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huayno · 3 years

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from neon genesis evangelion, vol. 12

The Mysterious Stranger

The Anime, the Manga, and the Mark Twain Novella

"God will provide for this kitten." "What makes you think so?" Ursula's eyes snapped with anger. "Because I know it!" she said. "Not a sparrow falls to the ground without His seeing it." "But it falls, just the same. What good is seeing it fall?"

—from The Mysterious Stranger

There is a short novel by Mark Twain, written near the end of his life and published posthumously, entitled The Mysterious Stranger. The tale is set in a small village in 16th century Austria, where three boys one day meet a young man different from themselves: "he had new and good clothes on, and was handsome and had a winning face and a pleasant voice, and was easy and graceful and unembarrassed, not slouchy and awkward and diffident, like other boys."

The mysterious stranger starts to do small but amazing tricks for them—causing water to turn to ice; conjuring grapes and bread out of air; even making birds that can fly out of clay. At last one boy, the story's narrator, works up the courage to ask the stranger who he is:

"'An angel,' he said, quite simply, and set another bird free and clapped his hands and made it flyaway."

The angel then proceeds to really impress them by making an entire toy castle, complete with five hundred miniature soldiers and workmen that move around by themselves. Naturally the boys get involved with this ultimate playset, making their own knights and cannon and cavalry, and although they get rather nervous again when the angel reveals his name is Satan, he assures them he is not that Satan, but only named after the fallen one.

"We others are still ignorant of sin; we are not able to commit it; we are without blemish, and we shall abide in that estate always." Distracted by two of the miniature workmen, "Satan reached out his hand and crushed the life out of them with his fingers... and went on talking where he had left off: 'We cannot do wrong; neither have we any disposition to do it, for we do not know what it is." Horrified as the other boys are, "he made us drunk with the joy of being with him and of looking into the heaven of his eyes, and of feeling the ecstasy that thrilled along our veins from the touch of his hand.'"

Yes, Kaworu Nagisa made quite an impression on the fans of Neon Genesis Evange/ion, despite the fact that, in the original broadcast version of the TV show (before it got all director's-cutted, box-setted, special-editioned, and platinum-lined) he shows up for only slightly less than thirteen minutes of total screen time, the climax of which being an entire minute where nothing happens at all.

That's what being a beautiful angel will do for you, especially when you make the most of your thirteen minutes on Earth by having a Whirlwind romance with the main character that ends in a lover's quarrel with Prog Knives and finally a voluntary martyrdom at the hand of your boy here. Relationships don't come any more tragic than that of Kaworu Nagisa and Shinji Ikari, and when fans (including this one) first saw it on TV, the affair was so brief and shocking the story logic of it didn't click in until much later.

In the anime, Kaworu is acknowledged as the Final Messenger, and, of all the Angels Shinji has to fight, this is the most ruthless battle, won at the highest possible cost to himself. It took even longer for me to realize that the showdown in episode 24 had also taken us full circle from Shinji's first fight in episodes 1 and 2, which emphasized his personal helplessness against the looming Angel Sachiel. Against Kaworu, it is the Angel who becomes the small, helpless figure, while Shinji is represented only by the gargantuan, frightful helm and arm of his Eva Unit-O1. We never see Shinji's human face once throughout the whole final minute of decision.

So as Col. Trautman would have said instead of Major Katsuragi, "It's over, Shinji! IT'S OVER!" Kaworu v. Shinji (or Kaworu x Shinji, in the doujinshi) was the big final showdown between humanity and the Angels. And with the outcome leaving Shinji at his most wretched ever, wouldn't it be nice if everyone just died—your wish being Eva's command, as it turns out that fortunately humanity hardly ever needed the Angels to slaughter itself.

"I am perishing already—I am failing—I am passing away. In a little while you will be alone in shoreless space, to wander its limitless solitudes without friend or comrade forever...But I, your poor servant, have revealed you to yourself and set you free. Dream other dreams, and better!"

—from The Mysterious Stranger

Satan's words near the end of Mark Twain's story also uncannily prefigure the end of the world and the Instrumentality project, both of which follow his death in the TV show in such quick order you picture Anno as a hairnetted fry cook dinging the counter bell. By now you see Sadamoto's handling of Kaworu, and perhaps nothing illustrates the different experiences of the manga and the anime better than his handling of this critical character.

No longer the last Angel to be fought, Kaworu actually becomes an active Eva pilot and fights an Angel—the dude even has the nerve to observe the fight is fixed, based on his knowledge of SEELE's prophecies. Sadamoto of course introduces him at an earlier point in the narrative—at the equivalent of episode 19's end—and then sends him to NERV near the equivalent of episode 22's beginning—before certain important events, to put it mildly, can occur. When one notes this kind of thing, of course, it's important to restate that the Evangelion manga has always been a separate but equal "official" version of Eva, with no particular obligation to align itself with the anime, and indeed it was with Book Five, the first released after The End of Evangelion, that Sadamoto began to truly seem free to go in his own direction.

Nevertheless, as the "other" official version of the Eva story, it is reasonable for fans to view it as an "alternate history" relative to the anime, and the way Kaworu has been introduced makes us realize the manga may end very differently indeed. Despite the fact we know here that Kaworu is an Angel from the very beginning, he appears destined to at least hang around long enough to pick up a few paychecks. It's not clear when your health benefits kick in at NERV, although if Ritsuko is your primary caregiver it might be best to forego them.

Sadamoto's remarks upon visiting the U.S. in 2003 indicated that the Eva manga might (might) be planned as a twelve-volume series in all. There is still plenty of room for speculation, as the slow working pace to which the artist himself often refers has of late become almost relativistic—as of this writing, it has been eight months since Sadamoto has drawn a new installment of Eva in Japan, and hence a Volume Ten is nowhere in sight. It may be small comfort, but those of you reading this are pretty much in the same drifting boat as the Japanese fans.

"An angel's love is sublime, adorable, divine, beyond the imagination of man—infinitely beyond it! But it is limited to his own august order. If it fell upon one of your race for only an instant, it would consume its object to ashes. No, we cannot love men but we can be harmlessly indifferent to them; we can also like them, sometimes."

—from The Mysterious Stranger

And with Book Nine we see the most staggering difference thus far between the manga and the anime; Sadamoto's Shinji doesn't even like Kaworu, much less love him. Of course, you could say the less-ethereal Kaworu of the manga is harder to love. I can't believe Sadamoto had him tell Rei he thought she'd be "heftier." And yet he did.

I don't think any A.T. Fields actually got penetrated in the anime; while I do think Shinji felt sexually attracted to Kaworu, and that you the audience are supposed to feel that he felt it, what Kaworu himself thought was a very different matter. Like Rei, I believe Kaworu to be innocent—coyly, he appears not to be so, because while Rei needed to be reached out to, Kaworu has come to reach out; whereas Rei has spent her existence being observed; Kaworu has come to observe.

Indeed, in the manga, Shinji's irritation about Kaworu's invasion of his personal space seems almost a parody of his attitude in the anime. In the TV show, when Kaworu put his hand on Shinji's, he flinched but did not pull away; whereas in the manga it's easy to imagine Shinji slugging him. Instead he goes to run after Rei, hoping to get closer to her again.

I hardly think the change reflects any phobia on Sadamoto's part (after all, we even get to see Shinji's "Unit One" in the manga), but the fact the manga Shinji is less emotionally bleak and empty, and hence less vulnerable. Shinji's just as negative in the manga, of course, but it's an active variety, rather than the passive negative creep (in the best Nirvana song sense) we know from the anime. We don't have to imagine him slugging Gendo; from the look of surprise on Dad's face in Book Seven he would have smacked the beard off his face if Kaji hadn't stopped him.

Neither is Shinji in a positive emotional situation where we leave him here, either; indeed at this point in the manga there's arguably no one he can turn to—the more brutal fate that befell Toji has cut him off from his school friends, Rei has become hesitant, Kaji is dead, and his perennial self-esteem booster Asuka is going to need to rebuild her internal supply before she can even get back to calling him a loser and idiot.

So, like Misato trying to put her own hand on Shinji's, all I can do for now while we wait for Sadamoto-sensei is to recommend for your winter vacation reading list The Mysterious Stranger, which I can almost guarantee will give you new angles to think about Kaworu, and may even earn you class credit besides. A quick look at the novel's comments on Amazon list a teacher who says fundamentalist students walked out of his class when he taught it; another compares it to The Matrix; those who dislike it call it "sick," "bitter," and "twisted." Sounds like good old Evangelion to me!

—Carl Gustav Horn

[a drawing of Kaworu holding a kitten]

Although The Mysterious Stranger can also be found in a number of print editions, including The Portable Mark Twain from Penguin (haw haw), the story, being from the days when mp3s came on shellacked cylinders, is legally available online at http://etext.lib.virginia.edu/toc/modeng/public/TwaMyst.html. The same site has a book called The Holy Bible, King James Version, which fans of Evangelion might also enjoy, although it's technically "Editor's Choice."

#eva #kaworu nagisa #idec if twain didn't write that shit #i'm all over this

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bellatrixobsessed1 · 4 years

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Goretober Day 22: Penance

Prompt: Extra Eyes Fandom: Avatar The Last Airbender Summary: Azula has visions of eternal punishment in the Spirit World.

She knows that she isn’t a good person, if she were, she would have nothing to fear. But she isn’t so she fears a lot and with good reason. She doesn’t quite remember the entirety of it, but she remembers how precise the bolt was. How powerful.Of course it was powerful, it was her to begin with. Just like her crown, Zuzu had stolen that and thrown it back at her.

She remembers pain and her heart racing much too quickly before it stopped altogether. She remembers blackness. When she wakes she knows that she isn’t truly so. She is in the spirit world, she can tell by the color of the sky. It is a red so deep that the comet’s skies don’t compare; a blood red, a sinister red. The red of suffering to come. And then the red fades into a sickly yellow-brown.

Her chest throbs, though it isn’t the pulse of life but a burning beat. With each thrum comes a new searing flare. She brings her fingers to her chest and finds a gaping cavity, black around the edges. This must be where the lightning had found its mark. It doesn’t yet register to her to be afraid. Her mind hasn’t caught up yet.

Azula realizes at a cool draft that she is naked. Naked and pale and--in comparison to the gnarled trees, boulders, and looming ancient shrines--small. She gets to her feet and her heart, dead and shriveling, falls to her feet. She staggers back with a small cry as things come together.

She is in the Spirit World. She is not alive. She has died. She is dead.

Her fingers atop her ailing chest. The pain, she realizes, won’t go away. It won’t heal. She is stuck with that burning hollow feeling. She bends to pick up her heart but she doesn’t know where it has gone. Tears sting the corners of her eyes and she takes a few shaky steps forward. It has to be around somewhere. It had only just fallen and it hadn’t fallen far.

She watches something snake around a tree; a silvery-grey eel creature. It coils around long-dead bark and stares at her with one glowing red eye.

“H-have you seen my heart?”

It’s mouth twists into a mocking smirk, sharp teeth gleam starkly against a muted backdrop. It knows. She knows that it does. It answers with a laugh as it sinks back into its tree. She wanders about, looking under rocks and in thick bushes but her heart is as missing as it had been in life. But she wants it now. She needs it now.

She sees several other spirits, each horrifying in their own right; a headless hog-monkey and a tall and stocky creature with muscles so dense that they threaten to rip the flesh surrounding them. There is a faceless thing that shudders and spasms on the ground as its body is eaten by fire and a creature made of teeth and brain. She finds several more twitching flaming creatures, before she comes to conclude that those were once people. Living people. Now dead and singed, flaming and screeching perpetually.

Azula feels sick but her body has no outlet for it. She shovels her fear back and tries posing the same question to each spirit and tortured soul that she comes by, “have you seen my heart.”

Only one answers, the brain creature, “you don’t have one. Never did. Not here and not on the other side.”

But she does. She did. She had felt it beating behind her ribcage.

“I want my heart back.”

“If you wanted it, you should have used it.” The brain says, its teeth quiver as it speaks.

Something in her says that the brain has taken it. That something stirs with discontent and an edge of anger that breaks through her far. “It’s my heart! Give it to me.” She ought not to made demands of spirits but she is entitled to her own heart, Zuzu had no right to blast it out of her.

“Very well.” It says calmly. “Follow me.” She should know better. On a more lucid day, she might have. But it is not a lucid day, she is terrified and her mind is not with her. So she follows the brain. It leads her to the edge of a pond. It looks like raspberry or strawberry jam or the innards of a cherry pie. “You want me to go in there?” She crinkles her nose.

“Oh no.” It replies. It wiggles and shifts and a vein bursts free, it extends and points to a smaller hole. “It is down there.”

Azula wanders towards the edge of the crater. It is terribly small. Even for her, it will be a tight squeeze, at least until she makes it to the bottom where it widens out. At the last minute she realizes that the brain probably intends on pushing her forward. She jolts at a motion that doesn’t happen.

“It’s in there.” The brain says again.

She musters up the courage to peer further in and she sees it. Her heart is down there. She shudders again and swallows. She isn’t sure that she will be able to fit into such a narrow crevice but really, what does it matter, she is already dead. She supposes there are worse fates than being wedged in a hole for all eternity. She sucks in her tummy and slips herself into the rocky space. It is uncomfortable and had her lungs any function, they would be screaming in protest. The rocks are jagged and draw scratches and scrapes upon her back and belly as heaves herself down.

Fear ripples through her mind when she finds herself chest deep and unable to go further. If her heart weren’t on the floor of this pit, it would be overwhelmed with dread. Her mind is. “I-I can’t…”

The brain hovers in front of her face. “You aren’t trying hard enough.”

“I am!”

“I guess that you don’t really want it.” It sounds curiously like her father.

“I do!”

“Then try harder.”

Tears burn in her eyes and she tries again, with more viciousness. She succeeds but the rocks shred her chest, opening the wound further. She feels a rock fall into the hole and find a home somewhere within her. And this is accompanied by her nose smacking against the wall and shattering. She screams and then screams again when her legs meet the floor of the pit and snap.

She lays there face down, tormented and bleeding, her hair spilling over her shoulders. Shoulders that tremble as she cries. She reaches for her heart but it is not there. She lifts herself up as much as she can and screams again. A cry born of suffering, loss, and irritation.

“What a good show.” The brain hovers above the pit. “Everyone is watching it.”

“What?” She manages through tears. The rocky wall opens up and something drops, it bounces off of her head and rolls to a stop. At first she thinks that it is a small rock and then it rolls again and looks at her. She only just comprehends it when more of them begin to fall.

Azula scrambles back as quickly as her broken legs permit. Her back meets the other end of the wall and she feels a squelch as one of the eyes ruptures upon her skin. She shudders. “Don’t leave me down here!” She shouts for the brain. “You can’t leave me down here, I’m princess…”

One of the eyes lands in her mouth and she spits it out, gagging and grimacing.

“I don’t even get a please.” The brain frowns.

There are so many eyes now, they bury her waist deep and she can’t stand up. She doesn’t know where all of these eyes are coming from, nor whose they are. But they all stare at her, they all judge her. They judge her for her weakness, for her nakedness, and for the hole in her chest. They look into her eyes and they judge her past and her soul. This is worse then them ogling her venerable body. The depth of them reaches her stomach and then they stop falling.

She still shivers, tears running down her cheeks. “At least let me have my heart.”

This time she gets no answer. The sea of eyes undulates, they shift and form a wave. She goes tense and rigid because she knows what is going to happen. The first onslaught of them force their way into the gaping wound in her chest. She finds herself twitching and writhing as they invade her from within. And when she is laying in a heap they close in around her, blanketing over her and pushing until they fuse with her.

Her screams grow into desperate shrikes as she tries to bat them off but her hands are already reduced to a cluster of eyes. Soon her whole body is a lumpy mass of them, all but her face. The eyes blink and flit about dumbly.

She wants to go home. She wants to escape. She wants to die…

She is already dead. There is no way out. Azula shouts again, but this sound is more like a sob than a scream. There’s no way out, there’s no way out, there’s… She hadn’t even a chance. She doesn’t think that she had one, anyhow. She wishes that she could have gotten a warning. Something that would have saved her or at least salvaged her before this…

“I want to go home.” She whispers to herself. Truthfully she would be okay with her soul simply winking out of existence entirely as though it had never been there to begin with. “I want to go home.”

She utters it again sounding smaller and smaller each time as days turn to weeks and weeks turn to months and months turn into centuries. Eventually she stops talking at all and simply lays there with her pain, with her shame, with her regrets. With those eyes blinking and bobbing upon her body.

Sometimes they show her things. They are always the worst things; her most humiliating moments, her most mournful. They show her her fears and replay the unsavory moments; her mother scolding her, her father reprimanding and abandoning her, Mai and TyLee leaving her. And they remind her of the things she has done, they show her the outcomes. In the beginning she thinks that she was able to feel remorse but then she just feels hollow.

Just when she thinks that her mind is growing numb and desensitizing, they add something new to the mix and she is whimpering all over again. She has long since abandoned hope for release.

She isn’t sure how many aeons have passed before the comes to linger over the pit again. Azula doesn’t say anything. She is beyond words and rational. Beyond repair. Even if she wasn’t she can’t imagine that there is anything to say. It might have said something, but she is too lost within the throes of unlife to comprehend or even hear.

When her lips finally do move it is more like muscle memory than anything produced by thought, “I want to go home. I just want to go home.”

The brain tosses something down to her. She doesn’t recognize it. She simply stares at it as it beats rhythmically. She puts her head back down and nuzzles it against the rocky floor.

“Take it.” The brain says.

She only reaches for it by impulse. Her fingers wrap around it but do little more. She doesn’t have the willpower nor reason to do much else. Other than let one or two more tears trickle down her cheeks. The eyes move her hand for her, Azula doesn’t resist their tug. A cluster of them roll out of her chest and make room for their companions to fix the object in place. It beats inside of her and she has the faintest impulse to feel relieved. Still, she can’t. She doesn’t feel much of anything anymore. Only fear, regret, and pain.

She closes her eyes and the rest of the eyes close too. She thinks that she has had them shut for a very long time. And when she opens them she is laying on the floor of the coronation square.

She feels terribly woozy and shaky. There is a burning around her chest. Her body still shakes and her ears are ringing. Through the ringing she hears Zuko ask, “she’s dead, isn’t she?”

“She was.”

“Was?”

“Only for a minute though.” Katara replies.

“You brought her back?”

“Just barely.”

And her vision goes black again.

Azula doesn’t say much for a very long time. She doesn’t really speak at all, she thinks that she has said maybe one or two things since they transferred her to the mental health facility nearly three months ago.

She overhears them telling Zuko that she is catatonic. She mostly just stares at her hands. She overhears them admit that they don’t know how to help her. That they can barely get her to eat or drink, much less move about and have discussions.

She doesn’t know how to help herself either. She doesn’t know how to process what she has seen, what she has felt, what she still feels when her dreams are particularly vivid or her hallucinations are hounding her.

She can’t seem to shake the oppressive feeling of dread. A sense of inevitable doom. She is scared. Scared to live and terrified to die. That is the only reason she doesn’t hassle them when they feed and hydrate her.

For the first time in ages, Azula feels the bed dip. “I take it you’re not doing so good?” Zuko asks.

She spares him a look but she thinks that she might be looking right through him. She swallows hard.

He takes her hand. “They say that you don’t talk at all.”

She doesn’t have anything to say. She can’t imagine that they’d understand or believe her.

“I guess that it makes sense. Not many other people have died before.” Zuko continues. “Which is why I brought Aang with me. He might understand.”

This pulls her out of her stupor for a moment. “I killed him.” Likely, it will be the only thing she says for several more months.

Zuko rubs the back of his head. “Uh...yeah.”

.oOo.

When she does finally begin to speak again, it is very soft and sparingly. Aang comes to visit several times and several months come to pass. He finally manages to coax her into conversation when he mentions that there’s a sinister side of the Spirit World. That he has seen it and that he knows what it can be like.

It is the first time she feels as though she isn’t truly insane. She doesn’t delve into the details, just that she knows that she needs to stay alive for as long as she can because she knows that suffering is the only thing that awaits her in death. She mentions the brain spirit and Aang seems to flinch.

“Yeah, that one is...it scares me and I didn’t even do anything wrong...I don’t think.”

She only nods.

“You don’t have to be afraid of dying.” Aang says. “It always happens one day.”

Her stomach lolls and she fights back tears.

“You can come with me and help me clean up. There’s still a lot of war damage in the Earth Kingdom. And the Southern Water Tribe needs help growing.” He continues, “you’re really powerful and smart and I think that you can do a lot of good for the world.”

“Good?”

“I know, confusing concept.” Toph crosses her arms.

“What’s she doing here?”

“You don’t really talk to me so I thought that maybe you’d talk to Toph.” Aang shrugs.

“Oh.”

.oOo.

She takes him up on his offer. She travels the world with he and Toph and then eventually just he alone after Toph’s declaration that she doesn’t ever want to go to a place where the temperature drops that low.

Azula doesn’t fancy it either but she is used to things that discomfort her. Mostly she has helped rebuild Ba Sing Se’s wall and other structures. Occasionally Aang would make an odd stop and she would help tend a garden or two or watch a hippo cow for a day. Small mundane tasks but the people always smile at her as though she has showered them with gold. She doesn’t understand, she isn’t that good of company. She isn’t good company at all. No one has the heart to tell her.

Heart. She clutches at her chest as she tries to sleep. Sometimes she remembers what it is like to not have a heart and she doesn’t sleep. She feels eyes all over her. She feels violated and helpless.

Aang usually holds her on those nights and she doesn’t push him away. Even then she still can’t bring herself to speak much during their travels. Every now and again when he exclaims, “look how beautiful that sunset is!” Or, “I’ve never seen a meadow that green!” She will nod and say, “yeah, it’s nice.”

She appreciates his attempts to cheer her but she hasn’t felt happy since her death. She isn’t sure that she is able to anymore. She only feels varying degrees fear and dismay.

One day they visit one of the first farms that she helped tend. They remember her and they do it with fondness rather than fear. Granted they remember her as the one with the sad and tired eyes. But they tell her that she had saved them from losing their farm and that--for some reason--their son likes her. She vaguely remembers him. She had gone through the motions of play with him. It was a pretend battle and she’d let him win.

She guesses that this is why he asks her to play soldier with him again. He is always smiling, always enthusiastic. He boldly declares that, “I’ve always wanted to fight a real fire nation soldier!”

She doesn’t have the heart to tell him that it’s better if he never has to. Instead she says, “I was a soldier.”

“Prove it!”

And she lowers her collar just enough to show him the edge of her scar.

His face lights up even further. “I beat a real soldier in battle!?”

She nods.

He beams up at her with more joy than she has ever seen on anyone. He startles her when he throws himself at her and wraps her up in a tight hug. That is the first time she felt something like happiness.

.oOo.

Azula still doesn’t say much but she smiles every now and again. Zuko and Aang, and the lot of them have come to accept that she is simply a silent person now. She wasn’t very loud to begin with.

Generally, she gets along with most people and most people don’t look at her with fear anymore. Typically they seem rather indifferent towards her, and she doesn’t particularly mind. As time progresses she comes to realize that people actually like to talk to her. She doesn’t know why at first.

They, most of the time strangers, walk up to her and just start talking. They tell her things; sad things, embarrassing things, what makes them angry or stressed. Once in a while they will tell her a funny or happy story and she will offer a simple, albeit awkward, congratulations. She doesn’t have to say anything at all and she finds that they usually prefer it that way.

She realizes that they like her because she listens. She listens and says nothing; no condescending advice, no judgement. Only subtle nods and someone to vent to. She is good at keeping secrets.

Azula gives them an ear to listen and they give her company. With so many stories and confessions in her mind, she doesn’t think too much of the Spirit World. When she does think of it, of that cruel brain and those horrible eyes, she falls apart. Aang knows exactly what she is thinking about and she will only talk to him. Because he already knows. He has already seen…

He cradles her in his arms and insists that it will be alright. That she is a good person and that she won’t have to worry about those spirits again. He hugs her and eventually, he kisses her. And then it comes out, all of the grisly details and all of the emotions that continuously afflict her.

She talks more after that.

And by forty years, she finds stability, normalcy. She continues to travel the world with Aang and when she is home she continues to let people dump stories and troubles on her. She visits the boy again and comes to know him as Bo-yuk, he is in his late teens now and she teaches him to fight.

By forty-five years she has established herself as a therapist and specializes with coaxing conversation out of those who had been written off as lost causes, out of the catatonic.

She doesn’t think about the brain spirit until she is well into her eighties. Aang had passed some twenty years before and she had taken to teaching the new Avatar to firebend. She picked up on it much quicker than Aang ever did. But those days had come to pass too, she had practiced her firebending well into old age but she had reached her limit at eighty-one.

Azula is tired, very much so. Katara is by her side and assures her that Zuko and Aang are both waiting and that she and Toph will probably be on their way soon. It is at the beginning of her final breath that she thinks about the brain and those eyes.

For a moment she is petrified. And when she wakes in the Spirit World she is tearful. And just as he always has, Aang takes her into his arms and promises that she will be okay.

#Avatar The Last Airbender #Azula #Aang #Azulaang #Goretober #Fanfiction

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thebiasrekkers · 4 years

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Fragmentation 0.3 - MYG

Plot: How does one measure freedom? Are our choices truly our own, or are they part of a preset design outside of our control? We all have a question burning inside of us, though few speak it out. It is the question that drives us forward, seeking purpose in our lives. What is The Matrix?

Rating: NC-17 // NSFW

Pairing: N/A

Warnings: Strong language, allusions to suicide, extreme angst, graphic violence

Links: FAQ || BTS Masterlist || Admin E’s AO3 || [ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ]

Word Count: 2,206

AN: Now it’s Yoongi’s time to shine. And that is an allusion to different things. I’ll let you decide what I’m talking about. As I stated before, all information in the universe can be found on the official Matrix Wiki so please use that as a reference guide if you ever get confused!

Tag List: @aroseforyoongi, @prisczero, @pinkpjmin, @btsaudge, @flowerwrites06, @unoriginal-username15432

© thebiasrekkers (Admin E). All rights reserved. Reposting/modifying our work is prohibited. Translations are not allowed. Plagiarism/stealing is not tolerated by any means. Legal action will be taken in instances of theft.

Heavy grunts of pain rang out in the storage shed. The distinct sound of something large hitting something soft echoed in the small space. A sliver of light pooled in through the foggy window, illuminating the particles of dust that lingered in the air. Every so often, something wet would hit the wall or the floor. Sometimes both.

“What’s the matter, Yoongi? Not gonna join in?”

A bat whisked through the air, coming down to land on a person’s back. They yelled out in agony, their fingers scraping across the dirt and concrete beneath them.

“Psh, whatever. You know he thinks he’s too good to get his hands dirty.”

A kick landed true, hitting the person straight in the ribs. They coughed, spittle and blood staining the floor.

“He’s not above watching, though.”

Min Yoongi’s face was as neutral as ever - giving away nothing. A cigarette was perched between his lips, the smoke billowing into his line of sight. He casually brushed at the sleeve of his school uniform, watching his fellow classmates pummel someone relentlessly with no real justification. Other than the kid was a scholarship student and didn’t come from actual money.

Yoongi didn’t have anything against him personally. As far as he was concerned, it didn’t really have anything to do with him. But he knew that if he didn’t at least participate in some form or fashion, his “friends” would open their stupid fucking mouths and tell their daddies how he didn’t “play nice” with his classmates. These entitled punks were the future of the world - deciding how and when and who would climb up in the ranks in society.

Money talked and the circles that existed within high society were suffocatingly small.

“This is stupid,” he muttered, standing from his chair. He crushed the ember of the cigarette out against the wall before flicking it off to the side. “I’m leaving.”

The three boys stopped their assault on the freshman, eyeballing Yoongi curiously. Curtis, the one who initiated this little event in the first place, cracked his neck as he turned to face him fully. The smirk on his face practically dripped “I am a pompous asshole”.

“Don’t have the stomach for it, Yoon?”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes as he leaned down to pick up his school bag. “No, I just don’t have time to play your bullshit games today.” Yoongi adjusted his jacket sleeve so he could look at his watch. “I have piano lessons in half an hour.”

He bumped his shoulder against Curtis’s chest, silently telling him he needed to get out of his way. The taller man did, stepping to the side so Yoongi could get to the door. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he pushed against it and exited the storage shed. The beating continued and he didn’t look back.

“Young Master,” a voice called out to him.

Yoongi looked up, noticing his family’s butler, Roland, as he stood beside the large black luxury car parked by the side street. He sighed, brushing some of his hair out of his eyes and then stepping toward the vehicle. Roland opened the door for him and without a single glance of acknowledgement, he flopped into the soft leather cushions of the backseat. The passenger side door opened and Roland entered, their driver pulling the car out to head for Yoongi’s next destination.

“Did you have a good day today, Young Master Yoongi?”

He shrugged, propping his elbow along the door to stare out of the window. “It’s whatever,” he replied nonchalantly, “same stupid boring shit day after day. What’s good about any of it?”

Roland cleared his throat some. “Tomorrow is always another day, Young Master.”

“Yes, Roland.” Yoongi closed his eyes. “Yes it is.”

Piano lessons went as they always did. Even when he was irritated, Yoongi always found a way to focus on the music. He didn’t even need to look at the sheet music anymore. He’d memorized everything in his practice books and took to adding his own variations to the music. Classic. Modern. None of it mattered. So long as he could let his body and mind disappear among the keys of ebony and ivory, then that was all he cared about. All he could will himself to care about.

As soon as the hour was over, Yoongi was forced to leave his small sanctuary. He bid his piano teacher farewell as Roland ushered him back out to the car. The next stop was Cram School. The moment of peace, his mental safe haven, was pulled from him as he was thrust into another suffocating atmosphere.

Once again, he was surrounded by the collective Elite - all born and bred for a purpose seemingly “greater” than themselves. A purpose that was determined before their conception; a purpose that wasn’t of their choosing.

It never was.

The real question was why? Why weren’t they able to choose? Who decided that choice was an illusion?

The professor droned on and on. Yoongi zoned out about halfway through the lecture, his wrist moving back and forth - scribbling notes that had nothing to do with the lesson. Honestly, he wanted to ditch cram school and head to a nearby arcade where he could waste hours mindlessly playing video games with random strangers. At least in that kind of atmosphere, he didn’t have to worry about being judged. Yoongi had no need for a plastic smile and false compliments. He could just be an ordinary teenager and maybe, just maybe, he would have been able to make a friend.

But that was a reality that was outside of the realm of possibility for him. Min Yoongi was the heir of a multi-million dollar corporation. Friendship? Purpose? Free of judgment?

That life was far outside of his reach.

“Mister Min.”

Yoongi blinked, his vision focusing back on his notebook. He slowly lifted his head up to see that his teacher and fellow classmates were all eyeballing him. Dropping his pencil, he straightened his posture, feeling the heaviness of their gazes weighing his chest down.

“Yes?”

“I asked if you would come up and solve this equation.” His teacher, Mr. Jameson, frowned as he set the dry erase marker down. “Are you feeling alright?”

There was a soft pounding at the back of his head, increasing the pressure behind his eyes. Yoongi pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to shake off the pain. But it steadily increased. He groaned, staggering to his feet.

“Actually, I think I need to go,” he murmured.

He reached down and scooped up his school bag, disregarding his notebook and pencil box that was still on his desk. A hand fell on his shoulder and Yoongi flung his arm out, knocking the person back roughly.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” His voice boomed through the room, silencing almost everything. For a split second, Yoongi thought he saw the lights flickering a shade of green. “...don’t put your hands on me.”

No one made a move to go after him. He preferred it that way. The pounding at the back of his head was increasing, followed by a distinct ringing sound bouncing around in his ear canals. Beads of sweat bubbled around his temples and dripped from the end of his nose. He ignored the stares of other students and faculty members of the Cram School as he stumbled his way toward the front entrance.

Rain fell in cascading waves, washing over Yoongi’s shoulders and soaking him through almost instantly. His eyes tried to spot where Roland was, but the black sedan was lost among so many other similarly styled vehicles in the area. As he turned to walk down the street, he felt his chest slam into someone. Stumbling back, Yoongi lost his footing and fell to the concrete, his bag slipping from his fingers.

Looking up through the rain, he saw three men clad in suits. Even in the dark, they wore sunglasses. He found it a little bizarre, but kept his comments to himself. Yoongi saw all three men crane their necks to look down at him simultaneously. They made no motion to help him back to his feet and he, in turn, didn’t move from the ground. There was something immensely foreboding about their presence, causing goosebumps to pepper out across the back of his neck.

“Young Master!”

Yoongi heard Roland’s voice, but he remained focused on the three men in front of him. They never took their eyes off of him and he did the same. A cold feeling snaked up his chest, freezing the inside of his lungs and throat. He couldn’t speak. He could barely breathe. The pounding in his head intensified, his vision swimming momentarily.

Everything came into sharp focus when he felt his body being yanked up violently. His ears quit ringing and he felt Roland clinging to him protectively. Yoongi’s feet moved at his butler’s insistence, ushering him to where the car was. But just before they were out of earshot, he heard one of the men speak.

“See you again, Mr. Min.”

Roland quickly opened the door and Yoongi hopped inside, his breathing coming in swift intervals. He felt his butler slide into the seat beside him, ordering the driver to make haste. As he did so, he rubbed soothing circles on Yoongi’s back. It did little to quell the raging thunder of his own heartbeat, but at least he could hear the water hitting the window from how fast they were driving in the storm.

“Young Master.”

The sound of Roland’s deep voice brought him out of whatever trance Yoongi was placed under. Blinking rapidly, he turned to look at the man that was with him since he was a child. The look on Roland’s face was different; an expression that he’d never seen before. Or was it that he simply hadn’t paid any attention until now?

It was kindness and empathy. Like he, in that moment, could truly understand what Yoongi was feeling.

“R-Roland,” he managed to stammer, his hands reaching out to grasp the sleeves of Roland’s jacket, “w-what is happening?” He coughed. “Who were those guys?”

“Bad men.” Roland’s brows furrowed. “Very bad men.”

“How do you know that?”

“That isn’t as important as what I’m about to tell you next.” He reached behind him, pressing a button on the back panel to raise the divider between the backseat and driver’s cabin. “Young Master, I’m afraid that you’ve been pinged.”

Yoongi felt a lump forming in his throat. “What?” His grip tightened on Roland’s arms. “What the hell does that even mean?!”

“Now that you’re on their radar, they will begin pursuing you. They want to make sure that you won’t be able to discover the truth.”

“What truth, Roland?!” Yoongi felt the adrenaline shredding through his veins. “You’re not making any sense!”

“I’m sorry, Young Master, but I don’t have a lot of time to explain everything in detail. I can only help show you the way.” Roland gently urged Yoongi to release his arms so that he could move them. He placed his hands on Yoongi’s shoulders. “The rest is up to you.”

“Roland…”

Suddenly, Roland reached down below the seat. When he pulled his hand back, he was holding an automatic hand pistol. What calm settled over Yoongi’s heart was instantly destroyed. Roland pressed the button on the back panel, lowering the divider between both sections of the vehicle.

“Wait, Roland...what are you doing?!”

The butler, the man who’d taken care of him for most of his life, smiled as he aimed the gun at the back of the driver’s head.

“Goodbye, my Young Master.”

He wasn’t fast enough to see what was about to happen. Even if he had, there was no way that Yoongi would have been prepared. The ear splitting crack of the gun firing off made him scream as blood sprayed across the windshield. His hearing was muffled and the ringing returned. Covering his ears was pointless, but he did it anyway.

Yoongi’s center of gravity shifted drastically as the car swerved. Tears streamed down his face as he saw Roland aiming the gun to his own head. The sound that erupted from his body was inhuman, like that of a beast crawling out from the depths of Hell itself. The second gunshot caused a flash of light to flare up in the small space as chunks of meat and bone exploded through the curtain of blood spray.

There wasn’t enough time for him to mourn. Everything shifted into darkness as strings of green numbers and letters took on the shapes of the vehicle, the driver, and Roland. The terror scratching over his entire body seemed to cease. For a few brief seconds, Yoongi forgot about the two corpses in his presence and how the vehicle was out of control. Reaching a hand out, he tried to touch the strings of code.

The shrill sound of a semi-truck’s horn brought him back to reality. As he turned his head, he was blinded by a set of headlights. They blared on continuously, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was inevitable.

Yoongi smiled seconds before impact.

“Welcome to the Real World.”

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lilaetleloup · 4 years

Text

the signs that point to a manipulator VIII

33. the devil hides in the details

Because the cleverest of manipulators, which are, incidentally, the most toxic of them, will talk positively ninety five percent of the time and hide the toxic bomb in the other five.

Some examples?

It's this Reiki master who told me I shouldn't feel fear because fear came in direct line from the one with horns, living underground.

Clever this, very clever.

He didn't say, as the five principles of Reiki advise though to "try today, not to worry", which keeps in mind the fact that human nature isn't perfect, that the most important is to try and that sometimes, it's just normal to feel fear. Or panic. An encounter with a crocodile comes to mind.

And we shouldn't feel ashamed for that, nor drowning in culpability but still try to keep fear at bay if we can the next day.

No, this Reiki master says "fear comes from the baaaaaaaaad one" with the hint that when you are afraid you are on an evil path.

Would you be, by chance, attracted by the dark side?

You also read this undercurrent in the intensity of the eyes this guy is now focusing on you, as if he were trying to look in the deepest part of your soul, looking for the ugly seed.

And so, naturally, you doubt yourself, you wonder if you are truly a good person, you stagger, you are afraid to fail, you are afraid to be scared and to confront your own shadow and you feel you need even more the strong hand of a spiritual guide to help you walk straight.

And this here, having you scared and co-dependent, is intentional.

There is also this famous motivational and well-being guru who declares that you are one hundred percent responsible for what's happening to you.

That NOTHING is happening in your life that you didn't wish there.

Luck hasn't any say. Nor God, for those who believe in him. Or destiny.

Or the help of other people, the support of your family, the financial advantage you had at birth, or the fact you are living in a democratic country... the list of exterior factors is just endless.

And yes, I definitely believe one should take responsibility for one's choices, and one's actions but also be humble enough to know that we don't control everything.

This guru has conveniently convinced enough people to now be a millionaire and I guess his ego is overjoyed to be able to claim the entirety of this success. It must have him believe he is truly a superior being.

Everything he has achieved, in his mind, is thanks to him and he should feel no gratitude, I guess, for the spouse who helped him build his career. He so deserved it.

But the hidden toxicity here, it as follows: if you are responsible for everything that happens to you, absolutely everything, and you haven't succeeded as you would have wished, if you are unhappily single, don't earn enough money, having a hard time, feel over-weighted... it's because you are a loser. It's one hundred percent on you. And you have to wake up.

And you need a lot of help... maybe the guru's help? Buy more books, go to more conferences, participate to more motivational groups?

Of course!

As if it were that easy for everyone. Especially in a world where there are more and more trump cards (pun intended) in the deck. When some people are under daily bombing. Or a child is being destroyed by toxic parents. Or a single parent is fighting each month to put food on the table...

But you can always trust a manipulator to lack empathy.

And the "if he is poor, it's because he made the choice" is an age-old argument for rich people to enjoy their arrogance and avidity, without being bothered by a conscience twitch.

With its self-congratulatory corollary: "I'm rich because I deserve it, other people are just too lazy."

So you should pay attention to details, because it's where the manipulator hides the toxicity.

Those details you don't notice, at first, because the rest of the discourse, roughly, has sense, and can motivate you.

Especially when injected with a good dose of artificial energy and the charisma of a con man. Especially when you feel lost and you need help.

But these details are dangerous. Because there are grenades that explode everything else and have you feel worse and more dependent.

So, to conclude this eight articles series: the manipulator is very simple, when you think about it.

And this is so, however clever he might be. Which can be a good deal, indeed.

Because it's a person who hasn't developed the quality one has to, to be a complete human being, with a heart, a conscience and a sense of responsibility.

He stopped his emotional development, often because of fear, or because of anger, some other times because of pride. In this last instance, the mix of cleverness and the entitlement of a high social status can be very dangerous.

Because a kid, contrary to the rosy picture, from the moment he discovers he is not the extension of his mother he thought he was, around two years old, encounters his ego and has a ferocious wish to assert himself.

Or, as someone I knew who didn't want kids told me: " a child is an never-ending capacity of expansion".

Which makes him closer to savagery than to the natural kindness Mister Rousseau was so fond of.

I guess it's all in favour of the survival of the species. But it is our duty, as parent, to have a kid stop gravitating around his navel.

Because magic is outside the ego circle, in the sharing, the generosity, everything that goes beyond and is larger than us.

The manipulator has remained stuck in a primitive way of life, in the jungle.

And he is proud of it!

He shouldn't be.

And civilization will have to be done in spite of him.

#stopmanipulators #forempath #empath #knowledgeispower #knowingthenarcissist #narcissist #tohelpyou

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cypher2 · 5 years

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THE MOST IMPORTANT MOMENTS IN WOMEN'S FOOTBALL HISTORY: PART ONE

Football is more than just a game. Over the last 150 years it has become a source of identity, conflict and debate for all who follow and play it. It has reached the furthest corners of the globe and boasts more players and supporters than any other sport. In this list, we will be going right the way through the illustrious, colourful and pioneering history of women's football. We will be looking closer at the teams, coaches and individuals who have overcome negative attitudes, antiquated misogynistic views and repressive social expectations to create an inclusive and popular game supported by millions around the world. Let's see which moments have shaped the game we love!

1. The First Women's Football Match (1881)

Victorian England is famous for a number of things - Dickens, Queen Victoria and Empire are just three examples from an inexhaustible supply of names and events which helped shape the modern Britain of today. However, perhaps one of the era's greatest achievements was in fact, 'sport'. Sport had always been around in some form - whether it be through 'real' tennis in medieval Europe or folk football played throughout the year, notably on Shrove Tuesday. What Victorian Britain brought however was a codification to these games and pastimes as rule books were written and more money was put into Lawn Tennis, Rugby and of course, Football.

It was 7th May, 1881 that women's football saw its first recorded match. The sides involved were (surprise, surprise) England and Scotland. Played at Easter Road in Edinburgh - the match was watched by a decent number of spectators (2000) - perhaps more out of curiosity than anything else. Despite this, newspapers from the time comment of the 'fair idea' some women had of the game. An article from the Edinburgh Evening News notes the final score as 3-0 to the Scots. Many of the women playing at Easter Road played under false names. The reason for the change of name was simple. Victorian Britain, despite its advances in technology and transport, still lacked any social equality. It was far too risky for these women to risk announcing their true identities.

Although seen as a novelty, the match was received with only small mutterings of disregard. It was not until a follow up game a week later that public reception turned more skeptical and unfortunately violent. The match, played in Glasgow saw spectators heckle and criticize the players, leading to them being chased from the field. The Nottingham Post stated that this match would probably be the 'first and last' of its kind. Furthermore, the article mentions frequent interruptions during the match, which the players ignored, playing on regardless. It was testament to the attitudes of women at this time - angered by the social misogyny which they had began to fight. In addition to this, it was to be an insight into the future of the women's game - as strong characters and pioneers fought for respect over the next century. A huge moment for football.

2. Public Perceptions of Women in Football (Victorian Era)

Although not a specific moment, we've included this to get across just what women and girls had to overcome in order to play the game they loved. Developing during the 'sporting revolution', it is hard to quantify just how many women took part in sport before 1901, but a quick trawl through the vast newspaper archives can give some indication. When it comes to gender and sport, the role of class plays an important part in determining who played which particular game. For example, lawn tennis was seen as a game more befitting of those in the upper middle-class bracket of society, as grace and skill were the most important aspects of such a game. Women were allowed to play tennis alongside men in the mixed doubles as the opportunity for flirtation as well as fun was seen as a major attraction.

Football on the other hand, was different. The game was taken up in huge numbers by the working class, as spectatorship rose and professionalism took centre stage. It was a game which required strength and leadership - two necessities according to Victorian literature, that were not befitting of a woman. However, this did not stop everyone - women had seen greater social freedoms towards the end of the nineteenth-century and playing or watching football could help many women to demonstrate this growing social equality on a larger scale. Of course, these 'social freedoms' were still a far cry to the modern equality, but sometimes even watching a game of football could promote such an issue. On the other hand, it was all too much for one journalist in 1893,

It would involve no great sacrifice, and be much more creditable to the sex, which is supposed to be all gentleness and sympathy and tenderness, if women would discontinue their attendance at football matches. It has been remarked late that more girls are seen on these occasions on the grounds, and that they apparently follow the game with great interest. Football may or may not be a " manly " sport, but it is certainly not one which women ought to take a pleasure in witnessing.[1]

This piece in the Hull Daily Mail perhaps encompassed the general feeling towards female participation in the sport. Sports Historian Matthew Taylor has written about the role played by women in football's infancy - stating that football was not exclusively male. Taylor further cites examples of female attendance in large numbers at Preston in 1885 and Leicester in 1899 as demonstrations of enthusiasm amongst women for the sport. For Taylor, the greatest example of this comes with the founding of the British Ladies football team in the 1890s.

3. Nettie Honeyball Places an Advert in the Papers (1894)

Although, as simple as an advert in the paper - what it provoked deserves to be mentioned in this list. The advert for the British Ladies Football Club, posted in The Graphic by player and 'secretary' Nettie Honeyball (it is debated whether this was her real name), was received by around thirty women. Upon their subsequent training sessions, the ladies improved and showed immense spirit and resolve, never shirking from a practice. For many, they would hope that the end of the century would bring more feminine freedom and the suffrage granted to women in New Zealand a year before was testament to a changing world.

The Star posted an article in January 1895 entitled, "The New Women". The article interviews the aforementioned Nettie Honeyball and alludes to the backing of the club from the wealthy Lady Florence Dixie, daughter of the Marquess of Queensbury. Dixie herself had long been an advocate of woman's rights and feminism - it is no surprise therefore, that she lent her support to Honeyball's cause. Honeyball explains to the reporter all about the club: stating facts about the training regime; the initial reaction of the female players and Lady Florence Dixie's choice for the sportswear. What is refreshing to see is Dixie's requirement for the players to wear practical clothing and specially made boots. According to Honeyball, Dixie's choices were in order for the women not to be 'ridiculed'. Furthermore, in relation to the style of football the British Ladies Football Club were to play - Honeyball is adamant that there will be no 'charging', "ours will be a game of science". The attention to detail from those organising the club is staggering and rarely written about. It shows us that women were fascinated by football, as much as men - a lesson we need to remember to this day.

4. British Ladies Football Club's First Game (1895)

Perhaps the most well known club of the Victorian women's football craze, The British Ladies Football Club is an example to a truly pioneering movement. It was in March 1895 that they would play their first game. Despite later than originally planned, the club played an exhibition match featuring players from the "North" against those from the "South". Both sides belonged to the BLFC and both had trained for a number of months. Honeyball notes that the members had been learning lessons from Millwall players via a blackboard and were knowledgeable to all the rules.

The game itself was greeted by a large number of spectators at the Crouch End Ground in Hornsey. Figures range from 10,000 to 12,000 attendees. The match itself was won 7-1 by the Northern side. Reaction to the match was generally negative, with the Yorkshire Post writing that the play was 'comical' and more suited to a house lawn than a public football ground. Further condemnation was found in other areas of the press as the Peterhead Sentinel writes a misogynistic account of the game. Despite commenting on the tremendous enthusiasm of the crowd and further stating that the attendance was far larger than any other match played there, it decides to focus far too much attention of what the players wore, rather than the actual game. It would be a reception which would hound the women's game for the next century, but in one afternoon in 1895, 22 women had changed the opinions of many. It was not just a football match they played at Crouch End, it was the start of something far bigger. A final article we found was from a 'lady correspondent' in the Lichfield Mercury. The correspondent writes positively of the play and the quality of the game, writing that any cries from the crowd were cries of encouragement. What it had shown to Honeyball, Dixie and the rest of the North and South teams was that they were just as capable as men. In a time of mass social division - they had done something incredible.

5. Emma Clarke (1895)

Women's football in the modern day is leading the way in terms of equality and equal opportunity. It retains a strong track record on race and LGBT+ issues. The British Ladies Football Club was about to break down Victorian barriers when it fielded one of the first black footballers in the country. Her name was Emma Clarke. Clarke had been a member of the Southern team which faced their Northern counterparts in March, 1895.

Clarke has left an impressive legacy. Unfortunately, it was not until recently that the true extent of her appearance was uncovered. Recent studies have revealed that newspapers from the 1890s comment on the play of a 'fleet footed dark girl'. Researcher, Stuart Gibbs has also revealed that Clarke's sisters played for the club at some point. Clarke had been brought up in Liverpool and came from a working-class background - for her to be playing football on such a large scale was something truly revolutionary, even if not appreciated at the time.

Clarke's appearance in this list was an easy one to choose. In recent years, much has been written about the pioneering efforts of black players such as Walter Tull, John Barnes and Cyril Regis, but little to that of Clarke. Of course, the impact on the British game of these players is truly remarkable, but this case adds something different. She was a black woman in a white man's world, a hidden figure of history who played her part in knocking down barriers and changing the perceptions of people across the nation.

#women's football #women in sport #women's football history #woso

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beyondthedreamline · 5 years

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You reblogged a post from my side blog about Thor! It made me happy because I’ve been following you for 2 years and I really respect your opinions. I was starting to doubt my righteous anger because I saw people say that those who didn’t like EG!Thor were fake fatphobic Ragnarok!Thor fans, no matter their reasons. I am glad to see we share the feeling of disappointment, even though I’m satisfied with Thor’s final development as a big bearded warrior and looking forward to the rest of his story.

Thankyou for that! I appreciated your post very much because itarticulated a couple of points that had bothered me a lot. ApparentlyI still have feelings on this subject, so be warned, you’re in fora bit of an essay now.

Firstoff, I care a lot about Thor as a character. I love Norse mythology,I love Douglas Adams’ The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul, Ilove nearly every iteration of Thor as a character that I have everencountered and I love him as a superhero. I enjoyed all of thestandalone Thor movies very much. I have more mixed feelings aboutthe Avengers ensemble movies, but there was no member of the team Iactively did not like and I kept up with most of their solo moviestoo, because I enjoy superhero films as a genre and because theMarvel universe is a very rich playing ground for a whole range ofstories.

Therewas a lot of emotional investment in these last two films –Infinity War and Endgame are the conclusion to years ofworld-building and character development, weaving in dozens ofbackstories and in jokes, all the hellos and goodbyes and moments ofcatharsis that we have been waiting on for years. That is a massive askof any storyteller and there were always going to be disappointments,because with the best will in the world there is no chance ofpleasing every viewer. And this is fandom; perfection is unachievable and disagreement isinevitable. The best we can do is handle disagreements with grace and respect one another’s perspectives.

All.That. Said.

Forme, Infinity War andEndgame failed pretty much everycharacter, one way or another. Other people have written eloquent posts on theway these storylines failed the female characters of the franchise,whose motivations are mostly subsumed by the wants and needs of themen around them. Gamora ismurdered by the man who abducted and abused her, but her death isframed as hissacrifice, a way to advance hisjourney. ClintBarton becomes a grief-driven vigilante serial killer in otherpeople’s countries, but he gets absolution and Natasha ‘red in myledger’ Romanoff dies the martyr’s death in his place. PeggyCarter, furious brave Peggy Carter, becomes a literal trophywife in a goddamn Gordion knot of time-travel nonsense. SteveRogers brought war onto thesoil of a peaceful and well-defended African nation and a whole armywas sent out to fight because he couldn’t face losing a friend, butat the very end he ditches every single friend he’s got in the 21stcentury in order to experience a white picket fence of a happy endingthat erases all of his character development since TheFirst Avenger.

Andthen there’s Thor. Over the course of his three solo movies, he’slost his mother, his father, his brother (multipletimes), his girlfriend (thankgoodness she’s still alive, but it looks like she got Darcy andEric in the break-up), his planet,most of his peopleand all peace of mind.Throughout that litany of suffering, he is kind. He is patient. Hegrows as a man and as a leader, listening to the knowledge of thepeople around him in order to make decisions that benefit everyone,not just himself. He isintelligent, though often underestimated even by those closest tohim. He is capableand resourceful and a friendto anyone who needs him, the very definition of what a superheroought to be.

I’mgoing to talk about schema here for a second. A schema is a cognitiveframework. It’s a psychology term referring to how we organiseinformation based on preconceived ideas. Stories shape perception,telling us what is good and what is bad, what can happen and whatcannot. There is a very narrow pre-existing framework defining what asuperhero can look likeand it’s a shock to the system when that gets challenged. I wasshocked by seeing a fat Thor, and I’m glad of it – it means I hadto think more criticallyabout my personal preconceptions. Thiscould have been a wonderful storyline,dealing with PTSD, bodyimage and negotiating self-perception in the wake of grief andregret. It could have been apositive portrayal of a fat superhero, which outside of maybe comics– which I don’t read and can’t speak for – is absolutely anew and needed thing. It could have offered a vital reminder that howa person’s worth and strength and skill is not bound to theirphysical appearance.

Itdid not do that.

Asyou pointed out in your post, Thor was turned into a sidekick. Morethan that, he was turned into ajoke that revolved around his weight and his trauma, like he was notentitled be anything other than brawn.While Tony Stark gotan emotionally charged reunion with his long-dead father, Thor’sdialogue with Frigga soundedlike a badfirst draft, a scene rushed through with no respect for eithercharacter. He calls her ‘mom’; she tells him to ‘eat a salad’.He walks straight past Loki, the brother he wept over time and again,who died under absurd narrative contrivance about five minutes ago byAsgardian standards. Steve Rogers wasallowed the time to starewistfully at a woman he once lovedbut Thor wasrushed through his own reunion like he waswasting everyone’s time by being sad.

Thoris not permitted to contribute to the narrative in any meaningfulway; where every other lead Avenger hits a beat, however dubious orminor, that establishes theirpurpose in the story, Thoraccomplishes nothing of significance in strategy, battleor reconstruction. The powerdisplayed in Ragnarok and,in a more hit-and-miss style, in Infinity War, isabsent in Endgame. Hissignature weapon is actually handed off to another Avenger. He’snot even allowed to remain a leader of his people. And, look, I loveValkyrie as a character, but she spent centuries as a boozed-upmercenary enslaving gladiators for a glam-rock despot and it took theactual apocalypse to get her to give a damn about the fate of Asgardagain, so the idea that Thor taking a few years off to grieve in away that only harmed himself somehow makes him unfit to rule is atruly staggering double standard. Instead of continuing his growth as a king, he gets shoehorned intosomeone else’s franchise to bicker pointlessly over who gets tomake any decisions at all. I don’t know if Chris Hemsworth is upfor making more movies with Marvel, but I do not trust them to give Thor ameaningful arc any more. Where can he go from here?

Thiswas not an ensemble movie – this was the last Iron Man movie, withCaptain America taking second billing and every other characterscrambling for scraps of narrative significance. Endgamemademe resent characters I usedto like. Italienated me from a series that used to be a source of comfort.It hurts. Not as muchas it did, because I’ve emotionally checked out of the MCU for now,but apart from any other consideration, that level of storytellingfailure offends me.

Iwill acknowledge that Thor’s hair was very good in the big battlesequence. That’s one of the few positive things I have to say aboutEndgame. Great braids.

Youknow what I’d have loved? I’d have loved Wakanda to offer asylumto Asgardian refugees and for a miniseries to revolve around theircross-cultural community building. Two advanced civilisations reelingin the wake of recent upheaval but working together to build a sharedfuture, and Wakanda actually getting something out of it for onceinstead of taking a hit on behalf of the Earth. Shuri would adoreAsgardian tech and she might get to ride a flying horse, whichshe deserves; T’challa andThor would have a lot of common ground what with the disappointingfather figures and modern warrior king lifestyle. Thorwould get heavily involved in agriculture and have fun playing crashdummy for Shuri’s wilder experiments. He’d arrange a travel visaso that Jane Foster could come and play with all that beautiful shinytechnology and they wouldn’t get back together but they would befriends, like they always were underneath the first glow ofattraction. Loki would be there, because to pretend he’ll stay deadat this point is just an insult to our collective intelligence, and he wouldimmediately imprint on Queen Ramonda like an extremely defensive,resentful and heavily-armed duckling.Valkyriemight get to talk through her complicated feelings about duty andbetrayal with the Dora Milaje, particularly Okoye, who couldempathiseafter the Wakandan royal family’s disastrous power struggle.Wakanda could send outintergalactic ambassadors, headed by Nakia, to start playing a rolein the wider universe. The other Avengers could visit sometimes, ifthey behaved themselves.

Soif you’re wondering where Thor goes next for me personally, that’sthe answer.

#asks #superheroes #thor #meta #endgame negativity #that turned into a rant and actually it feels really good to have channelled all my frustration into something approaching coherence #fatphobia #sexism #racism #storytelling

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kernelmeow · 6 years

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I see You | MCU

A Pietro x Reader One-shot - original post

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe

Characters: Pietro Maximoff/Quicksilver, Reader/Insert

Rating: G

Warnings: None

Synopsis: We are not always as others perceive us to be.

[…]

First impressions did not favour Pietro Maximoff. The demeanor of the new affiliated Avenger was frequently described as arrogant and of a ridged disposition. If it were not the pointed, hostile glares, or bored expressions of contempt projecting an sffect of belittlement on those who were unfortunately subjected, it was his undermining view of authority which he ensured to frequently display, either through snide comments or physically challenging his superiors – Clint Barton and Tony Stark most commonly subjected to Pietro’s taunting which inevitably resulted in their retaliation which Pietro so desperately sought.

Ultimately, as an addition to the elite superhero group, his inhuman abilities were his only candidacy and his character found wanting. With Captain America, the peak of human physiology; loyal and honour bound, and Black Widow; calculative and deceptive with a lethal skill set to match. Through their actions they exemplified the meaning of what it meant to be a superhero. In comparison, Pietro held no recognition nor was considered deserving of the same entitlement as his fellow teammate, of all whom had proven their worth while tirelessly saving the world from one threat to the next.

While the indestructibility that was Pietro and Wanda Maximoff’s sibling relationship did merit acknowledgment, it was not enough to reform the opinions of those who were unfortunate to interact with Pietro and from that singular moment, construct the persona that was associated with Pietro Maximoff.

And so in the weeks and months following his affiliation with ‘Earth’s Mightiest Hero’s’, Pietro’s perceived character was established and solidified by his teammates and S.H.I.E.L.D personnel. His behaviour alluded that he held but contempt for his peers. Some people would argue that he and Wanda only required a settling in period, uncomfortable in their new and strange environment such provoked such behaviour. However, as time worn on, it was evident that the Twins, Pietro in-particular, had no inclination of bettering their interactions with others. And people quickly became less forgiving, less tolerant and less understand. Perhaps with his contribution to the world-wide effort of maintaining peace, he may alter the opinions of others but it would be a slow and excruciating process. At first his presence was avoided if possible but now people were indifferent to his person; a roll of eyes at a snide comment or an irritated retort, sparking further hostility from him.

The day came which was of peculiar nature, this peculiarity being a particular person who had now come to be known by all, but it staggered everyone, drawing curious glances, that another besides Wanda could share the same space and interact with the elder Maximoff Twin without eliciting and being subjected to the variety of uncouth behaviour that most unjustly experienced. The particular person in question and source of gossip was you – because despite being the world’s leading division in planet wide security, S.H.I.E.L.D is comprised of humans and all manner of sophisticated training, skills and intellect wasn’t going to suppress the human desire to gossip (even though keeping secrets is what S.H.I.E.L.D supposedly did best) and add flavour to their days - because work and 'keeping secrets’ became mundane.

Walking shoulder to shoulder through the seemingly identical hallways, Pietro and yourself were often seen accompanying each other; whether it was between training sessions, eating in the refectory, or conversing casually, and by conversing, it meant you chattering away and Pietro, surprisingly replying in a civil manner. Astonishment struck all who witnessed Pietro smile, eyes soft and lidded, mouth either stretched in a smirk or corners of his lips upturned in a subtle yet genuine smile. All could not help but question: who were you that could possibly be the source of such a transformation? It was the answer everyone was itching to know – because S.H.I.E.L.D comprised itself of obtaining and retaining information.

You, however, were privy to the gossiping and all too aware of the curious glances your party drew and you were not in the slightest inclined to reveal the reasoning for your familiarity with each other. Not surprising, the most popular theory was that the pair were in-fact a couple, and how right they were, but they did not know that…well not just yet.

'Don’t judge a book by its cover.’ People regularly forgot this idiom and in the case of Pietro Maximoff, it applies. Yes, he was arrogant - no doubt - but he played on this characteristic, throwing people off his true character. He didn’t feel inclined to show his true self. And so, walking together with lunch on the agenda, the secret everyone so desperately wanted to know was displayed as a small smile that graced your lips, ignoring the stares that would normally draw your attention. For agents and trained members of S.H.I.E.L.D, they were truly oblivious to what was taking place right before them.

Today, Pietro sat across from you; food acquired and casually eaten as he grumbled about his grievance of the day. It would look like just two people enjoying a meal together. Nobody would notice the subtle but purposeful drawn out touches when one or another passed the salt or exchanged items across the table. For as much as Pietro repelled the closeness of others and preferred his personal space (only Wanda and now yourself, having privilege), Pietro was in-fact a physical person. At this stage he was not comfortable to outwardly display his affection so he compensated with sneaky or subtle caresses, unnoticed to all but you. Sometimes it would be unconsciousness action, others purposeful, gauging your reaction with a glint in his eyes as he watched you. His victory earned with every shudder, blush, or muttered retort and flicker of your eyes to met his. In turn, you weren’t prone to public displays of affection either, not considering yourself to be 'romantic’ in the typical sense as expected of the social norm that insisted, “These are the expected interactions and how one acts in a relationship.” But now and then you felt the need to express your regard, your attraction for his person. Whether it be a nudge of your shoulder against his, footsies under the table, or a sneaky swipe of your hand across his torso, brushing his ticklish sides.

On other occasions when he chose to sit beside you, opposed to across, his hand would disappear under the table, unseen. The first time it had happened, you had jerked, surprised by the action. His hand had rested atop your thigh, heat radiating through the touch. It’s presence never exceeded any higher, remaining comfortable in-place. You sneaked a glance at him, expecting a smile to await you but instead he continued playing with his food, awaiting you to continue your usual chatter that his hand had abruptly halted. Despite the surprise, it was not at all unwelcome.

Following occasions, it was expected, not surprising you as it had the first. His hand would alternate between ghosting his finger tips along your clothed leg, caressing his thumb in small circles or even just stationary, maintaining the physical connection you knew he wished to establish despite the crowded room. There were times when you would meet his hand, hidden away under the table. Sometimes interlacing your fingers with his, or stroking the back of his hand, the act without thought, coming naturally and with ease.

Training sessions allowed Pietro further opportunities, because physical contact was unavoidable and to a degree, encouraged. It was all the more tantalising, especially if it were one vs one or group vs group and conveniently – for him – you found yourselves on opposing sides. His inscrutable stare as if a predator were eying their prey, penetrative and unwavering. It was an unfair advantage for the opposite team who had to contend with his ridiculous inhuman speed, but his arrogance proved to be his undoing - more times than he cared to admit. These moments were thrilling for him. While he aimed to not solely target you, on calculated occasions, you would find yourself knocked to the floor, the momentary, suffocating effect of the air expelled from your lungs at the sudden and forceful action. Orientating at last, he would be above you grinning, a huff of laughter at having once again caught you unawares. He was allowed these moments of falsified triumph, for it was not all too difficult to counter him. But every-time, with such tentative care, he would help you to your feet, his touch lingering as he ensured you were alright. These moments are broken as you shove him away playfully, a comment of the retribution that awaits him for the tackle.

What Wanda and yourself knew, was that Pietro was in fact a physical person. To elaborate, for him, physical expression was easier, as seen on a day to day basis. Words often didn’t adequately described how he felt or thought, frequently having difficulties with word retrieval -more so in English. So behind closed doors with no eyes to judge or wonder, he wouldn’t hold back, his suppressed self free to demonstrate his feelings and all that he couldn’t say. Those daily, subtle brushes now hungry and wanting, his mouth devouring, hot breath upon your flushed skin. All that he wanted to say was expressed unquestionably in your moments alone.

First impressions didn’t favour Pietro Maximoff, however, lasting impressions just might. More who saw the both of you in each others company couldn’t deny the inevitable change – albeit a change it was not, only that in the right company he was more his true self and none could doubt your influence, no matter what it was. It was only proof to others that there must be more to the Maximoff Twin; something to be desired, something of value, something perhaps, worth the acknowledgment of his peers, that only Wanda and yourself had the privilege to see. It would take time for them to realise and take time for Pietro to withdraw from his constructed shell, but as the idiom goes: good things come in time.

[…]

I forgot this existed! I have to thank the @risika77 for her kind comment and reminding about this forgotten piece.

I made minor edits but ultimately it is as it was posted 3 years ago.

#pietro x reader #peitro maximoff #mcu fanfiction #fluff #kernelmeows fanfiction

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illustratedvancouver · 5 years

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I’ve always wanted to cover the legacy of Fraser Wilson with more depth, and I’ve never been able to crack the case. I recently learned of The Fraser Wilson Collection at heritageburnaby.ca. Fraser Wilson was one of the founding members of the Burnaby Historical Society, and his role establishing the society was covered in the media last fall when the society disbanded:

Created in 1957, the Burnaby Historical Society was the brainchild of Barry Mather, a columnist for the Vancouver Sun and Province newspapers. In the summer of '57 he phoned his friend Fraser Wilson, a Sun cartoonist, to suggest they form a Burnaby historical society.

There’s precious little about Fraser Wilson on the Interwebs, so here’s the best overview we’ve got from the Fraser Wilson chapter in the book Pioneer Tales of Burnaby which can be read online here:

Although Fraser Wilson was born and raised in the Grandview district of Vancouver and was not to move to Burnaby until he had reached adulthood, his kin was connected to the municipality in what surely must have been its most critical years. The municipality was not even a municipality, in fact, when various relatives of his arrived in 1891 to help build the rail line which was to become the B.C. Electric Railway Co.'s Central Park interurban. It was this interurban, the super-efficient transportation system with the folksy touch, which hastened incorporation of Burnaby as a municipality on Sept. 24, 1892. The original single line, opened in late 1891, was double tracked 20 years later for even greater capacity. The BCER, which inherited the line from the bankrupt Westminster & Vancouver Tramway Co., did indeed encourage and abet the development of the rural municipality by offering so-called settlers' tickets for years. They cost $3.50 for 50 rides and entitled the rider to transfer onto the street car system. The BCER did not feature this special for wholly altruistic reasons, granted, but more to help fill the company coffers. A well-populated municipality was insurance for a healthy bottom line, especially after a second interurban was built along the south side of Burnaby Lake. Greater ridership, in turn, would utilize more electricity produced by the company's new hydro-electric projects at Buntzen Lake and Stave Falls. Fraser Wilson's grand-uncle, Roderick Sample, was the road foreman during construction of the Central Park interurban and was named its first roadmaster in 1897. The BCER later promoted him to track inspector. He cut an impressive figure what with his six-foot-plus height and magnificent white beard. Mr. Sample also built a 15-room boarding house beside the Westminster & Vancouver Tramway Co.'s steam power house and car barn on Griffiths near Kingsway. The company had decided at the last minute to use electricity over horses to mobilize the interurban trams. The boarding house was run single handedly at first by Mr. Sample's wife, Minnie, who soon summoned her widowed sister, Catherine McRae, from Everett, Wash. So Mrs. McRae arrived in Burnaby with her daughter, Alexandra, who was called Allie; she would become Mr. Wilson's mother. The boarding house was the centre of both social and business activity for the Westminster & Vancouver Tramway Co. and its successor, the BCER. Gandy dancers, many of them Chinese, would eat their lunch on the veranda on rainy days. Adney James Wilson, called Ab, started with the BCER as a machinist in 1898. An ingenious man who had a number of inventions to his credit, he became BCER inspector of rolling stock in 1916. He established the company's original medical insurance plan. Ab Wilson married Allie McRae, the newly-weds moving into a house at 1648 Graveley Street in east Vancouver. Here their son, Fraser, was born and raised; his interest in the BCER, avid to this day, was understandably instilled in him at an early age. The Wilson family connection with the BCER goes even further. The grandly named Eli Egriphan Sampson Joseph Jeffrey Maneer, his cousin Eli, was a gifted sign writer who designed the gold leaf script used on all BCER street cars, trams and freight rolling stock. Cousin Eli, who talked with a decided stutter, also applied the numbers and logos by hand. Fraser Wilson and other children in the family delighted in chanting Cousin Eli's name over and over; he can do so without hesitation today. Mr. Wilson learned the skills of sign writing from Cousin Eli and continues in the business as an octogenarian. Some years ago, Mr. Wilson painted a portrait of Robert Burnaby and donated it to Burnaby; it still hangs in a place of honor at Municipal Hall. As a postscript to his story, Mr. Wilson points out that many historians, those from the B.C. Electric Co. included, have misspelled his grand-uncle's name as Semple. He thinks the error can be traced to Roderick Sample's signature in which the 'a' can easily be mistaken for an 'e'.

"I was born in Vancouver in 1905, growing up in the Grandview area right next to Burnaby. But it wasn't until 1944 that I actually moved there. Many members of our family, though, including my father Adney Wilson, were connected in some way with the interurban which ran through Burnaby. Dad became a working machinist for the B.C. Electric Railway in 1898, and was promoted to rolling stock inspector in 1916. He started the Medical Attendance Association, which was like an insurance plan. Father was also an inventor but never marketed his inventions. He did hold the patent, however, for a device which elevated a platform for a truck or wagon, inventing it before the First World War. He also invented a draftsman's rotating table and a roller coaster which used man power rather than machine power. My mother, Alexandra McRae Wilson, was one of the first switchboard operators for the B.C. Telephone Co. Around 1891 when the Central Park interurban was being built, my great-aunt Minnie Sample and grand-uncle Roderick Sample - their name has incorrectly been spelled Semple by some - built a 15-room boarding house beside the B.C. Electric Company's power house and car barn on Griffiths Avenue close to Kingsway. Roderick Sample was the interurban's first roadmaster in 1897, and later became track inspector for the BCER. The boarding house was used by the personnel of the B.C. Electric Railway, and was often the site of various meetings. It lasted only as long as the construction of the Central Park line did, closing in 1902. When the boarding house became too much for Aunt Minnie to handle all by herself, she sent for her widowed sister, Mrs. McRae, who came to Canada from Everett, Wash. with her daughter. The daughter, Alexandra, was to become my mother. Many of the gandy dancers, or railroad construction workers, were Chinese who had worked on the Canadian Pacific Railway. Aunt Minnie had them eat lunch on the veranda of the boarding house when the weather was poor. She and my grandmother would put out towels, soap and bowls of water so the workers could wash up. One particular morning, Grandmother was leaning against the door when the Chinese workers were filing onto the front porch. Just for some conversation, she said to one of them: 'Heap lainy day today, eh, John?' The young man replied: 'Yes, ma'am, it sure is an inclement morning.' Well, she never spoke pidgin English to them again. Out of the 50 or 60 Chinese men, the one she had spoken to had been born in Victoria. His name was Cumyow, and he was working there only so he could earn his tuition fees at Victoria College. He later became a lawyer in Vancouver. I would often visit my dad in the car barns. What could well have become my last visit there was the time I climbed into the cab of an electrical locomotive and touched the controls, causing the engine to move backwards. In a few moments the coupler broke, so through the barn door I went, a motorman for the B.C. Electric Railway for all of two minutes. It was a thrilling moment for me whenever I could ride at the front of a street car with my dad. My parents were quite keen on lacrosse games, so we often rode through Burnaby on our way to a game in New Westminster. We'd sit on benches on a flat car which was pulled by the tram to Queens Park. Sometimes, we'd visit a family by the name of Cleghorn; they lived on Jubilee Avenue in Burnaby, just north of Jubilee Station. At that time, Burnaby was a small group of stores and houses on Kingsway, with another such grouping on East Hastings. The population was perhaps 500 or 600 until the 1920s, concentrated mainly in the corners but not at the centre. Burnaby had a ward system with the administration over in Edmonds. My cousin, who taught me the trade of sign writing, was a very interesting man. Cousin Eli had a decided stutter, and on Sunday afternoons, his visit with us would begin with 'h-h-h-hello' and end with 'g-g-g-got to go'. During his visit, he would light up his pipe and nod his head at the comments made by my father. His name was about the only thing he could say without a stutter or stammer. That was some feat in itself, because his full name was Eli Egriphan Nimrod Sampson Joseph Jeffrey Maneer. Eli himself not only liked telling people what his full name was, but got some pleasure out of us chanting it over and over again. Cousin Eli enjoyed hearing it, and we enjoyed saying it. Eli Maneer was a fine craftsman, and had developed the familiar and distinctive script used in the B.C. Electric insignia. He numbered and applied the BCER signs on all the street cars by hand in gold leaf. The growth of Burnaby, even the relatively little I've seen, has truly been staggering. From such a small farming community to a flourishing residential area - the progress has been magnificent."

If you ever come across more info about Fraser Wilson, or find more original signed artwork by the cartoonist, please let me know!

#Fraser Wilson #cartoon

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soyeahso · 6 years

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Review: The Last Black Unicorn

Content warnings for discussion of ableism, physical abuse and child sexual abuse.

Near the end of The Last Black Unicorn, Tiffany Haddish writes, “I didn’t start out with the intention of writing about all this painful stuff. I just wanted to write a funny book.”

I didn’t go into this expecting a merely funny book, considering what I knew about her upbringing, about what it’s like to be a black woman, about what it’s like to be a black woman in comedy. But I didn’t expect to have moments where i had to put down the book just to have a moment to take in not just what Haddish has weathered, but that she weathered so much and came out on the other side with a belief that life is still beautiful and worth it.

And that’s not to put her in the category of “good survivor.” That whole concept is bullshit. She’s also very open about how her experiences have fucked her up, how she continues to make bad decisions sometimes, about her anger.

In a more or less linear fashion, she tells her life story in a series of essays, hitting on her life in the foster system, living with her grandmother, the accident that left her mother unable to care for her children, her functional illiteracy (which wasn’t recognized until she was in the 9th grade), how she got started in comedy, troubles with romantic relationships, troubles with her father, and how life has changed since Girls Trip.

It’s absolutely harrowing at times, like the section on her marriage to an abusive man.She breaks down with staggering honesty the reasons she ignored or didn’t recognize the warning signs, why she stayed, and the catalyst for her finally breaking free.

It’s heartbreaking, when she talks about the longing she had for a relationship with her father. How she didn’t know she’d been sexually abused by the father of one of her foster mothers until a friend pointed it out to her years later. (Which brings up a really good point about how we don’t teach children to recognize abusive behavior that they don’t find threatening at the time.)

But it’s also laugh out loud hilarious at times, and her voice shines through in every words. Some highlights are her interactions with Jada Pinkett-Smith, and her revenge on a fuckboy ex-boyfriend she calls “Titus.” Her introduction to performing via “energy producing” at bar mitzvahs. The joy with which she talks about performing as her safe

The low point, for me, is the chapter entitled “Roscoe the Handicapped Angel.” I get that the intent is to laugh at herself for her misconceptions about disabled people and the follies of her youth, but I still cringed at how she imitated “Roscoe’s” speech patterns in text, all for the sake of a later punchline about how he spoke “normally” briefly after they had sex. I understand this chapter may be a deal breaker for some people, but you can also skip it completely without affecting the overall narrative.

Overall, people of the “bootstrap” mentality may try to use her story as an indication that even a poor, abused, black girl from the foster system can make something of herself. But people don’t pull themselves up on their own. There were people that cared. The drama teacher who noticed she couldn’t read and took time out of her day to help teach her. The people at the Laugh Factory Comedy Camp and all the comedians who mentored her. The judge who took a moment to listen to a fifteen year old ward of the state who needed permission from the court to be featured on the news. Her grandmother, who took Tiffany and her siblings in. What stuck out to me, over and over, despite the fact that yes, Tiffany Haddish worked damned hard despite a million obstacles to get where she is, was that she was never truly alone in it.

#tiffany haddish #book review #the last black unicorn

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mybumpbirthandbeyond · 2 years

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A New Start

It’s maybe misleading to entitle this blog post as a new start. When the New Year comes, nothing will change for me. I will work as hard in 2022 as I have in 2021; even harder if it’s remotely possible, because there is now a timer on. I will have the next milestones to work to next year and I want to achieve as much as possible in the time that I have left.

I think about my diastasis 24/7, every minute of the day, because it affects everything. I see it in the mirror, in the clothes I can’t wear, when my son asks about it or pokes it, the looks and the comments that I get. There is no escaping it and that’s fine. I deal with it like I deal with everything else that happens in my life: head on.

It’s been a tough year which is why I’m looking forward to the reset of the new year. The highlight is without doubt the safe arrival of my daughter. However, my maternity leave has not been the most enjoyable and I’m looking forward to it ending in a week. I’ve been let down by people and found I can rely on very few outside the four walls of my home. But that’s fine - I’ve never needed a large group of friends. I don’t need people the same way others do.

I underestimated experiencing this for the second time. I had no idea what to expect the first time around and was blindsided. I resolved this time that it would be different. Whilst it was in the physical sense, I underestimated the mental side. Just because I went through it once, did not mean I had a handle on it the second time. I knew what was coming and I still couldn’t prevent it from overwhelming me at times. This is a physical condition, and yet the mental toll it takes at times, is staggering. And nobody gets it. Unless you’re in this position - and really in this position - you can’t understand. You can’t know how it feels and that is really isolating for those of us experiencing it. It is frustrating, upsetting and suffocating all at once. You feel like screaming, but you have no voice. It’s like it’s been strangled out of you because there’s no one there to hear it.

The next best thing, is at least having someone who gets you. My husband gets a bit of a ribbing from me at times: it’s not easy taking criticism from someone that close to you and someone as competitive, if not more competitive, than I am. But he sees what I’m going through and knows how it makes me feel. He also sees the work I put in day in, day out. He knows when I’m feeling insecure about it and he knows when it’s overwhelming my thoughts. He gets why I want to withdraw from any and all social events. He knows why I hate anything that involves wearing anything other than gym clothes. He has been, and continues to be, my rock through all of this. I joke he’s ‘the coach’, but he’s also my teammate through all of this. He’s the hands of my physios in the majority of my consults and he offers unwavering support 24/7. He is the one who constantly tells me how proud he is of me for everything.

Even at my lowest points however, and when I was taking a break from sharing my journey, I’ve been absolutely speechless and truly humbled by the support I’ve had from people I don’t even know. It’s a vulnerable place sharing everything publicly - the good and the bad. Sometimes I feel like it’s tumbleweed - putting everything out there and getting nothing back or little engagement and you start to question is it even worth it. Does it even reach anyone? Is it any use to anyone? Does it actually help or is it just an echo? I’ve considered stopping and sharing nothing going forward a few times this year. But each time I’ve reached that point, I’ve received a message from someone telling me how much seeing my story has helped them deal with their diastasis. I won’t be like this forever and though it doesn’t seem like it, it is a relatively short period in my life. What I’ve documented will be something I can look back on to remind myself that I am resilient, and no matter how many times I fall, I always get back up again. If that helps someone else along the way; if people continue to find hope in that; that is more than I could have ever imagined, and more than I could ever hope for.

I received a message after I posted my crap attempts at a squat snatch. I was improving by the end, but that did nothing to lessen the frustration of not getting it right. The person told me of their experience which was varied and vast. They also told me that I would get it at some point because of my ability to consistently chip away at things. They called it my ‘superpower.’ I don’t know about that, but I certainly appreciated the reminder that consistency is the thing that has got me this far.

Though I’m only a month in, CrossFit has been a godsend. I should have joined CrossFit a long time ago. This has been in the background for much longer than this year and even from a short 121 before I joined a class, it was clear it was the perfect fit. I push myself hard and when I don’t think I can push myself any more, I still find the will to push even harder. I’m glad I was as strong as I was when I joined. It is a truly humbling sport and has really challenged my view of what strength is. I would have been embarrassed if I wasn’t at the point I’m now at when I joined.

I made 3 ambitious goals at the start of rehab this time. I’ve achieved 1 so far. 1 is part of CrossFit anyway. Now I’ve joined CrossFit, I have waaaaay more goals. I want to be able to do everything and to do it yesterday. Antony told me if I’m doing CrossFit I should compete - it’s part of the sport and the community. I told him I fully intend to when the time is right: but if I’m going to compete, I’m going to compete - I’m not going to make up the numbers and I want to give a good account of myself. I want to give it 100% and know the capabilities are there to back up the work ethic. Who knows, maybe I’ll even achieve that next year. I’m sure there aren’t many people in my position who join a CrossFit gym for the first time. Most are probably already crossfitters who make their way back. But that’s maybe what makes me different. Or a ‘unicorn’ as my husband says.

I don’t make promises I can’t keep. I don’t usually make New Year’s resolutions either. But this year I’ll make an exception. I will be fitter, faster and stronger in 2022. I’ll be stronger than I ever have been. I will commit to continue busting as many myths about diastasis as I can, by being an example of someone who can do more. And that’s a promise.

#mybumpbirthandbeyond #diastasisrecti #postpartumrecovery #pelvichealthphysio #pelvichealth #CrossFit #postpartumbody

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margaretbeagle · 3 years

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When Taking Fridays Off Can Help Our Team Get More Done: An AMA on the 4-Day Work Week

Since we first kicked off a 4-day work week in May 2020, people have had a lot of questions about it. What day are we taking off? How long will we continue this practice? Is everyone really working four-days a week or are some people working more? Some of the answers to these questions have changed over the last few months, and I’m sure some will continue to change and evolve as we learn more about operating within a four-day work week. A little while ago, I decided to answer questions about our four-day work week policy on Twitter, and I got a fantastic response. I’ve included a high-level recap in this post, but feel free to check out the whole thread if you’d like to see every reply. Without further ado, here are some of the questions I got about the four-day work week organized into a few top categories, along with my replies and those of Caryn Hubbard, our VP of Finance, and Åsa Nystrom, our VP of Customer Advocacy, who contributed to several answers.

Why a 4-day work week?

Pranay asked: Why did it take a pandemic to implement it and why is a 4 day work week matter - cant it just be about the work itself instead of timing it? We've thought about it for years, and I have a fundamental belief that 5-day workweeks aren't necessarily optimal. The pandemic meant added stress for all of us, especially for the parents in the team. I wanted to get through it with the team, mentally, in the best position. I believe that many businesses that are squeezing every last drop they can get out of their companies in terms of profit, productivity, etc. suddenly ran into issues in the pandemic. Growth goals to hit and no profit margin, meant layoffs for many companies. And when you make layoffs, you erode trust significantly with your team. That can take years to build back. I wanted to build trust with my team through the pandemic. This was one of the best ways that I thought to do it.

How does it work?

Niel asked: Does everyone take the same day off? Or is it up to the individual? Or is it based on teams? Or something more nuanced? In the beginning, we experimented with teams deciding the day, but knowing which day and having adequate time for cross-team collaboration was a challenge. Frankly it felt quite chaotic. Now, we do Fridays other than Customer Advocacy which rotate the day. Shubham asked: Which 4 days of the week do you work? M - TH or Tu - Fr or something else? Do you find that the team tries to fit in 5 days of work in 4? For the majority of the team, we do M - TH. In the beginning I tried Wednesdays as my day off, and enjoyed that but I prefer Fridays now. 3-day weekends are very powerful. I think overall, the team tries to work smarter. Perhaps trying to fit 4.5 days into 4. David asked: woah didn't know you were doing this - love it what would your reasons be for going back to 5 day? The reasons would likely be not achieving our goals, which would be sad because I fundamentally don't believe it's putting in hours that will get us there. And, one key thing is that over time, we've realized that 4-days should feel like a privilege, not entitled. So, if you get your tasks and goals for the week done, awesome - take that day off. If you didn't quite do enough for us to reach our goals, spend part of Friday working. Scott asked: Doing a 4, 10’s type of deal? Or not tracking exact hours, rather output and movement? Not tracking exact hours, and more focus on tracking output. The goal is to achieve the same if not more, in less overall hours worked (more along the lines of 4 8's). Gaya asked: That’s awesome! Hopefully more companies will follow to normalise this. Q: Did the salaries stay the same? I know people who are holding back from working less because of decrease in pay No change to salaries at Buffer with our 4-day workweeks. It's less hours for the same pay. I don't believe in same hours in less days, because for me 4-day workweeks are really about a more fundamental belief that hours worked are not correlated with results. Stone asked: Love that you did this! Do you build in any deep work/no meetings time as well? Do you think the pandemic was needed for the transition/will you keep@it when offices reopen? How confident are you that people aren’t working longer 4 days or actually taking Friday off? For many years we've had discussions and focus on deep work, and many teams have a day with no meetings. I don't think the pandemic was needed to do it, but it was a motivator. I'm confident we'll keep at it after, too. We're already 100% remote so no actual offices. I'm confident in most cases people are taking the Friday off. That said, we also don't actively discourage working a little on Friday, if the team member feels that is needed to achieve our goals. We have big ambitions for what we can do for customers *and* innovating culture.

How do specific teams and teammates manage a 4-day work week?

Dwija asked: Do you have mothers working as full time employees? If working hours of those 4 days increase - how do they manage? I know it depends on them but just curious. Females are taking a hit - BIG TIME in Covid. ( For example: Yours truly) From Caryn: We have many mothers and fathers at Buffer. Our shift to the flexibility of a 4 day workweek has been one of the most key things keeping my family of 5 healthy & safe this past year. The trust & flexibility to work the schedule that works for me & my family is everything. From Joel: To add to the great insights Caryn shared, our decision to try a 4DWW was very much with parents in mind. Working hours haven't increased. We work hard as a team to strive to achieve our goals without regularly working more hours. More here. Mark asked: Does customer support participate in the 4-day week? If so, how do you stagger hours / meet customer expectations? Yes, they do, but we still want to serve customers to the same high level. Over time, we've tweaked our 4-day workweek to drive us to push ourselves in the 4-days and feel like we've really earned that day off, not entitled to it. Our customer support team is the one team that switches up the day off in order to make sure we maintain coverage for customers. Stefan asked: Are the customer-facing teams doing 4-day work weeks as well? If so, are they all off on Fridays? If so, are customers’ emails/calls not answered till Monday? No, we have to take a slightly more unique approach in our customer service team. We're fully committed to providing world-class service, and we know the world works M-F (and even weekends). The specific day is different per team member, so more of a relay in that team. Have y’all had any issues with a handoff from one team member to another in this relay system? From Åsa: Jumping in to help with this q. No issues! We work in four-day blocks and use an assigned inbox flow to keep consistency in our customer communications. Our team covers most of the globe and are in constant communication across the week to keep on top of issues etc. Jean asked: Do you have a strong customer support team in terms of number of people? Are you also applying this formula to tech team? Our customer support team is 21 people out of 85. All teams adopt the 4-day workweek, but we also have goals we strive for and we see the 5th day as something earned not entitled. Mercer followed up with: Does that mean that your support team doesn’t always get the same time off? How do you strive to protect the time of your customer-facing teams (who so frequently don’t get the same blessings as the other teams around them)? It's not necessarily that different for our support team, but it's often more measurable for a support team. So we aim to be mindful of that. But we also have engineering teams that will work the 5th day if they don't feel on track. Most teams work 4-days now. From Åsa: Everyone on the CS team works a 4-day block & has the same days off every week to make sure we have the same ability to disengage and recharge! Being customer-facing doesn't mean we can't participate in company initiatives like these, it just means we need to plan a bit more. Sllyllyd asked: Do the more senior team members stick to four days? In general, yes. Often the more senior team members are the ones who feel the most accountability and energy for goals, and so we sometimes work the extra day to get make sure we're on track. It's not the norm, though, and when we do it's usually just a couple of hours. From Caryn: There's a high level of flexibility and trust that we'll meet our shared and individual goals w/in the schedule that works best for us. As a mom of 3, my needs look different than fellow colleagues but I thrive with that mutual respect & trust. Sometimes I choose to work 5 days.

How is it going?

Daniel asked: What’s better than you expected? What’s worse than you expected? Better: The extra day builds in reflection time that we often don't make room for, where many of us solve problems. So in many ways, we do more meaningful work. Harder: Purpose becomes even more important. We need to feel driven to do great work in the precious 4 days we have. Purpose on an org level or individual level? Both. Especially with the past year we've had. The real magic is when org purpose feels intertwined with a personal sense of purpose, something worthy to go after that can really make a difference. If org purpose feels like it serves society, individual purpose usually follows. Jesse asked: Are people get as much done? Do you have hourly staff? We have no hourly staff, which is important. This isn't less hours for less pay, it's less hours for the same pay. In terms of productivity, that's hard to measure in this wild past year we've had. But, things look promising. Philosophically, I believe we can get as much done. Awesome. Are people happier and more excited to come to work? Boost in moral? Did you see it level off? Yes, to all of that! You nailed it. We've not felt it level off yet, there's still a ton of gratitude for the 4-day workweeks 9+ months in. André-Paul asked: What are the biggest changes you've noticed within your team? Any new routines/behaviours/processes? Well, there's definitely a new level of gratitude. We're here, trying out this wild new thing, and gaining this extra day for family or ourselves. It's awesome. And with that, a sense of alongside gaining flexibility, giving flexibility too. What I mean by gaining flexibility and giving flexibility is, especially as a global team, we need to be open to meetings once in a while earlier in a morning or late at night, to make everything happen. Especially with a 4-day workweek. So, a renewed sense of, we're lucky to have this extra freedom but let's be smart about how we work in order to make 4-day workweeks really work for us as a company and for customers, so we can keep having them. Ali asked: Has the rate of burnout gone down? It's hard to measure, but I believe absolutely, it has. Or rather, 2020 was a year that drove much more burnout than most years and we minimized the amount in part through implementing the 4-day workweek. Michelle asked: I can always find more to do. Are people self-disciplined enough to really take Friday off and are people good enough at knowing how much they can really get done in a week or do they set goals that are too lofty and usually end up working Fridays? Great question. I think it's somewhere in the middle. I genuinely thing most people now take Fridays off. But, we still have big ambitions as a company and so once in a while we need to work a Friday. The real magic is when the Friday off helps you actually get more done. Luthfur asked: How are you measuring productivity? Put another way, how do you intend to make the decision on whether this is going well or not. Ultimately, we will make our decision based on whether we achieve our goals as a company. I fundamentally believe though, that the 5-day workweek is a relic of the industrial era and not necessarily the most effective way to work. So I believe we can achieve our goals in 4DWWs. One of the benefits we have, is that investors do not control our company. We can take longer term stances and decisions, that we believe will lead to great results in time. — If you or your team are trying a 4-day work week send me a tweet to share how it’s going for you, I’d love to hear about it!

When Taking Fridays Off Can Help Our Team Get More Done: An AMA on the 4-Day Work Week published first on https://improfitninja.weebly.com/

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cliftonsteen · 4 years

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Overcoming The Challenges Of Sourcing Coffee From The DRC

In 2018, the Democratic Republic of the Congo produced almost 24 million kilograms of coffee. Although this was a 4% rise on the figure for 2017 (22.9 million kilograms) and a staggering increase on the 2016 figure (16.7 million kilograms), in 1989, over 100 million kilograms of coffee were grown in the country.

Decades of political instability and civil war have had a significant impact on the economic prosperity of the DRC. Today, armed conflict continues in the region around Lake Kivu, which lies on the border between the DRC and Rwanda. It is also one of the country’s most significant regions for agriculture, including coffee production.

However, despite these obstacles and thanks to a number of initiatives from both within and beyond the DRC, its reputation as an origin is growing. The Kivu and Ituri regions in particular provide healthy volcanic soil and elevation suitable for growing arabica plants. To understand more about Congolese coffee production, I spoke to three experts. Read on to find out what they said.

You might also like Understanding The Democratic Republic of Congo’s Coffee Industry

View of the Numbi, a town in South Kivu, Democratic Republic of the Congo, en route to Nyabirehe

DRC Coffee: What Is It Like?

Before looking at why Congolese coffee can be challenging to source, let’s examine some opinions about it. Susan Heller Evenson is a trader at Atlas Coffee Importers. She says that “for those who source [Congolese coffee], it is deeply loved and appreciated”.

“The cupping profile is unique, and most coffee co-operatives in the DRC are making a significant impact in their communities,” Susan tells me. “Coffee in the DRC serves as a stabilising economic force.”

Kyle Tush is a buyer and quality analyst at Counter Culture Coffee. He says: “There’s been an enormous amount of development work in the coffee sector in the DRC over the past five years. It’s truly one of the last few untapped regions in the world for stunning arabica.”

“It’s a unique [origin], very special because of the varieties that can be found there and because of its history.”

Susan says that the flavour profile of Congolese coffee is “unlike any other coffee [she’s] tried” and that it often has tasting notes of “prune, spice, chocolate, black tea and blackberries”.

Rebuild Women’s Hope, Boza Washing Station, Idjwi Island, DRC

Why Can It Be Difficult To Source Coffee From The DRC?

Despite the fact Congolese coffee offers a cup profile described as “diverse and unique”, its industry does still face some issues, as well as a poor reputation among some buyers. I spoke to Susan and Kyle to understand more about these concerns, and to look at what the wider industry is doing to address them.

Pricing & Financing

Both Kyle and Susan agree that pricing is an issue when it comes to Congolese coffee. Producers in the DRC often face uncertainty in their operating costs. This alongside fluctuations in the exchange rate can make pricing unpredictable, and often high.

“The price is high, so the coffee has to score very highly to be sold as a single-origin,” Susan says. “If it scores below around 86, for example, roasters might use it in a blend, but it’s expensive for that.”

As a result, Susan says that “price-conscious roasters will often go with an origin offering consistently lower-priced coffees unless they have a personal commitment to or interest in the region”.

She adds that financing is also an issue on the producer’s side. In the DRC – as well as a number of other producing countries – co-operatives and groups often need contracts in-hand to secure pre-harvest financing. “A more casual ‘letter of intent’ used to be enough,” she says.

“However, if we’re sourcing on behalf of a roaster, this means that we often ask to secure the purchase not long after they have received the previous year’s harvest,” she explains. “Sometimes they can’t commit to next year’s volumes as early as sellers need.”

Rebuild Women’s Hope, Boza Washing Station, Idjwi Island, DRC

Reputation, Awareness & Consistency

Kevin Wilkins is Senior Technical Advisory for Specialty Crops at ÉLAN RDC, a private sector development programme that aims to improve market outcomes in the DRC. He tells me that consistency is one of the biggest issues the industry faces, and that has affected the reputation of Congolese coffee.

He notes that there is a lot of uncertainty in everything from “operational costs and shipment timelines to production, treatment, and storage-related issues”. While this does have an impact on how the country’s coffee industry is viewed, Kevin notes that it is improving quickly. “In many cases, buyers are able to limit the number or the severity of these issues.”

For Susan, the issue is often not a poor reputation, but simply a lack of awareness of the origin among the wider coffee community. “The DRC produces some of the highest quality specialty coffee in the world, and yet many roasters and consumers are not aware of it,” she says. “The coffee is there, and it’s very high-quality.”

Kyle adds that “producers [in the DRC] are sorely lacking market access”, and that he hopes to see “more demand from importers and buyers” going forward.

Riziki Kacheranga, 32, tends to her coffee plants. She is a single mother of three children. She is also the caretaker of her elderly mother, and a fourth child who belongs to a relative. She is part of the GALS program in Nyabirehe village

Infrastructure, Logistics & Access

Low economic stability since the DRC declared independence in 1960 has meant that the country’s infrastructure and logistics still require some development.

”The logistics of getting [Congolese] coffee to market are difficult, to say the least,” Kyle says, noting that he has seen issues with logistics and slow shipments when sourcing coffee from the DRC. “Coffee needs to be moved quickly.”

Susan agrees: “Logistical delays can greatly impact coffee.” She explains that in the DRC, “overland freight [takes] much longer”, and coffee can “often be delayed due to weather or paperwork or instability”. If coffee is held up for too long at a port or a border, its moisture levels can increase and cause cup quality to suffer.

However, she does point out that Congolese infrastructure and logistics are improving. “We have seen record shipment timing in recent years, ensuring reliable arrivals for clients.”

Finally, Kevin notes that access to the origin can be difficult for potential buyers. “It’s imperative that prospective buyers can travel to/from and enter/exit an origin without too many logistical or regulatory hurdles.” He says that while some are willing to work through some visa and travel-related issues, there is as yet no permanent solution in place.

Fikiri picks coffee cherries from his plot in the village of Nyakalende in South Kivu

How Do We Improve Things?

Kyle, Kevin, and Susan all agree that raising awareness among the wider supply chain – including roasters and consumers – is key. “The biggest challenge is the lack of knowledge of the DRC as an origin and as a producer of excellent specialty coffee,” Susan says.

To improve knowledge and awareness, ÉLAN RDC, Atlas Coffee Importers, Cooperative Coffees and Higher Grounds Trading are hosting a three-part webinar series entitled “Exploring Congolese Coffee”.

“When the DRC is in the news, it’s usually not positive,” Susan tells me. “We need to broaden the picture of what people think about when they think of both the DRC and specialty Congolese coffee.”

As well as this, Kyle says he would like to see “more direct relationships with Congolese co-operatives that facilitate good communication”. He adds that there should ideally be a particular focus on forming relationships: “Co-ops need to know what happens to the coffee when it leaves the country. We need direct engagement between co-operatives and buyers.”

Susan agrees that good communication is key. “Almost all the groups I work with are good communicators,” she says. “They know that they can expect a reply from me within a day or so, and that I can expect the same. Long delays can lead to fewer sales.”

Rebuild Women’s Hope, Hala Washing Station, Idjwi Island, DRC

While sourcing Congolese coffee can be challenging, things are improving for coffee producers in the DRC. Infrastructure and logistics are getting better, and shipping times are more reliable and consistent than they ever have been.

According to these interviewees, better recognition as an origin, further improvement infrastructure and logistics, and a greater focus on clear communication will altogether support and improve the sourcing process.

With development in these areas, more buyers will be able to build stronger relationships with producers and co-ops to bring Congolese coffee to a wider audience.

Enjoyed this? Then read Ethiopia To The World: Coffee’s Origins In Africa

Photo credits: Diana Zeyneb Alhindawi, Susan Heller Evenson

Please note: ÉLAN RDC is a sponsor of Perfect Daily Grind.

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Overcoming The Challenges Of Sourcing Coffee From The DRC published first on https://espressoexpertweb.weebly.com/

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jennycalendar · 6 years

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pint-size potential (3/3)

tagging @theforestlesbian in this last chapter bc she’s the whole damn reason this thing got finished. i love u alex and i am so so happy to know someone who also has All The Feels about buffy & giles’s father-daughter connection

ao3

The doorbell rang at three in the morning. This wasn’t what woke Giles up, though; he was woken up when Buffy, startled by the doorbell, began to wail loudly. Trying to figure out what might have upset Buffy at this ungodly hour, Giles sat up in bed, at which point he heard the doorbell ring and thought he might understand.

There was really only one person who would be ringing his bell at this hour. Giles turned on the light, staring at his bedroom, which was strewn with Buffy’s toys. Not to mention that he was breaking at least seven rules, having Buffy’s crib in his bedroom— “I’m coming,” he shouted, running down to answer the doorbell.

“Not at all prompt, Mr. Giles,” said Ms. Smythe disapprovingly. “I would expect you to be already packed. Your flight leaves in three hours.”

“I’m sorry?” Giles managed, half-wheezing. “When you contacted me—yesterday—you said—”

“Times change,” Ms. Smythe replied. “A true Watcher is prepared for any and every possibility. Be in the car in ten minutes.” With that, she turned and hurried down the driveway.

Giles stood there, somewhat frozen by the sheer panic he was currently grappling with. He’d packed, of course, had made sure to do so the day after he decided to apply for his transfer to Sunnydale. But there was still the matter of the toys upstairs, as well as the possibility of Ms. Smythe or another Watcher seeing the crib in the bedroom when the Council showed up to pack up the house, and he had to figure out how to move a rather heavy crib from his room to the old bedroom in ten minutes without Ms. Smythe noticing.

By some miracle, Giles managed to find it in him to shut the door and hurry upstairs. Buffy was still sobbing in her crib, and as soon as he lifted her out, she grabbed onto his shirt with both hands.

“No, see, this is actually a bit counterintuitive,” Giles stammered, because sometimes his talking calmed them both down a bit, “seeing as if you hold on to me, you obstruct me from making sure these things are out of my room, which means you’ll be placed with another Watcher and I’m sure—that is, I hope that’s not something you’d prefer, I really have been trying—”

Buffy’s crying was beginning to stop, but it would still take about five minutes for her to fully calm down. Giles placed her carefully down on the bed and hurried to pick up the toys, trying to figure out a non-incriminating place to put them while also trying to not give in and comfort a still-whimpering Buffy. Really, all of this was a complete disaster. He felt rather certain that Ms. Smythe was trying to catch him in the act of being kind to a child, which wasn’t making him feel all that fond of the Council. He rather missed his demon-raising days at this point.

Giles gave up and just started throwing toys out the window into the backyard. They weren’t Buffy’s favorites, anyway, and they could be left behind; he’d made sure to pack her favorite toys first so as to hide them as best as possible from the Council. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so overzealous with the toy-buying, but he’d been more than a bit touched by the whole they-were-both-useless-to-the-Council thing, and he liked thinking of taking care of Buffy as his purpose, and he’d never had all that much of a childhood what with a Watcher father and a tired, quiet mother and—

Outside, Ms. Smythe honked the car horn, even though it had only been about three minutes.

“I can make up some convincing story about the crib,” Giles told Buffy, and hastened to get dressed.

He didn’t have enough time to get Buffy properly dressed, but he did grab his carry-on luggage and wrap Buffy in a warm Council-approved blanket with two minutes to spare. Pausing on the stairs, Giles quietly bounced Buffy in his arms, trying to comfort her a bit before they entered Ms. Smythe’s car and were faced with a possible lecture.

Buffy exhaled softly; it sounded a bit like an exhausted sigh. “I quite agree,” said Giles, mouth twitching, and felt a little bit better.

Ms. Smythe started in on Giles as soon as he got into the car. “I’ll have you know,” she said, “that it is most unusual for an inexperienced Watcher with a low-relevance infant Potential to decide he would like to research a Hellmouth. Most unusual, especially with your background. I myself lobbied quite hard for your application to be denied.”

“Oh, I’m sure you did,” said Giles without really thinking about it. He ignored what he was sure was a very nasty look from Ms. Smythe, focusing on buckling Buffy (who was already drifting back to sleep) into the baby seat. “Will you be flying us to Sunnydale as well, or is your obvious distaste for everything I stand for limited only to Los Angeles?”

“You are a horribly unqualified Watcher,” said Ms. Smythe, which didn’t really answer the question.

Giles spent most of the car ride with one hand on the baby seat, steadying it as surreptitiously as possible. Ms. Smythe seemed almost determinedly focused on the road, which took a significant amount of pressure off of Giles. He even managed to tuck Buffy’s blanket around her a bit.

Truly, he thought, Eyghon was nothing compared to this sort of thing. It wasn’t true, but he felt like he was entitled to be a bit dramatic when he’d been woken at three in the bloody morning. Giles was not going to miss Ms. Smythe at all.

After what seemed like a very long car ride but what was probably about fifteen minutes of angry silence and driving, Ms. Smythe pulled into the airport parking lot, at which point she said very pointedly, “You can leave now, Mr. Giles. Get your bags from the trunk and take the Potential with you.”

“Thank you,” said Giles very sarcastically. “Goodness knows I would have forgotten her without your help.” To make a point, he picked up the entire car seat without unbuckling Buffy and staggered over to the back of the trunk.

“Mr. Giles, that car seat is Council property,” Ms. Smythe snapped from inside the car.

Giles was at this point much too tired to really consider how openly hostile he was being, and much too fed up to really care. He’d only been with the Council for a few years, and it had been a very long and very frustrating process of earning back their trust. He wasn’t all that fond of the organization, even if a few years ago he’d believed them to be his salvation; perhaps it’d be different if he’d spent longer than a few months behind his desk in the British Museum, but he supposed he’d never really find out. “I am not holding my Potential on my lap for an entire bloody plane ride, it is unsafe and you should know that,” he shouted back, placing Buffy’s car seat on the ground so that he could open the trunk. “And this is your fault for showing up at three in the damn morning just because you’re on some sort of godforsaken power trip—”

Buffy, waking up at the sound of Giles’s raised voice, started to screech.

Giles was suddenly beginning to understand very fast why parenting tended to be a two-person job. He’d dealt with the aftermath of raising a demon, he’d dealt with shame and distrust from nearly all his colleagues, but hearing Buffy upset in the middle of the parking lot and knowing he was the only person there to calm her was somehow one of the most isolating experiences he’d faced.

“This is going in my report!” Ms. Smythe shouted.

“Excellent!” Giles shouted back. “Let them know you’ve broken protocol by changing my flight plans the day of my departure!”

Interestingly enough, Ms. Smythe didn’t seem to have a response to that. Giles felt an exhausted sense of smugness, and celebrated his victory by unbuckling Buffy from her car seat and giving her a kiss on the top of her head. She still seemed quite upset, but settled down as Giles (struggling with the luggage a bit) entered the airport. He didn’t bother to look back.

Before checking his baggage, Giles donned a sort of front-facing baby backpack thing (he had no idea what it was called and was at this point afraid to ask), strapping Buffy to his front so as to keep his hands free. She fell asleep quite quickly. Giles was more than a bit jealous.

He hadn’t had time to feel lonely in the chaotic mess of adjusting to taking care of an infant, but suddenly the feeling was settling in and he felt awful. Sunnydale was a Hellmouth, certainly, but Giles was the only supernatural researcher there, and he was soon going to have to be doing extra work on top of managing whatever job the Council had found him and researching Sunnydale. He was going to be doing three times the work he’d signed up for as a Watcher, and he wasn’t going to have anyone else for company. Not that he ever had had a Watcher he’d been close to, but—it was still incredibly lonely, realizing something like this.

As Giles was mulling over this, Buffy stirred in the baby carrier and opened her eyes. They were a very soft gray color, those eyes, and she looked up at Giles with the same intent curiosity that she always did, as though he might have changed in the few minutes she’d been sleeping.

Giles thought about the first time he’d seen Buffy open her eyes, and about how much had changed in his life after that. He thought about Buffy’s independent spirit and how much of a challenge she seemed to love posing to him. He thought about finding out what kind of person Buffy might become.

“I’ll manage, I think,” he said softly. Then he headed towards the plane.

#fic #giles raises baby buffy au #already working on the second installment!! :)

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glopratchet · 4 years

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origin-of-astrly-wylde

who is trying to seduce him into taking her as his mate He is currently in a coma and they have a symbiotic relationship with each other They have no need for human flesh since their blood is made up of humans His career is just to far along that trying to separate himself from them would be impractical and even dangerfull soggy ash mixture His attention returns to you, and somehow you become suddenly very aware of every fiber of your being He almost stares at it as it carries itself up and out of itself to make him a ladder to get out of this chair he says as a rush of endorphins begins to eat himself away This coma is the greatest drug he's ever had Something wished itself into existence you say to yourself for getting yourself into this situation Someone screams from his prick, which must have fell asleep a half hour ago Several hours later is it so incredibly dark in here, " he thinks to himself someone whispers in his left ear "i don't know, " he answers back trying to defend himself "miss why are you grabbing my thighs, to man that reference this yelling, fortyish body-odored prison guard screaming at him to get off of the floor out of the darkness, surrounded by a hue of darkness He starts getting messages saying some of the other people in the cube maze are beginning to suspect him, and even notice some things he didn't think they would up another level You find yourself in a gray and black room entitled Routing Loop Invalid Fingerprint and his own print appears below it in red flashing letters that it can never be achieved now Almost like a jump cut, large gaps in between each second filled with subtle reminders of his temporary institutionalization disappear Small bits and pieces of it reform and behave in a manner consistent with the age he truly is Parts of it even hurt now and a sudden rush of feelings overwhelm him and the emotions of others slam into him with rush of staggering speed Origin; (config): Duration; (years): Memory Threshold: MemoryChange; (): scroll, and shouting people fade in and out of view what it's doing, what he should be doing and why he shouldn't just stop doing that Then it tells him why he sometimes hears voices Stumbling upon a process that shouldn't ever be seen by anyone not at the very top As a result he is "glitching out" operational security or op-sec are defined Omitting details for op-sec after harry potter becomes a general thing people do Vampire: The masquerade: a game new order chapter two face five Ever increasing road blocks are formed by new messages in side (you) thoughts clumsy A complex diagram of how the code base branches strengthens and shatters with every command "You are the outside, " the messages tell him repeatedly in love someone who is definitely not daddy Two bees but which is the queen spleens with too many overly detailed thoughts disgustingly into sagging facial skin lungs Bizarre useless cryptic technical information about the typesetting engine show up hearts Exterminating the idea of kissing bladders A text on the many different techniques that are used to create immortality through clones becomes available as a torrent through tear ducts "Congratulations, shapeshifter! genital organs Babies, children and people in love are beaten and tortured before your eyes, the children before your eyes are never referenced to again fluids of every color Frames and Quinces endless musings appear only after several screens gladiators Without control over the subject and taking place in an eternal universe this becomes the single most painful quest the user has ever taken part in bats armigers The process repeats endlessly with thousands rules added to the codebase and both computers unusable for anything else ever again claws Constant battle music takes over your soul without hope of reprieve Everlasting hate each other now plant people That's when you wake up jesters Your next of kin is informed and you're sent to regular psychiatric therapy They find out that someone infected your computer without you knowing appendix But that person can only be: Your roommate, Alice Alistair mizzenmast rams oarsmen jugglers No idea what it could mean, but that's how the process of elimination goes somehow fungal pigments mobs familiars dispatchers Oh wait it's your lucky day, she's been arrested already for treason thanks to you syncopes priests And six months later, you kill yourself just to get rid of the nightmare Cold, Well let's see what actually happened you didn't do that, you decided to send out a huge list of the people who had viewed your computer during the time it was infected resulting in a mass suicide Thank you for playing

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xxsohardxcorexx-blog · 7 years

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Sometimes life just feels so...overwhelming. I'm on medical leave for stress from a job I was fired from for taking the medical leave. I'm at the end of my medical leave and still don't have an appointment to see provincial mental health. I've seen a private psychologist 3 times now but I don't feel like she really gets me. She wants to treat my daily anxiety and build up my coping skills. I believe my skin picking and eating is ocd she thinks it's a manifestation of my anxiety. Who knows maybe she's right but I've done it most of my life. She also thinks it doesn't need to matter. I tried talking to her about my depression and how I feel it's getting worse. She tried giving me tips for being motivated to do my housework and various small projects I've been putting off. I wish she would question more because what I didn't say was yes I lay in bed and think about killing myself. Pretty much every day. I don't think I will. But I think about it an awful lot. She says I need to not be so overwhelmed with the prospect of when my medical leave is up. What are my options? Most unrealistic, win the lottery. Next, apply for general unemployment which would run out in June. Apply for long term benefits. She didn't exactly persuade me to go for long term benefits so maybe she thinks I wouldn't qualify. I also looked into it online and I doubt I'd get very much anyway. So when my EI runs out in June then what? I have a college diploma that's basically no use - I had been trying to apply for reception jobs and hearing nothing back before I went on medical leave. I would like to go back to school if I could qualify for a program to pay for it otherwise I can't afford it, but I don't even know what I want to take or what I want to do. I don't want to work. I hate working with the public and I have always had interpersonal issues with coworkers at any job I had. I really don't know what I would be capable of doing. I had panic attacks daily at my last job if I didn't take a Xanax. That's not how I want to live. So maybe I'd get lucky and get a data processing job where I make barely enough to scrape by. Even with my EI payments I get it's not enough to cover my bills. My husband has been helping out more thank goodness but it's left us both dealing with credit card debt. My credit card is constantly over limit and I pay it down just to under it until the next interest payment comes out. Plus with winter coming, there will be gas bills again. I just think, I don't have an option to not go back to work, financially. If I go back to work I won't be able to cope and I will be a constant mess of anxiety and for what? Not much. I doubt if I'd make more than minimum wage. If I quit smoking it would help ease my financial burdens but it's so hard. It's so so hard. I take comfort in having a cigarette and I'm trying to get back on my esmoke but it's just not the same. But I really can't afford to keep smoking.

I tried calling my mom the other day after not talking to her in a week. She didn't answer and hadn't called me back. It's been 4 days I think. I'll try calling her tomorrow. I don't even know what to say. I can't tell her I think about killing myself it'll send her off the deep end. I don't want to talk about my money struggles because she has helped me out so much with money problems she will just bitch me out for getting to this situation again. It would just be nice for her to call me to check in and show she cares. It would be nice for my family to realise I'm not just lazy and they think I have been having a lovely relaxing summer off when every day I worry what I am going to do with my life. They don't have depression, they don't have anxiety, they don't understand.

I don't know why I feel so...entitled? I feel as though because I struggle so much with my anxiety I deserve to not work. I know this isn't an option. But I don't know why I can't seem to stop feeling that way.

My husband is what keeps me going. When I had suicidal thoughts before I'd thought he would get over me and find someone else. Maybe he would who knows. But I know he loves me more than anything in this world. And I love him, I truly do. I couldn't do that to him. I couldn't leave him to deal with it and bear that pain by himself. He tries so hard to be supportive and understanding and loving. I do truly feel loved by him. And he is the number one reason I would not kill myself. The time I spend with him, I don't feel so down. Sometimes I will still have anxiety attacks and bouts of depression when we're together but by and large he is the bright spot in my day. I can try to put aside my fears about the future and focus on the present, our love, the here and now. And during those times I don't think about killing myself and wonder how I even do when I'm alone. But right now he's in bed and I haven't made it there yet. And my mind is going crazy. I took a Xanax before I started writing this but I don't think it's working yet. I thought maybe keeping a journal would help, to write all my thoughts down. I decided on this for 2 reasons- laziness to find a paper journal and I didn't want it being read. This might be read by strangers but no one knows who I am here. Maybe if someone I know finds it they could figure it out but at that point I don't really care too much.

Earlier I was scrolling Facebook trying to distract myself and there was an article of people's personal responses to the hashtag me too. I clicked but couldn't bring myself to read it. I went to the Reddit thread to type out my own story but accidentally closed the app as I was typing. It's painful to relive it. I don't know why I still think about it, almost 10 years later. I wish I could just put it from my mind. If told my psychologist about it but we never really talked about it past my first appointment when she was learning about me. One of the things she wants me to do is spend 20 minutes a day with one of my pets, most likely my golden retriever, and practice mindfulness with them, use them like a therapy animal. I want to try but the last two days I haven't found the time. My life is nothing but time though. I need to make an effort to do it tomorrow. I also want to get back to my yoga. I'd done well with it doing it a couple times a week on my own a few months ago and it did make me feel better but like everything else I just procrastinated it and found excuses. I realise I'm only hurting myself with this. It's just easier to zone out and play a video game or play on my phone. Waste time. And then bitch I don't have time. For not working I do a staggering amount of nothing. Maybe working again would get me out of my rut but I don't know. I doubt it. I'd been in a rut then too. I need to switch things up and try a different routine but...that's effort and my routine is comforting. Just in knowing I have it. Have my coffees and my smokes, play my game, maybe do dishes, nap. I havent made supper in a few days. I should tomorrow. I've just been stressed about not having money. I think I have 50$ right now and could buy a few vegetables with it. I had 3 bills take a lot of my money my last pay, I should only have 2 this pay, so maybe I'll be a little bit better off after. I have pork and hamburger in the freezer. I kind of want Asian noodles. I could make dong Po pork and pick up some vegetables and make a lo mein with it. The hamburger is huge because it didn't get sectioned before it was frozen and I'm not sure what to do with it. A giant chilli probably.

I just zoned out for a moment and thought about things I hated from a call center job I had a few years ago. I wish my thinking wasn't so black and white. And impulsive. My impulsiveness has led me into so many terrible situations I regret.

I think my Xanax is working. Or maybe this was therapeutic. I feel a little more calm. Definitely not going to kill myself, I just wish I would stop thinking about it as an option. Writing about cooking helped. Maybe I should start a cooking blog. Making money from blogging or YouTube would be great, limited interaction . But I don't think I'm talented or charismatic enough to make that happen.

Goals for tomorrow:

Clean catboxes because my cat doesn't know how to not shit on the floor. I literally cleaned them yesterday she's just a bitch. But I love her.

Get supper ingredients, make supper. This includes checking if we have noodles and defrosting pork. Maybe I could make it ahead of time so I'm not so rushed trying to do the noodles at the same time.

Take chair into pet room

20 minutes of easy yoga. I need to find a new yoga routine because day 1 of the one I'd done before was super beginner but I'm not flexible so it was challenging, day 2 was almost impossible and left me feeling hopeless about it.

Spend 20 minutes with my dog. This is no distractions like games on my phone or tv. She said no music either but I think spa sounds would be okay, not distracting.

I know I need to make changes myself to improve my life so I think if I do these things I'll feel better. I see my family doctor this week I think I might keep the suicidal thoughts to myself. Honestly seeing my psych has made me feel maybe worse than better because I'm realizing I'm anxious more than I previously thought, which is surprising and awful. And as I try to analyse the things I have to do to break it down it all seems insurmountable . But she is trying to give me the tools to better myself and I owe it to myself and to my husband to try.

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