#work shift primary function in my life is to give me dead time where I can just do this shit

[pummelingbat]

vamppilled interviewmaxing

[mediaeval-muse]

Book Review

Confessions of the Fox. By Jordy Rosenberg. New York: One World, 2018.

Rating: 4.5/5 stars

Genre: historical fiction, queer fiction

Part of a Series? No

Summary: Set in the eighteenth century London underworld, this bawdy, genre-bending novel reimagines the life of thief and jailbreaker Jack Sheppard to tell a profound story about gender, love, and liberation.

Jack Sheppard and Edgeworth Bess were the most notorious thieves, jailbreakers, and lovers of eighteenth-century London. Yet no one knows the true story; their confessions have never been found. Until now. Reeling from heartbreak, a scholar named Dr. Voth discovers a long-lost manuscript—a gender-defying exposé of Jack and Bess’s adventures. Is Confessions of the Fox an authentic autobiography or a hoax? As Dr. Voth is drawn deeper into Jack and Bess’s tale of underworld resistance and gender transformation, it becomes clear that their fates are intertwined—and only a miracle will save them all.

***Full review under the cut.***

Content Warnings: sexual content (as in sex acts, not the mere presence of lgbt+ people), blood, graphic depiction of top surgery, violence, racism, gender dysphoria

Overview: I didn���t know what I was expecting when I picked up this book, but something about it just hit all the right angles for me. I adore historical fiction that not only aims to imitate the aesthetics of the period, but also focuses on underrepresented identities, such as queer, non-white, and working or poverty class people; thus, it was inevitable that I would find Confessions of the Fox would be so engrossing. I do understand that this book might not be for everyone, as Rosenberg plays with a lot of academic ideas that usually fall in the realm of theory, but personally, I loved that this book wasn’t just about trans identity. While gender and identity and queerness were at the heart of this book, Confessions was also about archives and policing and commodities and so much more - things that were related and engaged the more academic part of my brain, but somewhat complicated for casual reading. Nevertheless, it was ambitious and smartly-constructed, so I’m giving it a high rating, even if I have quibbles here and there.

Writing: As a former academic and lover of history, I very much enjoyed Rosenberg’s approach to genre, form, and writing. It would have been easy to simply write a story using modern aesthetic tastes, but Rosenberg goes out of his way to imitate the prose style of the 18th century. I loved the richness of the vocabulary and the complexity of the sentences, as well as the juxtaposition of the sacred and profane. It was refreshing to read such beautiful prose that the author clearly put a lot of love into, and if you want to be so immersed in a story that you feel like you’re reading a historical document, I think Rosenberg does a wonderful job.

I also really loved the way Rosenberg wrote about trans identity in the 18th century. There are passages, for example, where Jack’s attention wanders while being dead-named, where Jack expresses feelings of confusion or freedom when talking about his physical body, where he talks about the process of coming into being when he heard Bess use his name, etc. I thought these passages were the most beautifully written and impactful, and they stayed with me the most after I finished the book.

These 18th century “confessions” are accompanied by a number of footnotes, written by a character named Dr. Voth in the present day. In these passages, Rosenberg shifts his tone and style, thereby differentiating between past and present without having to constantly remind the reader that Jack and Bess’s story is told through something of a frame. I think the choice to have footnotes instead of chapters where Voth’s POV takes center stage was a good one - it more effectively created parallels between the 18th century story and Voth’s personal story, and reminded the reader that history (especially trans history) evolves as a result of a kind of archival work, collected in pieces by many different people. In that sense, form matched function, which I am always delighted to see in my novels.

That being said, I can’t say I enjoyed Voth’s voice all that much. This criticism is probably a personal preference rather than anything Rosenberg did wrong - I just think Voth’s voice felt a little too conversational, like he was talking to someone instead of writing.

Plot: Most of Rosenberg’s novel follows Jack Sheppard and Bess Khan as they discover Jack’s identity, evade arrest, and disrupt a horrifying commodity trade (so to speak). In my opinion, the plot points surrounding Jack’s personal journey were incredibly well-constructed; I felt that the evolution of Jack’s gender identity, the romance between Jack and Bess, and their evolution as criminals were all very compelling and touched on a number of engrossing themes, from gender to poverty to anti-capitalism. Granted, there were some areas where I think the pacing dragged, but part of me thinks this was due to the 18th century style and genre conventions, more than anything Rosenberg was doing wrong.

In Voth’s footnotes, we also get something of a personal story which includes Voth being coerced into working for an exploitative publishing company at the direction of his university administrator. As we go through the footnotes, Voth recounts conversations he had with these figures while also disclosing details about his failed relationships - with one ex in particular. While I did like the parallels that exist between the manuscript and Voth’s own life, there were some things that challenged my suspension of disbelief. For example, I would never expect an academic to record personal anecdotes and intimate confessions in footnotes for an academic project. Maybe that happens in academic circles outside mine, and I understand it needs to happen for plot reasons (just reading references to critical theory or secondary sources would be boring for most people), so this criticism is coming from a place of being too close to the setting surrounding the text, in a way.

I also think that there were some passages where sexual activity would be mentioned where it was not needed. I do understand, on some level, that sex and sexuality is an important topic in trans studies (and queer studies as a whole), and I don’t want to appear too prudish. However, I think random references to a character masturbating, even if they were making a point, were a bit egregious. I was especially put off by the story of a 15 year old masturbating (in the present-day footnotes), and though I understand the story was illustrating an academic concept and books should acknowledge that (many) teens do have sex drives, it was also a bit much for me, personally.

Characters: Jack, our primary protagonist, is interesting and complex not just because he struggles with his identity as a trans man, but also because he struggles with acting in ways that are not out of self-interest. Though he is a thief and thus acts in self-interest in understandable ways, he eventually uncovers an operation which involves the production of a drug-like substance (or something - that’s the best I can describe it). Bess demands that he destroy all samples so that the substance can’t be reproduced by others, but Jack wants to confiscate the samples for himself to make a huge profit. I liked that this conflict existed, not only because it showed Jack as having other challenges in his life other than his gender identity, but it also spurred character growth and emotional turmoil.

Bess Khan, a prostitute and Jack’s lover, was written in a way that respected sex work and provided commentary on race and policing. I really liked that she had a strong set of principles and desires that were larger than herself, and I liked that she was confident and forceful where Jack could be meek and unsure.

Other rogues were equally loveable and admirable. Jenny, another prostitute, was a nice example of women forming networks of support within the criminal underworld while also showing how white women (even prostitutes) are treated differently than non-white women. Aurie, a black queer man, was also a supportive friend to Jack who is frequently instrumental in his survival. There is also a wide variety of named and unnamed rogues who were non-white and/or queer in some way, providing a rich array of characters that dispels the assumption that 18th century England was homogenously white and straight.

Our main antagonist, Jonathan Wild, is a bit less interesting in that he’s mainly just corrupt. I personally didn’t care for the chapters from his perspective, though I do understand that he functions as an important, symbolic figure that embodies all the things Jack and Bess work against (capitalism, police corruption, etc.).

Voth, our modern day commentator, has his moments, but sometimes, I would waffle back and forth between finding him engaging and finding him pretentious. I understand that he is supposed to be flawed, and I sympathize with a lot of his plights - mainly the pressure from his university and the anxiety he suffers from. But also, I found his voice to be somewhat combative, and if the point was to make a complicated, likeable-sometimes-unlikeable-other-times character, then I think Rosenberg succeeded.

TL;DR: Confessions of the Fox is a beautiful debut novel that engages with trans identity and history, though it does so in a way that may be a bit too academic for some readers. But while it definitely demands much of your attention, Rosenberg ultimately delivers a rich, engrossing story that reaches beyond the historical and textual boundaries of the page and invites the reader to see themselves as part of a vast network that is constantly “making” and “becoming” itself.

[petri808]

Hauntober prompt Ghost (sort of lol)

Bakudeku requested by @nona-inc Angst w/happy ending, AU modern times. Longer than I’d planned to write but stories go where they wanna lol.

Got the idea here

A Second Chance

In his adulthood, Izuku Midoriya did quite well for himself career-wise. He had a nice home and lived comfortably even though it was alone. Relationships had never really crossed his mind, which he chalked up to the turmoil of his childhood. It wasn’t a terribly horrible one but coming from divorced parents is never easy on young child minds. Why get close to anyone if they’ll probably leave eventually? That was a lesson bolstered by the end of primary school when his best friend ditched him for the popular kids.

It was Halloween night, and Izuku’s simply followed his normal routine after work consisting of dinner while watching a bit of television. Trick or treaters were a rarity in his neighborhood, so there was no sense in celebrating the holiday. As he waits for the news, he lets the current show drone on in the background while he scrolled mindlessly through his social media. He didn’t pay a lot of attention to what acquaintances posted and mostly looked for interesting or funny posts instead.

“Deku...”

Izuku’s brow furrows slightly at that ancient nickname. He looks at the television characters on the screen, had one of them said it? But instead of the tv show, he finds a fuzzy, staticky screen. He grabs his remote assuming something had gone wrong with the channel or service when...

“Deku, I’m sorry...”

“What the?” Izuku starts clicking the buttons and getting no response. The screen stays stuck, yet that voice... it was a familiar voice from long ago...

“...I’ve watched you from afar for all these years, because I could never admit how much I loved you and now it’s too late. I’m so sorry Deku. You’ll always be my only true love.”

Silence. Dead silence for a flash of a second when the television loudly blares back to life and startles Izuku out of his seat into a standing position. “What the fuck is going on?!”

The show had ended, and the news is now on in its regular-timed slot.

‘Breaking news, a major four car accident on the I10 highway has left 3 people dead and one in a critical condition. The victim identified as 37-year old K. Bakugou had been transported to the hospital for treatment. Police have closed off the highway in both directions, so anyone traveling in that area should use alternative routes...’

As he watches the footage of the accident story, Izuku’s hand unconscious covers his mouth and tears gather in his eyes. “Oh my gosh....” That was the voice he’d just heard! Of course, Katsuki was the only one who ever called him Deku.

He quickly calls one of the nurses at his hospital and they confirm that the man had in fact been transported there 15 minutes ago.

“Oh! Dr. Midoriya! We were just about to call you! Yes, patient Bakugou was brought in unconscious, lacerations to his arms and chest, broken leg, possible punctured lung, internal bleeding, concussion, and brain swelling which is why I was just about to call you in.”

“I’ll be right there.”

The entire way there, Izuku struggles to rationalize the message. If Katsuki was unconscious, how could that have been his voice? Then again that’s if you believed his television had somehow sent the message in the first place! Oh, this was entirely crazy! Izuku didn’t even know why his logical mind was allowing him to believe it had happened if not for the coincidence of the news coverage.

But as a neurosurgeon, he had to put all those questions aside and focus on the task at hand. The description the nurse had given him already indicated major problems, but it wasn’t until his own physical examination that determined the true extent of the damage. Primary surgical nurse Uraraka already had set up the operating room by the time Izuku arrived.

“The patient was revived once by EMTs in the ambulance and a second time in the ER after his heart stopped. Right now, the patient is intubated and prepped for emergency surgery.”

“Thank you, nurse Uraraka.”

Along with a fellow doctor, Izuku switched into a hyper focused mode. He works to repair the damage to the patient’s brain while the other doctor simultaneously focuses on internal chest injuries. Time was of the essence to stem the blood loss and mitigate further damage if they had any hope of saving the man, because even if he made it through the surgery, only a miracle would bring him back at this point.

It was now a waiting game. They keep Katsuki in a medically induced coma for the first three weeks as his body worked hard to repair itself. Once he was brought out of the induced coma, he still didn’t wake up, was breathing with the assistance of a machine, but at least the man’s heart was functioning normally. Surprisingly, Katsuki’s parents remembered Izuku and were grateful their son was in familiar hands. They’d initially flew in after the accident, but the cost to stay for such a long length of time would be too steep. So, after they returned home, he kept them up to date.

Each day that passed by, Izuku would check in on Katsuki’s progress like a normal doctor would, but at night he’d go home and ponder the ghostly message that had come through the television. He’d told no one about it because who would believe something so crazy? It just didn’t sound like the man, or rather child he remembered. Never once was there any indication Katsuki had romantic feelings for him, especially considering it was him not Izuku that ended their friendship. They saw each other in passing though middle, then high school and still nothing. So why is he now being told this?

Some say that when you die, any regrets you have must be released or your soul cannot ascend to the next plane. Izuku wasn’t religious or spiritual and before that Halloween trick he would have said he didn’t believe in anything beyond what he couldn’t see, touch, feel, and analyze. Ugh! Maybe that’s why this was all driving him so crazy. He wanted answers but the one person who could give it to him was stuck in a coma.

“Everything okay doctor?” One of the LPN’s asks Izuku. “I just need to check on the patients vitals.”

“Do what you need to nurse, I’m just visiting before I go home for the night.”

“Yes, doctor.” The woman makes her chart notations and leaves them alone again.

Because of Izuku’s standing at the hospital, he’d gotten Katsuki a private room. The man was taken off the breathing machine a week earlier and this way he could monitor the man without being pestered. There were times he would spend a few hours just watching the man sleep, trying to study what had become of his childhood friend. Through research, Izuku learned Katsuki had moved here around the same time that he’d started his internship at the hospital. Before that the man lived in the same town as the medical school he attended. It appeared Katsuki really was keeping track of Izuku, never married, and just worked in the marketing field.

Izuku squeezes the man’s hand with his eyes closed in a silent conversation. The only sounds being the beeps and noises of the machines to break the stillness. Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t know what to think, what to feel, just that this man was dredging up long buried emotions that part of him was afraid to open up. Hadn’t he built up a good life, albeit a lonely one, it was still by his own wit and merits whereas Katsuki always had it so easy. The man was a smart, handsome jock, popular, and had been on track to do great things. While he was the geeky kid with freckles and wild green hair who the popular kids teased.

They were so close as little kids, all through preschool and the first years of primary. Katsuki was the extroverted one pulling him along on make believe adventures to emulate a shared love of a comic book character. In fact, it was with Katsuki’s help that he’d weathered his parent’s divorce. He idolized the stronger boy and wished he was Katsuki, not a weak like little nerd... perhaps having his child’s heart broken, really was the reason he swore off ever caring about anyone else again.

Did he just?! Izuku’s eyes pop open when his hand squeeze is returned by a weak one. Katsuki’s eyes are still closed and nothing else seemed unchanged. Perhaps it was just a nervous tremor, they happen sometimes. But no there it is again! Izuku stares down as the weak squeeze slowly turns into a grasp of his hand.

“Katsuki?”

A third squeeze. That meant the man was alert enough to hear and understand! Friend or not, it was the kind of thing to get a neurologist excited! Izuku quickly moved into doctor mode again and starts checking all the stats as well as alerting the nurse on shift.

“Welcome back Mister Bakugou.”

The man squeezes his hand.

“I’m your doctor, Midoriya. You might remember me...”

The man squeezes again and tries to talk, but after being intubated for a long time the throat tends to be dry, sore, and the muscles weakened. All that comes through is so faint it’s barely audible.

“Mister Bakugou, you’ve been unconscious for almost two months now, please try not to talk just yet, everything will be fine.”

But that only makes the man angrier. Furious red eyes flashing, Katsuki grips harder to Izuku’s hand using what little strength he has to try and pull him closer. So, Izuku leans in. “Calm down, it’s gonna...”

“Ma—y...” angry growling noises. “Mar...”

Obviously, the man wasn’t going to stop until he gave in, so Izuku leans in even more until his ear is practically next to Katsuki’s mouth. “I’m sorry?”

“Marry me damnit!!”

Izuku shoots straight up. “What?!” Is the guy serious?! The first words out of his mouth is that?! Wow... Katsuki really hasn’t changed, feisty as ever even after almost dying.

“Pa-pa—per pen!”

“H-hold on, just try to calm down please! I don’t want you to strain your heart!”

Midoriya grabs the chart, flips the paper over to the blank backside, and puts a pen in Katsuki’s hand. He holds it steady as the man scribbled shakily. ‘No waste 2nd chance marry me Deku.’

“Mister Bakugou, this is...”

The man pounds his fist on the bed then scribbles more. ‘Stop call me that! nickname!’

Izuku sighs and squeezes his eyes closed for a second. He hadn’t used that name since primary just like he’d hadn’t heard Deku all these years. “Kacchan. Happy now? I-I can’t just say okay. You—y-you ditched me remember and now you suddenly pop up and expect me to marry you?! Kacchan you almost died, I get it, that’s a scary thing to deal with, but you just need time to process...”

Katsuki writes, ‘Nothin 2 think bout. No more regrets,’ Then he mouths out the rest in a whisper, “I love you Deku.”

Izuku sighs, “I’m not saying yes or no Kacchan. Just get well first okay, then we’ll talk about everything.”

“Fine.” The man closes his eyes again seemingly satisfied with the answer.

He squeezes Katsuki’s hand. “I’ll see you in the morning Kacchan.”

When Izuku leaves that evening, he couldn’t help but walk out with a flutter in his chest and a pang in his heart. There really was a lot he still needed to get off his chest, but... he felt the honesty from Katsuki. If his dying regrets had been strong enough to reach him via spiritual mail, and the first thing he wanted to talk about was love, then... ‘take the second chance Izuku.’ Not everyone gets one.

[maxwell-grant]

Ever read or heard of Al Ewing's El Sombra trilogy?

So now that I actually finished Pax Omega I can give my thoughts on the trilogy. In short: I like it! It's got a lot of incredible strengths and interesting takes on the material it pulls from, it's got a very rich setting and interesting characters to explore, in terms of what else I've read from Al Ewing's general work it's second only to Immortal Hulk for me. This trilogy may have actually convinced me that steampunk has at least some value as something other than obnoxious set dressing, and that is no small feat.

I got a separate post planned for El Sombra as a character because I want to write about his character arc and the trilogy's relation to his respective influences, but below are my particular thoughts on the books. Spoilers below the cut

El Sombra is easily the simplest of the three, and the most straightforward "pulp" novel of the three. For the most part it's 200+ pages dedicated to establishing the misery of Pasito, the vileness of the Nazis, and the character of El Sombra as he hacks his way through whatever bastards he can get his hands on. It has to do a lot of work in making sure we fully understand El Sombra's character before the next novels can get to work putting him on bigger settings in a supporting role, and in that it succeeds very well. It's a Zorro character stuck in a 2000 AD world of dystopian mechanized nightmares and fighting savagely to kill it, gradually learning that he needs more than just a sword and superhuman skills to do it.

One thing that sticks out to me about El Sombra is how grueling of a read it can be, especially in the first two chapters when the story's establishing the situation of Pasito nine years after the wedding massacre, through the POV of the story's villain. While there are many pulp stories that include Nazis as villains, I've never seen one that goes as in-depth into the sheer atrocities of Nazi regimes as much as this one. Ewing really spares no time conveying just how utterly wretched they are in many ways other than just ethnic massacres (and the massacres of the book are harrowing to read as well, no grisly detail spared), the many insidious ways totalitarianism corrodes the soul of all subjected to it, long before the Nazis actually start dying. It's incredibly disturbing and not at all out of line with the real atrocities perpetuated in history.

And it's made all the more effective because the book goes to great length to describe the many, many life stories of all those that get killed by El Sombra, whether irredeemably evil or merely misguided soldiers, which lends a lot of weight to them. He's not just tearing his way through cartoonish embodiments of evil, he's murdering people brutally, to our enjoyment, because painting Nazis as people is not the same as humanizing them, it only makes them much, much more horrifying than any doomsday weapon could ever be.

The scene in particular where El Sombra has to dash alone into a burning building to rescue children, children who are seconds away from dying, children he had to kill an entire squad of Nazis just to be able to rescue, children that he cannot leave on the streets because otherwise they will be trampled or killed by a mob, had me gasping and not wanting to turn the page out of fear, actual fear that he wasn't gonna make it.

"Zorro vs Nazis" is an incredible simple premise, and I don't think it could be done better than it was here. Very, very solid start, although I do recommend that you go in aware of just how brutal and disturbing it can get.

Gods of Manhattan was the first one I read, and contrary to El Sombra's more western and pulp roots, this very much reads like a superhero comic book centered around pulp icons. Out of the three it's the one I like the least, but it's a very good book, one that could easily work on it's own even without it being a sequel. It's considerably less harrowing of a read than El Sombra and instead much more based around meat and potatoes storytelling, showing how the building blocks at work here are being arranged, and a larger exploration of liberty and egalitarianism and political aspects of the works Ewing's pulling from. Gods of Manhattan is the trilogy's moral compass, contrasting to the simple revenge thriller in El Sombra and the science fiction anthology of Pax Omega, setting up the major players of this world before Ewing can knock them around for the final installment.

One of the things I like most about the El Sombra trilogy is the mix-and-match of properties. Doc Thunder, for example, bears many surface similarities to Doc Savage, but he functions mainly as a Superman figure. He wears a logo akin to Shazam's, he has a reputation akin to that of Captain America's, we later learn his real name is Hugo and he's the in-universe equivalent to Hugo Danner. As the most straightforward superhero of the setting, Thunder condenses the history of it's biggest icons into a single being. The primary Shadow analogue here is the villain, but the villain also shares more common traits with The Spider and Spider-Man, and traits of The Shadow manifest in two other characters (the titular El Sombra, and a character known in-universe as The Blue Ghost who functions as more of a Spirit analogue). There's a shapeshifting dead-faced supervillain by the name of Anton Venger, referencing the pulp hero The Avenger. The Lex Luthor analogue turns into Doomsday by the story's end. It's the crafting of an interesting new mythology from bits and pieces from a larger whole and there's enough rich content here to last for a whole franchise.

If I had one major problem with this book, it would be the character of Marlene Lang. Marlene functions here mainly as the Margo to Blood-Spider's Shadow, and naturally, she gets twisted to the extreme. While the story's demonization of The Shadow's archetype is grounded in a larger point about the dangers of dark vigilantism, it's treatment of not-Margo/Nita here is purely for the sake of reinforcing the Spider's own awfulness. The story demonizes her by painting her as decadent and sadistic and promiscuous, and the latter in particular is really hammered into you as something that paints her as evil and unlikable, which is really shitty. I expected better from Ewing and I don't think this is a decision he would have gone with had he written the story today.

Still, Gods of Manhattan is terrific and gets a very solid recommendation from me. But much to my surprise, my favorite of the books actually wound up being Pax Omega.

Pax Omega is an incredibly ambitious book, spanning the entirety of time from beginning to end, every chapter presenting a radical shift in setting as we jump through time periods of this world's history. It has a truly staggering amount of worldbuilding to get through and a lot of it is pure exposition. It's a one man sci-fi anthology, and while that's turned off some of it's readers, I liked it considerably better than the other books. It weaves together it's narrative threads incredibly well as it gradually gives you a sense of where the story is heading (and was always heading right from the first book) as wilder and wilder concepts get brought into play corresponding to the massive changes brought by time.

Despite how separate a lot of these stories are, they all come together, and there is not a single wasted chapter or page here. It's got fun thrills, it's got action, it's got harrowing descriptions and passsages (particularly regarding El Sombra's discovery of Berlin), it's got enough worldbuilding in here for entire shared universes and not a single dull moment. Pax Omega cements this trilogy as one of my favorite superhero universes as well as easily the best superhero novels I've ever read, although it's playing with a lot of images and icons much older than superheroes, and even weaves in a bit of meta-storytelling.

It's definitely the book I'll most likely revisit in the future, and while I don't think this is a trilogy that could work as well outside of it's literary format, I think there's a lot of interesting aspects here to be learned from by anyone who wants to tackle pulp characters, or superheroes. Very impressed with this one.

[arcticdementor]

Veteran NRx blogger AntiDem has been beating the drum for his message of escaping the cities while we still can on Gab (basically a right-wing Twitter clone). A small sample:

Stop comparing getting "canceled" by the Twitter mob to the gulag, you fags.

You have a way out. People in the gulag didn't.

Leave the big cities. Move to a small town in a red state. Work a blue collar job or open your own business. Now the Twitter mob has no power over you.

If you don't want to do that because you want a cushy, well-paid office job more than you want freedom, then I have no sympathy for you.

Blue collar bosses don't give a shit about the Twitter mob. If some SJW from Portland calls Gary's Auto Body in Guthrie, Oklahoma to tell them they've got a racist working for them, they'll get told to fuck off and hung up on.

Work for Gary, and you're safe.

Look, I'm not a huge fan of Atlas Shrugged, but there were a few points in it that were really good. One involved Hugh Akston, who works as a cook at a diner, but used to be a university professor before he got canceled for wrongthink. He works his blue collar job because he can't be canceled from it, and still gives out wisdom to those who ask. Unless you're willing to do the same, and insist on staying married to your cubicle job, you're a LARPer.

And on his blog:

And so, dear reader, I challenge you: It is time for you – for us all – to do something. Perhaps you can save the world. If so, I hope you do. But if you can just save the people around you by becoming a contributing member of a sane, stable, shock-resistant, and sustainable community, then you will have done a great service. Here is where I believe you should start.

The first thing you should do is to get out of the big cities, which history shows us are deathtraps in times of disruption. Here, a lot of ignoring of fools will be necessary on your part. First, you’ll have to ignore the leftist press and academia, which is already trying to gaslight the public into thinking that the coronavirus pandemic is a particular problem of the rural south instead of the big coastal cities like New York, a bit of ludicrous wishful thinking that a moment’s glance at actual data disproves. Second, you’ll have to ignore the fools who will try to convince you that big cities are the safest places to be in times of disruption, based largely on some 20th century examples of tyrannical regimes disarming the peasants and then taking the fruits of their labor by force in order to feed the cities. There are a few key fallacies involved in this thinking.

First and perhaps most obvious is the fact that in the United States (as opposed to Cold War-era communist states), the countryside is armed to the teeth and the cities are not. The late 20th and early 21st centuries provide no lack of examples of what happens when a traditional 2nd Generation army sets itself up in a nation’s big cities and tries to impose its rule on an armed and hostile countryside; as you are not fools, I need not tell you what the results of that have been. Second is the fact that the big cities are run by elites who hate you and want you dead, so turning to them for protection is plain suicide. Perhaps in a different era – say, in the East Germany of 1967 – you could have survived by keeping your head low and pretending to go along with the official ruling ideology. But we do not live in that age anymore – your skin is your uniform, and when trouble comes to the diverse big cities you will be targeted mercilessly for wearing it...

There’s a reason why smart elites in functional societies (as opposed to what we have now) have always kept country estates they could retreat to when chaos and disruption reared their heads. Heed their wisdom.

If any of you think I’m directing scorn at the mainstream media for their counterfactual attempts to convince people that the cities are safer than the countryside, I say: on the contrary, I welcome it. The more fools there are who stay in the cities believing that they’ll be protected from the effects of disruption, the better things will be for the non-fools who know better. When trouble comes, we’ll have enough of our own to care for without being saddled with saving big-city fools from the entirely predictable consequences of their own poor decisions. Let them stay where they are. And while I’m giving out counterintuitive thanks, I’d like to offer some to all of the Social Justice Warriors who have worked tirelessly to throw the Dissident Right off of social media, to get them fired from their urban cubicle jobs, and to render them unemployable anywhere except in the rural sections of deep red states. I know that for those who fear being “hurled into the void”, as the Zman puts it, this seems like the worst fate imaginable. But nothing could be further from the truth. What we on the Dissident Right need to do now more than anything else is to disconnect from the corporate and consumerist, to stop spending too much time on the internet, to get out of the diverse, polluted, crime-ridden, disease-prone, and degenerate big cities, and to start making things real in genuine communities full of people like us.

I moved out of the big cities a couple of years ago, and I can tell you from firsthand experience: It’s pretty comfy out here in the void. So come home, white man. Get out of the cities as soon as you can. Take a massive pay cut if you have to. Change careers if you have to. Stock shelves on the night shift at Walmart if you have to. But get yourselves and the people you love out of the cities before it’s too late – if it isn’t already.

(Yes, I understand the desire to stay in the cities. I lived in Silicon Valley for 25 years. I loved it dearly, and I desperately miss the old Valley of the 90s and 00s. But that world is gone, and it’s never coming back; we tread that path but once. And if nothing else, I can’t imagine trying to get through this crisis in my tiny old city apartment instead of my cottage with its yard out back and a hayfield out front.)

Which is all well and good, but I think he has forgotten one thing, and it is the most important thing of all: women.

Women are hypgermous; they marry up, not down. And no woman is going to marry a man who stocks shelves at Walmart on the night shift. Even if you can get a decent blue-collar job at Gary's, she is just going to divorce you eventually, as Nabil ad Dajjal explains:

I don’t know much about factory work but my dad was an HVAC mechanic for most of his working life and as much as I respect him I wouldn’t ever consider doing the same.

Skilled tradesmen like plumbers, carpenters, electricians, HVAC, etc can make solid money even without advanced degrees. In theory, you could support a family on that income. In practice, all that money you earn will go straight to alimony and child support since even a woman who dropped out of college herself will look down on you for doing manual labor and eventually divorce you. A college degree and an office job might pay less but it’s less embarrassing for your wife to tell to her girlfriends and in our family court system that counts for a lot.

Assuming that you can find a loyal wife, there’s another problem in the form of career advancement or the lack thereof. It doesn’t seem like there’s much room to climb the ladder: you can gain seniority within your job but it doesn’t seem like many tradesmen make it into management.

And:

Nobody has told you that, at least not that I’ve seen.

Blue collar guys get laid and most of them get married too. The difficult part for them is in staying married. Obviously divorce isn’t a certainty but you’re taking a substantially increased risk.

Money without social cachet isn’t much of a defense, as between alimony and child support most of that money would go to the ex-wife anyway along with the primary residence and car. Every marriage has ups and downs but with no fault divorce those downs can easily end up destroying your family and wiping you out financially. When accounted for properly, that’s a pretty substantial cost.

Now, AntiDem has pretty much gone full MGTOW after a series of disastrous experiences with women, so I guess he doesn't mind. And, believe me, I totally understand where he's coming from (especially with this, which is exactly what happened to me). But as long as there is a filial duty to reproduce in order to repay the debt to one's ancestors and carry on one's family name and bloodline, as well as a biological imperative to pass on one's genes and avoid becoming an evolutionary failure, on top of the cultural argument for having children ("the future belongs to those that show up"), we have a problem.

What, then, is to be done?

[racefortheironthrone]

Thoughts on Powers of X #5

Didn’t quite catch up to Hickman, but I’m still going to get this done!

Can It Be Done?

Let me say off the bat that I think this is definitely the weakest of the HoX/PoX issues I’ve covered to date, although I still think there’s some useful stuff to be mined from here.

Starting with Xavier’s meeting with Forge: Hickman said in an interview that Forge being in his 90s X-uniform was an error, which suggests that this scene is supposed to depict Forge in his popped collar/short-shorts look before he joins the X-Men, which would make sense what with the meeting happening at his Dallas holographic house. (Although Xavier being in his X-movies wheelchair confuses the timeline some.)

Moving on from that, the bulk of their conversation revolves around the logistics of a fifth-generation Cerebro unit - which given that the specs we get later are for the seventh generation, makes me wonder what happened to the sixth.

Xavier claims that the first iteration was “solely my design” but that versions two through four were “Henry McCoy’s doing.” Is he hiding Moira’s involvement here?

We learn that the shift in primary function from location to copying didn’t happen until the fifth generation, which should give us a rough cutoff of how far back resurrections can go.

Forge identifies three key issues: storage, power, (namely, that they would need “an unlimited power source and unlimited storage”) and redundancy. More on this when we get to the infographic.

Xavier wanting five-fold redundancy is another example of five being a recurring number in HoXPox.

The solution to Forge’s issues turns out to be a combination of mutant technology and Shi’ar technology (notably antimatter engines and logic crystals...more on that in a bit), which Xavier seems quite smug about. Presumably this is due to his relationship with Lilandra - a lot of X-tech from the early 90s used “Shi’ar” as their technobabble of choice - but, given what we learned about Shi’ar in Moira’s Ninth Life using mutants as imperial subalterns, I wonder what their broader political interest is.

On a more general note, Xavier is being really manipulative throughout this discussion, but he barely needs to be, because Forge is always going to go for the technical challenge of pulling this off than the broader ethical questions of whether they should.

Cerebro Infographic:

Here, we learn that the current version of Cerebro is Version 7.0 - so at least two major updates beyond what Xavier and Forge were discussing.

The two main differences seem to be that, A. the new system is portable (hence why Xavier is always wearing it in HoX), and B. it no longer relies on Shi’ar power in favor of a Krakoan No-Space vent. This suggests a concerted effort to ground the new Krakoan culture on mutant technology without relying on outside sources (even allied ones).

Speaking of my earlier thinking about Krakoan biomachinery and cultural heroes, Forge will probably go down in the mutant history books for starting the Krakoan scientific revolution and directing it down firmly biological rather than mechanical lines. 

A sign of how sci-fi this all could get is that he’s accomplished the astonishing feat of harnessing a “Krakoan No-[Space] Vent” to provide “an unlimited power source for mutants living on the island,” even before the revolution begins. At the same time, if my hunch about where the power is coming from is correct, it might not be the best idea to use literal hellfire to fuel the engines of your new society.

One sign that Krakoa isn’t at technological autarky yet is that they’re still reliant on “Shi’ar logic diamonds” as the “primary choice for data storage.” This raises two interesting questions: first, who has possession of the digitized Sinister database? And second, is this the technology that Doctor Gregor seems to have gotten her hands on in X-Men #1?

As with The Five, this infographic sets up story hooks by establishing points of vulnerability: the system requires a weekly three-hour backup and a yearly hard backup “during which the process cannot be interrupted and Xavier cannot be disturbed.” This creates opportunities for things to go haywire while Xavier is looking the other way.

There’s a bit more on the issue of downloading the wrong mind into the wrong body, although here there’s more of a suggestion that it would usually be fatal...unless you have a mutation that would allow you to survive. Dunno what kind you’d need tho.

We also learn that skilled telepaths can replace their own minds with previous versions (presumably outside of the resurrection process)...and that Xavier’s done it twice. When he did that is an interesting question, because there have been a couple instances in which Xavier has had to switch bodies, which may have prompted his downloading.

Finally, we learn that the backup locations are really spread out: one’s on Krakoa Pacific, one’s on Krakoa Atlantic, one’s on Octopusheim, one’s on the Mind, and one’s with Moira in No-Space. So definitely trying to spread this system out so that it can’t be easily destroyed.

For the Children:

Finally for the best part of the issue, Emma’s recruitment scene. As befits Emma’s personal idiom, the meeting takes place at the Louvre, as Emma contemplates the Winged Victory of Samothrace. An omen of victory or of the glory of a lost civilization? 

Charles’ three-piece-suit and Cerebro is suprisingly dapper. 

Speaking of Hickman and character voice, Emma Frost is clearly a character that Hickman just gets on a bone-deep level, and despite all the claims that HoXPoX is all exposition and no character work, this scene really is a tour de force for the woman that Emma Frost has become since New X-Men.

Notably, Emma Frost is here to ask some of the big meta-questions in her usual acid-tongued way: is the Krakoan project “heroic” or “reckless” or “both”?

We can see from the jump that Charles is interested in “the Hellfire Corporation” as “an international prime mover;” he wants Emma as the lynchpin of his economic/geopolitical blackmail system.

In order to get Emma - who’s still pissed about what happened with Genosha, as she has every right to be - to sign on the dotted line, Xavier needs Magneto to make the argument that only he can make about this being the opportunity to “make right all the things that went wrong” by using the resurrection system to reverse the genocide.

This is where I start to wonder about Sinister and timeline issues - Magneto talks about getting mutant populations from 198 to 100,000 to 2 million in the space of a year as being “woefully behind” schedule, which makes me think that Xavier and Magneto were primarily concerned with getting their system not only active but in mass production before ORCHIS or anyone else could stop them.

Emma asks the meta-question, “what’s going to make it different this time?” And we don’t really get an answer - beyond showing us the sweeping vistas of Krakoa, we don’t really learn what Emma saw that convinced her this could work, although we do get the more important character beat that explains that Emma gets on board “one more time, then, for the children.” At her core, Emma Frost is a teacher who will fight for the next generation of mutants.

At the same time, it’s not like she doesn’t like money...so the new Hellfire Trading Company will handle the international distribution of Krakoan wonder drugs with a fifty year monopoly giving them a quite lucrative world-wide market all to themselves. I will have a lot more to say about mutant economic policy in the future, let me assure you. 

Interestingly, Xavier considers the “real matter at hand” to be getting the Hellfire Corporation representation on the Quiet Council (most likely out of an enlightened self-interest basis that you don’t really want that kind of mutant socio-economic power on the outside of the tent pissing in when they could instead be given a stake in Krakoa. It’s all very Hamiltonian.

I love the reaction shot when Emma learns that they want to bring Sebastian Shaw back from the dead to “run the black-book operations into countries who reject our sovereignty.” My guess is that Xavier and Magneto look at it as Shaw being a disposable and deniable asset who they could easily throw to the wolves if they get caught drug/mutant-smuggling. We had no idea, rogue actor, will face Krakoan justice, etc.

Finally, we get some good setup for the upcoming Marauders #1: Emma wants a third seat for Kitty Pryde (no matter what the actual title is), whose job it will be to “get the drugs in, get the mutants out.” Speaking of geopolitics...it surely didn’t escape people’s attention how many of the non-friendly nations had coastlines?

Quiet Council of Krakoa:

I don’t really want to spend any time discussing the Quiet Council here, because we get the reveal in the next issue. This is one of the few times where the whole delayed reveal through redacted infographic thing just did not work. 

Hhowever, we do get a sense of future political conflict with “there is some debate as to whether this council will continue in perpetuity or if some other system of government will replace it.”

Xavier Reaches Out:

This is a bit more interesting: here we see the other speech that Xavier gave, the one that went out to mutants rather than humans. (Somewhat annoyed that we don’t have a clearer timeline on this.) As we might expect, Xavier leans heavily on the unity message: “now is the time to put aside all differences and realize we are one people.”

And we see the “invitation” being extended to any number of groups that Xavier has had issues with in the past: Exodus and the Acolytes, Mister Sinister (who’s killed off the other SInisters and walked off with the database...I guess because Xavier’s message set off the psychic “reminder”), Omega Red (who we haven’t seen much of), and Gorgon (only slightly more).

But the meat of this is Namor, who’s the only one actually having a conversation with Xavier. Namor comes off very Nietzschean, implictly describing himself as one of “those beyond” good and evil, and arguing that anti-mutant bigotry ultimately stems from ressentiment. 

At the same time, Namor’s reason for rejecting Xavier’s offer raises the question of whether Moira fully “broke” Xavier of his original philosophy. 

In the Year One Thousand...

Ah yes, X^3. In retrospect, a lot of this could have been more compressed, if that wouldn’t undermine the six-part structure.

Here we really get into the ambiguity of ascension: in order to “ascend,” homo novissima have to divorce their minds from their flesh - only their minds will be saved, while all that lives will be destroyed in fire and lightning. It’s very Gnostic, if you think about it.

Nimrod really goes into Exposition Mode to lay out what Hickman is getting at:

emphasizing how all of these scales end up suggesting an endless ladder of “self-improving, self-replicating machines" - it’s turtles all the way up and all the way down.

Kirbons is a nice touch.

I’ll get into Titan theory come the infographic, but I’ll reiterate that these intelligences don’t seem to be acting very intelligently: “we reached beyond ourselves to to build a world-mind and attract a...protector...instead we attracted a predator.” Predation and consumption sounds way more Jack London nature-red-in-tooth-and-claw.

Types of Societies Infographic:

Titans being “isolationist” is a bad sign, until you realize the alternative.

When Hickman talks about a “Type O” on the Kardashev Scale, I think he’s referring to a “Type Omega-minus” (a civilization that can control “the basic structure of space and time”), since a Type Zero civilization isn’t nearly advanced enough to fit this group.

Strongholds aren’t isolationist but “warring factions seeking to actively destroy or absorb other Strongholds in order to achieve Dominion status...expansion and conquest are the altar at which Strongholds worship.” Two rungs higher than the Phalanx, and we’re still talking about imperialism...

Only with the Dominion are we told (not shown) a civilization that’s truly godlike. The fact that they feel threatened by the Phoenix is definitely going to come back; Hickman loved playing around with Galactus on his FF run, so I can’t imagine he wouldn’t want to take a swing at the purple guy’s opposite number.

[queerfandommiscellany]

1945.

Crowley sat in his car, alone.

His head thumped against the steering wheel. "Idiot," he muttered, "you IDIOT. You barge in on him, while he's working, and expect him to come with you to--" he broke off.

Aziraphale was right. It wasn't safe.

He shouldn't even be here, to be honest, should still be in the trenches, making life even more miserable for all the people trapped there and under fire. He should be in the camps, saving anyone he can, emptying train car after train car into some safely hidden who-knows-where. He should be under a bridge, drunk off his arse and sleeping all this mess away until he woke up in a better world. Not here. In his Bentley. *Yearning*, for Satan's sake.

Absentmindedly, Crowley ran a hand down his leg, slithering down to his bare and scaly foot.

Ow.

Crowley frowned, lifted up that foot to inspect the sole. He winced. Blisters coated the bottom of his foot already, unhealthy pustules of orange and-- gross. Like being at the beach in bare feet, yeah, right. It'd have to be one of the beaches of Hell, rolling down to the boiling sulfur pits, to be as hot and generally awful as consecrated ground.

But at least he's gotten a bit of a break from all the things that made him want to sleep until a better world popped up around him. His feet now hurt enough to distract him, if nothing else. Crowley let his pain receptors go on functioning. Where could he go now?

Crowley had almost come to a decision when a bomb dropped.

It was reflex, not thought, that miracled the Bentley away. Reflex that tore him through the building that happened to be there, where he could already see Azrael waiting for the boom. Reflex that opened his wings and cradled a handful of primary school kids beneath his corporation's fragile flesh, a last ditch effort to keep them all alive.

Light.

Noise so loud it deafened him, all Crowley could hear was ringing.

Something cold and ribbed plunged through his wing, and he could not hold it back. The children screamed.

The concrete hit him squarely in the spine.

Crowley wasn't sure how long he'd been here, or how he'd kept this corporation up, rigid, shaking beneath the weight to keep from crushing them.

At least one of the children beneath him was dead. Blood loss, from where the pipe in his wing had scraped it. The others--he wasn't confident. One, at least, died of shock and cold. He wasn't sure of the others.

He was pretty sure the search parties had given up.

A chunk of rubble moved above him.

What was that?

Again, the rasp of concrete on metal, loud in what was otherwise a silent night.

"Crowley?"

Aziraphale. Crowley tried to form the name, but he couldn't seem to find a breath of air, and all he managed was a faint wheeze.

"Crowley," the voice prodded, "are you there?" after a moment with no reply, it muttered something to itself.

The rubble moved.

Crowley let out a moan as the pressure eased off him for a few seconds, his mangled back stinging in the dusty air. And then he squeaked, as another piece shifted, and the whole thing toppled onto his poor, impaled wing instead.

"Sorry, sorry," that angelic voice called. "I can't exactly see what I'm doing up here. Give me just a jiffy!"

This time, the rubble disappeared entirely, leaving only a swarm of butterflies in its place.

Crowley heard a gasp above him.

And then there were hands on his shoulders, his wings, working bloody flesh off of that awful length of pipe. He couldn't keep the sob from tearing out of his throat alongside the muscles of his wing.

"Crowley, my dear, what *have* you done to yourself?"

Aziraphale peeled him out of the wreckage, laid him back against the concrete. Sucked in another breath.

Oh good, Crowley managed to think. He found the children.

At which point, no longer needing to constantly miracle himself into continued existence, Crowley's world went black.

[sending-the-message]

Atonement for Water by survivalprocedure

They say great minds think alike. It’s an anecdotal cliche spouted by two people who are about to say or do something similar. It’s an empty expression, though. Because great minds do not think alike. Not at all. That’s not what makes them so great or unique. Great minds will see the paths others failed to consider. Only ordinary minds think alike.

Great minds work differently. And I’m left wondering whether the mind of Thomas Jenkins was a great one or a heinous one. His mind was not like yours or mine.

My first encounter with Mr. Jenkins was not what you would call “favorable”. He sat in his hospital bed with a blank stare of anguish directed at me. If I had met him on the street I’d assume he was a lost man with a few loose screws in his head and try to maintain a safe distance.

“Cut if off.” It was one of the first things he said to me. His voice shook with reluctance, yet there was still a hint of conviction behind his tone. “It’s the only way she’ll love me again...the only way I can atone. I’ll do it myself if you won’t.”

The bizarre request upset my foundations of reason. It isn’t uncommon for hospital personnel to witness some rather outlandish cases of medical marvel. A rare disease; survivors of horrific injuries; even the humorous cases where obscure items became lodged where the sun doesn’t shine. Just yesterday a patient was admitted after her husband insisted on having intercourse through her stoma. Day in and day, nurses and doctors see it all.

But this...this I had not seen before. None of us had.

“E-excuse me? You want me to amputate your arm?” Using his right index finger, Mr. Jenkins drew an imaginary line across his left bicep. “Right here. See this line? That’s where the cut should be.”

Ordinarily a situation like this would lead to the conclusion of either a mentally imbalanced patient or a neurological disorder. I immediately thought of apotemnophilia as a potential explanation for the rash desire I observed in my patient. It wouldn’t be my first case handling the urge to cut off one’s own limbs. A young couple had previously came in after deciding to simultaneously bite off the first joint in the others’ pinky finger in a sexually motivated stunt.

Mr. Jenkins, however, did not exactly fit the bill. Most reverends wouldn’t. And it wasn’t just his request to be mutilated. Originally he had been brought to the hospital to have his stomach pumped after ingesting an entire bottle of painkillers. He was clinically dead for three minutes during the entire ordeal. Bringing him back was a challenge.

Actions such as these were not expected from a man of God.

I squinted back at him as he sat with that cold, cemented stare. “Is there something wrong with your arm? Are you in pain?” “No pain.” He shifted his head and stared longingly out the window as his eyes welled with tears. “‘...whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life.’" “Is that from the bible?” Jenkins nodded. “John 4:14.” He inhaled deeply through his nose; his snot-filled nostrils blocking the flow of air and erupting into a moist commotion that filled the room. “I’ll never get to drink that water if I have this arm.” “Would you...like to speak with someone?” “You mean a shrink?” “A psychiatrist, yes.” Jenkins’ face turned stern, his voice raising in volume. “I’m not crazy!”

The sudden outburst clouded my thoughts with uncertainty. How should I proceed with this? A man once filled with such enthusiasm for life was abruptly showing signs of mental deterioration. A man who aided many families in overcoming hardship was now viewed as the town villain. Beating your wife in her sleep will do that to you. It doesn’t matter how many people you’ve helped in life. One night can forever alter the perception society has on someone. The years Mr. Jenkins had helped others were now distant memories of a completely different person than the one who sat in the hospital bed today. He was no longer seen as kind and gentle. He was a wife-beater who had tried to kill himself, and now he was asking to be mutilated.

The number of times we help others in life becomes meaningless when we need help ourselves. And no one wanted to help Revered Jenkins. His value to the world was gone. The community tossed him aside like stale bread, feeding the languished remains to birds as they shoved their beaks into him and ripped him apart.

“I think it might be best for your mental health to speak with someone.” “I don’t need that! I need you to cut my arm off!” “I’m afraid I don’t visibly see any reason for amputation. You need mental care, not physical.” Jenkins slouched back into the bed, defeated, his voice calming. “I met him...in the afterlife...before you pumped my stomach...I met him. He whistled at me.” He stopped speaking and mimicked a whistling noise, first holding a high pitched tone for about two seconds before dropping the pitch an octave and holding for another two seconds.

Wwhhhhhhhiiiiiii wwhhhhhhhooooooo

“Just like that. I think he was trying to intimidate me.” “Who was this man?” “He calls himself Patrick.” “And who is Patrick?” Mr. Jenkins lightly tapped the right side of his head with his right index finger. “Right here. On this side of my brain. The right side is his. He’s the other man that lives inside of me. Inside my head. That’s who Patrick is.” I masked the internal feelings of pity with a coy smile at the reverend. “I see. Are you familiar with multiple personality disorder?” Jenkins furrowed his brow and spoke sharply, “It’s not multiple personality disorder.” “It would appear that way to me.”

The left arm draped over Jenkins’ lap twitched, jerking around as though he were trying to alleviate a numbness. It flopped like a fish out of water momentarily before promptly raising itself and casting the obscene gesture of a middle finger pointed directly at me.

The Revered immediately expressed regret for the action. “I-I’m sorry, doctor.” His hand lowered and draped itself over its owner's lap once again. “That was Patrick. Not me.” “It’s quite alright. I’ve had patients do far worse.” I buried my face in the patient chart and documented his actions. “We’re going to keep you overnight for observation. I’ll send someone to speak with you shortly so we could get a more precise diagnosis.” “You believe me, don’t you doc? You have to cut my arm off before Patrick emerges again!” “Don’t worry about Patrick, Mr. Jenkins. You’re in great care. Just let us do our job.”

I spun and ignored his cries as I walked out. After I closed the door to his room I could still hear his muffled cries from the hallway. “Patrick is real! Patrick is real!” he shouted over and over. The words faded as I walked away, heading straight for Dr. Quinn’s office, the hospital psychologist.

Later in the day, despite my attempts to shake Mr. Jenkins from my mind, his condition piqued my interest and remained in my thoughts for the remainder of my shift. What could possibly drive a normal, God-loving man to such extremes?

”It’s not your problem,” I’d tell myself. ”There’s nothing you can do for him.”

Perhaps it was my previous studies in neurology, or perhaps it was the slight scar I noticed under his hairline, but Thomas Jenkins found a cozy little spot to set up camp within me. Patrick was surely just a figment of his imagination. He wasn’t real. He couldn’t be. It was Mr. Jenkins’ mind that engaged the braquial plexus nerve and primary motor functions to give me that middle finger.

The image of that finger stuck with me even after I had left the facility and went home for the evening. Something just didn’t quite fit. Why had his left arm twitched the way it had before giving me that finger like it was struggling? Like it had a mind of its own?

Mr. Jenkins had tapped the ride side of his head with his right hand when he proclaimed that specific side as the area where Patrick resided. It was the left hand that had twitched and shot the middle finger at me. The right hemisphere of our brains control the left side of our bodies. Not many people were aware of that fact. Was it a pure coincidence that Mr. Jenkins tapped that side and then gave me the finger with his left hand, or had he done some sort of research beforehand? Could he really be that desperate to convince someone to amputate his arm to thoroughly study neuroscience?

I went to sleep that night still thinking of the reverend, promising myself to look more into his case the next day.

But when I arrived for my evening shift that day I was met with a rather grim situation. I remember first seeing the carpet in the lobby being completely stained with blood upon my entrance through the sliding glass doors.

The event was later played back to me on security camera footage. Mr. Jenkins had been discharged in the morning, went home for some time and came back to the hospital with an electric knife, the kind you would use to cut the turkey at Thanksgiving dinner. He walked into the lobby of the emergency room with his shirt off, pulled the knife from his pocket, plugged it into a nearby outlet, flicked the switch and immediately dug the blade into his left bicep, sawing away at his own flesh in front of horrified families all waiting to be seen

I was told his screams were so intense that his vocal cords went into paralysis. But it didn’t stop him from cutting away as much as possible before the saw began to struggle cutting through the bone. He twisted the blade around, desperately trying to completely sever the limb. When it became clear to him that the blade was not strong enough to finish the job he began cutting through tissue vertically down the length of his arm, ripping through the flesh from his bicep all the way to the tips of his fingers in jagged zig-zags.

Eventually a security guard was alerted and took action, tackling Mr. Jenkins to the floor to prevent further damage. But by then it was too late. There was simply no saving the mangled remains of his left arm. It had been turned into a useless lump of meat. He was rushed into the operating room where surgeons completed the amputation.

While the whole ordeal was odd and frightening to watch, what really caught my attention was Mr. Jenkins’ face and his actions moments before he was tackled. During the process his face was filled with agony, but at one point something changed. The agony washed away and it was replaced with a burning hatred. He stopped cutting his arm and glared at everyone in the room as though he were about to turn the knife on an innocent bystander.

But, he was taken down before anything else could happen. Ultimately, I suppose you could say Mr. Jenkins got his wish. His left arm was now gone.

“Why do you think he did this here?” Dr. Quinn asked me, her voice shaky with uncertainty as the two of us looked through a window into the room where Mr. Jenkins was sedated and resting peacefully while a nurse checked his vitals. “Why didn’t he do this at home?” “Probably knew he was going to need immediate medical attention,” I replied, keeping my eyes fixed on Mr. Jenkins. My focus landed on the subtle scar in his hairline once again. “Did he ever have brain surgery?” “I believe so. Had some sort of procedure done to treat epilepsy around ten years ago, if I recall.” My eyes narrowed, squinting at Mr. Jenkins. “So he’s a split-brain?” She shrugged. “I have no idea what that means, Kenny.” “A split-brain. You know...to treat epilepsy the corpus callosum is severed, leaving both the left and right hemispheres in the brain independent from each other.” “Oh, well, why does that matter? That doesn’t have anything to do with his mental state.” “Well, actually...it does. Sort of. Studies have shown that split-brain patients experience a second personality, so to speak. The right hemisphere controls the left side of the body and will act independently from the left hemisphere, which controls the right side of body. At times the two sides will disagree with each other. There were cases where the left hand would swat away food it apparently did not want to eat. In one case doctors had trained the right hemisphere to answer questions by pointing at words laid out on a piece of paper. The left hemisphere, our conscious, vocal selves, answered on a different piece of paper with the right arm. The man was asked simple questions and provided mostly the same answers with each hand, until they asked whether the subject was male or female. The right hand pointed to male, while the left pointed to female.” Dr. Quinn shot me a menacing glare. “So you’re saying his procedure ten years ago birthed a whole new person?” I gave a frown. “I don’t really know. No one does for sure. There’s conflicting conclusions drawn from the experiments conducted on split-brain patients. Some say the idea is nonsense and that the two hemispheres are a collective, single person. Others tend to think that there’s always another person or soul or whatever you want to call it attached to the right hemisphere...that the mind houses two separate people at all times...and that the corpus callosotomy procedure somehow unleashes the right hemisphere as though it were a caged beast dwelling within our whole lives.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “You observed him yesterday. What do you think?”

I recalled the events from yesterday - the twitch in his left arm, the middle finger he gave me, the tap he placed on the right side of his head. The truth was hard to deny.

I finally took my eyes off Mr. Jenkins and turned to meet the gaze of Dr. Quinn. “Patrick is real,” I declared.

Our discussion was interrupted by a scream inside the room. Dr. Quinn and I quickly turned our attention inside to see the nurse bent over the bed at the waist. Mr. Jenkins had buried his head into her neck. The nurse struggled and screamed again, frantically flailing her arms around in a frenzied panic. In one swift jerk, Mr. Jenkins pulled his head away. Hanging from his mouth was a thin slab of skin that dangled in between his teeth. Its red texture glistened in the flourescent lighting above as he leaned over and spit the skin out, projecting it forward onto the floor beside the bed.

The nurse rolled over onto her back and instantly a stream of blood shot upwards as though it was propelled by a super soaker. Repeated surges of blood squirted into the air with each beat of her heart, quickly painting the blankets in bright red gore.

There was only one reason for blood to shoot like that. Mr. Jenkins had bit into the nurse’s carotid artery. If we didn’t immediately help her she would soon bleed out.

I rushed into the door, eager to aide my fellow medical co-worker. Her screams persisted as I reached her side, pressing my hand against her neck.

“I need to stop the bleeding…” I advised, hoping it would calm her and keep her from squirming like a worm cut in half. “Hold still...please...oh Jesus…”

Wwhhhhhhhiiiiiii wwhhhhhhhooooooo

Whistling. The second pitch an octave below the first. Just as Mr. Jenkins had described.

I looked up and found Mr. Jenkins standing over us on the opposite side of the bed in his hospital gown that was now drenched in blood. He looked down at us both with a raging fury in his eyes, making it abundantly clear he intended on causing further harm.

I quickly grabbed the nurse by her arm and began dragging her towards the door. We needed to get to safety, and I had no intention of leaving this poor nurse alone to be devoured. As I pulled the nurse away, I heard the whistling again.

Wwhhhhhhhiiiiiii wwhhhhhhhooooooo

The location of the noise had moved slightly. I looked up and saw Mr. Jenkins was walking towards us slowly, stepping with left foot first, then dragging a stiff right leg behind him. The remaining stump of his left arm raised itself as though he were reaching out to us. His right arm retaliated, balling its fingers into a fist and thrusting itself into Mr. Jenkins’ face. His breathing labored and he began taking short, quick gulps of air.

The right hemisphere of ours brain is not capable of controlling speech. Although a few hospital personnel would later argue that he whistled because of his vocal cord paralysis from earlier in the day, I knew the real reason. It was the only way the right hemisphere could communicate. Patrick was announcing himself to us.

Mr. Jenkins was clearly no longer in charge. The will of Patrick had somehow taken over. I was seeing an internal struggle where the right side of his brain overpowering his left. It was Patrick, frustrated by the removal of his arm that was now acting out. And all Mr. Jenkins could do to fight this monster was to keep his leg stiff and beat his own face in, hoping it would slow Patrick down.

Dr. Quinn rushed into the room with another doctor she had hailed down. Together the three of us pulled the nurse out and placed her on a gurney. I pulled the door shut behind as we exited and after watching the other doctor wheel the nurse away I looked back at the room and saw Patrick standing right up against the window looking back at me and Dr. Quinn. The anger that had shaped his face was now replaced with frustration. Without a working hand, there was no way for Patrick to turn the knob and exit the room.

“P-Patrick? Is that you?” I asked, hoping to confirm my suspicion.

He didn’t whistle this time. Instead he widened his eyes like a madman and curved the left side of his mouth into a small smile.

Maintaining the mad look on his face, he pulled his head backwards and then violently thrust it forwards into the window. The blow cast a spiderweb of jagged cracks in the window and sent the piercing sound of broken glass echoing through the hallway. He repeated the act again. And again. And again. Rapidly he bashed his own head against the window over and over, each blow spreading more cracks through the glass. Blood began to flow out of numerous laceration in his forehead, covering his entire face.

With one powerful blow the glass finally shattered. Patrick’s momentum sent him tumbling through the new opening and crashing against the tile floor. He lay there, unable to pick himself up with just one working leg. Instead he rolled onto his stomach and began pushing himself forward with his left leg, slowing inching his way towards me, breathing heavily with his mouth open wide, all too eager to sink his teeth into another person.

I stood frozen, unsure if I was believing what I was seeing until a hand grabbed my shirt and pulled me backwards.

“What’s happening to him?” Dr. Quinn urgently asked me.

A team of police officers rushed into the hallway from around the corner. They pulled their weapons and aimed them directly at Patrick, but before they could say or do anything Patrick abruptly stopped. His body went limp and his heavy breathing ceased. An uncomfortable silence took over the scene, all of us standing over the body in awe.

“Mr. Jenkins is gone,” I said, answering Dr. Quinn.

We have a long history of associating evil with left handed people. In biblical times it was considered a sign of moral compromise. Matthew 6:3-4 reads, But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. And your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.…

For Mr. Jenkins, his left hand cost him his life.

The official cause of death was a ruptured brain aneurism, the result of severe head-force trauma. The area of the aneurism was on the right hemisphere which leads me to speculate as to whether Mr. Jenkins had somehow caused the aneurism from within.

Since that day a lot of questions have been asked by many people, some of which believe that Patrick was real, and some that refuse the notion. The most intriguing so far has been where split-brains end up in the afterlife if one hemisphere is considered worthy, and the other is deemed evil. Would they both go to heaven? To hell?

I can’t answer that for certain. I can only hope that Mr. Jenkins got his wish. I hope he achieved atonement for his water.

And most of all, I hope the strangers dwelling inside us all won’t prevent us from doing the same.

[mediocremagicman]

Wednesday night draft!

9 person Hour of Devastation draft (2x HOU, 1x AKH)

It’s been two weeks since my last draft and I’d missed it so. This draft did not disappoint. Picking up a Scorpion God pack two and taking hard shift from R/U to R/B is the kind of thing that makes makes for a enjoyable draft no matter what I do. When committing to a superbomb works I feel like a total badass, but when it doesn’t I still don’t feel bad because it’s simply too good to pass up. In this case it worked out perfectly because the players to my left were in blue; if I hadn’t make the shift I would have had an awful pack 2 and my deck would have been much worse. I ended up going 2-1 with my only loss attributed to lack of mana.

The Draft (Each pick in order from top to bottom, then left to right)

Wildfire Eternal isn’t the strongest of rares and there are several commons or uncommons I would take over it. None of them were in this pack though and the Eternal was the pick. Earthshaker Khenra is a stronger follow up though with both sides of it being reasonably costed. Usually for the Eternalize and Embalm cards either the normal casting cost or abilities cost is higher you would normally pay for a creature of that size. I find myself wondering what the person to my right took from the pack as there aren’t many commons or uncommons I would pick over it. Bloodwater Entity was an easy decision; even though I didn’t have any spells the Wildfire Eternal meant leaning toward a spells deck and Entity helps me get more values out of my spells. Open Fire is one of the top four or five commons in this set; I would first pick it. There aren’t a whole lot of four toughness creatures meaning this kills most things, and the ability to goto the face gives it enough versatility to push it over the top. Vizier of the Anointed made it seem like blue was open from the left. Frontline Devastator is a card I originally thought was mediocre to unplayable but over time I’ve come to appreciate it as a average to slightly above average creature. The more aggressive you are the better it is since it’s such a hard creature to block effectively. The Solemnity was a rare draft plain and simple; at the point in the pack I’ll take the three dollar bill. The rest of the pack was taking the playable R/U cards. The Thorned Moloch was a pleasant surprise that late being one of the more powerful red common creatures. It needs to be in a faster deck that’s attacking consistently, but most red decks are doing that anyway.

Pack two that awesome mythic Scorpion God popped up in the back of the deck and I slammed it down. Inferno Jet was a greedy pick at the point but I envisioned casting it for free with the Eternal decided I had to have it. The Blur of Blades were no brainers; a permanent lost of stats a powerful combat trick or end of turn play that combos with the triggered ability on the God. I’d play it on that alone and the extra two damage is just gravy. Deadly deadly gravy. Torment of Venom hits all the same synergy, but kills more things. The double black was risk at the point since I wasn’t sure if I would be playing black or just splashing for the God. It was at the point I decided to take the risk and fully commit to R/B since I had no fixing and though a splash would be less viable. This decision felt right when the Banewhip Punisher followed it up. Punisher is fantastic in any black deck because in a pinch it’s a four mana kill spell. With the amount of counters I’m running it’s amazing. Firebrand Archer was another easy pick. It’s a little weak on the vanilla test but if you drop it turn two you can easily get three or four damage off of it’s triggers which when stacked up with the damage from the Blur of Blades’ and Afflict triggers will have your opponent dead quickly. This is when the picks stopped being about decisions about what was best and just defaulting to taking what was in my colors. I saw some powerful things for sure, but none of them were real decisions, I was going to take the card in that color regardless of if it was good.

Pack 3 my Rare was a Fetid Pools. I lamented on this pick for a long time wonder if I should take the Pools in a greedy as hell attempt to play all three colors. In the end I kept my discipline and took the Trial. Liliana’s Mastery was a easy pick. Even without any extra zombies it’s two 3/3′s for five mana which is a lot of value for this set. Cartouche of Ambition was another pick that felt great, it justified my first pick of the pack, it kicks butt on it’s own, and it synergizes with the God. Final Reward gets rid of anything too big for my counters to handle. Blighted Bat’s strength is that it functions as both a three and a four drop. This versatility helps you be on curve every game and is well worth having. Lay Bare the Heart solves most problems for a small quantity of mana. I’d play it except in the most aggressive of decks, and even then I’d want to have on in the sideboard for crazy bomb I can’t deal with. Doomed Dissenter was the weakest pick of the pack so far, but some packs are light on certain colors, what can you do? Bone Picker was super exciting to get so late, but then the pack was dry.

Round 1 (2-0) start off with a mulligan into a risky keep. The original hand had fives lands which I decided to was too many for a having two and four drop in hand. The second hand however was five lands and The Scorpion God. I kept it and then left Blighted Bat on top on the scry. They started out strong and I drew nothing but lands after the Bat until after the God came down. One it did though they were able to tap it down with Vizier of the True once for a big swing that put me on the edge. Since I had my lands to drop though I killed the Vizier with a double activation of the God. Once I started drawing extra cards I kept getting Blur of Blades and the Torment of Venom, which in turn got me more cards and the game was soon mine. Game two I was able to play things much quicker. I forget the exact sequence I filled out my board state but on turn five I attacked with a Doomed Dissenter which they blocked and killed for me to play Liliana’s Mastery second main and push out more power than they could deal with.

Round 2 (1-2) was a brutal back and forth where we each get a couple of hits in but then remove the other’s creature and turn it back. I spent most of the game debating on if it was the time to play the Cartouche of Ambition. Then in the past possible turn I threw it down and pull myself from the brink of death and into victory. Games two and three were less interesting. Game two I never saw a swamp and game three I was stuck on three until I died.

Round 3 (2-1) was against a ramp deck with a Cruel Reality and Razaketh, the Foulblooded as the primary win conditions with Torment of Scarabs as a slower backup plan. Game one I took hindered their ramp by using Lay Bare the Heart to take out Oasis Ritualist. They still had plenty of ramp but never found one of their big things. Game two on the other hand. After what felt like a good start on my end, they managed to cast Razaketh. I untapped and tried to exile it, they went to three life to get their Cruel Reality, took 2 in combat from my last creature and went to one. Then I had to sac the creature to Reality. I had plenty of potential outs but none of them came up and the game was theirs. Game three I played the God turn five and killed two of their creatures with counters turn six and they scooped on the spot.

[how2to18]

IF THERE EXISTS a mental-illness diagnosis as scary as the physical-illness diagnosis of cancer, schizophrenia may be it. To the general public, it’s a monolith of a condition: the one where you hear voices in your head and talk to people who aren’t there. That Beautiful Mind guy had it, and he invented Ed Harris completely, remember? But the words and stories of those who live with schizoaffective disorder offer proof that it’s a spectrum illness, which manifests with great variety and defies stereotype. And though it’s a serious diagnosis, many of those afflicted insist that they are not doomed.

The classic schizophrenia memoirs include The Quiet Room: A Journey Out of the Torment of Madness (1994), by Lori Schiller and Amanda Bennett, and The Center Cannot Hold: My Journey Through Madness (2007), by Elyn R. Saks. Both books are frightening. Schiller’s illness manifested as voices shouting at her relentlessly to kill herself, and the treatment she was given early in her illness was cruel and unhelpful. Her account is perforated by memory loss because of trauma and electroconvulsive therapy. Saks’s book is a story of extraordinary willpower; rather than seek help, she hid her debilitating symptoms almost entirely while racking up degrees and honors in the legal and medical fields. Her writing voice is a little nerdy, but her achievements, which include a MacArthur “genius” grant, are extraordinary.

Esmé Weijun Wang’s new book of essays, The Collected Schizophrenias, which won the Graywolf Press Nonfiction Prize and a Whiting Award, warrants much of the hype and anticipation surrounding it. A Granta-anointed Best Young American Novelist for The Border of Paradise (2016), Wang is a highly articulate and graceful essayist, and her insights, in both the clinical and general senses, are exceptional.

Wang’s book isn’t much like the other two. The trajectory of schizoaffective disorder, in its progression, regression, detours, and stubbornness, is a common, looping thread among them, but the way the illness manifests in the three writers is profoundly different. Wang’s voices aren’t much like Schiller’s, and her delusional convictions (for example, that she is dead — also known as the Cotard delusion) are much more unusual. Saks is paranoid and manic while Wang leans to catatonia. Wang’s book is less alarming than the other two, in part because her voice is so measured and intelligent. The fact is, the three women have different illnesses, even though their umbrella diagnosis is the same — schizoaffective disorder varies as much as its patients do.

In addition, while Schiller was largely swallowed by her illness and Saks threw herself passionately into her career, Wang gives the impression of having lived many lives. She started on the Ivy League track, attending Yale (the alma mater of Saks, as well), which was exceedingly unhelpful in managing her burgeoning illness, and then Stanford, which was closer to her family. She was a fashion blogger early in her adult life, and her knowledge of designers and aesthetics is likely to bewilder the average reader. One of the essays is about disguising herself as high-functioning by using visual markers of wellness: beautiful clothes and makeup from Chanel and Tom Ford. Her survival methods are necessarily elastic:

My makeup routine is minimal and consistent. I can dress and daub when psychotic and when not psychotic. I do it with zeal when manic. If I’m depressed, I skip everything but the lipstick. If I skip the lipstick, that means I haven’t even made it to the bathroom mirror.

A sexual assault lies beneath Wang’s daily experience for years, until her illness triggers PTSD, which complicates her treatment plan further. Then, after her physical health declines mysteriously and precipitously, she is diagnosed with late-stage Lyme disease.

Bookstore shelves are crammed with PTSD memoirs, Ivy League reminiscences, fashion world tell-alls, sexual-assault survival stories, and chronicles of fighting against debilitating illness — Wang’s friend Porochista Khakpour even wrote an entire book, Sick, about living with late-stage Lyme disease — but Wang has been inside all of these identities, lived all of these selves and more. Her perspective in The Collected Schizophrenias is encyclopedic and prismatic even without taking into account how her primary mental illness may have fractured her identity.

Wang asks rare, necessary questions about her condition: “What happens if I see my disordered mind as a fundamental part of who I am? It has, in fact, shaped the way I experience life.”

She’s mildly arguing against “person-first language” that “suggests that there is a person in there somewhere without the delusions and the rambling and the catatonia”:

There might be something comforting about the notion that there is, deep down, an impeccable self without disorder, and that if I try hard enough, I can reach that unblemished self. But there may be no impeccable self to reach, and if I continue to struggle toward one, I might go mad in the pursuit.

She writes with clarity about how it feels when a psychotic episode descends upon her, an experience only a fraction of us will ever have. The entire passage, from “Reality, Onscreen,” is two and a half pages of captivating prose, but the conclusion is most gripping:

Something’s wrong; then it is completely wrong […] The moment of shifting from one phase to the other is usually sharp and clear; I turn my head and in a single moment realize that my coworkers have been replaced by robots, or glance at my sewing table as the thought settles over me, fine and gray as soot, that I am dead. In this way I have become, and have remained, delusional for months at a time […] What’s true is whatever I believe, although I know enough to parrot back what I know is supposed to be true: these are real people and not robots; I am alive, not dead. The idea of “believing” something turns porous as I repeat the tenets of reality like a good girl.

These essays are mesmerizing and at times bittersweet — not unlike The Border of Paradise, which is a horrifying family drama written in balletic prose. In other ways, the two books don’t feel very similar, but that’s a mark of Wang’s craftsmanship. Her novel is warmer, with shifting perspectives that dwell on human moments, where her essays are even and controlled. Whenever they feel too icily flawless, though, Wang reveals her sense of humor. When a stranger looks her up and down as she’s in a delusional (but functioning) state, she quips, “Yes, I thought, our eyes meeting, you may think I’m hot, but I’m also a rotting corpse. Sucks to be you, sir.”

Often collections like this gather essays either too independent from one another or too repetitive in their details to form a fully satisfying work. Wang’s book mostly avoids these problems, but it does have a sense of incompleteness, which derives, perhaps, from the sense that the author is leaving things out. It’s not a particularly juicy or grotesque book, and a jaded reader of sensational memoir may find this suspicious. Her book often feels like the equivalent of her makeup routine: she’s passing as a calm, informative writer with a sophisticated prose style when inside her head it’s chaos.

This is not to say it’s a dishonest book, but it does offer up Wang’s best and most beautiful self, for the most part, and only rarely shows her gibbering at the mirror or impassively giving away her possessions. Of course, that is no one’s business but Wang’s. She is not required to expose her interior horrors to the reading public just because other essayists and memoirists do. Besides, if the book seems incomplete, or unfinished, it’s because Wang’s life is, too. Not because her illnesses have lessened her — they certainly have not — but because she is continually evolving, and aware of it. The collection carries a sense of starting over, and over, and over, with each new diagnosis, each new psychotic episode, each new obstacle that Wang must cope with to survive and thrive. Her extraordinary precision as a writer helps her organize and describe the junk drawer of intention and failure and process and truth that is life.

The Collected Schizophrenias is a necessary addition to a relatively small body of literature, but it’s also, quite simply, a pleasure to read. The prose is so beautiful, and the recollection and description so vivid, that even if it were not mostly about an under-examined condition it would be easy to recommend. Esmé Weijun Wang is poised to become a major writer, and this is her origin story.

¤

Katharine Coldiron’s work has appeared in Ms., the Times Literary Supplement, VIDA, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. She lives in California and at kcoldiron.com.

The post Fractured Origins in Esmé Weijun Wang’s “The Collected Schizophrenias” appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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[reseudaimon]

The Jesus Gap

(Excerpt from The Mainliner's Guide to the Post-Denominational World, available from Chalice Press (here) or from Amazon (here).

“If you follow Jesus and don’t end up dead, it appears you have some explaining to do.” 

—Terry Eagleton

There’s a gap. I’m convinced of it. A Jesus gap. 

There’s a growing dissatisfaction with the traditional view of the church among emerging generations. This dissatisfaction has any number of causes, which the disaffected would name as anti-institutionalism, hypocrisy, judgmentalism, etc. But there’s one area of vexation that always seems to come up: the Jesus Gap. 

People, especially young people, are having trouble squaring the Jesus they read about in the Gospels with the infinitely malleable Jesus they see placed on offer by popular Christianity: Jesus as personal genie, Jesus as chief security guard at the courthouse of private morality, Jesus as a cheerleader for free-market capitalism, etc. In my work with emerging generations, we often return to the same complaint: “The Jesus I read about in church doesn’t look like the Jesus I see in church.” Whether it’s Jesus as either a clearinghouse for heavenly bus passes or Jesus as Affirmer-in-Chief whose primary function revolves around endorsing middle-class American values, the Jesus of the Gospels fails to come through. This Jesus, when stripped of the layers of religious spackling used to domesticate him, is irremediably subversive. 

Subversive. That appeals to me. Of course, I’d like to continue writing clinically about the religious climate shift underway at the hands of restless “young people” fed up with a tame Jesus. I’d like to make it sound as though I’m just a disinterested observer of religious trends. But the truth is that I too find myself growing dissatisfied with that tame and restricted image of Jesus. After all these years of a Jesus who I thought would help make me _______ (holier? kinder? more spiritual? more self-actualized?), I’ve come to believe that Jesus has a more cosmic, more interesting agenda in mind than super-tuning my soul. On my way to spiritual superstardom, 

I’ve found it increasingly difficult to squeeze past the Gospels’ Jesus, who stands in the middle of the road pointing to the weak, the homeless, the sick, the widowed, the displaced and unembraced. Following Jesus; I think it boils down to that, really. 

I’ve struggled for some time with the realization that when the church fails—as it often does—it fails most egregiously in giving people the resources necessary for the outrageously radical act of following Jesus. My reading of Emerging/ent theology has led me to conclude that there is increasing energy around the simple idea that followers of Jesus ought to embody the revolutionary spirit found in the Gospels. 

I’ve tried. I’ve put forth a valiant effort. But I can no longer envision Jesus the way I once did. I can’t, for the life of me, picture Jesus saying, “Healthcare isn’t a right; it’s a privilege.”

I can’t figure out a way to get Jesus to say, “Being gay is a capital crime, but fleecing the poor is a misdemeanor.”

I can’t imagine a world in which Jesus says, “If you don’t let children pray to me in school, I’ll let armed gunmen come in and kill them indiscriminately.” 

I’m trying to track down, but as of yet have been unable to find, where Jesus says, “If you fear someone will strike you on one cheek, dial in a Predator drone.” 

The church has too often been asked to give religious cover to moralities that were conceived absent the theological reflection provided by the church. I find that the chasm between the revolutionary Jesus of first century Jerusalem and the domesticated Jesus of twenty-first century America grows more difficult for me to span all the time. 

In the final analysis, the good news of the reign of God is not first that the well taken care of will be even more well taken care of in the next life. The good news of the reign of God is that God’s reign is present wherever the homeless are sheltered, wherever the hungry are fed, wherever the rich give away their money and power in defense of the poor, wherever the forgotten ones gather to be remembered and embraced, to be told that as long as we follow God, not one of God’s children will be left to die alone and unloved. 

[ddrkirbyisq]

Many things happened!  It's been a good couple of weeks, actually...very good. I was pretty stressed for my first week at my new job, but it actually went fairly well.  Highlights included going to Mission City Swing on Wednesday with my friend, which I had a great time at!  I also learned that despite Caltrain being my commute option of choice, it's actually not too bad at all to drive up to the city for work, particularly given that there's a $12 parking lot right by where my company is so that's pretty easy.  So I can just drive to work on Wednesdays and head to MCS afterwards using my car, driving back afterwards, and it works out great.  $12 is not something I really want to pay so often, but isn't really THAT much higher than the caltrain fare both ways.  (Though the fact that I'm just getting monthly passes makes that a bit of a moot point if I'm perfectly honest) I have brought in a small rice cooker to work as well as a bottle of olive oil and some rice and I am all set to start enacting my grand plan of cooking my own fresh lunch at the company!  I may even try to do it tomorrow -- I'm thinking to bring a salmon filet and then maybe a husk of corn, which is trivial to cook using the microwave. My 2-week break after getting my introduction to the new company was pretty nice!  I spent quite a bit of time preparing Christmas letters and gifts for people, which I'm happy to say was a great success this year!  Although I definitely was packaging and enveloping and addressing things semi-last-minute, it was not like previous years where I pushed myself to get to 40 letters by trying to crank out a whole bunch during the last few days.  And it's a little better this way, I feel.  I basically did a better job at prioritizing and setting goals that are realistic given all of the other things that I want to do as well.  The final outcome was 25 letters, which was not bad at all!  And I was really happy with how gifts turned out this year, actually.  Especially the fact that I had many boxes saved up of varying sizes, which turned out to be super useful.  And as always, I'm super thankful for the post office at Nob Hill, which I always use for my USPS mailing needs.  They are so friendly there and they all recognize me there by now since I've gone to mail out stuff and buy stamps and everything from them so often. Christmas overall went extremely well this year and I was actually very pleasantly surprised by it.  I received quite a few letters from friends, and I'm also super grateful for those who got me presents off of my wishlist, including Little Twin Stars microfiber cloths (!), hair bows, a replacement Hello Kitty license plate holder, and even the musician's earplugs that I wanted!  Even my parents got me a pair of waterproof hiking shoes (in a size that actually fits!?) that I need for walking in SF in the rain!  I also got to spend time together with various people, and eat some good food too. I did not spend quite =as= much time working on Rhythm Quest over the Christmas break as I did during my break between jobs.  However I did manage to think about my redesign of the game and start working on it, and I actually made significant progress on the rework.  The levels are now tile-based and notes are handled completely differently, as I'm laying them down using Tiled instead of in a text editor.  I replaced the Kirby-looking character with a character that looks fairly close to the one from Ripple Runner, and redid the backgrounds and tileset as well.  As with Ripple Runner, I'm using a monochromatic 4-color palette for the tileset and backgrounds so that I can use hue shifting to give variation to them mid-song. In addition I implemented a bunch of other good stuff, including checkpoints and even debug transport controls for quickly jumping to a given checkpoint in a song, as well as manually controlling song position during runtime, even rewinding through a song or playing it in slo-mo to debug any issues I might need to.  Pretty cool stuff!  The game is already looking pretty darn cool again and I'm really excited to see how it's going to shape up, as well as start working on some actual songs and levels for it. I have been working on Rhythm Quest on my MacBook Air recently and it's been a mixed bag, to be honest.  I don't have a windows partition set up yet, and am not sure whether I want one to be honest.  But OSX's mouse handling is teeeerrrrribbbleee if you're used to PC mouse acceleration curves.  I can't believe how much it actually hinders my productivity when I'm trying to do things like paint tilesets and work on animations.  I ran one of those quick mouse accuracy test games and it turns out that using a mouse with OSX is actually WORSE for me than just using the built-in trackpad, which is terrible.  Unfortunately you can't tweak the acceleration curves easily since they removed that API from OSX (why?), so if you want to actually rememdy the problem you need to shell out money for a custom solution like ControllerMate, and even then it's difficult to get right.  I don't know...it just seems like you can't really win.  It's sad because I'm fine with so many other things about working in the OSX environment, but the mouse handling just sucks.  Bah.  I love love love working with my desktop. Anyways, despite that, my current plan is to try and work on Rhythm Quest daily during my morning train commute (and on the way back do some blogging like I am now, or letter-writing or something), as that's a good time to try and get stuff done (and my brain won't be dead or anything).  Of course, I'll need to work on it outside of those times too, for times when I need my desktop for composing, artwork, laying out levels, etc.  But I can at least work on coding and simple spriting work on the train. Ludum Dare came and went, and I did pretty well!  3rd place in audio, and 15th place overall, which is not bad at all!  I actually really liked how my game turned out.  I was very unsure of it at first after turning it in, particularly because I was really struggling with the game design through the latter part of development, but hearing other people's positive feedback was really encouraging and I'm glad people had fun with it. I also finished playing through the main campaign of Ori and the Blind Forest, which was really fun!  I actually controlled only the movement and jumping (left hand controls) while my friend took over all of the mouse functions and it was extremely fun going through the game together in that way.  Gaming together with friends is a really fun experience, I think, one that can't be replicated online, really.  It's great! I also watched a good deal of anime lately, including finishing both the first and second seasons of Hibike! Euphonium, which was amazing amazing amazing and is now my favorite episodic anime ever.  Wuaaahhhhhhhhh.  Currently I'm going through the first season of Chihayafuru, heheh. I did a little bit of experimenting with new recipes over the break too!  Not too many things, but I made three new dishes.  The first was a Kung Pao chicken recipe from Serious Eats which turned out extremely well both times I made it.  Very tasty and will definitely make it again, maybe even try to internalize the ingredient amounts.  It's a spicy hearty dish so it's great for this cold weather, and it also uses chicken, which is great because I don't actually have a lot of chicken recipes.  Also tried to make shui zhu yu, or whatever that chinese spicy sichuan fish dish is.  For the fish meat I used these super duper cheap Zwai nuggets, which I would...not use again.  They were very flavorful and fatty, but too rich, and a little fishy...I dunno, it wasn't the most pleasant.  I will have to try that dish again using a different white-meat fish.  If anyone has any recommendations on which one to choose I'd love to hear it!  I  am definitely still learning my way around types of fish and don't yet know which ones are chewy vs flaky, etc. I also made a black pepper fish dish with two types of fish that I got from Nijiya (which I was initially going to use for the sichuan dish but didn't).  It turned out pretty great!  I think one of the fish was some sort of cod and the other was bass?  I wish I remembered because they were very different, one being much more chewy/springy and the other being much more flaky/tender.  Regardless, that was a success.  I've also been using red onions a little bit more recently as they go well in the chicken dish as well as this fish one. I noticed a small scratch on my left lens today, which was concerning but in the end probably not really anything to get worked up about (though I do wonder what I accidentally did to cause it).  However it did remind me of the fact that I don't currently have vision or dental insurance (only health) and should go and get some.  Sigh, life problems.  They also assigned me the wrong Primary Care Physician when I switched insurance companies, so I have to go and get that rectified as well. (edit: this is fixed now, yay)  In brighter news, I got my clipper card in the mail and set it up with pre-tax contributions and started using it today, so yay! I've written a lot but there's still even more to cover!  I dyed my hair between Christmas and New Year's and it was super fun!  Went to have it professionally done by the lady who cuts my hair nowadys and though it took quite a while, I'm really happy that I finally went and did it.  Initially I wanted to get it dyed some sort of blue color, but unfortunately that's a hard color to get and we didn't want to damage my hair too much by overbleaching it.  So after some bleaching, the bottom half of my hair turned out a pretty lovely light brown color that I was actually pretty happy with too.  I decided in the end to just get some highlights instead of dying the whole thing because the bleached color was cool too!  The blue dye ended up turning my hair a sort of blueish green color which I'm actually pretty fond of, so now I have teal-ish streaks going through the brownish/yellow/reddish hair.  It's great, but next time I see my stylist I'm probably going to ask her to dye all of it because I really like the blue-green color and think it would be cool if all of my hair was that color as well. Since the bottom half of my hair is bleached now I have to make sure to take better care of it so I've been regularly alternating between leave-in conditioners and argan oil treatments to make sure that it's healthy, as well as really making sure to follow the old adage of shampooing your roots and conditioning your ends.  It's actually pretty nice that my roots are still uncolored because I can just shampoo that part without worrying about stripping the bleached hair of oils or anything. Fixed a silly bug with Nyamo's Adventure today.  That's right, still patching my game from June 2016! lol.  Also, as the previous post alludes to, people are being silly about Ludum Dare ratings.  I think we can all agree that the rating system is inherently, but more importantly, NECESSARILY flawed.  My entry scored #3 in audio.  Looking at the #1 and #2 entries, I really don't think that their audio is up to snuff.  #1 earned points for doing "procedural audio" despite being an underwhelming game, and #2 earned points for humor as opposed to actually being good music.  But that's how it goes in LD!  That's just how it goes. :)  And that, my friend, is perfectly fine. Went on another MBTI kick recently.  It's fun!  I tried typing some of my good friends, which was interesting.  My best friend is INFP, apparently two of the other really important people in my life are INFP and ENFP.  Heheh. Feeling optimistic about the coming year...let's all do our best!