#I was err in a different crowd back then so perhaps my experience is not universal

[malhare]

Forget the porn ban, who remembers when you could open tumblr and see someone disemboweled at the top of your dash

#I was err in a different crowd back then so perhaps my experience is not universal #But there used to be a lot of gore on tumblr now you cant even post vulture culture stuff or even blood sometimes #malhare.txt

[neighborhood-newtina-reblogger]

A/N: late post meant for yesterday’s Newtina week prompt. Not sure I got the quote 100% right, but theme was Newtina at a ball! Putting this under a cut ‘cause it got unwieldy at 2.6K.

​ “Tina, your necklace. The clasp is backwards.” 

He gently picked up the silver chain from where it laid around her neck and used his other hand to hold the sparkling pendant in place as he pulled the chain around. He summoned one more breath to complete his task, and reached around to feel that the clasp was now securely seated at the back of her neck. It was. 

“Thanks.” Was all she could think to say, and she kicked herself over it coming out as a whisper. 

Her eyes reached out and grabbed Newt’s own with an unstoppable force. He was transfixed, yet keenly aware that he should either remove his hands from her pendant or explain away his lingering. But what was she trying to tell him with those eyes... 

He broke free of her gaze and gently released her pendant. “It’s a beautiful necklace,” ended up as his excuse of choice for the closeness he’d just deigned to initiate. 

“Yes. Queenie gave it to me. For my birthday. It was a few years ago and it always seemed a little too...I don’t know. But it seemed right for a gala.” 

“Yes. Perfect for a gala. I should go find Theseus.” 

He turned away abruptly and set off in no particular direction, pretending not to hear the meek and possibly confused ‘okay’ that Tina had said in response. Only as an afterthought did he raise his eyes from the floor to actually scan the crowd for his brother. Naturally, he could be found entertaining a small crowd of people in the center of the room, men and women alike. This particular bunch happened to be dressed in an oddly Victorian fashion, a few decades out of date by now. He hustled over to them, determined not to be stopped by any more party guests along the way. Fortunately his quick pace and averted gaze seemed to have done the trick, because he was able to march straight up to Theseus without incident. 

“Theseus, I need y—“ he stopped at his brother’s immediate glare and only then seemed to comprehend that he’d interrupted a conversation. He forced an awkward smile and nod before continuing, “sorry. I just need to borrow him,” and taking his brother by the elbow a few steps away from the group, who dispersed in their wake. 

“That was very rude, Newt.” Newt looked towards the floor like a puppy being scolded for eating a slipper. “But, honestly it was timely. The Marcurie family is a dreadful bunch. Never talk about anything that doesn’t involve themselves.” Newt shifted on his feet. “Alright. What’s the problem Fido?” 

“I uhm. I don’t know, really. I just got a little...overwhelmed.” 

“Newt, I know that all this socializing isn’t really your cup of tea, but it’s part of your job to represent the ministry as a head of department.” 

“No, I mean. It’s going alright, I guess. With everyone else. They just want to talk about my book, which is easy enough. I just.” He let out a defeated huff. “Tina’s necklace was backwards.” 

Theseus blinked. Is that seriously...”Newt, it’s not really a big deal if her—“ 

“I tried to fix it for her. So it’s alright now.” 

“...Okay. So...” 

“I just...I get so overwhelmed when she looks at me like that. I don’t know what to do. I tried not to touch her but the chain was thin and moved like water. I think I might have startled her. Or offended her. I don’t know.” 

“Well did she look at you like she was angry or offended?” 

Newt shook his head. 

“Did she slap you in the face?” 

He shook his head again and chuckled with his brother. 

“Well, Newt, sorry to say that’s what you would have gotten if she was truly cross with you.” 

“I just don’t know what to do with myself. It is a very beautiful necklace.” 

“What are you, a niffler?” 

“No just...She looks so...her dress, too. And her hair. She looks so...” 

“Beautiful?” 

“Yes, well...” 

“Newt!” He thumped his brother on the forehead before lowing his voice to an aggressive whisper, “Go dance with her, you idiot.” 

Newt scoffed. “She couldn’t possibly—“ 

“Oh yes she could. Go do it. Go.” Theseus twisted his brother around and pushed Newt away by the shoulders as he practically dug his heels into the ground. 

“No, Thes, really I shouldn’t. I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be proper. We’re both ministry officials.” 

“For the love of—where’s Jacob?” 

Theseus aggressively panned his head around the room until he found the stout American muggle off in a corner. Naturally, Jacob was entertaining an even larger crowd than Theseus had been. And, perhaps even more naturally, the crowd happened to be composed of the entire department of Muggle Relations. He was of course a warm and jovial man with his own peculiar magnetism, but he was at heart an ordinary, simple kind of fellow. Perhaps it was his ordinariness that made him particularly interesting for his audience. It took a bit of cajoling to tear him away from the yarn he was spinning about his great achievements at the canning factory, but when they were finally able to take him aside it was Theseus who explained first. 

“Jacob, Newt is having lady troubles.” A rather inelegant statement for Newt’s taste, but could he deny it? 

Jacob gave a signature monosyllabic laugh and slapped Newt on the back. “S’amatter, pal? Teen giving you the cold shoulder or something?” 

“What?” 

“—No.” Theseus interrupted with a wholly unnecessary eye-roll. “Newt is too ‘overwhelmed’ to ask her to dance.” 

“Aww c’mon, Newt. She’s already sweet on ya. All you gotta do is go up to her and ask once the song changes and she’ll be all smiley about it.” 

He always seems to know what to do. Well, what to do if he were like everyone else. His advice didn’t work so well last time. Regardless, when else might he get the chance to dance with her...be in her space...touch her on purpose with no imminent threats involved...it was worth a shot. “What if she’s with...people?” 

“Well, you do what you did with me and barge in, say ‘sorry, I need to borrow her for a moment,’ take her aside and her company will understand immediately and bow out.” 

“What will they understand? They don’t—I mean I don’t want them to understand anything. There’s nothing to be understood. It’s not as if...” 

*** 

“Well I wouldn’t say that the difference is strictly semantic. There are real implications for using that kind of language in such a policy, and folks on both sides are gonna try to exploit it. I’m happy to have a full-scale meeting where we can discuss this in detail and I can make some suggestions once I read the actual document, but even based on my experiences alone as an American auror, I can say that our current system just doesn’t have the capacity to make such overarching changes to the regulations. I think there’s a real opportunity to start off on the right foot here so less corrective work needs to be done down the line.” 

“Let’s make that meeting happen. I’ll send you an owl. My word, Theseus certainly picked up an asset in taking you on, Miss Goldstein. Are you enjoying London?” 

Newt stood off in the distance a little hesitantly. Her interlocutor was quite the dandy gentleman, about Theseus’s age in a snappy beige suit. They seemed to be having a real business conversation. Maybe now wasn’t the time to interrupt... 

“Oh it’s been swell so far. I’m still learning my way around the city itself, but it’s wonderful to be around such motivated people down at the Ministry.” 

Merlin, her dimples really do twist up his insides. If only he were the one to inspire their appearance... 

“Well I would be happy to show you around some of the more hidden gems that our capital has to offer.” 

Well, that was definitely his cue. His legs carried him with a confidence that was not reflected in his face. “Pardon me. So sorry. Er, Could I borrow you? For a moment?” No one responded for a half second, probably because his looking at the ground didn’t make it clear whom he was addressing. “Miss Goldstein?” 

“Oh. Sure. Excuse me, lovely to meet you..?” 

“Alfred Wetherill.” 

“Mr. Wetherill. I’ll look out for your owl.”  He tipped his hat and backed away as Tina turned to Newt. “What’s the matter?” She asked as she tilted his chin towards her. 

“Would you care to dance, Tina?” 

“Oh.” She raised her eyebrows. “Oh.” It was nearly impossible to chew away the smile that was growing on her face. “Yes, sure, of course.” She released her bottom lip once her offered hand was taken up by Newts and he led her to the floor. 

They’d missed the first chorus of the song, but it was easy enough to start into it. The more difficult part was situating themselves. Tina internally groaned when Newt first placed himself almost a full arm’s length from her and hardly ghosted his hand on her waist. She took charge and gently pushed his hand into her and took a full step closer to him. He used all of his willpower to not step backwards. Tina was a much more energetic dancer than he’d anticipated. Perhaps this was tame compared to the fast, wild dances that were popular in America. She easily swayed her hips as she stepped in time with the music, allowing the sequins that decorated her mauve dress to catch the light in a dazzling way.  He couldn’t bring himself to say anything; his throat was quite dry. To feel her to close after so much time metaphorically dancing around each other felt like...well, progress, if nothing else. 

“Newt, you’re staring a little. Is my necklace crooked again?” She looked down to check that her clasp wasn’t resting next to her crystal pendant. 

“No, it’s perfect. I’m sorry I ran off earlier, that was rude of me.” 

“Oh, that’s okay. I guess you just remembered something important about Theseus?” 

“I, err—not quite.” 

“Oh.” 

“Well, it’s only that we’re both Ministry officials, I didn’t want my reputation to tarnish your own.” 

“In what way could you tarnish it?” 

“I don’t know, I’m...odd? Known for being rather difficult. For destroying cities on occasion. I don’t have the cleanest record of anyone at the Ministry. And you’re, well, quite an accomplished auror. 

“That’s got nothing to do with anything, Newt. If you weren’t such a law-breaker we never would have met in the first place. If that’s the consequence I don’t think I’d change you even for one second.” 

“Tina...” her smile shone up at him, and there they were. Those adorable little depressions in her cheeks that confirmed to him that this was a genuine Tina Goldstein smile. “I don’t know what to say.” 

“What if you just said what’s on your mind?” 

“That’s hardly appropriate.” 

She blushed furiously. “Newt!” 

“What? No! No—I just—I was thinking it’s not appropriate for two ministry officials to...well I was thinking that you always sound so intelligent when you talk. And that I felt very lucky to have you smile at me like that. With your, uhm, with your dimples. They’re very endearing. So are your other habits. Like the—well sometimes you bite your lip. When you’re thinking. Or trying not to smile—Merlin knows why you would do that, you have such a beautiful smile. And your dress is very pretty. And it feels nice. Smooth. And you’re a very good dancer, I feel rather clumsy around you—“ 

“That’s a lot of thoughts, Mr. Scamander.” 

He gave a half-hearted nod, trying and failing to keep his eyes on her’s. 

“What do you think about this?” She took another step closer to him and let her hand relax on his shoulder. He didn’t respond. 

“It’s late. I think it would be okay if I...” She took a final half step forward rested her head on his shoulder, just next to her hand. 

Off in a corner, doing what they would call ‘keeping watch,’ but would be more aptly called ‘being nosy,’ were Jacob and Theseus. At this display, Theseus sighed and shook his head. 

“How long have they been doing that, Mr. Kowalski?” 

“Doing what?” 

“Being deeply in love but not admitting it?” 

She nestled her cheek on his shoulder and closed her eyes. “What are you thinking now?” Newt held his breath. There was just about a hair’s width of space between them. Her hair smelled good, a little like vanilla. He squeezed her hand just for a moment to reassure himself that she was real. He received a squeeze back in response; she was. 

“I’m thinking...I don’t know what I’m thinking.” 

“Do you feel anything, then?” 

“Oh I feel quite a lot.” This earned him a giggle. “I feel perhaps...too much.” 

“You wanna know how I feel, Mr. Scamander?” She paused and lifted her head from his shoulder. “I feel like I wanna sneak a kiss with you while we dance. Feelings?” Her eyes were playful but serious as they begged his to hold contact. They tried to keep their mark, but suddenly they felt strongly called to her lips. He spun them around once, trying to see if anyone was watching them. Oddly enough, everyone seemed rather preoccupied with their own partners in dance or conversation. 

“I didn’t mean we really had to be sneaky about it.” She smiled. “But is the coast clear?” 

He nodded. What an inopportune moment for his mouth to feel so dry. They met each other in the middle. She felt warm and soft and marvelous and everything he felt he was not. He disconnected them after only a second. 

“Why’d you—“ 

“I’m not...” 

“Not what?” 

“I don’t think I’m—“ 

“—We had moved on to feelings, not thoughts.” She corrected before he got carried away. “Do you feel like you wanna kiss me again?” 

“Honestly, I feel like...I love you, Tina.” 

They stopped. He searched in her wide eyes for approval. Her mouth was hanging slightly open and her hand was squeezing his shoulder a little tighter than it had been before. She blinked herself out of it and rushed out, 

“That’s a yes to the kissing, right?” before immediately slinging both of her hands around his shoulders and pressing her lips against his anew. It took a moment, but he processed that it was not a rejection of his daring confession. So he surrendered himself to the feeling of her breath on his face, her lips on his, his hand on her cheek and his other on her waist, and he welcomed her. The many seconds, which felt like hours, of this new sensation were hot and raw, and with every beat his heart felt like it grew closer to bursting. There was nothing like this. There had never been anything like this. 

This time she pulled away, and looked back up at him with bright eyes. This time, he didn’t feel the urge to look away. 

“How did that feel, Newt?” 

“Right. Good. Like a weight lifted.” 

“You feel like we should do that more often?” 

“Oh, with certainty.” He laughed and held her tighter around the waist. 

“Good, ‘cause I love you very much.” She brushed his hair out of his eyes. She interrupted him with a finger to his lips as he moved in to kiss her for a third time. “Not here. Later. Soon. Let’s keep dancing for now.” ​​

#newtina #newtina week #fic #mine #newt/tina #newt x porpentina

[blue-box]

(I know I don’t have a whole ton of followers here. And I’m not sure how political any of you are. These are some thoughts that have sat with me for some time and have been penned down in the private safety of my own journal. But here we are on the cusp of the biggest election our country has seen and I just felt like I needed to be heard. I’m too nervous to share this on my other personal social media sites for fear of what family or friends will have to say, even though I feel like I’ve written this in a pretty neutral sort of way. And I know there are far more important issues to address. But I just had a strong impulse to share this.) 

“There is a mysterious cycle in human events. To some generations much is given. Of other generations much is expected.  This generation of Americans has a rendezvous with Destiny.”

-Franklin D Roosevelt, 1936.

At the time that these words were spoken, the country was indeed in the middle of challenging times. While the crowd that was listening had well endured their fair share of hardship already, the days to come held much more adversity and they would in fact be facing their destiny. The first time I saw this speech was about a year ago while watching a documentary and I had to pause it, rewind, and watch it again because this moment gave me goosebumps. The clip that followed this speech was that of great crowd cheering. The crowd that was shown in this fuzzy black and white footage would soon go on to face one of the greatest wars the world would ever see. They, along with the speaker, would soon meet their destiny...and ultimately change the world for it. 

And then it leaves me to wonder - what category does my generation fall under? 

The world has changed so much since these words were said. It’s changed so much since just a year ago when I first penned much of this down in a journal. Perhaps it's naïve of me to say it, but I feel like if people slowed down a bit to truly listen to things like this - and I mean really listen and let it wash over you - that maybe one day we too would have a chance to meet such a destiny. 

No one person elected can change it all. No one administration can instantly fix the damage and discourse that our nation has inflicted upon itself. No, it is up to us to hold any leadership responsible and accountable to their actions - and their words. 

Words - Rhetoric. These things matter more than anything these days. These days where anybody can say whatever they want to the masses at the click of a button or a tap of the screen. A leader may say or even just imply something and it instantly turns so many against one another. Things that are said so quickly off the top of their head and then broadcasted to the world so fast that no one even stops to wonder if it was the right thing to say or not. No time to stop and wonder if it’s even the truth or hurtful to others. And then if it does backfire, it’s just simply brushed off as “sarcasm” or “just tellin’ it like it is.” 

No. It’s not that simple. Speaking to and for a nation should never be as simple as that.

How leaders speak to us - the people of this nation - should matter a great deal. How they communicate with our allies and other nations of the world matter. How they address differences and speak to the opposite parties matter. Because even the “other side” is still a part of this nation, regardless of their political affiliation. 

In the end, whatever is said, words matter and will resonate throughout history. 

They will make an impact one way or another. 

I tend to go through at least one or two drafts of whatever it is that I’m writing most days - and that’s just for work. Whether it’s to a client, a co-worker, or a boss, I try to put as much thought and craft as I can into whatever it is I’m working on. This isn’t a new concept, I’m sure many of us have experienced a similar thing - essays, letters, speeches, reports. Shouldn’t we hold leaders of a nation to the same standard of thought and care before speaking to and for us? What is said to us as a nation deserves to be composed with clarity of thought. No, we may not always agree with what is being said, but it should still be delivered with respect and taste to all. We the people deserve at least that much. 

Words spoken can either inspire a generation to meet tough times head on and with hope and dignity, or they can destroy how far we have come and begin to tear us apart. Too often of late has the rhetoric been that of division. I’m not implying that FDR was a perfect leader, no leader is perfect. And I realize that it will take more than just one great speech to fix the problems that we all face together.

But it could be a start. 

A start to try and bring us back together. A step in the direction of unity - to speak to everyone as a whole and not just to their devout followers. To address the country as one rather than pointing fingers to the other side. The words being spoken today will not touch the hearts of future generations as a speech did for me 84 years after the fact. The question now is - what words and speeches will be remembered 80-something years from now? What of what’s being said today do we want to be remembered? 

However, I think much of what is said these days does not speak for my generation as a whole. Those are the words of others - those fewer in number who just so happen to have a better platform to be heard from. 

No, I believe my generation may have better things to say. I cannot say that we’ll all agree on every topic. I cannot say with absolute certainty that we are or will be a great generation that will be remembered throughout history. But I do believe we are capable of a great and much needed change. 

I just hope that when that time comes, whenever it may be, that we do not miss the rendezvous. 

x---

“The defeats and victories of these years have given to us as a people a new understanding of our government and of ourselves. Never since the early days of the New England town meeting have the affairs of government been so widely discussed and so clearly appreciated. It has been brought home to us that the only effective guide for the safety of this most worldly of worlds, the greatest guide of all, is moral principle.

We do not see faith, hope, and charity as unattainable ideals, but we use them as stout supports of a nation fighting the fight for freedom in a modern civilization.

Faith - in the soundness of democracy in the midst of dictatorships.

Hope - renewed because we know so well the progress we have made.

Charity - in the true spirit of that grand old word. For charity literally translated from the original means love, the love that understands, that does not merely share the wealth of the giver, but in true sympathy and wisdom helps men to help themselves.

We seek not merely to make government a mechanical implement, but to give it the vibrant personal character that is the very embodiment of human charity.

We are poor indeed if this nation cannot afford to lift from every recess of American life the dread fear of the unemployed that they are not needed in the world. We cannot afford to accumulate a deficit in the books of human fortitude.

In the place of the palace of privilege we seek to build a temple out of faith and hope and charity.

It is a sobering thing, my friends, to be a servant of this great cause. We try in our daily work to remember that the cause belongs not to us, but to the people. The standard is not in the hands of you and me alone. It is carried by America. We seek daily to profit from experience, to learn to do better as our task proceeds.

Governments can err, presidents do make mistakes, but the immortal Dante tells us that Divine justice weighs the sins of the cold-blooded and the sins of the warm-hearted on different scales.

Better the occasional faults of a government that lives in a spirit of charity than the consistent omissions of a government frozen in the ice of its own indifference.

There is a mysterious cycle in human events. To some generations much is given. Of other generations much is expected. This generation of Americans has a rendezvous with destiny.”

- F.D. Roosevelt, 1936.

#Election 2020 #Vote 2020 #Politics #personal thoughts #2020

[aintnothingleft]

wash us away // mini fic // ch. 1

Rosalia was Niall’s girl—except she wasn’t, and Harry has the stars to thank.

mini-fic story page

Rosalia was Niall’s girl—except she wasn’t. Harry’s eyes had settled on her before he knew this, watching the way her red dress skimmed the floor and the light hit her exposed shoulders. This was the first time they met. She had been a little brash, although very apologetic, which Harry accredited to the glasses of champagne that she took long sips of as if she didn’t know what else to do with her hands. It was the Cancer Research UK Charity Ball, and while Harry supported the cause, he was in desperate need of a drink. The bar, located at the back of the main hall and up a series of steps, was largely deserted, except for the few that loitered in the area. Among them was Rosalia, who had been standing alone at the end of the bar with a glass of champagne, looking either lost or bored—he hadn’t decided. He made his way up to the bar, a few feet away from her, to make his order. The bartender was preoccupied with another attendee, and Harry took the time to admire his surroundings. Glancing over at the girl next to him, he noticed her looking at him curiously. He broke the ice with a casual hello. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. I’ve just heard a lot about you. I’m Rosalia, I’m friends with Niall.”

Ah. Harry recognized her. She was the American Niall had met in an Irish pub, of all places, some months ago. Despite the distance, the two had been quietly joined at the hip. Niall claimed they were just friends and refused to speak more on the matter. She slept in his guest bedroom.

He shook her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

And she smiled. Harry didn’t want to admit that he was curiously attracted to her. Although Niall denied it, he had a small suspicion that there was something more to their friendship than he had let on.

But Harry couldn’t help but smile back at her. Rosalia hoped that he didn’t notice the flush in her cheeks that had resulted from a mixture of alcohol and staring at his dimples. She didn’t think anything of it, however. You would have to be blind not to notice how attractive he is, she thought.

The bartender approached the pair, and Harry ordered more champagne for the both of them.

“That’s a beautiful dress.”

And it was—deep red silk that hung off her shoulders and plunged slightly down her chest and grazed the carpet beneath them.

Rosalia hesitated but thanked Harry with a soft smile. She paused again, then stated as if it were a secret, “it doesn’t feel right to wear something so expensive. Niall bought it for me, but honestly, this dress cost about the same as a semester of my tuition. It’s Oscar de la Renta.”

Harry thought he detected a hint of sarcasm mixed with the incredulousness, but wasn’t quite sure how to respond. He didn’t have to, as Rosalia took another long sip of champagne and continued.

“Doesn’t it feel weird to you sometimes? Knowing that some of the outfits you wear could cover the cost of someone’s tuition? In the U.S., at least, it’s fucked. My loan payments start soon.”

Then she sighed--a deep sigh that she felt in the back of her chest, and her eyes squeezed shut for just a moment too long.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. You’ve obviously worked very hard for your money, and I didn’t mean to sound so judgmental.”

Harry, although slightly offended, knew that she meant no harm and made an effort to wipe the surprised look off his face. He wanted to tell her that he donated to charity but stopped himself. While this was true, (he was at a charity ball after all), he thought of the cars and houses and clothes that he owned that perhaps did err on the lavish side.

The bartender brought over their glasses, and Harry lifted his flute with a soft “cheers.”

Rosalia smiled again and took a sip of her own. She was embarrassed that she had brought up money around someone with so much of it and cursed the champagne that had been flowing freely down her throat all night. But the bubbles were sweet and welcome to the foreign and unfamiliar scene she was dealing with tonight. “I should find Niall, I think they are serving dinner soon.”

“I’ll come with you,” Harry offered. “It’s been a couple months since I’ve seen him.”

They walked back into the ballroom together, weaving through tables and chairs in search of Niall. Harry didn’t mind chatting with Rosalia in the meantime.

“So, tell me about yourself.”

Harry almost cringed at his own words; it was like he was trying to pick up a girl in a crowded bar. She grimaced back at his question.

“I don’t think there’s much to tell. I’m from Vancouver, Oregon, but I went to college in Eugene. I’m working in a coffee shop there...well, I’m searching for an actual job. I graduated in December, and, well, it’s May.”

“S’alright though,” he responded, although he really had no idea what he was talking about. Harry sometimes tried to imagine himself as a student but had little success in those thoughts. “What did you study at university?”

“International Studies, but I’m looking for a job with an NGO or nonprofit. There aren’t very many international relations jobs unless you move to a really big city like D.C. or New York. Or London, I suppose.” Rosalia grimaced again to herself at the thought of the cost of living in somewhere like D.C. or San Francisco.

“Would you want to move to a bigger city someday?”

Rosalia watched how his eyebrows pushed together as if he was in the midst of a serious conversation. She stifled a giggle.“Yes, definitely! But I’m sticking to Eugene for now, so I can save up some money.”

“What sort of nonprofit do you want to work at?”

“I’m not really sure! Anywhere that will hire me at this point, I guess. I just want to be able to make a difference, you know? Otherwise, what’s the point of it all.”

“To be happy?” he asked genuinely.

“I think that’s what would make me happy,” she offered.

As if to respond, Harry’s eyebrows pushed together again.

“Also, I’m sorry again about that tuition comment.”

He promised her it was okay. They found Niall, who had been busy chatting with people who Harry recognized and who Rosalia had never met, and he watched the smile that broke across Niall’s face when he saw the two of them approach.

“Harry! You’ve met Rosa, I see! I was gonna introduce ya’ two.”

“We met at the bar,” Rosalia replied with a sly smile, and her and Niall both laughed. Harry found himself watching them interact--they way they touched but never lingered. Niall’s hand grazed across her palm for a brief moment, but he made no effort to hold it.

While Niall responded to someone’s question, Rosalia turned to Harry and, in that same voice that reminded him of a secret whisper, said, “I’m glad I met you, I didn’t know anyone here besides Niall.’just gets a bit boring and all.” Harry was glad he had met her too.

***** The next day, Harry made a call to his agency. He wasn’t certain of all of the logistics, only the idea; however, he knew that he wanted Rosalia involved. Harry couldn’t decide exactly why--if he wanted her to feel proud of him or if he was embarrassed at how money had seemed so trivial to him recently or if, maybe, he was doing it for purely selfless, good reasons. Harry sent a text to Niall.

It was hours before he responded with her number, surprisingly with no further questions asked, and Harry contemplated between texting or calling her. He decided on the latter, pulling at his lip while the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Harry. Er, Harry Styles”

“Oh, hi!” She pipped in surprise, and he chuckled in response. “Um, what’s up?

Harry assumed that Niall hadn’t told her he’d asked for her phone number. “Look, I’ve thought about that comment you made yesterday...about your dress and tuition. I’ve pitched an idea to my label, and, well, they’re all for it because it’ll be good PR and, ehm, it’s my money technically,” Harry took a pause, struggling to string his words together. “Basically, I want to set up a scholarship fund using a portion of ticket sales from my concerts? I think for the U.S. and U.K. right now, and then we can look into extending it to other countries. I don’t really know where to start, but I was wondering if you’d want to join the project. I’d pay you a salary, of course.”

Rosalia was caught off guard; she hadn’t even gotten fully dressed yet for the day and was being offered her first real job since graduating.  “Harry, I would love to! But the thing is that I’m flying back home in a few days. The 18th to be exact.”

“That’s not a problem,” he responded. “You can work remotely, it doesn’t matter. I would just want to arrange a meeting with Megan Fitzpatrick, who’s joining on from my label, and myself before you go to run through some logistics. She’ll probably be handling most of the UK side of this. Or, if you want, I can connect you to someone in LA? I’ll be flying in at the end of the month”

“No, this week works for me. Could we do Monday or Tuesday?”

“Yeah, I’ll let Megan know and have her get in touch with you, alright?.”

Rosalia  paused. “You know I don’t have experience with this stuff, right?”

“Everyone has to learn somewhere. Just prepare some ideas, and you’ll be great.”

“Thank you, Harry.”

#harry styles #hs #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #hs2 #harry styles 2019 #niall horan #niall horan fic #niall horan fanfic #niall horan fanfiction #1dff #one direction fan fiction #one direction fic #one direction love triangle #harry fic

[hysterialevi]

When the Devil Cries pt. 24

Fanfic summary: (NO SPOILERS IN THIS STORY) After arriving in Saint Denis, Arthur ends up falling in love with a seemingly innocent pianist, only to find himself in a battle with one of the most notorious outlaws to ever emerge from America. Now, between working for Dutch and robbing money for the gang, Arthur has to also protect the man he loves as the two of them try to find their freedom.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan/Male OC

Previous chapter

This story is also on AO3

Author’s note: Sorry this chapter was a little later than usual. Like I said before, I haven’t been feeling that well this past week. Mainly just headaches and mental health, but I hope you guys enjoy this part nonetheless. Thank you for being patient :)

(Warning: this chapter is slightly nsfw!)

From Arthur’s POV

THE NEXT DAY

SAINT DENIS

Ridin’ through the city’s crowded streets, Eddie and I trotted our way to the tailor’s shop -- the location where Trelawny said he’d meet us -- and strolled past a bunch of lawmen, beggars, merchants, and even the same lady who was advocating for women’s right to vote all those months ago. It didn’t look like Saint Denis had changed that much, and most of the people appeared to be the same...but it was certainly still a foreign sight for me and Eddie.

I mean, if I was bein’ honest, I never thought we’d come back here. Not after the way we hit the goddamned national bank, and blew up one of the bridges leadin’ into the city. In my eyes, Saint Denis was supposed to be off-limits, considering how many people was after our gang, but clearly, Dutch didn’t agree.

All he seemed to care about recently was the money, risks be damned. We had already lost Hosea to Atticus and his army of crazies, and now, we was riskin’ even more of our necks for some high-stakes Poker game on a goddamned boat.

Had we learned nothing from that disaster in Blackwater? Had Dutch suddenly forgotten what happened back there? The last time we tried to rob a boat, our entire gang nearly got wiped out. Only difference was back then, all we had to worry about was the Pinkertons. Now though, we also had a rival gang threatening to destroy us, and even fewer men to fight them back.

We was in the middle of a storm. If we wanted to survive, we’d have to leave this place as soon as possible. We had far too much to lose, and even less to gain. S’far as I was concerned, the money on this boat weren’t worth the risk. ...But what could I do?

Tearin’ me away from my thoughts, Eddie suddenly grabbed my attention when he said something to me, his gaze stuck on a very familiar building that we were riding by. It had colorful posters plastered all over its walls, vibrant spherical lights decorating the roof, music dancin’ through its doors, and a decent-sized crowd of people gathering at its entrance. It was the Râleur Theatre.

We both stopped for a moment, sayin’ a quick hello to an old friend.

“...The Râleur,” Eddie murmured to himself in a nostalgic tone, clearly feelin’ a bit homesick upon seeing it. “I never expected to see it again.”

I moved my horse next to his, takin’ in the view of the theater as hundreds of memories began to flood my mind.

“Me neither,” I admitted, thinking back to the day I first met Eddie. “I imagine you must miss it a whole lot. And the folks that work there.”

The boy nodded. “Oh, you’ve no idea. Though, it’s strange to say that, considering how it used to be such a nerve-wracking experience for me. I was always afraid that I’d mess up a song, or hit a wrong note, or disappoint the audience with something I composed...but I never realized how lucky I was to have those fears until now. And how lucky I am to have new ones.”

I rested my arms on the horn of my saddle, tiltin’ my head at Eddie.

“You think you’re lucky?”

He shrugged. “There’ve been multiple occasions where I could’ve died, Arthur. Where we both could’ve died. But against all odds, we’re still here. We’re still going. I’d say that’s pretty lucky.”

A soft smile spread across my face. “I s’pose you’re right.”

Eddie shifted to a more anxious tone. “Though...I can’t deny I’m a bit worried about Dutch’s plans recently. Shouldn’t we be packing up camp? Why are we still in Shady Belle? I thought we were moving the gang up north.”

A defeated sigh escaped me. “That’s what I thought too, but evidently, Dutch ain’t ready to leave just yet. Wants to grab one more score before we get moving.”

That didn’t appear to calm the pianist down at all. “We need to get out of here, Arthur. I know we’re low on money, but Atticus is dangerously close to killing us all. And I don’t want anyone else to end up like Hosea. Especially not you.”

I gave him a sincere look. “I hear you, Eddie, and truth be told, most o’ the gang feels the same way. But like I said, so long as Dutch has his mind set on robbin’ this boat, I don’t see us leaving anytime sooner than expected. We’ll just have to survive.”

Eddie let the subject go for now. “I understand. I just hope we can make it out of this. We’ve had enough close calls as is.” The boy lightly snapped his reins and pushed his horse into a casual trot, continuin’ our trip.

“Anyways,” he said, “I’ve held us up for long enough. We should go and see, erm-- what did you say his name was again?”

“Trelawny.” I answered.

“Trelawny...” Eddie repeated to himself, “he’s part of Dutch’s gang?”

I chuckled at that. “Well, that depends on who you ask. He’s not really part of the gang like we are, but...I guess...he ain’t exactly against it neither. Sometimes, Trelawny’ll stay with us for a while, hang around camp...but then suddenly, he’ll disappear for months on end. And just when we start thinkin’ about cutting him loose, the bastard shows up again with a tip valuable enough to earn us hundreds of dollars. Kinda like now.”

“And you think we can trust this tip?” He asked.

“Trelawny’s always come through before,” I replied. “We’ve got no reason not to trust him.”

Eddie seemed content with that. “That works for me. I just want to get this robbery over with and bring the gang someplace safe. I feel like I’m constantly checking over my shoulder to make sure Atticus or Rodrick isn’t there.”

I laughed, tryin’ to ease his worries a little. “You’re assumin’ I’d let them get that close.”

The boy smirked in response, adjusting his hat. “After everything that’s happened, I’m sure you wouldn’t. ...And neither would I.”

A FEW MINUTES LATER

THE TAILOR

Strollin’ towards the opulent shop, Eddie and I hitched our horses before approaching the front doors, attemptin’ to look as casual as possible in order to avoid grabbing anyone’s attention. The people of Saint Denis were already on high alert ever since the bank robbery, and with the amount of lawmen patrolling this city, the last thing I wanted was for anyone to recognize us. We’d have to keep a low profile.

Stepping up to the tailor’s, the two of us came to a halt once we noticed an elegant man leaning against one of its corners, his face hidden behind a newspaper. There wasn’t anyone else accompanying him, and judgin’ by the not-so-subtle top hat peeking above the paper’s edge, I had a good guess as to who it was.

I double-checked our surroundings to make sure there wasn’t any unwanted ears listenin’ in and walked towards the man, quietly calling out to him.

“Trelawny.” I whispered, causing him to instantly lower the newspaper.

He gave me a delighted smile and folded the article, doin’ his best to pretend that there weren’t anything suspicious going on.

“Arthur!” Trelawny said happily. “My, my...hasn’t it been quite some time. It’s good to see you, dear boy.”

“And you, Josiah.”

The magician flicked his gaze over to Eddie. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Eddie Ryan,” I introduced, gesturing towards him. “He’s a new member of the gang. Joined not too long ago. Eddie, this is Josiah.”

The pianist reached a hand out, but I could tell he was still a bit skeptical about this new face.

“Good to meet you.” Eddie greeted. A radiant smile beamed on Trelawny’s face.

“Ah, a fellow Englishman. Don’t see too many of those around here, nor in the gang. I can see Dutch is...broadening his horizons.”

I scoffed. “Well, he’s tryin’ to, at least. But Dutch ain’t going nowhere until the gang gets some more money. And he tells me you might have a tip for our next score.”

Josiah nodded. “Yes, indeed...”

I quirked a brow, noticin’ his doubtful tone. “You don’t sound too sure.”

The magician’s expression drooped with uncertainty, and he lowered his voice so that it was just above a whisper.

“...I won’t lie to you, Arthur. This robbery is going to be tricky to pull off. Mainly because guests are not permitted to have weapons on this riverboat. Now, of course, we could disguise some of you gentlemen as security guards so you wouldn’t be entirely defenseless. But as far as having a weapon on your person...I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

I shrugged in a puzzled manner. “How the hell are we supposed rob the money without weapons?”

Trelawny held up a finger. “Discretion, dear boy. You are going to participate in the Poker game and win. Now, don’t worry -- you’ll have, err...‘assistance’ to ensure your victory.”

I got straight to the point. “You want me to cheat.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite as bluntly as that, but yes! You’re going to cheat. Though, I would still make sure that whoever is going to play the games actually looks affluent. That way, your ‘luck’ doesn’t seem too suspicious to the other players.”

An idea popped up in my mind.

“Eddie,” I suggested, “why don’t you play?”

The boy appeared surprised at the thought. “Me?”

“Yeah. You got some skill in Poker, and besides, outta all the people in the gang, you look the most civilized among us. No one would suspect you to be a crook. You don’t have to do it, o’ course. I’m just saying.”

He went along with the plan. “No, I’m up for it, but who’s going to be giving me the ‘assistance?”

“How about Herr Strauss?” Josiah recommended. “I know these sort of things are usually right up his alley. Or perhaps even Hosea. That man is a conman at heart. This would be perfect for him.”

I froze with realization, suddenly rememberin’ that Trelawny hadn’t heard about his death. To me, it felt like it had been ages since Hosea died, but the reality was...it had only been a few days. All this mayhem, all this death...it barely spanned across an entire week. We were given almost no time to mourn Hosea after he was killed, let alone write a letter to Trelawny about it. I supposed it only made sense he didn’t know yet. I was just surprised Dutch hadn’t told him.

Letting out a morose sigh, I tried to think of the quickest and least painful way to break the news to him, causing Josiah to pause in confusion once he noticed my sudden change in mood.

Eddie and I exchanged looks, the both of us unsure of how to get it out in the open.

“Trelawny,” I murmured, “...Hosea’s dead.”

The magician blinked out of shock, his usual facade of charm and charisma breaking for just a moment upon hearin’ the horrible news.

“...D-Dead?” He repeated. “What on earth happened?”

I mindlessly brought my eyes to the ground, not exactly eager to discuss the topic.

“Trouble with a rival gang,” I hurriedly explained. “Hosea was killed in an ambush.”

Trelawny’s face sank with a gentle frown.

“Well...I’m terribly sorry to hear that, Arthur. Mister Matthews was always one of the good ones. Sometimes, he was even the best. It’s a shame he’s gone.”

I agreed with a simple nod. “Sure is.”

Clearin’ my throat, I attempted to regain composure and changed the subject, hastily getting back to business. “...Anyway, ah...what else can you tell us about this riverboat party? When is it? What can we expect?”

Josiah retrieved the newspaper he was reading earlier and handed it to me, pointing to a certain article.

“About the same as you’d expect from any high-society gala. There’ll be crowds of rich folk who couldn’t be more pleased with themselves, a bar, musicians, safes full of money and jewelry, the Poker tables of course...and lots of security. As for when it’s taking place, I believe the party is being held in four days from now. It’s not an abundant amount of time to plan, but it should give you boys long enough to think of something. Which brings me to the building behind us.”

I glanced up from the paper and brought my gaze to the tailor’s shop, givin’ Trelawny a curious look.

“You tellin’ me we met at the tailor’s for a reason?”

The magician laughed. “Well, I didn’t bring you here to admire the dresses, dear boy! No...we need to get you a suit, and perhaps a shave as well. After all, if you want to blend in with the fine folk on the riverboat, you’re going to have to look the part. And -- I mean no offense to your current attire -- but nobody is going to believe you’re filthy rich when you’re just filthy.”

I heavily sighed in annoyance, shovin’ the newspaper into my satchel as my expression flattened with irritation.

“...Fine. Before we go in, though,” I turned to Eddie and placed a few dollars in his hand, givin’ him a different task as I pointed in the opposite direction. “Eddie, why don’t you go and rent us a room at the Bastille? Ain’t no point in goin’ back to camp this early. Besides, maybe you can get yourself some real food there.”

The pianist stared downwards at his palm. “You sure?”

“Yes,” I answered firmly. “Besides, I’d rather you not be present when I’m tryin’ on skin-tight suits. You’ve seen enough horrors lately.”

Eddie chuckled at that and took the money, steadily walkin’ back to Bullet who was now getting a bit restless at the hitching post.

“If you insist,” he complied with a giggle. “Alright then, I’ll meet you at the saloon. Good luck, gentlemen.”

Trelawny waved him goodbye. “And good luck to you, young man.” Josiah turned back to me, gesturing inside the tailor’s with a polite bow. “Well then, Arthur...shall we?”

I walked ahead of him, lettin’ myself into the shop while Eddie mounted up.

“Sure.”

THAT EVENING

THE BASTILLE

Leavin’ my horse next to Eddie’s, I hopped off the animal and pushed my way through the swinging doors, allowing myself into the saloon as everyone inside instantly jolted their heads towards me, wonderin’ what the hell this cowboy was doing back in Saint Denis.

I mean, I doubted anyone here really remembered me -- apart from the bartender who was wavin’ me over like an old friend -- but I imagined it was also hard to forget someone of my “background” hanging around this lavish establishment. After all, the last time I was here, it was to gather information on that godforsaken gala where Eddie and I nearly got shot. There weren’t no honest people in this saloon, and unlike the rest of the patrons relaxin’ in this here bar, I certainly wasn’t being subtle about it in the slightest.

I just hoped the boy and I would be able to get at least one moment of peace today. Things had been so chaotic back at camp recently, part of me couldn’t deny that I only agreed to be Dutch’s errand boy so I could get away from all that. It was selfish, yeah...but I just needed a goddamned break. And so did Eddie.

Sauntering over to the bar while the other customers went back to their business, I simply slid a coin onto the counter and leaned against its surface, causin’ the bartender’s eyes to pop open in shock once he recognized my sour face.

“Well, well...look who it is!” He greeted, taking the coin into his palm. “Long time, no see, mister! How ya been?”

I chuckled in a friendly tone. “It has been a long time, ain’t it? I’m doin’ well, I suppose. Y’know, considering the circumstances.”

He nodded in understanding, giving me a beer. “Mm-hmm, things is gettin’ rough out there, for sure. I’m just glad to see you alright.” The bartender’s expression lit up with remembrance. “Hey, your friend was down here not too long ago. Mister Ryan. I gotta say: as surprised as I am to see you, I was even more surprised to see him. I thought he was dead!”

I took a sip. “Dead?”

“Well, he just sorta disappeared after that horrific firefight at Miss Powell’s place. And there’s also the fact that the folks at the Râleur miss him a whole bunch. So, I just kinda assumed, y’know?”

I stared down the mouth of the bottle, mindlessly thinkin’ back to all the shit Eddie and I had been through these past months.

“Yeah...” I said, “things’ve gotten crazy for us lately. Eddie, especially. I’ve just been...helpin’ him along, I guess.”

The bartender wiped a rag along the counter, cleanin’ it as he spoke. “Well, that’s certainly nice of you, mister. Obviously, I dunno Mister Ryan as well as you do, but based on what I’ve seen and heard of him, he seems like a good man. One of the few left in this city.”

I brought the bottle to my lips, downing another sip. “One o’ the few left in the world.”

He smiled at that. “Indeed.”

Halting his movements, the bartender paused for a moment and took on a more concerned tone, his chipper mood slightly dyin’ down as he glanced upstairs.

“You, ah...you make sure to keep an eye on that boy, alright? Things is already uncomfortably quiet in this saloon now that Lillian’s gone, and I’d never thought I’d say this, but...I kinda miss when she’d come here and complain to the rest of us. She was a troubled woman, for sure, but she made this place memorable in a strange way. Watchin’ another familiar face disappear might just...do me in.”

I finished my drink and placed the bottle down, gettin’ ready to go find Eddie. “Believe me, I’m doing everything I can. Speakin’ of which, you know where Mister Ryan is? He said he’d meet me here.”

The bartender gestured above us. “He rented a room here for the night. Room 201. I believe he’s in the bath right now.”

I backed away from the bar, nonchalantly beginning to head upstairs. “Thanks. I’m gonna go and wait for him.”

“You take care of each other, sir,” the man replied. “Ain’t nowhere safe out there nowadays. Sometimes, a friend is more useful than a gun.”

I agreed. “That they are.”

A WHILE LATER

ROOM 201

Shovin’ my new suit into the temporary wardrobe, I slipped off my shirt and searched for a more casual one to wear while Eddie finished up his bath, the both of us eager to sleep under an actual roof for once.

The manor back at Shady Belle did its job well enough, and I didn’t find myself wakin’ up with as nearly mosquito bites as I did back in Clemens Point, but still. It was nice not havin’ to sleep around a bunch of gators or worry about being jumped by Atticus and his group of maniacs. Instead, I could probably actually get some real sleep tonight, and eat some food before inevitably returning to camp to carry out this insane robbery.

I mean, sure, the plan sounded simple enough. We’d stuff ourselves into some disguises, pretend to be all posh and whatnot, and cheat at the Poker games while simultaneously winning hundreds of dollars. It was child’s play compared to the other robberies we’d done.

But...what if something went awry? What if someone recognized us or found out who we were? What if the law was alerted before we got the money? We’d be trapped on a boat floatin’ in the middle of goddamned nowhere, and on top of that, most of us would be unarmed. I just didn’t think it was worth risking the gang’s safety like this no matter how much cash was sitting in those people’s pockets.

There’d be plenty of time for larceny later. But we'd already pushed our luck far enough. We had to leave Shady Belle. And now.

“Oh!” Eddie’s voice suddenly exclaimed from behind me, makin’ me realize I weren’t alone no more. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you were here.”

Whirling around at the unexpected intrusion, I separated myself from the wardrobe and spotted a hilariously red-faced Eddie standing in the doorway as he tried to avert his eyes, clearly a bit embarrassed due to seein’ me shirtless.

“It’s alright,” I reassured with a chortle. “Come on in.”

Slowly walking into the room, the pianist shut the door behind him and awkwardly shuffled towards the bed, having a seat with his back turned to me while I continued to get dressed. I couldn’t lie -- it was amusin’ to see him in such a bashful state. Normally he was pretty well-composed, but...I guessed everyone had their weaknesses. I’d have to walk around without a shirt more often.

“...So,” Eddie said, sounding a bit more relaxed, “did you get a new suit?”

“Yep.” I answered, earnin’ an inquisitive look from him. I rolled my eyes in a playful manner. “Don’t worry...you’ll get to see it in all its glory on the riverboat. Then you can laugh and holler all you want.”

The boy chuckled. “You don’t look as bad in a suit as you think, Arthur. In fact, I’d say you look quite handsome.”

A small but surprisingly flattered smile grew on my face. “Well then, maybe there’s hope for me, after all. But what ‘bout you? Heard you got a nice bath.”

Eddie dragged a hand through his still-wet hair, tidying up the strands. “I didn’t realize how much I needed it until I actually got into the tub. I don’t know how you people do it, traveling in the wilderness for months. I’ve not even been away from civilization for that long and I’m already struggling.”

I grinned at him. “You’ll get used to it. Though, I will admit, it is nice to enjoy these luxuries every once in a while. Gives you a chance to relax.”

He nodded. “That it does.”

Sitting in silence for a few minutes after that, Eddie eventually rose to his feet and wandered next to me, his green eyes admirin’ the view outside our window as the sun began to sink under a purple sky. Despite the chaos we was dealing with right now -- what with fighting Atticus and killin’ Colm -- Eddie still appeared to be somewhat at peace, now that we were back in his hometown.

For the first time in a while...the boy actually looked happy, and the familiar spark I always saw in his expression had finally returned. It made me glad to see him smilin’ again, and part of me wished we would never have to leave this hotel room. ...But I knew better than to dream like that.

Turning to me with a loving glance, Eddie quietly cleared his throat and gazed at the floor, the red tint coming back to his face once again.

“Erm, Arthur...?” He nearly whispered.

I raised a brow at him, curious about the hesitance in his voice. “Yeah?”

The boy began fidgeting with his hands. “...This is...awkward for me to ask, but I was thinking...well, we never truly know how much time we have left with each other, do we?”

The sudden change in tone caught me off-guard and I put all my attention on Eddie, tryin’ to figure out where on earth this was coming from.

“...No,” I admitted somberly. “No, I...guess we don’t.”

The pianist grew even more red. “W-Which is why I was wondering if...perhaps, you’d like to...spend the night with me? I mean, we’re out here by ourselves, and...I-I don’t really know when we’ll get the chance again. The gang’s always moving, and--”

I cut the boy off and grabbed his hand, calmin’ him down.

“Relax, Eddie,” I comforted, chuckling softly. “I’d...I’d like that.”

He looked up at me with surprise. “You would?”

I wrapped my other arm around Eddie and brought him close. “O’ course. Like you said, we might never get another chance. We’re...always runnin’ for our lives, it feels like. Always fighting. Never at peace. Least we can do is reserve one day just for us.”

Seemingly devoid of all his previous self-doubt, the other man took what I said to heart and simply stood there for a moment before suddenly leanin’ forward and pressing his lips against mine, holding onto me as if I would vanish if he let go.

There was a certain passion behind Eddie’s actions -- one I’d never experienced from him before -- and...it made feel...alive. I mean, I wasn’t the best when it came to findin’ the right words, and truth be told: I rarely ever knew how to describe what was going through my mind...but this was different.

Most of the time, I found myself constantly feelin’ as if I was dead already. Day and night, week after week...I always felt more and more like a walking husk. Just a hollow shell about to crack at any moment and unveil the broken man hidin’ inside. There was hardly anything about me that was worth redeeming, and even with Dutch’s plans basically controlling my life, I still had no idea where this road was going.

There always seemed to be some sort of obstacle blockin’ our path, or another tragedy that would cause Dutch’s sanity to deteriorate even further, but with Eddie by my side now, somethin’ just felt like...it had changed.

Like even with the high chance that our gang would most-likely be wiped out before we could reach New York, or Tahiti, or wherever else Dutch had in his sights, that I still had something left to save. That even if everything else went to shit, I could still give Eddie the life he deserved. And God-willing, join him in it.

It was a foolish dream -- and one I doubted I’d ever actually make a reality -- but it was enough to keep me going. The idea alone of possibly makin’ it through this hell on Earth and somehow managing to survive was enough to convince me that it weren’t time to drop dead just yet. Even if it meant I’d end up havin’ to sacrifice everything I had, or abandon the only life I ever knew, I was ready to protect the one person that was keepin’ me alive.

‘Cause I knew I was also the only thing keeping him alive.

Returning Eddie’s affection, I tightened my arms around the pianist and slightly lifted him off the floor before setting him down on the bed, swiftly undoing his shirt as he sank into the mattress below.

Eddie allowed his hands to roam up my back and caressed every muscle he came across, softly pressing his fingers into my skin like a sculptor shaping his project. By now, his face was flushed pink all over again and I could almost feel the warmth radiating off him, but this time, he didn’t seem to care. Instead, the boy only appeared to be lost in bliss, and the further we let ourselves go, the more eager he became.

Yanking his shirt off, I tossed the piece of clothing to the side and exposed his bare chest...only to be met with a sight I wasn’t expecting.

Contrary to the smooth, unscathed complexion I anticipated Eddie to have, I saw a horrifying mess of fresh scars and burns crisscrossin’ each other on his torso, completely taking me by surprise as my jaw dropped in shock.

I hovered a gentle hand above the damaged flesh, unsure of how to react.

“...What...the hell happened to you?” I blurted out, examining the mostly healed wounds. “Did...did Rodrick do this to you?”

Eddie frowned out of guilt and looked away from me, evidently ashamed of the lacerations on his chest.

“...I didn’t want to alarm you,” he explained. “Reverend Swanson patched me up whilst you were still sleeping. I...I asked him not to tell you. ...I’m sorry, Arthur.”

Turnin’ away for a second, I took a deep breath and shook my head in anger, thinking about all the different ways I was gonna murder Rodrick if I ever saw him again.

“...That son-of-a-bitch...” I muttered. “I’ll kill that goddamn maniac--”

“--Arthur,” Eddie hushed, placing a soothing hand on my cheek. “It’s okay. We’ll worry about him later. We’ve got plenty of time to think about Atticus and his gang. For now, though...”

A frisky smirk grew on his lips and I suddenly felt his other hand tuggin’ at the hem of my pants, leadin’ me to let out an amused chuckle once I calmed down.

“You’re right...” I replied, “you’re right. I’m just sorry I couldn’t prevent that from happenin’ to you. I--”

Eddie put a single finger over my mouth, grinning in a fond manner.

“No, no,” he scolded playfully. “None of that. No apologies, no worrying about me, no nothing. Okay? Tomorrow, I promise I’ll let you go back to being an angry, cold-hearted brute. But tonight, you actually enjoy yourself for once, and just take a breather. Alright?”

I beamed at him and threw all my worries about Dutch or Atticus out the window, bendin’ down to place a series of kisses on Eddie’s neck as the night carried on.

A soft laugh escaped me. “As you wish.”

#red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #eddie ryan #arthur morgan x male oc #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 story

[douchebagbrainwaves]

HERE'S WHAT I JUST REALIZED ABOUT ADVICE

Would it be so bad to add a new application to my list of known time sinks: Firefox. If you consider exclamation points as constituents, for example: after the founders graduated from college, they borrowed $15,000 from their friend's rich uncle, who they give 5% of the company in restricted stock, vesting over four years, and the living expenses of the founders quits. And I don't think there's any limit to the number of startups per capita is probably a 20th of what it might have been.1 I'd sacrifice a large percentage of the income for the extra peace of mind. And it only does a fraction of them.2 9998 Subject free 0.3 Ask anyone who's done it. Their unconscious mind decides for them, it's a vote of no confidence. Some angel investors join together in syndicates.

An optimism shield has to be tuned just right. How do you learn it? The best way to explain how it all works is to follow the case of a hypothetical very fortunate startup as it shifts gears through successive rounds. And while startup hubs are as powerful magnets as ever, the increasing cheapness of web startups will if anything increase the importance of startup hubs, but the title of one: James Salter's Burning the Days. You're not all playing a zero-sum game. Fortunately there's someone you can ask each for advice about the other. But perhaps worst of all, the complex sentences and fancy words give you, the bullshit that sneaks into your life by tricking you is no one's fault but your own. 8 books to choose from, the quantity would definitely seem limited, no matter how finished you thought it was. The most dangerous thing about our dislike of schleps is that much of it is unconscious. Few legal documents are created from scratch.4 Err on the side while working on their day jobs, but which never got anywhere and was gradually abandoned.

The angel deal takes two weeks to close, so you start to lie to yourself. The effort that goes into looking productive is not merely that it's longer. There are theoretical arguments for giving these two tokens substantially different probabilities Pantel and Lin stemmed the tokens, meaning they reduced e. Promising new startups are often discovered by developers. It's not what they originally set out to do—in the process of innovation. After my mother died, I wished I'd spent more time with her. Of course, looking at multiple token sequences would catch it easily.5

So verbs with initial caps have higher spam probabilities than they would in all lowercase. No one proposes that there's some limit to the number of people who want to work for them. A month later, at the end of month six, the system is starting to have a new kind of stock representing the total pool of companies they were managing. If anything major is broken—if they sense you're ambivalent, they won't give you much attention. 7 uncle 50 4. What would be a good heuristic for product design, and others where it would help to be rapacious is when growth depends on that. 5 million from angels without ever accepting vesting, largely because we were so inexperienced that we were appalled at the idea.

Partly the reason deals seem to fall through so often is that you know you're making something at least one has to make money.6 The danger of the second paragraph is not merely annoying; the prickly attitude of these posers can actually slow the process of innovation. Indeed, the whole concept seemed foreign to them. What's wrong with having one founder, like Oracle, usually turn out to be good, because it was some project a couple guys started on the side.7 Founders at Work. We have three general suggestions about hiring: a don't do it if you let them. For example, everyone I've talked to while writing this essay felt the same about English classes—that anything can be interesting if you get deeply enough into it. But what if your manager was hit by a bus? You can no longer guess what will work; you have to take enough to get to the next step is.8 But even factoring in their annoying eccentricities, the disobedient attitude of hackers is a net win. Then you'd automatically get your share of the returns of the whole economy.9

I wasn't paying attention, I didn't know what they'd be like.10 Way more startups hose themselves than get crushed by competitors.11 This is what real productivity looks like. And because this is what I call degeneration. Our ancestors were giants. We can of course counter by sending a crawler to look at the instruments. When they demo it, one of the motives on the FBI's list.

They would just look at you blankly. And the hardest part of that is often discarding your old idea. And don't write the way they are because that is how things have to be smart too, right?12 It used to be aware of this problem.13 But you can't browse the web. There's a whole essay's worth of surprises there for sure. It's the concluding remarks to the jury.

This may work in biotech, where a lot of pain and stress to do something that would otherwise seem too ambitious.14 I remember going through this realization myself. So if our group of founders have something they can launch.15 This is no accident. The spirit of resistance to government, Jefferson wrote, is so valuable on certain occasions, that I wish it always to be kept alive. If life is short, we should expect its shortness to take us by surprise. I feel as if someone snuck a television onto my desk. This had two drawbacks: a an expert on literature need not himself be a good heuristic for product design, and others wouldn't.16

Notes

If an investor? Maybe that isn't the last round of funding rounds are bad news; it is very common for startups. If Ron Conway had angel funds starting in the US.

Mayle, Peter, Why Are We Getting a Divorce? The word suggests an undifferentiated slurry, but if you hadn't written it?

Most of the fatal pinch where your idea is to be very hard and doesn't get paid to work not just the location of the reasons startups are ready to invest in your own time, because software takes longer to close than you expect.

This is an understatement. VCs aren't tech guys, the best approach is to be hidden from statistics too.

For example, the switch in the sense of the twentieth century, art as brand split apart from art is not much to generalize. This technique wouldn't work for us! Their inexperience makes them overbuild: they'll create huge, overcomplicated agreements, and mostly in Perl.

Vision research may be overpaid. For the price of a running back doesn't translate to soccer. But try this thought experiment: If they were.

And since there are only doing angel deals to generate revenues they could attribute to malice what can be said to have moments of adversity before they ultimately choose not to make fundraising take less time, is a trap set by evil companies for the same work faster. Which is not so much on luck. This flattering distinction seems so natural to the home team, I've become a function of their predecessors and said in effect what the startup eventually becomes. The danger is that you decide the price of an official authority makes all the East Coast.

One-click ordering, however, you need to raise money on the spot, so x% usage growth predicts x% revenue growth, because the danger of chasing large investments is not yet released. Some blue counties are false positives caused by blacklists, I was a refinement that made it possible to bring corporate bonds to market faster; the crowds of shoppers drifting through this huge mall reminded George Romero of zombies.

Surely no one knows how many computers the worm infected, because some schools work hard to imagine how an investor seems very interested in us! Oddly enough, maybe they'll listen to God.

Don't be evil.

I was there when it was more rebellion which can vary a lot of startups where the richest of their upbringing in their closets. Perl. What they must do is leave them alone in the past, it's because other companies made all the potential magnitude of the most, it's shocking how much they liked the outdoors, was no great risk in doing something that conforms with their decision or just outright dismisses it and make a formal language for proofs in which you want to lead.

Applets seemed to Aristotle the core: the quality of production. Because the pledge is deliberately vague, we're going to give up, and unleashed a swarm of cheap component suppliers on Apple hardware. Actually, someone else to lend to, so we also give any startup that wants to the World Bank, the owner shouldn't pay me extra for doing badly and is doomed anyway.

The reason not to like uncapped notes, VCs who are weak in other Lisp dialects: Here's an example of a safe environment, but in practice money raised as convertible debt, so it's conceivable that the lies people told 100 years will be big successes but who are both. But wide-area bandwidth increased more than they have to preserve their wealth by forbidding the export of gold or silver. This plan backfired with the bad idea the way they do on the software business.

Fortuna! Algorithms that use it are called naive Bayesian.

A Bayesian Approach to Filtering Junk E-Mail. Currently the lowest rate seems to be delivering results.

You know what kind of protection is one you take out order.

#automatically generated text #Markov chains #Paul Graham #Python #Patrick Mooney #refinement #business #example #web #Approach #George #someone #Jefferson #side #Mayle #World #step #tokens #team #Days #project #shoppers #East #sup #application #worth #attention #heuristic #angels

[berryargento]

Withering Blossoms; fragment VI

AO3 link

previous chapter; fragment V

Notes: Hello, hello. Did anyone miss me /nope Two months (?) have passed and here we are in the sixth fragment! Are we there yet to uncover the truth? XD

Ahem. Anyways, thank you for your patronage as always. I hope you’ll enjoy the chapter. And, I always need to remind you that this is a collaboration project between me and @eulyin-senpai. Do check her page and thank her for the beautiful and amazing illustrations!!

Summary: As they wandered, the time ran out from the jar of hope, waiting to be filled.

Morning was not exactly a pleasant moment in wintertime. The weather can be too cold, particular road could be blocked with ice although the sun is up on the sky. Sometimes, ice would make its way to cover the lumber storage, which needed to be broken before getting the firewood.

Outside, by how the cloud and the wind blows, there's no sign of snowfall but it was one of the coldest winter day they had to experience as no lumberjacks passing by. Though the cold didn't bother her, Ruby kept the firewood level inside the house steady for the fireplace and cooking, so her sister won't need to go out to stock up. The habit was still going up until now as when Ruby entered the house to see her sister in the living room saying nothing to her.

Right. Ruby mused, she dropped the logs nearby the fireplace. Onee-chan is still—

There was a glimmer of hope sprouting inside her heart when her sister greeted her home yesterday. As if the door to home is always open and everything can return to nothing ever happened. It's just a wistful thinking, the magenta-haired vampire knows, there was no way she could keep doing chores or hanging around her older sister as she usually do since she's no longer the 'Ruby' that her sister acknowledged.

After sorting the wood pile and getting some lumbers into the fire, Ruby noticed that Dia walked to the front door, pausing as she got something that stuck beneath it.

An envelope with the color of night; Dia's lips formed a tiniest line ever before she sought for the content. Ruby watched Dia's brows furrowed while she proceed to the single letter inside. She walked back to the direction of the sofa before keeping herself to read intently.

"I-Is that …?" jade eyes perked up from the letter. It was not once for Ruby to see Dia getting a black-colored envelope delivered. She knew the significance of the black envelope, she simply wanted to make sure.

A sigh parted the thin line, before Dia kept her lips pursed. Her eyes watched the floor. The little vampire couldn't catch the grim by how Dia's demeanor suddenly shifted, nevertheless, she saw a speck of struggle between those twinkling emeralds to stay calm. "I … must go to the Guild."

Numazu Central Guild, the beacon of hunters, also where Kurosawa family's influence on its peak. Black has been their primary identity for generations spread to members of the Guild. Envelopes dyed in the crow's color are a code of utmost urgency and secrecy, they said, but what Dia received every time is always the same black envelope. And it's by the creed of hunters that Ruby can't ask whatever content the letter speaks of.

Silence stayed as Dia marveled to the letter once more. She folded it back after reading and kept it in her pocket. The same grim that overshadowed Dia started to bother Ruby as it remained.

Is Elder the one who requested her presence? was Ruby's initial thought. Dia rarely shown her unpleasant expression except for every matter about inner Kurosawa circle. She knew far too well that nothing in the big family is a good thing; they would mostly discuss about their purity and missions and things that Ruby wanted to fall into deaf ears.

"W-Want me to come with you, Onee-chan?" Dia didn't cease to blink, Ruby quickly shut her lips. "A-Ah! I, I'm sorry, I shouldn't—it's just …"

Ruby continued to fidget, her mumbling decreased in volume as she kept rambling, darting her eyes all-over the place.

"It's okay. Kurosawa family requested my presence, and it's not for an important issue. I'll just submit my report about my latest work and went back, no need to meet them now." Ruby stopped shifting, she looked up to the indifferent expression of her sister. She noticed something different, actually, but decided that it was her imagination. "I will come to the Guild by 8 tomorrow morning. If you want to come with me, don't be late."

Nothing exchanged between them as Dia withdrawn herself to her room again, climbing the stairs and leaving Ruby staring to the trail where her sister was going. The little vampire incited that she might be dreaming; that the event is far from surreal.

"Onee-chan …"

Ruby sighed in relief for the first time in months.

When settling back to her room, Dia buried herself in digging old records firsthand, before getting back to the empty paper sitting on her desk for a while. She has yet to write something about the raid she had done—that one when she witnessed the truth about Ruby.

"Ruby," she murmured. "Why must you—"

Dia closed her eyes as she let her ink pen slipped once more, rolling on the desk and fall to the pile of scattering papers below; articles about soulless vampire with fading ink, reports about vampire's thirst, news clipping about vampire's bad deeds—

Kurosawa Dia is going to rot out to zero.

Ruby won't miss a chance, and she did; she won't miss a beat and late to follow her sister that day.

She joined Dia as she lead the walk wordlessly that morning, stayed obediently behind her sister footsteps. The little vampire joined Dia shortly when she's about to left the house. Though not exactly spoken, Dia stood by the door waiting for Ruby to finish her preparation and they navigated to the way the Numazu town was.

The morning has clear skies this time, no sign of clouds or coldness in response to snow fall. The forest road would not be slippery if the sun keeps up high on the day.

Dia suddenly halted, just when they were not far from their fences, she turned, "... Don't you, err, isn't vampire supposed to avoid sunlight?"

"No need to worry, Onee-chan, I can walk just fine," Dia doesn't look unconvinced, pursing her lips. "U-Umm, it's by Mari-chan's help. There's a kind of incense that helps to tamper sun's effect."

"I ... see. That's fine, I guess."

Dia said no more and their walk to the town continued without sound.

The town of Numazu is quite big, but every nook and cranny is always crowded from morning to afternoon. Though the business mostly concentrated around the market area by the town's entrance, it wasn't like other crowds by the tavern or by the residential areas don't speak of importance, hunters clad in their black attire also coming and going, mingled with the lively town; everyone has their own needs and deeds.

Their destination, the Guild of hunter, however, is not a part of the crowd.

After passing the relentless market, both of them took the left wing of the town's center, continuing to walk farther and farther away from Numazu's signature bell tower. It is another left by the next fork, but then Ruby stopped as she caught something's up.

Dia stopped at once she didn't hear the voice of steps that followed her. "Is something wrong, Ruby?"

"I smell a pureblood," Dia's eyes twitched, a certain name came into mind. "But ... this is the first time I smell a pureblood aside Mari-chan. It's like ... a scent of rose."

Now, that's something new, Dia noted to herself, since old vampires rarely smell any good aside from blood and something else foul ... in her memory when Elder Kurosawa escorted them to meet several of his old acquaintances. Mari has been no-go to the list; perhaps because Mari wasn't that 'kind of old' yet, or whatever Mari was spouting in regard of how pureblood behaved that she didn't pay any heed.

As far as Dia knew, there has been no 'young' pureblood existed around Numazu except for Mari, and it trickled her curiosity ever more.

Then again, they were not here for such theatrics.

"… Let's continue to the Guild." Dia picked up the pace.

Despite located far from the town center, Guild of Hunters is something that couldn't be missed since it exuded different vibes from any building in town. The building wasn't fancy like others in residential districts there; it was but a small office that looks more like a bar with a hanged wooden sign by the front. Inside, the lobby is arranged in simplicity, counters surrounded the center in square, waiting lounge with sofa, the huge board by the wall filled with information and quests from all-over the town; there's nothing fancy about the home for hunters by the first sight.

Usually, the lounge would be crowded by the time of afternoon as most of hunters would turn in their reports of the day, but that day the area is clean except for the single staff stationed by the counter.

"Thank you for your hard work, Kurosawa-san." Dia was greeted by the only female receptionist dressed in black dress, the older Kurosawa huntress replied with a nod and a smile. "Are you here to submit your reports from the last job that you took?"

The raven-haired let out a relieved sigh, the receptionist wasn't asking about that black letter from Kurosawa she wanted to avoid. "That's right."

Ruby withdrawn herself from Dia to the far left, eyes looking around to find something in the board that caught her interest as Dia walked straight to the receptionist.

While checking on the content, the reception continued to blabber, "Speaking of vampires, have you heard about the increasing outbreaks recently?"

Dia's forehead scrunched, "Outbreaks?"

"Some of usually sane vampires collapsed. There's an increase on the number of their uncontrollable blood thirst too," the raven-haired hunter didn't left out a single detail, she listened intently. "Thankfully, our hunters are ready and it doesn't cause an uproar."

Strange things happened in the town by several weeks of her absence in hunter activities. There's no information from Kurosawa family about it, at all, Dia only got a calling letter for something else.

"I see why the lounge is empty today," Dia mused. "That means hunters are stationed everywhere in Numazu now?"

The cheerful receptionist nodded. "Precisely, although the higher-ups ordered us not to strike a crowd; it will make the townspeople worry."

"I'd like a written log about everything that happened recently because of this outbreak, if it's permissible."

"Certainly. I'll have it delivered to your house, then, Kurosawa-san."

As much as Dia wanted to inquire more about this problem, she wasn't here for that. She needed to withdraw after turning in her report; her plan is to make her family not become suspicious of her actions, acting as the usual exemplary of Kurosawa hunter.

She could gather information from another measure that's not official Guild's mouth if the Guild's information turned to be no profitable to her later.

"Well, then, if you excuse me, Miss—"

"Dia!"

She was alerted by the possibility of any Kurosawa family members found her, fortunately, it wasn't the case. It was only her old friend, the doctor that treated her since forever. Physiatrist Matsuura Kanan emerged from the stairs below, holding several papers and hand board by her left hand, wearing her signature white coat. Aside her signature turquoise-colored scarf, her name card dangling around her neck, no one could miss the fact that she's a doctor in duty.

"Oh, also Ruby-chan, hello!"

Kanan gave Ruby a knowing look while Ruby nodded. They exchanged glances before Kanan reverted her focus to Dia, who's walked to her way. Ruby immersed herself to the board again and let both of them conversed.

"Kanan-san? Why are you here?"

"The usual," Kanan waved her papers, Dia tilted her head in confusion. "You forgot? I'm always here this time of the month to report about town's blood packs supply."

"Oh … right." Dia draw a breath.

"What's wrong? You look pale."

Kanan moved to lift Dia's chin, before trying to take a closer look to those emerald eyes. Usually, Dia would budge, slapping Kanan's hand and told her to stop doing that, it was strange to see Dia didn't make a single move to even flinch.

"… It's nothing."

"Is it about the outbreaks?"

"Can you please let go off me first? Ruby's watching."

In Kanan's observation, Dia's skin lacks of healthy pallor, might due to stress or illness. The doctor has yet to make an assumption, it is perhaps her own imagination.

"Right. So, about this 'outbreak'," Kanan began. "From medical examination so far, it's due to stress and limited supply of blood that vampires get. Few have been hospitalized and several heavy cases have been put into probation."

Vampires are acting weird in the town, it even applies some that's been regarded high-leveled ones. Kanan couldn't have acknowledged any low, bloodthirsty vampires cases beside the one that were taken into the hospital, Dia needed to ask other fellow hunters about field reports.

That being said, Dia rolled out the possibility that Ruby brought up earlier,—she smelled a pureblood out in the crowd—are these two different things connected?

"Vampires are going on edge, huh," Dia trailed off. "I wonder if there's a powerful vampire—perhaps, a pureblood—living in Numazu who's in control of these incidents …"

She never expect Kanan would smirk at that line of deduction. So the Physiatrist knew something that she doesn't, after all.

"Aren't you the sharp one," Dia straightened up, fingers itching to draw her blade. "It's not what you think, Dia. She got nothing to do with this, I can assure you."

"… 'She'?"

Even Ruby, who's been idle by the moment, turned. Kanan had confirmed there was another pureblood beside Ohara Mari in the town.

"Don't you think this place is a bit inconvenient to talk about such secret? Why don't we come to our office? I can make you a tea, it can ease your tiredness."

Kanan cued Dia to follow her downstairs, in which Dia quickly nod to the idea.

"… Stay here, I'll be back in a few."

"A-Alright."

Ruby discarded her wish to follow her sister and sit back, waiting in the empty lobby.

Though Kanan called it as 'her office', the room by the farthest right corner of the first basement floor, separated from others, is a small clinic for hunters in the Guild. Because Kanan got her position in the hospital, she rarely able to fill the position, leaving it to other doctors who came in by their respective shift.

When Dia entered, the room was clean; even a lot cleaner than when Kanan usually took the job. Two beds were empty, the sheets have been folded into perfection and no visible dust within the space, the tables, and even the white curtains were looked fresh. The shelves were locked to Dia's left, medicines and gauze lining up neatly inside.

Kanan folded her arms as she sat by the edge of the doctor's table, two cups untouched beside her. She noticed where Dia's gaze wondering, of course.

"What? Want to mock me because the room is clean now?" the blue-haired Physiatrist snorted.

"Well, you do know that I'm more than surprised that this clinic could actually be cleaned," Dia said. "Let's cut the chase; tell me everything that you have been hiding."

"Hmph, there's no chill when it's about work, eh?" Kanan scratched her cheek. "For starter, I hope you don't tell this information to your family."

"What about it?"

"It's … complicated," there's a roll on those lilac eyes of hers. "So, how about it?"

"We've been acquaintances for long that you're aware that I'm not Kurosawa's lapdog, Kanan-san. Mark my words."

"Vulgar words never suits you, y'know?" Kanan snickered, Dia is always taking a way to her assurance. "Hmm, where should I start …"

Dia took a spot on one of the bed, waiting for Kanan who's fumbling on her own.

"Speaking of which, you don't take Ruby here?"

The raven-haired huntress paused, looking at her feet.

"… Actually, I was summoned here by Kurosawa to talk regarding what happened to Ruby," Kanan's eyes widened. "I didn't even want to meet them so I'll leave after I confirmed this."

"Why are you bringing Ruby with you to the Guild then?" Kanan asked.

"I … well, she asked to come," Dia said quietly. "She looks … worried about the letter, so …"

Kanan somehow didn't want to continue the topic, finding the sour look on Dia's face never helping. She moved to the current problem in hand, this mysterious pureblood.

"Then," Kanan cleared her throat. "She—the pureblood vampire you seek—is an outsider, she's not connected to Kurosawa family or their lackeys in any way. She's coming to Numazu because of her own interest. She means no harm, she has been living in the town undetected by the authorities and she doesn't bother the society."

"Your point?"

"She's not the culprit but she might serve as an informant of the vampires living in the town."

Knowing Kanan, her old friend that she always able to read as easy as a book, there's no way she was saying lies. However, whether this 'outsider pureblood vampire' is the one who's been causing ruckus in the town with vampire incidents, Dia still have a high doubt of it.

"Can I get in the contact with her, then?"

The doctor was deep in thought for a while, Dia waited. She hoped that Kanan wasn't hiding any peculiar secret behind her back. Meeting with another vampire with a knowledge about Numazu town as an observer would pose a great deal for her, after all. It would be a source of great information.

"I'll try to arrange something, but not that quick," Kanan finally spoke. "When the time comes, I'll send you the usual."

"It's settled then," Dia stood up. "Thank you, Kanan-san."

The tea left untouched, or even remembered. Dia turned back to the door when Kanan grabbed on her wrist.

"Before you go back," she said. "I know you may have doubts about her, but I think talking to her might answer a few of your questions."

"… What do you mean?"

"About your younger sister, for instance."

Dia bit her lips. She broke free of Kanan's hold instantly and make her way out of the clinic without bothering to bid farewells.

"I'm sorry that I can't be any more help, Dia," she sighed. "I wish you the best of luck."

Ruby didn't bother to say something to welcome her sister back when she saw her sister ascended from downstairs, showing a bit of lax but a newfound scrunch over her face within a short while. They walked outside the building after they met up, Dia didn't mince a word per usual.

Cloudy, a bit dark afternoon welcomed them as they walked. Ruby was grateful for the lack of sun. She followed Dia obediently just like how she did by the morning, stayed put behind. From the direction that Dia took, it looks like they would go straight home, avoiding the unneeded crowds of ordinary townspeople and hunters alike.

The vampire was curious about the conversation her sister shared with the Physiatrist, however, she decided that ignorance is a bliss — at least for now.

Dia expected Kanan to be long to get her a connection to the target when she found a pure white owl knocked on her room's window one night. Three days has passed since their meeting and how Dia was grateful that Kanan always keep her promise.

The snow had blanketed the city and forests, most of the lakes already frozen and there rarely been any reported bear attacks around; the winter still continues.

Dia let the owl in, cleaning it from snow and getting the paper tied on its tibia before letting it drink water she had prepared by the windowsill. The white owl is always helpful to do letter deliveries, she found where Dia's room in the first try when Kanan once tried to send a letter and the white owl already a regular to visit Dia ever since.

'Meet a young woman in red hair, wielding an umbrella in the town's square tomorrow afternoon. State that you want to meet with Sakurauchi Riko.'

She composed a short thank-you letter to Kanan and sent the snow-colored owl back.

'Sakurauchi Riko', the name that Kanan wrote here must be the pureblood's name, maybe she would meet someone that act as a mediator, since purebloods aside Mari that she knew seem vigilant about their identity in public, though it could be different because the pureblood is 'not that old yet' with a scent of rose.

All in all, she should be ready for tomorrow—and make sure that Ruby doesn't suspect anything when she's out. Her goal to get information is by her hands now, she thought to herself.

By the afternoon on the next day, Dia found herself searching in a pack of people. Usually, it won't be as crowded as now, but maybe an event coming up or there's a flea market going on. There was no snow fall today, anyone who wielding an umbrella might stick like a sore thumb.

She made a note to Ruby before she left that she needed to do some pick-up and that she doesn't need to worry because it won't be long. Dia wondered sometimes how long this condition would go; for her to reject her sister for eternity or to wait for her sister devour her just like other lowly vampire's doing. She didn't know what is right, neither had she felt that she had done the right thing.

She rounded the fountain on the center of the town square once again, looking around to the crowd in the flea market not far from the bell tower. On the other end, a young woman in long red hair sitting by, umbrella covered most of her features. People who's passing by started to give her an old look and eventually shush away. She wore what Dia could surmise as a maroon high-sleeved dress tailored with dark curtain of roses.

Dia needed to be polite and say the password.

"Good afternoon," the young woman looked up, Dia's emerald waning to the newfound amber. "I want to meet with Sakurauchi Riko."

The woman smiled. "You must be Kurosawa-san, then. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"You're … Sakurauchi Riko, the pureblood herself?" Dia was stunned; it wasn't as she expected, also, the 'smell of rose' is absent.

Sakurauchi Riko tilted her head, a bit confused at the disbelief that painted Dia's voice. "I-I see that Kanan-san didn't tell you about how I look … though it must be quite unbelievable to see, umm, vampire this young to be a pureblood?"

"I apologize for my tactfulness, Sakurauchi-san," Dia stated. "It might be rude of me to ask but … can't we talk in somewhere more private?"

The red-haired pureblood nodded, "Sure."

Riko led their way to the residential district. Dia thought she would be coming up to the mid-class to high-class restrictive area by how Riko behaved and her 'pureblood' title rang, but then they stopped by the south borderline of the residential area and the business district where most of operative legal company stationed. The two-story building was there before them, one that's small, snugly-fitting in-between other taller ones.

The young pureblood opened the door to a living room, the sight of one table and a set of sofa were there, surge of rose's smell emanated from the room as they entered.

It didn't look like a house at all; it's more like an office.

"My assistant is out for a mission today, but I still can help you with a tea." Riko said after both of them seated in inside.

'There's no need for a tea, I'm fine as is." Dia declined.

"Then, Kurosawa-san, what can I help you with?"

"Firstly, I'm curious of your involvement in regard of strange … incidents that happened recently," Riko remained calm in Dia's observation. "Since you are a pureblood, and an outsider; I suspect a certain degree of motive."

"I'm sorry, but I never take part with any of vampire activities in the town," she answered fast. "I stayed in Numazu for the sake of my own research only. You can check the official records of my activities log, but I won't enclose any of my research's reports."

The raven-haired huntress pressed. "Keep in mind that humans see vampires as untrustworthy entity because of what they do. "I will keep doubting you without evidence of this 'research' of yours."

Riko looked hesitant for a bit, she rested her chin on her fingers. Dia wanted to be aggressive and press more, though it would be futile if her argument is proved to be baseless.

[ Is this the 'answer' Kanan said that she would find?—Dia swallowed her urge to lash out and shakily exhaled. ]

"That aside, I'm here also to ask about another question; a personal one," Riko watched to meet a soft gaze coming from Kurosawa Dia, who was threatening for answers. The pureblood waited for the huntress to ask, "What do you feel about a human-turned vampire?"

Riko furrowed her brows, "I don't expect that coming from you," she eyed the human to find that she was nowhere joking with the question, still Riko couldn't help to think that it wasn't her—it wasn't Dia who was seeing vampire as an object who asked that. "My assistant was a human."

"Your ... assistant?" Dia was beyond surprised, widened her eyes. "You're turning your assistant to a vampire? How could—"

"Before you jumping to a wrong conclusion, my assistant chose to be a vampire by her own free will," Riko interrupted. "You might find it hard to believe, maybe you need to ask the person yourself."

Not long, there's knocking on the front door. Dia turned when Riko said calmly, "Come on in, You-chan, we have a guest."

A young woman showed up by the doorway, timidly scratching the back of her neck as she walked in. Unlike how Riko dressed in long maroon dress, this grey-haired woman wore shorts and suspender on her shirt. She tidied her newsboy cap as she approached the spot beside where Riko sat.

"Watanabe You, on your service!" she saluted, giving her million-watt smile in process.

"You-chan, this is Kurosawa-san, Kanan-san's friend."

"It's nice to meet you, Kurosawa-san!"

On a glance, this 'Watanabe You' looked ... normal, though she has an absent of healthy complexion and smell compared to most humans; she's truly a vampire by outside. She had this strange, hyper energy that she exhibited, which is a bit unsettling for Dia. Never saw a vampire with such bubbly personality before, or Dia had seen too much gloomy vampires by her line of work.

"You must be the assistant of this pureblood," Dia began. "And you were a human ...? You're not coerced nor having a problem with your families when you turn into this … this being?"

You pursed her lips, thinking. She wasn't sure what is Dia implying. "I agreed to this, and my family is okay with it. Well, I still can meet with my Dad in his voyage often when he's around the docks so I …"

"No, that's not, err," Dia didn't know whether she should voice it or let it be. "Nobody treated you coldly because you're different? You're no longer a human, after all."

The assistant glanced at her master, to find Riko's amber voicing anything but void. Meaning, she could answer with her own words, without any need for Riko to intervene. "What's the difference between humans and vampires? I mean, vampires might be bloodthirsty and all, but, don't we all the same? We're still who we are."

That ... didn't add up to what Dia had acknowledged. Wasn't vampire a supernatural being with no soul that they gained such immortality, such power?

"Didn't the vampire told you before that living as a vampire having a little to no benefit? I mean—"

"What are you implying, Kurosawa-san?" Riko asked.

"It's an old saying that a vampire didn't have a soul, so I ..." Dia paused. "I ... think that once a human becoming one, they are no longer have a … heart? They're simply cold, ruthless?"

Silence befall in the Sakurauchi office. The pureblood stayed with same solemn expression, save for the confused assistant and the human.

"So that is how humans view us," Riko spoke, lacing her fingers together on her lap. "No wonder misunderstanding arises far too often; how we treated as a mere villain eventhough we uphold this peace treaty for long already."

"... Excuse me?"

"We do change the nature of humans, but we're no Grim Reaper. We didn't take away human hearts from its cage, let alone their pure souls—if it's ever not tainted," it was the first time in their conversation that the pureblood raised her voice, solidified her point. "We have our creed to not turn anyone if not because their approval, Kurosawa-san, may it answer your question."

Dia no longer know what to believe, her own truth or the vampire's truth. Everything Riko had testified is similar to what Mari had said – vampires are not made of ice. There's a room whether You's testimony is forced, but Dia found no sign of forcefulness in the face of the assistant. It is the truth. Countless uncertainty clouded Dia still, she has nowhere to go if she chose to continue the conversation, in which she was afraid to find no exact proof.

[ Or, was she being fooled from the beginning; about everything? ]

"Thank you ... for your answer," Dia finally said, rising from her seat. "I'll excuse myself for today, Sakurauchi-san. Thank you for your time."

Part of her was relieved that 'human-turned vampires' are not a purely 'bestial' entity, that her sister is still the same Ruby she ever know. Lingering doubts are still there, but she's nowhere to conclude whether the thing is right or wrong.

What's the 'truth' that she wanted to believe in now?

#project wb #withering blossoms #medieval and vampire au #llss #fanfiction #berry shit #love live sunshine #this chapter is a maze #HOPE YOU ENJOY

[gzw1689]

@sejinpk Re: Kimi no Na wa live action adaptation

Before I go off, I just want to preface this by saying that I’m no expert on filmmaking or the film production process. I’m just going by some light research, as well as an outsider’s perspective on how adaptation works informed by low level undergrad academic analysis.

Having thought about this a bit more, I’m not sure how much I’d make of the announcement just yet (at least, in terms of when/if it will be released, and maybe the people involved). From looking into the histories of some of these anime to American live-action adaptations, it seems that oftentimes, the people involved are announced, yet it takes years for the production to actually get off the ground. Some shifting in the production, directing, and writing teams may also occur.

For much of these next paragraphs, I’m just going by Wikipedia.

With Ghost in the Shell, Steven Spielberg was announced as having the rights to it with producers attached all the way back in 2008, but production seemed to start coming together around 2014 (though, it appears, with most of the same people attached).

Death Note captured the interest of American filmmakers all the way back in 2007 (around the time the anime aired) until an adaptation was announced all the way back in 2009. Distributors, directors, and other crew shifted around until they finally solidified the team around 2015 (though with some of the original producers and the original screenwriters still on board).

Edge of Tomorrow was optioned shortly after All You Need Is Kill was published in North America in 2009 (about five years after its Japanese publication). It actually seemed to take less time to get off the ground compared to the previous two films (maybe two years after Doug Liman was announced as director in 2010), but changed screenwriters many times before the final ones got hired. Also, apparently one of the early screenwriters commented that it was “‘too complex’ to properly adapt”.

So although there’s been an announcement for a Kimi no Na wa adaptation, it could take years before this actually enters production. But then again, maybe we don’t really want that, haha.

I guess another part of what I’m trying to say is that, from what I can tell, the timing of this announcement seems pretty typical, even when considering something like Edge of Tomorrow. As far as I can tell, the novel it was based on isn’t very well known and popular over here, and yet an adaptation was on the table quite quickly, and it was announced around a year after the novel’s North American publication. Perhaps this is just a more high profile announcement because of Kimi no Na wa’s success, and it came earlier because the parties involved managed to strike a deal with someone they liked right away (though perhaps that comes with its own issues; maybe they’re being too hasty).

I originally had this hypothesis that the “quality” of American anime adaptations largely had to do with the specific people involved. But the more I looked into it, the more this seemed to fall apart. As a generalization, many of the major people involved in these films (I only really looked at directors and screenwriters of Death Note, Ghost in the Shell and Edge of Tomorrow; though if I remember correctly, producers and executives have some creative control as well) seemed to have some amount of success with filmmaking, but also had some films that had rather mixed or poor reception.

For example, looking into Adam Wingard’s filmography (director of Death Note, since I’m at least a bit more familiar with his work compared to others I looked at), it looks like You’re Next and The Guest (both of which are classified as horror or thriller) had pretty warm reception. The only other film of his I’ve seen (besides Death Note), Blair Witch, was much less liked.

In my assessment, I would say that it was because he strayed so far from what defined The Blair Witch Project in the first place. As one of the definitive found footage films, it relied greatly on atmosphere, more subtle and psychological scares, and a more naturalistic approach that gave the illusion that it was real found footage. However, Wingard’s Blair Witch threw that approach out the window by adding loud noises (rather than cracking branches and whispers), timing its scares in a more dramatic/artificial manner (like a more conventional contemporary horror film would), and adding background music (???). All of this is very bizarre too, considering the actual story events of Wingard’s film almost constituted a remake of the original, despite being a sequel. That said, I personally found the film kind of entertaining and scary, but as more of a contemporary horror film, rather than a Blair Witch film.

Though I don’t know. Speaking of horror, Gore Verbinski’s The Ring (adapted from the Japanese film Ring) is probably one of my favourite horror movies, even though it was very tonally and somewhat substantially different from its source material. But I digress.

All that said, the people who worked on Edge of Tomorrow (director Doug Liman and screenwriter Christopher McQuarrie) also had pretty inconsistent reception to their films as well. For example, McQuarrie won an Academy Award for The Usual Suspects all the way back in 1995, but also wrote quite a few mixed or poorly received thriller films. Doug Liman directed three well-received films earlier in his career (Swingers, Go, and The Bourne Identity), but had a few films with mixed reception before Edge of Tomorrow. So I suppose the adaptation and collaboration process just turned out to be more successful in that case.

Regarding the people on Kimi no Na wa, J.J. Abrams has quite a bit of experience and success adapting or adding onto existing properties, though I think it’s important to note that the announcements haven’t said that he’s directing it. At the very least, he could be a producer with someone else directing. I can’t really say much about Eric Heisserer, since I haven’t seen anything he wrote, but it seems despite his Academy Award nomination, he’s had a pretty inconsistent track record so far. But I suppose even though J.J. has been successful with adaptations of existing works, judging by the track records of previous anime to live-action filmmakers, that’s no real guarantee he’ll treat an adaptation of Kimi no Na wa well.

And as you’ve laid out, adapting a Japanese story--especially one that has so many Japanese cultural elements--is an entirely different undertaking. Not to mention RADWIMPS’s music is also such a huge part of the film’s identity. If those two remain on the project (my guess is J.J. will, but Heisserer could possibly get replaced), I actually want to sincerely wish them good luck in trying to do that.

This might be a bit of a weird angle to take, but if I were them, maybe I’d try to stray as far away from the source material as possible while maintaining some of the core elements that are more universal (ie. the theme of distance, the body switching, averting a disaster, etc.). Then, maybe I’d add or change some things that would make it more relevant to America. I’d probably even change the name completely (since it relies on Japanese wordplay), but maybe have in the credits that it was “Loosely inspired by Your Name”, or something to that effect. I suppose that’s how far I think they’d have to go in order for this to sort of work; tell a different story while keeping some of the core elements there, and don’t pretend you’re telling the original one.

I think one of the problems with American adaptations is that they take this sort of middle ground where they try to pass it off as the original thing (for example, by keeping names and the like), but change other parts to the point where it just seems...weird and wrong. I’d say you have to go full on one way or the other: ultra-faithful Japanese-like adaptation or a vastly altered American story inspired by the original. If you try to please both crowds at once, neither one of them will be happy. This may be an unpopular opinion, but I’d be quite interested in seeing something with the latter approach.

I think cultural adaptation can be done successfully. (How Atom Egoyan adapted The Sweet Hereafter from an American story to a Canadian one comes to mind, though perhaps there’s less of a challenge there, since our cultures aren’t that far apart; maybe I’ll talk about that in a separate post.) But it needs to be handled with the utmost care, and it needs to get down to the core of what could really resonate with American audiences. Not, for example, by fundamentally warping characters and themes, and adding unnecessary stuff like 80′s music (again, ???), like in Wingard’s Death Note. In the end though, like you said, when it comes to Hollywood adaptations, it’s probably best to err far on the side of skepticism.

If this actually ends up going through, as much as I may be tempted to give the filmmakers the benefit of the doubt, I have to be realistic. They probably are going to do something that fits into the weird “middle ground” that I described. So I suppose I’m cautious of how it’ll turn out. But at the same time, especially with the people involved, I am kind of interested to see what they do with it, even if it ends up being a mess.

If there is anything I am looking forward to about this, it’s probably how the comet will look with CGI or practical effects. If they end up going with the comet, that is.

#b1689q text posts #b1689q replies #sejinpk

[carp3n0c73m]

Frozen in Memory: People, Activities, Objects - Chapter 1

It was a gray, rainy late afternoon on the streets of Manhattan. Times Square lay half-obscured behind a misty haze of moisture, less crowded than was typical for early December, but still overrun with incorrigible tourists ensconced in human-sized plastic bags, waving skeletal frames of flimsy aluminum and cheap, multicolored canvas to-and-fro, oblivious and indifferent to the fate of strangers' eyes, determined not to let the weather rob them of their New York experience. The air smelled of wet asphalt, a glorious smell, evoking sense memories of splashing in puddles on the playground in grade school during recess while the more cautious of classmates huddled beneath the awning of the school, nervously attempting to remain dry, all the while looking on in vicarious fascination at those who braved the storm without boots or slickers, romping and stomping like wild things in celebration of their king in wolf skin. And though most assuredly nothing more than an olfactory placebo effect, it seemed that the rain cleansed the streets of the odors and leavings of humanity, bringing slick rejuvenation to the sidewalks and storefronts. 

I do not actually remember walking to the corner of 47th St. and Broadway, but I suppose there was nothing disconcerting about that being that New Amsterdam-That-Was is a city particularly well-suited to wandering and I would often find myself, absorbed in thought, setting out upon the bustling streets with no destination in particular and finding myself in one neighborhood or another, my prize being some new, untried restaurant or curio shop off the well-beaten path; I loved discovering my city. So the fact that my last concrete memory was of me soaking in the bath did not entirely disturb me, although I am usually at least peripherally aware of my spatial-self and my perambulations even while on walkabout. 

I decided to set out walking east, figuring that since it wasn't terribly cold or uncomfortable, I might wander over towards Rockefeller Center, perhaps with a view of stopping in at Arcade Coffee in the Diamond District, but out of the corner of my eye, standing as I was out in front of the ticket booth on the northeast corner of the square, I glimpsed something that arrested my attention. At first, I was uncertain if the contact lenses in my head which were providing me my 20/20 vision had simultaneously become blurred or conversely mayhap some other, less likely occurrence had transpired against the expected odds such as a small quantity of cheese cloth, perhaps carried on the (albeit nearly non-existent) breeze, had fallen over my face in such a fashion so as to confound the sharpness of my sight. Either way, I espied the marquee on the Palace Theatre and was stopped in my tracks for the fact that I could not read it.

There was most definitely writing, and graphics as well, both of which combined to proclaim the theatrical spectacle housed within and to all appearances it read, "The Illusionists: Turn of the Century". Yellow lightening rippled 'round the edges of the marquee, caressing the various magi while causing them no harm possessed as they were of magic beyond comprehension, but I was unable to accept this sight as I knew, unequivocally, that the advertised show before my eyes had closed some eleven months prior. Some of the letters were dim, not missing exactly, but rather shrouded and difficult to make out and some of them didn't look right, enough that it forced my brain to fill in the gaps. Looking away momentarily and then back at the façade of the theatre I saw that it actually read:

 "T|e  llu51on1 ts: T rn of the c ntu y". 

 I looked away again and then, in a cliché manner, rubbed my eyes as if I could alter reality by applying pressure to them. I glanced across the square to the ball that drops, ever the slave to midnight, ushering in the New Year, and it was then that I realized that everything was dim. There was gray light filtering through the clouds above such as I had seen numerous times before on New York rainy days, but it was a dark light, of the sort one might see during an eclipse just before full totality has been achieved. 

I turned back to the marquee just in time to see one of the magicians turn his gaze upon me. His whole head did not move, but rather it was a subtle movement of the eyes, as though he did not want anyone else to see what he was up to. He had a bowler hat on and a large cigar protruding from his lips, which were pinched around the stogie in a sardonic grimace, but his eyes pulled free of their straight-ahead focus and descended to the street. 

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry wrote that, "... when a mystery is too overpowering, one dare not disobey." So to my credit, I was not afraid or bewildered, only curious. And as my eyes made contact with his, I noticed that it was silent. New York is a city of many things, but silence is definitely not one of them. The symphony of the city reverberates around its streets at all hours, creating a constant background din, a quasi-metallic white noise filled with sirens and voices and rumbling. 

All of that was missing.

The magician's eyes widened slightly on the marquee as if to say, "Well, what do you think?", but before I could respond I became aware of a sense of emptiness all around me. It was as though I had awoken in the middle of a field all by myself, a vast feeling of openness abound. The mischievous eyes were spinning in their sockets up above, darting about, looking hither and thither, inviting me to take a look; daring me to take a look around. Dragging my gaze to the sidewalks and streets, I found that I was not entirely surprised to discover all of the people and all of the traffic that usually overrun Times Square were now all gone. Disappeared. Not frozen in time. No piles of discarded clothes. No abandoned vehicles. Just gone.

I chuckled at myself after pausing to look both ways before crossing the street and approached the misbehaving marquee. I was not surprised in the slightest to see that the magician's photograph wink at me as I arrived on the sidewalk in front of the theatre. The magician began to sweep his eyes to the right, repeatedly, I assumed to point me in the right direction to continue what was quickly becoming an adventure.

"You want me to go uptown on Broadway?" I asked aloud, not feeling silly in the slightest; like I said, I love discovering my city and this was a find of epic proportions, an entire side of New York that I had not even dreamed could exist. 

The eyes stopped sweeping to the right and got a sad look in them. Then they blinked twice. 

"No?"

The eyes blinked once. I had been exposed to enough literature to ascribe proper meaning to those blinks, so I forged ahead, quickly forgetting the damp and the slight chill. 

"Okay. So now what?" I enquired. 

The eyes started repeatedly sweeping to the right again. I pointed along 47th St. and the eyes stopped and then blinked once. I smiled and nodded my head. A single blink followed again. I raised my hand in thanks (because it is always important to be polite) and set off along 47th St. passing the abandoned hotdog cart on the corner. Part of me contemplated grabbing a pretzel, but I remembered reading something connected with the Arthurian legend once that said it was a bad idea to bring back an object from a different plane and I figured that if that's where I was, it was better to err on the side of caution; no sense in unleashing a legion of voracious, man-eating pretzels bent on vengeance if I could help it. I continued on my way.

The cracks in the darklit sidewalk stood out in stark relief in the illuminated gray haze and the stains and trash in the gutter seemed to fade in and out. Beyond the hotdog cart there were a series of tables set up selling scarves and hats and gloves and umbrellas. Another just beyond that was selling cheap watercolor prints of various New York scenes and, I found amusingly enough, Marvel characters. Actually, being that there was not another soul around, perhaps I should say that the tables were "displaying an array of wares", the act of selling requiring both a seller and a buyer. 

On the other side of the sidewalk, across from the tables, along the side of the theatre were a series of repeated show posters, all advertising variations of the marquee. I noted that while these looked similar to the one on the marquee, they seemed almost to glow or thrum with an inner light; it's hard to describe, but they seemed more alive. And more easily perceptible were that they were not quite right to a larger degree, some with jarring differences and not only in the letters: in the first one, the male magician with the top hat and green frock coat had the head of a duck, but in the next poster his regular head was back while both of the female magicians had grand, glorious mustaches. In the third poster, the bald, good-looking daredevil possessed the body of a centaur, but in the fourth he was in a dress with scary long, needle-like fingers. However, the one constant was the eccentric magician with the cigar. 

I proceeded along under his gaze when I noticed that his eyebrows were bouncing up and down as he kept vigil on my progress. Whether as a consequence of my senses being heightened due to the unfamiliar territory in which I now found myself or whether it was a mere fluke of attention to detail, I noticed that with each successive show poster, the magician's hand changed positions slightly. Seven posters in all ran along the side of the theatre. I found that if I stood in the center of that progression and moved my head rapidly back-and-forth, right, left, rightleftrightleftrightleft, it looked as though the magician was raising his hand to point at the stage door, located at the end of the show posters.

I approached the stage door, which was painted a nondescript black with the address of the theatre stenciled on it in faded white paint. There was a small security camera housing to the left of the door, at about chest height, with a button to ring the security office in order to gain entrance. I pulled on the door in the off chance that it would be unlocked, but it didn't budge. I turned my head back to look at the magician in the show poster and I was startled (and if I am being completely honest, a little freaked out) to see his head craning out of the frame to get a better view of me at the door. However, as soon as he saw that I had seen him, the head went right back into the poster and the entire progression of them, marching back to Broadway, grew dull. I can't explain how I knew that he was no longer in there, but he was gone and I was truly alone.

I turned back to the door and pondered for almost a minute before the obvious punched me in the face: press the button! I did so and a small, white LED light illuminated my face momentarily and then blinked out. I waited for the click of the unlocking mechanism, but it never came. I stood there, patiently waiting for the space of probably 60 heartbeats before turning back and taking a few steps towards the posters again as if an answer would present itself from that direction. I placed myself in front of the last show poster and though I knew it would do no good, I addressed it.

"What do I do now?" I exhaled. My question faded away into the mist and the now-dim magician with the cigar obstinately stood, unresponsive and stoic, disinterested and departed, once again nothing more than faded ink on dying paper. 

"You have never seen something like this, have you, my boy?" came a voice from over my shoulder. An explosion of slightly off clucking and bocking immediately followed the voice. 

I turned to ascertain the source of those slightly-out-of-context words and sounds and saw, what was up until that moment, the strangest sight of my life. Over the course of the next 20 minutes, however, it dropped to probably seventh or eighth place, though I mean no disrespect by that remark. There before me, just in front of the stage door to the Palace Theatre and set back a bit from the sidewalk, in a version of New York that thus far only contained me and a sometimes-there-and-sometimes-not, 2D/3D, ink and paper magician, sat... the dead man. 

#mnemonic #magic

[feed-our-souls-too]

Art, Film, Faith (part 2)

This is post 2 of 3 from a friend and fellow artist (find her Instagram here). She took a class on faith and film and we both found that the journalling and conversations that resulted from it were thought-provoking and, as such, worth sharing here. ~Julie (The Hopeful Raincoat)

Entry 3

In the class, there has been a lot of commentary about having discretion and understanding the perspective from which we view movies, but not very much about being a ‘glutton’, or the risks that might lead to it. In Through a Screen Darkly, Overstreet comments about a time when he was employed at a video store and had viewing access to a wide variety of films. “I wasn’t thinking about whether my intake of mediocrity and cinematic junk food was doing any damage or dulling my intellect,” then later, “I might have become an addict, hooked on something unhealthy that would slowly corrode my imagination.” This made me think about one of my concerns with striving to find what was underneath a movie to discover meaning, intention, and spots of light in a dark world. I feel like there is a point when the excitement to find these things might lead to shoving them into the narrative in order to justify watching the movie – a symptom of addiction.

The book implies being an addict is mindlessly watching movies for superficially interesting content. However, for Christians well aware of the standard their peers want them to hold to – whatever is pure – their symptom of addiction might be to shove in whatever is pure without much consideration. When I discovered comics in the Seattle Public Library, I ate them up, because I loved and knew the characters from the movies but had never had access to comics before. (It was probably a similar situation to working in a video store – unlimited access all of a sudden.) For the most part, I watched out for content that is corrupting and harmful, but if I could find just one little thing that related to a moral, or a ‘Christian’ value, I probably read it at face value, and was inconsiderate of any other impact it might have had on my thinking.

In the film Wings of Desire, the angel Damiel sees Marion take off her acrobat uniform and then gently touches her neck. An argument is made in the reading that says this is not intended to be a ‘celebration of lust,’ but a moment of admiration for physical beauty. There is merit to this, as Damiel may primarily see her as a creation of God with a unique experience, Marion is a ‘fine sculpture’. I sometimes worry that these kinds of arguments are a mere justification to watch the film without regard for the potential of negative implications. In the case of Wings of Desire, if the argument had stopped at, “It only showed her back,” that may be a sign of addiction because that is an excuse. It is a minor justification using face value without any thought about the significance of the moment.

LATER EDIT: Christians must have personal discretion for everything that they interact with, we must be critical thinkers. We must not be flippant, positively or negatively, with the content we interact with, whether it is the latest adaptation of a Steven King novel or the most innocent children’s television.

 Entry 4

I am still not satisfied with my questions from the last journal entry – when does film become just another piece of entertainment with a ‘fulfilling’ excuse? In Braveheart, fans might excuse the long, drawn-out battles because it is retaliation against oppression. The main character’s violent actions in The Patriot were justified for a similar reason. I remember my brother was pretty excited about the patriot’s original commitment to nonviolence. It might be because avoiding war is not the big picture most Americans think about when reflecting on the American Revolution, so this plot feels like a unique twist, which is a strategy that writers use for building viewer interest. However, I wouldn’t say we watched the entire movie just because the patriot wanted to avoid war in the first twenty minutes.

In the discussion of heroes and characters viewers admire (chapter five of Through a Screen Darkly), The Lord of the Rings was given credit for being a “meaningful mythology of longsuffering, sacrifice, and hope.” I totally agree. But I tend to be skeptic about the next sentence. “Somehow, Tolkien’s “Catholic work” resonated with viewers who flinch at the word religion.” Did it? I’m not sure – I do not really know people’s minds when they watch movies. What kind of response was it? What did they ‘resonate’ with? What is resonance anyway, does it come on a scale from one to ten? Does seven qualify as ‘adequate resonance to be considered a moving experience’ and therefore acceptable content? The success of The Lord of the Rings might demonstrate that the series is an exceptional work of art, meaning that it was ‘moving’ for the majority of those exposed to it. However, the films are not without the mindless entertainment of intense action that draws theater crowds in droves for other movies. The craftsmanship of the film is top notch, a fantasy world brought to life with outstanding realism, truly a spectacle to see. How can we be sure when art has moved beyond that?

Something that comes to mind is conversations with random people. Is it not the small, unexpected conversations with random people that have exponential value? It is highly unrealistic, perhaps outright false, to expect that sharing God’s love with those around us will bring in “results” every single time, or even ninety percent, eighty percent, fifty percent. Why should I expect that standard from art, even if it is exceptional? In light of this, I was actually a little bit comforted that even Gladiator, with a similar surface value as Braveheart and The Patriot, has some sort of undercurrent value that can be read into, and apparently people occasionally see that. But alas - another question surfaces - is the risk of becoming numbed to violence and caught up in the frenzy worth a sliver of a chance to experience something meaningful? If the film challenges itself in regard to violence, acknowledging the moral conflict and implications as in Munich or Unforgiven, (films that were discussed in Through a Screen Darkly, but I have not seen them) perhaps yes.

Entry 5

One of the lines from Through a Screen Darkly in a chapter on humor and comedy that stood out to me was, “It takes humility to accept such a public critique.” This was in the context of laughing at the mistakes that humans make, including the mistakes we make ourselves. It made me think about learning to take jabs – basically my dad telling me to tough it up when my older brother name called. The resolving family policy ended up being if you can’t take it, don’t give it. Our inter-sibling relationship now looks dangerously similar to Ruffnut and Tuffnut from How to Train Your Dragon (the ‘nut’ relationship is much more refined in the Netflix series), and I love it. My little brother and I in particular are willing to take the brunt of a joke just to generate a good laugh. I think that I had that mindset even for political jokes when I first came to Seattle from Montana, laughing along to jabs about Republicans that my classmates, professors, and even church leaders made. It’s a joke, it’s supposed to be funny, I can see why they think it is, I was willing to accept that. However, I think I stopped chuckling when I realized there was no reciprocal (which is also true of my hometown…) and it was not going to stop. Ever.

Receiving a joke from film is different than in-person interactions, whether it is about Christian beliefs and/or hypocrisy, or something else I relate to. It is a lot harder to be humble when there is distance between viewer and director (a growing problem in our media-directed world), and it is easy for a viewer to think that a director is trying to be degrading. Generally, I trust that people willing to make jokes about me to my face do so out of good humor. I am not sure if I can say the same about filmmakers, I do not know them. After some consideration, even if I do not find the jokes humorous, it can still be an opportunity for reflection on why the director thought it would be funny, which could be revealing in itself. If humor is acknowledging an err (a concept that Overstreet develops in his book, and a definition of humor I find to be very accurate), then there might be an err the viewer has not recognized.

The other portion of this reading that I was troubled with was the contrast of fools in real life and film. It seems like a narrative tactic to give a character who behaves against common unspoken (maybe even spoken) rule, opportunity to reveal something great. People do not expect this in real life, so it a surprising twist in a story and adds contrast. A fool in a story can be crafted and designed. But what about the Parry’s (Parry is a character from a film Overstreet mentions, I do not recall what movie he is from, only that he is homeless and seemingly a lunatic) that might cross our paths while we are visiting the downtown cinema? People usually avoid them. There are a lot of different issues in this situation (such as personal safety), but I find it ironic that people let fools inform us in film, but not on the street. Human interactions are supposed to be more effective than electronic ones.

#god and art #faith and film #through a screen darkly #book #article #external post #contributor post #art faith film part 2 #part 2 #film #art faith film

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via Politics – FiveThirtyEight

Graphics by Yutong Yuan

A couple of months ago, I found myself in the curious position of examining Joe Biden’s head.

On television, the former vice president comes across as perpetually tanned and coiffed — always with the aviator glasses and the crisp shirtsleeves. He still works out every morning, often lifting weights and riding a Peloton bike, and his face is still golden, his brow remarkably unfurrowed for a man of his 76 years. Up close — like, six inches up close — Biden is slighter than you might imagine. From my aft position in a press gaggle in Dearborn, Michigan, I could see the baby-pink of his scalp peeking through wisps of gleaming white hair and the faint mottling near his ears. They caught me off guard, all those fragile little human details you miss on television.

And it was a very human summer for Biden, if you’re going by “to err is human” standards. On June 18, speaking at a New York City fundraiser at the Carlyle Hotel (a swank spot on the Upper East Side where Woody Allen has a standing gig to play jazz clarinet), Biden began talking about the need for consensus-building. According to the pool report, he broke into a southern drawl as he brought up a segregationist senator from Mississippi: “I was in a caucus with James O. Eastland,” Biden said. “He never called me ‘boy,’ he always called me ‘son.’” Herman Talmadge — “one of the meanest guys I ever knew” — was another southern segregationist Democrat who Biden worked with. “Well guess what? At least there was some civility. We got things done. We didn’t agree on much of anything. We got things done. We got it finished.”

The outrage was swift. The following day, fellow White House hopeful Sen. Cory Booker put out a statement. “You don’t joke about calling black men ‘boys,’” it began, adding, “He is wrong for using his relationships with Eastland and Talmadge as examples of how to bring our country together.” Biden responded by saying Booker should apologize. “There’s not a racist bone in my body,” he said. “I’ve been involved in civil rights my whole career.”

So a month later, when a reporter in the sweaty Dearborn gaggle started by asking what Biden made of Booker calling him “the architect of mass incarceration” — a reference to his involvement with the passage of the 1994 crime bill — Biden let out a little gust of a sigh before answering. “Cory knows that’s not true.” He seemed weary of the question, and aware that it wasn’t going away.

Biden has largely led in the polls since entering the Democratic primary. Yet his front-runner status is complex: a cornerstone of his primary support is the black community — a recent poll from YouGov and The Economist showed Biden with as much as 65 percent of black support — even as his decades-long record on racial issues has transmuted into something deeply troubling to some Democratic voters. Though Sen. Elizabeth Warren has nipped at his heels in recent polls, Biden remains a peculiar front-runner — numerically indisputable yet, perhaps, fatally flawed.

Biden has a number of swirling factors to thank for his strength with black Democrats. He was President Obama’s vice president and has staked out a spot in the primary’s relatively uncrowded moderate lane — one that ideologically suits many black voters just fine. He’s also hit on a lurking note of pessimism among some black voters about what sort of person they think might be “electable” in a country that made Donald Trump president after the first black man had the job. Biden’s general election proposition, after all, involves winning over white Trump voters who some Democrats have spent the past three years accusing of racism and xenophobia.

Something about the man himself seems to be resonating with black voters, too. Rep. James Clyburn of South Carolina, a Democratic power broker, told me that Biden’s greatest asset with black voters might well be his own life story, which is strewn with personal tragedy. “We can be no more noble than what our experiences allow us to be. And black voters, by and large, see so much of their experiences in Joe Biden.”

The cornerstone of Biden’s candidacy is support from the black community and his long-standing relationships in it. In June, he attended Rep. James Clyburn’s “World Famous Fish Fry” and spoke to Rev. Al Sharpton.

WIN MCNAMEE / SEAN RAYFORD / GETTY IMAGES

But while Joseph Robinette Biden, the Irish-American speaker of self-conscious Scrantonese, is black voters’ current choice in a Democratic primary featuring two viable black candidates, there’s a sense that the winds could shift at any moment. He spent the better part of the summer relitigating his decades-long voting record. His opponents have pressed him on what they say is an antiquated outlook on race relations in America, all in an effort to chip away at his support among people of color. Prominent Democrats openly fret that he might be too old for the job. The supposed ephemera has accumulated against him even as the numbers check out nicely on paper.

The oddity for present-day Joe Biden is that he was sure America already knew him and what he was all about. But the politics of 2019’s Democratic Party can be slipshod and capricious. Its candidates are viewed more often than not through a kaleidoscopic refraction of peoples’ frustrations with the system or their anger at the president. Biden isn’t really “Uncle Joe” these days, but he presents a pretty enough picture; squint and you’ll see the halcyon Democratic era of the Obamas. If things stay that way — for black voters most especially — Biden might yet win a presidential nomination. But one or two ticks off the mark and the colors and patterns all change. Suddenly Biden could look like a wholly different man.

Biden’s current resonance with black voters is perhaps chiefly owed to Obama, a man he once called “the first mainstream African American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy.”

In one sense it’s ironic that Biden’s Achilles heel is the past, since a central argument of his campaign is that he can turn back the clock — but not too far back. He wants voters to remember him from the placid (by comparison) days of the Obama administration. Further back in Biden’s past, things get iffier. To that end, it is Obama’s name that Biden seems to mention most on the campaign trail — so much so that at the recent NAACP national convention, moderator April Ryan asked Biden if he used the former president as a “crutch.” (The answer was no. He then went on to talk about Obama some more.) Obama, it should be noted, is wildly popular among Democrats these days — a Gallup post-presidency poll found that he had a 95 percent favorability rating.

The continued Obama name-dropping might have seemed cringeworthy following Biden’s opponents’ critiques — verging on an I-have-black-friends line of defense — but it was also powerful. Many black voters buy the idea that if Biden was good enough for Obama, Biden’s good enough for them. Sheila Hill, an NAACP convention attendee from Arlington, Texas, was emblematic of many voters when she put her fondness of Biden in familial terms: “Joe came up like he’s a member of the family, like he might sit down and have a bite to eat, pull him up a plate, let him get some greens and cornbread. And you know how everyone was introduced? He didn’t need to introduce himself because he’s part of the family.”

A lynchpin of the Biden campaign’s strategy is embracing President Obama’s legacy whenever possible.

SAUL LOEB / AFP / GETTY IMAGES

A couple of days later, in the midst of the Booker vs. Biden news cycle, I was sitting in the Indianapolis Airport when I spotted Rev. Al Sharpton across the terminal. I was coming home from the National Urban League Conference, where I had squished myself into an uncomfortable chair to watch the crowd titter as Rep. Tim Ryan walked on stage to Johnny Cash. I had spent the morning with one ear on the speeches and one eye on Twitter, where Biden acolytes were touting a general election head-to-head poll that put him several points up on Trump in Ohio, the only Democrat ahead of the president. Sharpton had been there too, addressing the assembled members of the civil rights group.

“I think that he certainly enjoys a lot from the Obama connection,” Sharpton said, wearing a beautifully tailored suit and reclining in his seat just in front of the gate. “That’s what I think Biden’s hidden advantage is, deservedly or not: he gets associated credit for Obama dealing with Trayvon [Martin] and Obama dealing with policing commissions.”

(Despite numerous requests for this story on black voters, the campaign did not make Biden available for an interview with FiveThirtyEight.)

Sharpton, for one, seemed unsurprised by Biden’s lead over Sens. Kamala Harris and Booker. “You can’t now take the black vote for granted, and Joe has relationships,” he said. “And they’re long-standing relationships. You need a Jim Clyburn in South Carolina, I don’t care who you are.” By his estimation, Harris and Booker still had a chance to win over black voters, but their paths were far from assured. “I think that racial politics has changed — not dramatically, but to some degree — post-Obama because the novelty is no longer there.”

Sharpton, who expertly fielded the handshakes of a stream of strangers as we spoke, has himself entertained white candidates like Indiana Mayor Pete Buttigieg at Sylvia’s soul food restaurant in Harlem. He was judging the 2020 Democrats, he told me, on the strength of their platforms. For what it was worth, he liked Buttigieg’s Douglass Plan, a framework to solve fiscal and societal inequities that affect the black community.

The quiet stirring of businessmen near the gate told me it would soon be boarding time. I asked Sharpton how much time Harris and Booker had until it was too late. The end of September, he answered. “Unless of course, Joe does something absolutely off the wall,” he said, chuckling. “Which is not beyond the possible — we are talking about Joe.”

Biden has caught heat from activists for unpopular policies of the Obama administration, like deportations.

BASTIAAN SLABBERS / NURPHOTO VIA GETTY IMAGES

There’s a bookstore near my office that I sometimes browse on my lunch hour, a happy way to avoid the harsh fluorescence of office life. Over the summer, a book caught my eye: “Hope Rides Again: An Obama Biden Mystery.” The cover featured a cartoon Obama dangling from the end of a rope ladder — which itself was dangling from an airborne helicopter — while grasping for Biden, trying to pull him up. A few shelves away was the title, “Hugs from Obama: A Photographic Look Back at the Warmth and Wisdom of President Barack Obama.” While bookstores on Manhattan’s Upper West Side cater to a specific subset of America, the books’ mere existence tells a person something: a lot of Democrats still really like Barack Obama and his moderate-in-2019 policies. That’s why the lynchpin of the Biden strategy is embracing the former president’s legacy and coalition whenever possible.

Sometimes, though, that strategy can catch Biden heat. At the second Democratic debate at the end of July, he said that illegal immigrants should “get in line” and wait to enter the country legally. Julián Castro, Obama’s former Housing and Urban Development Secretary, skewered the administration’s deportation policy. “It looks like one of us has learned the lessons of the past and one of us hasn’t,” Castro told Biden in a heated exchange.

Biden faced fallout from this exchange. Activists said that he had been echoing conservative talking points, so he met with Latino leaders in person to smooth things over.

“To me that was surprising because I had written that line for Barack Obama multiple times in every immigration speech we ever did,” former Obama speechwriter Jon Favreau told me. “Even language that was, in the Obama years, approved and fine and culturally sensitive — it’s suddenly not.” (A former senior Obama White House advisor said of the debate, “On the Obama side we’re not defensive. The party and the country are in different places than we were in 2008. It would be silly to run on the exact same policies and ideas that we implemented.”)

That’s in part because of the conversation happening online. A favorite line of the Biden campaign is that Twitter isn’t real life, a nod to the fact that young, progressive, vociferously anti-Biden voices seem most amplified on the social networking site but are less representative of the broader base of the party. “We’re not going to let Twitter dictate this primary process for us,” said Symone Sanders, a senior advisor to the Biden campaign. “If we did, frankly, I think we’d spend all our time talking about 1994,” a reference to the 1994 crime bill, Biden’s support of which has helped label him as almost-Republican in certain circles.

The campaign operation has been focused instead on messaging Biden’s moderation and his close ties to Obama. On the morning of the third debate in mid-September, the campaign tweeted out a video with the caption, “Barack Obama was a great president. We don’t say that enough.” Greg Schultz, Biden’s campaign manager, wrote, “Barely a week goes by where some Democratic presidential candidate doesn’t directly or indirectly criticize Pres. Obama. The attacks are out of touch with the majority view of the Democratic Party voters.”

In order to win the nomination in a crowded race, Biden needs to cultivate support across demographic groups, to at least feint at his ability to win back the Obama coalition in the general election. His bedrock of support is black voters. Black voters made up around one-quarter of the 2016 Democratic primary electorate and are a crucial demographic group for any candidate. According to Gallup, 63 percent of non-Hispanic black Democratic voters self-identify as moderate or conservative. This, even as the Democratic Party overall has gotten more liberal — 2018 was the first year that over half of Democrats (51 percent) identified as liberal (in 1994, that number was only 25 percent.)

But while black voters have remained more moderate or conservative, white voters have become increasingly likely to identify as liberal — 65 percent of non-Hispanic white Democrats called themselves liberal and have become rapidly more liberal on issues of race over the past 10 years. With white liberals comprising a key demographic not just in the first two primary states, Iowa and New Hampshire, but also in the media, it’s no wonder that Biden’s campaign has felt the pile-on of Twitter chatter.

Yet Biden has given his progressive critics ample opportunity to say he’s carelessly retrograde when he talks about race. In early August, for example, he said “poor kids are just as bright and just as talented as white kids.” While he immediately tried to correct himself, Biden has a long-time reputation for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Favreau told me there was “an anxiety that lasted throughout the White House [years] — ‘will Biden say something sort of off?’ Biden’s reputation before he became vice president wasn’t ‘middle-class Uncle Joe’ and it also wasn’t too old and out of touch — it was that he was a blowhard,” he said.

While a summer of attacks hasn’t shaken Biden’s black support overall, younger black voters don’t seem to like what they see as much as older black voters. CNN polling analysis from this summer showed that Biden’s overall support from black voters is 44 percent, but his support with black Americans under the age of 50 is lower, at 36 percent. CNN modeling suggested that his support is likely less than 30 percent among black voters under the age of 30. A recent poll suggested that Warren might be making inroads with black voters. She has also gained overall on Biden in key states like Iowa and in some national polls.

Younger voters, black ones included, are concerned about issues of race and justice — things like fixing the school-to prison-pipeline, lowering incarceration rates for black men and curbing police violence. Which is why Biden’s vote on the 1994 crime bill has become such a problem and a fixation for the campaign. It might be that younger voters, who previously only knew Biden as the friendly older man next to Obama, are perturbed when they see the crime bill through 2019 eyes: mandatory life sentences after “three strikes” for federal crimes and incentivizing states to pursue harsher sentencing.

Biden, January 1990

LAURA PATTERSON / CQ ROLL CALL VIA GETTY IMAGES

Obama has reportedly expressed worry that Biden World advisors are too old school for the candidate’s good. Some of his advisors, like Sen. Ted Kaufman and Mike Donilon, have been with Biden for decades.

But younger advisors have come on board, too — Schultz and his deputy, Kate Bedingfield, are of a newer generation — and Sanders, a high-profile hire who served on Sen. Bernie Sanders’s 2016 campaign, is 29 years old. I asked Sanders, who is black, what if any advice she had given to Biden about talking to younger black voters. “I’m not going to divulge the particulars of the conversations that I have with Vice President Biden, but what I’ll say is that he and I have a good rapport, we have a good relationship and the nature of our relationship is that Joe Biden is a frank guy, he’s authentic and he speaks his mind and he empowers the people around him to do the same.”

The polls, Sanders said, bore out that Biden’s approach was working. “Anyone who purports that we don’t understand this moment or our campaign doesn’t get it — I think we uniquely understand this moment because this has been our argument from day one.”

But the crime bill remains a vulnerability for the campaign, something that engenders defensiveness from the candidate. In June, while answering a question about prison reform he brought up the crime bill, “which you’ve been conditioned to say is a bad bill,” he told the audience.

Biden has spent a lot of time in a defensive crouch about the legislation. His proposed criminal justice reform plan outlines ways to reduce incarceration, a pointed policy rebuke to the effects of the 1994 bill. But at events, he goes to lengths to defend what he calls the good parts of the bill — including the Violence Against Women Act — and his surrogates are quick to say that people are purposefully leaving out the historical context of what America was like when the legislation was passed. Clyburn — who has not yet endorsed a candidate — recalled for me a town hall meeting he had back in the 1990s in a mostly black town in South Carolina. “I spoke out against mandatory minimums, I spoke out against the crack cocaine policy. I almost got physically attacked in that place. There wasn’t a white person in the room,” he said. “To them, crack cocaine was a scourge in the African American community and they supported this crackdown.”

Biden’s grappling with his pre-Obama history is fraught, in part, because before being Obama’s vice president, he wasn’t much of a known figure in black communities. When Biden briefly ran for president in the 1988 election — a June to September endeavor that ended in a plagiarism scandal — he had little apparent appeal in the black community. A pre-scandal poll from that summer shows that he didn’t even register with black voters — he was at 0 percent while Jesse Jackson, one of the first major black Democratic candidates, had 48 percent of the black vote.

Still, hopes for Biden were high, particularly in the political media. One Los Angeles Times story from that June called Biden “the white Jesse Jackson” and noted that his opposition to federally mandated busing was savvy, “a sign of both his keen political instinct and a social imagination — a sense of the real-life consequences of government action that is rare in Washington.” Biden opposed busing because it threatened to destroy “the consensus on civil rights within the white middle class that permitted progress’ for blacks,” the story surmised. Even on hot-button issues like race, Biden was proud of his ability to foster compromise and centrism. It’s a legacy that hasn’t aged as well in a Democratic Party which is more apt to burn its one-time idols than study their historiography.

The day after the second debate, Jonathan Kinloch, a black Democratic Party official in Detroit, sat with me at a local cafe eating forkfuls of something sweet while saying something bitter: “Based on where we’ve come over these past three years and looking at the person, that Tasmanian Devil in the White House, it’s going to take another same sort of type of white man to go toe-to-toe with him.”

Kinloch doesn’t think America is going to elect a black candidate, not right now. “I’ve come to only one conclusion: Trump was elected out of eight years of repudiation for having a black man in the office. I think right now, where this country is, the flames that have been fanned by Donald Trump, we have to take a measured approach to this upcoming election.”

Biden faced blowback in July’s Democratic primary debate for his comments about fostering compromise with segregationist senators and for his stance on federally mandated busing.

BRENDAN SMIALOWSKI / AFP / GETTY IMAGES

This is the sort of electability argument that the Biden campaign can’t quite say out loud, but to which some black voters seem at least partially resigned. They might not love Biden’s semi-frequent verbal washouts but Trump in the White House grates on them more. It’s this logic, as bright and shining as their candidate’s teeth, that Biden allies allude to. Whatever his sins, whatever his prior stances, Biden’s 2020 intentions are pure — certainly purer than Trump’s. And, the theory goes, he’s got the sort of mass appeal that will talk sense into Obama voters who defected to Trump the last go-round. (Recently, a whistleblower complaint surfaced claiming that Trump leaned on the Ukrainian president to find damaging information on Biden and his son Hunter. In response to the news, Biden said that Trump was going to such extremes only because “he knows I’ll beat him like a drum.”)

There’s a risk, of course, that in trying to appeal to everyone, in refusing to play too woke, Biden risks flagging enthusiasm from black voters come the general election. The black vote disastrously didn’t surface for Hillary Clinton in 2016. There’s also some serious doubt that any candidate besides the singular first black president could inspire high turnout in the black community. In a Detroit press gaggle, I asked Biden how he planned to get Obama-era levels of votes in the black community in key general election states. I got a typically-rambling response in return. “They want to know someone — first of all, are they telling them the truth, are they laying out straight exactly what they’re going to do? No double talk. What are you going to do. And then secondly, ‘Do I believe you understand me? Do I believe you know my heart?’ I’m not a black man, to state the obvious, but I’ve gone out of my way to understand the best I possibly can what the concerns are.”

Some of the weirdness of the 2020 primary, including Biden’s leading it, is that for a party professing to be fighting for the soul of America — like, for real for real this time — there isn’t much soaring idealism afoot. It’s a contest about pragmatism. As Jill Biden put it, “You may like another candidate better but you have to look at who’s going to win … Joe is that person.”

“People are not excited, they’re not inspired,” said Anton Gunn, Obama’s former South Carolina political director. “Young people want to be inspired, everyone wants to be inspired. I don’t think we have a sense from anyone in the field that’s inspiring.”

When I spoke with Jackson, I asked what he thought about black voters’ support for Biden, his old rival. “The absence of Trump is not the presence of justice,” he said. “In the days to come I’m sure those who put forth the most hope for tomorrow and plans will gain the most traction in time. That may be Biden, but the question is wide open.”

The morning of the second debate, I met Rep. Cedric Richmond, the former chair of the Congressional Black Caucus and a co-chair of the Biden campaign, in the lounge of a downtown Detroit hotel. Various suits wandered the halls and a forlorn offering of pasta salad stood sentinel in one corner. I asked Richmond about the same thing I asked Sanders: had the campaign done any additional preparation with the candidate to ready for a new racial discourse?

“I didn’t know we had a new language on race,” Richmond answered wryly. Millennials, he went on, “are the beneficiaries of things that they don’t know they’re beneficiaries of — for example, murder was at an all time high in the early ‘90s. The streets were violent. You had children, mothers, fathers, brothers, sons being killed in the streets, you had rampant carjackings, you had drug dealing everywhere. The African American community was up in arms asking people to do stuff.”

For black voters, Richmond said, the stakes of the 2020 election were clear: “Donald Trump could be a one man end of Reconstruction.” Beating him is what matters. Dwelling on Biden’s vocabulary is just frippery by comparison.

Biden supporters cheer during the South Carolina Democratic Party Convention in June. South Carolina, with its predominantly black electorate, is crucial to Biden’s success in the primary.

LEAH MILLIS / REUTERS

Richmond told me the campaign sees a path to victory through the South, a region packed with black votes. Dave Wasserman, editor at The Cook Political Report, agreed. “I think his strengths lie on Super Tuesday,” he said of the slate of March 3 primaries a month after the very first contest in Iowa. Candidates like Warren are more likely to do well in Iowa and New Hampshire, Wasserman said. Biden campaign officials have told reporters they don’t think he needs to win Iowa, where liberal white activist voters hold sway. “But when you’re talking about a massive one-day clearance sale on Super Tuesday where it’s all about mass appeal and name recognition and strength — particularly black voters in the south, that’s where Biden really needs to hold on,” Wasserman said.

South Carolina’s Feb. 29 primary is a bellwether for Biden’s Southern strategy with a primary electorate that’s almost two-thirds black. Biden was at 43 percent in a recent CBS News/YouGov poll of the state, and it is a must-win for him. But strategists there hardly seem to think that things are sewn up for Biden. “I don’t believe polls because the same polls at this time in 2007 would show Obama was losing to Hillary Clinton by 18 points,” Gunn said. Obama would go on to win South Carolina. ”We kept organizing. Organizing is about touching people and knowing how many voters you’ve identified.” Booker’s field organization looked pretty good to Gunn, though he said it wasn’t as robust as Obama’s had been in the 2008 primary. “Definitely don’t write off Booker,” said a senior South Carolina Democrat who asked for anonymity to more freely discuss the campaign. “He has the best operation.”

I headed to South Carolina in late August, just as my inbox was signaling crunchtime of the presidential campaign slog: Buttigieg in L.A., Warren in Washington state, former Rep. Beto O’Rourke and Biden in South Carolina.

As a rule, Biden campaign events — which take place less often than other 2020 candidates’ — tend to be large affairs. His late August town hall in Spartanburg was no exception. Massive rollup American flag displays were stretched taut at either end of an echoing room. The campaign’s “Biden President” logo was slapped up everywhere. The omission of the word “for” was a not-so-subliminal message about the job he wants. A large contingent of media typed in back; a brawny blonde reporter joked with a brawny salt-and-pepper reporter about some home state sports thing.

Basically every Biden event — every 2020 campaign event for that matter — is a chance for a secular revival. And Biden is good at being churchy; he knows what to give a crowd. He can be folksy and familiar — the ghost of Uncle Joe — as well as discursive on issues of morality. When talking about guns or abortion he is most eloquent; you get the sense that Biden has devoted a whole lot of time inside his head to those topics. He starts every town hall or speech by setting the stakes with a mention of the white nationalist rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, in 2017: “It shocked the whole world.”

Biden’s speech is riddled with “I’m being serious” and “seriously, folks” and “no kidding, folks,” to the point where it’s become a running joke in the press corps. I spoke with a former speechwriter of his who thinks that the “folks” tics might be something Biden has developed over time to deal with the stutter he had in childhood. “It’s how he handles transitions,” he told me.

Biden has struggled to gain ground with younger voters despite his strong showing in the polls overall.

SEAN RAYFORD / GETTY IMAGES

The childhood stutter is one of many personal details that voters have learned about Biden over the years — people have a relationship with him. Those I spoke with who know Biden all tended to say the same thing: he actually is an earnest guy. The care is real. But there’s also a carefully refined rubric of folksiness at work, all mixed with a 76-year-old’s out-of-date sensibilities. Those things can rub some people the wrong way, but both might be political strengths in the general election. “Above all else, it’s just human, it’s a storytelling voice,” Biden’s former speechwriter told me about the candidate’s preferred public voice. “It actively tries to connect with the people who are literally in front of him. Not with some kind of abstract, ethereal voter demographic or anything like that. It’s personal.” In Spartanburg, for instance, Biden talked about women deserving equal pay, but framed the problem through the lens of blue-collar men wanting their wives to be paid more. It wasn’t exactly a politically correct formulation of the issue, but its practicality rang true.

There is a gentle affect about Biden, too. When telling stories about his adult children, he refers to them as “honey” — the doting dad. Stories about his parents start with “Joey …” and suddenly he’s the adoring son. He apologizes for blocking the sign language interpreter. When he shakes hands with people, he stares deeply into their eyes — the kind of eye contact that some have called creepy but others find intoxicating coming from a very famous person. Biden has an ability to make people feel as if he has really listened. One voter I talked to in Spartanburg, Vanessa Logan, emailed me later to say that she’d asked Biden a detailed question; he had made sure his aides got her contact info so they could send her his book for a more in-depth explanation.

This attentiveness coupled with the routine vulnerability Biden shows is partially why people can’t help but be a little fond of him. “He’s down to earth, has a lot of warmth,” Sheran Littlejohn, a middle-aged black voter who came out to see Biden during his South Carolina swing, told me. “At first I thought about Kamala Harris, but then she started coming down on her own party. She went after Biden.” Somehow, even as Biden is running to protect America from Trump, he’s made voters feel like they want to protect him.

A few hours after the Spartanburg event I was at Limestone College in Gaffney, South Carolina, where it was sweltering hot even a little after 5 p.m. The only breeze came from the pep band flag twirlers entertaining a waiting crowd and the ladies in it who sat fanning themselves. Biden was running late, so I dipped into the library for a few minutes of A/C, then strolled through the crowd. I found Rosa Webber, 64, under the shade of a Magnolia tree, waiting for the event to begin with her friends from the Gaffney Women’s Democratic Club.

Webber had already made up her mind about who she’ll be voting for, come February’s primary. “If he was good enough for Obama, he’s good enough to be my president,” she said of Biden. But Anita Chambers was still candidate shopping. She liked Biden and Harris, but, “also, what’s her name? Elizabeth Warren. I like her. She’s very outspoken, very direct.”

Webber didn’t think any of the women could win, though. I asked why and before she could answer, Annette Byers, 75, interrupted: “Because the men, they’re going to do females just the way they did Hillary.” Webber agreed. “Yeah, the men are not going to vote for women. I don’t think it’s time for the women to step up.” Chambers tried to say something positive about the promise of a reinvigorated women’s movement. Byers wasn’t moved. “They will cheat her out of the election just like they did with Hillary. They will lie, lie, lie.” The conversation ended soon after, as a man with a honey-soaked accent got on the microphone and commenced proceedings.

Biden’s long career in the public eye means that voters have formed a long-standing relationship with him. This familiarity has helped him weather blunders and flare-ups throughout the campaign that might have endangered lesser-known candidates.

SEAN RAYFORD / GETTY IMAGES

Jalon Roberson, a 22-year-old senior at Limestone, said that when he and other black students talked 2020, he found most of them were still on the fence about whom to support. Roberson liked both Biden and Harris, but saw issues with both. “I like that she’s devoted to law, but a lot of her past doesn’t line up with the angle she’s taking now,” he said of Harris. “A lot of black males are going to jail, getting put away, but now she comes out and she’s like, ‘Hey, I’m for black people, I eat pork chops, blah blah blah.’ I feel like she’s trying too hard to appeal to black people. I feel like there is a way to try and come across as sincere but you have to first acknowledge that you’re an outsider and say, ‘Hey, I want to appeal to you guys.’”

Biden, Roberston said, seemed like a moral guy, a good person. But, “he was in Iowa and he slipped up and he said poor kids are just as talented and bright as white kids. And I know that’s not what he meant and that’s not how he meant it to come across, but you can tell that there is an unconscious bias.” Roberson wanted to ask Biden about how to tackle that bias.

Roberson did get a question in, just not that one. As the beginning of golden hour set in over the crowd and the hottest part of the day came to an end, Biden was taking questions from the crowd in blue-and-white shirtsleeves. “A lot of young people my age, my race, we are trying to find the incentive to vote Democratic. Why should we trust the party, and how would your administration go about holding the party accountable?” Roberson asked him.

A good question, a fair question, Biden said. He began to weave his way through the folding chairs, a meandering walk to make eye contact with students seated a little further back on the lawn. One young black man stood on a short brick retaining wall in sunglasses, a pink button-down and a hoodie. Biden made his way toward the young man while he answered, hoping to drink up some eye contact. Just as Biden approached, almost standing in front of him, the young man flipped his hood up defiantly and Biden skillfully pivoted away. A confrontational moment avoided.

The answer continued for another few minutes, and the young man kept his eyes on Biden throughout. Biden mentioned the number of incarcerated black men and the crime bill — how most black people had supported it at the time. He talked about racial profiling in Newark, New Jersey — his favorite dig at Booker. Then, “We have systemic racism in the United States of America and it’s a white man’s problem. White men are responsible for it, not black men.” The young man on the wall said, “I agree,” to that, and clapped. It was a good answer for Biden, overall. He got applause for lines about teaching prisoners how to read, positioning prisoners to get proper housing after their time served. But Jalon Roberson and the young man in the hoodie are college kids, not prisoners. It struck me that Biden’s answer wholly ignored most of the issues that the black students at Limestone and elsewhere told me they were most worried about: student debt, raising the minimum wage, the environment. Biden’s defensiveness of his past had dominated the answer. Though he did throw in a sentence or two at the end about the American Dream — “that’s why we have to rebuild the middle class and this time, we bring everybody along” — he didn’t offer any specifics.

Biden had wanted desperately to prove himself worthy to the audience of students, but a vast gulf of age and experience separated him from Roberson and the young man in the hoodie. “Let’s hear it one more time for the next president of the United States, Joe Biden!” the MC intoned over the microphone. Everyone clapped. That was that.

If Biden wins the nomination — his third attempt to do so — he will be 77 years old. The party he leads has changed rapidly during his time in public life, becoming more liberal and diverse.

JUSTIN SULLIVAN / GETTY IMAGES

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what Clyburn said about Biden’s tragedies. How the way he dealt with them had raised Biden in the esteem of many black voters, given the systemic hardships inflicted on them and their families over a couple of centuries in this country. Biden repurposed his suffering so it could be something more — a blessed experience, Clyburn said.

I’ve also spent a lot of time wondering why Biden ran for president this time around. He says publicly it has a lot to do with the wishes of his son Beau, who died in 2015, that he stay involved in public life. There’s ego at work, of course — it takes a massive one for a person to ever even consider running for president. But why after running for president twice, and losing soundly each time, would you do so again at age 76?

Biden might feel some sense of vocation this time around. Being a Catholic, he would recognize the Sunday school-ness of it all: what are you called to do? The way he gets fierce when he talks about winning back the Midwest, the bluster he spits when speaking about Trump’s misdeeds — it makes you think that there’s something twinging inside Biden that says, without a hint of irony, “I alone can fix this.” He wants to give people enough time to come to terms with a new American paradigm, while offering the familiar visage of an older white man standing guard. Biden sees himself as a singular salve and so do many black voters, pragmatic about the ability of America to readily accept change.

Biden isn’t alone, of course. There’s a moral imperative for each of the top three primary contenders, all in their 70s. Bernie Sanders and Warren proffer a promise of a golden, hopeful new system; Biden the restoration of one that was pretty good, if not perfect. If anything, the Democratic primary is something of a paean to old age, to lifelong ambitions and vocations yet to be fulfilled. It’s a monthslong slog as a trio of older white people bid to lead a country more black and brown than it’s ever been. I can see them — with more years behind them than ahead, in a world so different from the one they were born into — lingering longer than the rest of us over the most hashed-out lines of Tennyson’s “Ulysses”:

“You and I are old / Old age hath yet his honour and his toil / Death closes all: but something ere the end / Some work of noble note, may yet be done.”

#IFTTT #Politics – FiveThirtyEight #politics #538 #Clare Malone

[kershmaru-blog]

Rape culture as seen by a non- feminist

I have to preface this blog post by mentioning some caveats: rape and sexual harassment are very emotionally charged topics, and some victims and advocates may very well object to and reject my commentary as an outside observer. I would implore you first to read my post and then judge.

There is also an earlier blog post about feminism which can give you some additional insight into my thoughts.

 Rape culture is the hypothesis that there is a culture of sexual harassment and worse that protects the perpetrators and continues to hassle and victimize the victims. Usually, it is assumed that the victims are female and the perpetrators are male. More on that later.

 There is a problem with the terms used concerning sexual violations. One might think that sexual assault, rape, and sexual harassment are unambiguous. They are not.

Sexual harassment can be anything from inappropriate touching over such rather odd perversions as Louis C.K.’s masturbating in front of unwilling onlookers to catcalling. While I count catcalling as the least grievous of the three, I am of two minds about the other two. The grievousness of a sexual violation isn’t easily quantified and may ultimately lie in the eye of the beholder.

While all of these things are inappropriate, and even the least outrageous instance outs the perpetrators as idiots, it is counterproductive to count them as the same offense. They are not, and counting them as though they were devalues the more grievous cases. Similarly, The definition of rape is unnecessarily complicated, i.e., by counting every instance of sex under the influence of intoxicants as rape, as advocated by, for example, Laci Green in her consent 101 video. In it, she claims that if they are too drunk to drive, they are too drunk to consent, period. While I find her and her work admirable, I need to disagree vehemently. While I am of course of the opinion that intoxicants can impede the ability to consent and make rational decisions in general, that point is not reached with the legal driving limit. What I aim to say is that at least in my opinion, you aren’t too drunk to consent when you are merely too drunk to drive. We are talking nuance here. Though the legal driving limit varies widely depending on country and jurisdiction, It usually errs on the side of caution. Classifying drunken sex as rape in this way muddies the waters and relativizes the definition of the most heinous crime bar murder.

In light of the recent wave of allegations of sexual misconduct and harassment against influential people, I think it would be wise to introduce a new term into this blog: the existent notion of sexual coercion, distinct from sexual assault and harassment, but depending on the exact situation varied in its severity. There are no clear-cut distinctions here, being forced into a sexual situation may well be perceived as being more violating than forceful rape. It depends on the individual victim and their emotional response. It indeed isn’t enough to merely classify the amount of force involved. There is an interesting debate to be had whether relationships with an uneven power dynamic can ever be ethical.

But if there is an explicit quid pro quo stipulation, as there was in the case of Roger Ailes and others, it certainly is a horrendous abuse of power. It should also be noted that unfortunately, one of Harvey Weinstein’s excuses for an excuse, rings true: “It was a different time.”

I am not one of the people who deny rape culture ever existed or exists in certain circles and cultures. However, it is undoubtedly true that times have changed and that sexual harassment and sexual coercion are less socially acceptable than they have been in ages past. Past but not forgotten.

There are still people in positions of power who act as “gatekeepers” and explicitly demand sexual favors for career advancements. Ultimately it may be necessary to let time pass and let these relics of the past die off.

 Why am I saying this? Because sexual coercion and quid pro quo deals are, though scandalous and unethical, in and on itself not explicitly illegal. We only see the tip of the iceberg, where a legal or moral line was crossed, not the cases in which the “offer” was accepted. Of course, here again, we need to distinguish. I set offer in quotations for a reason. If the situation is one with a wildly uneven power dynamic it isn’t an offer, or in the worst case, an offer one can’t refuse.

 All of this, and especially the width of the ongoing scandals may be taken as proof that we indeed live in a rape culture. I ultimately need to leave the subjective determination to the reader. Because yes, this is not an objective matter.

 Do I believe we still live in a rape culture? No, and I consider the notion to be potentially harmful. Why? As shocking as the recent allegations and the # #metoo is, it shows one thing: that the mighty can, and should, fall. By reinforcing in victims that our society will turn against them when they speak up, they are less likely to, and the abuse can continue unchecked.

I am not saying your effort will necessarily be rewarded with a conviction; that would be a lie. The statistics show that without proof the chances aren’t all that great. But, one thing they will do is they will shine a spotlight which in turn can make it much harder for a predator to prey on yourself and others. And there is also catharsis in bringing these matters into the light of day I’m told. Ask yourself: If you don’t speak up, will you ever be over what happened? Will you ever stop wishing you spoke up? It might be considered presumptuous as somebody who didn’t share your experience, but I am confident I couldn’t.

 Here I need to address the case for a change in the justice system concerning the burden of proof: I am unequivocally and absolutely opposed. We, as a society took a long time to transition from mob justice to innocent till proven guilty. I am well aware that a trial puts more strain on victims than speaking up anonymously does; the same is true for the victims of any crime.

By shifting the burden of proof, we would create a system ripe for abuse. Contrary to the hypothesis of rape culture, the mere anonymous accusation of rape or sexual misconduct can destroy a person’s livelihood and send a mob of self-righteous vigilantes after them. Though it seems unfair, victims must go through the process and prove their case in court.

Yes, there will be doubters and people demanding proof, myself amongst them, but there will also be people on your side, people who will unconditionally support you.

Lastly, there will be people thankful for your struggle, because it exposes and thus renders inert another potential monster. I count myself also amongst this third group of people.

To anybody in the “listen and believe” crowd, the very vigilantes I mentioned, I recommend careful and pensive lecture of Harper Lee’s “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

 I am not a victim of any kind of sexual infringement, and though I can and do sympathize, I ultimately do not know what it feels like. If you feel that disqualifies me from speaking out on this matter, this is your prerogative. But this kind of “argument” is to me highly suspect since it seeks to bar anybody speaking up against a potential course of action, leaving the political playing field to understandably distraught victims and their advocates.

 One thing I need to mention is assumptions about the gender of the victims and perpetrators. It is commonly assumed that only men are perpetrators and women victims. That is a potentially dangerous false conclusion. Not only can men be victims – as cases like Kevin Spacey prove, but women can be and are perpetrators. If they abuse an uneven power balance, i.e., in a teacher-pupil relationship than it is every bit as amoral as in the opposite case. Growing up, the first adult woman I had sexual fantasies about was a teacher of mine. Now nothing ever happened, she was never anything but professional and I also never told her about my feelings. But had I and had she reciprocated than the resulting relationship would have been one with an uneven power balance and abusing what should have been an inherently professional relationship, and thus unethical. And relationships like that are seen much more leniently by society and the legal system than between men and young girls. There are also societal tendencies to belittle and relativize male victimhood and female guilt. This matter, the matter of the differing societal dynamics based on gender is a very complex one and deserving of its own blog post, which it might get in the future. But back to the victims.

 If you have been the victim of a crime, I feel for you. As mentioned before, I believe leaving you with the mindset that you need to fear repercussions if you speak up is counterproductive. I will now presume to give hopefully helpful tips to you. Hate me for it if you must, but listen.

Never forget you are not alone, not without support, but perhaps even more important, in your pain. And while I can emphasize with the wish to retreat and cry - I have felt this myself numerous times for different reasons – doing so will leave your attacker free to continue victimizing you and others.

 Never seek the fault with yourself. You are not responsible for what happened. Even if you navigated into a potentially dangerous situation, your attacker has agency. They can choose to do the right or wrong thing.

 If there is any physical evidence of a crime, try to preserve it. Your first impulse may well be to wash yourself clean of them. I know from my own, unrelated trauma that only time, support and potentially therapy make you better. And it will destroy evidence that could be used against your victimizer. It will make it that much more difficult to persecute them and put them where they belong.

 Speak out! If not to police, to somebody else you trust. I know how hard that must be, but if there are witnesses not of the act itself, but of your outcry, then they can be used once you find the inner strength to expose them in front of the world. If that is too hard or if there is no one you trust, preserve a written record.

 I was told by someone who read this blog before it was published that this last point isn’t as clear-cut as I might have thought. They deserve credit that this blog post is as good as it is, no matter how bad you think it is, it was worse before. Based on their criticism, I made changes here and there, but here I wish to clarify that the following was not something that I came up with on my own.

Sometimes victims need years to process and understand what happened to them - especially if they are very young I imagine. That too is an understandable and natural reaction. My above tips are of course not meant as rebukes for these victims, but as a hopefully helpful pointer for those who realized they have been violated and are capable of acting. They are intended to facilitate the prosecution of the perpetrator, and thus to protect yourself and others.

 Lastly, even though I know I will incur the notion of victim blaming, here are some tips to prevent being victimized in the first place. This is not to shame or make victims blame themselves, but merely to protect others. It is true that in a perfect world your actions won’t endanger you. We do not live in a perfect world.

Do not fall into the trap that if you do everything right, you cannot be victimized, that it had to have been something you did. As the Bill Cosby situation proves, there are veritable predators amongst us, wolves in sheep's clothing. And I am well aware that many perpetrators are people we trust. My tips can only help protect you. They won’t keep you safe in every situation. That being said, they certainly may help.

 Listen to your instincts. Do not let societal norms and manners make you enter a situation you are not comfortable with. Better to hurt some feelings than being victimized. If you later find out that you were overly cautious, you can always make amends. But you can’t un-rape yourself.

 Imbibe or otherwise consume legal and illegal intoxicants only in settings you feel safe in, and try to stay vigilant. You should also avoid drinking from a glass you haven't had in your sight or given to you by a stranger.

 Avoid being alone in settings or around people you are uncomfortable with. As in the above tip, your instincts are your best friend. Listen to yourself.

 Prepare for a physical confrontation! Predators target those they think are defenseless or physically weak. Bearing in mind the principles of self-defense may protect you when everything else fails. Taking a course to teach you is time well invested.

 Finally, do not presume that you cannot be victimized. There is no “victim look” or societal victim status. You owe it to yourself to be vigilant and take care of yourself, no matter who you are.

 Of course, there is much more to say about this matter, but I, as a writer need to balance brevity and conciseness with detail in order to not lose the attention of my reader. I find that it is the hardest thing to express deep emotion in writing, and balance empathy with objectivity. As mentioned in my prior blog post, these blogs constitute an effort to get feminists & social justice advocates on one side and antis on the other back to the table. Here is a question: Do you consider such a dialogue to be worthwhile? I openly welcome your thoughts and criticisms, as well as personal narratives if you wish to share them.

#feminism #rape #rapeculture #anti feminism #discussion

[blue-box]

(posting again because why not, it’s election day. Be safe and good luck out there, yall. And most of all - - V O T E. )

“There is a mysterious cycle in human events. To some generations much is given. Of other generations much is expected. This generation of Americans has a rendezvous with Destiny.”

-Franklin D Roosevelt, 1936.

At the time that these words were spoken, the country was indeed in the middle of challenging times. While the crowd that was listening had well endured their fair share of hardship already, the days to come held much more adversity and they would in fact be facing their destiny. The first time I saw this speech was about a year ago while watching a documentary and I had to pause it, rewind, and watch it again because this moment gave me goosebumps. The clip that followed this speech was that of great crowd cheering. The crowd that was shown in this fuzzy black and white footage would soon go on to face one of the greatest wars the world would ever see. They, along with the speaker, would soon meet their destiny...and ultimately change the world for it.

And then it leaves me to wonder - what category does my generation fall under?

The world has changed so much since these words were said. It’s changed so much since just a year ago when I first penned much of this down in a journal. Perhaps it's naïve of me to say it, but I feel like if people slowed down a bit to truly listen to things like this - and I mean really listen and let it wash over you - that maybe one day we too would have a chance to meet such a destiny.

No one person elected can change it all. No one administration can instantly fix the damage and discourse that our nation has inflicted upon itself. No, it is up to us to hold any leadership responsible and accountable to their actions - and their words.

Words - Rhetoric. These things matter more than anything these days. These days where anybody can say whatever they want to the masses at the click of a button or a tap of the screen. A leader may say or even just imply something and it instantly turns so many against one another. Things that are said so quickly off the top of their head and then broadcasted to the world so fast that no one even stops to wonder if it was the right thing to say or not. No time to stop and wonder if it’s even the truth or hurtful to others. And then if it does backfire, it’s just simply brushed off as “sarcasm” or “just tellin’ it like it is.”

No. It’s not that simple. Speaking to and for a nation should never be as simple as that.

How leaders speak to us - the people of this nation - should matter a great deal. How they communicate with our allies and other nations of the world matter. How they address differences and speak to the opposite parties matter. Because even the “other side” is still a part of this nation, regardless of their political affiliation.

In the end, whatever is said, words matter and will resonate throughout history.

They will make an impact one way or another.

I tend to go through at least one or two drafts of whatever it is that I’m writing most days - and that’s just for work. Whether it’s to a client, a co-worker, or a boss, I try to put as much thought and craft as I can into whatever it is I’m working on. This isn’t a new concept, I’m sure many of us have experienced a similar thing - essays, letters, speeches, reports. Shouldn’t we hold leaders of a nation to the same standard of thought and care before speaking to and for us? What is said to us as a nation deserves to be composed with clarity of thought. No, we may not always agree with what is being said, but it should still be delivered with respect and taste to all. We the people deserve at least that much.

Words spoken can either inspire a generation to meet tough times head on and with hope and dignity, or they can destroy how far we have come and begin to tear us apart. Too often of late has the rhetoric been that of division. I’m not implying that FDR was a perfect leader, no leader is perfect. And I realize that it will take more than just one great speech to fix the problems that we all face together.

But it could be a start.

A start to try and bring us back together. A step in the direction of unity - to speak to everyone as a whole and not just to their devout followers. To address the country as one rather than pointing fingers to the other side. The words being spoken today will not touch the hearts of future generations as a speech did for me 84 years after the fact. The question now is - what words and speeches will be remembered 80-something years from now? What of what’s being said today do we want to be remembered?

However, I think much of what is said these days does not speak for my generation as a whole. Those are the words of others - those fewer in number who just so happen to have a better platform to be heard from.

No, I believe my generation may have better things to say. I cannot say that we’ll all agree on every topic. I cannot say with absolute certainty that we are or will be a great generation that will be remembered throughout history. But I do believe we are capable of a great and much needed change.

I just hope that when that time comes, whenever it may be, that we do not miss the rendezvous.

x---

“The defeats and victories of these years have given to us as a people a new understanding of our government and of ourselves. Never since the early days of the New England town meeting have the affairs of government been so widely discussed and so clearly appreciated. It has been brought home to us that the only effective guide for the safety of this most worldly of worlds, the greatest guide of all, is moral principle.

We do not see faith, hope, and charity as unattainable ideals, but we use them as stout supports of a nation fighting the fight for freedom in a modern civilization.

Faith - in the soundness of democracy in the midst of dictatorships.

Hope - renewed because we know so well the progress we have made.

Charity - in the true spirit of that grand old word. For charity literally translated from the original means love, the love that understands, that does not merely share the wealth of the giver, but in true sympathy and wisdom helps men to help themselves.

We seek not merely to make government a mechanical implement, but to give it the vibrant personal character that is the very embodiment of human charity.

We are poor indeed if this nation cannot afford to lift from every recess of American life the dread fear of the unemployed that they are not needed in the world. We cannot afford to accumulate a deficit in the books of human fortitude.

In the place of the palace of privilege we seek to build a temple out of faith and hope and charity.

It is a sobering thing, my friends, to be a servant of this great cause. We try in our daily work to remember that the cause belongs not to us, but to the people. The standard is not in the hands of you and me alone. It is carried by America. We seek daily to profit from experience, to learn to do better as our task proceeds.

Governments can err, presidents do make mistakes, but the immortal Dante tells us that Divine justice weighs the sins of the cold-blooded and the sins of the warm-hearted on different scales.

Better the occasional faults of a government that lives in a spirit of charity than the consistent omissions of a government frozen in the ice of its own indifference.

There is a mysterious cycle in human events. To some generations much is given. Of other generations much is expected. This generation of Americans has a rendezvous with destiny.”

- F.D. Roosevelt, 1936.

#vote 2020 #election 2020 #politics #personal thoughts