order to stand by your side we need to change many situations that, in the end, put you off.

We know – as you have told us – that many young people do not turn to us for anything because they don’t feel we have anything meaningful to say to them for their existence. This is awful. When a Church, a community, behaves in such a way that young people think: “They won’t say anything to me that will help me in my life.” In fact, some of them expressly ask us to leave them alone, because they feel the Church’s presence as bothersome or even irritating. And this is true. They are upset by sexual and economic scandals that do not meet with clear condemnation, by our unpreparedness or simply the passive role we assign them (cf. Synod on Young People, Instrumentum Laboris, 66). These are just a few of your complaints. We want to respond to them; as you yourselves put it, we want to be a “transparent, welcoming, honest, inviting, communicative, accessible, joyful and interactive community” (ibid. 67), namely, a community without fear. Fears close us. Fear drives us to be proselytes.  And fraternity is something else: an open heart and fraternal embrace.

Before coming to the evangelical text that dominates this church, Jesus breaks out in praise of the Father. He does so because He realizes that those who did understand, who did grasp the meaning of His message and his person, are the little ones, those that have a simple, open mind. Seeing all of you like this, gathered as one and singing together, I add my own voice to that of Jesus and I marvel that, for all our lack of witness, you continue to discover Jesus in the heart of our communities. Because we know that where Jesus is, there is always renewal; there are always new opportunities for conversion and for leaving behind everything that separates us from Him and from our brothers. Where Jesus is, life always has the flavor of the Holy Spirit. You, here today, reflect something of the marvel that Jesus felt.

So yes, let us repeat His words: “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest (Mt 11:28). But let us say them in the conviction that, beyond all our limitations and divisions, Jesus is still the reason for our being here. We know no greater peace of mind can be found than by letting Jesus carry our burdens. We also know that many people still do not know Him and live in sadness and loss. One of your famous singers, about ten years ago, said about one of her songs: “Love is dead, love has gone, love no longer lives here” (Kerli Koiv, Love is dead). No, please! Let us make love be alive, and we must all do this! And there are so many who have this experience: they see that the love of their parents ends, that the love of newlyweds dissolves; they feel profound pain when no one cares that they must emigrate to look for work or when they are regarded with suspicion because they are foreigners. It might seem that love is dead, as Kerli Koiv said, but we know that it is not and that we have a word to say, a message to bring, with few words and many actions, for you are the generation of images, the generation of action, more than speculation and theory.

And that is how Jesus likes it because He went about doing good, and when dying He preferred the striking message of the crossover mere words. We are united by our faith in Jesus, and He is waiting for us to bring Him to all those young people whose lives are no longer meaningful. And the risk is, also for us t0 believe, to lose the meaning of life. And this happens when we believers are inconsistent. Let us accept together that newness that God brings to our life, that newness that impels us to set out anew to all those places where humanity is most wounded. Wherever men and women, beneath the appearance of a shallow conformity, continue to seek an answer to the question of life’s meaning. Yet we will never go alone: God comes with us; “He is unafraid of the fringes, He himself became a fringe (cf. Phil 2:6-8; Jn 1:14). If we have the courage to go out of ourselves, of our egoism, of our closed ideas and go to the fringes, we will find Him there, because Jesus precedes us in the life of a suffering and discarded brother. He is already there (cf. Apostolic Exhortation Gaudete et Exsultate, 135).

Boys and girls, love is not dead. It calls us and sends us forth. It only asks that we open our heart. Let us ask for the apostolic strength to bring the Gospel to others – but to offer it, not impose it — and to resist the tendency to see our Christian life as if it were a museum of memories. The Christian life is life, is future, is hope! It’s not a museum. May the Holy Spirit help us to contemplate history in the light of the risen Jesus, so that the Church, so that our Churches will be able to continue to go forward welcoming in them the Lord’s surprises (cf. ibid, 139), recovering their youthfulness, the joy, and beauty of which Mirko spoke, of the Bride that goes to meet the Lord – the Lord’s surprises. The Lord surprises us because life surprises us always. Let us go forward, to meet these surprises. Thank you!

[Original text: Italian]  [Official translation]

© Libreria Editrice Vatican

SEPTEMBER 25, 2018 17:23

PAPAL TEXTS

[aion-rsa]

Tenet: Is the Protagonist the Real Villain?

https://ift.tt/2SuTFBP

This article contains Tenet spoilers.

The Protagonist might be one of the most unimaginatively named main characters of all time, but it’s worth pointing out that he is referred to as “the Protagonist,” which is notably different from being called “the Hero.”

Of course it’s not hard to argue he’s a good guy who does good guy things. He is fighting against a gangster who regularly kills people and has trapped his wife in an abusive marriage. He saved all those unconscious hostages from those bombs (maybe, we’re still figuring that out). His goal is stated, multiple and explicit times, to be saving the world. That makes him a good guy, right?

His goal, ultimately, is to prevent the assembly of the “Algorithm,” which a future adversary will use to invert the flow of time, wiping out the past and potentially destroying all existence in the process. It’s complicated, as we’ve covered before, but you can skip an awful lot of the explanation to get to the “and then the world ends” part and decide, yes, yes this person is doing Hero Things.

So that means the people he’s fighting must be villainous, right? Well…

A Not-So Evil Villain

Sator is, by anyone’s estimate, a bad egg. We’ve covered that. But when he tells us his goal, it’s not one of ultimate destruction. He tells the Protagonist, “I want to create a new world. Somewhere, once, a man in a crystal tower presses a switch, and Armageddon is both triggered and prevented. Time itself changes direction. The sunshine we enjoyed will warm the faces of our descendants.”

That sounds pretty nice, and while we can all agree Sator is a wrong ‘un who deserves to be shot and slip-n-slided off his own yacht, the people he’s working for in our future have some pretty understandable motivations.

Sator tells us they are reversing time “because their oceans rose and their rivers dried up. They have no choice but to turn around. We are to blame for that.”

He’s right. No reasonable person can deny climate change is going to be absolutely catastrophic if not prevented. Faced with that, a giant reset button, an opportunity to live in an abundant and imagined past is surely understandable.

The Protagonist doesn’t think so, which might be fair enough, but his justification is, well, weird.

He tells Sator “Each generation provides for its own survival.” Now I’m sorry, but that is a bloody weird justification for screwing over your own descendants. To get a bit dangerously political for a second, that line has extreme “Why shouldn’t we inflate the housing market so our kids are forced to rent forever?” vibes. It sounds very “Why should I bother about carbon footprints if I’m not going to live to see the consequences?” In a film where one of the characters’ primary motivations (and, some might say, only actual personality trait) is that they want to protect their child, saying “Screw you” to your children’s children’s children rings oddly.

But whatever we think of the Protagonist’s arguments, the truth remains that the Algorithm is going to blow up the universe if it is used, and so the Protagonist is right to stop it, even if he has to be a dick about it. Right?

Well to answer that, we have to look at Tenet as a time travel movie, and an espionage movie, and how those two things interact. They do this nowhere more profoundly than in the repeated phrase “Ignorance is our ammunition.”

Ignorance is Whose Ammunition?

We’ve covered the time travel rules of Tenet before, and they seem pretty cut and dried. What happens stays happened, history can’t be changed, you can watch a film forward or in reverse, but the events still play out the same. It’s a model that appeals to Christopher Nolan’s sensibilities as a filmmaker.

What “Ignorance is our ammunition” means in terms of Time Warfare refers to the immutability of the past and future. The past and future are like the cat in Schrödinger’s thought experiment. It is alive and dead until somebody looks at it and it becomes one or the other.

You remain ignorant of how a mission you’re about to carry out goes so that you don’t find out if it ends badly and then get stuck on that course. Every piece of information you learn becomes a shot fired, an event that cannot unhappen.

But at the same time, you don’t tell other people the future when things go well so that events go as they already have. That hints that maybe things can change. We’ll get to that, but first we’re going to pull our own pincer movement and look at what “ignorance is our ammunition” means in terms of espionage.

Here the meaning of the phrase is far more obvious. In espionage, information must be constantly compartmentalized. Plausible deniability, need-to-know, isolation of active parties to prevent information from falling into enemy hands.

Neil, played by Robert Pattinson, is perhaps the greatest advocate of not-knowing-shit, coming out with such pithy quotes as “lying is the standard operational procedure” and “policy is to suppress.”

This extends even to thinking critically at all, when the scientist who delivers the Protagonist his first info dump tells him, “Don’t try to understand it. Feel it.” It’s a line that feels like a heavy wink toward the viewer, but it also seems to warn the Protagonist himself from thinking critically.

The only person who suggests that the Protagonist should be asking more questions is that old bastard Sator, again. He tells the Protagonist, “You’re fighting for a cause you barely understand, with people you trust so little that you have told them nothing.” When he calls the Protagonist a fanatic, it’s hard to argue.

Perhaps the most damning clue comes from Fay, the CIA boss who recruits the Protagonist into Tenet in the first place. He introduces the Protagonist to the fight saying, “There’s a cold war. Cold as ice. To even know its true nature is to lose.”

The nature of the war is that the Earth faces a climate catastrophe that will render it uninhabitable, and the Protagonist is fighting to ensure it happens. Knowing that would definitely hurt your resolve.

There Is No Answer, It’s A Paradox

But once again, the Earth dying at some future time is still a better outcome then everything being obliterated in an instant right now, right? After all, throughout the film it is shown time and time again that history can’t be changed.

Except, does anybody really try?

Read more

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By Chris Farnell

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Tenet: Robert Pattinson’s Neil Timeline Explained

By David Crow

When the Protagonist tries to warn Neil, knowing he’s about to go to his death, Neil argues, “We just saved the world, can’t leave anything to chance.” The Protagonist asks, “But can we change things if we do it differently?” and he’s just met with a glib “what’s happened, happened.”

Neil responds with some philosophical stuff about fate, and we’ve argued about free will before. But the point is, the Protagonist could have just gone back with Neil, made sure he didn’t get killed, and history would have changed (for better or worse). But he doesn’t.

Neil himself appears less certain about “What’s happened, happened” elsewhere in the film. When the Protagonist argues, “Doesn’t us being here now mean it never happened?” Neil will only offer an “Optimistically, I’d say that’s right.”

Pessimistically, Neil starts talking about “parallel worlds theory” and “multiple realities,” admittedly in the most garbled and non-sensical way possible, and elsewhere he explains the Grandfather Paradox, even though I’m pretty sure anyone going to see Tenet already knows that one by now.

However, he also let’s slip that there are other opinions that “in the future, those in power clearly believe you can kick grandpa downstairs, gouge his eyes out, slit his throat, without consequence.”

When the Protagonist asks if they could be right, Neil evasively says, “It doesn’t matter.” Even the scientist who sends the Algorithm back in time is compared to Oppenheimer in the doomsday scenario she predicted—Oppenheimer believed (or at least scientists working for him in Los Alamos) that a nuclear bomb might ignite the Earth’s atmosphere. But that theory was also wrong.

So maybe the barrier here isn’t physics or time travel logic. Maybe it’s politics.

The Protagonist and the End of History

Above and beyond being a time travel movie, Tenet is a spy movie. It may, in fact, be the Bond movie that Christopher Nolan never made. But I’d argue it draws its influences from a very specific era of spy movie. The plot throws allusions to nuclear weapons and cold warfare, echoing the spy movies from the height of the Cold War. At one point in time the war is referred to as “ice cold,” which sort of means there’s no danger of violence breaking out, so I’m not sure what Nolan meant by that.

But the film feels resonant of the spy movies of the ‘90s and early ‘00s. In these films, The Saint, Death Train(or Detonator as it’s known elsewhere), The Sum of All Fears, and Tomorrow Never Dies, the world is relatively, and for a spy movie, irritatingly stable. The Cold War is over. 9/11 has yet to dominate the global consciousness. It’s a time period whose beginning is marked by the publication of The End of History and the Last Man by American political scientist Francis Fukuyama. Fukuyama argues that with the ascendancy of Western liberal democracy and the dissolution of the Soviet Union, history was done. No more world wars. No more revolutions. No huge economic shifts. The future, looked at from the ‘90s, was an everlasting capitalist liberal democracy with incrementally better gadgets as time went on.

In these films the threat isn’t a foreign power, or a political entity equal in might to America’s own; it’s the idea that “history” might restart, that the eternal status quo we were promised might be upended.

And ultimately, this is what most spy movies are about. Spies aren’t revolutionaries (not in their own country anyway). They are government employees, and typically stability is the highest cause that they fight for.

Like the Tenet organization, and the Protagonist, they are fighting for the status quo, they’re not interested in improving anything.

The Protagonist ends the film realizing that he is in charge of Tenet, that he most likely founded the organization. But even in founding it, he has no agency, he won’t change anything. As the mastermind of the Tenet group he is still following orders.

When the Protagonist is asking all his questions about Tenet’s time travel logic, Neil tells him, “We’re the people saving the world from what might have been.”

But not once does the Protagonist wonder if what might have been could have been an improvement.

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from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3feZE5a

[bearwithegg]

~ Sam Drake x OC ~ FORGED.

A/N: Hey guys! So i’ve published this Sam Drake Fic on Quotev and Wattpad, i’ve had this idea for a while now and because im Sam drake trash i thought i’d deliver to you all this fic. NOT EDITED. I also refer to Sully in third person as Sullivan, like idk why I just do. Anyway without further a-do here it is! 

Part 2   Part 3  Part 4

Blurb: 

Samuel Morgan had a reputation, not only around the Orphanage he grew up in but the sister orphanage several blocks away; Sister Margaret's. He caused fights, disrupted the peace and was caught doing illicit activities on the building grounds. Believe it or not, he never truly used to be as much as a delinquent, in fact his behavioural changes date back ten months ago when he met Melissa Bridges. As innocent she may seem, her bad influence on Sam caused quite a turn of events in his life, some good, some bad, some ugly. But when it came down to it, Samuel and Melissa were always there for each other.

One: A Bad Influence.

Every day, like clockwork Samuel Morgan would peer out his window and look beyond the gates of the orphanage where Melissa Bridges walked by, her hands always shoved into a denim vest that looked miles too big for her. It covered what appeared to be a pale pink dress -as Sam noted- she always wore and worn boots that hardly looked like they fit her any more. Her hair was tied up neatly in a ponytail, her lengthy dark thick hair always bouncing from side to side as she strode. Some days Melissa was accompanied by groups of girls, other days she would stride on her lonesome but regardless alone or not every day at Midday she would pass the Orphanage.

It confused Sam, considering Sister Margaret's was in the opposite direction and there was seemingly nothing in the direction she headed, yet if he wasn't so chicken shit to do so he would find a way out and talk to her. He spent months watching her, understanding her routine. On weekends she would walk by not just at midday but she would wander by again late at night between seven and nine. The few times he mustered the courage to leave, he got as far as out the window before deciding against it. Despite slight behavioural issues he was top of the class, rarely did anything out of line despite the occasional fist fight between others. This being one of the reasons why he tried to stay in line and out of trouble... for the most part.

One night in particular however, Sam decided he was finally going to do it. Go beyond the gates and finally speak to Melissa, a girl he only knew from months of observation. Did he know her name? No. Did he know anything about her? No. Did he know her eye colour? No, certainly not he's only ever been at a distance that he recognised her only by her clothes and hair. But despite this, he found it intriguing. He wanted to know why she would walk back and forth, where she was heading, what she was doing, how she managed to slip past the nuns at the girls orphanage. If they were anything like the nuns at Saint Francis, it meant trouble for her.

His watch beeped and he took a deep breath before opening the window and letting the cool Saturday night breeze fill the room. The others would be attending dinner in the hall at this time of night which is why he decided to make a break for it, while no one was around. He had a clean record...ish... So if he got caught he would merely be told off... He hoped. He vaulted himself from the window and dangled over the ledge, he had rehearsed how many times he would do this in his head weeks leading up to this particular night. It wasn't a special night or anything, simply the night Sam decided to finally 'grow a pair' and talk to her.

Sucking in a breath, he let go of the window sill and dropped down a few feet hitting the brick roof of the lower level. Some of the slates cracked under the sudden strain however it absorbed most of the sound, his heart beat quickened and he chuckled to himself, "I'm actually doing this." He shook off the nerves, the thrill of potentially being caught hung in the back of his mind as he scaled the side of the building. Reaching the main buildings roof, he stopped momentarily, his arms burning from the sudden intense activity.

On the streets below, like every Friday and Saturday evening, Melissa walked the dirty streets. Her head down and hands jammed in her pockets. Leaves crunched under her boots, the boots that bought her much discomfort considering they were two sizes too small for her. She sighed to herself, rounding the familiar corner where Saint Francis orphanage stood, it was always much more peaceful to pass it in the evening given that similarly to Sister Margarets, Dinner was around this time.

This night however, as she finally walked past the orphanage she couldn't shake the feeling of being followed. Something lingered behind her, more so, someone. She cursed to herself not wanting to turn to see the figure, she just knew that there was someone lurking. Many scenarios crossed her mind, perhaps it was a nun that had followed her out of the orphanage, they were always watching her like a hawk and it didn't surprise her if it was, but they would've had her by the ear now. Or, it could be a drunken stray from the pub she passed a block ago, this occurrence was regular. Of course in her experience the drunkards were quite lovely and just wanted company on their journey home.

Or... it could definitely be someone not as kind as the drunken strays and not as merciful as the nuns. That thought crossed her mind too, it often did. She was young, regardless of looks and attire she was on her lonesome which made her a vulnerable target. Or so many people thought. She was sure someone was following her, their footsteps would stop every time she did. Around the corner there was less street lights, making the street look dark and menacing however she was unbothered by it, like she was unbothered by a lot of things.

She waited in anticipation as she stopped just shy of the light under the street lamp. Waiting momentarily she counted to five quietly to herself before whipping her hands out of their pockets, spinning and sucker punching the figure behind her. Her knuckles connected to the strangers face and she kneed them where the sun don't shine, causing them to groan and stumble backwards in to the light. "Oh shit." she uttered, apologetically after catching a glimpse of the person she punched. Just a kid from Saint Francis.

Despite being punched by her, Sam couldn't deny she was as attractive close up as she was at a distance. He glanced through his eyelashes and noticed her bright green eyes, tanned skin and plump lips. He had seen a lot of girls in his time, but none that were quite like Melissa. Physically and mentally.

Samuel Morgan had just been sucker punched by a girl, that would be quite the story to tell his younger brother Nathan. He was stunned as he held the side of his face in a dazed state, did that actually happen? Unfortunately for his ego, yes indeed it did happen. "Crap, sorry my bad..." Melissa's face softened as she stepped slowly to Sam, "I thought you were following me." she justified finally in front of the boy. "Uh I mean... yeah I was... well no, not like that, I mean- I uh- just put me out of my misery and hit me again." He stumbled on his words making Melissa chuckle, she put a friendly hand on his shoulder and looked at his face wincing at the sight.

"You're uh, that kid... from Saint Francis?" She clicked her fingers once recognising his freckled face in full detail among the blood and bruising. He stood up properly, for months he always imagined what it would be like to finally meet the strange girl, but none of the scenarios he thought of began with her sucker punching him. He chuckled and scratched the back of his neck, "there's a lot of kids at Saint Francis you're gonna have to be more specific." His tone was laced with a hint of sarcasm, a trait he was blessed with.

Melissa rolled her eyes lightly, "Uh... Samuel something, right?" she tilted her head on the side and shrugged. "Samuel something?" Sam repeated, a smile pulling on this sides of his lips and she nodded, "you're top of the class, right? I know you because our history papers got graded together and I know for a fact that you almost got a higher mark than me." She raised her eyebrows, a mischievous smirk on her lips. Sam looked at her, in awe almost. Her frame was highlighted by the street lamp behind her and my was it a sight to see. "You must know a thing or two about history to beat me." Sam chuckled, he shifted awkwardly unsure what to say, this night was not panning out like he had planned.

"Only a little bit." She smiled, gesturing with her pointer finger and thumb. "What's your name, sorry?" Sam asked clearing his throat, it was a start to say the least. "Melissa, but you can call me Mel... Follow me, I know somewhere to get your face all cleaned up pretty boy... once again... sorry." She apologised once more, digging her hands back into her vest pockets and took off on a stride.

Sam was stunned to say the least, he shook his head but followed her, he wanted to know everything about her, she was strange and Sam liked it. "So...." He trailed off, walking in sync beside her. "Where are we going?" Was all Sam could think of, yeah real smooth. He wanted to hit himself and knock himself out, why was he so mundane? "I uh - I watch you - I mean, see you sometimes walk past the orphanage..." Melissa looked to her odd new companion, a smile tugging on her lips.

"You've never been outside the gates before have you?" She grinned slowly, Sam frowned and put his hands up defensively, "Of course i've been outside the gates before-." She cut him off and shook her head, "no, outside the gates without supervision and outside of curfew." Getting an ashamed shake from Sam, her grin grew wider and she had a bounce in her step. "Well Samuel-."

"Sam, you can call me Sam." He corrected her and she continued, "Well Sam, when we get you cleaned up are you ready to have the most fun you're ever going to have whilst living in this shit hole?"

Sam thought for a moment, the nagging at the back of his head, the rules he was currently breaking would mean severe consequences, but the rush and thrill of it all was so appealing. "Hell yeah." He commented enthused, kicking himself for being a little too enthused. She quickened her pace and motioned for Sam to pick up the pace as well.

Melissa was an addict, a thrill addict. Although she went to Sunday mass every week with the other orphaned girls and went on bible retreats it was a facade. She craved adventure, close encounters and thrill seeking. On this particular night was when she started Samuel Morgan's addiction to adventure. Deep down the feeling was always there with him, even his younger brother. The stories their mother would tell them before bed, the artefacts and trips they went on was all there, aching to break free and it finally broke free within Sam.

And there was no turning back for him.

[jivingcryingboy]

26 // TWENTY SIX

If there’s anything I’ve learnt about anything on my 26th Birthday, it’s that contradiction is ok. It’s ok to contradict yourself. Just emotion clashing with the physical beasts that we have to attempt to pacify each day. Sunglasses covering what’s there. How the hell are we supposed to deliver same reaction all the time, by a supposedly unmoved set of morals and codes, as we get older through the nature of time? 

Secondly, I remember thinking, like I guess anyone does, mid twenties is old. Or an age where maturity levels should be nearing an all time high. In truth, I don’t feel any different to how I was when I was fifteen. The way I know I’ve changed or how I’ve become different is how I judge my reactions to events now against how I reacted to events when I was younger. Basically meaning, my emotional reactions feel kind of the same in terms of love, anger, happiness (bar a few complex ones that I have felt now I’m older, however that’s probably because I’ve experienced more events and scenes which clash simultaneously, that’s another issue though). But they’re basically the same. The way I thought a scary film was really scary at 10 years old is not going to be as scary as I would find the film now, as now, I’m an adult. I’ve noticed how we interpret these raw, fresh emotions from when we were children and compare them to emotions of how we feel as a more experienced, weathered adult. Memories from a scary film seen in the eyes of a child can still appear daunting to the same person as he or she becomes an adult. Memories must manifest through time in a way that protects us I guess, to help maintain interpretations of life that define the means in which we have experienced life, through happy, euphoric, sad or tragic experiences. 

On positive memories, what underlines that concept for me is that Tom Wait’s Lyric from Time

And the things you can’t remember Tell the things you can’t forget that History puts a saint in every dream

Clarifying materialistic experiences, such as something as seemingly illusive as space perception I would say is slightly different. When you are a kid, I remember several times walking into a building of a grand size, such as a museum, and being overwhelmed by it’s enormity. When I revisited the same building years later, I am then underwhelmed with how much smaller it actually was compared to how big I originally though it was. This is visible though. This you can measure. Even though the memory of this gigantic room is still present in your memory as a child, it can be quashed by your experiences later in life as adult. But only up until you revisit it though, in my view.

I think this differs from emotion though. Emotion, through my perception, is intangible. Like I said before, experiences felt through youthful, unexperienced eyes can be compared to experiences felt now, and can be interpreted by the mind on a shared emotional gauge if you like. And this is why I think people can be scarred by childhood traumas. The rawness of a particular experience from a child can equate to same degree the extent of the emotions felt by the same person as an adult from another experience in adulthood. Even though the incident experienced by the adult could be, technically speaking, so much more grave. A memory of a bully from primary school could still haunt the person when he becomes an adult. The same words and experience probably wouldn’t hurt the adult now, but the emotions evoked from the incident alter the way we decipher our memories and the world we currently live in. Even born from a innocent child. Obviously our parameters of experiencing life change as we get older, but I feel sometimes, the way in which we gauge emotions can be almost impossible to measure as absolute, as our mind is constantly bouncing from one emotion to another. My mate who I adore once told me he wouldn’t settle down in another relationship until he found someone who made him feel the same way in which he felt about his first girlfriend. At the time I remember thinking that that would be almost impossible, as a first-time relationship at eighteen/seventeen is totally different to a relationship at your mid twenties. We have changed as people. We experience life differently to when we were younger. Emotions were new, experiences were new. The way in which our mind deciphers events is never completely consistent, no matter how similar the experiences are. That’s why a first love, a first kiss, a first fight, a first bliss is so hard to forget. We cannot completely, relationally compare emotional experiences from different ages to one another on a consistent, trustworthy tangible level. 

So therefore, after that waffle, what I’m saying is, is that I’ve learnt to analyse my reactions objectively and rationally; to seek out patterns to my behaviour. Instead of gauging the breadth of emotions I feel from a certain incident, I look at what commonplace did my reactions share similar factors. Is this film scary, or really, did I find this film scary because I am remebering it through the eyes of 10 years old version of me? Was your first love something you can never get over, or was it a new experience in which you couldn’t compare it to anything else? Did she get angry because of him, or because of herself? Yeah, you are still doing this through the filter of your wanky emotions, but being aware that emotions are so fluid, does give you a chance to look at things through hindsight.  

I think that’s another lesson I’ve learnt as well. Emotions, reactions you feel aren’t from other people, they come from you. It’s seems like such a simple point to make but I feel it gets overlooked. Quite simply, if you turn up to work pissed off, if someone you don’t get on with makes a joke about you, inside you’re probably shouting all kinds of cusses towards him and may show that through body language on the outside. If you turn up to work skipping down the road happier then ever, you’ll probably ignore the the joke or even laugh at it and move on to whatever you’re doing next. Too many times we blame external stimuli, if you like, for our circumstances. If you are sad or angry, how can you expect to judge a separate situation rationally or even in a way that is true to yourself? Me personally, I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship as I feel I’m still striving for a place I want to be in life, physically and mentally. When I’m there, or get to a place where I’m content, then I feel as though I can be me in that relationship, who judges things in a much truer way. 

I’m sure there’s more shit I’ve learnt but it’s getting late and I’m in up in a few hours. I’m 26. I’ve always wanted to be 26 ever since I was a teenager. Not really sure why, think it looked cool. Looked like a good age. And I’m still young. Just about, but still there.

I’ve decided this year to give it a go. Not that I haven’t been trying before, I really have. I guess I’m throwing away safety nets. I can comfortably stay in my room, release music, gig, repeat, all day long. It’s not a bad way of doing things, I think that’s what most people do. But I need to change. If I want a career in music, I need to change. I need to go meet people. And that’s something I’m really shit at. I’m good when it comes to normal day life, house parties, meeting new people, that socialising thing, but when it comes to promoting me.. I am awful. So that needs to improve. Meeting people is key I think. I’ve gone on before about how I think good and bad music is irrelevant. It’s who you know. Boom. Go do it. Meet people. Working in a cafe. It’s good, don’t get me wrong. It’s given me money to live, for music. This is something where there is a gamble. I’m going to leave my job so initially, and hopefully only initially, there won’t be too much income. But more importantly, my music needs time. I need more time, so the job has to go. I want to get music jobs or jobs that are gonna pay me more for less time. 

So this is it. Well it isn’t like the last crusade, but it’s where I feel I break free from a comfort zone. I hesitated to call it that, because yeah I do feel I work hard. But I guess I need to go deeper, need to do even more. And I think that means taking a leap of faith. Rather than effort, it’s conscious and at the same time blind decision making. Run towards it, be rationally irrational. It might not work, but I don’t wanna coast along acting like it wasn’t going to work in the first place. I want to make that leap of faith knowing that even if it doesn’t work out, I tried. I will be happy if I tried. I might realise I want to do something else along the way, but I want to know that I gave it my all doing it. I do better without a safety net too, that’s what my Dad always told me. It’s so true what they say, the only thing that stops you from doing from something is you.

Go do it sonnn.

*****

I’m gonna keep this blog going even if I’m the only one who knows it’s here. I’m not gonna treat it like the bandpage facebook, soundcloud and all the rest of the social media, this is more a artist diary type thinggg. Keeps me on top of things. And I guess if you are reading this in the future or now, and you are an aspiring musician like me, it could be pretty cool to read about someone who’s trying/tried to do it.

I’m not a believer in fate, wouldn’t say I was a pessimist but I’m not one of those guys who would ever think I was born to do this shit, no matter how bad or good I am. I’m here, I’m healthy again, I can sing, I can write a tune. Let’s see how far this rabbit hole goes. It might be something that I hate after a while. But who knows? Let’s see how far I can take this thing

[tzp1985-blog]

A few lessons learned.

1. What do you most need in life? I need money, lots of money. - random person I met in church. No dear- money is evil and horrible and turns you into an evil person. And you build a complexity of alto ego thinking your above the law and you look at your friends and family as poor peasants that they are. You remind me of a person always looking for something to fill their soul that is empty. Money might grant you happiness and self sustainability for that moment in your life. But your sole trust relies on a paper that doesn't grant the eternity of peace, love and prosperity through minimalism of material items. - once you can let go of everything, they say that's when you become free. Let go of it. It has no substantial meaning either way. It's useless. Plus we will die and it appears the money won't follow us or all of the materials that we have among us. I thought all this and I just didn't know what to say. I was in awe and dumbfounded by the mere fact that it's slowly becoming to where I am confused with Christianity and the sinners. Who's who and which is which? 2. The years in relationship doesn't mean that there's a liability or necessity for it based on the years that is amounted to feeling like it must be because we have been in a relationship for years. The investment wasn't good and I wasn't benefiting from it anyways. There's a difference between forgiveness and letting it go then forgiving and giving it another chance. I do not have to come back because I did and nothing came out of it. The relationship was more of a destruction and damaging to the emotional state of a relationship and never would I match to the ideas of what perception you have towards life and money. It's like a monster tugging at the chains that is strapped around your neck. You have a parameter and circumference of little freedom but they control your life for pure enjoyment and joke and laughter when your dying inside. I broke those chains and I ran. I ran as far as could and I won't ever ever look back. 3. When your awake and you see the world for what it is. The construct of your surroundings becomes highly unusual. You start seeing with a set of new eyes and you start seeing the death and decay that surrounds you. The facade and the fake cynical smile and greetings by the passerby. You stare at their eyes wondering why they are blind. The replay of the matrix scene of him being unplugged and seeing the world for what it truly is. Miles and miles and rows of and rows of towers of people plugged into a fake simulation of The matrix thinking they are really in a real life. Is like a constantly repeat that never ever stops. I am awake and I can't go back to sleep. I can't pretend anymore. I know what the answer is. It was right there in front of me the whole time. The world is different. I see what's real and I see what's fake. I can not deny it. I am sorry. 4. There's people that are out there to undermine you, take advantage of you, say wretched horrible things that bring you down to the depths of the ocean of depression. It's sad that when I don't hang out with those so called friends labeled to a pathetic state of calling each other "sisters" when one is as toxic and as close to the substance of brimstone. I see straight through you. I wasn't able when I was young because I was naive. You thought I would be the same person as 10 years ago. Not knowing the difference between crude and evil words displaying it and saying I was only joking when you have no capacity or understanding to how words can affect one's life. A person showed me a verse that changed my perception to how one must not joke. “Like a maniac shooting flaming arrows of death is one who deceives their neighbor and says, “I was only joking!”” ‭‭Proverbs‬ ‭26:18-19‬ ‭NIV‬‬- so goodbye. 5. Real talk: It's pretty pathetic when one determines a relationship between two individual because of religion. Please do not judge other by what they believe. I sense some default in the alignment of your perception and understanding of this world and I can't equate or be by your side anymore. If your homosexual,bi, atheist, sinner, saint, Muslim, Buddhist, I will never ever judge you for what you believe but I do hope that we have an understanding that I don't believe in some aspects of your religion. I will not make fun of you as some of you out there do. It makes me so sad that people are still there judging people by what they believe because it doesn't fit to their understanding or core values that they embed or religion. Who are you to where such great power is given for you to judge and make fun of others? Are you God? Let me believe in Jesus Christ by the Bible standard and don't you dare judge me. You don't like what others believe then please feel free to do whatever you wish- but you judging them and making fun of them is something I won't stand for. Just because some don't see eye to eye on certain things does not make you have the liberty to make fun of them. Don't patronize others, do not judge, your not inferior to anything regarding of other's believe. You don't like me because of what I believe okay I won't change one bit for no one. Your not worth anything to me to compromise my beliefs in Jesus Christ. I am sinner and I am not a saint, I am not perfect. But don't you dare judge others, do not make fun of others. - 6. Nobody likes to hear the truth. Constant are the excuses and silence of many. Only to when it's too late and I told you so comes like a red flag of communist dictatorship deciding who and what and when and where and why. You will only be aware when it effects you but by then you will be dead and it'll be too late. Wake up sleepy head. 7. I tried my best to keep this relationship going. All I get is a blue thumb, not knowing to what the response means. I am waking up to the façade that's around that increasingly is becoming annoying and I seem to not fit in. Your conversation is me trying to talk and you avoiding my eyes and mumbling underneath your breath. You and I stare awkwardly at each other not knowing what to say. I am progressively changing and you and I seem to be loosing our ground that kept us together. I pass by you and you kept looking forward. Time is quick for me. I don't have time for you or for the investment because your investment is somewhere else. It was a pleasure to have known in my history. It's just that you and I don't see eye to eye anymore. I can't lower my standards and value to try to engage with you when you can't look at me, call me, respond with words, and etc. Sorry, but goodbye. 8. Whispering is the same as backstabbing a person with a knife slowly and progressively killing the person. Don't whisper about that person that is right in front you.They will know and you'll be off the list of friendship. And you won't ever ever be trusted because nothing good comes out of people who are whispering. When truth is spoken there is no need for whispering because truth is light and there's nothing that can hide in the shadow for one to whisper about. Don't whisper. 9. Here's a little information that I have learned. The secret to life is- most people are doing it because it's a "thing" and it's "popular",do the opposite. Few are the people who live their lives accordingly to the right path. But many are those who follow and do as such with out thinking twice to what the action means. Don't follow the yellow brick road. It's that dirt path that you have to walk alone. I don't subject myself to the norm of what society distributes to the masses. Every body says take the blue pill, and I say to myself I probably should take the red pill. This method of lifestyle has helped me become a better human. 10. Reality is by the constant linear of lines that we have perceived and believed by the surroundings of which we inhabit. What would happen if one would cut your reality all at once and not just one line but all the lines. You would then see.. you would forever change and the construct of who are as a being would shatter and you would be forever changed. This is the only way for the world to change. But people are addicted to their reality of which they have built. I call it the bubble. I am here to pop your bubble.