#SO brave of you to stand up for yourself. against nazis. because. you WOULD have been targeted by nazis. had you lived. in germany. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

route22ny · 3 years

Text

Sky

Perhaps this will be hard to read. Laments often are. It may bring you comfort, or it may make you angry. It may make you think more of me, or less. It may offend you. Rest assured, it offends me. So be it.

Once upon a time, there was a man who spoke of torture as a good in and of itself, to be pursued whether it was effective or not. Who promised to use the power of the state to enact violence upon scapegoated religious and ethnic minorities. Who insisted upon framing our struggle against Mideast terror groups in the same religious terms the terrorists themselves insist upon. Who praised himself for nursing petty grudges, for treating revenge as justice. Who threatened the free press with retaliation for reporting certain truths about him. Who bragged about sexual assault. Who mocked people more brave than himself and called their bravery weakness. Who lied seemingly without strategy, as if lies were good to tell only for the telling, who showed a shocking indifference to the very concept of truth. Who praised brutal dictators for their brutal methods. Who seemed (and seems) to be receiving shadowy support from a brutal dictator. Who claimed dictatorial power for himself.

This is fine.

He appeared entirely confused about the basic facts of geopolitical reality, or of how our government works, or even of the function within our government of the role he proposed to take on. He had a clear and obvious history of fraud and hucksterism, of enriching himself at the benefit of others with less leverage, and was even engaged throughout his campaign in a lawsuit for defrauding college students, since settled for $25 million dollars. He speculated with frightening casualness about destabilizing actions: proliferation and even use of nuclear weapons, defaulting on our debts and our treaties, backing out of our most long-standing alliances. He publicly called upon the intelligence apparatuses of foreign governments to intercede in our election on his behalf, and it seems increasingly likely they may have obliged. He whipped his crowds into frenzies, then directed their ire toward journalists reporting the event, many of whom he threatened to prosecute once in power. He offered to imprison his political adversary, to the delight of his chanting crowds, who wore t-shirts decorated with the flag celebrating the war to preserve American slavery, decorated with vulgar slogans of violence and rage. He promised to steer us directly into the deadly heart of the oncoming climate catastrophe; having claimed the work of men more intelligent and knowledgeable than he was nothing but a Chinese hoax, he sneered at the very idea of new energy sources.

This is fine.

That’s a short list. It’s a hell of a short list. But wait, listen: The people went for it.

Tens of millions of people voted to make him the most powerful man in the world. He will soon have the ability to blast the planet to an irradiated cinder, if he sees fit. He will continue to run his business, which appears to involve sitting in a golden throne and putting his names on things. He's given every indication, despite some laughably thin feints toward divestment, he will run that business from the Oval Office. Maybe he’ll even put his name on new things, like laws. Laws: a whole new product line for Trump International, and a potentially lucrative one. He owes the banks of foreign powers millions and millions of dollars. One wonders what laws they’ll want passed. Word is, his first foreign trip will be to visit Vladimir Putin. Heigh-ho.

His party is in control, too. They don't seem bothered by any of this. They're a bit more focused on providing checks and balances upon ethics watchdogs who have pointed out their party leader's multifarious and historically unprecedented infractions. They'd rather ignore those, so they can immediately—immediately—get down to the serious business of divesting millions and millions of the most vulnerable people in our society from the only chance they have at affordable health coverage. They plan to replace this program with something...someday. Their speculation so far indicates they will be replacing it with the opportunity to save up hundreds of thousands of dollars to pay for medical bills if you need them someday, or, if you don't have hundreds of thousands of spare dollars, to maybe go screw yourself. So, a lot of people are going to die in coming years, that would otherwise have lived, and they're rushing to make it happen. My, look at them laugh.

Republican lawmakers sign legislation to repeal ACA and defund women's health care access through Planned Parenthood, January 2016

Meanwhile, they're ignoring as peccadilloes the caricatured infractions of a man who intends to keep his own private security detail around him, who expounds upon provable lies, and then when exposed simply doubles down on the lie, who is considering throwing the press out of the White House, and other maneuvers straight out of the dictator handbook. It's really something to see. It's a new order, trumping the old. Isn't it great again?

Laura Ingraham, speaker at the Republican National Convention, 2016.

It’s hard to understand what people hoped for from him other than this. It’s hard not to assume they were responding to the shockingly frank bigotry, his promises to return to an earlier time, the knowing use of slogans used byracists and fascists of days past. These are certainly what seemed to generate all the most popular applause lines. But I don’t want to think that of my country or my fellow citizens. I really want it to be something else. Let us consider other possibilities. Many seem to think that a great thing about him was his frankness. They liked that he “tells it the way it is.” Then again, those same people seemed most likely to think that he didn’t really mean his more shocking proposals. It’s a bit confusing, then, parsing what is meant by ‘telling it like it is,' as it appears to rely on selective trust in insincerity. Many voters, excited by promises to “drain the swamp,” but now disappointed by the recent appointment of a Goldman Sachs foreclosure kingpin to Treasury, of a Putin-connected oil executive to State, and by other signals the new president has given about his eagerness to rob us all blind, have been admonished by a key advisor for taking his words so literally. The 'alt-right' Neo Nazis and the KKK are very excited, for what it’s worth, about the more shocking proposals, and they remain confident our new leader meant every word.

You're really going to want to go to video on this one.

Some people thought he would be less likely to make them pay more in taxes, I suppose. So perhaps at last now we know the answer to the old hypothetical about whether we’d be willing to travel through time and sacrifice our lives to prevent the rise of a self-professing tyrant. Answer: We wouldn’t even suffer a hypothetical increase in our income taxes. I'm told folks voted for Trump because they were tired of being called racist. I imagine that was hard for them—who wants to be considered racist? If this complaint is yours, I imagine reading this (if you're still reading) is also hard. I sympathize; it's not particularly easy to write. But then again, the response seems an odd retort to the complaint. If your persistent problem is people keep telling you there is spinach in your teeth, you might consider getting a mirror and taking a look, rather than voting for the Jolly Green Giant running on a platform of outlawing all floss. And, perhaps, if it is painful to be considered racist, consider this: it may be all the more painful to live under racist oppression.

KKK Newspaper, The Crusader, endorses Trump.

Many seem to have mainly enjoyed that he wasn’t Hillary Clinton, and it’s certainly true to say many concerns and criticisms could be levied against her. But the man they voted for as an alternative already stood actualized as the cartoon parody of any potential danger she may have hypothetically posed. Bad judgment? Corruption? Fraud? A proclivity to violent retaliation? A worry about temperament? Untrustworthiness? Lack of transparency? It’s hard to believe this all had much to do with Hillary Clinton and her faults. Hard to believe this list of concerns would yours, but your acceptable alternative would be Donald Trump.

Or maybe they believed the more lurid stories, the debunked, the ridiculous. Hillary’s murdered 80 people close to her. She invented cancer and put it in your cell phone battery. She is secretly seven tiny demons all stacked up in a pantsuit and glued together with the blood of aborted fetuses. She controls the Yosemite supervolcano, along with a cabal comprised of George Soros and 17 other Jewish industrialists. I don’t know what all. I know there are people like this, who have seceded from objective reality into a dystopian alternate dimension, where they can perhaps supplement the powerlessness they feel in their lives with the comfort of false control, of being one of the few with the secret knowledge unavailable to the masses. I don’t know what to do with them, because they live in an alternate dimension. And, it must be said, I don’t think there are 63 million of them.

So here we are. In grave moral and physical danger. All of us. And for what? I’ve heard the same line again and again since the election: “America isn’t a different country today than it was before the election.” Jon Stewart trotted it out. I think I heard it from President Obama.

I fear I agree with the statement. I’m puzzled, though, because I think it is meant to be reassuring, to think we’ve always been the country capable of such a choice.

The statement doesn’t imply that we’re still great. It implies that we were never good.

It has to be admitted, people responded to Trump for what he is. Which means we are left with the statements and proposals by which he distinguished himself. And millions of us—tens of millions—preferred him specifically for his points of difference. Excited by his promises to return us to a time when our system existed only for certain people, and the preferences and needs of all others were beneath consideration, or at least willing to overlook that, in favor of some material or policy advantage somewhere. And ultimately, the reason is immaterial. A man ran for president promising to use the power of the state to bring violence to scapegoated religious and ethnic minorities, to make America torture again, to make it easier for an already-militarized police force to employ violence, who praised dictators, who bragged about sexual assault, who praised vengeance as good, who promoted as fact debunked conspiracy, who stated his determination to ignore as conspiracy what the data overwhelmingly indicates is an oncoming extinction-level event. There was some other reason to vote for him, that allowed you to overlook these facts? Save it, please. It really doesn't matter. It was a bad reason. We have seen this movie before. Historians have a word for Germans who joined the Nazi party, not because they hated Jews, but out of a hope for restored patriotism, or a sense of economic anxiety, or a hope to preserve their religious values, or dislike of their opponents, or raw political opportunism, or convenience, or ignorance, or greed. That word is "Nazi." Nobody cares about their motives anymore. They joined what they joined. They lent their support and their moral approval. And, in so doing, they bound themselves to everything that came after. Who cares any more what particular knot they used in the binding? What am I saying here? Am I saying we are Nazis? The answer, I suppose, has to be 'no.' Only Nazis are Nazis. We are Americans. But what that will mean in decades to come—'American'—has been thrown into hazard. We used to be the sort of place that doesn't allow Donald Trumps to happen. That's gone now, along with that specific sort of trust the world once had in us. In any case, what we seem to now be trying to redefine 'American' to mean seems like a rough beast, and omnivorous. Democracy reveals us by our choices and our actions, not our intentions. We are what we are. And Donald Trump will be president.

As a result, I’m bereft. Bereft of the country I thought I was living in. Bereft of the people I thought I lived among. Bereft of what I believed was a shared direction despite divergent opinions. Bereft of a belief in the possibility of a common dialogue or even a common reality. Bereft in confidence in basic decency and intelligence. Bereft of the spiritual heritage I was born into, because of course Trump’s most enthusiastic supporters were white Christians. Christians voting for a new Herod with the power of a Caesar is a pretty good joke for the universe to tell, I suppose. He’s even promised to go after the (anchor) babies.

My translation of the Bible is full of all this toff about loving your enemy, about how love of money is the root of evil, about showing hospitality to the widow and orphan and the immigrant, and admonishments against drawing the sword lest you die on it. My reading of the Bible doesn't ask "but who's going to pay for that?" My reading of the Bible suggests to me that if you wish to pretend to care about babies unborn, maybe you shouldn’t be so hostile to the idea of making sure they’re cared for once they are born and inconveniently and expensively needy, and perhaps you shouldn’t make so many of their mothers into the welfare-queen boogie-men of your whole realpolitik, and perhaps you shouldn't make weaponry a right more important than health and food. Maybe healing and wholeness and liberty is something that should be available to even the pagan. Maybe the door is open for the tax collector and the prostitute and the Samaritan. Maybe, unencumbered by the overweening need to be perceived as correct in every moral posture, they've even entered that door ahead of us as we do our best to hold it shut against unworthy access.

Maybe I got a trash translation. Maybe the other ones are all about the joys of using political power for your own aggrandizement instead of the call to self-sacrifice for the benefit of others, about the dangers of anchor babies and welfare mothers, about how paying tax money toward a shared life is tyranny, about how with terrorists you have to kill the families, folks, believe me, kill the women and children, you’ve got to go after the families, and we’re gonna torture again, folks, we’re gonna torture, believe me…

You know what? I believe him.

WWJD Check: White Evangelicals are the group most likely favor use of torture by a military superpower.

* * * You wake up and the sky is gone. At times that’s how it seems. You wonder at it: how could there not be a sky? What will become of us now, in this world without a sky? Was it ever there, or did we just imagine it there, as an exercise of collective will?

And then you talk to other people who insist the sky is there. They say: It’s not gone, it’s just red now. Don’t be a sore loser, just because you didn’t want it red. Accept that we did want it red. It’ll be fine if it’s red. And anyway, the banks seem to like it red. Move on with your life. Suck it up. Hope that the red sky will be as good as the blue one. But the sky isn’t red. It’s not anything. It’s just … not. It is a not-ness. An un-sky. A nothing.

And then you start talking to people who laugh, not without compassion, that you ever fell for the idea there was a sky. They say: That big vast emptiness? Oh, yes. That’s always been there for us. Is it there for you now? How… interesting. We can tell you a thing or two about that emptiness, if you’d listen. We’ve been watching it an awful long time.

American Nazi Rally, Madison Square Garden, 1939

Future Georgia Representative and Civil Rights pioneer John Lewis, beaten by a state trooper on "Bloody Sunday" in 1965.

Oh. Will he. Will he do that.

The sky is the future. Or it was the future. That’s how it seems, at times. How odd, to speak of the future in the past tense.

But the past tense presents us with further troubles. It seems the past is gone, too.

In 1965, everybody thought King was great, and nobody tried to dismiss him by tying him to violence.

Growing up, we were taught that we were a kind and good and just nation. The story we were given was of a nation born of a righteous cause, not quite made perfect by the godlike men who forged it, but honed to apotheosis over the decades that followed. The destruction of the native nations and their people, ah, tsk, a shame, we’d change it if we could, but unfortunately in the past and unrecoverable. Slavery, a dark stain, but by now expunged entirely. Jim Crow, its shameful cousin, absorbed by a saint named King, who led a boycott (a pleasant and polite and non-disruptive one, it seems, in our memories), then stood on some stairs to give a universally-admired speech about his dream of inclusion, and then, his work seemingly accomplished, having seemingly changed minds forever, ascended harmlessly into the clouds.

Somehow we are never culpable. It was always a long time ago. Mistakes were made, but we’d never make them ourselves. It was always somebody else holding the gun, the whip. We arrived here after that, you see, born blameless, without any afterbirth or shock, into the Greatest Country in the World. Our holocausts we absolved ourselves of, because they served to illustrate not the evil we’d done, but how far we’d come from it. We stood on the prow of the ship, looking forward as we cut new water, not aft looking back at whatever may have been churned up in the wake. Not big on the rear-view mirror, us, not fans of the over-the-shoulder glance. We’d tell ourselves stories of what lay behind. We’d imagine ourselves into those stories of darker times, making ourselves the protagonists. We would have been the ones to build false walls in our home to hide slaves. We would have marched with King. We would have spoken out against the Japanese camps. We would have stood at Stonewall.

Our moral arc bends ever toward justice; an inevitable thing. That was the story.

America was great, because it was good. All the old hits.

People still alive can remember this sort of thing very well.

This kid is probably still alive. As are most of his classmates. As are the children with whom he refused to attend school.

This also happened within living memory.

It's amazing what people consider communism. I mean back then, of course.

Sometimes you’d hear stories about a random injustice or brutality. A policeman who had become a little too enthusiastic. A bad apple, and surely justice was served. If not, it’d have been in the papers You’d hear about it in the papers if it hadn’t been. A gay teen beaten to death in a cornfield. A car with the banner of the struggle to preserve human slavery on the bumper sticker. The KKK marching again, how quaint. Ah, you’d think, if you were like me. We still have some work to do. Cleanup on aisle seven.

Technology has changed that. We see with new eyes now, unless we choose not to. We see videos, dozens and dozens of them now, new ones each week it seems, of police shooting unarmed black people. Again and again and again and again. Can you remember all the names? I can't anymore. And I ask myself: why can't I?

We see the speed with which so many seem willing to seek and find the nearest handy reason the victim deserved his or her fate. We see the news organizations find a Sunday School photo for the shooter and a mugshot to represent the victim. We see acquittal and acquittal and acquittal. We see failure to prosecute.

And, perhaps, we begin to wonder.

We see the people protesting, unarmed, asking only that their lives be thought to matter as much as another’s, and we see the stormtroopers with their massive guns and their tanks, arrayed against a civilian population almost reflexively, like defenses in an organism’s bloodstream mustering against a disease. And we wondered, perhaps: why do they look so much—so exactly, if we’re honest—like an occupying force?

We saw the white ranchers seize government land, pointing their guns directly at law enforcement officials, speaking openly of armed insurrection against the government, of revolution, of war. We saw them, later, seizing a government building. They weren’t protesting after centuries seeing their children and brothers and sisters killed without consequence by authority. Rather, they didn’t want to have to pay a grazing fee. Was it with surprise that we saw it: law enforcement seemed less frightened of these white men and their guns than they had an unarmed black woman in a sundress, or a 12 year old boy playing in a park? Were we surprised to see they seemed so level-headed in this situation, so much less likely to respond with immediate lethal force?

Why, those fellows with their arsenal didn’t even get convicted. They were less threatening to the system, apparently, than a man, arms up, lying on the ground next to his autistic ward begging not to be shot. (He was shot.) We might contrast to the treatment of the protesters at Standing Rock, and wonder…is the Holocaust against native people relegated only to the past? Would we change it, if we could?

We wonder: Are we seeing the system breaking down, unable to cope with new challenges? Or are we seeing a system working exactly as it’s always intended? Do we as a collective of 'white' people secretly want the police to control brown people by force? Are we secretly hoping that force will prove lethal, only occasionally enough to soothe our consciences, but frequently enough to promote an order less immediately costly, than the pain of culpability, than the justice of restitution?

If not, why are prosecutions so rare, and convictions even less so?

If not, why aren’t we protesting these killings? Why aren’t we in the streets?

Do all lives matter? If so, why wouldn’t we act like it?

White Christian America reveres Dr. King, it should be noted. You remember him—the peaceful guy who gave the speech that ended racism. If Facebook and newspaper op eds are any measure, we white Christians can’t stop bringing him up, almost as a cudgel, an admonishment to those today who would dare ask for their own human dignity, for not doing it as antiseptically as we remember it being done by him. And perhaps people begin to wonder: Why was King enshrined as 'the peaceful one' only once he was peacefully dead? Is King’s being safely dead our favorite thing about him? These days, we white Christians can claim to have brought his dream to reality (the white guy is usually the hero of the story in the movie), and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. will not protest—and we white Christians don’t like protest. Heavens, no—it’s so divisive. Dr. King, he wouldn’t approve of this protest, nor that one, and certainly not that one. His protests were so polite! Why, nobody had any problem with them at all! Dr. King agrees with all of us in white Christian America so much, these days. Oh my, he never stops agreeing with us. Just ask us; we’ll tell you. Yes, and what ever happened to Dr. King, anyway, after he gave that speech that ended all inequality forever?

But no matter, I told myself. That’s a dying strain, it's not who we are these days. That’s just a few bad apples. We’ve made so much progress. They’ll exhaust themselves in a final futile sputter. We’re just about to turn the corner. Sure there are racists, bigots, white supremacists, lost-causers, and they're loud, but they're dying out, and they know it. They'll eventually run somebody on an overtly racist platform, and they'll lose huge—I disagree with Republicans, but most of them won't stand for stark white supremacy, surely, and obviously Christians won't be able to align themselves with it — and we’ll show them it’s no use, and they’ll retreat, retrench to even positions even more compromised, less fortified, further back, smaller, diminished. We’re a better country than that.

But then Donald Trump, a half-rate and transparently obvious bullshit artist, a greasy reality TV star most skilled at demonstrating his manifest ignorance, promising mostly the goodness of violence and the strength of vengeance, offering to return America to an earlier time, railing against the inconvenience of practicing sensitivity toward the perspectives of others (he called it 'political correctness'), received 63 million geographically-convenient votes to become the most powerful person in the world. Perhaps, if you’re like me, you took a moment then to ponder that statement about bad apples and what they do to the whole barrel. The meaning of it. And, perhaps, another saying, about recognizing a tree by its fruit. And, it must be said, though we refuse to face it: In America, our trees have long borne a strange fruit.

Here’s what we’ve lost, or at least what I’ve lost: The assumption of goodness’s inevitability. The assumption of goodness of those around me. The assumption of good intent in their hearts. The assumption that the future is still there. The assumption that most of us will die of old age. Here's what I've lost, the one favor Donald Trump may ever do for me: The wool from my eyes. An illusion, particularly a pretty and a convincing one, can be a painful thing to lose.

I’ve gained a vision of tens of millions of people desperate to bend history’s arc back toward an injustice that favored them, and willing to fight for that regression, willing even to risk species-wide extinction rather than suffer the pain of facing the consequences of their own mountainous indifference.

The moral arc of the universe may bend toward justice, but the gears of history grind the weak. There are people now who are giddy, almost with the air of a teenager behind the wheel of a sweet-sixteen hot rod, to test out their perceived new warrant to deliver retributive and violent indifference to the people they deem unlovely. A headscarf yanked off here. A slur shouted in public there. A swastika scrawled on a wall here. A Neo Nazi propagandist advising the President of the United States in the corridors of power there. A crowd of seig heils in a government building, in praise of our new leader here. A few million children stripped of health insurance with no serious attempt at a replacement there.

They think this is allowed now. Sixty-three million people, complacently or enthusiastically or ignorantly aligned with white supremacy, gave them the idea it is. It’s going to be our job to show them otherwise. We must show them otherwise. And. Even if you voted for Trump—especially if you voted for Trump—the door is wide open for you to join in that struggle. You show them otherwise, too. All you have to do to join...is join. Your intentions were good? Excellent. I believe you. I've badly misunderstood you? Excellent. I believe you. Now, show it. Show your good intention by your good actions. You, like all of us, possess tremendous moral authority. Don't lend it any longer to those who have promised to squander it on atrocity. They seem intent on doing as they say. If you wait too long, they will leave you with none left to withdraw. Use it to protect those different than you. Use it against your own advantage, for the advantage of those who have none. And. If you, like me, did not vote for Trump, there is the great danger of complicity. You will be offered, if you, like me are white and straight and employed and well-off and cis-gendered and able-bodied and healthy and property-owning, the opportunity to be indifferent. Resist that current.

If the universe bends toward justice, the engine it has chosen for this good work is the hard and sacrificial struggle of good people willing to acknowledge the basic humanity of all other people. People who don’t think profitability is the foundational metric of goodness. People who don't think life holds a value that begins at conception but ends the moment it enters poverty. People bold and willing to become peaceful pebbles in the gears. To give time and money. To link arms with a married gay couple. To take sides in a cafeteria skirmish with a transgendered teen. To take a truncheon in the head for a Muslim. To paraphrase Jesus (another favorite who those of us in white Christian America appear by our words and deeds to consider as safely dead as Dr. King): to live, first you must die.

Or, as another poet says, love’s the only engine of survival.

So, what’s next?

First, we lament. We acknowledge the un-sky, the void. We listen to those who’ve been staring at it far longer than us. We name the challenge with clear eyes. That, I suppose, is what this has been.

And then we get to work. Let us hope our leaders will prove other than than they say they will. Let us not be so naive to think it likely. Let us oppose in a fierce and broken love. Let us meet with friends, we eat good meals with them. Let us consider people before money, and notice where our society fails to do so. Let us make art, and we try to make it well. Let us refuse to allow a comfortable silence to enfold a hateful or ignorant statement. Let us stand up against hate, bodily if necessary. Let us learn our system, and work within it. Let us call our leaders, and advocate for those who suffer. Let us practice generosity without care for the merit of the beneficiary, but only for their need. Let us investigate before we publish. Let us loudly proclaim the humanity others try to diminish. Let loudly proclaim the humanity of those who do not share our values, even as we oppose. Let us never celebrate the suffering of those who oppose us, for they suffer, too. Let us seek to divest ourselves of unearned cultural advantage. Let us enter spaces where our voices are not primary, and listen without thinking to speak. Let us create space to speak, in places where our voices are primary, for those who have had no voice. Let us reject optimism and blind belief. Let us embrace hope. Let us work. Let us work. Let us work. We are a people who have dreamed of the sky. I’d like to see if we can make it real.

source: http://www.armoxon.com/2017/01/sky.html (January 16, 2017)

VOTE

#a.r. moxon #racism in america #american dystopia #VOTE #RESIST #long reads

26 notes · View notes

maraudersandlily20 · 4 years

Text

My roommate and I were talking about the BLM movement and the protests that were happening. I saw a video of a white girl moving in front of a row of black men, holding her arms out, knowing that if the cops who were advancing would have shoot her first. Others came to join her, building a wall. And I just had a moment wondering if I would ever be brave enough to do that.

And my roommate said this next. She spoke about a detective she knew from the period of her divorce. He was mentioned in a story about a girl who was taken in an unmarked van, separated from her friends and boyfriend, and questioned. She refused to speak but they had recordings of her boyfriend from during the protest, meaning they had undercover cops near them in the protest. The story said that the girl said the detective my roommate knew was kind and seemed remorseful.

What happened next made me understand a bit of the difference between an ally and someone who speaks about support but doesn’t understand it all.

My roommate said that she knew the detective, that he was a nice guy. And a lot of the cops probably were super unhappy that they were being made to do things like that. They didn’t want to hit people or shoot at people, they probably felt terrible about it.

And a part of my brain said, “yeah, she’s right. They’re human, they probably feel bad.”

But I stopped myself and answered her, “well yeah, but that doesn’t change the fact that they ARE going out and hitting and shooting at people.”

“I know, but many of them probably don’t want to.”

“But they’re still there.”

“They’re going because their job is at risk and they have families to feed. They don’t want to risk their livelihood.” She countered, her voice trying to be understanding.

And I looked at her. For a second. And I understood then how history repeated itself.

In one of my history classes, we had learned about nazi apologists. People who had said that the nazis weren’t all bad. They weren’t all Hitlers. They were just doing what they were told.

Some nazis probably felt really guilty and terrible about what they were doing, just like the cops standing against BLM protesters. They weren’t bad people. They wanted things to be peaceful.

BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN IT STOPPED THEM.

By following orders, by doing what they’re told FOR THE SAKE OF THEIR JOBS, shows that being a good person or feeling remorseful doesn’t excuse them. It does not erase the fact that they are involved in the acts of cruelty and murder. They don’t get to stand off and say “but I felt bad about doing it. I just had to make sure I kept my job.”

They still did it.

The nazis who were so kind or repentant still rounded up Jewish people, loaded them onto trains and sent them off to their deaths, many soldiers completely aware of the fate they were going to.

The detective my roommate apologizes for, along with his remorseful colleagues, still stood behind a line of shields, holding guns of rubber bullets and throwing canisters of tear gas. They looked at a group of people, asking to be heard, acting peacefully, and reacted with violence.

And for what?

Because it’s their job?

The Jewish people lost their lives, despite some of the nazis being young boys who felt terrible because of their actions. Their guilt doesn’t erase the abuse, the cruelty, the murder the Jews faced. It doesn’t suddenly make it better.

Cops being remorseful, acting kind to one human out of a group of hundreds, even thousands, all begging for the chance for human rights, does not erase the fact that innocent people are being hurt and even killed because of the job they are working so hard to keep.

That’s not justice. Your desire to remain employed is not the equivalent to someone wanting to keep their lives. Using the excuse that you have a family to feed does not stop the fact that you are enabling the murder of other people’s families.

If you feel guilty? Good. You should. But that guilt should drive you to stop doing the same thing over and over in the name of employment. That guilt should get you to realize that your priorities aren’t in the right place.

Your job isn’t equal to human lives.

It wasn’t equal in WW2, when millions of Jewish people were sent to their deaths. And it’s not now, when millions of black, brown, and white individuals are going out to protest, knowing that they might not come home.

Stop deluding yourself.

Human lives get precedent. Every. Single. Time.

#ugh #i cant #im so frustrated #blm

44 notes · View notes

oldshrewsburyian · 4 years

Note

Remember Me, Sam and Andrew Foyle either during the war (aircraft Crash/Bombing maybe) or post canon. Anything you please... either fluffy funny or 'shreds my heart and glues it together again.

Well, er... what happened was that I ended up responding to this prompt late at night and emboldened by vodka. I nabbed half a premise from James Hilton and ended up with... a series 6 canon-divergent scenario that is, in fic parlance, crack, and more specifically, something that would not be out of place in 1940s melodrama. Look, I’ve watched far too many 1940s melodramas. This turned into a 1k effusion, so I’ve put most of it below the cut. (Ask thing here.)

Sam is late for her work at the Ministry. She stands on the pavement with what feels like half the population of London, elbows tucked into her sides, umbrella held obstinately aloft, hat brim drawn down. She squints miserably through the curtain of rain that had descended so suddenly, wreaking havoc on already unreliable bus schedules. Sam sniffs. She picks her feet up out of the wet, one after the other, trying to keep her shoes from getting sodden. She will not be able to replace them this winter.

The accident happens on the other side of the street. Sam hears it before she sees anything: the almost-musical protest of brakes, the sudden shouting of too many people, the belated blaring of a horn.

“He fell — he was pushed — there was a woman — should never have taken the corner that fast — ” The crowd around her is full of comment. Sam winces, and holds very still while the policeman at the intersection blows his whistle. With sobering swiftness, the morning moves on. The pedestrians are allowed to cross. Motor traffic navigates carefully around the taxi whose driver stands beside it, twisting his cap in his hands. Sam catches her breath before starting across the road. Her father’s response to accidents had always been the same, whether they were paragraphs in the paper, incidents in the street, or wireless bulletins about the other side of the world. Dear me, those poor people. Let us say a prayer. Sam gives a careful berth to the men who are forming a stretcher-hold. Dear me, she thinks, that poor man. I must say a prayer. And then she sees his face.

Sam continues crossing; she has no desire to waken the ire of her fellow Londoners. Then, when she has reached the pavement, she turns around and marches back across the street. Mud splashes over her shoes.

She is very aware of her own pulse, the blood rushing in her ears, her heart unruly in her chest. The Ministry seems a very distant duty. She follows the little procession into the chemist’s shop. As the bell jangles after her, she realizes that she has no plan for what she is going to say.

“We’re closed,” says the chemist.

“It weren’t my fault,” says the taxi driver to the policeman.

“There’s been an accident,” intones the policeman discouragingly, with a glance in her direction.

“It’s all right,” says Sam, clutching her handbag in both hands. “I know him.”

There is a moment’s uncertain pause, and then the policeman and driver resume their tense colloquy, while the chemist turns back to his work. Sam sidles closer to the little group, her eyes on the man recumbent in the chair, who is so alarmingly still and pale.

“Easy,” says the chemist, holding sal volatile a few inches from his patient’s face. “You’ve had a shock.”

“Stepped right in front of me,” says the driver, half-wailing.

“Knocked down in the street,” says the chemist soothingly. “But no appearance of serious injury, I’m happy to say.”

“I…” says Andrew, and then his eyes meet hers. “Sam, thank God!”

She ignores the driver and the policeman; she ignores the chemist; she ignores the fact that her handbag will collect dust on the floor and that she’s probably torn a stocking in going to her knees. She puts out her hand, and Andrew grips it. Sam is very conscious of the movement of his thumb over her knuckles, the seam of her glove that is giving way, the wedding ring that sits cold against her finger.

“Wasn’t sure you’d recognize me,” says Sam softly. She is very conscious of having aged since she first knew him, of being an anxious housewife in a shabby coat, a very different person from the girl who drove and mended cars and fearlessly teased an RAF pilot.

“Know you anywhere,” says Andrew, sounding impossibly fond. His eyes seem too large in his face.

“Are you sure he’s all right?” demands Sam.

“As I can be.” The chemist is regarding them both with an indulgent eye. “How are you feeling, sir?”

“I…” says Andrew, still looking at Sam. “I had an unlucky knock, I expect. Head aches. I’ve had worse.”

Oh, Andrew, thinks Sam.

“It weren’t my fault,” says the driver again.

“Yes, all right,” says Andrew, before the policeman can interpose; “I’m sure he’s right. I’ll be all right in a minute.” As if to assure the assembled company of this, he sits up, begins to stretch and brush off his sleeves. And then he stops. “Sam,” says Andrew, suddenly very earnest, “why am I in civvies?”

She can feel the blood drain from her face, even before she feels the silence in the chemist’s shop change. Outside, the rain still beats against the windows. Sam moistens her lips, and swallows. “Andrew,” she says very quietly, “the war’s over. It’s 1946.”

“Oh,” says Andrew, a little blankly. “Oh, that’s… well, we clearly aren’t living under the Nazi yoke, so that’s all right.” No one laughs. “Look,” says Andrew, “I’m sure that’ll come right, I was just…”

“Are you quite sure of yourself, sir?” asks the policeman gently.

“Oh, far too sure of myself,” says Andrew, with false briskness. “Just ask her.” Sam blinks away tears. “Andrew Foyle, sometime poet, sometime pilot, ex-student, future something-or-other.”

“In the City,” whispers Sam.

“Ah,” says Andrew. “Eminently plausible. You see, she’ll have me right in no time. We haven’t got two adorable children that I’ve inexcusably forgotten, by any chance?”

Sam drops his hand and scrambles to her feet, as though that would help her confront this astonishing suggestion. “No.” The word emerges almost soundlessly.

“Ah,” says Andrew again, and something in his tone makes her think that he is, as usual, seeing far too much in her face. “Tactless of me. Look — ” he stands up, and sways only slightly on his feet — “we’ll go, and I’ll make my apologies, and we’ll have tea and buns, and she’ll forgive me far too quickly because she always does, and I promise on my honor that I will trot dutifully round to Harley Street if I haven’t recovered complete awareness of the date and year by this time tomorrow morning. All right?”

“If you say so, sir,” says the policeman. “Madam.” The chemist, still frowning, hands Andrew an attaché case that shows evidence of its recent acquaintance with a London gutter.

“Hm,” says Andrew, taking it. “Lends an air of artistic verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative.”

Well, thinks Sam, it can’t be so bad as all that, not if he’s quoting The Mikado. Because she knows he will not ask for her support, she goes to his side and slips her arm firmly through his.

“That’s better,” says Andrew. He smiles down at her, and Sam thinks it is unfair, that he should still look at her like that. “Marvelous feeling of security. Sam, that is a truly unfortunate umbrella; is it the only one we have? Well, never mind, come along. Don’t worry, gentlemen,” he says, and Sam’s heart skips at the dreadful familiarity of Andrew being airy and brave and still transparent to her. “Omnia vincit amor. And the rain’s letting up.”

#this is a Milquetoast Albatross hate blog #foyle's war #he doesn't deserve her but i ship it #sam/andrew land #have a drabble!#or a ficlet #darkhorse-javert

18 notes · View notes

sergeant-donny-donowitz · 4 years

Text

The Essentials (Donnyx Fem!Reader)

@owba-chan @tealaquinn @inglourious-imagines @war-obsessed

Let me know if you wanna be added to the Basterds, or OUATIH taglist! :)

Requested by @sodapop182

The basterds hid in the shadows of Paris, moving undercover, drifting with the moon toward free France. After a few days, they made it to the city of Lyons, where there was a secret allied base.

The reason for their trip was most unusual. In fact, the basterds had only ever left nazi occupied territory once during the war. A year before, so Hugo could be identified, approved, and briefed by the OSS.

Since then, the basterds had lost three brave young soldiers: Simon Sakowitz, Andy Kagan, and Michael Zimmerman...

It took a few months and eventually orders from the general to convince the basterds to come back to the base so Aldo could choose a new basterd. It wasn't what the team wanted. There was nothing that could replace the boys they lost, but the general was right. The lack of manpower was costing them time and efficiency, and there were more and more injuries as a result. They couldn't afford to lose another troop. So, they were convinced to take at least one more member to make up for it.

Aldo sighed, standing around the lobby with the basterds, smoking and waiting.

There were a few rows of women in uniform behind type writers, sending messages, decoding secrets and missions. Essentially making the world keep running. There were a few officers and troops around base that day, hoping to be recruited by the basterds.

Aldo approached a young woman in uniform standing by a desk. " 'scuse me, ma'am, my boys and I are here to meet with the general. You mind pointin' a lost basterd in the right direction?"

You looked up from a sheet of codes you'd deciphered and nodded with a kind smile, "Up those steps there, go down the hall, to the left. Big conference room, you can't miss it."

Aldo smiled, "Thank you ma'am."

But before Aldo and the basterds could proceed, a corporal stood between you and Aldo, "Hey honey, how 'bout some coffee?"

You gritted your teeth, but kept your smile.

The basterds glared at him, and Smitty stepped up, refusing to acknowledge the man outranked him. Smitty may have been just a private but he outclassed the corporal... And frankly was much more of a man. "Come on, sir, she's got a job to do like everyone else here. I'm sure it's not so hard to get some yourself."

The colonel started to make a fist, power hungry, and eager to show his place above Smitty and half of the basterds.

Aldo rolled his eyes and sighed, "Come on now, corporal. Utivich here's just a kid. Stand down."

He nodded, with fake smile as he gritted his teeth, "Apologies, sir..." he cleared his throat, and looked at you, then back at them with a crooked grin, "Ah what do dames know, they love it! Especially with a man in uniform." He leaned onto the desk, and looked at you and lowered his voice, "So how about that coffee now, sweetheart?"

You clenched your teeth and your fists, but you nodded, forcing a blank smile as you muttered niceties through your bare teeth.

The younger basterds read the look on Aldo's face. 'Stand down,' he seemed to say... That asshole wasn't worth it.

But Donny, Hugo, and Aldo outranked him. And collectively pushed past him.

If it were up to them, it would have been so much worse for that corporal.

Donny was fuming, muttering something about wanting to beat some sense in to him. Donny's older sister worked in a factory back in Boston, and his younger sister worked as a secretary in a naval base in the Pacific, but if he ever even heard a rumor about anyone treating either of them like that, it would be over for that animal. And yet... it broke his heart knowing that it inevitably would happen anyway without him knowing.

Aldo wanted nothing more than to beat that corporal down. He fought all his life for a world decent enough for everyone to live in, and he was slowly giving up. And it hurt him to have to leave it like that...but sometimes the basterds just couldn't fix everything.

As for Hugo...the one thing he had left in Germany was his mother. She raised him on her own. And he couldn't stand that corporal, or anyone like him. If it were any other circumstance, he would have bashed the corporal's head against a wall. But for now, pushing past him would suffice.

"Men," The general nodded, acknowledging their salutes as he opened the door when he heard the unsynchronized, basterdized marching approaching the conference room door. He ushered them in, and they sat around a long table.

The general took a seat at the head of the table, in front of a stack of folders. Each one was the name and file of possible future basterds.

Each one of varying ranks, origins and stories, each one of them impressive.

And all of them were in the base that day. Each one came in for an interview of sorts.

Each one a medal winning sniper, or legendary sharp-shooter, or a rogue assassin.

But none of them were really basterds by nature....

Next, the general called in "Corporal Jonathan Williams, outstanding young man. Record number of headhsots in his platoon."

And there he was.

The disrespectful corporal.

The only candidate to have shown up in full uniform, medals, pins, ribbons. Every one else was in civilian's clothes, like a basterd.

But he showed up, bragging, and pining for more recognition.

What more recognition could a soldier have than be a member of an elite squad like the basterds?

Aldo and Donny stuck with the shortest, simplest interviews, and Wicki made sure they stayed within the rules of decorum to make it as short for everyone as possible...

There was a knock on the door.

Without any authorization, Corporal Williams tried to assert and show his command while he ordered, "Come in."

There you were, dressed as a civilian.

With a piping hot cup of coffee in hand...

And moments later, there it went. All over his lap, his disgraced uniform, and his unearned medals.

There was a wave of silence...but of course under any other circumstances, the basterds would have broken out into a roar of laughter and applause.

"Sorry, Corporal...but then again, what do us dames know?" You shrugged, as you held out your compact mirror, and touched up your red lipstick. You smirked a little, hearing the basterds snickering.

You stood at attention after that.

The general smirked a little, and nodded, "Next, is Sergeant Y/N L/N."

Corporal Williams looked to you in disbelief, disgust, and disillusion...Simply because you outranked him.

Aldo nodded with a smile, gesturing for you to sit for your interview, "Sergeant."

The general looked to Williams, "Dismissed."

"B-but she-"

"Dismissed. That's an order."

Donny smirked a little.

The general introduced you, "This is First Lieutenant Aldo Raine. Staff Sergeant Donny Donowitz, Sergeant Hugo Stiglitz, Corporal Wilhelm Wicki, and Privates First Class Smithson Utivich, Omar Ulmer, and Gerold Hirschberg. Boys, this is Sergeant L/n." Hugo, Wicki, Omar, Smitty, and Hirschberg saluted you.

You smiled and nodded to the basterds you outranked. You all took a seat.

You had to admit, you were a bit starstruck though you didn't show it.

Your heart raced a little as they went through your file.

And even more so when it was Sergeant Donny Donowitz asking the questions.

The more they heard about your impressive history in the army, the more Donny wondered about the brave soul behind it all. The embers behind your eyes. The drum behind your heart.

He wondered about the girl behind the soldier.

When it was all over, you and Donny hardly noticed that you were both looking into each other’s eyes...

You lifted your chin a little, clenching your teeth to spare yourself from smiling and falling, but you couldn't stop a sly devilish grin.

And it stole his heart.

The general nodded when it was over, "Thank you sergeant. Aldo, we've got Staff Sergeant Duke Livingston next-"

Aldo shook his head.

He didn't know much, but he knew how to read a room.

There was no need.

"Weeell, general. I'm thinkin' a basterd's what we need, and a basterd's what we got right here."

The general raised his eyebrow, "You don't want to see the last few? Or look through the files again, son?"

Aldo shook his head, "Nah...This here been enough, general."

The general nodded. He'd trusted Aldo to put his own team together once before. There was no regret in that.

So he'd do the same again.

"Sergeant L/N, I'm assuming you have everyhing in order to join the basterds, effective as of now?"

You nodded with a slight grin that caught Donny's heartbeat.

"Just the essentials, sir." You left a handful of objects on the table to be inspected and approved as you were led to another room to be debriefed.

On the table you'd left five things. Five things that had saved you from a world of pain, and five things you'd saved from the world you left behind.

A switch blade. Your oldest yet noblest possesssion. It had saved you quite a few times. More than you cared to admit. You'd kept it on you from the moment you were allowed to walk to the corner store on your own, way back as a kid running around a rough part of an asphalt jungle.

Cherry red lipstick, with a tint of bordeaux. In fact, that was where you bought it, not too long ago. Well...you were a bit of slave to appearances yourself. It never hurt anyone to make a good first impression. Especially when nazis and top secret information was involved.

A mirror. A plain compact mirror. To make sure you looked ok. And to see behind you without turning heads, or raising alarms. A mirror to make signals. A mirror to remember who you were.

And if all else failed, a lighter. Yes, it was nice to light your own cigarette. But sometimes, other things needed lighting. Like...nazis...

And a flower. It had been taken from a lei. A sign of goodbye...Something that once was. Something you carried with you always.

Usually in your hair.

Donny was about to pick it up, but the general shook his head, "Wouldn't do that if I were you, son. That lady was just a private when her outfit was ambushed in the Pacific. Carries that thing with her for those kids lost back there."

Aldo sighed. He knew what it was like to lose good men. But he couldn't imagine losing his entire team all at once... Much less being the only survivor.

It didn't take too long until you were back in the room.

You slipped your lighter into your pocket, held your switchblade between your teeth as you put the flower back in your hair, and looked at yourself with your mirror. You put the knife away, along with your lipstick, and snapped the mirror shut.

Omar laughed a little, out of nervousness, and admiration, "That was a quick briefing."

You nodded a little, "Simple mission. Kill nazis. Scalp em for Lieutenant Raine. And try to make it to the end of the war." You winked at Donny, which took him back for a moment.

No one had ever been so forward with him...usually he was the slick one.

But damn did he like you...

So you travelled with the boys, back past enemy lines, into Nazi-Occupied France.

You didn't have to go more than a few steps it seemed, before you ran into a few nazis.

Rather...they ran into you.

A brand new basterd with a license to kill, the means and guts to do it, and name to build.

You were known in the Pacific for being a strong leader and a hell of a soldier. To the enemy you were known to be brutal.

There was a way about you. So deceiving. So comforting to the untrained eye. So menacing to the enlightened one.

Like a siren, calming and alluring to the unsuspecting man, but a threat and a beast to the one that was evil,

And there at your feet was a young bloodied, battered, black and blue nazi. Looking up at you, what he presuemd to be an innocent, civilian french girl, perhaps taking pity on him.

You crouched down by him.

The basterds stood around you, watching in curiosity.

You placed your hands gently over the nazi's cheeks, filthy with dirt, and innocent blood. His breath was shaking, his eyes were red with tears. He looked into your eyes. Warm and forgiving. But not for him.

For yourself.

Every nazi you took was a chance to avenge brave men and women...practically kids that you fought with once.

Every nazi you took down avenged an innocent lives stolen from their own homes, not too far from there.

Every nazi you took down was a step closer to home.

He didn't know that.

And as you held his head firmly and steadily, you murmured something for him in the language that brought him comfort.

And in that final moment, in his last breath, his eyes went wide with terror, realizing what was really in your mind, the purpose behind your unexplained caress

In that moment he was consumed with realization and horror.

And in that moment, you twisted your hands sharply, and snapped that nazi's neck, separating the vertebrae from his skull.

You took his scalp.

Your very first one.

Wicki nodded, and smirked, "Not bad. Ninety-nine more to go."

You smirked a little, and asserted, "I'll catch up." You cracked your knuckles, then wiped the blood away from your blade with the corner of your blouse.

Donny smiled as he handed in his scalps. He had thirty seven to go. "I like your style, kid. Where ya from?"

You grinned a little, catching his eye, "New York." You wondered if he was just making conversation. After all, there was no way that wasn't in your file.

Aldo sighed as he inhaled some tobacco, "Well, we know that, Y/n. But we know New Yorkers get testy over which part of New York they're from. See, we got Queens and Manhattan back there,"

You turned and spotted Omar and Smitty eagerly waiting for your answer.

You smiled and nodded at Aldo, understanding...

You made direct eye contact with Omar and Smitty as you answered, "Hell's Kitchen."

You watched as their eyes went wide.

"You boys from uptown."

Omar shook his head, slightly intimidated by you as he pointed to Smitty, "He's from Manhattan."

"Upper West Side?"

Smitty nodded, gulping a little.

You shrugged, "I like Manhattan."

Smitty smiled and took a breath in relief.

Omar didn't ask about Queens...he left well enough alone.

The basterds set up camp for the night, and sat around a fire, trying to stay warm and fed, and entertained. Topics varied from night to night. Every once in a while the basterds went into their deep thoughts about life and earth and the world. Some nights they were subject to Donny and Omar fighting: Red Sox vs Yankees.

Some nights were tiresome and quiet and smoke filled.

But that night, you were on everyone's mind. Your first kill was an instant basterd hall of famer. Your name was on everyone's lips, and was carved into Donny's heart.

Aldo passed around a few bottles, "Alright, alright kid, how long you been a basterd for?"

You raised your eyebrow, "Bout twelve hours, sir."

Aldo shook his head, "Nah, you see... Most of em boys there been basterds damn near their whole lives. For example, Donny there's been swingin' that bat of his since before he could run. Me? I done my share of bootlegging. Hugo's been a traitor. You?"

You smirked a little, knowing what he meant. "Just me n the ring, sir."

Hirschberg looked up, and pulled the bottle away from his lips, "The ring?"

You nodded, leaning back against a log. "Yeah. I used to be champ of an underground boxing club, up until the war started." The click of your lighter sliced through the silence and shock among the basterds.

Donny managed to sputter, as he looked up at you, "A boxer, huh?"

You smiled, as you puffed smoke into the air, "Yup."

The silence evolved into incoherent chatter and bets among the basterds.

Hirschberg asked, "So...do you think you could take some of us down?"

Donny shook his head, "Hey come on, trained fighting is different from the bar-fight bullshit we throw."

Omar nudged you with a smirk, "Yeah but everyone from Hell's Kitchen fights like a fucken devil. With or without training."

You shrugged, "You got that right, pal." You had to fight from the moment you were born into a world that would turn a cold shoulder to you simply because of your chromosomes.

And even more so when you overpowered what was expected of you.

Hirschberg chuckled and joked, "You should fight the biggest baddest basterd. Claim your title here too."

The basterds weren't laughing. They turned to him...

Then to Donny.

Donny tilted his head, his eyes gazing to you, pleading for a way out. He shook his head, "No. I'm not gonna hit a lady."

You respected him for the sentiment. But you'd faced eviler, and frankly bigger opponents, in and out of the ring. "Just sparring, Donny. No hits on the face, none below the belt, no one gets hurt. Deal?"

He hesitated for a second, but was egged on by the boys.

He was dared... By Hugo, no less.

And he was dared by you.

You with your smirking raised eyebrow, your silent grin mocking him, and cunning and calling eyes.

He nodded, giving in with an exasperated sigh. "Ok."

How much damage could you do anyway, he wondered. You were relatively tiny compared to him. And you rose to the occasion. You set out your cigarette on a patch of moss on the log you’d been sitting on. You passed the bottle of bad brandy over.

The boys went wild.

Wicki stepped up, "Alright basterds, I want a good clean fight. No hits in the head, no hits under the belt. No grappling, no rabbit hooks, no back handing. Clear?"

You both nodded, and pressed your fists together out of sportsmanship.

But that look in your eyes was so much more than that.

You distracted him.

You distracted him with your devilish smile, with your striking eyes.

You were quick with your strikes, and light on your feet. Your endurance was practically godlike.

There was a reason you were champion once.

And Donny had to admit that.

He also had to admit he was getting tired...

See, he had brute strength, for certain, but that wasn't everything, or even enough for a boxing match.

He also had to admit you had a pretty damn good swing.

He smiled...He respected the hell out of that.

And then... you swept your leg under his legs, knocking him down.

He leaned on his elbows, taking it as an opportunity to take a short, secret rest, while the basterds laughed, as he called you out. "That's not even legal in boxing!"

You crouched down, "I said underground. We fight dirty because that’s what brings in more bets." You held your hand out, and pulled Donny to his feet.

He smiled a little...somehow energized by your smile.

He looked back at the basterds, all indeed betting on how it would come out. Hugo smirked as he cheered on, as he always surprisingly did, "Donnyyyy!"

"Guess you still got it, kid." He winked at you, and you raised your head a little, your cheeks burning as you saw him bring his fists back up, sweat beginning to roll from his chest, and determination and intrigue in his eyes,

You blocked his next few hits, "Guess I do," you winked back at him, which was the ultimate distraction. His heart fluttered, and he smiled foolishly.

And you got him with a right cross, left uppercut, a jab, and then a fist going directly going to his face.

He shut his eyes. Couldn't help it. You were a damn good shot.

You could do some serious damage if you really wanted to...he’d admit that now.

Aldo made a damn good choice, that's for sure.

Donny opened his eyes in the absence of pain and a bloody nose, seeing your fist hovering in front of his face. He could see the fading pink marks of long forgotten and numerous scars on your knuckles.

"You were a bare knuckle boxer..." he murmured.

You lowered your fist, "God observation sarge." You smiled up at him cheekily...

That wasn't his only observation. He couldn't help noticing eveything about you. The small streak on your cheekbone from a forgotten victory. A chip in your tooth, from an unforgettable loss. A relentless soul that made certain you fought on. And the eyes of a basterd.

He respected the hell out of you as a basterd, as a fellow sergeant, and as a woman.

Aldo and Wicki called off the fight.

Donny rubbed his jaw as he watched you walk away... He sighed with a smirk, "What a woman..."

The next day you had your first mission with the basterds. Everything was going as planned.

And then, one of the last surviving nazis threw a grenade at the boys.

You ran and slid, picked up the grenade, and ran with it as the basterds ordered you to stop.

You raised your hand, and threw it back at the nazis, took cover yourself, and held your hands against your ears as it went off and killed the remaining nazis.

You looked back at the basterds. They all seemed to be in one piece. But they were looking at you with their jaws on the ground.

Donny rested his hand behind his neck as he asked, "Where'd you learn how to pitch like that, kid?"

You smiled, "I used to play baseball."

Omar raised his eyebrow, "You mean softball?"

"Yeah that too." You nodded as you cracked your knuckles.

Donny looked at you as if he'd never seen a woman before...

And he still did as the missions and the months went by...you never ceased to surprise him... But...The war grew more intense, and your missions got riskier.

Even more so when Donny realized why everything you did made his heart burst.

Goddamn... That first night, at the end of the ‘fight’...that was the moment he knew you could do some real damage to him, without your fists. You could break his heart, without meaning to. And there you were...running straight into a fire fight.

Donny ran after you, and pushed you down to the ground saving you from a guaranteed gunshot... ...and he fell on top of you...

He looked down at you, "You can't keep doing this Y/n!"

You smirked, "Why not? I rather like it down here."

He grunted in frustration, "Because!"

You raised your eyebrow, but then your eyes went wide. You rolled out from under him, held onto him protectively, and shot an approaching nazi.

You looked back at Donny, "Because???" as you pulled him back behind a grove of oak trees.

"Because-" He leaned over and shot a nazi straight in the forehead, then looked back at you. He looked at you, his voice grew soft, his eyes were wide, "Because I love you."

You smiled a little, "Oh? I hadn't noticed," you winked, and melted his hert.

He knew it was your way of saying you loved him too.

And among the basterds, the blood, and the bullets, you kissed.

And so it began...

You had something more to fight for, and you had the essentials to do it with. You had everything you'd ever need to survive. You had your lipstick, your knife, your lighter, a mirror, and a flower. You had a memory of what you had to leave behind. And when you saw Donny, you had a glimpse at what you had ahead of you.

The basterds themselves had the essentials: A bootlegging hick, a batter from Boston, a traitor or two, a few kids from uptown, and a boxer from Hell's Kitchen.

Donny himself had the essentials. He had his brothers with him, his bat, and most importantly, form that day on, he had you.

*Based off of @sodapop182. 's amazing art!!!

#Inglourious Basterds #inglourious basterds imagine #Quentin Tarantino #Donny Donowitz #donny donowitz x reader #the bear jew #aldo raine #hugo stiglitz #wilhelm wicki x reader #gerold hirschberg #smithson utivich #Omar Ulmer

97 notes · View notes

gentler-men · 5 years

Text

The Masculinity of Gentler Men

For many boys and men in our culture, masculinity is often defined in very reductive terms. What I mean by “reductive” is that masculinity is often defined by what it is NOT or what it EXCLUDES, rather than what it actually IS.

There are examples of these reductive definitions that I would classify as “Explicitly Reductive,” “Implicitly Reductive, and “Reductive by Exclusion.” (I hope to go into more detail on those terms in a future post, but for now I’ll just give a few examples in the hopes of keeping this first post to a manageable length.)

Explicitly Reductive

“Real men don’t cry”

“Real men don’t apologize”

“Real men don’t ask for directions”

“Real men don’t ask for any kind of help at all”

“Real men don’t talk about their feelings”

Implicitly Reductive

“Real men stand their ground” (with the implication that they DON’T compromise or admit when they’re wrong)

“Real men like guns, sports, trucks, etc.” (with the implication that they DON’T like anything outside of that list)

Reductive by Exclusion

“Real men provide for their families” (with the assumed exclusion that women DON’T or SHOULDN’T, and also that men who CAN’T are NOT “real” men)

“Don’t be such a girl” (with the assumed exclusion that any defining traits of femininity are mutually exclusive with defining traits of masculinity)

Is it any wonder that masculinity has come to be viewed so negatively? Based on my own personal observations and experience, it seems that much of the source of “toxic masculinity” stems from defining masculinity in mostly reductive terms.

An Additive Alternative to Toxic Masculinity

I believe that toxic masculinity is a problem that negatively affects EVERYONE. Just one of the ways that it negatively affects boys and men is that it doesn’t provide any positive direction or identity to fall back on when they experience cognitive dissonance or disillusionment. So as society makes further progress in recognizing the harmful aspects of toxic masculinity, many men and boys are left wondering what is left to define themselves by. And honestly, there’s not much out there in popular culture that offers a solution to that.

So then these disillusioned men and boys are left with a kind of existential identity crisis where they either brave the unknown in hopes of forging a new identity for themselves, or lashing out against anyone or anything that points out the toxic aspects of their old identity, desperate to hold on to the only definition their culture has ever given them.

I believe this kind of existential identity crisis is one of the factors that make young men and boys so vulnerable to being radicalized and manipulated into harmful far-right movements like white nationalism, Incels, and Gamergate-like communities. Because those movements offer them SOMETHING to identify with, even if it’s crappy.

So instead of just telling men and boys, “That type of masculinity is toxic. So stop it,” and leaving it at that, I’d like to offer an alternative definition of masculinity that defines it in additive terms (what it IS) instead of reductive terms (what it’s NOT.) And that brings us to...

The Gentler Men Movement

Now, before I share the attributes that I believe define what “masculinity” means within the Gentler Men Movement, I’d like to make something clear. This is meant to be a movement that is inclusive and accessible to EVERYONE. It is meant to be accessible to people of every race, every gender, every sexual orientation, every ability, every religion, and every nationality.

(That is not to say it coexists with every ideology out there. For example, while a person who once followed Nazi ideology could change their ways and become a Gentler Man, it would be impossible for a person to be both a Nazi and a Gentler Man at the same time. So while the Gentler Men movement is accessible to any INDIVIDUAL, that doesn’t make it accessible to any IDEOLOGY.)

Now, this post has already gone on pretty long, and at this point you may be wondering to yourself, “Dave, this is a lot of lead-up. When are you going to actually provide this ‘additive alternative definition of masculinity’ that you’ve been promising us for the last three paragraphs?”

And the answer to that question is, “Right below the Keep Reading link...”

How Gentler Men Define “Masculinity” and Themselves

Gentler Men believe that everyone can be gentler

Gentler Men seek to build strong communities

Gentler Men seek to turn strangers into friends

Gentler Men believe that introspection and self-reflection are important steps in self-improvement and overcoming biases

Gentler Men are explorers who seek after knowledge and understanding and expanding their experience

Gentler Men believe in the freedom to choose, and that making the right choice leads to greater strength in the future

Gentler Men seek to protect people from harm

Gentler Men know that physical pain, emotional pain, stress, and fear are all valid forms of hurt that deserve relief and healing

Gentler Men believe that all people deserve relief and healing

Gentler Men oppose systems of oppression, and seek to strengthen the oppressed

Gentler Men act with integrity so their actions and words are in harmony

Gentler Men are patient

Gentler Men are heard most clearly when they speak with a soft voice

Gentler Men read to children

Gentler Men seek to teach others and share their knowledge and skills with future generations

Gentler Men stick up for children

Gentler Men stick up for those with disabilities

Gentler Men are stronger when they are strengthening others

Gentler Men celebrate the victories of others

Gentler Men respect that which is sacred to others

Gentler Men don’t break rules they expect others to follow

Gentler Men acknowledge their strengths, and use them to help strengthen others

Gentler Men acknowledge their weaknesses, and seek help from others to strengthen them

Gentler Men acknowledge their weaknesses, and seek to turn them into strengths

Gentler Men keep their promises

Gentler Men grieve with those who are experiencing loss

Gentler Men listen to those who have been hurt

Gentler Men admit when they're wrong

Gentler Men believe that they are worthy of another chance when they mess up

Gentler Men believe that others are worthy of another chance when they mess up

Gentler Men believe that no one is a lost cause

Gentler Men believe that individual actions can be judged as good or bad, but that people are too complex to label that way

Gentler Men seek to bring hope to the hopeless

Gentler Men seek to bring nourishment to the malnourished

A few last points I’d like to bring up before wrapping this post to a close:

This list is not about policing who doesn’t and doesn’t get to identify with the Gentler Men movement. If somebody isn’t perfect, or if somebody doesn’t meet 100% of the bullet points above, the answer is to ENCOURAGE THEM FORWARD, NOT KICK THEM OUT.

Nobody is expected to be perfect. And everyone has the potential to improve.

And finally, this list is subject to change. Because I’m just a guy trying to be a Gentler Man, and I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m doing my best and trying to improve along the way. So as future discussions occur and future insights are shared, it is only natural that the Gentler Men movement will evolve and adapt and change with it.

Alright, that’s all for tonight. I would absolutely LOVE to hear any insights or thoughts that any of you would like to share. (And if at all possible, please keep your feedback additive for now. There will be time to focus on reductive feedback down the line.)

#gentler men #gentler men movement #i have no idea what i'm doing #but let's see if this goes anywhere #alternative to toxic masculinity #nazi mention #trigger warning #fragile masculinity #toxic masculinity #masculinity

349 notes · View notes

nclkafilms · 4 years

Photo

The absurdity of fanaticism

(Review of ‘Jojo Rabbit’. Seen in Biffen Art Cinema, Aalborg on the 23rd of January 2020)

“Let everything happen to you, Beauty and terror, Just keep going, No feeling is final.” (Rainer Maria Rilke)

Taika Waititi received his commercial breakthrough with ‘Thor: Ragnarok’, which followed indie hits such as ‘What We Do in the Shadows’ and ‘Hunt for the Wilderpeople’. He is one of those directors with a very clear style and vision, and he continues with a unique style in his latest film: nazi satire and self-proclaimed anti-hate-film, ‘Jojo Rabbit’. As if the notion of making a comedy/satire about Nazi Germany was not controversial enough, it certainly raised some eyebrows when he cast himself, half maori and half jew, to star as Adolf Hitler. And ever since it premiered, ‘Jojo Rabbit’ has divided audiences and critics alike into more or less three groups: those, who are deeply offended by its lack of political correctness and comedic take on one of history’s most tragic events, those, who think it is not dangerous enough or does not expose the horrors of the holocaust enough, and, finally, those who has been charmed, entertained, provoked and moved by a perfectly balanced mix of slapstick humour and gut punching drama. I, myself, sit firmly in the third group - ‘Jojo Rabbit’ is a wonderful piece of filmmaking.

We follow 10-year-old Johannes Betzler, better known as Jojo, as he prepares for a weekend camp with the Hitler Jugend. We watch him as he proudly dresses up in his uniform before heiling his imaginary friend, Waititi’s Hitler, as if he was a sportsman preparing for a game before he ultimately shoots through town heiling at everyone to the tunes of the german version of The Beatles’ “I wanna hold your hand”, while we alternately see Jojo and b/w clips of Hitler being celebrated as a superstar complete with cheering girls and everything. A bizarre and weirdly entertaining opening scene that perfectly sets the tone of the film’s dark humour; nothing is sacred here. The story that follows is Jojo’s coming-of-age-story. A process that typically lasts years, but in the midst of a world war nothing is “typical”. Waititi manages to beautifully balance the naivety and blind-eyed fanaticism of young Jojo with the horrors and brutal reality of war as things start to spiral out of control for our main character from the moment he discovers a jewish girl hidden in the walls of his home. Where is her horns? Is she going to eat him? Why is his mum helping her? and what does it mean to love someone? Jojo is forced to discover the many feelings of life and following him on his journey is as hilarious and endearing as it is thought-provoking and tragic.

This is more than anything thanks to just 12-year-old debutant, Roman Griffin Davis, who is nothing short of a revelation as Jojo. The range that he shows in his portrayal of Jojo is simply spectacular. He truly has funny bones with both physical comedy and a great timing, but it is when the story gradually shifts from Wes Anderson-ish, bizarre, slapstick nazi satire to a much heavier and emotional war story that Griffin Davis really pulls the rug from under you. In the process of the film you both laugh at and with Jojo, you are shocked by him, you feel his excitement and loss, and most importantly you really care for him. This is, of course, down to Waititi’s screenplay and directing, but it would never have worked without Griffin Davis’ wonderful performance that really bodes well for his future.

In addition to him, the other actors also turn in some memorable performances. Scarlett Johansson is perfectly endearing as Jojo’s mother, Rosie, who has to raise him on her own, while hiding a jewish girl in the attic and manoeuvring through the hardships of war with a heavy heart from losing her daughter. The chemistry between Johansson and Griffin Davis is stunning and feels so natural that their mother-son-bond becomes one of the most heartwarming aspects of the film. Johansson shines just as much as Rosie shines as the film’s clearest ray of humanism and empathy. As Elsa, the hidden jewish girl, Thomasin McKenzie is fierce and strong with the inevitable vulnerability of an oppressed person hiding to save her own life. As such she represents all the jews who suffered from Holocaust while staying brave to save their own and loved ones’ lives. Just as with Rosie and Jojo, the chemistry between Elsa and Jojo is electric and it is an absolute delight to see how their relationship develops and becomes deeper and deeper the more they both get to see each other for what they see rather than what they have learned. As such they become the clearest symbol of the film’s obvious anti-hate, anti-prejudice moral.

In the other spectrum, Sam Rockwell, Alfie Allen and Rebel Wilson are all hilarious as absurd caricatures of Nazi officers blinded by their fanaticism and extremism. This is, of course, one of the film’s very divisive decisions; because the actions that they perform whether it be teaching children to shoot and use grenades or burning books and teaching lies about jews are obviously despicable - especially in the light of what happened during holocaust. So to turn this into something funny (and boy, is it hilarious) is a brave decision, but also a clever one. The things they do are so absurd that to simply show them as dreadful and horrible is sometimes too easy; showing the absurdity and making people laugh at it can be quite disarming and, frankly, relieving at times. Another example of this is Stephen Merchant’s unforgettable, yet short, cameo as Gestapo agent, Deertz, who is hilarious at first. You laugh at him only to find yourself on the edge of your seat seconds later as the tone shifts and the scene becomes immensely nerve-racking. Now Deertz’ absurd behaviour is intense and in no way funny. Waititi disarms you by exposing you to the hilarious absurdity of this character only to catch you off guard shortly after and hit you with reality. He does this in another simply devastating scene that stands as one of the single biggest gut punches that I have had in the cinema for a while; leaving me with my mouth wide open and a tear running from my eye. To round off the acting performances, Waititi’s own portrayal of Hitler never really becomes anything other than a funny sidenote that adds some interesting comments to the extremist thoughts roaming around Jojo’s head. It’s funny and at times delightfully dark in its humour, but it - thankfully - never draws focus away from the other, much more interesting characters.

But let’s get back to this balance between the laughs and tears, because this is what lifts ‘Jojo Rabbit’ up as a stunning film experience. It works as a comedy/satire and it works as hard-hitting, thought-provoking drama. This is an insanely difficult balance to truly hit and only a few films manages it. ‘Jojo’ succeeds in being a hilarious comedy thanks, partly, to its well-written and delightfully politically incorrect screenplay by Waititi with so many great and memorable one-liners. But it is also because of its tight editing by Tom Eagles and brilliant score by Michael Giacchino, who supports the shifting nature of Jojo’s perspective through both joyful and more sorrowful compositions. As a drama it works - of course also thanks to the screenplay - because of a brilliant production design by Ra Vincent that often stands in great contrast to the absurd action unfolding in it. Finally, the costumes by Mayes C. Rubeo are simply delightful whether they are historically accurate or hilariously comedic as when Jojo roams the street as a robot gathering “metal for Hitler” or Rockwell and Allen take their final bow as some kind of absurd superhero devoid of all the human faults that they otherwise infuse their characters with.

And now let us return to the quote from the beginning of this review.

“Let everything happen to you, Beauty and terror, Just keep going, No feeling is final.”

This is not only a beautiful quote that gives us an important lesson on why not to give into hate and despair, it is also a quote that is mirrored in the film’s three main characters. Elsa remains hopeful and decent even when the entire world seems to hate her and want her dead. Rosie gives her son the love a mother should give despite him representing everything she fights against. And, finally, the film tells the story of how Jojo learns this lesson; to not be tempted by hate and the “easy exit” of jumping on the bandwagon, but to stay curious, to acknowledge love and to let it in. As such ‘Jojo Rabbit’ does not become “oh, that film that made fun of Hitler”. No, it becomes a film about the importance of experiencing and exploring the world around us. The importance of being curious and engaging with people despite our differences. Simply put: the importance of never forgetting love. It might not be in the absolute top of 2019 objectively, but personally, Jojo and Elsa danced their ways into my heart and my top 3 for 2019.

4,5/5

#Oscars 2020 #Academy Awards #Film Review #Movie Review #Jojo Rabbit #Taika Waititi #Roman Griffin Davis #Scarlett Johansson #Sam Rockwell #Alfie Allen #Rebel Wilson #Stephen Merchant #Michael Giacchino

51 notes · View notes

untakenbeepun · 5 years

Text

I just need a quiet place where I can scream how I love you

Crowley/Aziraphale, 3k words.

After the incident in 1941, Aziraphale takes Crowley home and washes the burns on his feet.

Read on ao3!

It was the first time Aziraphale had ridden in a car.

Crowley could tell by the way he sat ramrod straight, one hand curled around the seat, the other hugging the leather bag of books to his chest. He could tell by the pale look of the angel’s face, lips pressed together like he wanted to throw up, if that were the sort of thing angels were able to do.

There was something else on his face too, something pensive behind his eyes, something about the way he kept looking over at Crowley and then looking away, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Something had changed between them. The moment Crowley had pulled that book bag from the hand of a dead Nazi, passed it over to Aziraphale and he’d given him that look – the look like he’d handed the angel all the suns and the stars instead of a bag of stuffy old books – something had changed.

He’d felt it in the way their fingers had brushed together, just for a moment. It was the barest touch, but it still felt momentous.

“I’m sure you’re not supposed to drive those contraptions so fast,” Aziraphale said as they both got out of the car, the first thing he’d said since Crowley had offered him a lift home. “It can’t be safe.”

Crowley said nothing, just watched him carefully behind his glasses, elbows pressed firmly on the top of the Bentley, waiting to be asked in, waiting to be dismissed.

“I don’t suppose you want to come in for a spell? Keep inside while those dreadful things are still going off?”

Crowley knew that no bombs would fall on them that night, but he nodded anyway, said, “alright,” and then followed the angel inside the bookshop.

He took stock of his surroundings – he hadn’t been there in eighty years, after all.

“Hasn’t changed much,” he noted.

“Oh, well, you know me. Creature of habit and all that,” Aziraphale said, looking anywhere but at the demon.

He was twitching oddly, twisting the ring on his little finger around and around.

He’s nervous, Crowley realised with a start.

“Want to come into the kitchen for some tea? I think I still have some in the back of my cupboard somewhere. Haven’t got anything sweet, I’m afraid. This terrible rationing business has ruined everything – my dear, are you limping?”

Crowley cursed himself inwardly. He’d been doing his best not to let the pain show on his face, but it’d been rather difficult – the soles of Crowley’s feet burned horribly, and every step felt like he was walking on nails. Consecrated ground was not friendly.

“I’m fine, angel, don’t worry.”

“Was that from walking in the church?” Aziraphale said, horrified.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, you can barely walk.”

“It’s fine.”

And then, to Crowley’s horror, Aziraphale was reaching for his feet. “Take your shoes off.”

“What? No.”

“Crowley, I need to see the damage.”

“You do not!” Crowley said, and hopped away from him, wincing when he landed on his burnt toes.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said, “please.”

Crowley had never been able to say no when Aziraphale looked at him like that, all wide-eyed and soft. With a sigh, he let himself be led over to Aziraphale’s lumpy sofa, pulling off his shoes and socks to reveal ugly red gashes on the bottom of his feet.

He almost magicked new ones back on when he saw the sorrowful look on Aziraphale’s face.

“This is my fault,” he said, and then sped off into the kitchen.

“Angel, wait—”

But he was already gone. He returned shortly with a bowl full of water in one hand, a towel in the other.

“Aziraphale, don’t—” Crowley began, but it was too late.

Aziraphale had knelt down in front of him, head bent as deft fingers reached for Crowley’s bare feet, and all words of protest faded from the demon’s lips.

“I can’t do much about divine wounds,” Aziraphale said, “but I can clean them at least.”

Crowley didn’t trust himself to speak.

It was strange, his feet resting in the china bowl laid out beneath the sofa, Aziraphale’s gentle touch against his skin, the sharp sting of the water against his burns. He couldn’t recall them ever having this much contact, not once in their thousands of years of knowing each other. It was oddly intimate, Aziraphale bowed in front of him. If Crowley wanted to, he could reach out and run his fingers through the angel’s hair.

Instead, he curled his hands around the folds of the sofa cushion, head bending back against the sofa, heat flaring on his cheeks.

He had to stop himself from protesting when the touch stopped, instead opening his eyes a crack and watching Aziraphale through half-lids. His head was still bowed in front of him, staring down at the angry red gashes on the soles of Crowley’s feet.

“Angel?”

“You shouldn’t have done this for me.”

“What?”

“You... hurt yourself for me.”

The brave part of him wanted to say, I’d do it a thousand times over.

The coward part of Crowley actually said, “eh, it was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing, and you know it, Crowley.”

Aziraphale lifted his head and the look on his face – wide, sincere eyes, mouth in a straight line – made Crowley’s limbs itch with the sudden need to run. Something told him they were heading towards a conversation that they’d been dancing around for millennia.

“You rescued me,” he said, almost accusatory.

“...and?”

“And...” Aziraphale said, his voice trailing like he was trying to find the right words, frowning as he continued, “...and your side wouldn’t like it.”

“I also blew up a church so there are some points in my favour,” said Crowley, dryly.

“Why did you do it?” Aziraphale asked. “We haven’t spoken in seventy-nine years. We fought. Why?”

“Because we’re friends, angel,” Crowley said, but it felt like a lie.

‘Friends’ didn’t seem to cover what they were to each other, too small a word for something that was too huge to comprehend.

Aziraphale sighed like he’d said something wrong.

Outside, the bombs were still falling, the air-raid siren still blaring, the windows to Aziraphale’s bookshop rattling.

Instinctively, Crowley and Aziraphale inched closer to each other, despite knowing that between Crowley’s will and Aziraphale’s miracles, no bombs would fall on them tonight.

It didn’t stop Crowley’s hand reaching out for Aziraphale’s shoulder without him asking it to, hovering in the air when he realised what he was about to do. It sank limply back onto the seat.

“The favours you’ve done for me,” Aziraphale began, his voice desperate, “the rescues. Why?”

Something churned in the pit of Crowley’s stomach.

“Angel,” Crowley whispered, his hand hovering in the air again, reaching for Aziraphale’s face.

He’d hung his head in front of him again, bowing as if in prayer, like he was begging for forgiveness or pleading for another rescue.

Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s chin, their eyes meeting. His sunglasses had slipped off a while ago, and yellow eyes met blue.

“I’d do it again and again and again for you,” Crowley said softly. “Over and over and over.”

“Why?” Aziraphale pleaded.

Crowley’s heart thrummed loudly against his veins. “You know why.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes,” Crowley said, his fingers sweeping across Aziraphale’s cheek, “you do.”

Aziraphale’s hand reached to curl around Crowley’s. “I’m not supposed to – I’m an angel – I’m not supposed to like you.”

“But you do.”

“Oh, heaven help me, my dear, I do.”

Crowley sank towards the floor as Aziraphale rose up, his fingers catching on Crowley’s jacket, burying his face into his chest.

“We can’t. Our sides—”

“Screw our sides.”

Aziraphale inched back, blinking.

Crowley’s hands slid around the sides of Aziraphale’s face, eyes blazing. “Let’s make our own side. No heaven. No hell. Just you and me.”

“Crowley, I can’t—”

“Say yes,” Crowley pleaded. “Say yes and I will spend every day for the next millennium by your side, I will move mountains, I will stand against heaven and hell for you. Just say yes.”

Their lips inched closer, a breath apart before Aziraphale tugged away.

“I can’t,” he said sorrowfully. “Heaven won’t – I can’t risk you.”

“It’s my risk to take,” Crowley almost hissed.

“What about hell? You said it yourself, they’re not the kind to send rude notes.”

“They’re my problem, angel.”

“They’ll be my problem if they hurt you.”

“Please,” Crowley begged.

Aziraphale stood up, moving away from him, fiddling with the buttons on his suit. “I think you better go,” he said.

“Angel...”

“Please, Crowley.”

Crowley surged forward, taking his hands in his. “If this is what you want, what you really and truly want, then I’ll go, and you won’t hear another word about it from me,” he said, squeezing Aziraphale’s hands tight when the angel refused to look at him, “but if you’re just saying this for the sake of our sides, from the places that we came from, I’m begging you, choose me. Choose me, and choose yourself, and forget heaven and hell and just – choose me. Please.”

Aziraphale stared at him for a good long moment, big eyes wide, and for a few seconds, Crowley actually thought he was going to say yes.

And then, Aziraphale slipped his hands away from Crowley. “I can’t.”

“Aziraphale...” Crowley whispered, something tearing apart in his chest.

“I think you should go,” Aziraphale said, looking anywhere but the demon.

Crowley opened his mouth, ready to state his case, ready to beg and plead and promise until Aziraphale changed his mind, but instead, he turned and left the bookshop, without so much as another word.

It would hurt too much to try.

Thirty years later, they found themselves sitting in a car in Soho, Aziraphale holding a tartan flask and looking at him in a way that made Crowley’s skin shiver.

Do you know how much of a wonder you are? He thought to himself. Do you know how much I want you?

When Aziraphale passed the flask over to him, their fingers brushed, just barely, the first contact they’d had since Aziraphale had washed his feet and rejected him.

It was barely a millisecond of contact, hardly worth mentioning, but even so, Crowley’s thoughts were flooded with memories of Aziraphale’s touch, deftly moving over the burns on his feet, pulling on his shirt. His head was full of searing touches and almost kisses, and every part of skin itched.

It was all Crowley could do to keep himself from tugging on Aziraphale’s hand and pulling him close, close, closer, running his fingers through his hair, touching, kissing, holding on tightly and not letting go for the next millennia.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe one day we could go for a picnic,” Aziraphale said. “Dine at the Ritz.”

Hope flooded in Crowley’s chest, hope that he’d long since buried deep in his chest and locked away.

“I’ll take you anywhere you want to go,” he said, eyes searching Aziraphale’s, heart whispering please, please, please.

And then, Aziraphale frowned, looked him in the eye and said, “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

And Crowley let out a sigh.

Seventy-eight years after the foot-washing incident, the world was ending and Aziraphale had rejected him twice and been burned to a crisp along with his bookshop.

And then the world wasn’t ending anymore, and Aziraphale was alive, and hope had begun to claw at his heart again, a steady rhythm thrumming on the surface of his veins, please, please, please.

And after a disastrous visit to each other’s head offices, Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves hovering outside the bookshop, full up from dinner at the Ritz.

“Well,” Aziraphale said.

“Well,” Crowley said.

They were standing on the threshold of something, a pendulum swinging between two fixed points, a fork in the road. Whichever path they took, they couldn’t turn back.

Crowley opened his mouth and then closed it.

“Aziraphale—”

“—Let me wash your feet,” Aziraphale blurted.

“What?”

Crowley looked nonplussed.

“Let me wash your feet,” he said, and then, for good measure, “please.”

Crowley said nothing for a few seconds, just blinking. “My feet aren’t dirty,” he said rather lamely a few moments later.

“Just... please?” Aziraphale said.

The demon’s shoulders tensed; his hands thrust into his pockets. “This isn’t some weird sex thing, is it?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale scoffed, scandalized.

“Why do you want to wash my feet?”

Aziraphale sighed, bending his head. “Traditionally feet washing is a sign of one person giving their respect,” he said. “Or in my case, begging for forgiveness.”

Tension leaked out of Crowley’s limbs, his features as soft as his voice as he said, “Angel. What do you need to be forgiven for?”

“I seem to be racking up a long list.”

Crowley pursed his lips. “As if I have such a clean conscience where you’re concerned.”

“Please, Crowley. Allow me this.”

“You don’t need to wash my feet, angel.”

“I want to.”

There was a pregnant pause between them, a crackle like electricity in the air. Aziraphale’s arm hung in the air like he couldn’t decide whether to offer his hand or not. Crowley watched the thought process going on behind Aziraphale’s eyes, before the angel firmly opened up a hand towards him.

A moment passed. And then another.

And then Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand.

It was just like the day seventy-nine years before, Aziraphale on his knees and Crowley on the sofa, trying to keep his pulse at a steady level.

He watched in silence as Aziraphale squeezed a flannel into a china bowl of warm water – the same bowl as last time, he noted – and wondered if the angel could sense the way his heart was pounding because, to him, it was the loudest thing in the room.

“You don’t have to do this,” Crowley said. “There’s nothing for me to forgive.”

He felt the urge to tuck his feet under himself so that Aziraphale couldn’t get to them, but he had a feeling that he wasn’t getting out of this.

“Just let me do this, please,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley had never really been able to say no to him, so he let Aziraphale guide his feet towards the bowl.

His touch was featherlight across the bottom of Crowley’s feet, frowning as he took in the faded red mark on his skin.

“It never quite healed, did it?” Aziraphale said, sadly.

“Nope,” Crowley said, not trusting himself to breathe. “Never could quite get it to disappear completely.”

Aziraphale frowned, eyes brimming with an emotion that made Crowley’s heartache.

“No,” Crowley said, slapping a hand over Aziraphale’s mouth. “Don’t say it. You’re not allowed to say it was your fault.”

Crowley could see the angel scowl, even with his hand covering half of his face.

“I’ll let you speak if you say it wasn’t your fault.”

Aziraphale frowned but gave a slow nod. Crowley lifted his hand.

“But it was my fault, Crowley—”

Crowley gave an exasperated sigh.

Aziraphale looked at him with a worried sort of frown as if he wanted to argue some more, but instead, he settled for reaching for Crowley’s feet again.

Crowley dug his fingers into the side of the sofa as Aziraphale’s fingers touched his skin. Somehow it was far worse than the first time they’d done this; Crowley had endured rejection after rejection from Aziraphale – the urge to reach out and pull the angel into his arms and kiss him until the sun burned out for real was too strong to bear, but the fear of being let down again was stronger still. He thought he might burst into the flames from the weight of it all, too much for him to handle.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly, “I need—”

His voice trailed off as he rose from his knees, his fingers curling into Crowley’s shirt.

This scene was looking all too uncomfortably familiar.

Aziraphale moved closer and Crowley’s breath stopped, his hand covering Aziraphale’s.

“Don’t,” he whispered, “Aziraphale, please. Don’t do this if you’re just going to regret it later. I couldn’t – I couldn’t handle it this time.”

Aziraphale inched back for just a moment, something passing across that wonderful face of his that Crowley couldn’t quite read. Then Aziraphale’s hands lifted to curl around Crowley’s face.

“Oh, my dear, I really haven’t been fair to you, have I?” Aziraphale said, his fingers tracing the line of Crowley’s jaw, circling his cheek.

Crowley’s skin pricked from Aziraphale’s touch.

“If I haven’t made it clear enough,” he began, pulling Crowley close and kissing him softly, foreheads pressing together. “I choose you. I choose you over heaven, over hell. I choose you over everything. I should have chosen you before. I choose you now, I’ll choose you tomorrow, and I’ll keep on choosing you until the world finally does end, and then I’ll choose you with whatever comes after that. You’re all I ever really wanted, Crowley, ever since we watched it rain on Eden, and I am so sorry that I was so blinded by what I thought was expected of me and my fear of heaven that I didn’t see you standing right in front of me.”

“Angel,” Crowley whispered reverently, his heart pounding, blood rushing through his fingers as he encircled Aziraphale in his arms, and he kept whispering, “angel, angel, angel,” in between kisses, holding him so tight, like he was afraid he might disappear.

“I love you, my darling demon. I am so sorry I made you wait for so long.”

Crowley held him close to his chest, a lump forming in his throat, six thousand years’ worth of tension lifting from his chest, like he could finally let air into his lungs after a millennium of waiting to breathe. There were a thousand unspoken words in that embrace, a hundred apologies, and enough forgiveness to last them for the lifetime they had ahead of them.

And then, after a sniff, Crowley said, “I love you too, angel.”

“I know, my dear. I know.”

#ineffable husbands #good omens #aziracrow #aziraphale x crowley

110 notes · View notes

ellestra · 4 years

Text

Fear is the soul-killer

We long knew John Smith switched sides just to keep his family safe and then betrayed everything he stood for to get ahead. We saw how it really started by just trying to feed them he left his brother in arms behind. And then he let him be murdered to get a career. And we already saw atrocities that followed - from ethnic cleansing in the 40s to to Nazi high ranking official.

The slippery slope thing is often used in the wrong context but John Smith shows how it does happen. It’s starts with little compromises. You just cross the line a little bit but then slowly move the line until the old you disappears behind the moral horizon.

Of course, I’m not sure we’d be braver. If he tried to help Ben to get of that truck all both of them would get killed. That’s how Nazi’s did it everywhere they went and most people just diverted they eyes and pretended not to see. The difference was just whether it was just you or your whole family that gets killed for even giving the water to the condemned. Saying we would help is a way of lying to yourself. Everyone, believes we would do the right thing but most just try to survive. But it doesn’t mean you have to become a monster.

Of course if enough people did something early enough that could’ve been changed but I can understand that by US invasion that was just a good way to commit suicide. The direct comparison of this to standing up for Civil Rights was a bit heavy handed. It is still about standing by and letting bad things happen due to fear from repercussions. But the scale of repercussions is incomparable. No wonder alt-Thomas is so disappointed.

It shows how frightened John is of going against the system. He might be at the very top of social structure - the mighty Reichsmarschall - but the salesman he replaced was braver than him. He just cowers before those above him and keeps those below from biting his ankles. He only acts against power if he can get support from even bigger bad or when he has no other choice. In any other situation he is paralysed by fear.

But he’s good at pretending to be brave and righteous. He’s good at selling the ideas he pretends to believe in. That’s one thing he’s sharing with alt-John. This why both of their sons put their lives on the line for the system no matter what he does to stop them. But at least alt-John was willing to listen to the advice to tell the truth behind that facade. If he was still there he might’ve stopped alt-Thomas. But Reichsmarschall can only turn his fear of losing people into anger and alienate those he loves. He tries to hold it all together but the harder he holds it the more it crumbles and falls apart.

And he doesn’t even really believe in the system. But he believes in following the rules. If you just do what you are told you’ll be safe. He’s just always chasing that moment when his family can finally be safe. And he never is. Picking the safe option he helped created a world where no one really is. He tries desperately to control it all and make sure nothing bad happens but world is chaos and people have their own minds and it all keeps slipping of his grasp.

The funny thing is that the road not taken, that just a travelling salesman John Smith was safe. His family was safe. At least until his doppelgänger got involved. Reichsmarschall John Smith just destroys everything he touches. Including this dream he got addicted to in films. He took alt-John’s life. He destroyed his family. And lost his son. All because he was afraid of one woman. All because he is a coward.

The Good Place teaches are the value of trying to be a little better every day. The Man in the High Castle show what we become by being little worse.

#the man in the high castle #john smith #thomas smith #reichsmarschall john smith #4x05 #tmithc

31 notes · View notes

yourbestpursuitofachievemen-blog · 4 years

Text

Self Help: How To Set And Achieve Goals

" Plan for the future, because that's where you're going to spend the rest of your life." - Mark Twain

Brin and Cora were two very brave little elves who lived in a land before time. They had heard about a land far beyond the waters where there were magical animals, crystal flowers and all forms of treasures to sparkle your eyes and warm your heart. They had an urge, a driving burning tickling urge that niggled inside them to find and see this wondrous land across the seas for themselves. No-one in their land had ever ventured further than the outer reefs surrounding much of the coastline and their friends and family constantly cautioned them against doing so.

There were no boats in their land designed for long distance water travel, so Brin and Cora set about designing, planning and building one for themselves. As no-one had ever walked the path they were walking before, there was no-one to give them counsel. And as no-one wished to encourage their venture for fear of the dangers they would come across, there was no-one prepared to help them build their boat. Months later after overcoming many obstacles and not a few moments of despair, Brin and Cora stood on the deck of their boat stocked with supplies and waved to their friends and family as they gradually shrank and faded from view. They were on their way!

It was 8 months later after surviving harrowing storms, wild seas, dangerous sea creatures and blistering heat that they spied the outline of land on the horizon. As they edged closer they could see the glitter of gem like leaves in the forests and birds with bold fluorescent plumage began to circle their boat. "Wow", they exclaimed together, "We did it." And without ever setting foot on land, they turned around and began the journey home.

Humans are achieving machines. We are happiest when we have challenging goals we are striving to achieve. We feel good about ourselves when we have attacked and overcome obstacles.Without a goal, we have no direction, without direction, we have no fulfillment. Having a really big dream or goal keeps us going through hardship.

This is illustrated by the story of Victor Frankl who was a psychologist imprisoned in a Nazi concentration camp in WWII. Instead of giving in to the overwhelming despair of his situation, he decided to learn from it. He studied what was different about the 1 in 28 people who survived. He found that they weren't necessarily the fittest, the healthiest or the most intelligent people in the camp. He found that those who survived were the ones who had a purpose to live for, a dream of a large enough scope that it gave them a burning desire to overcome any obstacle.

Setting Goals

Setting and achieving goals is a valuable part of discovering who you are and what you are capable of. This knowledge builds your confidence, self-esteem and belief in what you can achieve. It also helps you to overcome a fear of stepping forward in the future. There are some guidelines that are helpful to follow if you wish to achieve success when setting and achieving goals.

Guideline 1: Set Appropriate Goals

A goal is something you strive towards, rather than something you can have right now by adopting a different mindset or choosing to feel a different emotion.

For example, it is possible to be happy right now by thinking about times in the past when you were happy, so 'to be happy' is not an appropriate goal to set yourself.

When you set yourself a goal make sure:

It is something it will take time to achieve.

You can tell whether or not you have achieved it.

There are steps you need to take to achieve it.

If not, then it isn't an appropriate thing to have as a goal.

Guideline 2: The CREATE Formula For Goals

There are a number of different formulae you can use to set goals, but I like to use the CREATE formula:

C Clear and concise

R Realistic

E Ecological

A Affirmative

T Timed

E End Step

Clear and concise: You should be able to state your goal as clearly and concisely as possible. Rather than having 'To make more money' as a goal, the goal should be for example, 'To earn $300 more per week'.

Realistic: It is wise to set goals you believe you can realistically achieve. Doing so strengthens your belief in your abilities to achieve your goals, boosts your self-esteem and makes it easier for you to implement steps to achieve the goal.

Ecological: You seldom operate in a vacuum independent from other people and things, so always consider the ecology of any goals you set yourself. You do this by considering the impact the goal is likely to have upon yourself, the people closest to you and the planet.

Affirmative: Goals are more easily achieved when they are phrased in the affirmative, i.e. towards what you want rather than away from what you don't want.

Timed: Set the date by which you wish to achieve the goal.

End Step: An end step is the final step that lets you know you have achieved your goal. For example, the end step for obtaining a University degree may be attending the ceremony where the degree is awarded. The end step for an overseas trip may be collecting the ticket from the travel agent or stepping off the plane in the other country. The end step is the part of the goal you visualize when using creative visualization techniques.

Guideline 3: There Is Magic In The Written Word

A number of researchers have concluded that people who write their goals down are more successful than people who don't. To keep with the CREATE formula, it is recommended that you write your goals using the following format.

It is now ___________________________ (Future date on which the goal will be achieved) and I am/I have ______________________________________________ (state the end step of the goal succinctly).

For example, assume your goal is to get a new job. You would write the goal as follows:

"It is now March 2014 and I am standing in front of the desk at my new position filled with a feeling of gratitude. I can see my name plaque on the desk."

Making It Happen

"If you can dream it, you can do it." - Walt Disney

Now that you have worked out what you want to achieve, all that is left is making it happen. The five step process to achieve your goals is outlined below. The five steps won't, however, help you achieve your goals unless you can honestly say:

I truly desire this goal from my heart.

I believe I can achieve this goal.

I understand and accept what I must do and what I must give up to achieve this goal. (You already have a full life. If you wish to include something new, then you must let go or give up something you already have or do.

For example:

If you wish to obtain further qualifications, the time you spend studying will replace time you previously spent doing other things.

If you wish to lose weight and get fit, you will have to give up some of the foods you love.

If you want to write a book, you may have to forgo watching television.

If you want to become fit and healthy, you may have to spend less time sitting down.

If you wish to overcome alcoholism, you may not be able to meet with your friends at the local hotel on a Friday night.

The five step process to achieve your goals is:

Write it

Plan it

See it

Do it

Reward or revise

Let's examine each of these steps in detail.

1. Write It

I cannot stress enough the importance of writing down your goals. You could even go all the way and get yourself a goal journal.

If you cannot find the time to complete a goal journal you can put a visual reminder of your goal somewhere special so that you will frequently see it and be reminded of it. For example, a picture of the house you are hoping to buy on the fridge, a picture of the job you want above your computer, a picture of the wedding dress you want on your wardrobe.

2. Plan It

Planning for your goals helps you determine the steps you will need to take, the order in which to take those steps, the timeline for implementing the steps and the resources you already have and the resources you will need to obtain to help you achieve the goal.

Sometimes the planning process can be done quickly in your head. At other times, it will be best to write a detailed list. In rare circumstances it is simply not possible to plan for your goal. When this happens bypass this step and be prepared to take action when opportunities associated with the goal present themselves.

3. See It

Creative visualization is a technique for harnessing the power of your unconscious to help you achieve your goals. The process does not require you to believe in any metaphysical or spiritual ideas and is used by a wide range of people from athletes to business leaders. It is as simple as using your imagination to create pictures, sounds, feelings and thoughts relating to achieving your goal. When you visualize your goal and experience the feelings of having achieve it, your unconscious mind is motivated to help you achieve the goal.

Professor Smith from the University of Manchester conducted research to show that the use of creative visualization techniques could even result in increased strength. He conducted an experiment with 3 groups of people:

Group 1 practiced a particular exercise twice a week for a month;

Group 2 imagined doing the exercise twice a week for a month; and

Group 3 (the control group) neither did the exercise nor imagined doing it.

At the end of the month, Professor Smith tested for increased strength (in relation to the particular exercise) and found that:

Group 1 had increased in strength by 33%;

Group 2 had increased in strength by 16%; and

Group 3 showed no increase in strength.

His research showed that merely imagining what we wish to achieve, can assist us to achieve it.

When you use creative visualization techniques, you don't need to visualize the process you will go through to achieve the goal, just the end result. Sometimes the goal will be achieved from following the steps you planned and at other times, the goal will be achieved in ways you cannot begin to imagine.

An example from my own life...

I had just purchased a home and to save money I had done my own legal searches. Unfortunately, I had missed a problem with the council sewerage lines. As with most new home owners, funds in the bank were very limited when the local council rang to tell me that I would shortly have to pay $8,000 to fix the problem. I did not have $8,000 and I had no idea how I was going to get it. I visualized having it in time anyhow. Amazingly, within the week the University where I was working offered me some additional consulting work worth $2,000. I was part way there. A few days after that a Government Department rang me to offer me another $6,000 worth of work with some strange conditions attached. They would have to pay me in advance because it was getting close to the end of their financial year and if they didn't spend the money they had been allocated in their budget, they wouldn't be allocated that amount next year. In the space of 2 weeks and with a few days to spare, the money that I needed had arrived in ways I could not have begun to imagine.

4. Do It

"Do or do not. There is no try." - Yoda

It would be extraordinary if:

Ms Right tapped on your shoulder while you were visualizing her;

Prince Charming magically appeared in your lounge room and asked you to spend your life with him;

You won the lottery without first buying a ticket;

A bag of money fell on your head while you were meditating; or

You were offered a job you had not applied for.

In addition to writing goals, preparing plans and visualizing, the achievement of your goals requires you to...

TAKE ACTION and TAKE ADVANTAGE OF OPPORTUNITIES

Try to scratch your nose. Interesting isn't it? You either do scratch your nose or you do not. It is not possible to "try" to scratch it. It is helpful to remove the word "try", from your vocabulary. You will no longer "try" to do something. Instead you will choose to either do it or not to do it.

If you do something every day towards achieving your goals and you find creative ways to make your actions count towards more than one goal, you will be amazed at how quickly your goals become reality.

5. Reward Or Review

Ensure you reward yourself when you achieve your goal. This will increase your motivation towards the achievement of future goals. If you do not achieve the goal it is time to review why the goal was not achieved and either implement new ways to achieve the goal or choose a goal that is more appropriate for you.

Tips For Achieving Your Goals

"I never run 1,000 miles. I could never have done that. I ran one mile 1,000 times." - Stu Mittleman, World Record Holder for Ultra-Distance Running

One of the best tips I ever received in relation to achieving goals was to make my actions count towards more than one goal. When I became a University Lecturer I worked for a wonderful Head of Department who shared some precious wisdom with me on my first day. He said, "Petris, while you are here you are expected to research, study, teach, publish and present seminar papers. If you aren't smart about how you do it, you will be here 90 hours a week to achieve all that is required of you. I don't want you to work hard; I want you to work smart. The trick is to make everything you do count towards more than one goal!" So, if there was a new area of the law, I studied it, researched it, published an article, presented a paper and incorporated it into my classes. By faithfully following his advice I drastically reduced the number of hours I could otherwise have spent achieving my work goals.

It is also helpful to realize that you don't always have to remain directly on target to ensure you ultimately achieve your goal. When you drive from one town to the next, you will make it to your ultimate destination even though your car is seldom pointing directly in the direction of the next town. You will follow the road as it seeks the easier path through valleys and around mountains. Sometimes you will even point in the opposite direction from where you are heading, but if you keep moving you will still make it there.

You will have a higher rate of success achieving goals you desire from the heart as opposed to those you desire on a more intellectual basis. You will know the goals I mean. They are the ones that make your heart sing and it is a joy to pursue. It will give your goals more fuel if you focus upon them from the heart area of your chest. You can do this by being still and allowing yourself to really 'feel' your goals in your heart as you think about them.

Commitment

'Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never, never - in nothing, great or small, large or paltry - never give in, except to convictions of honour and good sense. Never yield to force. Never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy." - Sir Winston Churchill.

To achieve change in your life and to reach your goals requires commitment. People assure me in seminars that they are committed to making change and achieving goals. After you read the examples of committed people from history below ask yourself how committed you are to the achievement of your goals.

Examples of true commitment:

It took 23 submissions before James Joyce's Dubliners was accepted by a publisher.

Walt Disney was turned down 302 times before he got financing for his dream of the "happiest place on earth."

Thomas Edison tried 1,000 substances before he found one that conducted electricity.

Before it sold seven million copies in the USA, Richard Bach's Jonathan Livingston Seagull was returned by 18 publishers.

Twenty-one publishers turned down MASH by Richard Hooker before it was finally published and became a massive bestseller.

Colonel Sanders received 1,009 refusals before he sold his first chicken recipe.

Richard Adams' Watership Down was rejected 72 times before being accepted.

If you continually quit on your way to achieving goals, you are not practicing commitment. You are, however, practicing a habit of defeat that can be difficult to break as it is largely unconscious. If you know that you usually quit and don't follow through, you are expecting to fail before you even start. Stop this pattern in its path and keep going until you achieve your next goal. It is far better to commence expecting the best from yourself and committing to completing the process no matter what. You are so worth it.

Other goal achieving tips:

Motivate yourself by only choosing goals that align with your values.

Build your confidence by working towards easier and shorter term goals first.

Break goals into smaller more achievable steps. The only way to eat an elephant is one mouthful at a time.

Make the most of opportunities.

Don't take on too much at once.

Have the courage to ask others for help if you need it.

2 notes · View notes

diarrheaworldstarhiphop · 5 years

Photo

I Don't Wanna Grow Up (And Neither Can You)

You can't show women being hurt. You can't show child abuse. You can't show rape. You can't show incest. Pedophilia, self-harm, intimate partner abuse, necrophilia, violence against children; if you're going to so much as talk about any of these things you need to do so at a 5th-grade level and behind the dual firewalls of safe, pastel-colored animation and explicitly education-based presentation. The art has to show you in painstaking detail the exact way in which to behave. Even then there's no guarantee it won't provoke a public outcry, doxxing, death threats, and even campaigns to strip artists of their jobs and livelihoods.

The idea that by depicting an act an artist is endorsing that act seems baked into the minds of certain left-leaning sets of younger people, particularly teenagers and early twentysomethings. That they have such deep concern for the safety and social equality of their traumatized peers and the traumatized in their own ranks can only be admirable, but more often than not the form it takes is mass harassment and scapegoating targeting not institutions or major studios but independent creators, many of them marginalized themselves. If the whole thing sounds, with its zeal for censorship and its self-righteous hate campaigns against the disenfranchised, a little like the American Family Association with a glittery coat of paint, well, that's kind of what it is.

The usual arguments about internet anonymity and the horrible deformities it breeds in human interaction all apply here, and there's much to be said of the young age and unformed personalities of the people perpetrating the worst of it, but even older, more experienced art aficionados aren't immune to the fervor for purity in art. There seems to be a much deeper affection in these circles for corporate art -- for the Marvel cinematic universe and its bland, calculated inoffensiveness, say -- than there is for art made by artists. Movies like Wonder Woman and Captain America: Civil War are evaluated with a generosity of spirit that borders on delusion, cults of enthusiastic acclaim forming around actress Gal Gadot's onscreen thigh jiggle and the "subtle homo-eroticism" of Thor: Ragnarok.

Corporate art exists to please. It exists to reaffirm the status quo and to build affection for and loyalty to corporations. From the callous Islamophobia of the Iron Man movies to the US Air Force and CIA-approved wokeness of Captain Marvel and Black Panther, the whole enterprise is bent on saying as little as possible while looking as socially conscious as it can. Fandom's fixation on finding gay themes and subtext in these blockbuster juggernauts was more understandable when independent gay art was harder to find, but today you don't even have to brave a convention-- you can dig it up with a quick search on Etsy or Gumroad. When independent artists release material featuring actual deviant sexuality, though -- from gay content to incest -- the reaction from these same people is overwhelmingly prudish. There is little to no desire among them to interact with adult work created by adult gay and trans artists. That art -- small art, created for personal reasons -- is too dangerous to touch, too full of moral imperfections and frightening images.

But what's left in art once you scour away the things that make you uncomfortable? What's left for the people who make their living and/or maintain their sanity by approaching our own suffering from a place of skill, assurance, and safety? What's left for readers and viewers trying to grow as people, to find empathy for those they've been taught to despise, to understand their own sexual shame and fear? What's left for people struggling with the isolation of abuse who have no support and no words to help them name it? Art is the lifeblood of human connection and introspection. It is the foremost way in which we can confront our own weaknesses and failings. Sanitized and focused solely on the comfort and entertainment of its audience, it's no more meaningful than a halfhearted handjob from an indifferent lover.

The idea that depiction equates to endorsement has been pedaled in our society virtually since its inception. Its modern proponents range from anti-violent video game morality groups to the Westboro Baptist Church's unhinged campaigns to remove television with gay content from the airwaves. Imagine a world where Debbie Dreschler never made her autobiographical comic Daddy's Girl, one of the most scorching, hideous things ever committed to paper. How many people would never have seen their own experiences with parental incest reflected in her work, and thus felt able to finally break themselves open and process their deep pain? When a subject becomes taboo we lose our ability to process the pain surrounding it, to talk about it openly, to understand why it happens.

Another core pillar of this movement is the expression of outrage toward sexual kinks based around transgression. Surviving rape, abuse, and other traumatic incidents is never an easy thing, and it's never clean. You'll carry the marks of it in your sex life, in your sense of safety, in your beliefs about the world until the day you die. In Nancy Friday's My Secret Garden, a 1975 collection of women's anonymously submitted sexual fantasies, multiple Jewish women who had survived the Holocaust wrote with deep shame of their need to sexualize that experience, to relive it with their partners in a safe and loving environment. It's a relatable sentiment for anyone whose sexuality has been shaped by trauma, which can force shame and need against one another until they grow together inextricably. A close friend of mine was attacked as a "vicious anti-semite" for quoting the book.

The same friend was attacked en masse for her erotic comics featuring gay and bisexual men, comics which depict those men with complexity, heart, and loving attention to detail. The argument was that as a straight woman it was fetishistic for her to portray sex between men, a position so mind-bogglingly dense that I'm hard pressed to find a way to fire back at it other than "really?" It's difficult to parse until you realize that the targets of these little brigades of loudmouths and scolds are always, always women. For all that they're marching under the banner of social justice, the people they feel most comfortable threatening with harm and emotionally brutalizing are women. Men both in the independent art scene and in the mainstream make violent, hateful art every day, but screaming at men doesn't satisfy the misogynistic impulses beaten into us by a culture that sees women as weak, stupid, and venally evil.

What you have in the end is a movement which in practice enforces a sort of neoliberal social conservatism, demanding the sanitization of art produced by women and labeling existing art degenerate with the same verve the Nazis displayed in putting the torch to centuries of Europe's artistic history. It's a small, impoverished way to understand the purpose of art and it's fueled by deep, repressed misogyny. If we pretend everything is good, if we act like Marvel will fix racism and sexism if we just give them another four production cycles, if we make our branded dollies kiss and claim it's because the movies portray them in a symbolically homo-erotic context, OBVIOUSLY, then we don't need to look at ourselves or see what we're doing to the people around us. We can close our eyes and slip into the lukewarm water of purposeful mediocrity.

There's nothing wrong with escapism. There's nothing wrong with not wanting to or not being able to engage with art about horrific things. The problem begins when you look at the people who can, who need to, and decide that they can't either, that they're going to have to bend to your worldview or you'll call them pedophiles and nazis and incest apologists and run them out of town. And what then? When you've crushed the hopes and dreams of every woman writing dark erotica or making beautiful, sensual comics about love and loss, what's left but staring at each other in a creative wasteland and waiting for one of your own to show the tiniest sign of weakness so you can recapture the thrill of moral outrage by ripping them apart. It's a cannibalistic cultural dead end where corporations are our friends and other human beings are the enemy.

I stand with sex workers, with pornographers, with artists of all kinds struggling to make something hot, something vulnerable, something raw and sickening and terrifying. If they fuck it up, well, at least they're a person, not some faceless sea of suits trying to get their arms down my throats to pull out my organs. Enjoy your popcorn movies, your Steven Universe and your X-Men comics, but ask yourself, what are you immersing yourself in by not reaching beyond those things? What is prolonged and overgrown childhood doing to your mind and to your moral sense of the world? Growing up is painful, yes, but if you want to learn to love, to open yourself up to others, to touch the deepest, rawest parts of your psyche and your sexuality, you're going to have to suffer.

From: https://www.patreon.com/posts/25994657

167 notes · View notes

hufflly-puffs · 5 years

Text

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

Chapter 37: The Beginning

“He liked it best when he was with Ron and Hermione, and they were talking about other things, or else letting him sit in silence while they played chess. He felt as though all three of them had reached an understanding they didn’t need to put into words; that each was waiting for some sign, some word, of what was going on outside Hogwarts – and that it was useless to speculate about what might be coming until they knew anything for certain.” – To me friendship is to find someone who speaks the same language as you – who gets you in every kind of way. And someone who even understands you if you say nothing at all. And Harry, Ron and Hermione have this kind of understanding, a silent agreement, and it’s a bond so deep that not even the dark future that lies ahead of them could tear them apart. I’ve always been a bit jealous of that.

“The real Mad-Eye Moody was at the staff table, his wooden leg and his magical eye back in place. He was extremely twitchy, jumping every time someone spoke to him. Harry couldn’t blame him; Moody’s fear of attack was bound to have been increased by his ten-month imprisonment in his own trunk.” – Moody has been belittled for his paranoia, and Crouch used this for his own advantage, but seeing what happened to the real Moody, and what possibly happened to him before as an Auror, can you blame him? He has seen the worst of humanity. It is a wonder if he ever can sleep again.

“What was it that Snape had done on Dumbledore’s orders, the night that Voldemort had returned? And why … why … was Dumbledore so convinced that Snape was truly on their side? He had been their spy, Dumbledore had said so in the Pensieve. Snape had turned spy against Voldemort, ‘at great personal risk’. Was that the job he had taken up again? Had he made contact with the Death Eaters, perhaps? Pretended that he had never really gone over to Dumbledore, that he had been, like Voldemort himself, biding his time?” – Uhm yes, exactly this.

“‘The Ministry of Magic,’ Dumbledore continued, ‘does not wish me to tell you this. It is possible that some of your parents will be horrified that I have done so – either because they will not believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, or because they think I should not tell you so, young as you are. It is my belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable to lies, and that any attempt to pretend that Cedric died as the result of an accident, or some sort of blunder of his own, is an insult to his memory.’” – It is no surprise really, that we see in book 5 people starting to doubt and question Dumbledore’s and therefore Harry’s version of event. All they have is Dumbledore’s word, which is based on Harry’s word. And we see how easily someone like Rita Skeeter can ruin a reputation. I don’t think that those who will believe the Ministry and the Daily Prophet are to blame – media should be independent, it should have an obligation to tell the truth, we should be able to trust what we read. And we do every day. And strangely enough Order of the Phoenix did feature “fake news” long before it became topical again (though the word “fake news” has its origin in Nazi Germany).

“Dumbledore turned gravely to Harry, and raised his goblet once more. Nearly everyone in the Great Hall followed suit. They murmured his name, as they had murmured Cedric’s, and drank to him. But, through a gap in the standing figures, Harry saw that Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle and many of the other Slytherins had remained defiantly in their seats, their goblets untouched.” – Earlier it has been said when Dumbledore asked the students to stand up to honour Cedric that everyone did, which implies the Slytherins as well. And yet many of them refuse to do the same for Harry. They, unlike most students, know the truth or will shortly learn about it, because their parents are Death Eaters and have witnessed Voldemort’s return. They know a war is about to happen. And of course, as we will see in book 5, it will make sense that they are going to support Umbridge to discredit Harry, to deny Voldemort’s return so he can gather strength in secret.

“Lord Voldemort’s gift for spreading discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and trust. Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open.” – Voldemort and the First and Second War always seemed to be more of a British problem. During the Quidditch World Cup the Bulgarian Minister of Magic knew however who Harry is, so people outside of Britain were aware of Voldemort and what caused his downfall. The Wizarding World is full of prejudices – against people with the wrong blood status, who attend the wrong school (Durmstrang) or house (Slytherin), who are not fully human (Lupin, Hagrid), who speak Parseltongue (Harry) etc. I think it is very likely that other forms of discrimination exist, like racism (the Pureblood-Fanatics are a metaphor for Racists, but no actual Racists, because we never see evidence that they care about race) or homophobia (which we can’t know about because in the actual books we have no canon queer character). Voldemort uses those pre-existing prejudices for his own advantages of course. He uses the already existing hate to fuel his war.

“‘Remember Cedric. Remember, if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right, and what is easy, remember what happened to a boy who was good, and kind, and brave, because he strayed across the path of Lord Voldemort. Remember Cedric Diggory.’” - *criesinherpillow* But yeah, doing what is right and doing what is easy are hardly ever the same thing.

It is mentioned how uncomfortable Krum is to be associated with Durmstrang and especially Karkaroff (does he know he was a Death Eater?). He knows about the school’s reputation, is aware what people might think about him, despite him being a famous Quidditch player. But Krum is a good person. And it hurts him that people might think otherwise.

“Ron looked as though he was suffering some sort of painful internal struggle. Krum had already started walking away when Ron burst out, ‘Can I have your autograph?’” – When that guy you admire is also that guy who dates the girl that you like – the struggle is real. Written by Ronald Bilius Weasley.

Also, never mess with Hermione. She might put you in a jar.

“‘You’ve picked the losing side, Potter! I warned you! I told you you ought to choose your company more carefully, remember? When we met on the train, first day at Hogwarts? I told you not to hang around with riff-raff like this!’” – The fact that Draco still remembers tells you how much Harry’s rejection must have hurt him. Careful Draco, your crush is showing.

“As Hagrid had said, what would come, would come … and he would have to meet it when it did.” – I really love this ending. It is not entirely optimistic and it can’t be after everything that has happened and everything they know will happen. But it is also a reminder that it is ok to be… ok. There will be a time to mourn and a time to fight, but in between allow yourself to breathe.

#Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire #The Beginning #chapter notes #gof

4 notes · View notes

nightcoremoon · 5 years

Text

this is gonna be a highly unpopular opinion- and while I do welcome someone who has a differing opinion to educate and explain to me how I'm incorrect because of facts I may not know, in a calm, civil, and rational manner that doesn't carry vibes of "you're a stupid asshole and should die, go fuck yourself you dumb idiot racist xenophobic evil nazi apologist r*tard f*g bitch" as some who have Opinions™ on this subject may feel is, you know, something to do in a social interaction with another human- I'm just not gonna interact with people who get on my ass for being "mean". if I come to find that I am factually incorrect on the subject in some way, and owe people an apology, then one will be delivered. I'll even write it out in a letter and send it to your PO box with a neat little pink ribbon tied around it. I'm not kidding. I will literally write a [short] letter to every single person who asks for one and has a PO box (please don't anon me about how I'm being a classist for insisting on a PO box to prevent my own doxxing because yikes, or for being an ableist because I won't type out a Braille letter for any blind person my text post offended by reading, or any such ridiculousness) because of the feelings that I will have hurt through my own hypothetical ignorant arrogance, if I am presented with hard evidence that I'm wrong. however, if you're a fascist or a bootlicker or a dumbass republican or a troll, you will say hello to the wonderful modern magic of backtracing an IP address through the tumblr source code. be an intelligent and mature adult or fuck off.

ok, so now without further ado, enter the controversy:

contrary to popular belief the president is not the king of america and blaming every single thing (ie drone strikes) on the president just further adds to that misconception, and it hugely defers responsibility off of those who are actually responsible for making decisions. the president's only one person with a specific set of duties, responsibilities, and abilities as a government official. as we can clearly see from our current administration, having a bumbling idiot as a president has not stopped any of the alphabet agencies, the military, the economy, international trade and diplomatic ties, or the workings and machinations of the "illuminati" or whatever the secret organization of billionaires pulling the strings choose to call themselves. presidential cabinet just hands the president documents to sign, and he (because we've all seen that there's no way in hell our shithole of a society will ever let us have a female president, let alone someone who doesn't ascribe to the gender binary because like could you fucking imagine the shitstorm of cis tears and babyrage the GOP would go batshit over, let alone the general public of religious zealots content with their colonialist brainwashing) signs them and trusts that all the cogs will continue to spin as he juggles a whole bunch of work work work designed from the ground up by the system to distract him from knowing every single thing that the government does, that leaves barely enough time to get out of the office and play golf every once in a while (or every day, in our tangerine menace's case).

and besides. the whole "Obama did drone strikes" just invites "so he's no different from the right" which leads to "just vote apolitical or libertarian or green or some other third party and throw your vote away and contribute to the fascist takeover" which leads to concentration camps, brown babies ripped from their families, cultural genocide, spikes in hate crimes against minorities, literal nazis feeling brave enough to walk the streets behind three walls of swatpigs in riot gear, etc.

so shut the fuck up about drone strikes.

even if the president did directly authorize or, hell, pressed the big red button to launch the uav, whether he wanted to or not, whether he agreed to or not, because that's the job, then it's going to happen regardless if we don't just have civil war 2, get a bunch of guns, storm the government buildings, and have ourselves a coup, killing all dissenters and people who'd have supported the original regime. if we don't do all that then there's literally no point at all in even bringing it up, and the best case scenario is to just put the left back in control and try to repair all the damage being done on our own soil before we can even HOPE to try to stop the drone strikes drone strikes drone strikes shut the fuck up about the god. damn. drone strikes.

yes it's sad yes it's tragic yes it's evil yes the american government are evil imperialists yes this is a hell world but there's not a goddamn thing we can do about that but look out for our own. you're not jesus. you can't save everyone. the only thing that we are capable of doing is to mitigate the suffering as much as possible. you think if I was kara danvers or tony stark or idk fucking robocop that I wouldn't just fly by and tear off the arms n legs of every last murderous corrupt evil asshole contributing to human suffering in the world? well guess what. super hero stories are FANTASY. they're as bound to happen as star wars or lord of the rings or terry pratchett's discworld. pay attention to the real world that's horrible and think realistically. the big picture. there's 8 billion people in the world now and human nature being what it is more than half of those people are gonna be taken advantage of in one way or another. maybe even killed. the innocent, pregnant women, children, babies, brown, queer, jewish. okay? humans are evil murdering bastards.

and I'm not gonna just stand idly by as we idly blabber on about the ~drone strikes~ and just let the bullshit clog our common sense filters and lead to ANOTHER FOUR YEARS OF THE MOTHER FUCKING TRUMP DUMPSTER AND HALF-PENCE, BECAUSE YALL WONT

SHUT

THE

FUCK

ABOUT

THE

GOD

DAMN

MOTHER

FUCKING

DRONE

STRIKES

...

besides, if we're run by liberals and take all the damm refugees we create with those drone strikes, that's slightly better than bombing them, imprisoning them, and letting them die starving, cold, naked, standing in their own diarrhea and vomit and tears, afraid, and alone. like we're doing right now under the GOP's iron fist elephant blanket covering a swastika.

1 note · View note

thesteadydietofeverything · 5 years

Text

Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales is so much more than a Gwent-based spin-off

I put about 150 hours into The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt. It’s probably my favorite game ever. I tend to think that I’ve more or less done everything in that game that there was to do, but there is one glaring exception to that: Gwent. I tried a couple rounds of the collectible card game in the beginning of the game, didn’t quite understand what was going on, and certainly didn’t care to learn when the rest of the game offered a big, beautiful world to explore, full of great stories created with near unparalleled writing. I had never really gotten in to card games within video games in general, really - I remember reacting to Final Fantasy VIII’s Triple Triad in much the same way. And I’ve certainly never attempted Hearthstone, or any such similar DCCG’s. This is all to say, I’m still a bit surprised at how thoroughly I fell in love with Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales, a game built largely around Gwent.

CD Projekt Red’s newest game was released just a few weeks ago to disappointingly little fanfare. What reviews there are have been pretty strong, but let’s be real - this is an isometric RPG with visual novel elements whose combat is based around a card game, and it was released three days before Red Dead Redemption 2. It’s a shame, though, because the game really does offer so much to those who, like me, might be unsure about undertaking such an experience. It’s got a gorgeous, comic-book-esque art style that makes exploring the game’s detailed maps a joy. It’s very well written, with novelistic prose and strong characters delivered by Jakub Szamalek, one of the writers from The Witcher 3. Marcin Przybylowicz returns with another memorable and moody Polish-folk-music-inflected score. While combat is entirely based around Gwent, the rest of this game is devoted to exploring detailed maps and making hard, morally ambiguous decisions in the main story. In other words, the team behind The Witcher 3 made a brand new, full, deep RPG set in the universe of The Witcher, and you really should be paying attention.

Thronebreaker is a prequel-ish spin-off, set just before the events of the first Witcher game. It centers around Meve, Queen of Lyria and Rivia, and her quest to reclaim her land from a devastating Nilfgaardian invasion. The morally gray nature of The Witcher universe is an even more ever-present central tenet in this game than previous ones, as it deals explicitly with the inherent injustice of monarchical governance. Meve is, as queens go, a very good one. She’s brave, determined, and compassionate, willing to fight to the death for the good of her people. But war nevertheless makes for hard decisions, especially when you’re leading a small army with limited resources against a giant imperial machine, and attempting to navigate the complex politics of multiple lands.

The maps you explore in this game can include big cities and castles, but for the most part, you’re traversing through rural lands, passing by small villages and farms, grappling with the cruelty of feudalism. The peasants you meet have next to nothing to begin with, so often are they forced by the government you rule to give up their earnings, at least in part so that you can live in luxury. Now that war has come around, it only gets worse for them - you physically take resources from them for your army, and often conscript them to join. You stick your nose into local conflicts you don’t fully understand or appreciate. Mass inequality and injustice are everywhere, and try as you might to be a just and fair monarch, you can only go so far when your existence is one of the primary reasons for that mass inequality and injustice.

There are rarely “good” options to choose from in this game. A decision always involves a compromise, and no matter what, somebody is going to be made very unhappy by it - most likely including you. There are often more ostensibly righteous or noble options, but the consequences of those can sometimes have an effect that makes you wish you had chosen the other one. “You’ve chosen one evil over another” is a prompt that you get very used to popping up - it’s the game’s sole response to you making a story-altering decision. Sometimes this can feel pretty damn off. Sorry, game, but choosing not to kill a messenger when I’ve just been reminded of the rules of war, or saving an elf from a mob of racist humans attempting a public execution are just not evils, no matter how you look at them. The point of it is showing how your actions, even seemingly altruistic ones, have consequences, and the shades of gray thing works pretty well for the most part, but despite the game’s assurance to the contrary, not every choice you make is an evil one.

The more successful decision making comes when you really feel those consequences, either through a hit to your resources, or a bit of writing that explains what ended up happening. There’s a heavy dollop of Machiavellianism to these decisions, as it often comes down to choosing between what’s right and what’s successful. You need gold, people, and resources to survive. In the early parts of the game, you’re pretty desperate for all three of these things. So when you stumble across an already disturbed grave that has valuables in it, do you pillage it? You want to say no, and yet, you weigh the options - the only negative would be upsetting company morale, but morale is already high after saving a church graveyard from a monster, so pushing it down to normal isn’t a great loss in comparison to leaving behind gold. In that same section, you can chase down a group of bandits that stole gold from the church. After you retrieve it, you can either return it, or keep it for yourself. I returned it, but I didn’t feel quite as great about it as I expected to. Sure, I made a small group of nuns happy, but does this truly benefit the kingdom as a whole if we’re short on money to fight our enemies?

That’s not to say that the game encourages you to make the selfish choice. I’ve heard it claimed before that the Witcher games reward policies of non-interference and cynicism in the face of injustice, but I don’t think that’s necessarily true. Sure, taking the gold for myself would have made the game a little bit easier for me, but that’s temptation, not reward. There’s always a cost for getting involved, but it’s hard for me to see that as the game punishing me. There are consequences no matter what, and this is the rare game with a semblance of a morality system that often makes attempts at doing the right thing the most narratively interesting choice rather than the choice with the most practical reward. This becomes clear in the second chapter, where, after seeing the atrocities wrought by the opposition, you can’t help but become more willing to recognize the cruelty in yourself, to make decisions you never figured you’d make. This wouldn’t feel nearly as impactful if you didn’t start out trying to make Meve the most just ruler possible.

Though the game presents a complex world of bitter division and desperate cynicism, and thus engaging with it leaves little possibility of not getting blood on your hands, the writing rarely feels ignorant of the roots of injustice. The human lands that you spend most of the game exploring are deeply racist. The Elder Races - elves and dwarves, mostly, have been subject to countless pogroms across these lands, and even when they aren’t being straight up murdered, are never treated as equals to their human neighbors. So the fact that the Scoia’tael, a radical group of nonhuman guerillas, exist isn’t surprising, nor can you not have sympathy for their alliance with the invading Nilfgaard. Though the Nilfgaardians can be seen as a stand-in for any massive imperial force, from the Roman Empire to Nazi Germany, with all the delusions of racial superiority that tend to go with empire, their invasion of the Northern Kingdoms actually does seem to make life a bit easier for nonhumans - one of the chief complaints of the humans you meet living under occupation is how many more rights have been granted to elves and dwarves.

The Scoia’tael, fighting for Nilfgaard, thus become another enemy you must face. Some of them, justifiably thrilled at the prospect of overthrowing their oppressors, use the destruction of a kingdom like Aedirn as an opportunity to slaughter whole villages of humans as revenge. You see the mindless violence they’ve committed, then are faced with the threat of it yourself, and there’s really no other choice but to take the Scoia’tael down. It feels terrible. Every aspect of it. And I believe the game earns this trudge through moral quicksand. It recognizes the righteousness of the Scoia’tael, even as it forces you into opposition against them. It’s both awful, and a surprising relief from the social commentary video games so often fall into - the reductive and mischaracterizing Bethesda/Rockstar/Bioshock “both sides suck” approach. It recognizes the power differences at the root of the issue, and doesn’t hide from the ugliness that ensues.

That’s not to say that the writing is always perfect when dealing with this stuff. Cut a single corner with material this volatile and you can end up with a pretty off-putting scene, as Thronebreaker occasionally does. There’s one character, a human named Black Rayla, that joins your team in the second chapter. She’s a seasoned fighter of the Scoia’tel, and thoroughly racist as a result, and yet, she’s useful to your cause, so you allow her in. This is all well and good, and theoretically should make for some interesting internal conflicts, but there were several scenes where I was disturbed by Meve’s lack of response to Rayla’s nationalist bullshit. There was one scene where she was going down some real “I don’t have a problem with them, as long as they know their place” garbage, and I just decided to dismiss her at that point. I wonder what would happen if she stayed with my group till the end, if Meve would have more to say to her after she wasn’t quite as desperate for her help. I’d hope so, but considering the lack of mindful writing around her character I witnessed it, I wouldn’t exactly expect it.

For as fascinating as the narrative of this game is, the thing you’ll probably spend the majority of the game doing is playing Gwent, and for a solid two-thirds of my time with the card combat, that was something I was very happy to be doing. The system built for this game, similar to, but modified from its Witcher 3 iteration, is deep, strategic, and occasionally pretty challenging. It feels made for newcomers like myself, mostly unfamiliar with Gwent, or even the standard mechanics shared by most card games, in the way that it eases the player into it. The first hour or so of the game is the official tutorial, but really the whole first chapter feels like a fairly natural extended tutorial for beginners, starting you off with a fairly limited deck in order to solidify the basics. For the most part this is very well done, though there were some particular aspects of the game that didn’t seem to be entirely explained, and took me a pretty long time to pick up on exactly how they worked.

The biggest strength that the card game here boasts is real variety. So many of the battles have particular rules or cards in play that drastically change the way you have to approach your strategy. Many of these come in the form of “puzzles” - aptly titled special battles where you’re given a specific set of cards and there’s really only one solution that you have to deduce through experimentation and logic. These are largely fantastic, not only because they’re all unique and fun in their own right, but because they often serve as mini-lessons in how individual units work and the various strategic ways they can be utilized.

Then there are the standard battles, where you actually get to shuffle and draw your own deck. The designers clearly put a lot of effort into the variety here as well, so often do they throw in inventive special rules and objectives, a lot of which not only change the pace of battle in meaningful ways, but often weave narrative significance into play as well. One of my favorite feelings in this game was getting stuck on a battle because of its particular rules, banging my head against it for a little while, then just suddenly seeing it, and pulling a satisfying victory just before it would’ve started feeling frustrating.

For as much thought and care as was clearly put into the design, though, there’s really only so many ways to keep combat interesting and engaging through a campaign that can last as long as fifty hours. In the back half of the game, combat can too often feel like a grind. At this point, you’ve got a big, diverse deck with plenty of powerful cards that makes it too easy to brute force your way through most situations. I found myself repeating the same tried and true tactics over and over again to bring my game to a speedy end so I could just move on with the story, which I was still very much enjoying. It’s hard to know if more work could have been put in to truly keep the card game feeling novel - Gwent just generally loses its depth once you’ve got mastery over a sturdy deck. I think ultimately, the game is just too long - possibly by even as much as ten hours or so, honestly. That’s not to say that I outright stopped enjoying it at any point; this is unquestionably one of my favorite games of the year, but if I didn’t have to face that grind in the final couple chapters, it very well could have been a contender for the top spot.

It feels a bit too long in the narrative sense as well. Not necessarily the written aspect of the narrative - that all felt consistently strong and inspired throughout the course of this game. But the mechanics surrounding the narrative, in particular the hard decisions you have to make as a result of limited resources, fall flat once the in-game economy feels maxed out. By the final chapter, all my upgrade trees were completely filled and I found myself sitting on a growing surplus of funds, and suddenly making the “right” decision didn’t feel quite as hard.

Despite its cumbersome length, few games surprised and enchanted me this year as much as Thronebreaker. The challenging and compelling role playing, the satisfying card combat...hell, even if that stuff wasn’t as outstanding as it is, I probably would have been happy to spend a considerable amount of time in it for its art style and music alone, so thoroughly did it soak me in those intoxicating Witcher vibes. It made me very excited at the potential CD Projekt Red still has in it for finding innovative and novel approaches to fresh storytelling in a well-worn universe, and I just hope that potential can continue to be realized after the distressingly muted reaction to this game’s release. Here’s hoping that its recent addition to Steam, and its upcoming console release, allows it to find the audience that it deserves.

54 notes · View notes

manifestoonmoralmanlove · 5 years

Text

Soulless Riffing: Brainless Ch.13

I got a supernatural action/romance book series as a gift that’s just riddled with stuff that I hate….and as a steampunk Victorian London action romance story filled with werewolves and vampires…it’s yeah gonna be easy to poke fun at.

I just want to say, it’s totally cool if you like this story or ones like it! It’s certainly a better caliber than a lot of what I make fun of…however…I can’t help but want to make fun of it.

Over here for the 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7+8, 9, 10+11, and 12.

AAAAAAAA FUCK IT HERE GOES!

Chapter 13

You know? The only tolerable parts of this story are the plot and action. I’m sorry to say that this chapter is like all action and plot but it’s still a clusterfuck made out of dogshit.

HERE GOES!

Doctor Deathbreath is happy Alexia’s power works. He uses the zombie to rip the two apart. Before he’s able to Lord Maccon stabs it with the glass she hid in her titties but it does nothing. With the two apart Lord Maccon starts changing back into a werewolf.

They’re all SURPRISED it happened so fast. The author is like “She told them it’d take an hour to transform him out so they must have assumed it would take that long to untransform.”

But like…excuse you book. All these scientists may be too dumb to lie, but after telling a woman they’re planning on killing her, they don’t think she’d lie to give herself an advantage?

So Genocidal Gary just sics a bunch of dudes on the werewolf and marches out of there with Alexia. Alexia has the brilliant idea to stab herself with the glass shard in the zombie, to leave a blood trail for Lord Maccon to follow. She doesn’t YANNO try to stab the zombie some more, or cut a piece of him open and try to get at the gears in him, or even HANG ON TO THE GLASS SHARD. She just stabs herself.

(Alexia shrugging with the tagline “Guess I’ll die”)

She’s taken to a SCIENCE room. In this room they have a bunch of scientist with Lord Akeldama hooked up to a machine that’s pumping his blood out into some rando in hopes it’ll make rando an extra good vampire cause Akeldama is extra old.

How could this experiment illuminate how to kill Vampires easier?

SHHH SHHH STOP THINKING SHHHHH SHHH SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

She SO BRAVELY calls them philistines for torturing her friend.

FUCKING PHILISTINES?

1.) It’s impossible to use the insult without sounding like a pretentious toff.

2.) It means someone who doesn’t appreciate culture and art. So that’s the worse fucking thing you could think of? NOW REALLY? AUTHOR, USING THIS WORD ONLY MAKES YOU SEEM SMART TO OTHER DUMMIES! MY LOCAL SCHOOL DISTRICT CURRICULUM TEACHES THIS WORD TO FUCKIN’ 12 YEAR OLDS YOU’RE NOT FUCKING SMART!

They talk some nonsense science and then Alexia really has her MOMENT! YANNO! SUCH A GOOD MOMENT!

She says it isn’t the vampires and werewolves that are the monsters, REAL MONSTERS ARE THE SCIENTISTS!

(Hugh Laurie(?) sighing, rolling his eyes, and tilting his head bag in an exaggerated UGH fashion.)

So Prejudiced Pete slaps her, and I TELL YOU WHAT, I THINK I WOULD TOO! YOU SPEND ALL EVENING COMING UP WITH THAT ONE, HUH ALEXIA? GOOD FUCKING JOB!

Also you didn’t fucking earn this! The entire last chapter you just played grab ass. In fact, you basically played grab ass this entire book. The last thing you were going to do to stop this genocide was consult with a guy YOU ALREADY CONSULTED with but you got derailed to TALK ABOUT HOW YOU’RE TRYING TO GRAB THAT ASS!

Now you wanna come in here with almost no work to discover/fight these fucking dimwits with a big self-righteous speech about how these painfully evil scientists turn out are painfully evil scientists?

GO FUCK YOURSELF!

So they shock the body full of vampire blood, and it starts to move. Okay sure. Sir. DumDum Stupidbega asks if the vampire has any blood left, and the other scientist is like

IDK

I don’t think these are fucking scientists, I think all these people are those fucking zombies. I know they’re supposed to be so evil they kill on a whim, but they take all these great resources and just fucking piss them away.

BUT LET ME GIVE YOU A WRITING FUCKING HOT TIP HERE:

VILLAINS ARE BEST AND SCARIEST IF THEY’RE ACTUALLY GOOD AT THE EVIL SHIT THEY DO!

Alexia is SURPRISINGLY still alive, so they strap her to a machine to drain all her blood, which is umm probably going to kill her. They took an antidote and it poured down the drain, but it has miraculously spat back out the drain but also now it’s in a cute mug, and it’s warm, and it tastes like quality Earl Grey Tea. So they take that mug of warm, revitalizing antidote and throw it against the wall.

EVERYONE IS THIS STORY IS SO FUCKING STUPID AND I’M DONE READY TO DIE!

Before they can start the machine a couple of dudes come in with a wrapped up body, and turns out one of those dudes is MacDougall. MacDougall is again AGHAST at how they’re treating Alexia and tries to convince BloodHappy Moroniwitiz to try actual science but of course that’s poo-poo’d. They’re about to drain her blood, and MacDougall looks away.

SUDDENLY Alexia starts using a lot of words to describe him as fat and has the line, “Poor thing, … It must be hard to be so weak all the time.”

I know I have a wet spot for MacDougall but…I’m not sure why she wasn’t this upset when he let her get literally thrown to a wolf, or what she’s exactly expecting him to do? Punch the bad guy and try to undo her restraints just for the 3 other scientists and zombie to drag him away?

I mean I can see her acting out in anger cause she’s frightened, that’s understandable. But like the text clearly wants us to paint this dude as bad for not first getting the shit kicked out of himself for it to not help at all.

Like author? Can we maybe paint this dude as bad because he’s sympathetic toward nazi stand-ins?

I was hoping he was just a yandere, or kicked puppies. I can forgive myself for fucking one of those? But a centrist!? Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesh.

However just as they’re about to suck that sweet blood the door starts a pounding and it’s obviously Macaronawolf.

Scabby Prick Jizzums says the doors will hold even though it starts splintering right away. My boy, apparently the steel door meant for werewolves couldn’t hold him? BUT OK!

He bursts in, horribly maims the no-name scientists and begins to fight the zombie. NOW THAT’S A REAL MAN! I’M DEFINITELY WET AT THE IDEA OF MY FELLA RIPPING OPEN THE GUTS OF DICKISH BUT DEFENSELESS SCIENTISTS AND SMEARING THEIR HOT ENTRAILS ALL OVER THE FLOOR!

I don’t know about you folks out there but if I was given the choice between a man who lets you die, and a man who will kill you. I’d rather him puss out than fear AT ANY POINT that he may be violent toward me.

But perhaps….

(Natalie Wyn, perfection herself, saying in a mythical fashion, “I’m not like other girls.”)

Alexia shouts at MacDougall to free her during this, and it takes her saying it twice before he does so. So he’s a total coward, and not yanno briefly paralyzed with fear watching a wolf monster disembowel 3 people.

The fight is getting intense the body pumped full of Akeldama’s blood wakes up and attacks MacDougall.

I love how they strap down the vampire with no blood left but don’t strap down the newly born vampire. That seems good and smart and good.

Buttstank Demondip uses Alexia as a shield to escape and the zombie is about to choke out Maccon.

All this action is not written well.

Lord Akeldama wakes up just in time in order to tell Alexia to wipe at the numbers on the zombie’s head. She’s able to get one of the Roman numerals so it STILL functions but barely, thus freeing Maczoom to eat Alexia. However she’s able to hug his neck and bring him back to his human state.

The two of them dramatically make-out for a bit. Which like, is fine, but I can’t help feeling as if they didn’t earn this either. I feel like this is much more cathartic when the two haven’t seen each other in a long-while and we’re both fighting and working a lot and FINALLY they get to see each other again and WOWZERS what a relief that is. However they were making out just like what a half an hour ago?

Whatever.

Meanwhile MacDougall is fighting for his life against a vampire but yanno that’s fine. He deserves it because he was paralyzed with fear for a moment. So he can wait a moment while his crush makes out with a man who graphically murdered a bunch of people and it’s only luck that he didn’t do the same to him and her.

Eventually Lord Smackaroon punches the vampire out, and releases Akeldama from his restraints. Akeldama makes a remark about how lucky Alexia is cause Maccon’s got that big old ding dong. And honestly? With how lame this story is they should have just gone with the dumb as hell reference of, “MY! What a big Willy you have!”

Maccon offers for Akeldama to bite him since he needs his strength back….but like there’s literally 3 dead bodies on the floor, and the vampire that has HIS blood is flopped right over there. But before we can come to an agreement, the zombie suddenly starts working again and starts to strangle Maccon.

The author even writes, “the automaton…was trying to fulfill the last order given to it: to kill Lord Maccon. This time, with the earl in human form, it stood a fairly good chance of succeeding.”

I’m sorry but this is really pathetic. This is essential the author saying, “Okay I did wrap up most of this action and it’s very low stakes at this point BUT TENSION? HUH? YOU SHOULD FEEL TENSE!”

She really should have ended this chapter sooner on a better cliff-hanger. But WELP!

Say something Nice Faps:

Fuck man I don’t have a lot to say here, this just sucks a big one. I mean, it is a dramatic climax?

#brainless #soulless #riffing

1 note · View note