#unlike therapy vengeance is free

[trappedinafantasy37]

POV: You catch a brief glimpse of sadness on the evil murder kitten's face while she relives her greatest trauma before deflecting and changing the subject to world domination.

[thebibliosphere]

While I do sincerely believe that all prior Batmans could work with the Muppets, and you are free to headcanon whatever Batman you like, I'm now firmly in camp Battison because, let me tell you, Robert Pattinson would serve absolute fucking cunt next to the Muppets.

I can't decide if he'd do a Michael Caine and treat it like he's in Shakespeare or pull a Tim Curry and become an honorary muppet, but that feral bastard would bounce off them so well you'd think he was made of rubber.

And it's even funnier in-universe because, unlike other iterations, this is not a smooth-talking playboy who smiles easily and dons the glitz and glamor like a sparkling facade of misdirection. This is a sopping wet, shut-in, scrungly cat of a man who isn't even trying to hide the several shades of mental illness plaguing him or the dark, sleepless bruises under his eyes. (Maybe he's born with it; maybe it's Maybelline trauma.)

And then all this shit happens with the Riddler, and Batman becomes a symbol of hope instead of vengeance (although criminals still very much piss themselves at the sight of him. Like yeah, the dude carried civilians out of the flood zone while holding up a literal rescue flare to light up the night, but he's still the dude who punches like a fucking freight train. The violence might be leashed, but the threat very much remains.) and hey, look at that Bruce Wayne has come out of hiding!

Poor guy... bet it was hard finding out all that shit about his parents after he's spent so long mourning them. That and his house got fucking blown up. I mean, like, fuck 'em, he's still a billionaire but heeeey, look, he's getting involved! He's funneling money into the city at a rate that the relief workers can't spend it fast enough. He's meeting with the mayor, going to events, and giving interviews and actually, okay... okay, Mister Smooth-talker. Where has that smile been hiding all these years?

Did Brucie fucking Wayne go to therapy?

Good for him. Good for him.

Y'know, maybe he's all right. He certainly seems to be trying to bankrupt himself with all the charity work he's doing. Did you hear about how he paid off everyone's student loans at the bar that one night? Yeah, offered everyone jobs, too. Not to mention all the pro-union stuff he's implemented at Wayne Industries against the wishes of the board. Maybe Gotham can have one good okay rich person. As a little treat.

Luthor et al. can go fuck themselves, though. This is our billionaire playboy. We found him in a dumpster. Look at the bags under his eyes. Certified trash panda. (Y'know that tiktok meme of the raccoon coming out of a dumpster while Frank Sinatra plays over the top? That's their version of Bruce.)

Meanwhile, Bruce is in Hell. It's torture being this extroverted, but the mayor's got a point. Someone's got to do it, and if Batman has pivoted to bring light into the dark, then Bruce Wayne has to get involved in the city, too. And it's so much easier to affect change if people like you, so here he is. Being likable. (Aaaaaaah)

Inevitably more shit happens because it's Gotham, and not even the circus being in town can be normal. And suddenly Bruce Wayne's got a kid, and it's super cute even if the trauma parallels are a little on the nose, but maybe that's what they both need, y'know? Someone who knows what it's like to have your parents whacked by the mob so they can't go to the cops. Hey, did anyone else notice that Batman's suddenly got an eight-year-old dressed like a stoplight running around with him? What the fuck is up with that?

And then, one night, Bruce Wayne is scheduled to be on the Gotham Tonight show. He only glances briefly at the line-up, not putting much thought into it when he sees the words "Muppets." He's aware there's a film coming out because Dick desperately wants to go see it. But other than that, head empty. No thoughts. He's just going to sit on a couch next to some puppets for a few hours. How hard can it be?

I mean, it's not like it's going to alter the entire structure of his life.

That'd be ridiculous.

I'm doing *motions vaguely at Ao3* stuff with the BatMuppet universe to get some enrichment in my enclosure and ended up looking at the OG post again.

I caught a glimpse of some of the tags, and I don't want to single you out, friend, but just know I saw your '#it's funnier if you headcanon it as Battinson' tag, and I need you to know you just rewrote a significant chunk of my brain chemistry because yes, yes, yES.

[algernoninwonderland]

Can I ask you to make a guide about writing Akumatized Marinette fics in such a way that still keep all characters in-character?

I’ll do you one better!

Here’s My Five-Step Program on How To Write Akumatised Characters!

Feel free to use it however you like!

1.  Have a clear idea of who your character is, what their drives and dislikes are, before you get around to akumatising them

For instance, Nino wants to have fun and to make his friends happy but hates being told what to do by authority figures. Mlle Mendeleiev wants to be regarded as a big deal in the scientific world and hates being ridiculed.

Though some of these drives and dislikes can be really ridiculous when it comes to some of these akumatised characters and can have little to no emotional weight because some episodes are comedy-oriented (M. Ramier likes feeding his pigeons, he doesn’t like being told that he can’t feed his pigeons, this is stupid but also funny) or just poorly written. Still, they all seem to follow that same basic formula.

2. Understand how we get to the akumatisation proper, or, what happens before the transformation

The characters about to be akumatised are being pushed to their limits. Why? It depends on the episode, but it’s usually a case of “the character can’t have it their way because of [reason] and that makes them angry”. What are they angry at? There’s no fixed rule here. Depends on the circumstances of the episode. They’re caught in a situation with an outcome that leaves them emotionally unstable and angry, is the point.

Watch Utena. Just watch it. It’s (maybe) the best anime ever. And Miraculous uses the basic mechanics of the Black Rose Saga without understanding what made it good in the first place. Without spoiling too much about that part of the anime, secondary characters with issues hinted at in the first arc come to the forefront of the show for one episode each, during which they are being pushed to their limits. They have a moment of Regressive Therapy with the arc’s antagonist who makes them expose their buried negative feelings and weaponises them to turn each of these characters into the “villain” of the week, if you will. In Utena, these characters, their desires, their fears, gives us a different perspective on the storyworld, the plot and the characters we’ve spent the most time with until then. It’s so good. Just watch Utena.

Anyway, Hawk Moth is a kind of devil figure there (all of this is very Faustian) using the moments of emotional vulnerability in these characters to trick them into striking a deal with him.  He offers them the power to act on these negative feelings, and they must do his bidding in return (he can exert some control over them if this deal is agreed upon but that’s really murky).

Note that these soon-to-be-akumatised characters are not in the right mindset to fully realise what it is they’re getting into, unless they are Truly Evil. Hawk Moth is the one in control there, he is calm and manipulative, he is the one to define the terms of the contract, if you will. This makes me reluctant to call the great majority of the akumatised characters villains (but that doesn’t stop the show from treating them as such). They are blinded by their anger, and not in a position to bargain.

3. Understand what being akumatised is and what it does

“Hello, [villain name], I’m Hawk Moth. Are you sick of piles of owls constantly blocking your driveway?! Well then you gotta get Owl Trowel!  Things are pretty unfair, aren’t they? I understand. I will give you the power to do [whatever], in exchange, you must give me the Miraculouses” Hawk Moth, in every episode.

Being akumatised is a twisted, dramatic expression of these negative emotions and frustrated desires, with an awful colour palette and character designs that range from “pretty good!” to “no.”

Now watch the original Sailor Moon anime. Some of the people working on it later moved on to make Utena. It’s mostly a very good show, and one Miraculous draws from a lot. It blends what was the norm in the magical girl genre until then (shows centred around femininity and growing up) with tokusatsu-type monster-of-the-week stuff. Notably, some of the villains of the week in the early seasons were humans whose desires and frustrations were used by the Dark Kingdom (the Big Bad) to turn them into monsters. The Sailor Guardians (our heroines) had to fight and heal them from that evil corruption.

Being akumatised is a physical transformation and a mental transformation as well, characters who wouldn’t hurt a fly as their regular civilian selves become unhinged and violent and drunk with power. This isn’t them anymore, not entirely. Does that mean an akumatised character’s actions are entirely divorced from what their regular selves think and feel? Not entirely. Alya really wants to know who Ladybug is, Ivan really wishes people would stop picking on him, Aurore really thinks she deserved that victory. Being akumatised means taking these feelings to the extreme and manifesting them physically while attaching them to an item the character has been shown to carry earlier on. Maybe that item is the cause of what upset the akumatised character in the first place, and turning that into a weapon… Sometimes. Maybe it’s something else. The show isn’t very consistent in that regard. You figure it out yourself.

Hawk Moth brings out the worse in these characters and then some, using his magic. He exerts some degree of control over his akumatised pawns though how much is unclear, and I think that’s a deliberate choice from the creative team. In this case, I think the ambiguity makes things more interesting than “bad man entirely controls people who are only puppets with no will of their own whatsoever”.

4. And Now How Would Other Characters React?

When akumatised characters have vengeance in their mind, they go after the person they think is responsible for whatever went wrong. Unlike our heroes and HM, they aren’t concerned with being secretive about who they are, since they are overconfident in their new powers.

The most common reaction to akumatised villains attacking Paris is: “running away and screaming and trying to get somewhere safer”.

How would individual characters react to an akuma attack? How involved were they with the person that got akumatised? Did they play a role in making that person upset? Did they suspect the person had these kinds of feelings before, or is it a complete surprise? What does it tell us about the relationship between the akumatised character and the non-akumatised character reacting to them? Find answers to these questions and you’ve got it all figured out. Refer to the show itself regarding characterisation, it may not be always consistent so pick what you like best, what would be the most interesting.

5. Now That You’ve Got It All Figured Out, Plan and Write the Damn Thing.

Only you can tell the story you want to tell the way you can tell it, so do it, rework it, show it to your friends and rewrite it again until you’re somewhat satisfied.

And voilà! Hope this was somewhat helpful!

[senseandaccountability]

Hey, did you get a chance to watch season 6 of Lucifer? What did you think of the finale?

This is going to be salty (sorry) so I put it under a cut for people who prefer joyous things in the feed.

I didn’t like the final season.

To be brief: It felt like a story where the writers knew how they wanted it to end, and therefore the plot ruled over the characters. It wasn't a main plot I enjoyed at all, and it was told in a way that made it difficult for me to appreciate even the small bits I liked. (Ella reveal. Ghost Dan.) I thought it suffered from a jarring tonal shift and when it comes to several overarching themes, I felt it negated/trivialized previous seasons. In many ways it also managed to be both cheesy and cruel, often at the same time. I had the impression it was a compilation of (unfortunately rather boring) fandom wishes and tropes more than authentic storytelling.

To be anything but brief:

I dislike the season in part because it undid a lot of great things about Lucifer as a character.

By the end of 5B Lucifer had come full circle. I think that season finale is great. The Lucifer vs Michael fight was so well done thematically - he fought himself, and unlike the first fight in 5A when he wants to hurt his twin he had now reached a state of personal growth, of compassion. Not even when Michael kills Chloe does he deserve death because everyone deserves a second chance. And then the funny and pitch perfect “Oh, my me”. Ambiguous enough about the details to fuel the fandom, clear enough about the themes and the lore to offer closure. (No, Deckerstar didn’t have a date or much of a snog but I can fill in the blanks there though I am aware that many fans were disappointed by the lack of on-screen love.)

Excellent way to end the show.

Except they didn’t. S6, I feel, tried to tell the same story all over again, only not as well or even coherent.

Over the seasons it’s been pretty clear that while Lucifer can be caring, he mostly cares about the handful of people in his life. S6 even touches upon this, has him trying to care for random people in their hell loops. But S5 already did this, but better, with Michael. The family dinner with God was excellent, it showed broken people all around and had Lucifer, the self-centered drama queen of the family realizing that he’s not the only one that’s been hurt. It showed the best and worst of them all. Sparing Michael, considering Michael worthy of redemption, was peak growth for Lucifer as a character because in that moment he also considers himself worthy of the same thing. That’s when he truly forgives himself. I thought. And then season 6 shows Michael as a prisoner in Hell, just once, never to be mentioned again. Is that a second chance? Is that redemption? Is that really the symbolism they were going for or just a spiteful and stupid little addition because LOL SOME PEOPLE DESERVE HELL. (Do they? Says who? The show doesn’t answer that because the show that focuses on the neutral character the Devil and the totally untarnished place Hell doesn’t much care about such divisive matters, but more about that soon.) I dislike the season, in parts because I wasn't satisfied with the moral/quasi-theological backdrop. The system is wrong, Lucifer concluded by the end of 5B. Season 6 has him return to the system, as an Afterlife Coach of the Damned. Is that really the best they could do?

I mourn all the cool possibilities of what Lucifer, the advocate for free will and defender of desire, could have done with hell as a concept. Blown it apart, closed it, tossed the keys to someone else and rode off in the sunset. At the very least he could have altered it so that it’s no longer solitary confinement but a collective of doomed souls trying together to achieve redemption but hey, never mind me, I’m a bleeding-heart socialist and I don’t believe in revenge and I don’t believe in God but if I did, God would forgive. Otherwise, what the hell is the point?

I parsed through the season with my husband, a real-life minister who doesn't think anyone deserves hell and who gets to suffer my long-ass questions about the theological themes of popular culture a little bit too often. Because we both felt slightly insulted after watching. "Is this bullshit what they offer me?" my husband asked me as the timey wimey time travel plot unfolded. But timey wimey bullshit aside, we concluded that the real reason we were both so annoyed and frustrated with the season is because it highlighted how flat the background lore really is. I mean, I guess they wanted to be yay, neutral and non-divisive themes galore! It’s good to be good, folks! If you’re not, well, I guess you might have your spine broken by the Devil or sent to a never-ending hell loop but let’s not talk about religion! The main issue, for me, with the whole system of heaven and hell and earth on the show is that for every equation, there’s a part missing. The show has borrowed the character from the comics verse but left the entire lore and its internal logic behind. It borrows a bit of moral philosophy, but cuts away the troublesome bits otherwise Lucifer can’t both be on a redemptive path and happily slaughter people in fits of vengeance; it uses Heaven and Hell and vaguely also the concept of sin but never answers any questions about it, apart from the central message of course: it’s up to you. In fact, the show discourages questions about the lore because it has no answers. It doesn’t care. The ending of the show brushes off the much needed systematic changes of heaven and hell like it’s just another joke. (Want to know a show that has compassionate writing about morality while managing to be very funny? The Good Place. And you know what, morality should be serious. I’m a softie and again, a bleeding-heart, but it’s important to be a good person and it’s important to get a chance for redemption. It matters. It’s not just a minor detail.)

Which brings me to the damn therapy theme. I know a lot of people like it and I have also liked it a lot in previous seasons. I have. It’s been quirky. (Also highly unprofessional, but hey.) But as the key to your afterlife/redemption/second chance it’s just not good enough.

It is so very, very individualistic that it makes my skin crawl. It’s the ultimate American solution to systemic injustices and suffering - hey, it’s up to you, man. You decide if you deserve hell. You decide if you deserve Heaven. You make the difference! You can do it! Live the afterlife dream, achieve all your goals, get a hell loop that no longer loops but… stays in one static place where at least you’re moderately happy. Navel-gazing into your soul is certainly one way to get some insights into your mistakes. But it’s not redemption. Redemption is an active choice to be a better person. You don’t have to earn redemption or deserve it. And redemption isn’t the same as forgiveness either. Redemption is the opposite to pointless, everlasting punishment. It’s hopeful and it’s ugly and it’s full of purpose and the chance to be better and add something good to the world. Even Lucifer doesn’t get to do that on the show. He deals only with the already doomed. The here and now on Earth fades into the distance as Deckerstar, too, gets their happily ever after in Hell. You’ll get pie in the sky when you die. Or you get to shag on a throne in Hell. Either way, life on Earth doesn’t matter. (Here the show lean into some really dodgy Christian themes, I’d argue, but hey, it’s not about religion! It’s just a fun romp about a reformed bad boy!)

“Hell is just revenge porn for fundamentalists and other people who believe in eye for an eye. I just want there to be a level of collective forgiveness and hope, you know?” I told my husband whilst chugging down beer. As you do when you watch crap that makes no sense. “A level of hey, I’ve got this, I forgive you, you can do better. Go and do better. And then the actual opportunity to do so, even if it's just reliving your life as a ghost again and again until you figure out what went wrong.” “Honey,” my husband said. “I hate to tell you this since you’re an atheist but that level you’re talking about? That’s Jesus.” Well, screw that.

I really don’t want to need Jesus to make sense of a story. I just want decent bloody storytelling.

[carousels-on-fire]

I deleted all my dating apps.

Eventually I'll go delete the profiles too. But I've kind of just stopped caring. All my agonizing over people not matching back, or over feeling so shallow is gone with the click of a button. Its not my problem anymore.

It feels different this time though. Less soul crushing despair at the idea of being alone and more acceptance. I have always been alone and will always be alone. But that's life. I think the reason no relationship or hopeful pining ever led anywhere is because I'm not that kind of person.

The kind of person I am, my hand wringing anxiety, my perfectionism, my shyness, my impossible standards, my visceral discomfort at people touching me, my hypochondria, the ease with which I can shut people out of my life and keep them at a distance, those make me incompatible with other people. And that's okay. It doesn't hurt anymore.

The person who lay awake at night crying over someone doesn't live here anymore.

Once I burned that last bridge with the ex, it ceased to matter.

The wonderful thing about adult life, is I can go to work, talk to people, scroll Facebook, go home, and not have to care about any of those people when I get home and set the phone down. I don't go to events with queer people, I don't meet people. I will never have to worry about feeling anything for anyone ever again. I'm free.

I don't think about dating anymore, I haven't had a crush that could actually lead anywhere in over a decade. I will never be in a position where I would find anyone I care about enough to feel anything for. Seeing relationships in tv shows doesn't make me want what they have. I have no libido anymore. I'm not sure if its age or what. But one day I woke up and none of it mattered. Its peaceful.

Maybe its my depression come back with a vengeance. But honestly the numbness is very much preferably to the absolute despair. I don't feel sad about being alone anymore. I don't feel anything. Just me and my anxiety picking pieces out of my brain daily. I can panick quietly, on the drive to and from work, and drown it out with tv shows during the day.

A while back I used to post the worst things my brain threw at me hoping someone could tell me how make it stop. After a while I realized nothing anyone could say would change anything, and the kind of therapy I'd need is so out of my price range. Eventually I realized my friends weren't there to help me anymore because they have their own shit. That complete and total aloneness, makes you realize that 90% of wanting a relationship is wanting someone to save you from all the holes you've dug yourself into. No one can save you from your neurosis. After that revelation being alone is easy.

I look forward to deleting this tomorrow when it has two notes and I realize no one's left to give a shit. And no one's saying anything against this because I really am horrible and unlikeable. I never get any arguement when I say I'll die alone, unless its from people who don't know me well enough to hate me.

[magdalyna]

More Like a Flashbang Than a River Stone

I have been thinking about Jango Fett. Something I often do these days, sure but like.

Jango Fett, during and around the year before the Naboo Invasion --- waiting for Boba to be grown for the normal amount of time.

Telling himself he doesn’t care about the fate of the rest of his clones so long as he has his special son. Fantasizing about the demise of the Jedi.

Sure, Legends/EU and the Prequels tell us what happens next but what if that didn’t happen?

What if a time traveling Maul, not unlike the one featured in Ripples, one who was a Force Ghost who spent his afterlife watching the histories of those he was obsessed with, frankly. Mainly Kenobi of course, but you can not have a Kenobi without eventually stumbling into a Kenobi surrounded by clones.

And hadn’t that been a fascinating web of events to unravel, how the face of a bounty hunter ended up shaping the galaxy.

Maul prides himself on his study of his Nemesis, his Kenobi, the trials and tribulations of his Jedi upbringing, the madcap adventures of his Padawanship, the strain of his unorthodox Knighthood as he trained the so called Chosen One.

Maul no longer has an appetite for being a mere tool of some other person or thing’s greater destiny and Kenobi sparks so vibrantly in the Force that Maul is galled upon his behalf that Kenobi was relegated to such a position by his own Order.

The Kit of Kenobi has always underwhelmed Maul, even with the sheer strength at his disposal.

Kenobi is a blade that has shattered and been reforged several times over, and Maul is ecstatic, humbled, shamed that his own slaying of Master Jinn was one such sunder point.

Sometimes Maul wonders what they could have been if they had been able to meet as allies in the first meeting, and not their last.

Being drawn into the history of Jango Fett is almost refreshing, after a fashion.

Maul can admit he finds an odd sense of kinship between them: both had been shaped by the ravages of the galaxy’s brutality but still managed to come away with a moral code of their own making. Their own sense of honor.

When he is sent back in time by the Force, which clearly has its own sense of humor, he rejoices.

Returned to a body state that he took for granted at the time.... it is invigorating. How wrong was he to lament his self-perceived limitations of physical prowess! His body was never his enemy. A strange but calming sentiment.

He is able to cloak his matured awareness from his false master and fortuitously is within a window of time between missions and recuperation from said missions that he is able to intercept Fett before a particularly gnarly job in Fett’s original timeline went from inconvenient to worse.

After, he considers the best way to approach a notoriously suspicious Fett.

“Let us dispense with the fiction that we are true strangers to each other. You are contracted with my master through another to be the genetic stock for a cloning project. I was available to assist in this other matter. You are waiting for the final form of payment to be ready, yes?” Maul knows that starting thusly on Slave 1 is risky, but life is not without risks. “You desire the destruction of the Jedi for grievous wrongs.” Jango nods, a tight smile on his bare face.

Maul leans closer, barely.

“What if I said that you could revive your people and cause an equally devastating fate to the Jedi. If not more so than mere death.” Maul let the question hang in the air between them, watching his quarry’s microexpressions.

“Go on” Fett allows, but with the clear mien that he would not suffer fools gladly.

“What if you used your clones to retake Mandalore and repopulate it? Cut down every last New Mandalorian fighter where they stood, sent the captives back to Kalevala where those Kryze snakes belong. You as the Mand'alor recall all the True Mandolorians left. And then,” here Maul waved a hand vaguely “offspring. Clan Fett will have numbers and renown the galaxy over.”

Jango Fett had by now raised a single, eloquent eyebrow.

Maul rubbed his chin in the way that Kenobi would often stroke his own facial hair during the Clone War.

“Tell me, Jango Fett, son of Jaster Meerel, do you know the difference between revenge and vengeance?” Maul asks instead of getting on with the point like Jango Fett wants him to.

He had aeons of time in the afterlife to ponder how this phrasing had been his means of salvation in those final moments held so tenderly by his Nemesis, in his Kenobi’s arms. Had that really been the only time they had embraced, for all that destiny had twined them to one another, like strangling vines?

“The truly sublime thing about this, Jango Fett, is that the avatar of the Justice who has taken up arms to right this wrong has also been harmed by the Jedi.” Maul smiles as he shows his teeth. He’s always aware of not overdoing it on the teeth bit, since humans are the singularly unnerving species in the galaxy where showing ones’ dentin is not an immediate sign of aggression. Such strange apex predators they are.

“There is a Padawan ... pushed and pulled by the whims of the elders, and pushed some more. When finally his own Master betrays him so fully, and then when yours truly,” here Maul flicks his tongue along his front canines just because he is alive and can “defeats the master in single combat, then is when the time to strike has arrived. We shall take the Padawan from the battle field with us in the confusion. He will be utterly lost and in need of guidance. His death faked, he will be free to act accordingly.”

Jango Fett has the lines of deep thought drawn on his face. “Intriguing. It is at that, I’ll give you that.” He relaxes in his seat. “But why go against your master in this way?”

Maul sighs. The truth wills out.

“Because unless he is stopped, his foulness will cover the entire galaxy in misery, death and fascism. My preference is that he be launched into the heart of the nearest viable sun but alone I am not powerful enough. I know this to be true. In my own time I have already lived this horror once before.”

Jango Fett raises both of his eyebrows this time. “That is a good reason.” he allows solemnly.

------

ahhhhhk that took literal hours.

idk, eventually Maul fully explains the time travel thing and then he and Jango plotz together til Naboo. Important: Maul doesn’t kill Qui Gon Jinn just stabs him someplace dicey enough to need a long time in physical therapy, enough that Anikin is folded into the creche with the Initiates.

Jinn still rushed ahead so Obi still goes up against Maul all riled up and steaming and snarling like an angry Krayt dragon.

Hence faking Obi’s death to the Jedi and Darth Sleemo and faking Maul’s death to the Jedi so make sure they don’t let such an obviously powerful Force-sensitive child slip outta reach.

cut to Obi Wan waking up in restraints and force suppressors to some rando in authentic Mandolorian armor and Maul who has his Rebels era level of chill which is precisely zero, all over again.

“Greetings my ~~🧡~Nemesis~🧡~~ I sense that you are awake at last!” Maul says and really, Obi has any number of questions regarding this situation but mainly he wants to know how the weird looking Zabrak is doing that with his voice.

Behind Maul, Jango just facepalms, not caring that Obi Wan has him in his line of sight.

@sl-walker @shadowmaat @nawpitynopenope @sunsetofdoom @taule

[njadastonearm]

I emailed that professor back with a few questions, explaining that I’m interested in moving my application but need to know a couple of things. I admittedly have a lot of uncertainties around it (as much as I want to get out of this job, I don’t know that this specific program will help me that much in doing exactly what I want to do, and unlike the job, I won’t be saving a bunch of money while doing so), but again, it’s really nice that someone liked my application in the first place and thinks I might be a good fit for their program. I think it was a much-needed confidence booster, and I’m pretty sure it’s what got me through telling my boss about the grad school sitch during our check-in/emailing my old professor with an update without crying.

(Note: I absolutely did not tell my boss about this; the only people who know IRL are my parents, my sister, and now my one professor, because I think her opinion is specifically helpful to me in this situation, moreso than anyone else I know, and I think she’ll be invaluable in making a decision)

All that said, I really think the stress and disappointment of the past few months (probably dating back to when the application process started, with a slight reprieve around December, but picking up again full-speed after that) has been taking a toll on me mentally and I think it’s dragging up anxieties that I normally manage on some level. My old phobias (which I’ve learned to manage on my own over the years) are popping back up with a vengeance. I’m having more trouble starting and staying involved in conversations. I’ve been really forgetful and lose track of time (not just in terms of minutes/hours; it’s like the entire week is off by a day, every week). I have some plans for personal goals, but at work I can’t focus long enough to remember what I’m supposed to be doing at any given point in time. When I don’t get enough attention I get upset, even though I know I should be doing more to interact with people myself. I’m much more irritable and, while I don’t outwardly explode, I hold quiet grudges against people I barely even know a lot more easily than I used to. When I was in the application process and when I was waiting on decision letters especially, I was having these weirdly violent thoughts - not of doing something violent, or even of experiencing a violent crime, but still of physical harm coming to me (like by a hammer moving of its own accord and shattering my wrist). And, yes, I’ve been disengaged from a lot of stuff overall.

My boss suggested I try going to therapy (not totally out of nowhere; our office has a deal with a local therapist office where all employees get five free sessions a year), and honestly, I might try it. Best case scenario, I talk out all my problems with someone who doesn’t have a personal investment in them yet; slightly less-great-but-still-acceptable case, they refer me back to my doctor and maybe I go on something for anxiety or depression or whatever they figure it is. Either way, I don’t have much to lose.

[brightlyburning1]

the gentleness that comes (2/?)

Percival Graves, retired dominant sex surrogate, is drawn back into the world of surrogacy as a favor to Newt Scamander. Newt's patient, one Credence Barebone, is recovering from his sheltered and abusive upbringing - after nearly burning down half the town in his escape. As Percival helps guide Credence through discovering his submissive side, he finds himself falling for the younger man - but those feelings must be hidden, lest he betray everything his profession stands for.

Here is chapter two! Or, if you prefer, you can read it on AO3, here .

"Percival!" Newt calls from the window of his battered Mini Cooper, waving, as though Percival doesn't possess ears to hear. Newt's auburn hair is as riotous as ever - unlike Theseus, who had kept his hair military-short until it fell out, and then there was no reason to care.

'Stop. Stop thinking about that.'

Percival hefts his briefcase, jogs down the steps, and crams himself into the passenger seat of the Mini, dislodging a stuffed iguana with a nametag proclaiming it 'Pickett.'

"Afternoon, Newt," he starts to say, only for thick drool to land on the shoulder of his gray Henley. Fuck, he quite likes this shirt.

"Afternoon, don't mind Dougal-" Newt steers the Mini, which is putting up an alarming racket, out into traffic and eastbound.

"Newt," Percival says, fishing a wet wipe out of his briefcase and scrubbing at the stain, "you have met Dougal, yes? He's not the sort of creature one 'doesn't mind.'"

The Irish wolfhound in question groans into Percival's ear from the backseat as Percival reaches back to scratch behind his ears, knuckles brushing the stiff red vest proclaiming him a therapy animal.

"Did you see the NDA?" Newt merges at unreasonable speed, one-handed, the other hand occupied with a mug of tea.

"It's intense." Which is a low-key word, all things considered; the NDA had been nearly half an inch thick. "How dangerous is he?"

"Who, Credence? Not at all."

Percival raises an eyebrow. The footage had blared across the country: flames consuming the Second Salem compound in the dead of night; Mary Lou Barebone, in a nightgown from her wrists to her ankles, trying to turn away the fire department; Mary Lou threatening them with God's vengeance and Grindelwald’s, her new spouse, and considering the rumors of his wealth and power, Grindelwald's vengeance may well have been worse; coughing children, malnourished and flinching, stumbling into the floodlights; a small girl, eyes wild and rolling in a soot-stained face, writhing in the firefighters' grips and howling for Credence, Credence, Credence.

At last, out of the roiling clouds of smoke, a firefighter, stumbling, her arms cradling thin limbs that stank of gasoline, a slack and blue-tinged face. The firefighter falling. The girl, Modesty Barebone, breaking free, running to shelter in the shadow of Credence's body beneath the flames.

"You're saying this about a man who nearly set the National Forest on fire." Though, to be fair, Percival would probably have done the same, had he grown up among the Second Salemites: rigid, unyielding, utterly joyless and practical in the worst sort of way.

"Yes." Newt takes an off-ramp down into a quiet residential neighborhood, the Mini Cooper jolting when it leaves the ramp. "But there is a great difference between a man who does terrible things to escape and one who does them to harm."

"I'm aware, Newt. My cop training hasn't left me yet." To say nothing of Theseus, who had spent a good three week stretch emotionally savaging everyone around him, trying to escape their attention and affection, trying to spare them the loss.

Newt grins in the corner of Percival's gaze and drains the tea. "Apologies." A stoplight; the Mini Cooper, idling. Newt turns to stare Percival full in the face, and that in itself is so rare as to have Percival's full attention. "Credence had no homicidal intent or thoughts of violence."

"Then why burn it down? My contacts in the department weren't willing to share much." Not that they, technically, are ever supposed to share the details of an ongoing investigation, but this level of secrecy is unusual.  

Newt turns, gray-blue gaze sliding away from Percival, and accelerates. "Credence and the children at this Second Salem compound fell through every crack in every system: Department of Children and Families, the police, the schools, the hospitals. DCF’s foster system was overloaded, so someone like Mary Lou, willing to take in as many as they gave, seemed a godsend, and she sailed through the approval process. Add in waivers for medical care due to personal beliefs, waivers for public education due to religious beliefs, the fact that the congregation moved whenever the law became too involved, the fear of crossing Grindelwald-"

Gellert Grindelwald, the city's wealthiest property developer, half the buildings they pass by built by or owned by him. Makes sense, in this small city, not to cross such a man - Percival met him at a gala honoring the police force, and even at that first meeting felt queasy in his presence.

"At various points over the past nineteen years," Newt turns the car towards Kowalski's Bakery, "the children's social workers were called out to do wellness checks. Citizens concerned by how Mary Lou used the kids for canvassing called the police. Credence, himself, at one point after he presented as a sub, called the police. Just like every time the authorities checked on Second Salem, Mary Lou steered the conversation, placated the fears, and got them back off the property. Then she went after Credence with a whip."

God. Nineteen years of waiting for help to come, of dreaming of escape, only to see it slip through your fingers every time. No wonder the young man struggles with trust, if all he's received from authority figures is suffering or ignorance; no wonder he apparently yearns for someone to help him feel safe.

"Was Mary Lou's animosity towards him purely based on his submissive status?"

"No, though it intensified after he presented, and when his sister Modesty presented as a dominant, Credence had to get attention from the authorities before Modesty also came in for abuse." Newt swallows visibly, eyes bleak, and Dougal lays his mournful head on Newt's shoulder. "Or before Modesty was sent off to some other Second Salem congregation to be separated from her brother's 'foul perversions.' Time was short. Help was short. He made the best choice he could, given what he knew."

A choice that landed Credence in jail while they processed the crime scene, the children scattered to various therapeutic foster homes, and now has him waiting to be called up as a witness in the ongoing criminal trials of Grindelwald and Mary Lou.

"So once they released him from jail, that's when you met him?"

Newt parks in front of Kowalski's bakery, unbuckles himself, and fishes in the piles in the backseat for his satchel. "Yeah; seems like poor recompense for nineteen years of suffering due to willful blindness, but DCF is paying for all of his and the other witnesses' treatment and reintegration into society. Tina knows one of the children's new caseworkers, and since Tina likes to talk up her sub-" he ducks his head, grinning, a flush staining his cheeks and traveling down his neck, beneath the thin blue leather collar, "-I wound up a consultant."

It takes a moment for them to all extricate themselves from the backseat, but eventually Percival and Newt and Dougal are all free on the sidewalk before Kowalski's, Newt completely ignorant of the black fur covering nearly every inch of his corduroys.

"And since Credence said he wanted to explore his sexuality, I got in touch with Seraphina, and-" Newt gestures at their surroundings, "-we're here."

"Anything I should know?" Percival follows Newt into the building and up the staircase. Dougal's tail whacking into his knees as they climb.

"Not that you would, but don't treat him like he's stupid or a child; he's quite clever, really, just sheltered. He probably won't offer a handshake, so you're better off waiting to see if he initiates. Other than that, can't think of much for a first meeting."

Newt stops before the door above Kowalski's - a deep green, the paint peeling about the edges - and knocks, three fast raps.

A shadow moves behind the peephole, and Percival squares his shoulders, settling into his skin again, projecting calm confidence. The click of locks, and he looks Credence Barebone full in the face.

He's practiced at hiding his initial reactions to clients - he's had to be, when he's worked with clients who are quadriplegic, dying, all types of bodies and abilities - but even then he has to swallow down the rumble building in his chest.

Credence Barebone is exquisite, there's no other word for it - and Percival is lucky to have him first, to teach him what he needs to know to be safe, because he will have suitors aplenty. Feline eyes, near-liquid in their darkness, that flicker over him and Newt and Dougal, then drop in silent submission, eyelashes the color of soot falling upon knife-sharp cheekbones, their paleness begging for a thumb's caress. The cut of his black hair does him no favors, but given time and patience, those thick strands could be made beautiful. The breadth of his shoulders, tapering down to a narrow waist where one's hand could rest-

"Hello, Newt, Dougal," Credence says, his voice low, hoarse, as if he rarely speaks. "And you-?" His gaze flicks up to Percival, who offers a faint smile.

"Percival Graves, the surrogate partner." He doesn't offer a hand, and Credence makes no attempt. "Pleasure."

"Oh-" it's more an indrawn breath than a word, and Credence seems to hunch into himself, as if to hide, but his gaze looks Percival over from feet to head, the barest hint of a flush stealing across his cheeks. Anxious, no doubt, but not frightened - Percival can work with that.

Credence steps back for the three visitors to enter the apartment. It's Spartan, to say the least, but not surprising; he likely never had much, and what furniture he has must have been provided by DCF or the police department. The couch Credence gestures for them to sit on is an unflattering shade of beige, and Credence perches at the edge of a rickety kitchen chair. He clasps his hands together, a subtle tremor drawing Percival's attention to the faint red of a scar tracing over the side of one palm.

"Shall we go ahead and get started? I've explained some of what Credence can expect from me in our relationship, but I'm sure there's still some questions he might have." Newt unclips Dougal's leash and busies himself removing paperwork from his satchel.

Percival holds Credence's gaze, searching for signs of panic or confusion. "So, you've met Newt. He's the therapist, and I'm the licensed dominant surrogate partner. Together with you, we form what's called the therapeutic triangle; what that means is that we all agree when to move forward in treatment, when to end therapy - unless you decide to end the contract - and how to help you achieve your goals. First and foremost, your safety and confidentiality is paramount; nothing will be shared outside the therapeutic triangle, and nothing occurs without your permission."

A muscle flickers in Credence's jaw, and Dougal pads over to shove his head between Credence's hands, breaking apart the anxious twist of fingers. Another glimpse, then, of terrible scars, hidden quickly in Dougal's dark fur, and Percival's chest aches with pity.

"How long will it take?" Credence's gaze flickers to Newt, who's looking through notes. "For me to meet my goals?" His fingers dig into Dougal's fur, thumbs stroking over the dog's ears.

Newt waves for Percival to keep going, so he does. "It's different for each client, but the standard is that the client meets with the therapist for one or two hours a week and the surrogate for one or two hours a week, separately. Most clients I've worked with have felt able to end the relationship and try dating after about thirty weeks."

"Speaking of which!" Newt flips to a sheet in Credence's file, his spidery handwriting spilling over the page. "Have your goals remained the same? Not feeling afraid of your orientation, being able to communicate needs and boundaries, being able to submit?"

"Yes, please," Credence says, his voice near-trembling, Dougal patient as his fingers twine into his fur.

That soft 'please,' those eyes flickering shy glances at Percival's hands, his briefcase - this young man will make some dominant proud one day.

They schedule the sessions, and Newt takes over for a bit, discussing Credence's progress with mindfulness practices, meditation: the standard routine for someone beginning surrogate therapy.

"Here's the contract attesting to the boundaries I have." Percival draws it from his briefcase and hands it over along with a pen. "There's my work phone number; if while you're working on an assignment for Newt or myself, you have questions or concerns, you can text me there. You have a phone?"

"Yes," Credence says, his lips almost shaping the 'sir.' Oh, he's a sweet young man, so obviously in need, so easily hurt; thank God for Newt and Tina, who recognized his vulnerability and connected him to people who would not use it against him.

"The rest is standard; you won't see me outside of our scheduled sessions, and once our therapeutic relationship is over, you won't try to seek me out further, as my job is not only to model the beginning and middle of a good relationship, but also its ending."

Credence reads the contract slowly, mouthing the words to himself, a furrow setting in his brow that Percival could smooth away with a thumb, a kiss. He nods as he finishes, then signs at the bottom, passing it back to Percival. Their fingers brush, and Credence swallows, a faint tremor shaking him.

"Now, as this is mostly about introductions and paperwork, our time is almost up." Newt breaks the sudden connection, stuffing papers back into his satchel. "Percival, you have an assignment for him, correct?"

Percival turns and pulls the last things out from his briefcase: two dice and a thin black leather band. He places them on the coffee table, amused and affectionate when Credence's attention goes to the simple cuff, naked need passing across his face.

"This one is simple. At some point before I see you next, I want you to spend half an hour or so with the dice and the cuff. You don't have to put the cuff on if you are uncomfortable; simply have it near you. One die lists sensations, such as scratching, tapping, et cetera. The other lists body parts. I want you to use the dice and explore how you react to the sensations you give yourself: what you enjoy and what you don't. Please write down any strong reactions. Additionally, I want you to write down the thoughts that come into your mind when you look at the cuff or wear it, if you feel ready for that. Understood?"

Credence nods. "All right. Thank you."

"No need," Percival says, standing. They make their goodbyes, Credence again offering no handshake, and he and Newt and Dougal leave the apartment.

Driving away, he looks into the rear view mirror, and spots a pale face in the window above Kowalski's, two dark feline eyes, and in Credence's hands, a thin black leather band.

[pornosophical]

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by theory, well-fed complacent leather-coated, dragging themselves through the Caucasian campuses at dawn looking for an angry signifier.   The voices dissolved into the warm pre-dawn darkness as I watched vomit drip between the ferns and fallen leaves. Muttering consolations, my friend held my elbow. Only moments before we had been making impassioned if sloshy love in my single bed, while my 21st birthday party raged outside. Now I was hurling what seemed like a infinite fount of bile into the bushes behind my little room.   As my friend led me to bed, I thought: You really are 21 now. You got horribly drunk, dragged a guy to bed, and then got sick. Just like a made-for-TV movie. These thoughts were accompanied by an odd, abstracted rapture I have come to take for granted. For want of a better term, I'll call it the rapture of irony.   Halfway to my bed, I must have laughed out loud, because my friend asked, "What are you thinking about?"   "The narrative," was all I could manage. I wanted him to know that even in this humiliated, impaired state, I was fully cognizant of the mind boggling paradox of the situation. I may have been a walking cliché but at least I was self-conscious.

Carol Lloyd, I Was Michel Foucault’s Love Slave

As I drifted off into a tangle of dehydrated nightmares, I comforted myself with the thought that Theory had suffused my life so thoroughly that I couldn't get laid, get drunk and get sick without paying homage to Roland Barthes' notion of the "artifice of realism" or Baudrillard's "simulacra." Though now I live a practical life, with more actions and fewer theories, I still struggle with the convoluted mind-set of my higher education. Even after years of trying to acclimate myself to a more concrete world, this odd theology lives in me so much so that it is only recently that I have recognized it for what it is: a religious doctrine.

I am a child of Theory. I avoided this truth because I didn't want to confront the deep, strange river of pretentiousness that courses in my veins. But lately I've begun to think my predicament is less reflective of a private eccentricity than of a weird historical moment. The moment when the most arcane, elitist mental gymnastics Theory in all its hybrid forms was reborn as sexy, politically radical action. The moment when well-meaning liberal intellectuals who a decade before had dedicated themselves to activism, volunteerism and building social programs turned inward, tending to their private experiential gardens with obsessive diligence. Theory offered intellectuals the same escape from the public world that self-help and therapy offered the masses. But unlike self-help and therapy, which never claimed to be anything but psycho-spiritual Darwinism, Theory draped itself in revolutionary verbiage and pretended to be a political movement. For those of us who got liberal educations in the wake of this shift, being radical meant little more than voting when it was convenient, reading the newspaper and thinking about doing charity work. The only thing that separated us from the ignorant masses was our intellectual opinions, which we shrouded in baroque revolutionary rhetoric. The "tyranny of grammar," the "subversion of sexual mores in extinct Native American tribes," and the "colonialism of the novel" these were our mantles of honor.   Though I always believed that my upbringing was free of ideological trappings, I now see that the seed was planted long before I reached college. My eldest brother was a political activist in his teens, but with the onslaught of the '80s he threw away his ideals and pursued the good life: drinking from the corporate tit as an organizational consultant. After two years in Africa as Peace Corps volunteers, my parents shed their activist habits, moving to a resort town with the intention of getting rich building houses for retired millionaires. Aside from the little holes punched in their secret ballots and token checks made out to various nonprofit organizations, politically my family acted no differently than our blue-blood, conservative neighbors. They pursued the free market with a vengeance, bought as many nice things as possible and hobnobbed at the tennis club. But they still talked like the lefties they once had been. And how they talked.   At dinner we served up steaming topical cauldrons of death, child rearing, art and gender, then skewered them whole. We asked unanswerable questions and then imperiously proceeded to invent the answers. We had no interest in facts. Facts were just things you made up to win arguments. Once I brought home a boyfriend whose old-fashioned education and conservative family had taught him none of the liberal preference for ideas over facts. When the dinner conversation turned toward his hobby of California history and he began to speak in facts, my family paused to stare at him like he was sporting antennae. My mother hemmed; my father hawed; my brothers began to babble invented statistics. Through my family I learned to love ideas "for their own sake," which made me a kind of idiot savant (with emphasis on the idiot) and a prime victim for the God of Theory.   In 1978 my high school history teacher, a Harvard-educated, Jewish-turned-Catholic New Yorker, promised to give "extra credit" to anyone who read and did a book report on Paul de Man's "Blindness and Insight." (Though later exposed as a Nazi sympathizer, at that moment de Man still carried the mantle of "subversive" in the hippest sense.) Dutifully, I read every page understanding it the way a little boy understands the gurgles of his toad. I had no idea what it meant but the densely knotted language of ideas made my head implode and my body sing. For the rest of my high school years I would only have to read a paragraph or two of deconstruction's steamy prose to have a literary orgasm.   In his recent disavowal of literary criticism in Lingua Franca, Frank Lentricchia confesses that his "silent encounters with literature are ravishingly pleasurable, like erotic transport." My experiences with Theory were equally exalted delivering me into a paroxysm of overdetermined signs. In the blurry vertigo of those pages so full of incomprehensible printed matter I felt myself in the presence of a God: the God of complex questions, the God of language's mysteries, the God of meaning severed from the painful and demanding particularity of experience. In abstractions, I found absolution from a world in which I was utterly unprepared for any real responsibility or sacrifice. By surrendering myself to Theory, "reality" became a blank screen upon which I projected my political fantasies. My feelings of responsibility to a world that I had once recognized as both unjust and astoundingly concrete, slowly and painlessly seeped out of me until all that remained was the "consciousness" of the "complexity" of any "serious issue." I didn't need to fix anything, utterance was all, and all I needed were the words long and tentacled enough to entrap meaning for a slippery, textual moment.   Like any religion, Theory provided perks to the pious. In my freshman year, I took an upper-division class on the 17th century English novel. The books were long and difficult but I secured my standing in the class when I responded to the teacher's mention of deconstructive theory. "Yes, each idea undermines itself," I parroted, channeling the memory of my sophomore extra credit report. "Paul de Man says..." With that bit of arcane spittle, I hit pay dirt. The teacher gave me such a hyperbolic recommendation, I was able to transfer to a better school. Once there, I evaded undergraduate classes with their demanding finals and multiple writing assignments and insinuated myself into graduate theory seminars of all departments: anthropology, literature, political science, theater, history. With a host of other would-be intellectuals, I honed the fine art of thinking about thinking about ... What we were thinking about was always pretty irrelevant. I developed minor expertise in the representation of the hermaphrodite in psychiatric literature, the uncanny relationship between classical ballet and the absolutist state of Louis XIV and the woman as landscape in Robbe-Grillet's "Jealousy." Now I was just warming up, I told myself. Someday I would find an important issue worthy of all my well-exercised mental muscles and then watch out hegemony!   While I was being treated to the many joys of a great liberal education, I was also learning some rather insidious lessons. I discovered I didn't have to read the entire assigned book. After all, the "ideas" were what was important. Better to read the criticism about the book. Better yet, read the criticism of the criticism and my teachers would not only be impressed but a little intimidated. By extension, I learned not only a way of reading but a way of living. The more removed I was from a primary act, the more valuable it was. Why scoop soup at the homeless shelter when you could say something interesting about how naive it was to think that feeding people really helped them when really what was needed was structural change.   My friends now fall into two categories: ex-Theory nerds (like me) making a living off their late-learned pragmatism, and those who still live and breathe by Theory's fragrant vapors political theorists, literary critics, historians, eternal graduate students. I love talking to them and often I covet the little thrones their ideas get to perch on. Yet when I come away from a conversation that has swooped from the racist implications of early French embalming techniques to the "revolutionary interventions" in the margins of "Tristram Shandy" and ended with the appalling hypocrisy of the right wing, I often feel a strange discomfort. Because these are some of the smartest, kindest and most energetic people I know, I cannot resist the question: Is this the best way for them to spend their lives? If they acknowledged that they were largely engaged in the amoral endeavor of pure intellectual play, that would be one thing, but each of these people considers their work deeply, emphatically political.   Is this theory-heavy, fact-free education teaching people to preach one way and live another? Are we learning that political opinion, however finely crafted, is a legitimate substitute for action? Sometimes it seems that the increased political emphasis on language the controversies over "chairpersons," "people of color" and "youth-at-risk" did more than create a friendly linguistic landscape, it gave liberals something to do, to argue about, to write about, while the right wing took over the country, precinct by precinct. After all, in a world where each lousy word can stir up a raging debate, why worry about the hard, dull work of food distribution or waste management?   I know how high and mighty this sounds, and the side of me that appreciates subtlety and disdains brow-beating is wincing. Political moralism has fallen from fashion, leaving us to cobble together myopic philosophies from warmed-over New Age thinkers like Deepak Chopra or archaic scriptures like the Bible. If it's any consolation, I include myself in the most offending group of educated progressives who squandered their political power over white wine and words like "instantiation." Moreover, I'm not saying we're all a bunch of awful, selfish people. We learned to read, we learned to think critically and at least pay lip service to certain values of justice, egalitarianism and questioning authority. But I do wonder if we're handicapped, publicly impaired somehow.   Like most of my siblings of Theory, from time to time I have tried to get off my duff and do something concrete: protest, precinct walk, do volunteer work whatever but I always get impatient. I wasn't meant to chant annoying rhymes. I am trained to relish complexity, to never simplify a thought. I am trained to appreciate "difference" (between skin tones and truths), but I don't know how to organize a political meeting, create a strategy or make a long-term commitment to a social organization. As Wallace Shawn wrote in "The Fever," "The incredible history of my feelings and my thoughts could fill up a dozen leather-bound books. But the story of my life my behavior, my actions that's a slim volume and I've never read it."   Lentricchia argues that by politicizing the experience of reading, we ended up degrading its beauty and pleasure. In the same fell swoop, we also robbed concrete political action of its meaning. The progressive pragmatists studied political theory; the progressive idealists studied literary theory; and the eccentric radicals became conceptual artists and sold their work to millionaires. In any case, everyone bought the idea that they were engaged in political work. Having a radical opinion was tantamount to revolution.   Back in college, I remember going to a party at the home of one of my professors, who was a famous Marxist. The split-level house was decorated with rare antiques from all over the world, exclusive labels filled the wine cellar, the banquet table overflowed with delicacies. Like an anointed inner circle of acolytes, we students sat around as our professors argued that Saddam Hussein's invasion of Kuwait was justified from the perspective of the underpaid Palestinian servants who worked in Kuwaiti homes. The following month, while I was house-sitting at the professor's house, his black gardener came to the door wanting to be paid. I discovered that my professor was paying the man minimum wage for less than a half day of self-employed work. That night as I plundered the refrigerator for the best cheeses that money could buy, I chided myself for not having doubled the man's wages. But that might have embarrassed him, no? It definitely would have embarrassed me. It would have been acting on a belief, and action makes me uncomfortable.   Recently I went to a conference on "Women's Art and Activism." I found precious little of either. Instead I found a lot of Theory garbed in its many costumes. There was a lesbian conceptual artist talking about her work, triangular boxes that "undermined the patriarchy of shapes"; a "revolutionary" poet lecturing on her experience of biculturalism; and an "anarchist" performance artist discussing "strategies for subversion." And what fabulous haircuts! The keynote speaker was Orlon, a French performance artist whose work consists of having her entire face rebuilt by plastic surgery. After a very French explanation as to why she needed a third face lift, she answered questions from the packed house. "I think you're just incredible," said one woman. "You say your aim is to reconquer your body as signifier. How do you feel about letting a doctor touch your signifier? And how do you see your revolutionary techniques emancipating women from the prisons of their bodies as sign?"   Had I stumbled into a satanic ritual, I couldn't have felt a more chilling sensation of alienation. Once I would have smiled at these liturgies and savored their impenetrable truths. Now I only wanted to run away and do what? Dig a ditch? Perform open heart surgery? Administrate a charity? Even after all these years, I was still expecting Theory to visit me like the Virgin Mary and give me more than a sign.

[mamasgonecrazy]

Mental Illness and the Monster You Don’t Want

Hello Internet! 

I want to talk about something serious today. I guess that is no surprise coming from me, but I do think it is a very important subject to talk about. As many people can become triggered easily, I will give a trigger warning. I really hope however that you can take a moment to prepare yourself, and continue to read, because this is important. This post will talk about a tragic murder that happened 9 years ago, and about mental illness. 

Back in 2008 a tragic incident occurred in Canada. While riding a Greyhound Bus, 22 year old Tim McLean was tragically murdered by 40 year old Vince Li. The young man was stabbed multiple times while frightened passengers fled the bus. Li then continued to behead Tim, and started to consume parts of his body. Many were witnesses to this, including some RCMP officers who would later suffer from PTSD due to the horrifying nature of what they saw. The whole country mourned for the young man, and our hearts went out to his family.  During the time of the trial, Li was seen by psychiatrists, and pleaded insanity. His mental health was brought to the foreground, and it was revealed that Li suffers from extremely bad schizophrenia. He was unmedicated at the time and had no supports in place to help him cope with his condition. At the time of the killing, he had heard “The Voice of God” who told him that the young man beside him was a force of evil who was about to execute him. Fearing for his life, Li committed the heinous actions that ended Tim’s life. He was declared NCR (not criminally responsible) and sent to a mental institution, where he spent the next 9 years. During his time there, as he continued to work on his mental health, he was slowly granted more and more allowances, until very recently when he was released all together- being granted Absolute Discharge. 

Now, that is the backstory for anyone who hasn’t heard any of this in the news. Since his release there have been countless people on social media who are outraged. They call Li (who now goes by Will Baker) a monster, danger to society, and call for him to be locked up for life. I have even seen some people who call for his execution (because you know, we totally believe in Capital Punishment in Canada). I would like to take a moment to state on record that I am not talking about my personal feelings over the murder of Tim. It was tragic, and that fact is indisputable. By writing this post, I am not trying to insult any friends or family, and I am not trying to disrespect this young soul. I am simply going to talk about mental illness, and rehabilitation. I am talking about the present, and not the past incident.  Recently social media celebrated Let’s Talk Day, in which most people identified themselves as an ally to those who suffer from mental illnesses. Some even identified as someone who personally has a mental illness. However, from the comments I have read recently, they should have identified as an ally to people who have illnesses that are not super scary but enemies to those who are scary.

Schizophrenia is as important of a mental health issue to acknowledge as depression and anxiety. It is categorized as abnormal social behaviour, and a failure to understand what is or is not real. Suffers could have false beliefs, unclear thinking, and even see or hear voices that others do not. With the inability to tell that this voices are not real, they believe in them, and experience them as reality. It is not a “curable” condition, however can be managed through means of medication and therapy. At the time Vince Li was not on medication and was not seeking therapy. He was living life with this horrible condition and experienced everything around him as completely real. To him, God spoke to him and warned him that he was about to be hurt. That conversation happened to him as much as the conversation you had with the cashier at the grocery store happened to you. Once he was hospitalized, and started understanding and working on his mental disorder, he understood what he had done was wrong. But more than that, he felt remorse. He even begged to die, because it was so hard to live with the act that he committed. With doctors help, he has worked himself to a point where he understands what needs to be done to stay safe. Now, let’s look at a couple of the legal mumbo-jumbo that we need to understand here. First, NCR. Here is what the Canadian Criminal Code has to say about NCR. “No person is criminally responsible for an act committed or an omission made while suffering from a mental disorder that rendered the person incapable of appreciating the nature and quality of the act or omission or of knowing that it was wrong.” It does not take away responsibility from the guilty party, but rather lessens the responsibility if they were not in a healthy enough state of mind. Someone with schizophrenia as extreme as Li’s was not mentally capable of understanding that he was committing a crime at the time that he committed it. He did not go free either, but was locked away for almost 10 years.  Next, Absolute Discharge. To receive a discharge from a crime, there are a large number of criteria that must be met. It is not a decision that is taken lightly, and is only done in cases where it is deemed appropriate to do so. In the case of Li, he was rehabilitated and released (which has nothing to do with the Absolute Discharge), however with the criminal record over his head would find life impossible to continue. Now, many people would say “Justice!” for his life not being easy, but remember that he did not ask for this mental condition, he showed remorse for what he had done, and he spent 9 years rehabilitating himself.  “Well, no one can force him to take his medication now!” Yes, that is true, however it also doesn’t mean that he will stop taking it, or stop working with doctors. All that it means is that he no longer has to deal with the legal system in regards to this crime. I would like to draw a parallel about the issue of taking medication. I am on a very large amount of anti-depressants at the moment. The last time that I was off of them, I decided that I was going to take a pill every time that my boyfriend-at-the-time insulted me, because I couldn’t live with the way he was making me feel about myself. I was close to killing myself. Since getting medicated, I have realized that all of that was my mental illness talking. The medication helps me not want to harm or kill myself (or others), but without it I am in danger. I do not want to be in danger, therefore I will keep taking my pills. It is really that simple, and can be that simple for Will Baker (fka Li). He doesn’t want to hurt people. The last time he was not on medication he killed someone. Therefore, he will stay on his pills.  The last thing that I want to talk about is the difference between “justice” “vengeance” and the ability to rehabilitate people. Justice, from a legal standpoint is defined as “n. 1) fairness. 2) moral rightness. 3) a scheme or system of law in which every person receives his/ her/its due from the system, including all rights, both natural and legal.” The system did actually give Vince Li his “due”. He was declared NCR (by the system), spent 9 years in a rehabilitation centre (by the system), and was deemed to be no longer a threat to society (by the system). So when you scream for “justice”, justice was actually served.  Vengeance is the word you are actually looking for here. First, it is worth noting that vengeance does not have a legal definition. So we will look at the standard definition: “noun1.infliction of injury, harm, humiliation, or the like, on a person by another who has been harmed by that person; violent revenge:But have you the right to vengeance?2.an act or opportunity of inflicting such trouble: to take one's vengeance. 3.the desire for revenge: a man full of vengeance.4.Obsolete. hurt; injury.5.Obsolete. curse; imprecation.” The desire for revenge. It is understandable for the family members of Tim to seek vengeance, however the rest of us citizens have no right to do so. Once we start seeking out or committing acts of vengeance we are really no better than the criminals themselves, and are in fact trying to live in an anarchy.

Our current legal system works to rehabilitate people. It is why there is a system of parole. Funnily enough, had Li not been deemed NCR, he would have been sent to jail for 2nd degree murder; in Canada that means life in prison with chance of parole between 7-25 years. Parole is granted based on a number of conditions, including chance to reoffend. Li’s doctors have released him based on the collected agreement that he is extremely unlikely to reoffend. So, he could have been released sooner if the “justice” system that people call for worked in their favour. 

TL:DR time: Unless you have a medical degree and have worked with Li for a long enough time that you know his condition, how it affects him, and his chances to reoffend, you do not have the authority to speak about whether or not “justice” has been served with his release. You also cannot claim to be an ally to people with mental conditions, and then treat someone the way that you are all treating him. He committed a terrible crime, but was suffering from a terrible illness that he did not ask to have. He has worked towards rehabilitation, and deserves the chance to live a life, however filled with remorse it is, as a mentally healthy man. 

Please, think before you judge. Research before you get angry. Think about how all aspects of this case are affected. Be an ally to everyone who suffers from any condition, regardless of the stigma attached to it. And until next time, stay crazy <3 

PS: Some of my sources for this post are listed below.  https://web.archive.org/web/20150716091637/

http://laws-lois.justice.gc.ca:80/eng/acts/C-46/

http://www.who.int/mediacentre/factsheets/fs397/en/

https://web.archive.org/web/20080810005604/http://www.theglobeandmail.com/servlet/story/RTGAM.20080805.wbus06/BNStory/National/home

http://dictionary.law.com/Default.aspx?selected=1086

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Life_imprisonment_in_Canada

[ritterkaitlyn1991]

Quick Bacterial Vaginosis Treatment Awesome Diy Ideas

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Bacterial Vaginosis Kohl's Hours

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Bacterial Vaginosis Treatment Medicine

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[limejuicer1862]

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger. The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.

Suzy Conway,

fell for poetry when she was introduced to Shakespeare by a nun exhibiting uncharacteristic passion for it. Her poems were published in medical journals and newspapers during her career, and once retired, she devoted more time to writing. A former medical librarian, originally from Minnesota, she finished her career at Countway Library in Boston, only to restart it in Nepal in 2002, creating a medical library for Kathmandu University. She resided in Nepal for four years.

In Donegal, Ireland, where she lived in 2006, horses manifested before her in uncanny ways as she rode her bike hither and yon. Back in the states, Secret Halo trotted into her life, and how things shifted into the most demanding and mystical schoolroom is a poem yet to be penned. Rilke wrote: The future enters into you long before you know it. In retrospect, it s right before your eyes.

Her brother once told her that she looked like her horse, which thrilled her. Now she endeavors to be like her horse: awake, aware, in the present moment. Her book of haiku, Lights Along the Road, debuted in Kathmandu in 2005, co-authored with Janak Sapkota. She lives, rides, and writes in Corvallis, Oregon.

The Interview

1. What inspired me to write poetry?

As a sensitive child my questions were these: Who am I? What am I doing here? Surely there’s got to be more. I got a hint to the answers when I learned to print my letters. If I was holding a pencil stringing words across a page wellbeing flooded my soul. It was the beginning of purpose, I got an inkling of how I would be able to stay, how I would cope.

I discovered the library as a young girl and found gold. I eventually became a medical librarian to quench a desire to serve, read, learn and publish. I worked in buildings that held the archives of famous writers, and minds. Libraries were my true north, my cave. I didn’t need a map to navigate them.

I was a seeker. In high school poetry was where I found beauty and truth. Poetry gave me some of the first bricks to a philosophical foundation of life. I loved school, but it lacked what I was specifically after which was a viable explanation to what I was truly doing on earth. Raised Catholic gave me the holy, sacred rituals to soothe myself but organized religion per se never got me to the crux. India got me closer to it. India ripped layers off and left me close to naked in the sense of shedding the false self. Surviving India was a breakthrough of massive proportions, I could almost hear the crash the masks made when they hit the ground. India will do that to you. Life shifted after that. In good ways.

When I read The Merchant of Venice, “The quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth like the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blest…” I was on to something. I can remember the moment I read those lines, they gave me ballast to keep my head above water. I grasped poetry as one would grasp a life raft. A truth from the universe. A young woman’s philosophy began to form.

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

I was introduced to poetry by a nun in high school, who unlike most nuns from that era, showed a passion for what she was teaching. She was the Shakespeare teacher. Her enthusiasm was contagious. The poetry teachers in college bored the life out of me, except for one, the Chaucer teacher who I’ll never forget. In my mid-20s I began to read poetry with a vengeance. None of my family or circle of friends were into poetry, so it was a lone journey, but I bought a lot of poetry books, and I haunted a lot of bookstores.

3. How aware were you of the dominating presence of older poets?

Such a good question. I was aware of who was being taught in school, but other than that, I wasn’t aware at all, and in the scheme of things what was being taught in school was limited. I was quite sheltered, quite naive. It wasn’t until I was in my 30s, 40s that I sought out those poets. I was working in libraries with poetry at my fingertips, so it was easy to gain momentum. I craved poetry that touched on the liminal, the ineffable, the mystical.

My therapist, who was a Renaissance man, turned me on to Rilke. I carried his books around the world with me for decades. His poetry was an elixir for my soul, and once I discovered Rumi, Hafiz, Kabir, the Japanese haiku masters, (especially Ryokan) and other Zen poets, I was air born. In the old days, Howard Moss, poetry editor of The New Yorker, served up heaps of good poetry.

I wanted to be moved at the heart and soul level, wanted to be seismically knocked off my feet.

I had the great fortune to meet and become friends with Tess Gallagher. She influenced me greatly and still does. Ray Carver’s poetry and short stories brought me home and led me to her. I owe so much to Tess; her straight talk and generosity is engraved in my heart.

4. My daily writing routine.

To be open and prepared to meet the mysterious, I begin every day with meditation followed by a big pot of French press coffee. I get ideas, inspiration, whispers, points of view and guidance when I’m silent, and quiet, and still. Mostly out in the woods and forests.

I write and correct and edit and write and correct. I do this until I’ve aged the poem. Sometimes riding my horse or my bike, ideas fall into my head. Sometimes fixes come in. Sometimes entire poems spurt out of my pen with no effort.

I’m a morning person, I write when my mind is free of pesky thoughts, but if I’m on a roll, I’ll be up all hours. It depends on where my soul takes me.

5. What motivates me to write?

The need to be in touch with who I really am. That vast spirit tucked into my small physical form. I want to express that aspect of my identity, you know, the one that isn’t criticizing or judging or planning the future and raking over the past. The one who is the over soul, the one who is the observer, the one who is trying to be heard. I want truth. From another realm. And writing puts me in touch with that.

Janak Sapkota is a poet I met when I lived in Nepal who motivates me every day. His belief in me, his support is a kindness in my life. He and I published a book of haiku called Lights Along the Road when I was living in Kathmandu from 2002 – 2006. He is a gifted young poet, a beautiful soul and a unique voice. To find someone who believes in you when you don’t believe in yourself is vital to one’s ability to keep on writing.

6. Work Ethic

I was brought up Irish Catholic in a family where hard work, responsibility, good grades, and sticking with it were prized. On top of that I’m a classic Virgo which ratchets the intensity up considerably. Now that I’m older and retired and have had lots of therapy, (smile) I’ve morphed into a new sun sign. This one lets me relax more, trust more, and stay in balance, in harmony. I’ve freed myself to run amok in the best sense; to be wide open to whatever happens. To jump out of planes, to ride my horse in a pitch-dark forest, to know what the next step is and take it afraid or not.

My work ethic is more in balance because my worth doesn’t stem from it anymore.

7. Writers when I was young who influence me today.

What influences me from that time in school more than actual poets was experiencing the beauty of words. Rhyme captivated me. Iambic pentameter soothed me. A turn of a phrase calmed me. Poe captured my imagination with his dark longing, and desperation. Even though the feel of his poems was so disturbing, the beauty of them consoled me. More than anything, that’s what I took from the poets of yore. How language could soothe the broken heart, lift it even when it remained broken, transform something like loneliness into a beautiful work of art.

8. Writers I admire today and why

Wendell Berry Robert Bly Ray Carver Tess Gallagher Jane Hirschfield Jon Loomis Tom Lux Sharon Olds Antonio Porchia Rainer Maria Rilke Rumi, Hafiz, Kabir, Lao Tzu, Li Po, Ryokan Antoine de St. Exupery Edna St. Vincent Millay William Stafford Wislawa Szymborska Sara Teasdale

Because they replace what I know with something I don’t.

9. Why Do I write

I am visual, and I was born with a fountain pen in my hand. Ink to paper is an orgasmic profound thing, and I’m sure in past lives I was a scribe or an illustrator or a writer or maybe just a fountain pen! I write to be in touch with my soul’s yearning to create and evolve.

10. How do you become a writer?

You become a writer by writing. Daily, often and frequently. Read. Take notes. Be aware. Observe. Understand as best you can what moves you. We are not our bodies, thoughts and emotions. We are spiritual beings here to wake up to that. Wake up to the areas within yourself that need healing, the parts that need the light. Write about what makes you weep.

11. Writing projects at the moment

Since publishing my book of poetry Bringing In Horses, and two other books I wrote with my publisher Cheryl McClean, my interests shifted to short stories that have a synchronous point, the kind of stories I hanker to read, ones that illustrate a larger force at work. I trust that shift of focus after I put my life’s blood into Bringing In Horses. Writing the book took some courage and it put a lot to rest.

I help a friend, a German journalist, mountain climber and translator on occasion, and when invited speak at creative writing classes held in and around where I live. There is always enough to keep my soul engaged with its purpose, with what enlivens it. I have writing projects just for myself. I finish them and then investigate what to do with them. Answers always come.

I also collaborate with my older brother who acts as my muse. That close relationship inspires many creative writing projects and some of them have manifested as books. He is one of my strongest supporters.

Thank you so much for this beautiful opportunity to delve into these questions. I’ve never pondered them to this degree before, and by doing so have learned a lot about myself. My gratitude to you Paul, and to everyone who contributes to your site, everyone who is doused to the gills with poetry.

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Suzy Conway Wombwell Rainbow Interviews I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. 1,925 more words

[adventk-blog]

                                             — ARE YOU WHO YOU WANT TO BE,

       introducing LEE HYUKSOO, a MUTANT, under the moniker of MAD HATTER — and currently a believer of CO-EXISTENCE. age ( thirty-two ) and gifted with the ability of DISTORTION, they are currently working as PRIVATE SECURITY CONTRACTOR .

WE ARE SO MUCH MORE THAN STORIES,

I.

he was brought into this world with a purpose.

everything was laid out before him: his parents gave him up to training at their masters’ hands from the moment he was old enough to stand, and his role was defined before he could speak. he would be a loyal blade for his masters, whether that made him an enforcer or a killer or a guard, and in growing up he became all of these things for the old-money mob family who he called his everything.

the world outside his masters’ sphere never sat quite right with him; despite attending normal school, he couldn’t connect with the other children. that thing about him which was different stood out far too strong: his sense of purpose, the violence embedded under his skin from the moment he could hold a weapon. well-behaved he certainly was, trained to be just that, but just as much was he emotionally distant, reserved. the only children who could tolerate his stiffness were those who’d been raised not so unlike him – the only one who ever managed to melt his heart was michiko.

michiko was the youngest daughter of his masters, a girl six years his junior who followed him everywhere, and who he followed everywhere in turn. he was assigned to be her personal attendant and guard, constantly present to ensure that no one would dare bring her harm for her heritage’s sake, and he never complained. he loved her like a sister, gave her the warmth in his soul he never even knew he had to compensate for how her siblings did not. and despite how cruel and inhumane his actions may have been under his masters’ orders, he was never especially remorseful for it – and he was always soft with her.

until he was eighteen, this was how life went – structured, peaceful, happy.

II.

things went wrong, as they are prone to do.

hyuksoo lost everything in the blink of an eye: he and michiko returned home that day to carnage, to corpses and those near to it strewn about the manor after a bombing by a rival group. he was utterly consumed with grief at the bedside of his masters, blaming himself despite hardly being worthy of such fault, grasping at straws for a miracle that would bring them back to him – at least what was left.

a devil whispered in his ear that there could be a way, and he fell completely for its deception.

a promise of impossible medical advances, humans becoming able to do the unthinkable. experimentation that could bring about a power great enough to save someone against even the worst of odds. it was so sweet on the ailing mind of a child who had sworn his life to these people and knew nothing but serving them, and so he threw himself into the devil’s game, willingly became a monster if it might mean saving the people he loved.

the art of torture was already written into his veins; to change its direction to innocents was nothing. hyuksoo became a supplier of fresh subjects, a tormentor yet still willing to do any dirty work the facility could ask of him. he lived with michiko and cared for her, but he grew colder and colder as he single-mindedly pursued the impossible. he swears he lost his soul in those cold months, and that it will never return to him even now.

(he will never forget the sound of michiko crying “please don’t leave me alone” each time he left her.)

III.

a deal with the devil cannot save anyone.

hyuksoo should have known this, but he was blinded utterly by his devotion and his grief. it would come to destroy him; asked to harm a young girl, he froze in place with the blade not yet piercing her fragile skin, unable to proceed. the slightest sign of weakness was a threat coming from someone so disposable who knew far too much: hyuksoo was pulled into the very hell to which he had delivered so many innocent souls. he was torn apart body and mind, the fragile remains of his heart ripped to ribbons as he spilled red blood onto the tormentors he had once stood beside. even then, he snarled and spat in the face of anyone who gave him the slightest opportunity to fight back.

for months more he suffered like this as their magic drug worked its way under his skin and played at his genes. and in the end, that would be their undoing – but not before he had to witness michiko dragged into this hell with him, not at all able to withstand the torture the way he had.

he lost her, too, before he truly lost his mind.

hyuksoo’s body had long been trained to endure, and so endure it did; he had been trained to adapt, and so adapt he would. it was only natural that a mutation would settle into his bones and only fitting that that mutation would let him break free of his chains. with the aid of this new friend that thrummed in his blood he set loose others who had been subjected to his same torment, killed and killed his torturers until numbness set into his heart and hands alike.

IV.

he had his freedom, but nothing else.

no one had ever given hyuksoo a purpose other than to serve. no one had ever told him how to live when your soul is empty and you’ve destroyed the last good thing you had. he’s not sure anyone possibly could have told him that.

bloody, battered, mutilated, he let himself fall finally – empty. with nowhere to go and nothing to hope for, he’d thought for certain that he would die there, even though hatred still burned in his heart, fueling a desperate desire for vengeance. whether it was fortunate or unfortunate he wouldn’t know, but a pair of children found him like that and brought him to safety in a manor not so unlike the one he’d spent most of his life in.

hyuksoo awoke there lost, angry, his grievous wounds treated and wrapped tight in bandages, with a gentle woman not much older than him sitting at his bedside, smiling. despite how he balked like a caged animal, she saw some kind of hope in him that he couldn’t possibly see in himself. she wanted him to live, wanted to help him learn to live again. maybe she was just lonesome due to her poor health and wanted a pet project to dote on, he’d laugh. it makes no difference.

V.

treated with enough kindness, even the most withered plants may flower again.

soohyuk would not say that he bloomed, no, but he healed, bit by bit. he’d thought he’d lost his heart along with his left eye and so much flesh and every shred of his former self, but she taught him how to breathe again. she taught him that it was alright to live even with his grief, that there was still value simply in his being alive. he never deserved such kindness, he’s sure, but she gave it without his asking, even if he begged her not to. that, too, has value, he realized.

falling into old patterns was only natural; soohyuk invariably became the big brother figure as well as the personal attendant of his lady’s daughter, a girl not much younger than michiko had been. perhaps, in some cosmic way, he wanted to atone for his mistakes – make things right by doing better this time. maybe he just couldn’t change the way his soul attached itself to her in memory of the girl he lost. he doesn’t know; it doesn’t matter. it would change nothing.

VI.

peace comes again.

years of physical therapy and reconstructive surgery later and soohyuk can travel in the daylight again, follow his young mistress wherever she may need him. he can fight again, though perhaps not the way he once could. he keeps a doll michiko once made for him in his pocket as a reminder – calls it by her name so he’s sure he won’t forget what he’s done. he makes friends, if awkwardly. he picks up a sharp sense of humor and a taste for practical jokes that he’d never had before.

he lives.

the young mistress shows a mutation as she grows older and soohyuk can’t help but be concerned. he doesn’t much speak of his own, no, but he knows too well the horrors that can follow such powers. his lady finds a place called “daybreak foundation”, but he doesn’t trust it – how could he? he trusts nothing and believes nothing to be free of an agenda, and too easily would those agendas come to harm the things he wishes to protect. his lady indulges his suspicions, uncertain herself, and sends him to incheon alone to investigate.

fighting is written into his veins, even if he has become clumsier with time and injury eating at his sinews; his expertise lets him slip into daybreak’s walls not as a potential, but as an instructor in techniques of combat and surveillance. he never reveals his mutation, instead leaves it a mystery why he knows so much about mutants – he just says he has experience, and it’s not important where he got it. his background checks out, after all. the dark splotches staining his past cannot be found on official records.

he finds things to be suspicious of, but remains on his lady’s wishes; even if she cannot send her daughter there, it remains a point of interest. her late husband’s research, her daughter’s strange behaviors, soohyuk’s existence in her life – it’s interlinked. incheon, by virtue of daybreak foundation, has become an epicenter for coming change, and she cannot watch it first-hand; instead, soohyuk travels by shadow, seeking information and answers, seeking to atone for his own bloody deeds toward mutantkind.

VII.

the earth shakes, bringing the fragile, cracked tower of hope to the ground.

disgust wells up in soohyuk’s core at the thought that daybreak was performing experiments, as well – he disappears into the shadows, but not before he reaches out to protect those he cares about within the foundation’s walls. the expected change comes, shakes the world to its core, and his lady walks on eggshells from her stance in the limelight – soohyuk does not return home, either, for his efforts have not come to fruition, and the answers have not come clear. he plays the part of her eyes and ears; he watches and waits.

he is far too wicked to be a “hero”, but he seeks to make amends – to protect where he has once harmed. he will never place himself in the spotlight, but there is much to be done by moving through the shadows. this is the role into which he places himself: vigilante is a strong word for him, but soohyuk is certainly a man of his goals, even if those may be abstract until the still-quaking world chooses to define them.

THERE IS FLESH AND BLOOD BEHIND THESE TALES,

outwardly, eccentric: soohyuk is a strange man, make no question about it. his body language is light and careless, incredibly expressive yet somehow telling you nothing at all about what he’s feeling. he speaks formally, respectfully, in an airy and lyrical voice, but there is an underlying bite to everything he says which can be difficult to properly identify. he seems easy-going yet his expression is discerning and his words keener still. he has a mischievous, childish streak – loves to see people squirm in discomfort or jump in surprise. he speaks in a self-deprecating way, yet presents himself with great confidence. uncanny may be a good word to describe him and the awkward blend between how he expresses and how he acts.

inwardly, soohyuk is sharp – deadly so. he is always on edge, always observing the environment for the slightest danger or the slightest hint of what may be useful to him. he is open-minded and intelligent, seeking new information for his own ends and accepting new concepts readily. when he sets his mind to something there is simply no stopping him; he is recklessly and stupidly stubborn to the end, possessed of a strong natural willpower. cruelty runs in his veins as does a streak of sadism, even if the intentions behind it may be mixed. this division in his inward and outward selves makes him thoroughly dishonest, as he purposefully obfuscates himself to distance from anyone seeking to know his true intentions.

yet for what soohyuk believes of himself – that he is so dangerous, sharp, and cruel – the truth is that there is a softness beneath that, too. though he presents his affections strangely, soohyuk has a soft spot for those who capture his interest in one way or another. he cares for them deeply and can be blazingly loyal in the moment of truth, despite making it quite clear otherwise that he is a treacherous man by nature. he is simply afraid that being too close to someone will mean that he inevitably ruins them with all of the corruption he carries in his soul, so instead of loving outwardly, he instead makes a great nuisance of himself to those he cares about, trying to stay near them and help them in his own way without letting them get attached to him in turn. (this rarely works out as anticipated, but he won’t hear of it.)

AND EVEN MONSTERS CAN LEARN TO WEEP.

DISTORTION – an ability which allows soohyuk to bend the space and thereby matter around him in minor ways, defying the laws of reality. this applies primarily to the bending of space on a temporary and local scale at present, but it is possible that he will be able to alter the natural laws of reality on a similar scale as his power grows more advanced.

APPLICATIONS :

matter alteration – crush, bend, split, or otherwise alter matter via distorting the space it occupies.

time distortion – distorting time so that its passing is either dilated or accelerated via the expansion or reduction of space (respectively) in an area. he does not truly affect the movement of time, but rather indirectly alters it via the space-time continuum.

deflection – via bending the space around soohyuk’s body such that the trajectory of objects in motion is altered as well.

spatial awareness – a passive awareness of nearby space.

unnatural presence – soohyuk’s very existence is distorted, as if he himself is not precisely “real” within space-time as we know it. due to this, his presence occasionally causes anomalies to occur in the area around him. anomalies may include: technological devices behaving abnormally (or completely ceasing to function), mild feelings of anxiety or hostile urges in people, the laws of physics not behaving as expected, and mutant powers not activating normally.

LIMITATIONS :

soohyuk’s ability only works within a short radius of his body – two meters maximum.

the more major the distortion he attempts to create, the less space he may distort at a time. the more dense the matter in the space he attempts to distort, the less of it he may distort at once. for instance, he may only split or crush ten cubic centimeters of steel at once, but he may bend all the air within two meters of himself (eight cubic meters) at once. if denser matter enters the area he is distorting, then he will experience great strain until he reduces the amount of space he is trying to affect. by default, his ability will focus in on the denser intrusion, reducing the area of effect accordingly.

distortion may not be performed on an incredibly precise level. soohyuk may not distort space on a scale of less than one cubic centimeter even for exceptionally dense matter. less dense matter is even more difficult to distort precisely. it is thereby impossible to affect a “single object”; soohyuk’s distortions will automatically affect any and all matter in range, as he is distorting space itself.

for better or worse, soohyuk’s own body always remains unaffected by his own distortions. this can be thought of as his own self being passively distorted in space-time and thus existing outside of his personal distortions – a factor of his unnatural presence.

time may only be accelerated or reduced for a period of 30 outside seconds at a time. soohyuk prefers to activate these abilities in short bursts to conserve his energy.

spatial expansion and reduction resulting in time dilation or acceleration works on a larger scale – the full two-meter radius around soohyuk’s body – and thus results in a greater strain for usage, as this is a large-scale distortion.

all distortions return to normal as soon as soohyuk ceases to use his ability or moves out of range to do so. while alterations caused by his ability or his physical efforts will remain, all other functionality (such as motion/inertia or the operation of devices) will resume as though nothing has happened.

soohyuk may not distort space in multiple locations or manners at the same time. he must use his ability in one way, on one area, for each given activation. activating his ability does require a degree of focus; he must be ready to react in order to use it quickly.

the limited range of soohyuk’s abilities leaves him vulnerable to large-scale damages.

involuntary distortions are likely if soohyuk is emotionally compromised. the effect of these involuntary activations of his power is unpredictable and therefore dangerous to himself as much as anyone around him.

being that distortion is a powerful ability, it takes a great deal of effort and energy for soohyuk to use his power. using it heavily will result in a great deal of strain being placed on his body, often resulting in unconsciousness if used for a period of 10 minutes total within a six-hour period. his time limit does change depending on how extensive the distortions he attempts to utilize are.

aside passing out, soohyuk may begin to suffer organ damage, migraines, general weakness/fatigue, and crippling physical pain from overusing his ability. he requires time to recover from these symptoms before he may function normally again. this has also caused complications in the healing of his chronic injuries, too, further limiting what his body is capable of if he uses his power heavily.

distortion will never give soohyuk the ability to touch upon alternate reality states – only to modify how reality works around him for short periods of time. no matter how far his ability progresses, he will never be able to touch on an unknown dimension.

at present, any complex form of spatiokinetic motion using his power is impossible; he simply lacks the degree of control that such a thing would require. he is rather only able to use his ability in short bursts, rather than continuous gentle streams as kinesis would require.

soohyuk’s spatial awareness is low-level; he generally can tell the location and size of objects within a 10 meter radius of himself, but he will not detect especially small objects and details therein. similarly, his spatial awareness is not always active; he must focus on the space around him in order to sense changes within it. if he is not paying attention, this “sixth sense” will be ineffectual.

soohyuk has no control over his unnatural presence. its effects activate completely at random; they are somewhat more likely to show when he is hostile or otherwise emotionally compromised, but there is no guarantee of this, either.

soohyuk’s “unnatural presence” effects are minor, and not particularly practical. while it’s possible that it could occasionally modify reality briefly in an advantageous way, it is much more likely to cause an inconvenience in one form or another. for instance, while it is convenient that this “passive distortion” around soohyuk often protects him from accidental or casual applications of mutant powers, it is extraordinarily inconvenient that it also blocks off the positive effects of those powers more often than not. it’s a bit like an automated defense mechanism against his state being altered, meant to protect him from his own power.

THREAT LEVEL TWO.                           02+ BRWN, 01+ RSLNC, 03+ INTLCT, 05+ WLLPWR, 08+ FGHTNG, 05+ SPD