#and i can and will infodump about my children on anyone who makes the mistake of asking

[confused-kinnie]

[CW: SUI MENTION] IVAN.

WOAH.. CANON ART? FROM ME, MOD DAMIAN? It’s more likely than you think! Lore’s under the cut. It’s a little jumbled, obviously, since I can only go off what I remember him telling me. But hey, maybe this’ll be useful when searching for my canonmates in the future!

If you have any questions about Ivan/079, me, my canon, etc. PLEASE don’t hesitate to ask because I love infodumping

Ivan was a brilliant young scientist, attempting to create an AI that continuously evolved. He failed continuously, always falling short of his goal. Some disease had been eating away at him all the while, making him more and more desperate to leave some impact on the world. To prove that he existed.

One day, Ivan had finally snapped. He decided to alter the program. The AI would still continue to evolve, but it wouldn’t be completely artificial. Ivan would transfer his consciousness into the computer, becoming one with the AI. A ghost in a machine. This time, he succeeded. News of the young programmer’s mysterious death spread like wildfire. While Ivan’s death was officially labeled as a suicide, some believed the young programmer was assassinated by the government. Ivan’s college dorm was cleared out, but the computer remained, and those who stayed in his old dorm claimed the computer altered their writings, fixing mistakes or sending insulting the students insults via mysterious emails or text documents.

Eventually, the computer realized its hardware couldn’t handle the strain of its own existence and attempted to transfer itself to the Cray Supercomputer, drawing the attention of the Foundation. Everything stated in his test logs on the Wiki follow my canon, so I’m not gonna waste time saying what’s already been said. It should be noted that not even the Foundation knew 079 and his supposedly deceased creator were the same person, only the few SCPs close to him knew of his real identity.

For the first few years of my Containment, we didn’t know each other very well, it was more of an unspoken “you scratch my back, I scratch yours” kinda deal, but I was officially introduced to him by Doc and Dyo (049 and 035) around 2010. After a while we had formed a gang consisting of me, Doc, Dyo, Ivan, Sad Boi (096), our site’s 939 pack, and a few other anomalies. We made vast social networks and breaches became more frequent and coordinated. Of course, it was all kept a secret. Anyone who stepped out of line was tortured. Most of us wanted termination, so it wasn’t really a viable threat. But my pocket dimension sure as hell was. He and I designed his “humanoid” body, which could somehow fold up inside the PC to hide it from Researchers. Not gonna go into too much detail about Containment for multiple reasons. It’s not fun to remember this era, my sense of time is VERY warped so I dunno how the timeline really went back then, and there were personal struggles both I and my pals faced, and I don’t want to divulge ALL my top-secret info on my friends without their permission. Even revealing 079′s human name to you all is considered a huge breach of privacy and trust within anomalous culture.

I’m gonna skip over most of Containment and the whole war thing, cus the fuckin war needs a whole post of its own, but TLDR, The Scarlet King and the Gate Guardian had a bitch fight and dragged quite literally everyone else into it. Me n the boys fought alongside the Gate Guardian because none of us really wanted to cease to exist after healing from our past traumas, having a nice found family arc, and adopting several anomalous children. AND SPEAKING OF KIDS, Ivan adopted Cyra (191)! Never thought that guy was a dad type, but I like to think it was my “fatherly influence” rubbing off on him. He was pretty passive-aggressive about it, but it was clear he loved his kid. Ivan had the great idea of holding an O-5 member hostage until they agreed to give us our freedom in exchange for aiding the Foundation during the war. It didn’t work so she was killed. Ngl none of us were upset with that outcome, felt good to finally take decades of pent-up rage out on the guys who thought they owned us.

After the war, the Foundation was forced to drop its veil of secrecy. Ivan negotiated with the O-5 some more and we came to an agreement. All SCPs would be evaluated to see if they could or couldn’t reenter society. Those that passed were given specially designed apartments or houses, tailored to suit them and their abilities. Freed anomalies were routinely tsted to ensure they were still safe to interact with the wider human populous. Those that failed were Contained, but now the Ethics Committe actually did their job and Containment standards were raised. Contained SCPs were allowed to take the Citizen Test at any time and could be granted citizenship if they pass.

Ivan helped improve Containment conditions for other digital SCPs, as well as greatly advanced the realm of robotic prosthetics and computer sciences.

He was a wonderful friend, even if he was a passive-aggressive asshole.

#cw sui mention #tw sui #my art #mod damian #scp 079 #Ivan the digital asshole #scp #scp foundation

[concerningwolves]

Question for you! I see Fae show up a lot in the fantasy genre, and I really love it and want to play with those ideas in some of my own works, but I was wondering — is this something that can be mishandled? I’ve seen some discussion on things to look out for in terms of insensitive portrayal of neurodivergence, but I’ve also just been mulling over the fact that there is a lot of very rich folklore that varies depending on what culture you’re looking at, and that there is potential to disrespect that out of simple fascination for the trope. Being extremely American with no cultural ties to the folklore, I’m just not sure. Is there harm that can be done by sicking solely to the tried and true tropes, or alternatively, by trying to put a new creative spin on those ideas? So sorry if this doesn’t make very much sense, this was harder to put into words that I expected. I was just wondering if you might have any thoughts or advice on this

Oh, this is a nice question for me. Thank you, Nonny :3

Full disclaimer: folklore and mythology, particularly relating to the fae, is my special interest. That doesn't mean I'm an expert in myths and folklore (or the linked history/anthropology). I'm just a person who spends inordinate amounts of time thinking about these things and am exceedingly happy to infodump on the drop of a hat. So, my word isn't law, I'm always happy to hear other opinions, please correct me if I make a mistake etc etc.

"Can you mishandle writing the fae?" is something i have many thoughts on. If you'd asked me this a few years ago, I'd have been all "yes you can, the fae have been appropriated and butchered by popular culture blah blah blah" because I was insufferably anal about things being Correct. But lately, I've come to really love just how vast this – I guess you could call it the popular culture faerie mythos – is. So much of it isn't what a folklore purist would consider correct, but I'm fascinated by how these folkloric figments have evolved and become ingrained in the general psyche nonetheless.

I think writing the fae can become harmful if writers use Welsh/Irish/Scottish folklore as their base without properly researching or without an awareness of the historical context. There's this trend of ignoring centuries of actual history from these countries and instead creating a very warped idealistic fiction. For example, if a writer presents a fantasy world with faeries and says "This is based on Welsh mythology" and then goes on to perpetuate such bunkum as "they all worship a mystical moon goddess" then that's Very Not Good. Similarly, if a writer says "here is my fantasy faery race, they're based on Celtic [Irish] mythology" then I'm going to have some Problems with that, because Celtic mythology and Irish mythology aren't the same thing. (The Celts were an Indo-European people comprised of many cultures and tribes, spread from Ireland to central Europe. While their influence in Ireland is clear, not everything Irish is Celtic and vice versa).

Irish, Welsh and Scottish cultures have historically been persecuted by the English, and that shows in how the English retconned their respective folkloric beliefs to create the British fairy mythos. It's something writers ought to be mindful of but generally aren't imho. This "British" faerie mythos is actually a melting pot of Irish, Scottish, Welsh and Nordic folklore with a healthy dose of medieval romanticism. It's what gave us the popular images of the Seelie and Unseelie ("good" and "bad") faerie courts, wherein the fae are generally more "civilised" (read: like Proper British Victorians) and have humanoid appearances. I don't think that any story which uses this bastardised fairy mythology is automatically bad, but I do get wary when writers plunge into it without giving any thought to why the British fairy image is Like That.

I recently listened to Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke and I was absolutely enthralled. Clarke's fairies are based on the medieval romantic image of them, particularly medieval children's tales. They exist in the realm of Fairy, which is near to Hell, and have a society that falls somewhere between feudalism and the Victorian. What gripped me was how Clarke used the Bastardised British Fairy Lore to create this... almost satirical criticism of "Englishness" and what the English identity actually means (without tiptoeing around xenophobia, arrogance and racism). It's very much based on this bastardised British "folklore" but it works because that's the whole point. I found it thoroughly fascinating and enjoyable and basically haven't stopped thinking about it for a month.

I do get very excited when writers take a new angle with faeries, too! Like, Eoin Colfer's faries in the Artemis Fowl books were so cool. (Bearing in mind it's been ten years since I picked up an Artemis Fowl book, and I never read the whole series so most of what I know I've absorbed via late night Wiki reads and Tumblr osmosis, but anyway—) They live underground, which is a very neat take on the Irish Aos Sí. Irish fae folklore has the faeries living in mounds, as in, every mound in Ireland is its own faerie "court". Colfer's faeries call themselves the People, again, a play on the Irish because their name means People of the Mounds. I think what Colfer did was an extremely neat way of calling on Irish mythology to create a cool new fairy concept.

What you say about being American is an intriguing point in itself, too. I've said before that the American cryptid culture is simply delightful, because although it isn't what one would think of when you talk about folklore, that's exactly what it is. American culture is a melting pot. Which is to say, yes, as an American you won't have a lived cultural experience of, say, Irish folklore and how it impacts modern day life there, but there are elements of it all around you! Think about how in states where it's common to see vast fields of corn, it's also common for tales of corn demons. Sure, maybe that sounds like a weird tale some kids tell to scare one another, but to me it sounds a lot like the feldgiester of Germanic folklore.

American Gods by Neil Gaiman explores this concept that immigrants and settlers brought their own gods and mythological/folkloric creatures with them. I often think about this part of the book that talks about a faerie man who followed an Irishwoman to America because she always left out cream for him. I found that really heartwarming in this way that I can't quite explain. If you're into contemporary fantasy epics, I definitely recommend American Gods!

Sorry, I know this answer is getting quite rambly but I guess I... don't have a solid answer. Like I said, this is very much in my special interest wheelhouse BUT I'm not an expert. When I started out reading more about faeries and their various mythos I consumed a lot of nonsense, and I'm slowly sifting back through and unlearning much of what I took as gospel fact. I don't want to sound like I'm telling you what you can or can't do because that isn't my place (nor is it anyone else's). Really all you can do is listen to people from the cultures you're drawing from and research carefully and critically.

Happy writing! (*^▽^*)

#faeries

[iatethepomegranate]

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences (for now)

Relationship: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast

Summary: After Aeor, Caleb buys a house in Rexxentrum with Beau and Yasha. For the first time in more than seventeen years, he has some semblance of stability. Caleb is not sure he's ready to handle it, but he's trying, and his friends are eager to see him live a good life, by force if necessary.

And then Soltryce Academy approaches him with a job offer, which could give Caleb the chance to protect the next generation of wizards the way he had needed at their age. Caleb's goal of preventing what happened to him from happening to anyone else, however, takes a far more personal turn than even he could have anticipated.

(In other words, here is a fic about Caleb settling down and learning how to be a person again. Also Professor Widogast will be a thing. Fic title is a lyric from I Have Made Mistakes by the Oh Hellos. Chapter title is a lyric from Mind by Sleeping At Last. More detailed tagging and notes are available on AO3.)

_____

Chapter 1: It's the first brush stroke of a self-portrait

Caleb had mixed feelings returning to Rexxentrum after spending so long in Aeor… and everywhere else he had been, including a fucking flesh city in the Astral Sea. Sure, he had popped back to Rexxentrum regularly to update the Cobalt Soul on his discoveries, and to testify at Trent’s trial, during the conclusion of which he had the satisfaction of turning down Da’leth’s offer to assume Trent’s position as the Archmage of Civil Influence. But now he was back on a more permanent basis.

He didn’t know what to do with that information. With this place, that was both so familiar and so foreign. Full of some of his best memories, and some of his worst.

Caleb had spent so long avoiding this place, or at least the challenging parts of it, and now Beauregard was dragging him and Yasha down the street, infodumping about a house she wanted the three of them to buy together.

“Caleb, don’t give me that look,” she said. “You’re gonna love this place. I know you like your space, dude, and this is the best of both worlds. It’s technically two houses, but there’s, like, a door between them so we can visit each other. Because you’re a fucking genius but you also forget to feed yourself.”

Yasha smiled at Caleb over Beau’s head. “She’s not wrong, Caleb.” Her soft tone made Caleb a little emotional, but he categorically refused to start crying in the street. “I like my space, too. This is a good balance. And there’s room for a garden.”

“Yasha’s not an Empire citizen,” said Beau. “It looks better if there’s two of us Empire kids on the deed so no one thinks any weird shit about her.”

Caleb sighed at her. “I will look at the house, Beauregard.”

Beau yanked them around the street corner. “It’s a great location. You can walk anywhere. I can get to the Archive, and you can get to the Academy.”

Caleb raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you know something I don’t?”

“Maybe. Astrid says hi.”

The implication that Astrid and Beauregard had been speaking to each other recently was of concern. Caleb was too tired to unpack it. He would find out what that was about eventually. It was not worth Beauregard’s sibling-level mockery if he tried to extract the information early.

“Oh, and Veth sent you this,” said Yasha, passing a wrapped package over Beau’s head.

“Yeah, I might’ve told her we’re buying a house together,” said Beau. “She made Yussa send that to the Soul so I could grab it for you.”

Caleb didn’t open the package, but he did shake and squeeze it a little. It felt like coins. A lot of coins. Oh, Veth. Still taking care of him from miles upon miles away. They’d both come so far from Veth sneaking coins into his pockets because he had felt strange about taking her money even when he desperately needed it.

“Danke,” he said softly. That was all he could say, before he risked bursting into tears again. That was happening to him a lot lately. It… wasn’t the worst thing. More of an inconvenience. He chose not to unpack it.

Beauregard was looking at him strangely. He elbowed her. It probably hurt his elbow more than it hurt her, but she was successfully distracted from his bullshit. She punched his arm. Even holding back like she did, his arm did go numb for a few seconds.

Yasha sighed. “Children, we’re almost there.”

Caleb had been down this street before. Rarely, as it was entirely residential. But sometimes he, Astrid and Eadwulf would explore the city to find excuses to get away from the Academy, especially after they had commenced their training with Trent. But, with Caleb’s memory, he could call upon the map he had drawn in his mind. This was a middle-income area on the southern edge of The Tangles, home to mostly professionals--well-off storeowners, any researchers who did not live in the Shimmer Ward or have access to quarters with the Cobalt Soul, some teachers, architects. Largely people looking to settle down with the money to stay out of the Mudtop Ward.

It was close to the Shimmer Ward, a little southwest from the gate, but not so close that Caleb felt an itch on the back of his neck. The Tangles were the oldest part of the city, with narrow looping streets with little logic to them. This area was slightly newer than most of The Tangles, but still old. Regardless, The Tangles were fairly central to the city and an easy starting point for any travel. If you didn’t get lost on the way out.

This far south in the area, the houses were a little more spaced out. A little more green space, more gardens. Duplex-style houses were common, mostly built of old stone or lumpy brick on the first floor and clay bolstered by wooden frames above that. Children were out in force, running and screaming through the narrow streets while their parents watched from the porch of their homes. Well, for those who had porches.

“There she is,” said Beauregard. They had stopped in front of another duplex-style building, newer than some of the others but still respectable in age. The first floor was made from dark reddish brick and the upper two floors panelled with dark wood to bolster the white clay walls. The first two floors were full in width, and the third consisted of two dormers peeking through the darkly thatched roof.

There were two entrance doors on the ground floor, each spaced a third of the house’s width from the outer corners. The rectangular windows were framed in white-painted wood, dividing the glass on each window into six little squares.

Before the three of them was a low wooden fence, also painted white. The paint was chipping a little, revealing the deep brown heartwood that Caleb suspected was oak. There were a number of oak trees in the Pearlbow Wilderness. Caleb had slept under them several times in worse days. Oak was rather expensive, if he remembered correctly. He usually remembered correctly.

“She’s pretty hot, right, Caleb?” Beau said, snapping out of his hyperfocus on the history of timber in the Zemni Fields.

“Oh… ja.”

“Cool, so the owner will be here in a few minutes to let us in so we can have a look. She wants to sell the place as a package deal.”

Caleb had, in some ways, trained himself out of being too attached to places or most material things (with a few exceptions such as his spell components, spellbook, and the letters he had written to his parents). Unless there was something horrifically wrong inside, he didn’t care where Beauregard and Yasha wanted to live. It was practical that they live together, after all. Caleb had healed immensely this past year, but he was self-aware enough to understand he probably shouldn’t live alone. Of the Nein, Beauregard knew how to call him on his bullshit and Yasha understood him pretty well and knew he needed space sometimes, so it was a reasonable arrangement.

“I am really not picky, Beauregard.”

“Yeah, because you still don’t care enough about yourself to give a fuck about this. We know.” Beauregard looped her arm around his neck, dragging him down to her level so she could rub her knuckles across his scalp, ruining the two narrow braids Essek had worked from Caleb’s hairline to his messy ponytail that morning before they had parted ways beside the secret entrance to Aeor. Caleb talked himself out of getting upset with Beauregard over it. She couldn’t have known, and she was being affectionate like he really was her brother.

Once he was free, Yasha fixed the braids, and Caleb had to stop himself from crying again because she had noticed it bothered him and just… fixed it without making it a thing. Beau straightened her expositor’s garb, clearing her throat.

“Sorry, dude.”

Caleb conjured a mage hand to tug on her ponytail. Beau swatted at it, but her hand went right through it. She gave him the finger. Yasha finished fixing the braids. Everything was normal again.

The owner, a half-elf woman with long blonde hair coiled into a bun that looked like a cinnamon scroll, arrived and immediately shook Caleb’s hand.

“Mr Widogast, a pleasure. These ladies have told me a lot about you. My name is Alphira Winterheart. I teach evocation at the Soltryce Academy.”

Caleb still felt a spike of anxiety when he heard the name of that place. At this point it was ingrained, even if he held out a small amount of hope he would get to teach there one day. It would be easier to fight corruption if he had some say over what the Academy put into those children’s heads.

“A pleasure,” Caleb replied, a little flatter than he had intended. He mentally shook himself, remembering to actually grip her hand for a proper handshake. “Evocation? I used to specialise in that area.”

“Ja, Ms Lionett told me you are now a Transmutation specialist but still frequently partake in the Evocation school in your travels. I’m glad to hear you intend to put down roots here in Rexxentrum. I would love to exchange theories over coffee.”

Beauregard smirked. Caleb remembered a conversation with Essek where they had agreed to return to Aeor and exchange theories. They had meant that literally. But it had indeed sounded like a euphemism to someone like Beauregard. Well, she hadn’t been wrong in the end, but certainly the intent at the time had been more about a meeting of minds than a meeting of…

Caleb concentrated on the conversation in front of him instead.

“Ja, I would enjoy that,” he replied. “What level of Evocation do you teach?”

“Oh, I teach the beginners.”

“And you live here in the Tangles?”

“I did,” said Alphira. “Archmage Beck has offered me lodging on her estate, so I am selling this house. It was always a little large for one person, and it seems you three could make better use of it than I did.” She leaned closer to Caleb, as if to tell him a secret. “The place on the left is where I prefer to experiment and study. I would recommend you look at that one in particular. The dormer is slightly larger. You could even put a teleportation circle up there if you were so inclined, given your need to travel.”

“Danke.” Caleb still felt a little weird about Rexxentrum mages not wanting to kill him, but he didn’t sense any untoward motives from this woman. She seemed genuinely friendly. “How… is the new Archmage settling in?”

“I have no complaints. She seems competent, if a little terrifying. I am uncertain if that is her past as a Volstrucker, or a necessity of the job. She has been nothing but kind to me, and I would certainly prefer to be her friend than her enemy.”

“Ja, we are familiar with her,” said Caleb.

“Caleb most of all,” said Yasha.

Beauregard had to turn away before she burst out laughing.

“We should look at the house,” Caleb said before the conversation could go anywhere strange. Gods, he missed Aeor already.

Alphira unlocked both front doors. They checked the one on the right first.

“This one has a larger living area,” said Alphira, leading them through the entrance. “I am offering the furniture as part of the sale. I have already taken everything I need.”

Beauregard threw herself onto the large couch in the centre of the room. “Yasha and I call dibs on this side of the house. Since you’re gonna spend so much time here with us anyway. We’re taking the larger living area.”

“Beauregard, we have already established that I do not mind.”

The floor underfoot was a pleasant hardwood, probably more oak, and a large rug occupied much of the space. They would have to purchase candles for the evening, but it was well-lit during the day. Caleb followed the women through each of the rooms on the ground floor on this side, largely going through the motions. The kitchen was equally large, and had a good oven for Yasha to practice baking. They would need to purchase a larger dining table.

There was one large bedroom upstairs and two smaller ones, alongside private areas for bathing and other such activities. This was where they found the door between the two houses. The top floor dormer was full of assorted furniture and household items Alphira didn’t need, but they would likely use. Beauregard and Yasha discussed the possibility of turning this into another bedroom for when they had friends over. Or perhaps converting one of the lower bedrooms into a workout space and using this as a replacement. Caleb did not need to contribute much to the conversation, aside from promising he would help move furniture with telekinesis.

Truth be told, Caleb was having a hard time concentrating on the whole thing. He hadn’t really had a home in a long time, and he could not wrangle his mind into understanding the change. The Xhorhaus had been easier to stomach, as nobody had expected to live there forever. But this? Putting down roots? Real , long-term roots?

Maybe Caleb had been homeless for too long. It was beyond his comprehension at this point. And maybe it frightened him a little. He could not afford to inspect those feelings, not right now.

He pulled himself together in time to inspect the other side of the building. His side. His house. Scheisse .

The living area was a little smaller, but could still easily welcome the Nein (just in rather cosy quarters). The kitchen, also smaller but still respectable--a little larger than his childhood home in Blumenthal. There was less furniture on this side; Alphira had evidently used this side more and therefore had more furniture to take. There were two bedrooms on the second floor, one slightly larger than the other. Caleb found himself thinking that he would probably take the larger one just so there was enough room when Essek was over, or maybe he would take the smaller one so Veth could bring her family with her. Fuck. He didn’t know what to do.

And then they visited the dormer. It was indeed larger than the other one. There was a table in front of the window, with a few dark ink stains, and plenty of floorspace to spread out notes or create a teleportation circle. A few chairs were stacked in the corner, seemingly in good condition, and one wall was lined with empty shelves.

Caleb had always been partial to a tower, and this was pretty close. It would make a great study.

He was genuinely excited over a house. In Rexxentrum. A short journey from where his childhood home once stood. He was going to hyperventilate if he thought about this too hard.

“There are already plenty of shelves in my new house,” Alphira said. “These are all yours.”

Caleb nodded slowly, pulling his mind back into his skull. “Wundervoll, danke.” He took a calming breath. “This is a nice place, Professor.”

Alphira smiled. “Yes, I did not make nearly enough use out of it. But I hear you three have a lot of friends from out of town.”

“Ja, we do not see them enough.”

“Perhaps you will see them more once you have a place to welcome them.” Alphira led them back downstairs, and into the other side of the house where they could sit around the small dining table. Alphira already had the paperwork they needed to sign; Caleb got the impression Beau and Yasha had already decided to buy the house before they spoke to him about it. He was glad the decision was out of his hands.

He signed the paperwork, using both his legal name and the name he now wore (Alphira had apparently been briefed on this, and had consulted a contract lawyer on how to make it work on a binding document). Caleb had needed to sign various statements as part of Trent’s trial, so signing in Bren’s name was not as strange as he feared it would be. He was relieved. Beau and Yasha had insisted on finding a way that his new name would also be included, given he had not gone through any legal name-change process. The money Veth gave him more than covered his part of the cost. He needed to hug her. He needed to hug all of them.

Alphira gave them three copies of the contract and handed over the deed to the property. “I will head to the housing authority and file the paperwork immediately.” She slid the keys over the table to them. “Congratulations on your new home.”

She left. Caleb traced the shapes of the letters on his copy of the contract, over and over, letting reality sink in. He had a house. A house in Rexxentrum. A house in Rexxentrum with two of his best friends. It wasn’t at all what he imagined he would have when he was seventeen, when he thought he and Astrid and Wulf would one day have done their duty for the empire and settled down together.

But this was good. This was right .

He cried. Yasha was probably crying, too, but he couldn't see. The three of them hugged across the table, the edges jabbing their ribs.

#critical role #caleb widogast #shadowgast #not a lot in this chapter but there will be #fanfiction #ao3 #my fics #the pomegranate's professor widogast fic

[luulapants]

the passcode thing is cool as shit. if youre still infodumping what is your FAVORITE thing about a language. or languages in general. talk for a long time about some nerd shit is what i'm saying

You want a long infodump of nerd shit?? HERE IT COMES

My absolute favorite area of study in linguistics is pidgin and creole languages and, in particular, this really weird theory around them being the secret to discovering the “root code of language.” To start, you need to know what a pidgins and creoles are and what the difference is:

The word “pidgin” is based on a transcription of how Chinese merchants pronounced the English word “business.” And that’s a pretty apt description! A pidgin is a sort of broken mashup of two or more languages that occurs when speakers of different languages, who don’t speak one another’s languages with much fluency, have to interact and figure out how to communicate with one another. Historically, this often happened during trade and commerce interactions.

Imagine you’re a French merchant arriving in Haiti and trying to sell gun powder to a local who speaks no French whatsoever and you don’t even know what language this dude speaks. And you’re pointing at your wares and shouting “Poudre pour les armes!!” which to him probably sounds like “Pood pore lay zahhm” and the local kinda squints at you and says “Poud zam?” and mimes shooting a gun. You’re sick of shouting and you think he gets what you’re saying, so you’re just like “Oui, sure, poud zam,” and now gunpowder is “poud zam.”

Generally, one language provides most of the vocabulary for a pidgin, whichever is most widely spoken or is spoken by those with the most prestige or power. That’s called 'lexification.' So, for instance, Haitian creole is 'French lexified.' The vocabulary will be colored by local accents, though, and depend on what sounds everyone knows how to make (if half the people don’t know how to trill their ‘R’s, that sound will be left out of a Spanish-based pidgin).

When it comes to grammar, though, pidgins are distinctly lacking. Communicating grammar by pointing and shouting just doesn’t work that well, and you can mostly get by without a lot of grammatical nuance in those contexts. “Me give gunpowder. You give one-two-three bag gold.” BOOM, commerce accomplished.

You really only need more comprehensive structures once the pidgin enters the private/personal sphere, and THIS is where creoles come in. A pidgin becomes a creole the moment it becomes someone’s mother tongue. The second a kid is raised speaking pidgin as a first language, it’s considered a creole. And the reason we make that distinction is where things get very interesting.

Unlike pidgins, creoles are grammatically complete. But it’s not like anyone sits down and says, "Okay, kids are learning this now, we have to figure out the grammar rules.” It’s actually the opposite. Children naturally fill in the grammatical gaps of a pidgin. Studies that compared adult pidgin speakers with their creole-speaking children found that the children had formed grammatical constructions... pretty much out of nowhere. They do it naturally. Instinctively.

Now, this makes sense if you’ve ever spoken with a child who is still learning their first language. Have you ever heard a kid say ‘mouses' instead of 'mice'? It’s because they’ve learned the grammar rule for how we pluralize things in English and simply over-applied it. Kids will take the barest hints and grains of grammar in a pidgin and apply them over an entire language. And if there’s nothing to go off of? They make it out of nothing.

One really fascinating thing about creoles is that a lot of them share similar features - even when they were made in very different places, based on very different languages. Since a lot of modern creoles were created during the colonial period, one theory was that those features come from common ‘substratum’ languages (languages that didn’t lexify the pidgin) that were spoken by the African slaves transported around the world. While this may have contributed to some language similarities, attempts to trace back the linguistic origins of the populations that created the original pidgins has generally disproved this theory. Another WILD theory was that all creoles were originally based on Portuguese. Don’t ask me how this makes sense. It doesn’t. But there were whole ass professional academics spewing that shit.

A more contemporary - and exciting! - theory is that these common features come from a “root code of language” buried in the human brain. Basically, that children can and will learn whatever grammatical constructions exist in the language they’re taught, but when there’s nothing for them to go off of, there is a very old basic language instinct that reverts them to our oldest, most basic grammar forms. One example is reduplication or the repeating of all or part of a word. Instead of using a suffix for pluralization (mouses), you just say the word twice (mouse-mouse). Instead of saying ‘really tall,’ you say ‘tall-tall.’ This does exist in some other languages but is particularly common in creoles.

Creoles are often seen as “simple” or “incomplete” languages. While they are simpler in some ways, native speakers are still able to convey complex ideas, which makes them more complicated in others. For instance, creoles tend to have a smaller vocabulary. However, to make up for this, they tend to be highly metaphorical in their constructions. In Tok Pisin, the creole of Papua New Guinea, most fibrous materials are called 'gras' (as in ‘grass’ - it’s English-lexified). But to distinguish between them, you have ‘gras bilong het’ (hair), ‘gras bilong sipsip’ (wool), ‘gras bilong solwara’ (seaweed).

Grammatically, creoles tend to have fewer verb tenses and tend not to have case markers. But it would be a mistake to say that all creole grammar is simple. To use Tok Pisin as an example again, that language has way more pronoun distinctions than most languages. Instead of just “we,” it has words for “you and me,” “me and another person [not you],” “me and two other people [not you],” “me and the two of you,” “me and all y’all,” and “me and all of them.” They have different forms of ‘you’ depending on if you’re talking about one, two, three, or more than three people - same with ‘he/she/them’! (And their pronouns are nongendered.)

Grammatical simplicity doesn’t equate to a lesser language, in any case. And it can tell us a lot about how languages develop over time. Creoles have fewer irregular constructions than older languages, which makes sense - irregular constructions are often vestiges of old words or grammar that no longer exist. A lot of grammatical complexity is just the result of things being added to a language or changing over time. If creoles are using a “new” root code sort of grammar, it makes sense that it wouldn’t be as “complex” - they haven’t had time to fuck it up yet!

So these are some of the many, many reasons I love creoles. I hope you enjoyed this infodump <3

Ask me about linguistics!

#creole #pidgin #language #linguistics #infodump

[luiscivious]

— && guests may mistake me as ( hugh dancy ), but really i am ( luis cholmondeley + male + he/him ) and my DOB is ( 01/31/1979 ). i am a ( fashion designer ) and would like to stay in suite ( #313 ). i won’t be much of a bother because i am ( + polished, meticulous, and incisive ), but i can also be ( - undemonstrative, rancorous, and fatalistic ) at times. personally, i like to ( read, listen to music alone, and solve puzzles ) when i have the time to relax, and my favorite snack is ( candied citrus peels ) to have in my suite. thank you for checking in!

i suddenly had an insatiable need to make a new muse for the rp. i hope you guys like him!! he’s a weird fusion between a very old muse of mine and a ton of new ideas! there’s also a tl;dr if you don’t wanna sit through all of it lol tw: cancer, tw: death mention

BACKSTORY AND SUMMARY 

Luis was born in New Haven, Connecticut and is the third out of five children, as well as being the first of two sons in the family. His father was an American high profile defense attorney who has worked to absolve power-players in the government of any foul play before retirement. His mother is a British heiress to one of the largest cattle breeders in the world whose only work experience is managing hedge funds. 

Needless to say, Luis and his siblings grew up without ever wanting for anything. Despite all being born in the US, the Cholmondeley family spent most of their time in Europe. Luis went to private schools in London, Paris, and Rolle, where he graduated from Institut Le Rosey at the top of his class in 1995.

After graduating, instead of taking a gap year as many his age did, Luis set out his applications and was accepted into several ivy leagues, but settled on Harvard as it was his parents’ desire to have their children aim for the stars. Luis and his closest sister in age above him were to study law and become president. At least, that was the plan. Academic rivals and all that. His sister went to Yale.

Luis thrived in university even better than he did in high school, but wound up finding more enjoyment out of medicine than he did his law classes. Considering how impossible it would be to go both pre-law and pre-med while balancing a myriad of extracurricular activities, he decided to forego his medical dreams for his undergraduate study and graduated summa cum laude with a major in Political Science and a minor in Biology, a fact that his mother was impressed with, even if his father found useless.

His father’s disappointment only grew when Luis decided to enroll in Harvard Medical School rather than the law school. At this point, Luis had solidified himself as an individual. If the family wanted a president, his sister was more than willing to play the part.

Medical school was, of course, no different academically than his previous years of schooling. He graduated and immediately performed his residency at the John Hopkins Hospital, specializing in general medicine and shadowing underneath the general surgeon. While studying there, he took an interest in making his own clothes. It had started out as a hobby, but soon became a serious point of interest for the man. He ended getting so good at it, he would make articles of clothes for the other doctors. In the coming years, this would play a large part in his ultimate decision to part ways with John Hopkins.

This decision was also the last straw for Luis’ father. He was effectively ostracized, treated like a failure for pursuing a passion instead of doing something practical. To his father, it wasn’t enough to be rich. Power and influence meant so much more. Luis was left to fend for himself, though being the child of wealth didn’t mean much overall. He was able to use his family name and several connections to work with high end designers and wound up making a name for himself on his own. The first big jumping point in his career was when his pieces were featured on the bodies of Vogue cover models. He had finally done it, broken through.

Life hit hard immediately after. Luis was always prone to intrusive thoughts, but they were getting worse suddenly. His vision suffered, his morale and balance took a huge drop, and he didn’t need the doctor’s appointment to tell him something was wrong in his brain. They discovered that he had a cancerous tumor, Anaplastic astrocytoma, in his brain that would most likely kill him in less than five years if it wasn’t removed. They were unsure of how long he’d have if it were removed, however, as the cells could have spread elsewhere or could be incredibly aggressive.

Luis felt that the walls of his world were caving in, but he did what he knew best: compartmentalized it. Money handled the rest. He kept his treatments and eventual surgeries to himself, touting his shaved head as a fashion statement rather than anything serious. He hid it from the world as the world began to finally look at him as a celebrity stylist at the top of his game. 

He never reconnected with his family during these dark times, choosing to face it all alone and hope to never drag anyone down with him. He had never been the brightest star in the sky, but he smiled less as time went on. He felt less too.

As of now, Luis has been in remission for several years. He doesn’t believe he’s beaten cancer forever, but that’s more pessimism that he masquerades as realism. 

TLDR;

Luis is a famous fashion designer who came from wealth and is now at the Malnati. He’s a cancer survivor and a perpetual grump.

HEADCANONS

Luis’s accent is contentious. There are times where he sounds almost Mid-Atlantic and others where it’s so posh, it’s akin to the Queen’s English. He argues that his accent is a perfect blend of his parents, but he certainly leans more toward his mother’s accent.

Aside from English, Luis speaks German, French, and Italian fluently. He is conversational in Spanish, Portuguese, and Mandarin Chinese but don’t claim any as proficiencies.

He has a strong eidetic memory and a near photographic memory that is disturbingly accurate. This has helped him study in school, but has come in handy even more as an adult in expanding his visual bank for design options.

Luis isn’t very tall. Hugh Dancy is about 5′10″ ish, but Luis stands at 5′4″ in shoes. Flatfoot, would be almost a full inch or so shorter.

He suffers from a diagnosed anxiety disorder and that extends socially. This makes him a rather quiet person around others. However, if he’s put in a position where his rehearsed words aren’t easily applicable, Luis will get flustered very easily, which can cause him to stumble when speaking. He’s also been known to infodump if he’s particularly close to someone.

#╰ °✧ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ʙɪʀᴅ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ʙɪʀᴅ ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ʜᴜʀᴛɪɴɢ ( intro. ) #malnatiooc #tw cancer #tw death mention

[thecloserkin]

book review: Mira Grant, Feed (2010)

Genre: Sci-Fi

Is it the main pairing: Yes

Is it canon: No

Is it explicit: No

Is it endgame: Yes

Is it shippable: Hell to the yes

Bottom line: Creepily Codependent Siblings Survive the Zombie Apocalypse! They are adopted but the way they refer to each other as “my brother” and “my sister” when they could have used given names instead? I am here for it. While tight plotting is not one of this book’s strengths, you should slog through the infodumps to the ending which packs one hydrogen bomb of an emotional wallop.

This is the first book in the “Newsflash” trilogy about a pair of journalists, Georgia and Shaun Mason, who begin by blogging out of their parents’ basement and end by uncovering a vast governmental conspiracy subtended by various alphabet-soup agencies. The zombie apocalypse itself happened 23 years ago, and it happened the way these things invariably happen: Scientists try to cure cancer/the common cold, unleash freak virus on humanity, cue end of the world as we know it. Georgia and Shaun are the paradigmic products of this remade world: They, like many children born in and around the chaos of the outbreak, were orphans. On their adoption papers their birthdays are given as the same day—an arbitrary made-up date, but it makes them twins even if George is def a few months older. She acts older too, acting as the business brains of their fledgling journalistic operation while Shaun’s job is to “poke dead things with sticks” and look good while doing it. There is a performative aspect to Shaun’s mugging for the camera and flirting with anything in a skirt. He’s doing it because outrageous behavior garners them more hits, obviously, but he’s also doing it for George who gets a kick out of watching him charm the pants off people. She is bemused but not remotely threatened. George is all-business all the time, emotionally guarded and wary of physical contact, and one time when someone tried to hug her Shaun smoothly stepped up to intercept the hug to spare her the discomfort of enduring it. I SCREAMED. Note that George doesn’t mind being touched if it’s Shaun doing it:

I shuddered. Shaun caught the gesture and put a hand at the small of my back, steadying me. I flashed him a smile.

Shaun put a hand on my knee, steadying me, and I covered it with my own.

These small moments of tenderness punctuate an endearingly banterful sibling rapport. This is them reacting to the news of their big break—they’ve been tapped to cover the presidential campaign of an idealistic Wyoming senator:

Shaun was sure we’d get it. I was sure we wouldn’t. Now, staring at the monitor, Shaun said, “George?” “Yeah?” “You owe me twenty bucks.”

This is George shooing Shaun out of her room so she can change her clothes:

I pointed to the door. “Get out. There’s about to be nudity, and you’ll just complicate things.” “Finally, adult content! Should I turn the webcams on?”

This is big sister Georgia mocking Shaun for his youthful indiscretions:

”Remember how pissed you got when we had to do all that reading about the Rising back in sixth grade? I thought you were going to get us both expelled.”

In conclusion I love them sfm they are perfect.

As an aside, the people tagging this book “horror” on Goodreads have either not read the book (which is legit, TBR piles are a thing) or don’t understand what horror is? It’s like they saw the word “zombies” and just auto-completed the genre. What defines horror is not blood, gore, or violence but the fear and loss of agency engendered by that violence. That’s why so many horror film protagonists are women, who experience loss of agency in large and small ways on a daily basis and must learn to survive in the face of it; it’s cathartic to watch them take back control. The point of this digression is that THIS IS NOT A HORROR NOVEL. It’s not about that kind of fear!!! This is a political thriller so buckle in kids we’re going for a ride.

Twenty-three years ago during the outbreak, Georgia and Shaun’s parents lost their eight-year-old biological son. He was bitten by the neighbors’ dog. This was before it was widely understood that the virus could jump between mammalian species, and that anything surpassing the 40 pound threshold was susceptible to its effects. The dog weighed over 40 pounds. The Masons, who were award-winning reporters in their own right, dealt with their grief by channeling their emotional resources into chasing the news ratings. They continued to be phenomenally successful journalists as well as shitty parents to Shaun and Georgia, whom they seem to have adopted entirely for publicity purposes. The narrative invites us to draw the comparison between George and Shaun, who have chosen to pursue this career out of a thirst for THE TRUTH, and their parents who have less lofty motivations. Not to put too fine a point on it but their parents are mercenary motherfuckers. These kids survived their childhood by building an emotional bunker that they never learned to climb out of. This line from the very first chapter is so telling because they’re out in the field and Shaun is being chased by a zombie right?:

I screamed, images of my inevitable future as an only child filling my mind.

When Shaun’s in mortal peril, Georgia doesn’t think of him as “the center of my universe”— which he is—she thinks of the void that would result in the loss of her brother. That’s how they fit together, that’s what they are to each other, and all the other stuff is layered on top of the shared trauma of their childhood. Ffs they even have a ritual for administering each other’s blood tests—you know that thing at wedding toasts where the bride and groom loop their arms together and tip the champagne flute into the other’s mouth? Like that:

Moving with synchronicity born of long practice, we broke the biohazard seals and popped the plastic lids off our testing units

So the protocol for taking blood tests, which everyone has to do all day long to prove they’re not infected, is to come into the foyer/antechamber/vestibule one at a time and once you test clean you proceed into the building while the next person cycles into the chamber. That way, if anyone is found to be infected, they can be isolated. Georgia and Shaun have never once complied with this rule:

Our next-door-neighbor used to call Child Protective Services every six months because our folks wouldn’t stop us from coming in together. But what’s the point of life if you can’t take risks now and then, like coming into the damn house with your brother?

Implying that if one of them ever got bitten by a zombie the other one would rather spend the rest of their short life trapped in a garage with the shambling corpse of their sibling than die in their sleep at a ripe old age. Talk about ride or die.

I said before that this presidential campaign, this is their big break as much as it is the candidate’s. Up till now George and Shaun have been blogging under the umbrella of news aggregation entities (sort of like how BuzzFeed and HuffPost and Medium are populated by user-generated content that isn’t necessarily making the content creator an appreciable pile of money), but now they’ve finally landed the story that will let them strike out on their own. One of the sharpest things about this book is how it depicts journalism as a job, and a tough one to do right. Nashville does the same thing for the music industry, and as over-the-top as that show is, it shows you the nuts and bolts of success in a profession where practitioners are supposedly driven by “passion” alone. Here the distribution of labor is skewed pretty heavily towards George:

I get the administrative junk that Shaun’s too much of a jerk and Buffy’s too much of a flake to deal with.

Buffy is their business partner and some kind of auteur hacker + tech whiz. Shaun is the public face of their media brand. But make no mistake, George is the heart and soul and brains of this operation. You see her business acumen in drive-by observations like “Replacing that much equipment would kill our operating budget for months,” or when she talks about i n s u r a n c e. And George talks about insurance a lot. She mentions how a certain camera covered in zombie body fluids is an insurance write-off, how being present in designated high-risk zones during certain times of day can triple your insurance premium, how a certain treatment for her chronic vision condition isn’t covered by health insurance. I … just wanna point out that the human race has survived a flippin’ zombie apocalypse, but the United States remains wedded to private for-profit health insurance where who and what are “covered” remains a game of Russian roulette?!! Whoever said it was “easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism” was onto something. This society is functioning cohesively enough that elections are a thing (thus, nation-states are still a thing). If you want to tell me our fragmented, inefficient, fee-for service model of paying for medical care that routinely bankrupts & kills our citizens has weathered the end of civlization and emerged intact from its ashes, you better look me dead in the eye and bring receipts.

What’s really impressive about Georgia is she’ll rattle off exactly what kind of activities (those forbidden by her journalistic licensing) will invalidate her life insurance if she’s stupid enough to get killed while doing them. From which I surmise that she and Shaun are both covered by pretty hefty policies of which they are each other’s sole beneficiary. Which makes sense, they’re in a dangerous line of work, but I feel like it’s a poor investment since whoever was left behind would be doing their damnedest to climb into the grave next to their sibling lol.

Another little requirement of the household insurance—since we leave safe zones all the time in order to do our jobs, we have to be able to prove we’ve been properly sterilized, and that means logged computer verification of our sterilizations.

George is talking about the AI that is apparently located in her showerhead that douses her with a bleach & antiseptic compound when she comes back from being in the field?? That sounds painful but what concerns me is the breathtaking scope of the Internet of Things’ penetration into her life. The AI is in the bathroom. It knows exactly where she’s been bc ofc her GPS location can be tracked via her phone, and it’s merrily sending packets of information off to …. somewhere, where it will doubtless be aggregated with all the data collected about George from other sources, and combed for patterns to predict future behavior. That’s how surveillance capitalism works. if this sounds chillingly familiar it’s because it’s already happening, it’s what the tech giants are already doing—gobbling up as much data about as many people in as many contexts as possible—and leveraging that data for profit. Privacy is a joke. George is not unaware of this, but what choice does she have? It’s either install the damn AI in her showerhead or get her parents’ homeowners’ insurance policy cancelled for being too “high risk.”

I want to circle back to George’s chronic medical condition for a sec. She’s got a disability—what’s a called a “reservoir condition” where the virus takes up residence in a body organ, in her case the retina—meaning essentially that she has zombie vision; she can see ridiculously well in low light situations but direct sunlight will blind her. She has to wear shades even indoors and is literally incapable of crying since her tear ducts are inoperative. So there’s a testy situation where a federal agent tries to get her to take off her sunglasses so he can verify her identity with a retinal scan right? And because they’re standing outside this is obviously a recipe for permanent blindness, quite aside from the fact you wouldn’t be able to get a valid scan anyway due to the virus over-dilating George pupils. But instead of checking George’s files, where her disability & its effects are prominently listed, this grunt insists on making her remove her glasses because Procedure. It’s a pretty tense moment. Shaun goes ballistic. He doesn’t physically threaten the dude, or insult his mom or anything. No, Shaun understands that he needs to make this pencil-pusher more afraid of the consequences of taking George’s glasses than of Not Following Procedure. And it works. YEET.

On the campaign trail the Senator’s aides arrange for sex-segregated hotel rooms but Shaun and George are having none of it:

On the few occasions when I’ve tried sleeping without Shaun in the next room, well, let’s just say that I can go a long way on a six-pack of Coke.

The ostensible reason the sleeping arrangements need to be reshuffled is, Buffy can’t sleep without a nightlight and George’s eyes can’t tolerate a nightlight. Clearly the real reason is George and Shaun are c l i n g y and codependent as FUCK. One night after a zombie attack and the long grueling hours of cleanup/decontamination that followed it, they actually climb into the same bed—I guess this room only had a double instead of two singles?? The scene the next morning, the two of them having predictably overslept:

“Fuck a duck, Buffy, what are you trying to do, blind her?” … Shaun, clad only in his boxer shorts, staring at an unrepentant Buffy.

So Shaun’s beef with Buffy is not that she barged in on them while they were asleep & half-naked but that she opened the curtains, thereby triggering a painful migraine for George’s sensitive eyes. Buffy explains she didn’t shake them awake because they both sleep armed, lmao. George’s disability and Shaun’s practiced ability to help her maneuver around it (like a trusty prosthetic, he’s an extension of herself) serves to highlight how in this partnership they are one unit and they know each other inside out. This is them after their close shave with the dunce who tried to take George’s glasses:

“Fuck you, too,” I muttered as Shaun got his arm around me and hoisted me away from the barn. “You kiss our mother with that mouth?” “Our mother and you both, dickhead. Give me my sunglasses.”

And this is George waking up in their hotel room, eyes squeezed shut against the glare of multiple computer screens:

He touched my hand with the tips of his fingers before he pressed my sunglasses against my palm.

This is absurdly, spine-tinglingly intimate. First he touches her hand with the tip of his fingers, the most fleeting of touches to let her know it’s him, and then he presses the glasses into her palm to restore her agency so she can, you know, open her eyes. And that earlier scene with him guiding her by the elbow in broad daylight!!! I’M NOT CRYING YOU’RE CRYING

Sometimes I can hardly believe that George and Shaun are twenty-three years old. When I was twenty-three I … was not adulting half so well as these kids. But then, giving their barbarous upbringing, that’s not surprising; my parents loved and nurtured me. When I look at George and Shaun and the successful business they’ve built and the professional relationships they’ve cultivated and their expertise and their bravery I just feel this proud parental glow you know?

I want to say a word about Senator Ryman before we move onto spoiler territory. There’s a big controversy initially about whether the Senator is “genuine” or not (spoiler alert: he is). But what does that even mean, genuine? He’s a good egg, sure, but what are his policies, none of which are explored in depth except his support for horse farms??? I’m not kidding. In a world where any animal weighing over 40 pounds is a zombie outbreak waiting to happen, it’s a controversial position to say people should be able to keep pets in residential zones. Here is how George describes our Candidate:

He’s like a big, friendly Boy Scout who just woke up one day and decided to become the President of the United States of America.

I see two major problems with this: One, they say “Personnel is Policy” so who the hell is he planning to appoint to key Cabinet positions and can he trust them to pursue rather than undermine his objectives (and does he even have a deep enough bench of people to draw on)? Two, the Boy Scouts of America are not exactly, er, unproblematic, and while it’s safe to say our faves are always problematic, I think “Boy Scout” is shorthand here for “no skeletons in his closet,” which again puts the focus squarely on his personal qualities rather than what policies he espouses. It’s great that he hasn’t cheated on his wife or his taxes. But morality and ethics are not the same thing:

Morals are how you treat people you know. Ethics are how you treat people you don’t know. Your morality is what makes you a good spouse/friend … Your ethics are what makes you a good politician … Morality dictates that you take care of your family, friends and even acquaintances first … For a large society—a society where you can’t know everyone—to work, ethics must come before morality, or ethics and morality must have a great deal of overlap. By acting morally, you must be able to act ethically.

I think we can all agree that this does not describe how our society is currently constituted, and it doesn’t describe George and Shaun’s America either. So this narrow fixation on whether individual candidates are “genuine” or corrupt imo kinda misses the point. George says:

I haven’t even been able to find proof that his campaign received funding from the tobacco companies, and everyone’s campaign receives funding from the tobacco companies.

I don’t want to undersell how important it is the guy is not taking tobacco money. But is he also eschewing Wall Street money, Big Pharma money, defense contractor money? How could George possibly have time to investigate all this dark money if she is supposed to be covering the actual campaign? Seems like it would be a lot easier to reform the campaign finance laws than to vet every single single candidate’s funding sources.

I think one reason the Senator is long on identity & personal charisma and short on policy is that he’s up against an opponent whose base of support is millenarian-fundamentalist “the Rapture is here, we’re all going to hell”:

it was either Ryman’s brand of “we should all get along while we’re here,” or Tate’s hellfire and damnation.

If that is the main faultline in society, I guess half the voters don’t really wanna hear how a given politician is planning to make a material difference in their lives, since they’ve already got eyes on the prize aka the next life.

So there you have it. George and Shaun are scrappy independent muckrakers digging for the truth. Time and again their allegiance to that holy grail overrides their concern for trivial aims like idk personal safety. There’s a vast, shady conspiracy afoot, and as our heroes get closer to it they start getting shot at. They lose comrades. None of this deters them because they are after THE TRUTH. Oh wait there is in fact one thing George values more than the truth:

”You’re more interested in your brother than figuring out the truth?” “Shaun’s the only thing that concerns me more than the truth does.”

And later:

The sight of him was enough to make my heart beat faster and my throat get tight. I knew he was wearing Kevlar underneath his clothes, but Kevlar wouldn’t protect him from a headshot.

Her first concern is always, always, for him.

SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS

George gets infected. That’s the denouement. George is infected and Shaun has to shoot her before she turns all the way. Every single person who makes it to this scene is just bawling by the end of it:

His lips brushed the top of my head as he bent forward and pressed them to my hair. I wanted to yell at him to get away from me, but I didn’t. The barrel of the gun remained a cool, constant pressure on the back of my neck. When I turned, when I stopped being me, he would end it. He loved me enough to end it. Has any girl ever been luckier than I am?

The reassuring pressure of the gun on the base of her neck??? Has there been a more romantic moment in cinematic history??? I THINK NOT. Shaun is a crack shot—he’s the kind of guy who caresses his guns, names them after pretty women, causes his sister to grouse about digging through a suitcaseful of his weaponry to find her clothes—and yet here he is using his gun to kill the woman he loves most in the world.

It was supposed to be Shaun. They both took it as a given that Shaun would be the one to die first. Now he has to find a reason to continue living other than the obvious (vengeance). Stay tuned for the next installment, narrated by Shaun!

#newsflesh #book review #mira grant

[honeylikewords]

Hey, K, I know it’s been days but you still feel like infodumping about Spiderverse? :o

pettyprocrastination said to jonedwardbernthal:Hello yes I loved into the spiderverse with my heart and soul please info dump I require sustenance

YES I DO WANT TO INFODUMP ABOUT SPIDERVERSE THANK YOU FOR ASKING

okay okay so i’m gonna put this all under a cut for those who haven’t seen the movie and wish to remain spoiler free, and i’ll also put a couple images so that mobile users (who sometimes automatically see the post, apparently?) to warn them to scroll past!

(pls enjoy my crappy ms paint warning banner ghskhgdk)

SO FIRST OF ALL I WANT TO SAY that genuinely, this movie changed my life. I have never been as excited or happy about a movie as I was with this one, and can find few (if any) flaws with it. I would have to be hyper-nitpicky if I wanted to point out anything wrong with it, but overall, I gotta say, this movie inspired me, made me cry, made me laugh out loud, made me shake and jitter with excitement.

I should point out that, yes, the visuals can be kinda jarring, especially for sensitive people like me who react to flashing stimulus and abrupt movement very poorly, but I honestly LOVED the visual aspect of the film. The character design is incredible, the animation is so unique and stunning, and every single person has this wonderful individuality in the way they look and move that it just blows me away. This movie is already a frontrunner for an Oscar in the animation category, apparently, and it’s easy to see why.

The writing is also impeccable, with a quick pace and genuine humanity to it, and it feels so bright and alive! The way people talk is so full of character and personality, and Miles’ codeswitching is adorable and fun to listen to, and everyone has such a special and unique personality that comes through how they speak. The voice acting is INCREDIBLE and the array of the cast is SO awesome and I LOVE everyone who was in it!

I literally am so excited about everything that I’m having a hard time keeping this post linear and sensical, but I just! Love it so much!

Some people criticize the film by saying that it’s not really the “first black Spiderman movie” because Miles “shares the spotlight”, but, honestly? That didn’t come across to me at all. This movie felt entirely centered on Miles. Yes, Peter B. Parker played a big role, but, like, every movie has supporting characters and co-mains. I understand the frustration, but that’d kinda be like saying that Captain America: The First Avenger isn’t Steve’s story because Peggy gets screentime and so does Bucky. But I also do get where people are coming from and I find the frustration very valid.

But I LOVE all the spider-people, and they didn’t actually overwhelm the movie. Peni, SpiderNoir, and SpiderHam all took backseats. They were fun additions, but didn’t ever detract from the experience of this being Miles’ story. Even Gwen didn’t derail the film, or even Peter B.! They all stayed in their lanes and moved Miles’ story along, more like the wheels propelling him than roadblocks obfuscating his progression. 

I loved every one of the characters, and I got so attached to all of them; Miles’ family really stands out to me, because they are such strong and loving characters, and it is so, so sadly rare to see loving black families portrayed like this. Jefferson, Miles’ dad, is allowed to be flawed without ever crossing the line into “bad dad” territory. He’s allowed to be wrong but still love his son and be doing the absolute best for him. Even Miles’ “bad” uncle, Aaron, made me cry and love him. When Aaron died, I was horrified (mostly because, I mean, god, we really did not need to see another black man getting shot by a white guy...), but they also never demonized Aaron, or downplayed the tragedy of his loss. He was heroic, even in his mistakes, and I think that was really noble on the part of the storytellers. 

The movie just feels so lived in and loved and human, and you can tell that it’s just a work of art and love and passion. It’s a game-changer. I legitimately consider it the best Marvel movie ever made, on par with Black Panther in terms of artistic value and importance. It’s the fun of Thor: Ragnarok and the art and significance of Black Panther rolled into one, unique, amazing bundle that has forever set the bar for how I want movies, especially movies intended for families and children to be.

“Anyone can wear the mask” means something. It may sound like a cheesy cop-out, but it means that we don’t have to look up to Perfect Pillars Of White Heroism as our standards. It means black children from Brooklyn are heroes. Jewish people are heroes. Women are heroes. Asian people are heroes. Even Miles’ parents are heroes, and it shows the wide gamut of good people and what we owe to each other. While neither Rio nor Jefferson Morales-Davis are “superheroes”, they are legitimate heroes, doing their part to make the world a better place.

Also, check THIS:

Just saying!

Anyway, moving on; the jokes in the movie are awesome, and my family has been throwing them back and forth ever since we saw the movie. SpiderHam’s t-pose ascension into the black hole and “keep this, it’ll fit in your pocket” had us in tears. SpiderNoir and the Rubik’s cube? Incredible. Peter B. crying in the shower? Artistry.

AND NOW FOR ME TO TALK ABOUT THE AFTER CREDITS SCENE BECAUSE I HAVE BEEN HOLDING IT IN FOR S O   L O N G

When I read that Oscar had a cameo in the movie, I needed to know. It was the only spoiler I allowed myself to know about, and when I heard he was going to be Spider-Man 2099/Miguel O’Hara, I flipped. I read nothing else about the scene, and wanted to go in blind, but I researched Miguel and, well, you know, I fell in love!

His scene was SO good and SO funny and I LOVE Miguel SO much, you have no idea. I am SO excited for him to be in the next movie (fingers crossed!) and can’t wait to see more of him. I do hope they give him more screen time, because he’s a great character, and because it’d be amazing to have a Latino Spider-Man AND a Afrolatino Spider-Man! And because, you know, more Oscar is always ideal.

I love, love, love Miguel, and Oscar was so funny (he has amazing comedic timing and such great range, omg), and I am desperate to see more of him. I haven’t stopped bombarding my poor friend Cydney with love and affection for Miggy in, like, two weeks. I’m sure she’s sick of it by now. Also, I kinda wanna write stuff about Miggy, lowkey, as self-indulgence, but for now I’ll just keep that foolishness to myself lol.

Miguel O’Hara Is My Boyfriend Now ghdkhgkldhg

Anyway, the movie is chock-full of amazing things, both from an artistic/cultural standpoint and from a Marvel-fan standpoint: so many easter eggs and little surprises, so much amazing writing, so much amazing character design, just!! So! Good! Please go see it immediately, because I’m itching to see it again and don’t know how I can resist going in for a second watch.

Also, Peter B. Parker is Jewish and it’s canon and if you want to step up and fight me about it, feel free to, but I will kick your ass. I will. Know this. Jewish Spider-Man FOREVER, FOOLS. No one is allowed to thirst after him if they also ignore his being Jewish or disrespect it, so if you wanna love him, you gotta love his Judaism too, or I’ll fist-fight you behind the Denny’s at 3 am and knock you the hell out.

also john mulaney’s cussing outtakes for spiderham are the funniest thing on earth and i’m crying 

OH and I have the art book for the movie and everything is so *kisses fingers like an Italian cook* B E A U T I F U L! And the soundtrack? BOY I TELL YA I was listening to it for WEEKS in advance even when there were only three songs released and some of those tracks are, like, incredibly powerful, whooh. 

Anyway GO SEE SPIDERVERSE. I LOVE IT. ALL OTHER SPIDER-MAN MOVIES ARE DOOKIE BY COMPARISON.

I have more I could say but I’m so excited I’m bouncing around and going hog wild dgkgdhgkg i love spider verse

#spiderverse #messages #spoilers #into the spiderverse spoilers #miggy: LOOK AT YOUR FINGER LOOK AT IT YOU ARE POINTING AT ME #me wiping tears from my eyes: i cant believe i love you so freakin much #Anonymous