#this goes for all my fellow overworkers that are not even the overworked age yet

[thefanficmonster]

Shivers

Abigail Blyg x Nick Furcillo [The Quarry]

Warnings: None :)

Genre: Romance, FLUFF

Summary: ‘You steal my warmth, leave me shivering’ - Two adorable idiots in love who don’t know they’re in love yet

Not requested - sorry, the idea refused to leave my head 😭

The sun clearly has no mercy for anyone, not even for the underslept and overworked counselors at Hackett's Quarry. It's the middle of July though, nothing less is to be expected. God knows rain is harder to manage when taken into consideration how many kids would dodge and bend around every rule and figure of authority to go live their movie moments in the downpour. That's as far as that consolation goes though, the sun's rays are too brutal to let anyone's brain work with its full potential and think of anything else without smoking like an overheated machine.

One of the martyrs sulking in the reign of heat this fine summer afternoon is Nick. But unlike the other counselors who are practically cooking while tending to their tasks and entertaining the kids, he's got a solid plan. An escape plan, to be exact. He ended up curating it last night when he took to comforting a kid who was upset by his fellow campers' teasing comments on his inability to swim. A quick show of hands confirmed a sneaking suspicion he had the moment the subject was brought up: there was a good number of kids who didn't know how to swim or were too afraid to even get in the water.

In short, he'd hit a jackpot and did not spend a moment longer before scheduling a swimming lesson/activity with that small group of kids for the following day. That being said, he'll be splashing around in the lake all afternoon while his work friends turn redder and redder with each degree risen.

However, as he's now making his way down the gravelly path to the lake where the group should be meeting him, he can't help but wonder if it was a good idea. He could barely get a wink of sleep before the first rays of dawn peeped in through the crooked blinds. He has a bad sunburn across his shoulder blades. He's beaten half to death by the heat already. In short, he's not in the best shape for a swim. Will his heart allow him to cancel the activity though? Hell no. He'll instead keep his fingers crossed that the refreshing lake water will be enough to kick his senses back into gear.

Nick can almost find it in himself to feel like a disgrace. Having spent a large chunk of his life in Australia, he's experienced heat far worse than this. Never did it get him to fold this badly though. Being in the US has seemingly lowered his tolerance to high temperatures which doesn't bode well for him at all, especially not right now or if he decides to visit home at the end of the summer when they clear out the camp.

Speaking of the camp, being here has lowered another tolerance of his: people. People his age, to be specific. He's gotten better accustomed to answering silly questions and playing dumb little games with the kids, but man, can he get overwhelmed by his peers easily. To say they get on his nerves would be inaccurate and downright overkill. But they can definitely be a lot from time to time.

Especially Jacob who he sees just up ahead on the trail, chatting up Dylan who he's frequently on the same wavelength with. Read: several wavelengths higher than the one Nick is typically on, but especially in this moment. That is exactly why the boy hits the breaks hard, making an imprint of his shoes in the soil, and swerves over into a far more narrow trail branching out from the main one. 

I'll need to recharge the batteries for that interaction, he thinks to himself, almost as an unsaid apology to Dylan and Jacob, both of whom he's grown to be close with over the course of these past two weeks. Closer than he thought he'd get but he's not complaining. Quite the contrary actually.

Nick's never been a very big people person. He's has tight-knit circles of friends all his life so he's not exactly a loner either. But he certainly has his limits, ones his social batteries set for him. It's a very big gamble though: they can make him or break him in the worst or best situations.

Prime example of it would be the time those exact batteries randomly gave out, although fully charged. And it had to happen while he was talking to the girl his eyes immediately fell upon during orientation. Well, she was talking to him. He had minimal participation in the conversation due to the system fail that went on up in his head. He still tends to relive the moment seconds before slumber consumes him and cringes his facial muscles into knots every single time, pinching the bridge of his nose punishingly as if it would change anything. In his dreams it did indeed go differently. He left a good impression and the whole nine yards. In real life, however, it took plenty of work to redeem himself. Yes, the redemption did include a kid with urine-soaked pants getting escorted back to camp by him but it did the trick.

He got the girl...'s attention. He got the chance to leave a proper good impression and even steal a few smiles and a giggle or two from her while he was at it. All in all, it was a success. The kid got away with his accident unnoticed by his peers as well, so that was also a big benefit for the day.

What was not beneficial about that day that occurred less than a week ago is the aftermath it left in Nick's head. It included a lot of moments he'd unknowingly embedded into his mind: the way the girl's eyes reflected the sunlight, making it impossibly brighter; the way that same sunlight poked its way through her rosy hair, lighting it ablaze like a mystical halo, framing her angelic face perfectly. The sound of her laughter lingered somewhere in there as well, bringing a smile to his face whenever he'd replay it in his memory.

To put it bluntly, the man's been down bad ever since.

And it certainly serves as no help, the sight of that same magenta halo further down the road.

By the path, there's a large clearing shielded from the unforgiving sun by countless tree branches, the leaves clinging to them swaying gently in the breeze, fanning the group of kids participating in Abigail's art lesson. It was a particularly unusual choice of hers to make and take the lesson out in nature instead of the semi-cool confinement of her assigned cabin but the kids were on-board with the idea right as it left her lips so she couldn't not fulfill it.

That's how they've ended up here: nature watching in the shade, sat cross-legged in the grass, everyone with their nose buried in a sketchbook, scribbling away a picture from memory or drawing something in their surroundings they are avidly observing.

Not a single peep leaves any of the kids, all of them too focused on their artwork to allow a slip-up by muttering as much as a syllable. Abi is in the zone right there with them, eyes hyperfocused on each line, each dot, every tiny detail she jots down on the page. It's that unwavering concentration very few things can break.

But apparently the sight of the messy haired Aussie she catches out of the corner of her eye does the trick.

Abi lifts her head, tilting it so her eyes meet Nick's, exchanging smiles with him as she gets to her feet and makes her way closer to the trail so they can hopefully chat while also not interrupting the little artists in action.

"Hey." She beams, notebook now shut and pressed into her side while she tucks the pencil she was using behind her ear. Old habit.

Nick finds it adorable.

"Hey." He replies, mind momentarily going blank. But he manages. He grasps at the straw he can before it too is pulled from his reach, "You know, you're probably the only counselor who can do that." He remarks, nodding to the kids, none of whom have noticed the dislocation of their counselor.

The poor girl almost feels pathetic when she feels the back of her neck prickle at the comment, "It's an easy task. Kids have a wild imagination, I just help them feed into it. They do the work for me." Not leaving it up to chance and risking receiving any more compliments she won't know how to respond to properly, she shifts the conversation, "Where are you headed?"

Another momentary brain hiatus pushed aside, Nick forces his arm to take initiative before he picks out his words - pointing towards the lake, "I'll be teaching a swimming lesson." He hesitates for a brief second before his social batteries surprisingly choose to do him a favor and kick into high gear, "Would you like to join when you get done with...all of that?"

His hand threads itself nervously through his bird's nest of hair, reminding him that he didn't put as much effort into it as he would've had he known he'd be running into her. That reminder causes him to look away, evidently blushing and flustered.

Abi finds it adorable.

Makes her wish she could say yes like she really, really wants to, but alas..."I won't be done anytime soon. That's a lot of artwork to give feedback on." She gestures to her group of aspiring artists, the number of which she's been appreciative of since day one but is now displeased by. If there had been a lesser interest in her lesson maybe she could...

No, that's terribly unprofessional, Abi! She scolds herself just on time.

Nick had expected the rejection but that doesn't mean his fingers weren't secretly crossed behind his back. Still, he takes it like a champ, "That's ok, we have an entire summer ahead of us. We'll have a dip eventually." As if he needed to get any more flustered, he had to set himself up for that one, didn't he?

Luckily, she doesn't seem at all phased by it. Well, at least not externally, "Yeah, for sure!"

A fleeting moment of silence settles between them. One they've grown closely affiliated with when in each other's company. Silence they don't find uncomfortable or out-of-place. Not the type of silence they scramble to fill with random chatter. It's simply theirs, their trademark conversation accessory.

And Nick wouldn't have bothered to break it if a little voice at the back of his head didn't remind him of the kids waiting for him by the lake, cooking in the sun. "I've got to go now. But...I'll see you at dinner?"

"Of course! Have fun with your lesson." Abi replies enthusiastically, bidding him a farewell with a small wave which he quickly returns before taking to jogging down the path.

Not only for the benefit of speed though. But because of how cold he suddenly feels, shivers running up and down his spine as if just the air around him suddenly dropped in temperature.

As if he left all the warmth he felt back in that moment, in that very spot.

If he were to look over his shoulder he'd see that Abi didn't return to her spot in the shade either. Instead, she's actively chosen to stand in the sun, goosebumped arms crossed over her chest, hoping the rays will do what they've been doing best all day - warm her up after the sudden nestling of shivers beneath her skin.

As if he took her warmth with him when he turned to leave.

[princesssarisa]

Still more rambling about "Wuthering Heights"

The recent discussion by @astrangechoiceoffavourites and @dahlia-coccinea regarding Nelly's description of Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw's deteriorating relationship in Chapter 8 inspired me to go back and reread that chapter. Nelly's account of how Cathy and Heathcliff both changed as they grew out of childhood is negative to both of them, but she especially emphasizes Heathcliff's change for the worse under Hindley's drunken abuse, and in his interactions with Cathy, he seems to have changed toward her more than she did toward him. It's much more complex than the image of "fickle Cathy" that we tend to find in pop culture.

Nelly criticizes Catherine chiefly for her increasing arrogance, and secondly for the way she would half agree with Heathcliff's insulting remarks about Edgar in Edgar's absence, yet in Heathcliff's absence say nothing in his defense when the Lintons disparaged him. But one thing Nelly doesn’t accuse her of doing yet is snubbing or abandoning Heathcliff.

“She had a wondrous constancy to old attachments,” says Nelly: “even Heathcliff kept his hold on her affections unalterably; and young Linton, with all his superiority, found it difficult to make an equally deep impression.” She goes on to say that Heathcliff was still Cathy’s constant companion whenever he wasn’t working. An interesting detail, which I think sometimes gets lost in adaptations, is that at no point does Cathy actually choose Edgar over Heathcliff. Even when she accepts Edgar’s proposal, what she wants and always tries to have is both men in her life, and even before her dramatic confession of her love for Heathcliff, Nelly can see that Edgar doesn't matter as much to her as Heathcliff does.

We all presumably remember the scene where Heathcliff points to the almanac and the marks he's made revealing how many afternoons Catherine has spent with the Lintons and how many with himself. But here we have one of the book's endless ambiguities – we never actually learn what Heathcliff's almanac-marking reveals, only that he's "on the point, sometimes, of complaining" about it. Easy though it is to assume that Catherine has been spending more afternoons with the Lintons than with Heathcliff, it might also be that she's been dividing her time equally between them, or spending not quite, but almost as much time with the Lintons as with Heathcliff. Any of these scenarios would annoy Heathcliff when he was once the only same-age companion Catherine had or wanted, especially if he already suspects Edgar of having romantic feelings for her.

Catherine is also still as openly and physically affectionate to Heathcliff as ever. Despite having learned to be a "lady" she still gives him "girlish caresses." It's Heathcliff who goes from freely extolling her as superior to everyone on earth to no longer expressing his fondness for her in words and recoiling from her touch as if he suspects her affection is insincere. And the chief person to blame for this change is neither Catherine nor Heathcliff, but Hindley.

So few analyses of Wuthering Heights, even those specifically focused on Heathcliff's character arc, consider how much Heathcliff changes in the two years following Hindley's descent into alcoholism. Nelly makes it clear that in those two years of being brutally abused and overworked, he became increasingly quiet and morose, increasingly struggled with his education until he gave it up altogether, lost all his boyhood pride and seemingly all will to improve his circumstances, and in Nelly's judgmental words, seemed to take a "grim pleasure" in coming across as a repulsive, unintelligent brute. In just one paragraph, Emily Brontë makes the psychologically stunting effects of trauma painfully clear.

Now the contemptuous tone of that paragraph is a definite example of "the Nelly filter": I definitely feel more sympathy for Heathcliff at this point than our judgmental narrator seems to feel. But at the same time, if this description of his 16-year-old self is basically accurate, then his "angry suspicion" toward Cathy's displays of affection seems less the result of her behavior than of his own broken self-esteem. It also seems to be more than just classism and racism that makes Cathy believe (or be able to lie to herself) that Heathcliff isn't in love with her and won't mind when she marries Edgar, and that he'll never better himself on his own and needs her to save him with the Lintons' money. Not that those viewpoints aren't wrong and condescending, but there's more to the situation than just "She becomes a racist snob and treats Heathcliff abominably."

There are only two moments before Heathcliff's three-year disappearance where Cathy is really and truly cruel to him. The first is when she first comes home from the Lintons' on Christmas Eve, where she laughs at his "black and cross" appearance and criticizes his dirtiness. Of course Heathcliff is hurt by this casual classism and racism coming from his once inseparable fellow misfit. But she still hugs and kisses Heathcliff just before she utters those thoughtless words, the next day she sides with him over Edgar in the applesauce-throwing debacle, and Nelly never implies that she ever spoke to him that way again. The second moment is three years later, in their last interaction before Edgar's proposal. Yes, it's wrong of her to lie to Heathcliff, first claiming that she's not expecting any visitor, then saying that Isabella and Edgar "talked of calling" when really only Edgar is coming and she was the one who invited him. And yes, it's inexcusable when she verbally lashes out and implies she would rather spend time with Edgar because Heathcliff "might be dumb or a baby" for all he says or does to amuse her. It's especially cruel because she knows full well that his quiet sullenness and lack of education are the result of Hindley's abuse. But Heathcliff's shocked response says it all: "You never told me before that I talked too little, or that you disliked my company, Cathy!" This is an isolated incident. In a fit of annoyance and anxiety, she says harsh words to Heathcliff that she's never said before. Apart from these two moments, she's not Heathcliff's abuser: Hindley is.

In Heathcliff and Catherine's emotional "dance of death," the same pattern recurs again and again. In some way, Catherine chooses the Lintons' refined world over the half-savage world she once shared with Heathcliff, yet doesn't view it as rejecting Heathcliff himself; but Heathcliff takes it as rejection and distances himself from her in anger, leaving them both in pain. This happens when she first comes home from the Lintons – she laughs at his looks yet still greets him fondly, but he refuses to shake her hand and avoids her until the next night. This repeats through the next three years – she divides her time between him and the Lintons, still giving him all her affection when she's at home, but he becomes sullen and withdrawn. Then she accepts Edgar's proposal, yet still intends to stay as close to Heathcliff as ever while married, but he responds by running away for three years, and when he comes back to find her newly wed, she wants them to live happily as friends, but he dashes her hopes by pursuing Isabella. It's a terrible, complicated downward spiral, and to blame only one of them for it, or to blame only the two of them and no one else, is to vastly oversimplify it.

I could make similar observations about Cathy Linton and Hareton's relationship. I haven't taken time to reread their scenes just yet, but they've always come across to me as two damaged, flawed young people who are both partly to blame for their initial conflict (with Heathcliff and Edgar sharing the blame too), but who eventually choose to put aside their egos and grow together in a way the first Cathy and Heathcliff never did. It surprises me to see other readers blame only Cathy for mistreating Hareton and see only her as needing to learn to appreciate him, or (though this is less common) blame only Hareton and view Cathy as needing to "fix" him. But that's a discussion for another day.

The complexity of all the characters, relationships and situations in this book is truly astounding. It's hard to believe Emily Brontë was only in her twenties when she wrote it: authors with twice as many years of life experience have written with less depth than she did. And the oversimplified views of it that pop culture promotes (of which "Catherine Earnshaw was fickle and cruel to Heathcliff" is only one) definitely need some deconstruction.

[leejungchans]

juliet’s relationships with ateez.

they’re so beautiful i’m gonna fucking cryhdjhfjshsjs i’m going through it 💔

#HONGJOONG; (HONGLIET)

juliet is the self-proclaimed favourite child of hongjoong

she was very shy pre-debut and was scared of clashing with him, so they never fought

they became a lot closer when she asked hongjoong to help her with her rapping; she was always trained to be a vocalist so she thought her rapping needed work and (shyly) approached him asking for his advice

as they became more comfortable with each other, she learnt to honestly communicate her thoughts with him

makes sure hongjoong doesn’t overwork himself; brings him food, coffee, or just accompanies him silently when he’s working; will not hesitate to use her sad puppy eyes to convince him to go back to their dorm so he can get proper rest

she always looks on with a very proud smile when she hears hongjoong speaking in english; he picked up a little bit of her aussie accent too :>

actually doesn’t mind being a little shorter than him but she wears platform shoes a lot to tease him; he has jokingly threatened to throw them away

she is very worried about his scalp; but she loved his red and blue hair, and of course the famous mullet

with hongjoong especially it’s literally “juliet see, juliet do” :c

hongjoong dotes on juliet especially because she will always be a baby in his eyes; when they first met she was around 15, so he has always been really gentle with her; he looks after her extremely well

never lets her pay for anything despite her protests

she wants to treat him to stuff too :<

overall a very wholesome relationship

#SEONGHWA; (HWALIET)

another very, very wholesome relationship

he’s so, so gentle with her but will goof around with her too :(((

is the one who brings snacks, an extra jacket or blanket for her because she always forgets

when they first debuted, juliet would be very uneasy before public appearances because of the hate and comments she’d get; seonghwa was always there to calm her down and support her

when she was still in school he would nag her to do her homework hajshwjsj

she’s close with all the boys’ family but perhaps the closest with seonghwa’s and will sometimes visit his family with him during breaks!!

seonghwa is usually the first person juliet goes to if she’s having a bad day

she clings to him a lot, like, a lot; she will attach herself to his arm like a koala any chance she gets

sharing almost identical disgusted expressions

he always makes sure she’s eating; he gets sad if she doesn’t

late night talks with warm tea

each other’s #1 hype man; as much as she acts disgusted when seonghwa does aegyo or purposefully acts sexy, you can always hear her cheering him on in the background

that doesn’t mean she doesn’t tease him though

“excuse me, please put your tongue away” “mY hiPs aRe fLeXibLe” “sO hAwT” “wOw, AmAziNg” “...please stop”

#YUNHO; (JUNHO)

two babies

juliet lives to see yunho smile and it’s her life’s mission to make sure he stays happy forever

yunho always gives her piggyback rides

the height difference between these two is the funniest thing ever because she isn’t even that short but she always looks like a dwarf next to yunho

“uh...excuse me, you’re forgetting something :/” “huh? ohhh...[crouches down to match her height]” “thank you :D”

yunho brings out juliet’s happiest side effortlessly because it’s just impossible to be sad around him

that being said, yunho is her designated giant teddy bear whenever she’s sad

they always start dancing out of nowhere

you will hear her whooping and cheering very loudly in the background whenever yunho twerks and stuff

yunho’s fellow harry potter fan

he likes pinching her cheeks, patting her head and playing with her hair

but if he tries to use her head as an armrest she will kick him (out of love :3)

#YEOSANG; (SANGLIET)

someone save ateez from these two because they love roasting everyone

will not hesitate to roast each other as well

best friends who judge people together

when the others say or do something questionable, you can sometimes see yeosang and juliet exchange looks or hide their faces from secondhand embarrassment

little beans who get shy easily :(

she is yeosang’s biggest hype man; he could literally just be breathing and she will still go “wow, a living statue, absolutely breathtaking” “an angel sent to us from the heavens above” “yes, vocal king! yes, dance legend!”

they do everything in tiny :((((((((

they dance to the ponytail song together

she loves his birthmark so much and practically tells him that every day; she thinks it makes him even more beautiful and unique

he likes her cooking a lot so she always makes him food and lets him help out

“please don’t cut off your finger...” “do fingers grow back?” “i don’t know but i don’t want to find out from you.”

The™ best comedic duo but no one is ready to admit that yet

#SAN; (JUSAN)

juliet constantly judges san jokingly but she’s honestly just as chaotic

he once spun her ipad on his finger and almost dropped it; she didn’t speak to him for an hour

like hongjoong, san also picked up on her aussie accent a bit

juliet goes :OOOO every time san shows off his martial arts skills

if they’re not wreaking havoc together, then one of them is filming the other wreaking havoc alone while laughing hysterically behind the camera

she looks up to san so, so much; the way he improved his dancing tremendously through hard work and determination inspires her deeply

they learn other groups’ choreographies together

hypes the other up for everything

loves his voice so much; listens to him sing with heart eyes and vice versa

so, so clingy :((( they’re just tiny babies who need a lot of love and affection

juliet loves san so much and it breaks her heart knowing that he struggles with self-esteem like she does; they have a lot of deep talks where they talk for hours in the dark

#MINGI; (2MIN)

2Min!!!!!! 🥺

a giant and a baby

that only applies to their heights, though; because they’re both babies personality-wise

juliet is either being loud and dumb with him or she’s going “ahsjajsj please stop, we’re idols •_•”; there is no in between

she’d let mingi give her more piggyback rides but the first time he gave her one he almost dropped her

juliet never shuts up about how good mingi is at rapping and dancing; she’ll tell you that at least once a day

“anyways, mingi is such a good rapper and dancer. did i mention how phenomenal he is? because he is the best rapper and dancer :]”

whenever juliet sings/dances, mingi always looks on very proudly

“our main vocalist/dancer, everyone!”

her designated giant teddy bear number 2

like with hongjoong, she makes sure mingi is eating and sleeping because he works a lot too :(

it makes mingi really happy when she tries to rap his parts

juliet is the leader of the mingi protection squad, if you hurt him she’ll actually k word you in your sleep

#WOOYOUNG; (2YOUNG)

2Young; when they get paired up together for stuff, they introduce themselves with “2!” “Young!”

dear god, they are so loud

she’s either the first one shushing him or the others are telling both of them to shut up

wooyoung screams a lot so to juliet the only solution is to be even louder

siblings who annoy each other but also love the other to bits and will kill for each other

one time they did a v-live together and an atiny pointed out how when juliet says “no” it sounds like “noerrrrr”; wooyoung hasn’t let it go since and clowns her for it every chance he gets

one minute they’re bickering over something stupid and the next they’re cuddling on the sofa and laughing at random stuff on their phones

wooyoung teases her for literally everything, from her height to her australian accent; it’s a miracle she hasn’t killed him yet

“wooyoung dance king!”

she loves his vocals so much :(

she also loves his laugh; she thinks it’s very contagious and it always makes her laugh even harder

very clingy pt.2 :(((((

they like to cook together; despite juliet’s constant teasing, she genuinely loves his cooking

the biggest army’s

the duo that has everyone wrapped around their fingers

#JONGHO; (JONGLIET)

they’re the youngest ones so they’re bound to be chaotic together

they have a secret handshake!!

since they’re the only ones who don’t share a birth year with anyone in the group, they call themselves the “21st century duo”

another tom-and-jerry relationship but they love each other to bits i promise :’)

high note battles that make the others go •_•

their duets though :’)))) a blessing

when they sang miss a’s “good-bye baby” together at mama 2019

vocal legends

jongho always use the fact that she’s the youngest against her, especially when they’re asked to do aegyo

“i think the maknae should do it >:)” “jongHO SHUTUPJAGSJAJS”

“well, he’s the youngest among the boys, so i think he should go too”; cue his look of ultimate betrayal

imagine her face when she saw his red hair for the first time :(

“omgomgomg now you’re a real apple!!!” :(((((

more piggyback rides!!

okay, but juliet is honestly so grateful for jongho; they’re the closest in age so it’s always very easy for her to talk to him and she loves him a lot :’(

they understand each other very deeply and usually they don’t need to exchange words to know what the other is thinking/feeling

she can overthink a lot and in those moments he’s her voice of reason and is always there to help her through those times

partners in crime :>

[crybabysunflower]

I had previously talked about a mystic messenger kpop au headcannon but honestly I have never written a single fanfiction in my life since I am actually not really confident about my writing skills.

However I have decided to write about how would it be if a mysme character is a kpop idol

Kim Yoosung as a kpop idol

He is either the maknae himself or belongs somewhere in the maknae line. (Maknae is the term for the youngest member of the group)

If he is the second youngest, its because they had added the new maknae in the final lineup just a few months before the group's debut

He is the happiest one to have the new maknae because he is tired of always being the youngest everywhere be it in his family or in his group, he finally gets someone he would love to care and protect. However he becomes annoyingly clingy towards the maknae.

Is probably from SM or JYP (these are entertainment agencies)

Main Vocalist, dancer

An underrated Vocalist. His group's fanbase sleeps on his vocals because it is not bold and strong like the other main vocalists of his group.

Has a soft, high pitched, nasally, smooth honey like vocals which is full of emotions and adds an extra dose of melancholy when they perform sad songs, thus making it very ideal for ballads. At times his voice can have a soulful quality if required.

His voice also stands out among the other vocalists so much that even the new fans can tell him apart from the rest.

Often performs girl group dance routines and actually nails them

Often ends up crying during concerts, fansigns sometimes during mid-performances (but he would still continue to perform) due to being overwhelmed by the audience cheering for his group and in various other situations.

Forgets the lyrics of his songs very often to the point that it has become a running joke among the fanbase

Has an ugly blue hoodie which is detested by his groupmates and also has become a running joke among the fans

Another running joke among the fans is that one time when he made some dish for his groupmates which ended up tasting awful.

The Sunshine of the group because of his bubbly, optimistic personality and his contagious smile.

Says a lot of dumb stuff and ends up doing a lot of dumb stuff unintentionally because of which he is often teased by his groupmates

Despite being the most teased member of the group, he himself is actually quite playful and loves to make his groupmates cringe by doing aegyo (aegyo is basically babytalking and making cute facial expressions and hand gestures).

Despite being the aegyo king of the group, he sometimes goes "I am not cute, hmph>_<"

When he makes his solo debut, he tries to go for a "mature" image therefore does a lot of sensual concepts.

But the fans who had been stanning the group for a long time still baby him because off-stage he is back to his childlike self.

Is quite cheerful and talkative at local variety shows but because he is not that good in speaking english, he is relatively quieter at the international ones

Is also quite shy while interacting with non korean fans because of the same reason

Although he might appear as the "dumb guy" of the group, he is actually quite intelligent since he contributes to the song lyrics or composition from time to time, but does not get enough credits for that.

Does not age at all. It's like he will be thirty yet still look like a teenager

He is very openly affectionate towards his groupmates and compliments them every now and then, his groupmates admire his kindness and his ability to take care of the members very well despite being one of the youngest.

He really really gets sad when the members overwork themselves.

Once during a concert stage he ends up injuring himself mid performance because of the intense dance routine. He didn't tell his fellow groupmates about it because he does not like worrying them and he didn't want to miss out the upcoming concerts and thus he tries his best to hide it. However he soon gets caught by the group leader who paid no heed to his pleas and forced him to stay back (for his own good) much to his chagrin.

He is also well known to be openly affectionate towards his fanbase which he expresses through his Instagram posts and his VLIVEs from time to time. (VLIVE is a video streaming app specifically for kpop idols)

During his VLIVEs he promotes his groupmates' solo activities by playing their songs in the background and asks his viewers to check out their new release.

In one of his VLIVE sessions he confesses that he gets a lot of hate comments but then tries his best to assure the fans that he is strong enough to deal with the hate.

He also gives optimistic yet comforting and empathetic advices to his viewers during his VLIVE sessions, such as telling them that they are all capable of staying strong despite all odds.

Frequently donates to animal shelters

He later gets offered to sing various Kdrama OSTs which also boosts his popularity

He is a huge ballad enthusiast and thus occasionally uploads song covers in their group's youtube channel

Please let me know how this turned out

If I get time, I will upload a drawing too

[imnotwolverine]

The marriage pact - Old faces

Henry Cavill x OC Alice - multi-chapter

Part 1 Old faces | Part 2 >

Disclaimer: none, (re)meet-cute

Author’s note: It’s romcom weekend, okay? 😘

Word count: 1.682

(Link to my Masterlist)

--

[ Alice.in.writing.land ]

Dear readers. 

I’d like to share with you some old wisdom from my nan on how to make: The perfect cake.

First of all: you always make sure you grease up the tin - ‘gotta make it slide right in, slide right out.’ She’d say with a grin so wide that my 12-year-old-self thought she’d tear her face in half. Her eyes would glitter mischievously as her hands moved with those swift and precise movements, leaving no inch of the inner cake tin unbuttered. 

‘And! Make sure you always fully preheat the oven, because there’s no shortcuts to the perfect cake.’ She’d tut, pointing at the oven, to which I’d nod most dutifully, preheating the oven as she requested while she’d utter something about making sure you get yourself a good size baking pan; ‘He’s gotta be right for the job and most definitely don’t try to double the recipe. Focus on one good cake, and do NOT overdo it. Nobody likes a dense, overworked cake.’

Then, her hand lightly beating through the cake battery, she’d turn to me and give me a knowing look. ‘If you don’t know what kind of cake you want, you’ll only be in for a disappointment, you know.’ - To which I would start bouncing up and down, eagerly requesting chocolate cake. There was no doubt in my mind what kind of cake I wanted. It always was chocolate cake. 

-

Those were good Sundays. Perfect cake baking Sundays. 

And do you know what? Only now, 25 years later, do I realise she was never truly talking about cake. Or baking tins. Ha..no. Silly me. My frisky nan was talking about men. Partners. Love. And perhaps sex, but that leaves you some space for interpretation. 

Now, my nan was a great baker. She had five kids. Buns of joy, really. 

I, on the other hand, not so much. Despite knowing full well what kind of chocolate cake I want, I just happen to be a very bad baker. And perhaps.. it’s time that I start to learn, because her last advise still rings true in my ears:

‘And timing, my dear, listens more closely than you think.’ She’d wink, kissing grandpa on his cheek, to which he’d grumble some indiscernible acknowledgement, the glimmer in his eyes not hiding the fact he still loved her dearly.  

Yes. I’m going to try harder and bake myself the best - birthday - cake, with a bit of nan’s advice. Meanwhile I hope you get all your cake wishes fulfilled, too. 

Have a good, single Pringle Friday my dear readers.  

A just turned 37, 

Ali

A scorching hot September sun washed over the zoo entrance, the Durrell challenge just finished but the media circus far from over. 

I yawned, stretching myself out as I watched my fellow journalists and reporters hover like a dark cloud around the person I would be interviewing in some ten minutes from now. 

The poor guy hadn’t had a moments rest since he crossed the finish line of the Durrell challenge run and I felt my heart pang with guilt for taking another snippet of his precious time. 

Then again, I had a job to fulfil and stupid as it was, I kind of enjoyed writing for the local newspaper. Writing was my thing, and currently I was in charge of writing one of the most beloved blurbs in the paper; Old Faces. 

Every week I interviewed a well known inhabitant of the island. George the butcher and his famous spicy sausages, Henriette and her fourteen dogs, Ilias the swimmer - an old man swimming an astounding 10k a day. And a tiny highlight being todays interviewee; Henry, the movie star, back on our beloved Jersey Island to show his support for the local zoo.

Meanwhile for me, he was just Henry, my childhood neighbour, a friend.

—

‘Alice! You’re on!’ A familiar voice startled me and I quickly scrambled up from the little stone wall I had been lounging on, my hands grabbing for my notes and voice recorder as I started making my way through the paparazzi mayhem.

‘Sorry…sorry! Excuse me..Coming through.’ I said, pushing myself past the crowd until I reached the shade of a dark blue canopy, finding that strangely familiar face before me, resting in a chair, his running gear sticking to his muscular physique. 

Henry. 

He stood up from his chair, reaching out his hand to ..eh...introduce himself? I felt a sour taste in the back of my throat as I realised he didn’t recognise me, his lips pulled up into a friendly, yet professional smile. 

Yaiks..Okay. 

Don’t mind it, Ali, the poor guy can’t help it. 

‘Hi..’ I awkwardly moved my stuff to one arm so I could shake his hand. ‘I’m Alice, local newspaper.’ I greeted, to which he nodded, his smile growing ever so slightly. He pointed at another chair, gesturing me to sit. 

‘Please take a..-’ My voice recorder slipped out of my arm as I tried to take my seat, my eyes barely registering as Henry moved with lightning speed to grab onto the cord of the device mid-air. I gasped. 

‘Oooph..that could have gone wrong.’ He chuckled, winking at me before he put the recorder back in my hand. 

‘Sorry.’ I sniffled, feeling the slightest of blushes creeping over my cheeks. ‘Thanks Hen.’ I muttered without overthinking my words, my eyes already averted to a woman that appeared on my right - his left. 

‘Hey!’ She smiled - Samantha, a chubby and bubbly lady I had known since my toddler years. 

‘Hi Sam.’ I smiled in turn, seeing she held onto a sort of timing-device. 

‘Okay, so..we’re a bit busy as you see. You’ve got four minutes..starting..eh..’ She clicked a button. ‘..now! Have fun!’ She cheered, winking cheekily at Henry.  

‘Oh.. yea yea. Okay thanks.’ I nodded, my brow furrowing ever so slightly as Sam sauntered off again. Quickly I straightened my back, my sweaty fingers fumbling with that darn voice recorder - I really should get a new one. 

‘So. Eh Henry! Hi! Welcome back!’ I started, offering him a smile, my fingers still trying to get the tiny buttons to cooperate. 

Click. Set. Start. 

Okay, here goes. 

Henry smiled his most warm, Henry-esque smile in return. ‘Thank you..Alice.’ He hesitated a moment, as if deciding what to make of my name. Perhaps because he started to recognise me..or...perhaps he was just tired, trying to memorise all these three million names that wished for his attention today. 

Yea..probably that was just me, wishfully thinking.

He didn’t seem to recognise me, and that was..okay. 

I swallowed. ‘Okay. So. To give you a short insight in this interview. I write the Old Faces blurb in the paper and I must say that we mostly entertain older readers so ..you know..keep the “young folk language” to a minimum.’ I winked, clicking my pen. Henry shrugged. ‘That shouldn’t be to hard. So what would you like to know, Alice?’

This time my name escaped his lips far more fluently, naturally. I looked at him, our eyes meeting for a few silent, peaceful seconds. 

‘I’m curious. What do you miss most from your time living here?’ Our eyes remained locked together as he licked his lips. ‘Hmm.’ He broke our gaze, thinking. ‘..Many things. I had a most wonderful childhood here. The beautiful nature, the ..zoo.’ He nodded at the zoo entrance behind us. ‘..the closeness of the community.’

I nodded, quickly interrupting him as time was sparse. ‘And what particular elements of that community do you miss the most?’

‘The simplicity of it.’ He started, then furrowed his brows. ‘No scratch that. That doesn’t quite capture it. Hmm..I think I mostly really enjoyed how natural it was to be around one another, care about fellows and neighbours, without there being any hidden agendas. You see my life is quite different now. I reside in circles that live and breath fame, fortune, wealth. Which sounds great for outsiders, but for insiders it can be exhausting at times too. For me at least, it can be. Being back here just makes me realise that not all people are like that. And, I enjoy the breath of fresh air it brings.’

‘And the great exercise too.’ I tease, making him chuckle in delight. 

‘Yes, and great exercise. That last hill sure was a..challenge.’

‘And how are you going to spend your time here? How long are you staying?’ My pen still hadn’t touched the paper to make notes, our eyes sharing that same deep look again. Deep browns looking into fresh water blues.

He had aged well. 

‘Only for the weekend unfortunately. But I’ll use the time to visit family, reacquaint with..old friends..friendly faces.’ His lip tugged in a half smile, near shy. Did he recognise me now? I wasn’t so sure, and perhaps I could have asked, but it wasn’t so - our little interaction was abruptly stopped as Sam reappeared.

‘And... that’s it! Thank you so much for coming Ali!’ She spoke, practically squeezing herself between me and Henry. I blinked away from Henry’s gaze and quickly looked up, realising this was it. This was all I’d get to see of Henry. 

Alright then. 

‘Thanks Sam.’ I smiled, quickly grasped my things and stopping my voice recording before thanking Henry.

‘Enjoy your stay!’ I laughed as he watched me grasp onto the voice recorder for dear life.

‘Thanks..eh..Ali.’

Once again that unnecessary hesitation before saying my name - though this time it was even more stomach-flutter-worthy, because he used my nickname. My childhood nickname. 

I could only shoot him the quickest glance over my shoulder before Sam wrapped an arm around my shoulder, her voice muttering some sappy gossip into my unhearing ear. 

I didn’t hear a word she said, because my mind was racing. 

Did he recognise me? Did he recognise me? I couldn’t tell, his mouth slightly agape as if he were to ask something, but Sam had already coached me away.

And there I went. Back to my failing, cake baking life.

--

General tagsquad: @harrysthiccthighss @tumblnewby @magdelen69

Fluff lovers squad: @star017 @perhaps2remember @pterodactylterrace @witchersqueen @desperate-and-broken​ @toomanyfandomsshreya​ @deliciouslysassyarcade​ @pamacs-macs​ @cavilladdict​ @scorpionchild81​ @lebguardians​ @sofiebstar​ @amberbabem​ @mis-lil-red @aestheticqueenb​ 

Want to added or removed to the tag list? Shoot me a message! 

[nykhaela-ackerman]

QuaranThoughts: A Glimpse Into My 2020 Psyche

     It seems like it’s almost been a year since everything suddenly changed due to the global COVID-19 pandemic crisis. Overall, 2020 has been filled with one tragedy after another. Starting off with the eruption of the Taal Volcano, threats of World War 3, the pandemic crisis, issues of racism, government incompetence, and many more events that shook the whole world. As someone living through such seemingly historical events, I felt anxious of what the world will come to be in the future, as long as what could happen to me. There were even times wherein I felt so anxious and restless because not only did I fear for my own safety, but also for thinking about what the point is in all this.

     I felt sad and helpless for living in such a world wherein fighting will never stop, and that it only seems like a pipe dream for governments to be competent enough to deal with certain issues. Not just in the context of the Philippines, but for the world in general, it seems as though no matter what happens, humanity will always be at war with one another, regardless of there being weapons or not. “Humanity will never stop fighting itself until it shrinks to a size of one or fewer,” said Erwin Smith, though he may be fictional, I believe that his words hold the truth. Humans will always find something to fight about, no matter how insignificant a few things might seem and vice-versa.

     This world of ours is a dog-eat-dog world, you can’t really trust anyone, not even yourself at times. So, in times of global crises, who will you turn to? The government who seems to only prioritize maintaining the positions they hold? The church with their false promises of comfort? Your school or university that even rids students of scholarship opportunities due to fears of spending too much money despite being owned by a literal billionaire? Your family who you may or may not even feel comfortable living with, depending on your relationships with them? Your friends who you don’t even know if they truly care about you? Yourself, who’s not even sure about your identity or reason for being alive? All we know is that we don’t know, after all we’re just human beings who were suddenly thrown into this world and now have to deal with the chaos that comes with existence.

     Anyway, before I end up getting way too depressing or overshare too much of my personal existential crisis, let me go back to talking about the pandemic. So first of all, I would like to share my own personal experiences and sentiments about being in quarantine, before I delve deeper unto more meaningful thoughts in terms of its effect on society. As a lazy introvert who never liked going outside nor have never experienced going anywhere without any family members, I personally do not mind the thought of just staying indoors all the time. As a matter of fact, I even feel relieved that I don’t have to actually socialize or interact with anyone because of how socially awkward I am and how I just don’t feel comfortable with dealing with social cues and all that stuff. Also, one of the reasons why I prefer online classes is also because of my personal self-image and self-esteem issues.

     During online classes, I don’t have to show the rest of my body nor wear an uncomfortable uniform whose buttons could burst anytime while worrying about the weird looks I get from people. In addition, I can express my thoughts easier during recitations or presentations during online classes because I do not have to deal with the social anxiety that comes with having to stand in front of a crowd and think about things like maintaining eye contact or monitoring bodily gestures and such. I could also sit however I want more comfortably, while also not having to worry about using the bathroom during class because I can easily do it at home while wearing Bluetooth headphones so I wouldn’t miss out on class. However, the fact that I can think about all these things is a sign that I seem to be privileged enough to actually be able to consider having to deal with online classes instead of face-to-face classes as a better situation personally. This doesn’t mean that I don’t acknowledge the plethora of issues that others are facing because of it, I was just sharing things from my perspective.

      Upon observing what my fellow students have been posting on social media, along with the many news articles out there, I have been dragged back into reality. Not everyone is lucky as I am to have WiFi and gadgets at home to be able to comfortably deal with online classes. Many are struggling to buy load for their cellular data so they can attend classes, others are also suffering from how the pandemic crisis affected their families financially, causing them to likely even drop out and work instead of pursuing their studies. In addition, there are also those who have to deal with balancing the already exhausting mountain-loads of schoolwork, along with helping out around the house with chores or taking care of their younger siblings or ailing relatives. I then realize that there’s more to life than academics, and that there are bigger problems out there in the world that take priority.

      Also, upon further reflection, I have realized that not everyone has access to such technologies required for online classes, especially for those who live in far-off areas; those who go to decrepit public schools, those who live in tribal communities, and those who live with a seemingly inescapable sense of poverty looming over them. As a citizen of a third-world country who has been more exposed to foreign media, there were time s that I have forgotten that the educational norm for the Philippines is way different than that of those living in first-world countries. I have remembered how there are many people in this country of ours who lack capabilities to enroll in academic institutions for high quality education, along with not even having enough finances to even survive living in the slums, and yet they are expected to have the resources to deal with online classes. Also, what about children who can barely even read or write? Do they expect them to be able to send emails at the ripe age of five?

     I think the heads of such universities or schools are forgetting that students and teachers are also human beings in need of breaks and that just because we’re at home doesn’t mean we have all the time and energy in the world to just do nothing but deal with academics. Even machines can overheat or explode due to overwork, there needs to be a time to cool down, so that we may spend even just a little bit of time to be just people, to just be ourselves and live our life beyond the confines of stressing over exams, quizzes, modules, grades, and such. There’s more to life than just slaving away and doing what you’re told to do, school shouldn’t be a medium to train people into becoming tireless slaves who will always bend to the will of those in power. As a matter of fact, because of spending almost all of my time dealing with academics, I barely have anytime to explore who I am and what I want in life; I don’t even see a future for myself beyond graduation, I can’t even see myself as not living as a student. Just because I have seemingly good grades does not mean that a bright future is automatically guaranteed for me; how am I supposed figure out how to survive in the real world while I further continue to lose the will to live as time goes by?

     While I sit comfortably at home as I pursue my other hobbies or stress over deadlines of activities, many people out there are starving and struggling to look for jobs, and many are fighting for their rights to be treated as human beings instead of yet just another number in the ever-growing mortality rate due to the pandemic or even because the government silenced them for speaking against those in power. The world is at war with itself, and yet there are many of us who act like frogs sitting in a tub of water without realizing they are slowly being boiled alive. We’re not in a sauna or in a relaxing hot spring, we’re in a living hell where of everyone is exposed to the same amount of fire. They may say that we’re all in the same boat, but we’re actually in the same ocean in midst of a storm; we’re all on different boats, some may be lucky enough to have yachts or cruise ships, while others are struggling to stay afloat on a piece of driftwood. Even if this pandemic crisis someday comes to an end, the struggles of humanity never will.

      This then begs the question, “Why do we even try so hard to survive in such a cruel world? What’s the point in living? Why even try if we’re all just going to die?” Personally, there are many times wherein I contemplated just taking the easy way out and I still do; I know I’m still young but it doesn’t invalidate how tiring it feels to be alive, and how it will just continue to get even more tiring and difficult as I continue to live. Well, as Mikasa Ackerman puts it, “the world is cruel yet beautiful at the same time,” so if we truly want to see how such a world can show such beauty, we must continue to try to survive in this world we were born into so that we may find what it means to genuinely be free.  After all, as Eren Jaeger puts it, “if we win, we live. If we lose, we die. If we don’t fight, we can’t win. So fight. Fight,” so that we may be able to see a world worth living in. Fight, so that we may be able to live someday in a world where we no longer need to fight, as illusory or delusional as it may seem.

     Before I bombard you with any more Attack on Titan references or depress you with my own personal issues, it may be time to end this essay of mine. Overall, whether it be a global pandemic crisis or any other issues surrounding human conflict, it cannot be denied that this era we’re living in will be a part of human history for future generations to read about. Even if it seems that humanity’s cycle of hatred, greed, and incompetence  will never end, we must still strive to make this world of ours somehow worth living in so that we may alleviate suffering, as we continue to grow and evolve as beings aiming to find the meaning of being. No one may know which paths we may take, nonetheless, we should still try to break down these walls, overcome these barricades, and dedicate our hearts so that we may proudly keep moving forward as we fly with our wings of freedom towards the scenery of true liberty. If we just sit here, do nothing and just wait for our corpses to start rotting, what’s the point in living?

Disclaimer: This is just an exercise for our Digital Publishing class submitted to @bertongbigtime​. Thank you for understanding!

[spiritualesoterichighlevel]

Enlightenment Issues

In 1974 Hans Burgschmidt was sixteen years old, living in the Canadian Prairies, working in a photography studio darkroom, elbow-deep in chemicals all day long. "Is this what life is about?" he asked a high school friend. "You need to meditate," was the reply.

Not long after, Hans attended a lecture at the local library, where a man in a suit spoke about the scientific benefits of relaxation. He pressed Play on the industrial-sized U-Matic video player and there was Maharishi Mahesh, the Indian yogi who initiated the Beatles into the mysteries of Transcendental Meditation (TM) and launched the meditation careers of thousands of Western devotees.

"An infinite ocean of peace and love and happiness awaits you," said the radiant Maharishi, with his flowing hair and his garland of flowers. "What's not to like?" Hans thought, and got in touch with a local TM chapter.

Soon after he began his meditation practice, exactly as advertised, he found himself transported from his parent's basement into a shimmering inner space of light and colour and bliss. "Eventually you get so expanded and the mantra becomes so refined that you are taken to the silent source of thought – it was wonderful."

Hans was hooked. Next, he enrolled himself in advanced courses and in the late 70s he left for Maharishi International University in Fairfield, Iowa, hoping to become a teacher.

But somewhere along the line Hans became disenchanted. Maybe it was the dubious "levitation" training, or the dogmatism of his fellow teachers, or the "almost abusive" way the school administrator overworked their staff. "The discrepancies between what was promised and what was really happening kept growing," Hans told me. "Eventually I had to move on."

Thus began Hans' long career as an itinerant spiritual seeker. He hit all the New Age mainstays: Osho and then Da Free John in the 80's, trance channeling and primal scream therapy and past life regression in the 90's.

  But the same pattern of finding the limits of the guru or the practices kept repeating itself. Finally in 2006 he met a teacher he could trust – one of my own teachers, in fact – the Buddhist scholar and future neuroscience-consultant Shinzen Young. "No BS, real down to earth, just an ordinary guy teaching a well-crafted version of techniques that have been tested by Buddhists for thousands of years."

The technique was vipassana, one important – and increasingly popular – aspect of which is known as "mindfulness."

"I found it invigorating," says Hans. "It was much more active than other techniques I had learned, I could feel the power of it."

The Shadow Side of Meditation

Everything was fine, until three weeks after his first retreat, when, in Hans' words, "something changed." My sense," says Hans, "is the technique precipitated something that was already there. I mean I had done a lot of meditating in other traditions by then. They softened me up. Whatever the case, I don't think it could have turned out any other way."

Hans was at home making his bed, when the room suddenly appeared "very far away." But the room hadn't changed; he had. The part of Hans that had once looked out at the world, the core we take for granted as the "self", had without any warning disappeared.

To understand what happened to Hans, you need to understand something about how meditation works in general, and vipassana in particular. Most meditation techniques are designed to shift a person's orientation from a limited personal identity to the broader ground of their experience.

Vipassana does this by deliberately and systematically untangling the different strands that make up our sense of self and world; in the Pali language (the ancient Indian scriptural dialect of Buddhism) the word "vipassana" means "seeing into" or "seeing through."

Practicing vipassana, you have more space to make appropriate responses, and more space, too, around your looping thought-track, which can dramatically reduce stress and anxiety as well as raise a person's baseline levels of happiness and fulfillment.

This is one reason why mindfulness has become the technique of choice for thousands of clinicians and psychotherapists, and there is now a considerable body of scientific research demonstrating these and other benefits.

Yet most of the clinicians who so enthusiastically endorse mindfulness do not have a proper understanding of where it can lead. The fact is that mindfulness in large doses can penetrate more than just your thoughts and sensations; it can see right through to the very pith of who you are – or rather, of who you are not.

Because, as Buddhist teachers and teachers from many other contemplative traditions have long argued, on close investigation there doesn't appear to be any deeper "you" in there running the show. "You" are just a flimsy identification process, built on the fly by your grasping mind — a common revelation in meditation that happens to be compatible with the views of many contemporary neuroscientists.

In fact, the classic result of a successful vipassana practice is to permanently recognize the impermanence (anicca), the selflessness (anatta), and the dualistic tension or suffering (dukkha) of all experience, which may sound like an Ibsen play, but this is the clear empirical understanding that many otherwise sensible practitioners report.

For most people this shift is the most profoundly positive experience of their lives. In the words of Shinzen Young, "it allows a person to live ten times the size they would have lived otherwise, it frees them from most worries and concerns, it gives them a quality of absolute freedom and repose."

But once in a while, something goes wrong. In Buddhism this is known as falling into "the pit of the void." Young is more modern: "Psychiatrists call it Depersonalization and De-realization Disorder, or DP/DR. I call it 'Enlightenment's evil twin'."

For Hans, what began as confusion and disorientation led within a few hours to extreme panic. The emptiness was ominous – in his words, a "deficient void." One moment the world seemed far away, the next it was too present, a "barrage" of overwhelming sensations. "It was like I had no protective filter or skin – sounds and sights became incredibly abrasive.

Hearing the phone ring was like someone running a thousand volts of electricity through me. I also had feelings of being stretched and twisted inside out, like I was morphing into some kind of animal. I had no idea what was happening – I thought maybe I was getting premature Alzheimer's."

Over the next few months Hans spent hours with Young on the phone, but despite the counseling, none of his symptoms went away – if anything, he says, the selflessness, the rawness of sensations and the associated fears became even more disconcerting. One by one, all the meaningful parts of Hans' life dropped away: his love of photography, of art, even his sex drive.

"I lost my will to do anything – none if it had any meaning. You could say that I no longer understood existence. I would wake up in the morning and go 'OK, this is my body, this is me, and I guess I'm doing this but I no longer understood it. I no longer understood agency, what makes other bodies move, what animates life.

Sometimes there was a wondrous quality to this bafflement – I felt the awe and the mystery – but most of the time it was aimless and tormenting."

Was Hans experiencing a slow-motion nervous breakdown unrelated to his meditation practice?  Or was the experience of depersonalization triggered by meditation?

He was able, just barely, to keep working, although he says he has no idea how he was able to do this since, in his words,   "I often couldn't understand what people were saying – all I would hear is the weird texture of their speech patterns, there was no meaning to any of it."

His own responses, too, came as a surprise. "At times I would hear myself speaking and I had no idea where the words were coming from or what they meant. I felt like an imposter."

The Dark Night of the Soul

Hans is not alone. If the very real benefits of mindfulness add up to the good-news mental health story of our time, then, like so many good things, there is also a shadowy seam, an experience known popularly as the Dark Night, after the writings of the famous Carmelite mystic St. John of the Cross.

More meditators and practitioners are beginning to speak openly about the challenges associated with practice. The importance of this cannot be overstated, for there are those in the scientific community who believe that taking these reports seriously may one day provide key insights into both mental illness, and the mystery of contemplative transformation. They may in fact be very different expressions of a single underlying dynamic.

Some researchers are already studying this. Willoughby Britton is a meditator and a clinical psychologist at Brown University. After encountering some of this difficult territory herself, she began an ambitious research project to document the full range of phenomena that can happen as a result of practice. The initiative is called "The Varieties of Contemplative Experience".

Over the past three years, Britton and her colleagues have conducted detailed interviews with over forty senior Buddhist (and some non-Buddhist) teachers and another forty or so practitioners about challenges they've either experienced themselves, or, in the case of teachers, seen in their students.

The study's current research design cannot answer the question of what percentage of practitioners run into problems, although Britton did tell me that serious complications that require inpatient psychiatric hospitalization probably affect less than one percent of meditators. "Milder, more chronic symptoms," she says, "will be higher – but no one knows how high."

The full range of symptoms, from mild to intense, include headaches, panic, mania, confusion, hallucinations, body pain and pressure, involuntary movements, the de-repression of emotionally-charged psychological material, extreme fear and – perhaps the central feature – the dissolution of the sense of self.

But, as she reports in a recent interview, the most surprising finding for Britton has been the duration of impairment, which she defines as the inability of an adult to work or take care of children.

"We've been deliberately looking for worst-case scenarios, so I expect this number will go down as we get more data, but right now we are finding that people in these experiences are affected for an average of three years, with a range of six months to twelve years."

Britton has found that two demographics seem to be affected more than other: young men aged eighteen to thirty, who, in the way of young men, go for months-long retreats in Asia and pursue hardcore practice and log ten to twenty hours of meditation a day. "We had to create a "Zealotry Scale" says Britton, dryly, "it was such a major predictor."

The other large group, she says, is middle-aged women. "These ladies have been going to, say, Spirit Rock Meditation Centre for last ten to twenty years, have a nice hour-a-day practice, and then seven or ten years into it something happens."

The situation is complicated by the fact that a period of difficulty is actually a perfectly normal part of many meditation practices. A well-meaning therapist might label this pathological, when what might be more helpful to the "patient" is guidance from an experienced meditation teacher.

Within vipassana traditions, some classic texts talk about the "dukkha ñanas" – challenging stages that are actually a sign of progress. These are a natural response to the layer of mind being exposed; with a teacher's help, the student can move through their Dark Night in a matter of days or hours. Indeed, some teachers argue that the skills practitioners acquire in coping with these passages are often the very ones that allow them to progress to more liberating stages of the path.

Shinzen Young writes, "It is certainly the case that almost everyone who gets anywhere with meditation will pass through periods of negative emotion, confusion, disorientation, and heightened sensitivity to internal and external arisings. The same thing can happen in psychotherapy and other growth modalities. For the great majority of people, the nature, intensity, and duration of these kinds of challenges is quite manageable."

According to Young, the real Dark Night occurs when, as in Hans' case, a practitioner has difficulty integrating insight into selflessness. This is something he says he has only ever seen a few times in his four decades of teaching.

Perhaps surprisingly, Britton's research has so far not revealed any clear associations between meditation-related difficulties and prior psychiatric or trauma history. Problems can occur in individuals with no identifiable red flags; conversely, individuals with multiple red flags (bipolar disorder, trauma history, and so on) can do intensive retreats without any difficulties whatsoever.

"We have to be careful," Britton told me, "about jumping to conclusions and excluding people prematurely from meditation's possible benefits. My personal opinion is that the place where we need most help is not in identifying at-risk people so much as improving support systems."

Britton gets two to three emails a week from people looking for help, so this is something she thinks a lot about. "Just talking about the experience with someone and hearing that none of it is new … this has a hugely positive effect on people.

That's eighty percent of what needs to happen. Just normalizing the experience." To that end, she has already founded both a space and a website to provide resources for practitioners in need, and also to educate teachers and clinician about the full range of meditation' effects.

"Length of impairment is directly related to how much access the student has to a good teacher. Many of the people I've spoken to have been through dozens of therapists and meditation instructors and most have no idea what to do."

Young has his own techniques for helping meditators work with Dark Night phenomena. Hans adds one more: serious fitness. "Pilates, weight-training, yoga – I now do it all. For me, I finally figured out that I needed to integrate these changes into my physical body. Ultimately this is what turned the corner for me."

Seven years after his drop into the pit of the void, Hans is arriving at a better place. Not a normal place, mind you – and here his laugh is a bit hysterical: "What's normal? I still live in emptiness and wake up every morning with no idea who I am."

But he no longer gets panic attacks, or feels ten thousand volts of electricity irradiate his senses every time the phone rings. His sex drive has returned, and with it a new longing for a relationship. He also has a strong interest in helping others manage similar problems.

"So much of it is about patience," he says. Over the past seven years, the words of one teacher kept circling around in his head: "If life gives you nothing you want and is not on your own terms, would you still have the generosity to show up for it?"  There's no easy "yes" to that question.

[askmerriauthor]

Got any more silly NPCs in this game?

Goodness, do I ever.  I didn’t really go into any of the fluff in that rundown since I just wanted to focus on the plot as it went so far.  I love characters and I always make sure to put lots of fanciful personalities into my games at every opportunity.  So far the party has been dealing with plenty of NPCs with varying degrees of delight or rage.

Carl, the Overworked Pathfinder AgentExactly what it says on the tin.  Carl is the local dispatch agent for the Pathfinder Society stationed in Sandpoint.  He’s the single source of communication between the party and the Society far beyond, and he really just is not getting paid enough for this shit.  He’s a deadpan snarker who hates his job and just wants everyone to leave him alone.  Naturally, the party refuses to leave him alone.

Giama the Wandering ChefThe party ended up encountering Giama’s roving wagon on their way out to Fangwood Keep.  Giama is a cheerful and affable Elven woman who has a bright smile and even brighter wardrobe.  She travels all around the region perfecting her culinary craft and specializes in “Monster Meals” - bizarre dishes made from Monster remains that bestow magical mutations on those who manage to choke them down.  The party all got themselves some weird powers thanks to Giama and have set up a trade deal with her, sending her the remains of creatures they slay for yet-to-be-determined boons.

Mirabelle the PixieSome of you will remember this character of mine.  She’s back in NPC form as one of the many First World beings trapped in the ruins of the Wizard’s Tower, and she’s befriended the party after a rough start.  To date she hasn’t done anything particularly useful aside from confuse the hell out of them with contradictory information, mark up the Warpriest’s armor with graffiti, and is generally just having a good time pestering them.  Despite being of no real use, Shaemus and Abby have become entirely taken with her and delight in having her around.

Balin the WizardA 50-something Wizard and a member of the militia force the party hooked up with prior to taking Fangwood Keep.  Balin is a spry, friendly sort who’s still got a strong thirst for adventure at his age.  He’s a bit of a dotty fellow and is incredibly clumsy, but he’s come through for the party time and again when the chips were down.  To date, he’s the only NPC the party as a whole seems interested in making a permanent part of the group if the opportunity arises.

Isolde the DruidHalf-Orc, Half-Dryad, all Glaswegian.  Isolde is a powerful Druid who’s camped out in the woods beyond Fangwood Keep and she’s helping keep an eye on things on behalf of Sandpoint.  So far she’s been a major supporter of the party, supplying them with useful items and a safe place to rest in her grove.  She has an odd quirk where she’s not bound to a single forest glen like other Dryads are, but cannot actually enter civilization where there’s more man-made structures than raw nature.  Because of this she tends to keep her distance and loan her help to the party rather than head in alongside them.  Isolde and Wenden’s horse have become BFFs.

Findah & KiipahThe thieving duo from Episode 0 - Findah and Kiipah are a pair of Kobold twin siblings that have been a thorn in the party’s side.  They keep showing up wherever the party goes, either tracking them or just happening to be in the wrong place at the right time.  They’re currently wanted by the Pathfinders for 842 counts of Grand Theft Arcana, having stolen vast fortunes worth of magical items from the Society’s various members over the years.  Nobody is quite certain as to why the two burglars are going around stealing these items and the party hasn’t bothered trying to find out.  They’re too pissed off at even catching a whisper of the duo and lunge into battle, at which the twins generally scream, hug each other, and immediately flee without throwing a single punch.  To date, the twins have gotten the better of the party (counting both Episode 0 and Episode 1) five times, either catching the party unawares or slipping through their fingers.  Findah and Kiipah are still at large and it’s unknown where they might show up next.

[karalovesallthegirls]

Supergirl AU

Cat Grant knows her assistants are cheating, she just doesn’t know how yet.

She even knows the exact date it started almost two years ago, when suddenly her constant stream of incompetent aides began to improve, to last longer. All her life her assistants have been barely adequate, but for some reason the last handful have gotten sharper and sharper. 

It’s been three weeks with this new one and, while his performance within CatCo is lackluster at best, he has yet to make a single mistake with her coffee or food orders. And if there is one thing Cat values more than all else its what she consumes; she spends all day creating media for the consumption of millions so what she herself takes in is of the highest priority.

This week she had a stress headache and she sent him off with a screech to get her some sustenance. Now she had very low expectations for this, so imagine her surprise when he comes back with a perfectly made bacon wrapped hamburger (her headache guilty pleasure) and a medium latte with just a dash of cinnamon.  There is no way on Earth that this Witt fellow should know about that. Her guilty pleasures are closely guarded secrets, and Cat Grant has never explicitly told anyone about her infatuation with bacon and cinnamon (both separate and together). And yet when she needed it the most, he just happens to get it exactly right. This assistant hasn’t even made it a month yet; there’s no way he knows this is a weakness of hers.

Which means there’s a snitch somewhere feeding answers to her assistants.

So Cat does the only sane and rational thing a person could do in a situation such as this - she begins to shadow her assistant everywhere he goes. Dramatic? Perhaps, but sometimes theatrics are the only way to truly get results. So she tells her little hobbit of an assistant that she’s furious and needs an iced coffee drink to calm herself down. Its a bit of a test, really. A coffee would be fine, but if she’s angry caffeine is probably not the best choice. Perhaps he’ll go with the given answer and all of Cat’s suspicions are for nothing. Regardless, she still waits exactly two minutes and thirty five seconds, throws on a hat and a pair of sunglasses, and follows after him.

As expected he goes straight to Noonan’s and she loiters a bit near the front of the restaurant to observe. Instead of going to the cashier to order, however, he veers over towards the seating area and frantically whispers at some waitress. Interesting, Cat thinks. She’s never seen this waitress before and yet Witt seeks her for advice.

Cat moves a bit closer, close enough that she can hear. “- and she’s being really weird, Kara, like weirder than she’s ever been! She said to get her an iced coffee drink to help cool her fury.” This waitress, Kiera or something, nods like this is a normal thing to be told. “Usually when Miss Grant gets angry you’re not gonna want to give her caffeine. That’ll just drive her even more. I would get her an iced tea, probably something with honey in it. She also loves cinnamon so maybe one of our seasonal teas?”

Cat is frozen, staring open-mouthed at this young woman she’s never seen before in her life spouting such detailed and accurate advice. That is the perfect drink for her in a situation like this. Who the hell is she?

Cat waits until Witt thanks her profusely and runs off to order before launching her attack. “You know, most of my stalkers are balding middle aged men,” she says, “having one like you is honestly kind of refreshing.” This Kiera woman just gives her a surprised smile. “Hello, Miss Grant! It’s nice to finally meet you.” And then she just turns and starts cleaning a table. Like Cat isn’t standing right there, making a dramatic entrance. That’s it? That’s all she gets? Unbelievable; Cat hates this Kiera already. “Alright honestly. Who the hell are you and how do you know my orders so thoroughly?” Kiera just laughs as she gathers the plates and begins wiping down the table. “I have worked here for three years, Miss Grant. I’ve seen a few dozen assistants of yours come in and try to get your orders right. Eventually, I figured you out.” Cat scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself, Kiera. I am an enigma beyond anything in this world, not something that can be ‘figured out’, as you so delicately put it.” Kiera just smiles and shrugs, still cleaning. “You eat your feelings a lot, Miss Grant. When you’re frustrated or overworked you get light foods, probably because your anxiety stops you from eating anything heavier than a salad.” She picks up the plates and moves to the next table to bus it as well, Cat trailing behind her. “You order things you might consider a luxury when things go well, like when that merger you headed succeeded a year ago. You ordered steaks almost daily.” Cat just stands there in a stunned silence while Kiera continues to clean and read her entire life like she isn’t a complete and total stranger.  “When you’re sad, you choose hot comfort foods.” “Alright, all you’ve done so far is prove to me you are in fact a stalker. Do I need to file a restraining order, Kiera?”  The girl has the audacity to laugh at that, saying, “You can get one if you like, I suppose, but then all of your assistants will probably start sucking again.”

And she’s so cheeky about it that Cat isn’t sure if she wants to strangle the other woman or offer her a job on the spot. She ends up going with the latter option. “Do you want a job, Kiera?” “I already have a job,” Kiera responds, unfazed by the magnitude of Cat Grant herself offering some lowly peon a job personally.  “Three, actually.”  “You have three jobs?” Even workaholic Cat is somewhat surprised to hear that. Kiera nods. “I work here on weekdays, and I’ve got this construction gig I do every other weekend. I also bartend most nights if I can.” “Is this all to finance school?” she asks, reeling at the hours this girl must put in. She can’t be a day over twenty one, and even that may be a generous estimate on Cat’s part. Kiera shakes her head, a sad sort of smile on her face. “Oh no, I never finished school. But my kid goes to the private academy on 8th street and lord knows its expensive.” Cat nods; she sent Carter there when he was a young boy and even for her it was a steep price for a primary school. “How old’s your son?” Kiera smiles, bright and full of pride. “He turns nine in February.” Cat works very, very hard to keep her face completely neutral at that. There is no way Kiera is older than at most twenty two, and she has a nine year old son. She had to have been, what? Twelve, thirteen when she had him? Knowing this, looking at her now, its suddenly apparent how much more there is than meets the eye. There’s a story behind the cautious hardness of her eyes. The defiant gait with which she carries herself, the way even her brightest smiles seem dimmed with some deeper sorrow. There is much more to this Kiera than meets the eye.  This woman - barely a woman, even - works all hours of the day and night to provide one of the best educations available in the city to her son, a son she had to have had at such an early age it could only be through terrible origins. And somehow through sheer secondhand observation, she’s managed to decipher exactly what Cat wants for every possible scenario. 

There is no way Cat is walking out of here without this girl in her employ.  “What if I offered you double whatever you’re making here, plus a starting bonus that could cover the next year of tuition?”  Kiera just stares at her like she’s looking for the lie, but Cat returns her stare with confidence. Why cycle through assistants when she could have the real deal? “Can I get that in writing?” Kiera says slowly, cautiously. Cat smirks. “Of course. I don’t make offers I don’t intend to keep, Kiera.” Kiera nods slowly before giving her a cautious smile. “My name is Kara, by the way,” she says. Cat waves it off. Like that matters. Still, her mind is on that son who is just a few years younger than her own. “What’s your son’s name?” she asks. “Kal,” she says, “Kal L. Moore.” “Well, you can let Kal L know that his next semester at the academy is taken care of.” And even if she weren’t gaining what may be the most fascinating employee she’s ever encountered, just seeing the way her face lights up with relief and joy is enough to know this is the right decision. Cat can’t wait to see what happens next.

[biolabs-soldier]

Fictional Historical Vampire Account

Hi everyone,

I have always loved scary stories. Moreover, I love the origins behind scary stories. A vampire was originally someone who died and continued to suck the life out of others from their grave. I find it really interesting, so I made a fictional account of one of these such cases. I hope you enjoy!

A journal entry from a leader of an unnamed town, dated March 20th. The year was not written. Based on the language and age of the paper, historians say it is before the 19th century.

 March 20th

In our quiet town, an outsider has come. Claiming he was a traveler from a land he would not say, he asked for shelter and food. The man claimed to earn his keep and become a member of our town who would have good relations with everyone. The man, Eugene Becker, was a strange fellow, to say the least. Tall and thin, he struck me as someone who didn’t belong in our quiet farming village. He had a dense brown beard, brown eyes and messy hair he kept under a hat. Though his reputation in my opinion was harsh, I credit him with the fact that he did indeed earn his keep by working hard; sometimes even harder and longer than our own farmers. He did travel on foot from whatever land he hailed from, so I suppose working hard was in his blood.

 March 25th

           I admit, I may have been too harsh on Becker. He has held up his word for these few days, and I am impressed. The work on our farm is not the easiest, but he has not complained once about the weather, the conditions, or even the portions of food he has received at supper. I am grateful to have another pair of hands on the farm, as death comes quick to ill in this town. We have lost a few of our older workers to the fever that goes around, as well as the Consuming Disease, so I hope that Becker stays a while.

        March 26th

I believe the town is taking a liking to Becker. Everyone I have spoken to has said kind things of him and nothing more. Hard working and silent, he gets the job done, takes a break, and continues his work like the rest of us. He has been working exceptionally hard, since the neighbor, Mary Hale, has fallen ill suddenly. Her husband, John, is not sure what she has yet, but he is keeping watch over her all day. She complains of a fever and is coughing for quite some time in bursts. We are worried about her, but Mary is a good woman, God will help her.

April 2nd

      I fear for Mary. She has gotten considerably worse. She looks sickly and coughs blood every morning. John says he has lost faith in God and is worried she will not survive the week. I have faith in my God and pray that she is able to recover from this damned disease. Becker has continued to take over Mary’s work, and even volunteers to check on her every day while John is resting. He is a good man.

April 5th

      It is with a heavy heart that I write today. Mary Hale has died sometime in the night on April 4th. John found her body in her bed, contorted into a ball as if in great pain. She did not want to be thought a burden, so she kept her pain a secret, we think. Becker and John have dug a hole for her in the pasture just outside the property. We will hold the service today. We have lost many townsfolk here, but this one feels different. We all mourned more, consoled each other more, and even drank more to forget the agony Mary’s death caused. She was loved by all, and we were pained to see her leave us at the age of 31.

 April 10th

      It’s strange that I am writing this in my journal, but I have heard whispers in the town that Becker made Mary sick. I do not believe these accusations of course, but I am worried about Becker. What will he think of this when someone tells him of these lies? I heard hushed conversation of the wives claiming that Becker was a demon who poisoned Mary when she slept, and that he was falsifying his image of a man; concealing the devil under his flesh. These accounts are strange, but Mary did fall ill not long after Becker arrived. Perhaps the work is making me go mad…

 April 13th

      Another townsperson has begun to show signs of sickness. Little Johnathan Beech, the youngest boy of Simon’s family, has collapsed out in the field while working. His father says it was caused by the heat and overworking the boy. He chided me for making that young of a boy work, but we need as many working hands on the farm as possible. Johnathan is seven years of age, which is plenty old to begin reaping wheat and corn. He works the least out of everyone, so I am not sure if Simon is being completely honest with me. I fear that the Beech boy has gotten the disease which took Mary, as I saw him with a bloody handkerchief close to his mouth.

      Becker seems to be well, despite all the discourse on our quiet farm. He works, rests, eats, and sleeps. I feel that talking with him is best. I do not want our best farmhand to leave because of lies and deceit going on in my farm.

April 15th

      I spoke with Becker yesterday and told him about what I had heard. When I told him the details, he merely shook his head and pushed it aside. He did not believe it, nor did he become angry, so I think he is safe. God is protecting us, and perhaps the death is just a small price to pay for the sins people commit every day. Johnathan has not left his home in a few days, and I worry about him. I spoke with Simon about his well-being, but he will not be sensible with me. All he tells me is to concern myself with my own work and to leave him and his family alone. His shortness of tone makes me feel concerned regarding his boy.

April 18th

      Johnathan has wasted away to just skin and bone, as he is small and young, the disease is working faster on him. The women in the town are doing their best to keep him strong, but my wife has told me that she thinks Johnathan is on his death bed. Against his father’s will, I quietly asked the priest to deliver Johnathan’s last rights during the night. The priest gladly obliged and ensured me he would send him to God’s hands if the Lord chose to take him that night.

April 20th

      The Beech’s boy has died this afternoon. On the 19th, he spoke of horrible dreams as he slept. He said that he saw Mary, but she wore tattered clothes and had sunken in eyes, like that of a monster. Johnathan told us that he saw Mary ripping and tearing at his flesh, but he could not wake up. After he awoke, we were all waiting around his bed, on account that we c0uld hear his screams and groans from the field. Simon passed it off as stress and the sickness, as well as witnessing a death at an age where he could recall details. The townspeople whispered of Becker being the cause of this death, too. I stopped the conversation and made sure that Becker would never be accused of such an act again.

        April 25th

      Against all odds, Becker has fallen ill, along with two others in the town: Simon and my wife. They all complain of head pain, breathing issues, and a fever. I know that they have Mary’s disease. One of the townspeople, Nathan, has spoke of tales he heard from others. He told us that Mary was actually a monster who was the cause of everyone’s death. She was dead and buried, but she still had a grip on everyone as long as her corpse was resting in peace. I rejected this tale and tried to tell everyone that it was the illness spreading. The town was convinced that Mary was killing the rest of us. She was a good woman, why would she do this? I fear for my wife and Becker, as well as Simon. I spoke with the priest and he told me that God is full of avarice at the moment because of something we have done to upset him. I am unsure I believe Father presently, but I was a man of Christianity, and I had faith.

April 29th

      Today, my wife Abigail has died in the night. I heard her screaming that she was being attacked, so I brought my rifle from downstairs and went to see what was the matter. Aiming my rifle, all I saw her body, lying on the floor, covered in spattered blood. Angry at God, I spoke with Nathan. I wanted answers and wanted this to stop. Abigail would be the last to die from this disease, and I was to make sure of it. Nathan told me that the way to stop the disease was to open Mary’s coffin, drive a stake through her heart, and cut off her head. This was very frightening to me, but I had to make sure my town was safe from any intruder: human or not. Tonight, Nathan and I plan to dig up Mary and fulfill the ritual. I must get John’s permission to do so first.

      I have just returned from the grave of Mary. I am unsure how to describe it, but I shall do my best. Nathan and I knelt down and dug up the dirt with our shovels, throwing it aside. We had to make haste, as John did not give us permission to do so. We wanted answers, and though I will go to Hell for this, I had to get them where I could. After reaching the coffin, Nathan and I heaved the lid open and looked at the corpse. It was odd to note the changes in her corpse than the others I have seen before. One of our older town members, Elijah, had died out in the field months ago and no one knew where he went . a week or so after he went missing, we found his corpse, which was rotten and decayed to bones and fabric-thin skin. Mary, however, looked natural. Her nails had grown, her hair had grown, and her cheeks were still red and full. Fresh blood was in her mouth. Nathan pulled out his knife and cut into her chest. The corpse smelled of rotten meat and decay, but I held my strength and helped him tear open her chest. Prying the ribs with my shovel, I was filled with disgust as I saw a fresh heart, still blood red. Nathan handed me the stake and I drove it in with a hammer. I did this quickly and powerfully, as I wanted to leave as soon as I could. As I drove the stake into her heart, Mary’s corpse groaned and fell limp. I jumped at the sight and climbed out of the hole in the ground. I urged Nathan to finish the job. He took the shovel and threw it down onto the corpse, slicing its neck. With another blow, the head was detached. From the heart poured blood which looked new and red. Nathan grabbed the corpse’s head whilst I closed the coffin lid. He threw the head on the coffin and we covered the grave as quickly as God willed us. We ran to our homes. I covered my eyes with the blanket and got no sleep. I lay there, awake, staring at the ceiling, hearing the groans and sighs from the corpse.

May 10th

      The farm has been busy, and I have not had time to write. In cheerful news, Simon and Becker have miraculously broke from the illness. They say they have not had a nightmare in weeks and that they feel strong and new. John does not know we destroyed his wife’s corpse, and we intend to keep it that way. Nathan said that he, too, did not get any sleep that night of the ritual. In hushed tones, he told me that Mary had been a vampire, and that now the town was safe from any more dark power. I know for this I am going to Hell. I believe my town deserves to be safe, and if God wishes to punish me, then so be it. I pray that no one else has an experience like this.

[zxrysky-writes]

One Hit K.O.

Kakashi is a man who is very disillusioned with the world. He knows what a genjutsu looks like, knows what hides beneath the underneath, knows all the possible disguising methods available in the world. He’s employed all of those methods at least once, and either succeeded or failed, but mastered them eventually, and he can read people like he reads his precious Icha Icha. Easily (with few exceptions), fanatically, and highly interested in the overall plot.

And then he gets captivated by green eyes and black hair, and he is swept up in an invisible hurricane. It’s terrifyingly strong and powerful and utterly devastating but beautiful and he is blinded.

The man’s name is Harry Potter, and as Kakashi’s tongue curls around the unfamiliar sounds, he realizes that he cannot read the man at all.

-0-

The first time Kakashi sees him is during a mission. It’s one of the missions that he takes during his free time, when he doesn’t need to take care of his cute genin. The three of them are at their respective homes, hopefully sharpening their kunai and practicing katas like he’s told them to, but Kakashi could care less. He doesn’t care about anything, not now, when he’s on missions like these.

Blood will be spilt on his hands tonight, and he needs to be in the correct mindset to do so. His cute genin have yet to see this side of him – even with colleagues, fellow ex-ANBU or jounin-senseis, they don’t see this side of him, this inherently dark side that rings of death and cold demeanours.

Kakashi was born a ninja, and he doesn’t enjoy it when he kills, but if he doesn’t, it feels strange. He’s killed since the age of six, on one of this first few genin missions, and he’s killed all the way until he retired from ANBU to be a jounin-sensei.

He isn’t proud of killing, but it gets under his skin when he doesn’t, and the Sandaime understands this, approving his request to leave on A-rank missions that usually involve death.

But this mission, this fucking mission gets to him, because the person he is protecting is a little girl, a slip of a princess that is crying and tugging at her tattered dresses and distracting him from his mission.

He doesn’t usually get distracted – he’s Kakashi, distracted isn’t even in his vocabulary – but the girl reminds him of Rin. Purple eyes, brown hair, a smile that can save lives, and tears that freeze him.

He let his guard down near her, and he had predicted the ambush, but wasn’t prepared.

It’s one of the reasons why he’s bleeding, Sharingan eye almost closing and the client is scared out of her wits. The bandits just keep coming, and Kakashi suspects that they were ninja who defected, traitors to their respective villages filled with a vengeance that cannot be quelled.

He swears under his breath and tightens his grip on a kunai. It’s his last hope, a kunai with a special seal array written on it, and hopefully he still has enough chakra left to activate it and incapacitate his attackers.

Kakashi doesn’t believe in a god, but he mutters a prayer nonetheless as he throws it, and tries to drown out the sobs of the girl behind him. She’s frightened and afraid and honestly he would be too, if he was in her position.

The kunai flies true, and Kakashi’s chakra thrums through the seal, chakra strings shooting out in a web and holding their attackers in its tight grip. Their attackers can’t move, and Kakashi swallows, backing away to pick up the girl and try and make a quick escape without turning his back to the enemies.

One of them breaks through, and hell follows.

But hell seems to be filled with green eyes and black hair and crackling storm, and all of their attackers collapse in their places.

The man stumbles over what seems to be nothing at all, saves himself with a grace that bellies his previous clumsiness, and blinks at the carnage he has wrecked on this makeshift battlefield.

Kakashi hunches over the girl in his arms, eyes trained on the man. He doesn’t look like he’s from any of the hidden villages, and yet Kakashi has very clearly seen the man use lightning like it was just another extension of his body – and he has never seen anyone use lightning like that. Lightning bows to no one; it is painful and harsh and it eats into your flesh but the strange man with the strange eyes seems to have tamed it. Even Kakashi, with all his prowess and his self-created jutsu of the Chidori has never achieved tandem like this, and if he had never seen this sudden display of power, Kakashi would never have realized that it was even possible to work with lightning like that.

The man steps towards him, and Kakashi rages internally that his chakra is almost gone. His legs are trembling and his arms are weak, and the girl in his arms isn’t that light either.

“You should rest,” the man tells him, and Kakashi is reduced to hissing like a wild animal, too weak to make his tongue move to form syllables. The man looks amused, and Kakashi growls. He can’t even summon Pakkun to distract the man for a bit, fuck.

All his options are out, and all of a sudden, he can’t move.

Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. His feet are frozen to the ground with a sort of brutality that he can admire, but not now, not at this moment, and he can’t even move his hands. He can move his eyes, his heart is still pumping, his blood is still flowing, but he can’t move a single limb.

The man steps forward and picks the girl from his arms like she weighs nothing at all – and she weighs something, despite her small stature – and sets her down on the ground. She’s shaking like a leaf, and the man whispers some things to her that makes her calm down almost instantly. Kakashi would suspect a jutsu, but his Sharingan can’t register any chakra being used – can’t even register any chakra in the man’s body which doesn’t fit with the previous expanse of power and lightning.

The man makes her drink something and Kakashi fights against his invisible boundaries because dammit, the stranger might be poisoning the girl and she’s just blindly drinking it! The girl takes deep shuddery breaths after she’s done, and returns the flask to the man, and the man looks up at Kakashi.

Now he walks towards Kakashi again and tilts something down his throat. It burns as it goes down, and it is followed by excruciating pain. He can feel his bones knitting back together – he doesn’t know how it happens, Kakashi can only blink in pain because the rest of his body is fucking frozen and all too soon the pain ebbs away.

The man does something with his hand, and Kakashi’s knees give out on him. The man props Kakashi against a tree, tells the girl some unintelligible instruction, and turns on his heel.

He disappears with a pop, and the only thing that Kakashi can register is that he’s never seen anyone disappear like that since his Sensei was alive.

It’s a shock, and Kakashi is strangely intrigued. He’s a ninja, he’s never had any semblance of self-preservation anyways.

-0-

The second time he sees the man, it’s by accident. Kakashi is on the ground in Suna, under one of the few (and very rare) trees there. His book is on his face, his arms are crossed beneath his head, and he’s trying to catch forty winks. The Sandaime sent him here forcefully on the cover of a mission, but it’s really a forced vacation because Kakashi constantly overworks himself, and even his genin (who aren’t so cute anymore, because they were mean to him) had ganged up on him and told him to scram.

Suna is hot and dry and not very comfortable, but then there are things like oasis and the very interesting jinchuuriki with blood red hair that is the son of the Kazekage, and Kakashi supposes that it isn’t that bad. It’s pretty terrible for a vacation spot, because Konoha is much more slow and comfortable than Suna, and Kakashi has learnt to enjoy the comforts in life. It’s sad when he doesn’t get to see Mr Ukki every night before he goes to bed. Mr Ukki probably won’t survive in this kind of weather, and it makes Kakashi feel somewhat sad.

Then someone trips over him, and Kakashi takes the book off his face, glaring up in irritation. He was lying there in plain sight, clear for all to see, and someone could actually trip over him?

The scowl is wiped off his face when he sees familiar green eyes and black hair, and the man blinks at him before his lips quirk up sheepishly.

“S’ry,” he says in a strange accent that Kakashi can’t place. “I didn’t see you there.”

“I’m lying here in plain sight,” Kakashi replies. He is amused, and gives a half-hearted attempt to stall him.

The man shrugs, shakes his head, and scratches at his head. “I need glasses. I don’t have them right now. Do you know where I can see an optician?”

“Not sure if Suna has any, but I’m pretty sure that Konoha has some good ones.”

“Konoha?” The man says thoughtfully. “Is that the one with the leaf? The spirally thing?”

“Yes,” Kakashi says in amusement, blinking lazily. “That’s the one.”

The man looks thoughtful.

-0-

Kakashi sees the man again in Konoha, or rather outside of it, curious and hesitant.

He strolls up to the man and asks him if he still wants to see the optician in Konoha.

“Look at my amazing spectacles,” the man says sarcastically, gesturing to the non-existent glasses on his nose.

“Of course,” Kakashi eye-smiles, thinks that this is a man after his own heart, and invites him into Konoha.

It’s a pity when Harry Potter obtains his much-needed spectacles, for they dull out his stunning eyes. Glass has never been a very pretty thing to look through.

(Kakashi tries and fails to wrap his tongue around the unfamiliar sounds, and he thinks that he manages something akin to it, but Harry laughs at him and tells him that he’s worlds off from the correct pronounciation. He also tells him that it doesn’t really matter, so Kakashi leaves it. Kakashi, in a fit of childish spite, tells Harry that he can’t really pronounce the syllables of the common language either, and Harry laughs at him, when really, it should be Kakashi laughing at Harry. Either way, Kakashi ends up being laughed at.)

Kakashi offers to bring Harry on a tour around Konoha, and later introduces him to Mr Ukki like a proud father. Harry raises an eyebrow and tells Kakashi that he must be very socially awkward if his best friend is a plant.

Kakashi tells him that Mr Ukki is sentient and very smart and Harry should apologize. He says that Mr Ukki can be very dangerous if he wants to, and Harry chokes on his laughter.

“Mr Ukki is a normal house plant, it isn’t even remotely dangerous,” Harry tells him. “I’ve seen scarier plants, definitely.”

“Mr Ukki has many stories hidden behind the façade of the cute leaves and small stature,” Kakashi defends.

“Mr Ukki can’t strangle you to death, or attempt to eat you,” Harry says in amusement, and Kakashi raises an eyebrow because those plants sound entirely out of this world and very strange.

“Most plants can’t either.”

Harry snickers, and asks Kakashi to continue the tour.

-0-

Harry decides that Konoha is a nice place to stay in for the time being, as compared to the other hidden villages. Or villages alone, at that. Suna is too hot and dry, Iwa is too… out there, Kiri is a bit strange, Kumo is… weird, and Oto is just creepy.

Konoha is clean and peaceful and Harry thinks that it’s pretty nice here, which makes Kakashi pleased.

He still wants to know how Harry did that trick with the lightning all those days ago, but Harry Potter has grown on him, and Kakashi would be slightly happier if Harry stays.

It’s rare that Kakashi meets someone who is such like a kindred spirit.

Harry is sarcastic and funny and doesn’t mind all of Kakashi’s quirks, and he can do tricks with his hands that blow Kakashi’s mind.

Like turning into an animal. Or turning a book (his precious Icha Icha was subject to this startling torture-esque experiment) into a cup and making it float in the air. Or making a tree disappear without any preamble.

It’s intriguing and very creepy but highly interesting. Harry calls it magic, and Kakashi doesn’t belive it, but there isn’t any other possible explanation.

It certainly explains how Harry can turn into an animal at will, especially an animal that’s as big as a tiger.

Kakashi insists that all of them are secret jutsus, but he can see Harry with his Sharingan, and Harry doesn’t have any thing like a chakra network in his body. To put it simply, he doesn’t even have chakra coils. Civilians have those, at the very least, they’re just weak and not stretched or expanded on. Ninjas have extensive chakra coils, tough and hardened and strengthened. But Harry has absolutely nothing, and yet he is capable of doing things that stun Kakashi’s fellow jounin.

Kakashi is very, very interested.

[how2to18]

RACHEL KUSHNER’S FIRST TWO novels, Telex from Cuba (2008) and The Flamethrowers (2013), earned her a firm place in contemporary American letters. Like those, The Mars Room is an enormously ambitious project profoundly rooted in a particular time and place. Kushner’s intellectual gifts are prominent throughout her third novel, which traces the fates of characters delicately treading the line between desperate and hopeful before arriving at a cinematic conclusion.

Set deep in California’s Central Valley at the Stanville Women’s Correctional Facility from 2003 to 2008, The Mars Room tells the story of Romy Leslie Hall, who is serving “two consecutive life sentences, plus six years” for the murder of her stalker, Kurt Kennedy. The novel opens with her middle-of-the-night transfer to Stanville from L.A. County jail. Shackled on a bus with 59 other convicts, Romy only intermittently pays attention to the anxious interactions between the women and the guards as her mind drifts to her son, Jackson, who she’ll tell us later — as her internal tension mounts — is “the grain of reality in the center of her thoughts.”

Romy’s poignant account of her past is stripped of self-pity, yet it is painfully earnest and always direct. Here, for instance, she describes the first time she took drugs:

My first dabble in it was morphine, a pill that someone else melted in a spoon and helped me inject, a guy named Bill and I hadn’t thought that much about him or what the drug would be like but the careful way he tied off my arm and found my vein, the way the needle went in, so thin and delicate, the whole experience of this random guy I never saw again shooting me up in an abandoned house was exactly what a young girl dreams love can be.

Here and elsewhere the reader comes to understand that Romy has never been loved. She loves her son — Jackson is her everything — and she has pursued Platonic love, but her friends have inevitably, and without malice, made her life worse. No one has ever taken care of Romy or shown her kindness. And men — until she meets Conan, a female-to-male trans prisoner — have been consistently unkind.

The Mars Room is the name of the San Francisco strip club where Romy started working young. Of her time there, she tells the reader: “I said everything was fine but nothing was. The life was being sucked out of me. The problem was not moral. These men dimmed my glow.” This dimming was relentless, and the reader is made to see how woman after woman fell prey to it there. But Romy’s story also includes her heartbreaking rape at the hands of a wealthy, middle-aged man who spotted her on the street in the middle of a downpour and offered to help her get home but insisted she first follow him to his hotel room. At the time, she was 11 years old.

The unloved are this novel’s focus and purpose. The basic tenet of The Mars Room is that individuals do not exist. Each of us is defined by our relationships. If none of those relationships contains any love, we are doomed. Thus, the majority of Kushner’s characters now in prison were sentenced at conception.

It is a devastating message, and the book is not an easy read. The reader is consistently implicated, as when Romy says of her rape as a child,

You would not have gone. I understand that. You would not have gone up to his room. You would not have asked him for help. You would not have been wandering lost at midnight at age eleven. You would have been safe and dry and asleep, at home with your mother and your father who cared about you and had rules, curfews, expectations. Everything for you would have been different. But if you were me, you would have done what I did. You would have gone, hopeful and stupid, to get the money for the taxi.

Nor did Romy get justice when she went to court. The incompetent, overworked public defender assigned to her bungled every part of her case. Romy tells us, “The jury did not learn what Kurt had done to me, the tireless stalking, the waiting, the following, the calling, the calling again, the surprise appearances.” And so she was sentenced to spend what remained of her life at Stanville, away from her son and with no hope of reprieve.

By the time the prisoners arrive at Stanville, one of them has died. Inside, the rest are made to “slather” themselves in lotion “to kill lice and whatever else.” Although Romy attempts to intervene, a heavily pregnant 15-year-old named Button Sanchez is forced to follow this procedure, too, since she has not yet been officially designated pregnant. A horrific scene follows. Button goes into labor and is ignored by the guards as she “screams in agony.” When Romy and two other prisoners try to help, they are pepper-sprayed and forced into cages. Button’s baby is confiscated immediately, and she is given no time to recover. (She later adopts a bunny she catches in the prison yard, sewing it little clothes and playing with it until her cellmate Teardrop boils and eats it in front of her.)

Kushner structures the novel like interlocking Möbius strips that shift between different voices in first and third person. The narrative loops around and around, from character to character, as the reader learns more about the two women who tried to help Button, including Conan, the courageous trans prisoner who may be the brightest spot in the book. He is also the only positive masculine presence in a world otherwise plagued by male aggression of one kind or another.

Two characters double as proxies for the reader: Jimmy Darling, Romy’s documentary filmmaker boyfriend, who gives up on her when she gets arrested, and Gordon Hauser, who teaches a GED class at Stanville and develops complicated emotional relationships with female protégées. Gordon brings them seemingly innocuous contraband from the outside world, where he also researches their cases in his spare time. He learns, for example, that Button and two teenagers robbed a Chinese college student, beat him with a baseball bat, and left the scene without realizing they’d killed him. Gordon thinks,

The word violence was depleted and generic from overuse and yet it still had power, still meant something, but multiple things. There were stark acts of it: beating a person to death. And there were more abstract forms, depriving people of jobs, safe housing, adequate schools. There were large-scale acts of it, the deaths of tens of thousands of Iraqi civilians in a single year, for a specious war of lies and bungling, a war that might have no end, but according to prosecutors, the real monsters were teenagers like Button Sanchez.

But Gordon’s intermittent outrage never amounts to much since it tends to turn into self-pity, and his fascination with these women’s crimes — which is our fascination with these women’s crimes — feels a little creepy.

Part of what the looping structure of The Mars Room accomplishes is an emphasis on all relationships — not only loving and loveless ones, but also those we don’t even realize we’re in. The unintended consequences of every minor act of disrespect, of every little lack of consideration, may well be enormous. Kushner’s greatest achievement in this unique work of brilliance and rigor is to urge us all to take responsibility for the unconscionable state of the world in which we operate blithely every single day.

¤

Novelist and translator Jennifer Croft is a 2018–’19 Cullman Fellow at the New York Public Library. Her work has appeared in The New York Times, n+1, Guernica, Electric Literature, the New Republic, the Guardian, and elsewhere.

The post Sentenced at Conception: The Imprisoned and Unloved in Rachel Kushner’s “The Mars Room” appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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[emmaseppala]

When GRIT Goes Wrong & What to Do Instead

Stas Svechnikov/Unsplash

As a researcher and instructor at elite universities in the US, I watch with interest each year as parents and their children celebrate students’ admission to big-name schools with single-digit acceptance rates. I can attest that Ivy League schools and their competitors offer truly excellent educations. But if I could offer one piece of advice to incoming freshman, it would be to learn to take care of themselves—because they are about to be surrounded by people who often have the misconception that racking up achievements and accolades is more important than leading a happy, healthy, and fulfilling life.

This skewed view of reality can do major damage to a young person, not just during their time in school, but further down the line. I understand the danger because I’ve gone down this rabbit hole myself.

When I first moved from France to the US to attend an Ivy League school at age 17, I was shocked by the way my fellow students worked. They weren’t just studying hard for class—they were serving as presidents of multiple on-campus organizations, doing community service, launching start-ups, and writing a book on the side. Nothing was ever enough.

Even when it came to working out, my classmates were on top of their game. Growing up in France, I hadn’t seen many people exercising; now I was surrounded by joggers. Of course, exercise is a wonderful thing (and Americans are way healthier than French people that way). Yet I couldn’t help but wonder: Where was everyone running to?

Soon enough, I got caught up in the overachiever culture: I would burn the candles at both ends, sleeping less, eating haphazardly, and leaving myself with little downtime. In return, people told me that I was “successful,” which of course gave me a high. So I kept going—and that’s when my health started to break down. I developed anxiety, and I stopped being able to sleep. Soon I realized that this was happening to many of my friends as well. Yet elite university cultures, as well as high-pressure workplaces, often reward us for pushing ourselves past our limits.

I later learned that the quality I was observing was a form of grit: The ability to keep going, no matter what, in the name of achievement. But we had not understood how to apply it properly. Angela Duckworth, a professor of psychology at the University of Pennsylvania, wrote thebest-selling book on Grit and has conducted groundbreaking research on the topic. Grit is a phenomenal predictor of professional success (pdf) and an often-admirable quality to boot. Whether you’re a corporate employee facing a big deadline, a Marine struggling through strenuous training and deployments, or a stay-at-home mom persevering after yet another sleepless night, grit is your friend, your ally, your strength.

As Duckworth herself has observed, the real lesson of grit is the importance of working hard at a sustainable pace, without any expectation of immediate payoff. Yet often, students in highly competitive environments miss this message, viewing any grade less than an A as absolutely devastating. As the problems of persistent stress and anxiety in such schools shows, it is possible to push yourself too much.

But as I found while researching my book The Happiness Track, all of the traits that people need to be successful are dependent upon learning self-care. For example, creativity is the number-one attribute that CEOs look for in employees. And yet creativity cannot come from a mind that is stressed and overworked. Creativity does not emerge when you’re sitting at your computer for 12 hours a day. Creativity emerges when the mind is at rest, daydreaming, or spacing out.

Similarly, when we overextend ourselves—skipping lunch, racing from meeting to meeting, and relying on endless cups of coffee to stay awake writing a presentation deep into the night—we break our bodies down, day by day. Stress impacts both our physical health, including our immune function, and our attention and memory—all vital functions for a successful career. Ironically, the more we push ourselves, the quicker we burn out, and the less we can achieve over time.

Should we encourage our children to work hard? Absolutely. But young people need to learn that grit is only effective when coupled with restorative activities like sufficient sleep, exercise, a well-balanced diet, meditation, walks in nature, and time off. Research shows that these basic yet essential self-care habits result in greater focus and productivity, not to mention increased creativity, better decision-making, and stronger emotional intelligence.

Today, programs like Yale’s Emotional Intelligence Project are working to help students understand that success doesn’t have to come at the price of their health and happiness. Sometimes, self-compassion means choosing to cut back on extracurriculars or drop a class. Accepting your limits is an essential part of grit—and so is knowing that, no matter what your fellow high-achieving students might think, getting a B on a test is not the end of the world.

I wrote The Happiness Track to show hard-working and burned out students and professionals what the data really says: If you take care of yourself, you will do better, think more clearly, make better decisions and be more emotionally intelligent. You will attain your full potential – without the burnout. 

This article first appeared in Quartz

You’re reading When GRIT Goes Wrong & What to Do Instead by Emma Seppala Ph.D. To stay updated on the science of happiness, health and social connection, follow Emma on Facebook, Twitter, and Google+!

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[footyplusau]

Six degrees of Bob Murphy: Different views of a Western Bulldogs legend

Paul Kelly, Wil Anderson, friends, even his publican on what Bob Murphy means to them as the Western Bulldogs captain prepares for his 300th match.

Photo gallery

Photos: Bob Murphy marks 300 AFL games

PAUL KELLY Musician, songwriter

Dear Bob,

In show business, things aren’t always within your control. So it was that I found myself flying home from Dublin via Abu Dhabi last grand final day. We were three hours from landing when the game started. I paid for a wi-fi connection and managed to get score updates that clicked over every couple of minutes. By the last quarter a large swathe of passengers around me were tuned in to my announcements. With five minutes to go I called it for the Dogs just before all electronic devices had to be switched off as the plane prepared to land. Jubilation all round.

That night I watched every second of the replay on TV and, like many others, I suspect, wept as Luke Beveridge draped his premiership medal around your neck. Like many others, too, I’d been barracking for you and your brothers throughout your seemingly Quixotic finals campaign.

You’ve been called the “spirit of the club”. It’s a cliché overworked. But, in your case, perfectly apt. Cruelly injured for the whole season and unable to join your brothers in the heat of the final battle you were the animating force, the touchstone, the one everyone turned to and sought out.

Before the grand final you wrote about the loch locked inside of you, the secret sorrow at the deep heart of joy. You and Keats. “Ay, in the very temple of Delight veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shine.”

Things may not have turned out the way you imagined in your childhood dreams, your adult hopes. But something bigger, wider, deeper happened. Your particular trial made the whole a greater triumph. Your absence from the field made you even more present in the story. Your constraint generated enormous power.

Congratulations, Bob, sprite of the club. (Sprite – a legendary creature with magical powers). Congratulations, tough elf, on 300 bone-jarring games. Congratulations and thanks for it all, the great long story you’ve told. Your story isn’t done yet. It will run long after we’re gone.

Rock dogs: Bob Murphy and Paul Kelly at the Community Cup charity footy match in 2012. Photo: Craig Johnstone

WIL ANDERSON Comedian

 I remember distinctly the first time I saw The Artist Formerly Known As Robert Murphy play for the Dogs. As a fellow Gippslander I was excited to see this player who had been described as having the skill of a young Robert (Robbie not Bob) Flower.

But when young Robert took the field wearing the number 22 on his back, it seemed like the club was so poor they had got him a guernsey two sizes too big in the hope he would grow into it.

Physically he probably never did – I have a theory the reason he ended up wearing number 2 was, when they took the jumper in, his shoulders weren’t wide enough for two numbers – but 300 games later he is a giant of the club and the game.

Sometimes as footy fans I think we are disappointed when the way someone plays on the ground doesn’t represent who they are off it. But that has never been the case with Bob.

On the field his greatest skill is that he makes those around him better, and in turn makes the game better. And that’s what he’s like off the field too. A unique individual who loves being part of a team.

So congratulations, Murph. As Bulldogs fans, we’ve had way more than our two Bob’s worth. In fact there’s an idea. Is it too late to clone him?

A tribute to the many styles of Bob Murphy over 300 AFL games.

JOHN SCHULTZ Champion Footscray ruckman, 1960 Brownlow Medallist, mentor

I first met Bob during the pre-season of 2000 when I was fortunate to act as a mentor at the induction of the 1999 draft players. Former players are often asked to speak to inductees to explain what they can expect. We, past players, are always interested in the composition of the team each year and when you speak at an induction you forever have a special interest in these players. I found Bob to be a particularly interesting person; he certainly thinks outside the square and is, in many ways, not your typical league footballer. I recall him lobbying to retain the old tree stump in the property room, the stump that the boot-studder had used for many years as a support when he worked on the boots. I think Bob thought it had historical significance.

What a draft year that was for the Western Bulldogs. Bob, Daniel Giansiracusa, Lindsay Gilbee, Mitch Hahn, Ryan Hargrave and Nathan Eagleton. They formed lifelong friendships and Bob and Gia, who is now a Bulldogs coach, still do part of Bob’s pre-game warm-up together.

When Bob seriously injured a knee in the dying minutes of an exciting game against the Hawks on Sunday May 10, 2016, he only needed five more games to achieve the dreamed-of footballer’s goal of 300 games. It was an especially cruel blow because Bob had a similar injury in 2006 and he knew the hard work that the recovery would entail. His dilemma was whether to retire then or at his age try to recover the fitness and form that would assure him of a place in the side. Thankfully he decided to play on and what a joyous celebration it will be when he runs onto the ground on Saturday.

Class of ’99: draft buddies Daniel Giansiracusa and Robert Murphy Photo: Sebastian Costanzo

DIEGO ORTUSO Osteopath

In 2008 we struck a deal with a handshake, a so-called gentleman’s agreement, Bob and me. “I will get you to 200, but you have to get yourself to 250.” Back then he was injured, low, uncertain, hurting – but I knew he would get better, he just needed to become whole again. He couldn’t even see himself making it to 150 games, but he worked hard – physically, emotionally and mentally.

I used to tell him in those dark days, “I begin the treatment and will help bind your wounds, but it’s you who finishes it and heals them.” He is smart. He understood what needed to happen. He trusts me and I trust his health. This is the basis of our relationship. He bestows upon me the great privilege of caring for that which is most precious to him – his health. Even more importantly, the health of those he loves most – his family.

You can judge the size of the man by the size of the things that bother him, and recent setbacks have changed the way he views the horizon. But Bob understands perspective. In treatment we talk all sorts of things – about his body, what worries him, what’s on his mind and what’s in his heart. He’s not a tortured artist, though – he loves stories and he laughs easily, which can only be a good thing in the magnified world he exists in.

They also say you can judge a man by the company he keeps. Bob is wise enough to realise you only become better if you surround yourself with people who are better than you. He definitely has that in Justine. She is his wife, adviser, confidant, right-hand woman, the mother of his children and the real captain in his most important team. My wife describes Bob and Justine best. “When I’m around them I just feel like hugging them all the time.”

I’m proud to have watched the young rebel become a wise leader. Proud that he picked himself up from the ashes again. Proud that he stands up for what he believes in. Proud that on the field he can once again “move like Jagger”. Proud to call him my friend.

Murphy has had two knee reconstructions, 10 years apart. Photo: Martin Philbey

BEN HUDSON Former teammate

He cares for people, and that’s probably something not as common in footy circles. He’s the first to admit he’s not your typical footy nut, but you can see how the young players at the Bulldogs admire the way he goes about things, and he shows that care and empathy that goes beyond when they cross that white line.

I was lucky enough to share car rides with him to training, so I got to listen to his music and see what he wore into training. His fashion is left of centre and his music is the same, but that’s what makes Bob unique and such a loveable character. He’s pretty quiet and likes to keep to himself. Probably, in all honesty, he hates all the attention he’s copping his week.

When Luke Beveridge gave him his premiership medal, that’ll go down as one of the greatest sporting moments. When Beveridge let him lift the premiership cup, it was very emotional, but at the same time you could see the passion and care and what it meant to him, but also to all the supporters in the west. For that iconic moment, he got to share that moment that not many captains or players get to do. You’d have to ask him how he felt about not being able to play, but I reckon, at that split second, he didn’t care.

People’s beard: Murphy has described Ben Hudson as one of his his favourite teammates, while “Gia” is like family. Photo: Paul Rovere

PATRICK WALSH Publican

I’ve always said that if somebody was going to marry your sister you’d be pretty happy if it was Robert Murphy, and if you needed someone to find a target on their non-preferred side you’d be equally pleased.

We met for the first time in my pub, not long after he wrecked his knee for the first time. I was struck by him from the start – he was interested and interesting. Always admirable qualities, but especially so for someone who lived in the rarefied air of AFL. I felt like we were from a similar place. We talked about music, travel, love, family, writing, Guinness and sunscreen, occasionally arguing about football despite the vast difference in our qualifications.

We’ve covered a fair bit of ground since then and my understanding of a footballer’s life has changed how I watch the game. What hasn’t changed is that I’m very proud of my friend.

Usually after Christmas we have a kick, where he does all the running. I have never got a better appreciation of how good he is than in these moments. It’s like standing in the straight as the ponies head for home. If we get interrupted by his kids, or someone else’s, his football face goes and the other Robert seamlessly appears. Then it’s back to business, and just so you know, even when he’s easing into it, the ball smacks into your hands well before but exactly where you expect.

An osteo (Diego Ortuso), a publican (Patrick Walsh) and a footballer (Bob Murphy).

To mark his 300th game, Real Footy is republishing Murphy’s best-loved columns for The Age at our Facebook account. Enjoy, share and request a favourite.

The post Six degrees of Bob Murphy: Different views of a Western Bulldogs legend appeared first on Footy Plus.

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[quakerjoe]

CUPPA JOE: SUNDAY 2 APRIL 2017

Here's the deal with Pruitt and Climate Change in regards to the US and government. As a nation, we're overwhelmingly screwed because our government is run by fucking idiots and selfish cunts being paid to do their jobs, not by YOU, but by the fossil fuel industry. That's pretty open and clear. However, the thing to consider is this: IF the GOP stance on "States before Federal Government" meant that all 50 states were about to gear up and quite literally COMPETE against one another to see who will be the first to have 100% renewable, green energy AND the cleanest water supplies, AND the greatest reduction pollution, THEN perhaps this MIGHT be a good thing. However, each department is set up in government for a reason. Each rule and regulation is written for a purpose. It's why we stop at red lights while driving. It's because people, as a whole, are untrustworthy, regardless of how much you want to believe everyone's "good at heart". We're really not. Of all the animals roaming the Earth, one of the biggest things that makes humans stand apart from all others is that we're HYPOCRITES. No other animal on the planet, as far as I'm aware, ramrods one set of values onto their fellow beings and then does the complete opposite. This goes hand-in-hand with religion, which by my reckoning, is the key primer in the conditioning of people for this sort of hypocrisy, and a deep programming for cognitive dissonance and to obey without question those who rule over you in church and government. The EPA, for example, is already overworked and understaffed. You'd think this would be a priority department since its mission is to ensure that the kids who think it's funny to piss in the pool and shit in the tub either can't do that anymore or are held accountable for ruining it for everybody else and are made to remedy their foul deeds. Thinking that the fossil fuel industry will act responsibly and implement state-of-the-art safety measures on their own is just being ignorant. Do you honestly think Big Oil would ever voluntarily be footing the bill for their oil spills and paying damages to the locals living in the spill zone because their water is now toxic? Do you think the rich and powerful can be trusted to do their part in society and take proper care of the people and environment in which we live? If you do, then you’re a fucking idiot. If you don’t think that rich people do everything they can to bribe your representatives with thousands to millions of dollars so that your representatives shaft environmental laws that will save Big Oil BILLIONS in return on that investment of legal bribery, then you’re a bigger fucking idiot.

 This, once upon a time, was what the FREE PRESS did. They called out Big Oil and the politicians they purchased, and the people in the newsroom played their part in implementing the Environmental Protection Agency and stopped waterways from becoming flammable. Big Oil figured that out and over time, the Rich & Powerful BOUGHT the Free Press. Big Media outlets are owned by a lot of these money hoarders who yield nothing to the world in return. They became George Orwell’s worst nightmare, and the government was handed a free pass towards corruption, and “We the People” turned a blind eye to it all because we were no longer INFORMED or even interested. We became stagnant and even decadent insofar that the average #Murican felt that America would take care of them, all while not trusting the government at the same time. Cognitive Dissonance.

 We’re in an age where INTELLIGENCE and KNOWLEDGE are deemed wicked and “elitist” while being a stupid Twatwaffle is considered more “American” and “USA! USA! USA!” and all that shit. Dumbing down the school systems hasn’t helped, and other nations around the world who used to marvel at our pioneering spirit, our innovations on technology and sciences and even our education system are all staring at us in disbelief, as are our very on citizens who have a few neurons firing up in their brainpans. So, until we flood government agencies with financial backing and hire SCIENTISTS to operate them, we’re pretty much fucked. Until we hire EXPERIENCED TEACHERS to run our departments of EDUCATION and stop letting those important posts be BOUGHT by rich thundercunts who just want to say they had a job in government, we’re all pretty much pouring gasoline into the water and running around with lit sparklers in the night. All this because we suddenly revere stupidity and relish being ridiculous and ignorant over being able to think in long term strategies or for that matter, over being able to do simple math or write properly and utilize grammar. Hell, it seems that fewer and fewer #Muricans over the years know the difference between “There”, “Their”, and “They’re” and yet they expect me to believe that they are capable of making intelligent, informed decisions when it comes to government and policy making? When  one considers that many #Muricans know amazing amounts of stats when it comes to football and other sports yet they know nothing about how the governing bodies of our nation work? Your average #Murican knows more about NASCAR than about Washington DC, let alone HISTORY, MATH, or SCIENCE. To sum up and conclude- we’re all pretty much fucked, and we did it to ourselves because in all honesty, as a nation and as a people, we’re all angry, stupid, yet we don’t give a shit enough to do anything about it.