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hazardworld · 1 year

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Steve and the very party holidays

Just thinking about Steve having a really shitty holiday experience as a kid: his parents/extended family is Catholic (dad: Irish-American/mom: French), so he got first communion and they went to the big holiday services, but that was about it.

Just little ol’ baby Steve sitting in mass for an hour or two, then going home for presents, most of which were trendy “boy toys” he didn’t really care for. Also, he could easily tell they were easily things his dad’s assistant knew were the most popular, not things he was actually interested in.

Every few years or so, his parents would have a party: either Christmas or New Years, but it was always fancy, and Steve had to wear itchy uncomfortable clothing, and try not to get distracted, and there was always way too much wine.

(Apparently, you never went to a Christmas party without bringing wine)

When Steve started middle school, they’d leave on Christmas Eve, tell him to go to mass (by the time he had the means to, he’d lost the belief in a god anyway), and to have a good time. Also, Santa wasn’t real, apparently.

So he learned how to cook and how to take care of himself and the house, and it was fine. It wasn’t great, but it could be far worse, so it was fine. He was lucky: he had a house with paid bills, he’d eventually get a car, and he had the means of feeding himself without worries. It wasn’t ideal, but yeah, he could live with it.

So imagine senior Steve, (forcibly) invited to Machiavelli family Christmas by Dustin (I could make a whole post on why my cultural headcannons are what they are but I’m italian american and i DEF see more IA hendersons then IA harringtons) who shows up dressed in that same, stupidly itchy clothing with wine, only to be told by Claudia that he’s much too formal. The wine is taken, and he’s handed a pair of Claudia’s (clean) sweatpants and a very soft green sweater with a santa hat on it.

It’s only once he’s in the backseat with Dustin that he realizes all their sweaters match, and 30 minutes later at the “family house” that apparently every branch of their family has their own different sweaters. Not only that, but Steve gets introduced not as Dustin’s babysitter, but as his brother.

Steve is confused, because aren’t Christmas parties supposed to be all stuffy and boring but also nerve wracking because everything’s too overwhelming but if Steve shows it he’ll get punished?

Christmas parties aren’t laughter and coziness and friends and family all together (as the party continued, Steve met people and realized who was introduced as wouldn’t’ve mattered: everyone here, blood or not were treated like family).

Steve thinks it’s a one time thing, but he’s expected every year from then out: Dustin reported the Aunts agreed he was the best child-wrangler they’d ever seen, and Claudia said it was refreshing to have help bringing in her offerings for the large buffet. The next year it’s all the same but different, and Steve loves it.

Then comes Christmas 1986.

No one can leave Hawkins quite yet: the final gates have yet to close, though it should happen before the end of the new school year. For now, everyone’s stranded with what they can ship in or make themselves.

After the earthquake, Steve moved into the guest room of the Henderson’s place. They still used the mansion for party gatherings, but his parents made it clear they were never returning, and Steve had more happy memories with Dustin and Claudia then in the too-large expanse.

Once Max woke up, she moved in too: the government hush money was plenty enough to make Dustin’s bed into a bunk. Claudia even started calling them “her twins” after they formed a platonic codependency rivaling Steve and Robin’s.

The four of them spend Christmas together: Max gets her own sweater knit, and they even get some extra tinsel to wrap up her arm crutches and wheelchair for the days she needs them.

There’s no Machiavelli family that year, but Claudia teaches Steve the family lasagna recipe, and they open gifts to the sounds of “Charlie Brown Christmas” in the background.

Steve doesn’t think it can really get much better.

The evening of December 26 is a whirlwind.

The four get to the mansion early to set up. Plus, Steve has to make his Ratatouille, and Claudia has to heat up Dustin’s baked ziti, as well as the 10 different side dishes she did not sign up to make but insisted on, anyway.

The party’s at 6, but both the Munsons and the Byers-Hopper’s show up at 5:45, saying they were there in case anyone needed help. They both bring latkes, but since Eddie’s a terrible cook (other than sandwiches, eggs, or freezer meals) his are burnt. Luckily, Joyce is kind, and says theirs can count for both.

Argyle (who stayed just long enough to be included in the mandatory staying in Hawkins notice) made homemade flautas, while Hopper and El brought Eggos, since that’s all they could agree upon making.

The rest of the group arrives after that, though slightly later. Robin claims this is her fault, since apparently she got to the store way too late. She brought kringle (If you don’t know what kringle is go to trader joe’s or racine wisconsin it’s so worth it).

She also brought Max’s haggis: Max didn’t want anyone else in the house knowing what she was making, and Robin was the only one who let her use her parent’s kitchen to make it.

Lucas and Erica brought self-decorate-able christmas sweater speculaas cookies (that Lucas baked himself, thank you) and keep fighting over who gets to carry what. Erica said the tupperware is too warm, but she also doesn’t want the sticky frostings.

Nancy made things non-negotiable: since Mike wasn’t driving, he got the heavy crockpot of Swedish meatballs, while she got the casserole pan of shepherds pie.

Somehow, Murray also slipped in with risotto and various boozes. How? Steve didn’t really care, but it was wonderful getting to see his extended family, per se, coming together for the beauty of it all, and sharing each other’s cultures and traditions.

After food, everyone watches as Will and Eddie light the first Hanukkah candle (in 1986 Hanukkah started on dec 26!) together, and after that they all open their gifts to each other.

It’s a bit of a free-for-all after that: Dustin and Erica hopped up on sugar together is a nightmare, Argyle, Johnathan, and Will (apparently) got high while starfishing on the living room floor, Nancy found the wine cellar and started “taste testing,” Max and Mike started a hate-fueled tournament on Max’s new video game which Mike keeps trying to double the rounds for so he can win, and Robin and Eddie hopped up on sugar together is another nightmare. Steve’s only peace are the adults, plus Lucas and El who are quietly chatting and painting each other’s nails in the corner.

By the end of the evening, everyone saunters off the rooms, and Steve can’t be happier at the aftermath: the house that once encapsulated stuffy, sad, even disheartening memories now became somewhere where Steve could actually say his family had all been in.

And shit: Steve realized he had a family.

Wasn’t that a thought.

He was so fucking happy.

Fin.

(If any culture thing was wrong shout me out I wanna change it)

(also i wrote this at 4am sorry for typos and stuff)

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voluptuarian · 3 years

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“Medieval” Media on TV checklist

It’s in the UK. They can name it whatever they want, but it’s supposed to be the UK. (And not anywhere specific either-- is it Cornwall, Yorkshire, Aberdeen? None of the above, and also all.) So of course, it was filmed in Hungary, Croatia, and 2 French castles. Also it’s always winter because in medieval-fantasy-old-times-England it was always winter, always cold and gray, and always muddy, because of Christianity. Or something.

Paganism stand-in religion that is free-love-feminism-horned-god-bambi-rainbow-divine-feminine-oh-goddess!-silver-ravenwolf-glitter-farts and gives you magic powers and probably Disney Princess animal-handling skills. Clergy are female except for the only relevant character who is male and also probably Merlin, wear woad and Ren faire face paint, and are free of dogma or structure despite somehow having once governed. Now pushed into the shadows by “new” Christianity stand-in that hunts followers of the “old” religion as heretics.

Grimdark and repressive Christianity stand-in that rules with a patriarchal iron first and has made everyone miserable. Inexplicably Protestantism-based and Evangelical-inspired. Despite claiming to be medieval, no mention of Mary, Saints, feast days, pilgrimage, mystery plays, music, rosaries or medals, icons or relics, or probably even confession-- if you get lucky somebody might mention a Nail of the Cross or have communion. None of the clergy really believe unless they’re zealots, or sympathetic-and-tragically-misguided (and probably self-hating lesbians or something), everyone else is there out of ambition. Unlike the “old” religion, this one has zero divine or magical power and if it appears to have, that will actually come from demons-- who are real, although “new” God isn’t. Exists just to police sex and personal expression, self-flagellate, and guilt trip characters vaguely about “sin” without providing any discussion of what level sin it is or how many Hail Mary’s must be said to expatiate it.

Witch hunting mania which combines Renaissance Inquisition with independent early modern Puritan witch finding-- somehow is both Church-sponsored and widespread. Goes after women who are too sexy and independent, women who can read, anyone who believes in birth control, and the protagonist’s mother. Also followers of “old” religion who are usually secretly the above. Anyone caught will be burned at the stake, because hanging isn’t flashy enough.

Corsets as outerwear. Because bodices and corsets are the same thing. And everyone wore their underwear over their clothes. Victorian tightlacing de rigeur to combat wandering wombs and female mobility. If a female character wears armor, it too, is probably a corset. The enlightened heroine finally abandons hers with a feminine gasp of relief-- and no lingering health issues from years of tightlacing-- and her titties stay up anyway because of the Wonderbra she has on underneath.

Priests look like Martin Luther or the Ku Klux Klan. Nuns-- if they exist-- are only there to get killed, possessed, or dominated by male clergy (and possibly squeeze in an ill-fated lesbian romance before doing any of the former). No one has ever heard of an abbess and if you bring the subject up they’ll burn you at the stake.

If there are any Romans, they are exclusively played by Irish or German actors, with crisp Shakespearean accents. If there’s a German, they’re Dutch or Russian. If the “English” characters are actually English, they must be Southerners doing a basic British accent; if not they’re played by Americans doing no accent at all.

Chrome plate armor was all the rage in 500 AD

Despite witnessing the magic of “the old religion” firsthand, and being born and raised in the “new” one, the protagonist is an atheist, and even if he should meet god in person will steadfastly refuse to believe in Him. Because he’s just too cool and enlightened for that.

The plague is ever present, and has no name, since no one needs to define which plague, because there has only ever been the one. Other than starvation or being killed by the Baddie’s henchmen or the Church, it’s the only way anyone has ever died (except for pregnant women, who all die in childbirth.) Symptoms include fever, coughing, concealer appearing inexplicably on the lips, and then a few dramatic final words.

Nobody brushes their teeth because it’s Olde Tymes (incorrect) and nobody takes baths because it’s Satanic (also incorrect) yet every character with the exception of somebody only credited as “Ancient One-Eyed Old Coot” is clean, has shiny hair, no BO, and mouthfuls of big white teeth. Also perfume was never invented in this world, and the only beverage is water, mostly drunk from the hands at random streams, which are never mucked up or disease-carrying.

All the peasants dress in throw blankets and the remnants of Water World’s costuming department in a color range going from “Black Death” to “Dun”, accessorized with warts and fresh mud. The nobles meanwhile, drowning in money and with trade access to China dress like they were sent to The Wall, with the exception of “sexy slut” character who wears magenta crushed velvet off-the-shoulder gowns, and the only gay guy in the movie, who has slashed sleeves in 1350 and is one gold chain away from a rap career.

During interviews the cast will all say how they “wouldn’t have survived in medieval times” with all the mud and disease and sexual repression and they would have probably been “burned at the stake” for reading or swearing. The women fulfill their contractual obligation to complain about their corsets, yet another reason they would have died in “medieval times”. Somebody mentions the plague.

The harvest will be burned a dozen times, all the livestock will be slaughtered, the populace will end up homeless and starving, (which will of course, only concern the protagonist, who must dutifully share a crust of plain bread with some toothless vagrant) but once The Baddie is slain peace will return to the land and the infrastructure will magically rebuild itself, miraculously re-planting fields and restocking larders. Also it’s Spring now.

#I was annoyed and had some time on my hands #game of thrones #cursed netflix #every 'medieval knight movie' ever #middle ages #medieval

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snifflesthemouse · 3 years

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Why isn’t the second-born of the second-born listed on the Royal website’s Line of Succession Page? Still yet?

Hello and Good Day! I hope this post finds you all well, happy, and healthy. As for this author, please rest assured my silence has nothing to do with the content of this space and everything to do with personal preferences. In other words, I have been absent simply because I wanted to take a break from it all. During this break, there have been plenty of things worthy of discussion.

However, many of those discussions are discussions we’ve already had before, long before the press decided to make it officially newsworthy. It would seem the news and media are slow to catch onto what we’ve ALL known for quite some time. For example, we all knew the couple were planning money moves and business dealings long before the official “We quit!” announcements. We already knew, long before the news started discussing it, that the couple were trying to monetize their links to the Royal Family. And we all already knew that bullying claims and horror stories existed long before any official third-party investigations. This post will focus on the big question(s) of late: Why hasn’t the second-born of the second-born been added to the official Royal Family Line of Succession list?

The Royal Line of Succession (found here: https://www.royal.uk/succession) still suggests the second-born of the second-born is not in the official line. This could all very well be a big misunderstanding. Occam would suggest the simplest solution is the correct solution, right? So, the simplest solution would be that IT (or the responsible party for managing changes to the Royal UK website) hasn’t got around to making the changes to the Line of Succession.

According to the Mirror, (article link: https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/royal-familys-website-yet-add-24565116) updates or changes to the line of succession page can vary. It took 12 days for HRH The Prince Louis of Cambridge to be added. It took 15 days for Master Archie Mountbatten-Windsor to be added. Master August Philip Hawke Brooksbank was added to the official line of succession page 61 days after his arrival. The article didn’t mention how long it took after Master Lucas Tindall was born for his name to be added to the page.

The important fact, though, IS that both August and Lucas are on the list. Neither child has been christened in the Church of England. August’s christening had to be rescheduled. Lucas’s christening has yet to be scheduled or announced. It is worth noting, however, that Zara Tindall is not a working royal. Her first two children, Mia and Lena, were both christened at St. Nicholas’s Church in Gloucestershire several months after they were born. Both christenings were privately held with Her Majesty the Queen present. The godparents weren’t made public, either; yet it is known Prince Harry was named as one of the godparents for Lena.

It has been suggested Zara and Mike will follow suit with Lucas and hold a private christening at St. Nicholas’s Church in the near future. Some even suggest it will be around Christmastime when they do so, and that the Queen will be present for the christening. The Queen was suspected to attend the christening for August at Windsor before the worldwide bug caused the event to be rescheduled. The point of all this is that being christened has NOTHING to do with being added to the line of succession. We can see that is true since Lucas and August are yet to be christened.

According to Tatler, (article found here: https://www.tatler.com/article/surrogacy-and-peerages-legal-issues-family-law-marchioness-of-bath) titles and succession rights rely on the terms of the original grant. When it comes to the line of succession for the Royal Family, the royal.uk website explains clearly what requirements must be met for someone to hold a spot in line. These requirements have changed very little over the centuries. For someone to be in the line of succession, they must be legitimate-born Protestant descendants of the Princess Sofia, Electress of Hanover. Before the law changed, male descendants took precedent over females. Children born AFTER 28 October 2011 no longer adhere to the male-preference.

When the laws changed, with them also changed who needed consent from the Sovereign to marry. The updated laws stated only the first six in line to the throne needed Sovereign consent to marry. The law also changed the rules against descendants marrying Roman Catholics. Now, a descendant of Princess Sofia can keep their spot in the line of succession if they marry a Roman Catholic. When one thinks about it, it would seem like Her Majesty could predict the future.

The changes to the law essentially made sure that any female children of Prince William’s wouldn’t be knocked out of place. It also ensured Prince Harry would have to get permission to marry. However, nothing much else changed regarding the rules. So, any child added to the line of succession still needed to be a descendant of the Princess Sofia, Electress of Hanover. They had to be Protestant (only the Monarch need to be in communion with the Church of England), and they had to be legitimate. What exactly dictates legitimate, though?

Legitimacy requires the children be born to married Protestant parents, one of which who also descend from Princess Sofia. Therefore, children born out of wedlock are ineligible. Children born of surrogacy, regardless of the type of surrogacy used, are treated like adopted children. Adopted children are ineligible for the line of succession. Which brings us to the next point.

Master Archie Mountbatten-Windsor is in the line of succession. This tells us that he is a legitimate heir to the line of succession. So, he was born to married Protestant parents, one of which is a direct descendant of the Princess Sofia. Now, I’ve seen the theories regarding Archie. That’s a hot button topic for many. But the fact remains he is in the line of succession. There are several unanswered questions surrounding his birth. As I’ve mentioned before, the easel announcement had to have been created specifically for his birth since the document format was entirely different. No lines were even placed because there were never going to be any signatures.

If Archie were born with the use of a surrogate, it would mean one (or more) of the following:

1. The Royal Family either knew from the get-go and facilitated a cover-up

2. The Royal Family didn’t (or doesn’t still) know anything is amiss

3. The Royal Family learned about the surrogacy AFTER the fact, and the decision to leave Archie in the line of succession was a strong-armed, forced decision put upon the Royal Family

a. If this is the case, it would mean nobody saw #6 or his wife in private, behind the scenes to notice something was amiss

b. The Royal Family DID see the duo and caught on, deciding to distance themselves from the whole ordeal

c. It would also suggest Megxit was more about them saving face and ridding themselves of the deceitful duo now residing in Montecito.

4. The Deceitful Duo lied and deceived everyone, kept a distance from everyone, and used their “rift” with the other Royals as an excuse to keep them at bay.

Think about it. Buckingham Palace botched the announcements. First, they announced the couple were in labor in the afternoon, even though Archie was born early on that morning. The birth announcement/easel wasn’t signed, and it was entirely changed to fit the situation. Then, there was that questionable tweet from Kensington. Coupled with the alleged statement from the alleged Doctor’s husband that his wife did not deliver the child.

Now, either Archie’s mother saw an opportunity to fuel rumors, speculation, a family rift, etc. and decided to purposely make everything mysterious to drum up drama and attention. Or… the truth is there is a coverup at play. We may never know. But it does speak volumes to how things are playing out now with their second child.

Their second child was born in California on 4 June. There are already stories making the rounds regarding the second-born. First, it was #6 demanded a private christening at Windsor with the Queen in attendance. Then, it was #6 was supposed to acquire the baptismal gown and bring it back to California, so the child could be baptized stateside. Allegedly, the Queen said, “NO, NO, and NO!” to all of the demands (i.e. private Windsor ceremony, borrowing the gown, etc.).

New Idea reported the gossip (article found here: https://www.newidea.com.au/lilibet-christening). Saying all those “No’s!” enraged the couple, so they are banning Royals from the christening and having their own private ceremony stateside. Potentially, even having a Roman Catholic christening. That would end up being the perfect coverup…

If they decided on a Roman Catholic christening, they know it would force the second-born out of her spot in line. It would also become the scapegoat excuse. They could say the cruel Royals forced their hand, in turn forcing them to forfeit their second child’s spot in line. The same couple obsessed with the titles, who also denounce needing titles to serve since service is universal, would have the perfect excuse. Nobody would question it further (in their own minds, anyway).

But all that is speculation. Let’s look at facts. Facts state that a child must be legitimately born to a descendant of the Princess Sofia and baptized as Protestant. That is all. The disqualifiers are being born out of wedlock, being adopted, or being born of a surrogacy (again, regardless of the type of surrogacy). Children born of surrogacy are treated as adopted children. A child could be 100% conceived from both married parents’ gametes (meaning the child was conceived using both parents’ egg and sperm) but carried by a gestational surrogate… AND STILL be disqualified from succession rights. The law sees it that the surrogate carrying the genetic child of the married Protestant parents breaks the chain of descent. These are the facts of law.

So, whether the omission of the latest Montecito Mansion addition is a snub, the result of someone in a tech department somewhere failing to get around to changing the official webpage, or legitimate, we may never know for certain. Who knows? Maybe time will prove us all wrong, and the omission will be amended on the website. What we do know for certain, however, is being christened isn’t a prerequisite. This is true because, as of today right now, 2 of the 22 names on the line of succession are not christened. Prince Louis wasn’t christened within 12 days of his name being added, either. Nor was Archie christened within those 15 days of being added.

And remember… a DNA test would only prove whether a child is genetically its parents. A DNA test doesn’t prove whether the child is born naturally, via c-section, surrogate, or anything else. DNA only declares biological relations. It declares the “who” but not the “how”.

I’ve listed several websites that I have pulled information from below for anyone interested.

It’s also worth a look to see how much the Montecito Muppets try so hard to copy Zara and Mike Tindall. You see, Zara and Mike Tindall didn’t do a formal photo call for the birth of any of their children. No pictures on the steps of the hospitals. Mia (the oldest of Zara and Mike’s children) was introduced to the world via a photo spread with Hello Magazine. The couple chose to do the photo shoot, as well as being on the cover of the magazine, because they felt people wanted it. They did the shoot as World-Class athletes, not as Royals. Lena was introduced in an advert for Land Rover’s all-terrain pram. The announcements for Lucas (both the pregnancy announcement and the birthing announcement) were made by Mike on a Rugby podcast.

Zara and Mike Tindall, being non-working Royals, must make their own money. They have no titles. Their children have no titles. They have no Sovereign Grant money. They have no Royal Protection Officers protecting them 24/7 either. Their children were christened in private, and the godparents weren’t made public. Well, except Prince Harry was named as Lena’s godparent. He was married at the time of Lena’s christening. His wife was pregnant at the time, too. One wonders if the wife was also named as a godparent. One also wonders if the wife got the idea of half-in-half-out from seeing how successful The Princess Royale’s children have been in life sans titles.

It’s like they saw these hard-working people who happened to be related to the Monarch, who just so happened to be of Royal blood and descent. Who didn’t have to answer to the public as much as senior “working Royals” because they didn’t take tax dollars. But the truth is, they can never have what they envy so much about The Princess Royal’s children. They lack the talent, skill, grace, and understanding that The Princess Royal instilled in her children. That’s why they constantly depend on “bombshells” for attention and revenues. But that itself is a discussion all its own…

ARTICLES FOR YOUR INTEREST AND CURIOSITY:

https://www.express.co.uk/news/royal/1415464/zara-tindall-princess-eugenie-royal-baby-news-christening-tradition-evg

https://www.gloucestershirelive.co.uk/news/celebs-tv/inside-two-cotswold-churches-fit-5544053

https://www.mirror.co.uk/3am/celebrity-news/royal-baby-christening-traditions-gowns-24301504

https://celebrity.land/en/royal-fans-should-prepare-to-wait-for-glimpse-of-princess-annes-first-grandson-lucas-tindall/

https://www.express.co.uk/news/royal/1462070/zara-tindall-news-mike-tindall-lucas-mia-lena-royal-baby-talk-interview-royal-family-spt

https://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-9777651/Princess-Eugenie-forced-cancel-Windsor-christening-son-August-following-Covid-scare.html

https://www.history.com/topics/british-history/royal-succession

https://www.legislation.gov.uk/ukpga/2013/20/enacted

https://www.royal.uk/succession

https://www.tatler.com/article/surrogacy-and-peerages-legal-issues-family-law-marchioness-of-bath

https://www.cambridge.org/core/journals/cambridge-law-journal/article/abs/significance-of-status-and-genetics-in-succession-to-titles-honours-dignities-and-coats-of-arms-making-the-case-for-reform/3B2FBB705EEFCE82E04E80002D4D486A

https://www.thejournal.ie/royal-inheritance-succession-explained-701049-Dec2012/

https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/royal-familys-website-yet-add-24565116

#line of succession #megxit #yankeewally #legality #why

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morwensteelsheen · 3 years

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farawyn and borodred for the ship ask game thing?

thank you so much!! :)

okay i’ll start with borodred because for some unfathomable reason i actually got there first —

1. What made you ship it?

One of my favourite Types of ships is the Elder Statesmen Of War-type set-ups, where it’s less about people brought together through theatrical romantic gestures and more about the steadiness of people who are going through similar (immensely difficult) circumstances, who know that in their hearts they’re always going to put their duty to that cause first, but still seek out human comfort in other people who will understand what their priorities are and why.

I think there’s also a lot of similarities about the kind of helplessness they both face despite having this tremendous innate strength. Both of them still have to deal with family dynamics that are complex (made more complex by the war) and that can’t be fixed just by their own sheer will power; both of them die these utterly unnecessary deaths (not that death makes a ship but I think in this instance it actually points to the constant tragedy these guys face); and both of them are meant to be the principal figures of their families and people and are ultimately sidelined by the cruel mechanisations of war and the forward march of history or whatever wanky term there is for it — my apologies to ep thompson's ghost, dont haunt me bro.

Plus there’s obviously the interesting thread raised when Faramir starts bitching about Gondor and likens Gondor (and by very explicit extension, Boromir) to Rohan. That always made me go ‘Hmmmmmm, wonder what else Boromir liked about Rohan,’ lmao.

Anyways for me the ship is the equivalent of Star Wars’ Kanan and Hera or (my OTP to end all others) Luke and Wedge, just people getting by on love and duty and without big ol fancy romance.

2. What are your favorite things about the ship?

The fanon, I think, really makes it, as with so many other LOTR ships. battlefield manners, by themightypen is essentially the definitive take for me on them — these two guys who are just so fucking exhausted, man, but still overcome by defensive love for their families, even if their (foster-)siblings are naïve fools. That I just love, love, love. Plus I think they’re unique for their ability to pretty comfortable explore the relationship between Gondor & Rohan in advance of the Ring War without having to stray too far into AU, which I always appreciate.

3. Is there an unpopular opinion you have on your ship?

Not really, tbh, except in that I don’t think Boromir is necessarily as laddy as people like to portray him. I’m happy to play into it in, say, my modern AUs because I think that’s a fun and sweet niche for him, but I am a bit 🤪 about Boromir as this kind of reckless, drunken playboy (not least because I think that’s a much funnier niche for Faramir to fill, at least when he’s younger). Chapter Four of Swaddledog’s Hearts and Minds gets my preferred Boromir characterisation absolutely spot on, I think.

And now, sigh, the ultimate OTP, Farawyn —

1. What made you ship it?

For starters, I think I am obsessed with Éowyn in a way I’ve never quite been obsessed with any other fictional character. I came to reading LOTR at this moment in my life where I was intensely frustrated about everything — trapped inside permanently (helplessly!) because of the pandemic, just starting a new political organisation that I truly believed in but that was still making me feel like shit, facing down an untenable about of work, and, fundamentally, really, really hating being a woman and what that means. And along comes Éowyn, who is bitter, who is cold, who is ANGRY, and who doesn’t perform joy or softness or gentleness just because people expect her to. She’s this seminal Woman Of War in so many ways, I think the kind of person a lot of us wish we could be. She’s got her emotional taps cut off at the source, she holds her head high and faces down unimaginable personal and political terrors, and at the end of it all still has this abiding love for her family that, I would argue, is almost unparalleled by anyone else in the book.

After all that, she gets this incredible moment of emotional catharsis (or what we expect to be emotional catharsis): “no living man am I!” She undertakes THE greatest martial act of the Ring War, and in that moment there’s this unbelievably sophisticated dialogue happening about gender (“Éowyn it was, and Dernhelm also”), and leadership (Merry finding his courage not because of the immediate scenario of the Witch-king, but because he’s spurred into it by Éowyn’s presence), and love and care.

And then we learn that no, actually, this glorious act of violence wasn’t the emotional catharsis we thought it would be. She gets to ride to war, she gets to throw herself headlong at death, and in the end that hopeless act of individualism isn’t really what does it for her. She’s still left desolate and despairing, and actually all of her problems haven’t gone away.

And then we need to rewind a bit, because along comes Faramir, who is gentle, and is kind, and does seem to believe in joy, but not because people expect it — actually it's made abundantly clear nobody expects it — but because it’s something quite innate to how he figures the world. And he’s a huge fucking nerd too. I have a lot of thoughts on Faramir’s flaws and why I find them endearing, which I won’t put here, but almost immediately you get this sense of a guy who’s quite melodramatic, good humoured, and very much not made to live in a time of war.

But he’s also clear-headed about war and what it requires (tactically, if not strategically, though that’s a post for another day), but who is kind of cynical and weary of it in his own unique way. And it’s a unique cynicism given his personal circumstances because he’s the second son of The great family of Gondor, he’s apparently — though with some big ol’ question marks hanging about the extent — very able to command some of the elite units in the realm, and what’s more than that, he’s got all these fantastical powers (the light mind reading to start, to say nothing of this apparently magical ability to command animals too. bruh.). By all accounts he should be this brazen hot mess, but he’s not. He’s desperate to claw his way out of this war-torn cage of expectation his people have for how a man should comport himself in time of war. Is it a little naïve? Sure. A little fussy? Absolutely. But does it point to that same desperation that Éowyn has? Yes! But also the practicality, like, neither of them are really enjoying the circumstances they live under, but good fucking god are they both able to Make It Work.

So finally we get to the Houses of Healing and what is the finest and most aggressively romantic writing of LOTR. Seriously, it’s so fucking much. It’s breathtaking. It reminds me quite viscerally of this fabulous quote from Les Mis:

The power of a glance has been so much abused in love stories, that it has come to be disbelieved in. Few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only.

At some point I will devote more time to talking about the two reasons line, and the blissful Queen of Gondor speech, but I think to me that big, important line is: “And then her heart changed, or at least she understood it; and the winter passed, and the sun shone upon her.”

It’s not about Éowyn changing herself entirely (though, I think, it really does bear mentioning that she does change, and that’s every bit as important to understanding that scene as it is romantic), it’s about Éowyn coming to terms with how to live with herself as herself, and how to live in communion with someone else. She can’t just cut people out anymore, and she can’t just treat them as objects of infatuation as she did with Aragorn, she has to reckon with people as they are. And that’s sort of the moment where I knew I was about to plunge fully off the deep end with these two and never know a moments’ peace again, lmao.

2. What are your favorite things about the ship?

Someone on here once called Farawyn a love letter to women and, by god, yes, exactly that. I love the capacity for emotional intimacy, that is beautiful in ways I can’t express. To me, though, my favourite thing is the promise of life they speak of. Not as in oh they shag loads and have babies (though not opposed to that, obviously), but in the sense that unlike Aragorn and Arwen, who are always going to be buried under/burdened with the crushing weight of history and tradition, Éowyn and Faramir are going out yonder those hills and they’re going to do some real cottagecore farming shit. Obviously with all the trappings of rank and nobility and whatnot, but they, unique to anybody else in the books, get to sow this new idea of what life should be. They are, outside of Aragorn, the single most powerful people in Gondor. Éowyn’s got the ear of a king, a steward (which is essentially a prime-ministerial deal here), and functionally her own prince (if the hobbits are to be believed when they refer to it as essentially hers). I suspect that, in life, there were remarkably few arguments she wasn’t winning, and that Ithilien probably trended towards the jumped up noble hippie camp Tolkien so desperately wanted Oxford to be (or, in other words — Cambridge, lol).

3. Is there an unpopular opinion you have on your ship?

Yeah, man, everybody stop treating Faramir like he’s a big fucking crybaby and Éowyn like she’s some kind of shrieking 2010-era tumblr girl.

One of the single most important lines defining Faramir’s character is when Denethor roasts his ass for always trying to appear noble and lordly, if you ignore every other piece of textual evidence we have about him, what part of that line makes you think Faramir’s some simpering daisy? And why would you want to link tremendous emotional intelligence and care with being too limp-wristed to function, lol??? Like I struggle loads with writing Faramir, because I have never once in my life tried to be noble or self-restrained, so find it hard to get into that mindset, but better, I think, to imagine him too closed off than to do this wilting flower song and dance lmao.

And stop making Éowyn out to be this over-emotional angst machine. She’s got problems, yes, and she’s sure as shit got a lot of angst, but at almost every point in the book where we’re overtly dealing with her emotions, she’s sublimating them into something else. One of the most serious times we see her cry is when she’s fighting with Aragorn about riding out, and after that moment she literally tries to kill herself. Those tears aren’t standard, man, that’s a real watershed (lol) moment for her. You have to read around what the text is saying to get a better feel why everybody’s constantly calling her cold and distant.

#god this is probably obnoxiously long because i can't do cuts on my phone #but refuse to open the tumblr website on my laptop lmao #faramir #éowyn #boromir #théodred #farawyn #borodred #god sorry for these fucking tags man im just trying to make my blog slightly more organised #i just have a lot of thoughts #i should really write more metas it would probably help my writing out quite a bit #asks #meta

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rotationalsymmetry · 3 years

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Re: cultural appropriation

Some things I’ve picked up over the years. Can’t say I really have a comprehensive understanding on this.

Caveat: white person blind spots

Also it’s first thing in the morning and my words might not be working yet.

It’s about power. Sure, cultural exchange and influence is normal and universal, but “everybody is influenced by everyone else!” isn’t the same as your boss taking credit for your work.

So, one aspect is who gets the credit

Another aspect, related, is who gets the money.

Another is…when things cross cultures it’s often like a game of telephone. Which isn’t a huge deal if the original thing is something light or funny that nobody really minds getting distorted. But if it’s something that people do mind, religious stuff for instance, that’s more of a problem.

There’s an ownership/control aspect, where people who feel like everything else they had got stolen can get more possessive about what’s left. If that makes sense.

Basically this is one of those things where you can’t sit in a room and figure out first principles and assume they apply to every potential instance of appropriation the same way. Different cultures have different attitudes about appropriation and logic is inferior in this case to actually listening to people. (It seems like white people figuring out appropriation often want one universally applied standard, and that’s just not possible.)

Sometimes appropriation is a hell no. (Some people say “misappropriation” to distinguish between appropriation that’s just kind of funny or otherwise not really a problem and appropriation that’s bad. In practice I’ve found people making a distinction between cultural exchange and cultural appropriation are always dismissing bad-appropriation as a concept.) Native American sweat lodge ceremonies for instance. Another example that’s been talked about a lot in recent years is racist Halloween costumes.

There’s other things where it’s more subtle. My understanding is no one actually has a problem with Westerners doing yoga, but there is some general exasperation with yoga done just as exercise, without the spiritual context. Generally people don’t really object to their cuisine getting around either, but the “who gets the credit and who gets the money” issue is still active. So people will still talk about cultural appropriation in a food context even though they don’t mean “don’t eat food from other cultures.”

I have not been able to get a definitive answer about chakras, beyond “the rainbow colors thing is kind of an add-on.” There may be an answer but I don’t know what it is.

Sometimes (mostly white) people apply the concept of appropriation where it’s not relevant in a way that’s harmful. For instance, some people got the idea that the Black Panther movie was “for black people” and therefor white people shouldn’t watch it. This is backwards and counterproductive. (And possibly a way to get away with “I don’t want to watch it because watching a movie with that many black characters makes me uncomfortable” while sounding progressive.)

This has two applications: firstly, that if you want to do something about appropriation and it’s not your culture, you have to let people from that culture take the lead, or risk doing more harm than good. Secondly, that people who aren’t from a culture who say “this is appropriation” might be wrong and you don’t automatically have to listen to them (although what usually happens is people feel like they either have to do what those people say or else reject the validity of entire concept of cultural appropriation; I would like to see more of “That doesn’t sound right to me, but I’m going to look into that because I do take cultural appropriation seriously.”

I wanna give you a further reading link list, but honestly my sources here have been so disparate I don’t know what to say.

I would recommend seeing recognizing cultural appropriation as one facet of anti racism work and not making it the main focus. It gets blown out of proportion on social media where people are looking for someone to be angry at, but it’s not what’s doing most of the harm racism wise. (Gonna repeat white person blind spots caveat, I could be wrong (and definitely don’t use my stance as a gotcha when arguing with someone else), but I’m pretty sure about this one.)

One aspect of that is focus on cultural appropriation almost always focused on individuals and very small groups, and takes attention away from seeing racism as a collective problem requiring collective solutions. For instance, the problem of police officers killing black people has nothing to do appropriation, and everything to do with systemic racism (and systems of power that impede accountability.)

For paganism and witchcraft specifically: we’ve had appropriated stuff being circulated around for decades and it’ll take a while to figure out where we’re going from here. In the meantime, apparently the white sage thing is a big deal; being sensitive to which traditions are open to you and which are closed to you is a good idea (sometimes you might see a specific person use an element of a tradition they’ve been initiated into that you haven’t been, be chill); be aware that “spirit animal” is a serious business thing and not a synonym for “guide that takes a shape of an animal”; keep in mind that not all Witchcraft is Wicca or Wiccanate so be cautious about general “this is how witchcraft is done” statements.

In general just be a person interacting with other people, you know? Sometimes people present as super angry because they’re assholes, but other times it’s because you said something really out of line, and if you can’t tell which it is try to not assume it’s the first.

But if you do get dogpiled on and later realize they had a point, it doesn’t mean you’re utter trash. Things are less about you than you think they are. Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is respond as though you got the nice patient “here’s what’s wrong with that” even though you actually got the yelling version. (Respond as in how you live your life. If someone’s yelling at you or making personal attacks, I would recommend disengaging as soon as possible. There’s…kind of this weird fetish in social justice circles for perfect instant apologies. If you can do that and you think it’s right, fine, but disengaging and not interacting is also fine, especially if you don’t even know anyone who’s being angry at you. If you do know someone and want to mend fences, chances are they’ll understand if you need time to cool down/for them to cool down.)

I found an article once on this white guy who went to India and got attacked by a mob because he had a tattoo of a Hindu goddess on his lower leg. The problem wasn’t the tattoo, but the location, which was a big no. This is an example of the closed tradition/open tradition model being not entirely sufficient; often what people get mad about isn’t whether outsiders are interacting with their tradition, it’s about whether they’re doing it respectfully. (Christian churches tend to have rules about who can take communion and what you should wear; other religions have rules that are important to them but are open to outsiders who respect the rules; others have had too many outsiders showing up and talking through the service so they’re closed, and the one thing all these groups have in common is the people in the groups get to decide what their rules are. (And sometimes people in the group disagree on what the rules should be and that’s normal…but you wouldn’t show up to a church service in a bathing suit snd go “well, this one person said it was ok, I guess the rest of you just have to deal with it”, I got no social skills and hate conformity (and dress codes) and even I can get my head around that.))

Anyways, at its basic level the opposite of cultural appropriation is respect and treating people like people and … basically the golden rule applied to cultures or religions rather than to individuals, you know? Believing that other cultures are on the same level as Western culture and deserve to have their own standards respected, believing that other religions are fundamentally as legitimate as Christianity and deserve to get their rules respected — rules about who is a member of that religion, rules about how outsiders should behave when interacting (including rules that say no interaction at all.)

And about power and credit and money, and acknowledging that while everyone’s on an equal plane in terms of deserving respect, not everyone is on an equal plane in terms of ability to fuck the others’ lives up.

It is about being a guest, and being respectful as a guest, and recognizing when other people like you (or even you yourself) have been terrible guests so you’re not getting the benefit of the doubt, and recognizing when the power dynamics are all wonky so that there’s an inequality around who can get away with what.

#anti black violence tw #police brutality tw #cultural appropriation #white person talking about racism

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incomingalbatross · 4 years

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Tonight’s the night for more Catholic Batfam headcanons because I say so.

As outlined in this post, in this world Bruce was raised Catholic, drifted away somewhat in adolescence, and regained his faith and active practice during his Training World Tour. Further thoughts (some of which I’ve already stated, but put together a little better, I think):

Bruce doesn’t have a regular spiritual director in Gotham. Instead he just goes to Confession to a few different parish priests he likes—taking precautions so that people don’t see Bruce Wayne in the Confession lines just to be safe—and starts every Confession with “I’m Batman” because he feels it’s necessary context. This feels logical to me but also highly entertaining.

When he moved back into Wayne Manor and started fixing it up, his first big project outside of the Cave was converting one of the ballrooms into a family chapel. (Yes, the Manor had two ballrooms. Yes, Bruce also thinks that was excessive.) It’s dedicated to St. Michael, with side niches for statues of Our Lady and St. Joseph, and other saints along the walls/in the new stained-glass windows. He can’t keep the Eucharist there, of course, but there’s a Tabernacle built into the altar just to be thorough. Mass could be said there.

He also sets up outdoor Stations of the Cross in the Manor grounds, though that comes later. There’s landscaping and a path to take you through them. He prays the Stations every Friday.

Alfred is a practicing Anglican, BTW. He and Bruce have agreed to disagree, but they don’t hesitate to share their common ground. Alfred does make use of the chapel. (I believe St. Michael is his Confirmation saint here, actually. Which Bruce knew when he designed the chapel.)

When Dick comes along, he’s very much a non-denominational Christian. He was baptized and his parents read the Bible with him and taught him to pray, but living on the road didn’t give them a lot of formal religion. They did have informal services at Haly’s on Sundays, though.

Bruce didn’t want to push him (partly because he’s oversensitive to the idea of “making a kid go against his dead parents”), so he didn’t really actively try to convert him. Dick went to church with him or Alfred, growing up, and remained a believer, but I don’t think he had a deep or a formally religious spiritual life. He does have a great deal of respect for Bruce’s, though.

Then Jason came along.

Jason is a FIERCELY Catholic little Irish-American with a battered rosary he was given for his First Communion and a strong devotion to the Holy Family (because Catherine Todd was a deeply pro-life Catholic woman and raised her boy accordingly, and I will die on this hill). I’m not sure if he’s ever had an opportunity to be an altar server but I know he WANTS it. One of the first and biggest ways he and Bruce click is through their shared Faith.

Bruce has his own chapel! Bruce talks to him about religious things, and helps him get to Mass and the Sacraments, and signed up for regular serving duty at their parish! Bruce buys him saint books and listens to his half-articulate spiritual troubles and understands.

Bruce, meanwhile, is equally blown away by this tiny street child’s vehement love for Our Lady and the Blessed Sacrament and the beauties and stories of the Catholic Church, the way he clings to Holy Mother Church all the more for the absence of an earthly family, and how hungry he is for a stronger spiritual life. Bruce wants to give him everything.

Of course, Jason is far from a perfect child—he struggles with anger, anger which is founded in his hatred of suffering and injustice but which he doesn’t always know what to do with, or how to handle. He loves God deeply, but sometimes—especially as he starts maturing, becoming more and more aware of the world beyond his own life—he finds himself angry at Him, raging against the cruelty and injustice in the world and asking how? why? Why would You allow this?

On the whole, though, Jason is doing okay. He has Bruce, and he has his Faith. He’s confirmed at thirteen, a year after meeting Bruce, and he picks St. John Bosco as his patron saint. He prays to him for help in directing his passions to help the poor and vulnerable, rather than falling into anger and ill-will.

He doesn’t mention it to Bruce, yet, but as he keeps growing up he starts to feel like... maybe... he wants to be a priest? Maybe THAT’S what he’s supposed to do with his life? He keeps thinking about it...slowly, because it’s a Big Deal and he keeps doubting himself and he IS just fifteen, still, and having struggles with his temperament and the effects of of his past. But he keeps feeling more strongly like this is the right path for him.

And then he finds out his mother, who loved him and raised him and gave him everything he has, isn’t his mother. And he goes investigating this, because he has to, he has to know who his other mother is and if he can get to know her.

And then he is murdered, betrayed and and beaten, and still trying desperately to save the woman who sold him to the Joker.

(Jason Todd died a hero’s death and this is ALSO a hill I will die on.)

I haven’t figured out what quirk of the multiverse made Jason NOT 100% dead (the Lazarus Pit can’t bring back really-quite-sincerely-dead people or it would be way too OP and also HORRIFYING), but there’s something. Bat-Mite meddling? Superboy Prime punching the universe is dumb, but it’s DEFINITELY better than Talia stealing Jason’s corpse.

Anyway.

Quite frankly, at this point, Bruce’s faith is the only thing that keeps him sane.

He has his boy buried in the family cemetery, with the funeral Mass in the chapel.

He was really hoping one of his boys would be married there, first. Or even that Jason would say a Mass there, someday.

(He didn’t know Jason had thought about that too, but a parent hopes this kind of hope anyway.)

But no. Jason is buried. Bruce struggles with his own rage, and grief, and despair. He spends a lot of time in the chapel. ...Sometimes it helps.

And then little Tim Drake shows up, INSISTING that “Batman needs a Robin!” And things change again.

Tim (since this is focusing on the religious aspects of characters) is not Catholic. I BELIEVE he’s Protestant (don’t know which type), and likes starting debates with Bruce when things are too quiet. Bruce only engages sometimes, because when it gets too earnest he can be painfully reminded of his discussions with Jason—keep in mind, Jason is the first kid he really DID discuss religion with—and his childishly wholehearted Catholicism and Tim’s cheerfully stubborn Protestant opposition can make for a jarring contrast.

It’s good, though. Bruce doesn’t have anyone to share the fullness of his faith with, again... but that’s just one of the many smaller losses involved in his loss of Jason. He adjusts.

And Tim is earnest about his own faith, even if he doesn’t talk about it much to anyone other than Bruce and Alfred (who he knows also take Christianity seriously and will treat his views with respect). He doesn’t use the chapel as much as either of them—or even Dick, who grew up with it and goes there to pray or even just think things out whenever he’s in residence—but he does use the space sometimes, when he wants guaranteed quiet and a prayerful atmosphere.

He also somehow becomes church friends with Clark Kent, who as an archetypal Midwesterner is PROBABLY Protestant here.

Do he and Clark convert Kon between them? Again, PROBABLY.

...This is very long and it’s getting late, so I will stop here for now. I’d like to do another post on Red Hood and Damian and Bruce’s “death” at some point... we will see how that goes.

EDIT: Also, I forgot! Credit to @why-bless-your-heart for Protestant Tim—all I knew about Tim was that I didn’t know what to do with him, but her take was Good and so I have adopted it. But I should give credit where credit is due.

#batfamily #jason todd #bruce wayne #catholic #catholic batfamily #dick grayson #tim drake #i feel like making the gordons catholic too #purely because i can #no detailed headcanons on them or steph or cass though #or anyone else cause i don't know the other characters like. at all #and yes i am absolutely using bruce wayne to vicariously live out my Rich Catholic dreams #long post #cw child death #(i mean it's jason)#(so if you start reading this you know where it's probably going)#(but yeah)

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beshert-bh · 4 years

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My journey to/with Judaism

***This is a super long post, it��s the FULL story, not a brief overview, but it would mean the WORLD to me if you read it***

Upbringing: very much Not Jewish™️

I was born into a Catholic family. I have a goyish last name. I was baptized as an infant, and my parents took me to church each week as a kid.

In kindergarten — back when I still went to a secular private school — one of my best friends was Jewish. He told me all about the traditions his family did...told me all about the kippahs they wear, and how they had their own game called dreidel for this holiday they celebrated, called Hanukkah. (Of course this convo was at a basic-kindergarten-level of knowledge.) When I came home from school I was fascinated with Hanukkah, (this is cringey to admit but my 5-year-old self tried to integrate the traditions together and so in order to do this I drew up a “Christmas dreidel” complete with Santa Claus’ face on one side, a present on another side...you get it)

And that is when I was promptly put in “parochial” schools. I went to Catholic school from 1st grade to 12th grade. I went through Holy Communion and Confirmation like all the other kids did. My elementary soccer team’s mascot was an Angel. My high school’s mascot was a Crusader. Our high school was located on Rome Avenue. I went to a Catholic youth conference. I considered becoming a nun because I was single all throughout high school.

Growing up, around Christmastime we would always travel to visit my grandma, and she would always say we’re “German Jewish” — but I would write her off. In my mind, I was like, Yeah ok like 1%? .....It felt like my grandma was acting like one of those white people who takes a DNA test and says, “Look! We’re 1% African!” So I would dismiss her and remind her how we’re Catholics and she would drop the subject.

Falling away from Xtianity: my first 2 years of college

My freshman year I changed — politically — as I was only conservative in high school because of the ‘pro-life’ agenda being shoved down my throat. I really aligned more with liberal and leftist policies and views, though. Once I became open to new political ideology, I began to question my theological beliefs.

I always had a strong connection to God. My whole life. But I struggled with connecting to Jesus, Mary, the saints, and so on. So obviously my freshman year of college I began to fall away from Catholicism.

You see, Catholics are “bad at the Bible” as I like to say. Other Christians do a better job of teaching and analyzing the writings. They actually require school-aged children to memorize Scripture passages. Catholics mostly just teach the same stuff over and over. Jesus, Mary, Joseph, blah blah blah. Catechism, liturgical calendar, blah blah blah. Parts of the mass, fruits of the spirit, blah blah blah.

So since I was already doubting Catholicism, its corrupt leadership, and its mindless traditions.... I thought maaaaybeeee I would find purpose, truth, clarity, etc. in plain-old Christianity. But I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The other Christian churches I went to baptized people (which is a BIG LIFE DECISION) on the spot. For example if a newcomer felt on a whim that they wanted to be baptized, the church would do it right then & there. No learning, no planning or preparing, that was it. They promoted blind faith and circular thinking. I began to realize these were both normal attitudes and cognitive patterns within any and every Christian community that I encountered.

Even the Christians who exhibited curiosity mostly just asked questions in order to be able to understand, and then accept, the doctrine as truth. Questions never ever challenged anything.

Oh and let’s throw in the fact that I’m bisexual. Homophobia, transphobia, biphobia (and more) are rampant in the church. So needless to say, with all my observations about the lack of logical thinking in the church (and considering my sexual orientation) I fell away. I stopped going to church unless my family made me when I was home from college.

Enter stage right: Judaism

In retrospect I happened to have a lot of friends in my sorority and my favorite fraternity on campus who were Jewish (the frat happened to be a traditionally-Jewish one). Thought nothing of it at the time. Fast forward to junior year when I met this cute guy on Tinder. He’s now my boyfriend and we’ve been dating for over a year. He didn’t tell me this on Tinder, but when we went on our first date, he revealed that he’s Jewish and wanted to make sure that’s something I was ok with. Clearly I had no problem with that. I wasn’t too into Christianity anymore but I still identified as one (and I was still surrounded by Christian friends in my sorority) so I told him I was Christian/raised Catholic and asked hypothetically if he would be comfortable with a “both” family. He said yes.

We started dating during an October, so of course Hanukkah came up soon. There was a mega challah bake at our local Chabad, which he took me to, and we had a blast. From then on I decided I wanted to show him how supportive I was of his Jewishness. (The last girl he dated dumped him after 3 months BECAUSE he was Jewish... so I felt that I needed to be supportive)

We started going to shabbat services and dinner every week. We did Hanukkah together (we bought our first menorah together, he taught me how to spin a dreidel, his mom bought me Hanukkah socks...lol). At some point in our relationship I told him I may have Jewish ancestry from my grandma but it’s distant and my whole extended family is Christian so it really wouldn’t even matter. I don’t remember when I had that conversation with him.

Eventually, after another few months of Shabbat services and Shabbat dinners, Pesach came around.

We went to the first seder together. The second seder is what changed everything.

Deciding to convert

At first I wasn’t sure if I belonged at this second seder. My boyfriend had always brought me to every event. I had never attended anything alone at Chabad before. But I went anyway. Throughout the night I felt increasingly comfortable. I had never felt more like I was a *part of something* than I did at this seder.

I sat near a friend who I recognized. (He knows I’m raised Catholic.) Then he & his friends welcomed me. We all took turns reading from the Haggadah, we drank the four cups of wine together, and we laughed together as I had maror for the first time.

Then the familiar faces left to go home, and one of them even went to another table to sit with his other friends whom he hadn’t had a chance to see yet that night. Naturally I thought I was alone again. I almost left, but something tugged at my heart to stay until the very end of the second seder. Something told me to keep going and keep taking in this wonderful experience.

The rest of the night consisted of many songs (most likely prayers, in retrospect) I did not know. Everyone stood to sing and we all clapped to the rhythm. I knew none of the words but I still clapped along, alone at my own table. Then one of the boys — the one who had been sitting with my friends and I earlier — motioned at me to come over and join his other friends. I approached this new table full of people I’d never met, feeling awkward as ever, and they not only hoisted me up to stand on the table with them as they chanted, but they also included me in their dance circle. (no, I don’t think it was the Hora, we just spun around over and over. lol.)

This was the first night I felt at home with Judaism. Going through the Jewish history with the Haggadah, remembering the important occurrences and symbolizing them with various foods, ending the night by being welcomed into the community... it was transformative. After attending shabbat services for months and learning about Jewish values, it changed something in me when I observed Pesach for the first time last year. I knew this path would be right for me. I felt as if my soul had found where it belonged. The Jewish history, traditions, beliefs, and customs resonated with me. It all just... made sense.

I told my boyfriend I wanted to convert. I wrote three pages of reasons. But I sat on the idea of converting and did nothing for a while. I did do some more research on Judaism, though, as I continued to attend services each week.

The exploration stage

I began to actually research on my own time. If converting was something I was genuinely considering, it was high time I began actively learning as much as I could possibly learn. It was time to dive deeper than just attending the weekly services and googling the proper greetings for Jewish holidays.

I started digging deeper into Judaism and Christianity so I could compare and contrast the two. I needed to understand the similarities and differences. And BOY are they different. That was surprising at first, but the more I learned about Judaism, the more I loved how different it was from the Christianity I was indoctrinated into.

Not only are the values and teachings of each religion vastly different, but the Tanakh (which is “The Old Testsment” in Christian Bibles) actually contradicts:

The entire “New Testament”

The gospel books specifically

The Pauline letters specifically

How did I realize this? Some bible study of my own, but mostly through online research. And, of course, I would have gotten nowhere without the help of Rabbi Tovia Singer and his YouTube videos. He debunks everything there is to debunk about Christianity.

Here were some things I came across when researching:

It confused me how the four Gospels didn’t align (like, major parts of the story did not align at all...and supposedly they’re divinely inspired...but they don’t even corroborate one another?)

It confused me how the psalms we sang in church were worded completely different from the true wording in the Bible (essentially the Christian church is taking tehillim and altering it to benefit Christian dogma and Christian rhetoric.)

It confused me how we read in the Bible that Jews are ‘God’s chosen people’ and yet in every Catholic Church, every Sunday, there is a Pauline letter being read which depicts proselytization of Jews, as if Jews are lost and need Christians to save them. As if Jews would go to hell if they fail to accept Jesus.

It confused me why we would pray to Mary and the saints, because praying is worship, and worshipping anyone but God themself is idolatry.

It confused me why Christians make, sell, and use graven images. Idolatry. Again.

It confused me why Christians give absolute power to humans. For example, if you crawl up the same steps (Scala Santa) that Jesus supposedly crawled up before he died, you automatically get “saved” because *some old men who have no divine power* said so (they have a term for this and it’s called “plenary indulgence” lol).

It confused me why Jesus was believed to be the messiah considering he had to have biologically been from the line of Joseph. Wasn’t Jesus supposedly conceived without any help from Joseph? Wouldn’t that render Jesus, uh, not messiah by default? Even if he was from Joseph’s blood, he still did not complete all the tasks moshiach is supposed to fulfill. And even if he DID fulfill all the tasks required of moshiach... we still would not worship a messiah as he is human and not GOD.

These were all new thoughts I developed this past year between Pesach and Yom Kippur. New questions that challenged everything I thought I knew. It was like teaching a child 2+2≠22 but rather 2+2=4.

Hillel

This fall, after the High Holy Days, my boyfriend began attending shabbat dinners at a rabbi’s home. His new rav lives in the community and it’s exclusive to be invited, so I never imposed. We do Shabbos separately now (with some exceptions, we do it together sometimes).

I continued to go to Chabad with one of my friends who knew I wanted to convert. But one month, she couldn’t come at all, and I felt a little judged there anyway.

So I began going to Hillel a few months ago. And I honestly have found a home there.

From Hillel’s Springboard Fellow reaching out to me and taking me out for coffee to get to know me... to running into my sorority & fraternity friends at every Hillel event (shabbat or otherwise)... From getting included in various clubs like the women empowerment group and the mental health inclusivity group... to being the only college student to participate in Mitzvah Day (hosted by Hillel) with the elderly and the local Girl Scout troop... I feel truly welcome. I’ve started to attend every week. I even talked briefly with the rabbi about having Jewish lineage and wanting to convert.

Discovering new information

I went home to be with family during Thanksgiving break. My grandma flew in so she was there when I got home. She stayed with us from then until New Years (and she’s actually moving in with us next year.)

Of course, now I have a Jewish boyfriend, Jewish friends, and I’ve done extensive research on Judaism. So this time I had background knowledge when she inevitably said... “You know, we’re German Jewish!”

I inquired a little. I asked her what she meant. How is she Jewish? I know my uncle took a DNA test this year and came back part Ashkenazi. But I needed a deeper explanation than DNA.

She revealed to me that her mom’s mom was Jewish. We believe she married a Christian man. Together they had my great-grandmother, who I believe was Christian. She had my grandma, who had my dad, who had me.

And I immediately felt like that changed things. At first I was (internally) like, Now I definitely need to convert! But then I was like, Wait, does this make me Jewish? Am I Jewish-ish? ...Can you be considered Jewish if you’re only ethnically Jewish but not raised Jewishly? ...Can you be Jewish if your dad is your only Jewish parent? ...Can you be Jewish if your dad never had a bris or a bar mitzvah?

I joined a bunch of Jewbook groups, began learning the Hebrew calendar & holiday schedule, and found some folks who assist with Jewish genealogy. They did some digging for me and apparently I descend from the Rothschild family. THE Rothschild family.

Who is a Jew? Who “counts”?

This is something I’ve been muddling over.

At Hillel, at my school at least, most people are pretty Reform. They’re very liberal with their definitions of Judaism (they believe in patrilineal descent and not only matrilineal descent).

They accept me and see me as actually Jewish ...and the ones who don’t... they at least see me as Jewish-adjacent, an “honorary Jew” or an “ally to the Jewish people”.

My boyfriend, however, still sees me as Not Jewish.™️ (For context he’s Reform but he’s trying to become as observant as possible) I know he only thinks this was because of how we began our relationship and because of how I was raised. But I’m very confused here.

Do I count?

Do I not?

Do I count *enough* but still need to go through a formal conversion process?

So...now what?

I don’t know how to navigate this odd journey but I have felt for a while that I have a Jewish neshama and I feel a strong need to affirm it. I just don’t know how or what is appropriate. Do I learn Hebrew? Sign up for a trip to Israel/Germany/Poland? Put up a mezuzah? Or go toward the other end of the scale, and head down a path of a formal conversion/reaffirmation process?

Thank you in advance for your responses and thanks for reading. 🤎

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tanyalovesreading · 4 years

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My Story

Hey guys!

I have thought about this quite some time, and I think there are more people like me out there. So, I decided I wanted to share my story with you of how I became a witch. It’s been quite some years and maybe I don’t remember certain wordings anymore. But I wanna tell you the honest truth. I think I’ve never actually talked about all of it in detail. And I am not sure yet how this will all play out with me and remembering everything. There are a few things that seem hard to believe, but trust me, this actually happened. So here we go :D

Let’s start with little me. I grew up in a pretty catholic family. In Bavaria. Where everything beside being catholic is not accepted. I went to church every Sunday and to all the big festivities like Easter and Christmas. When you’re in 3rd grade (so about 8/9 years old) you’ll have the Holy Communion. The first one. It basically initiates you into the church. At that time, we didn’t have a choice.

Maybe a few words about the German school system. You HAVE to take religious studies. When I still went to elementary school there was no other option. We had 3 hours a week and the whole year was separated for these 3 hours into 3 groups: Catholic, Evangelic and Ethic. As we had mainly Christians in our area, we got those options and then the Ethic kids. In there were all other religions and faithless people. That’s how it is.

So, if your whole class is attending the Holy Communion you also go. I can’t remember any year, as long as to the end of high school, where not everyone attended. At that age you don’t get it. Why you’re doing this. So, you just attend bible study and youth group and have a lot of fun with your classmates.

Obviously growing up in a catholic family like mine, it is only logical after being initiated to become an altar girl. By that time, we had a really great priest and we were quite many kids. We did a lot of afternoon activities together and went somewhere for the weekend. This took almost all my time. The rest of it I spent at karate. I liked it and it was a great sport that could easily be included with my daily activities.

But pretty soon after the holy communion I went and broke my arm. Bye bye karate… For some time this meant I had more time for church. I attended 5 times a week as an alter girl and it took a lot out of me. It took me about two years (when I attended a catholic middle school) that it was no fun for me anymore. I stopped going to church so much, and said I had to study a lot (which was kinda true). By that time a also joined a choire. I loved it. I mean we also sung at church some time, but most of it consisted of singing classical music, doing musicals and joining the theater for operas or theaters. The dynamic changed and I started to spend a lot of time there.

Until my family (and yes I don’t only mean my parents) got mad at me for not attending church as much. God would hate me. So they sent me off to boarding school. It wasn’t far away, but it was catholic and that would do. The boarding school system was kinda weird. I didn’t know any other boarding school who did this. We only slept there. Our schools where all around the city. The boarding house was mixed with girls and boys. The school I went to was girls only, the boy’s school just across the yard.

So what was our day like? We got up at 6 am, because we were expected at morning prayer at 6:45 am. After that we had breakfast and we went to school. Our walking time varied between 10 – 30 minutes, depending on which school we attended. Most of us (who had a further way back) came from school around 1:45 pm and then we had to hurry to lunch which started at 1:30 pm. After that we had a bit of break, and first study time would start at 2:30 pm. For one hour. Then we would have 15 minutes of break, another hour of study time, 30 minutes of break and then another 45 minutes. By then it would be 6 pm. The day pupils would leave and we had dinner. Don’t forget the praying. After that we actually had some free time until we had to be in bed at 9 pm. On Thursdays we also had to attend evening prayer. And that was our day.

By this time I actually hated praying and god and everything that had to do with it. It took too much out of me and I couldn’t be myself. Around that time (I must’ve been 12) I started reading up on other religions and finding paganism. I’ve only heard about it this far and what I’ve heard was what the church told us. Worshipping Satan, dancing around naked, yadayadayada… I started getting interested when I read and saw what paganism really was about. I started learning about different deities and religious paths even within paganism and decided that I really liked that. The individuality. How everyone wasn’t afraid of their gods and how everyone actually had fun being religious. But I also knew I could never tell my parents. My family. Because I knew what they would say. And this just couldn’t happen. After one year at boarding school I was allowed to come back home. I was happy, but also dreaded it. They expected me to have deepened my faith, which had not happened of course. So, what would I do?

I could hide it pretty well in the beginning. By the time I came home, I had to chose a (I don’t know what else to call it in English) educational path. I took languages. That meant a lot more studying. And my parents were content. I went to church on Sundays, but I couldn’t during the week. They saw me studying the whole time. Good thing, they never checked what I was studying because then they would’ve found herbology, crystals, deities and whatever else there beside my schoolwork. It actually took them 1,5 years to catch on. By then my father had become a real alcoholic. He not only mentally abused me, my sister and my mother but from time to time he would hit us. Well, me and my mum, because my sister was his little angle. In the beginning I was mad about that, but this meant she was safe. So there’s that. One evening I was out (I rejoined the choir when I came back home) and came home pretty late. I heard the yelling all across the street because they left the balcony door open. I dreaded going up to our apartment but I had to. When I entered I was bombarded with yelling. I didn’t even know why in the beginning. Both my parents just yelled at me and then my dad hit me. I tried getting to the room I shared with my sister. And when I looked in there I realized why they were mad. My dad found all my secret stashes. All of them. My pentacles, my papers, my books, my wand, … everything. Even now, 10 years later I can’t tell you what happened that night. I just … I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t know…

Anyway. A few weeks later I was called to the youth officers office. When I entered I was greeted by a child service worker. She told me a neighbor reported my dads yelling and overheard all the threats coming my way. One day they wanted to come to check, but they heard him. So there was their proof. They offered me to come with them, to get away from him. I immediately accepted. I spent time till Christmas in a foster family, after that they put me into a foster home. Long story short. I couldn’t have any faith. At that point it was not mentally possible. It took me finishing high school and leaving the country to find myself again.

I left to go study in the Netherlands when I was 19. And I absolutely loved it. I was finally free. It was then that I started to find my way back to witchcraft. Very slowly. But steady. There was no one telling me what to believe. It was fun to talk to my fellow students about everything and nothing, but faith never mattered.

I had to quit the study after a year, because of money issues and just moved across the border to Germany. Which was still at the other end of the country. Far away from my parents. I started working as an EMT (I already had the training from before I left Germany) and I was really happy being a witch, finally having a path that I loved and a job that wouldn’t clash with my believes.

About three months ago I had a crisis again. My parents came back into my life and I questioned a lot of life choices. I couldn’t remember why I became a witch in the first place. My life wasn’t so bad when I still believed in god, right? But I couldn’t and wouldn’t go back to church. I started taking bible studies with Jehovas Witnesses. And I liked it. I remembered a lot and their gatherings gave me what church never did: A sense of familiarity. Of belonging. But it didn’t take long for me to realize why I left church. It’s just not for me. A god that always wants you to follow his rules. If you don’t there’s not great life for you. And that’s not what I believe in. So last week I did some more meditation especially on that topic and I found my path. Myself. I had a beautiful encounter with a goddess who told me, whatever my path will be, it is the right one as long as I see myself in it. And that’s what I am doing now. Being myself. Caring about myself.

And this last week I have felt more like myself and more at peace, that I have … ever. Sometimes it’s hard to find your way and sometimes you have to leave your path to find the right one. But the only right one is the one where you can find yourself. Everything else is a lie.

________________________________________

So that’s it. That’s my story. I had to leave out some bits because I just couldn’t talk about them, even though I wanted to. I wanted to show how it doesn’t matter where you’re coming from or how many obstacles are in your way. If it is meant to be, then you will find your way through the world. Just be courageous. And don’t be mad if there’s a time when you can’t be.

This thing kinda stirred things up for me. And I really should work on them. But to all of you witches out there. Babies or not. Broom closeted or very open about your faith: If you ever need someone to talk to, write me. I always have an ear for everyone of you. I never had someone to talk to about any of this. So I want to give you the opportunity I never had.

I’d love if you shared this, show others they’re not alone out there. That there are others like you :D

So I wish all of you a great day and Blessed be :D

#witchcraft #witches #witch #pagan #paganism #pagan witch #witchblr #witches of tumblr #finding your way #christianity

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hollenka99 · 4 years

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Photographs

Summary: A selection of moments in Jackie Mann’s life, as told through photographs.

Upon a pillow laid on a table is a baby. He's asleep, having only been born a handful of days earlier. The hand resting by his cheek makes him appear dreamily fed up with all this attention. Behind the baby is a card declaring 'It's a Boy!' and vase full of flowers from the Aherns down the hall. It's not much in the way of celebrating his birth but it's more than his mother had anticipated. After generations of the family living in what was now Northern Ireland, he was the first to be born south of that border. Miss Coghlan only hoped she had made the right decision by moving away. And when she has the pictures developed, she captions this one

John Bartholomew Coghlan Born 10/07/1966 7:22pm --- John appeared to be caught off guard. In his hands were a wooden spoon and a small pan. He'd been banging them together, as two year olds had a habit of finding enjoyment doing, when he had been caught. His mouth was slightly agape in an expression that was a mix of startled and bewilderment. Seconds before, his mother had asked him what he was doing with humour in her voice. As she tucked the black and white photograph in a safe place, Aoife Coghlan smiled fondly, thinking to herself how her son was already a budding musician. There is no writing on the back except for 'November 1968'. --- The two boys looked like an absolute disgrace. It honestly made you wonder if they'd straight up rolled around in the dirt. The only reason John's mother had taken the photo was to help herself believe it had actually happened. Still the 7 year olds posed with their hands on the handlebars, mounted on their bicycles and a foot on the ground to steady themselves. The whole time they remained beaming, content with their day's worth of exploration and play. John had only received that bike for his birthday the prior month. Now look at the state of it! Dear Lord... On the back of the photograph, coloured this time, it is written: John and Dermot after riding their bikes in Ravensdale Forest, August 1973 --- Aoife couldn't have been prouder. The Aherns, whom they'd invited to witness this important moment in John's life, happily offered to take some photos of the mother and son duo. With his mother (dressed in the best of her Sunday best, obviously) placing a hand on his shoulder, John held his copy of the Bible up for the camera. He looked incredibly smart in his shirt and tie. In the background you could catch parts of other families celebrating the same occasion outside the church. This one was going to be catalogued as John's First Holy Communion - 13/06/1974 (Corpus Christi) --- John holds baby Bridget in his arm. Annette, her blonde hair in pigtails, is sitting on his lap. The siblings both have their gazes on the latest addition to their family. Seeing him with his two little sisters is enough to make anyone wonder how the boy is already 13. If his mother wasn't careful, he'd be preparing to leave home before she knew it. But for now it was her three children, together in one beautiful moment, and there wasn't anything more she could ask from the world. It may be grainy but what photo wasn't? It is filed away with September 1979 inked on the other side. --- Jackie had announced this was the year for change in his life. He was going to legally change his name as soon as his 18th birthday arrived in July. But first, Jackie Mann needed a look. Perhaps that was why he'd styled it into a mullet over the holidays and dyed it a vibrant green. None of his bandmates were going to be the ones to point it out but a mullet wasn't exactly the hairstyle you saw and thought 'punk rock'. Regardless, it was Jackie's hair and if he wanted that over a mohawk or anything else, then fine. Even with his arms crossed and back against the wall, it would need some work. Jotted down on the back is He claims it's here to stay, 3rd January 1984 --- It was clear Jackie felt fairly self conscious while wearing feminine clothing. More to the point, he didn't look comfortable if he knew others could see him in those garments. It was why he only wore it at home. Even so, he wasn't keen on Chris catching him in a dress. However, Jackie appeared to be too engrossed by dancing to whatever was playing on his Walkman when his friend returned from grabbing takeaway. The drummer remains oblivious with an absent minded smile as the moment is captured forever. This one gets titled Happy is a good look on him, 19th May 1984 --- The pub doesn't have particularly good lighting. It doesn't matter. You can at least still make out the scene. Jackie is drinking from his pint of Guinness and giving a thumbs up to the camera. In the corner is part of Matt's raised arm, in the middle of cheering. His friends had heavily encouraged him to choose the stout as the first alcoholic beverage of his adult life. He'd acted as if he was annoyed but ordered it regardless. Why the hell not? He'd been half considering doing so anyway. What the camera doesn't catch is the way he very visibly cringes in disgust seconds afterwards. Nor Stuart daring him to chug the whole pint to get out of buying rounds, Jackie stating he shouldn't have to buy rounds on his birthday in the first place then attempting the challenge despite it. Matt suggests the moment be dubbed 'Baby's first drink, 10th July 1984' --- The knife worked on the charred pieces of meat. In amongst all these restoration efforts, Chris' teasing and jokes caused him to have the blade pointed in his direction. This only triggers more of his offending behaviour. He rushes off to grab his camera. Jackie clutches the knife, swearing he was going to 'Psycho his ass in a minute'. This is the very moment preserved through the lens. The 18 year old repeats his threats of murder when he notices the latest addition of 'Jackie pretending he's not completely hopeless with turkey, 25th December 1984' to Chris' photo collection. --- Jackie's left arm was laid on the kitchen table and acted as a cushion for his head. The other hand was clutching a jar of pickles. With unkempt hair, no top and a pair of pajama bottoms not visible to the camera, he looked as terrible as he felt. The second picture was Jackie in a similar pose a minute later. He'd noticed Chris taking the first photograph, lifted his head a moment before having it drop down in the comfort of his arm. Chris, regretting the night before himself, had told him to smile. Instead Jackie's right arm was raised from the elbow and only one finger was not hidden. In the album, the two photographs are placed side by side. And below them is the caption Why 'cooling down' after Live Aid was a bad idea, 14th July 1985 --- In Jackie's arms, cradled like a baby, is a corgi. Her tail is blurred from wagging too much for the camera to catch it. Caoimhe's owner has his eyes clasped tight from laughter. On the other side of the camera, Jackie's new friend Nate watched as the dog did everything in her power to lick his face. The two men stay giggling throughout the whole thing. The more presentable results are put under Caoimhe 1st birthday, Apr '86 --- In the picture dated July 29 '86, Spencer is sat upon his big brother's shoulders. Pinned to his top is a badge declaring he is 5. He looks down and his face lights up as their eyes meet. Jackie has his hands firmly holding on to Spencer's. His eyes are directed skyward while his tongue pokes out. The brothers jointly revel in each other's company. The photograph could not have been taken sooner because a minute later Jackie is racing around the garden, much to Spencer's delight. --- 'Kissing at Stuart's birthday party, 9th October 1986' is pretty much what it says on the tin. Both of them are a little inebriated. Jackie is comfortably tipsy while Chris is gradually working his way towards plastered. Neither will admit to the other the feeling their relationship has seen better days, despite them both experiencing it. That didn't matter tonight. They were here to celebrate a friend turning 24 and damn it, they were going to do just that. It's a sweet moment where any grudges or frustrations are non-existent. Even better, it is still approximately an hour before Jackie will call it a night, say his goodbyes and leave for home. The party hasn't even reached the point where perhaps a dozen people (all intoxicated to varying degrees) join forces to sing 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow' as the cake is presented to Stuart. The pair are happy together and for a frozen moment in time, they will remain so. --- He knows that he should technically be turning 53 today but ah, screw it. He's been living in 2019 for more or less five months now. Marvin gifted him several Queen albums this morning which he hadn't even had the chance to listen to yet. The hero had disappeared off to the kitchen, leaving Henrik, Chase and Jameson at the table with Jackie. Joel hovered between the kitchen and the party like he had been ever since he arrived. Standing in the doorway, his roommate counted their guests down from three. Happy Birthday was sung as his cake travelled towards him. Layered chocolate with strawberries and cream inbetween. Of course Marvin had chosen to bake that one. A couple of candles, a 2 and a 1, were situated in the middle of the top layer. He extinguishes them with his breath to the sound of collective cheering. All the while, Joel was filming it on his mobile phone. His phone of all things. Even after all this time, Jackie was still wrapping his head around that. They ask him what his wish was. He chuckles and winks, reminding them it won't come true if he tells. The truth is, however, that he can't think of one. He isn't sure what he wants. And somehow the thought of birthday wishes returns to him that evening. Long after Chase has rushed back to work with a takeaway slice and the others have bid their own farewells, he's got his legs dangling off a roof by Marvin's side. They sit together, hands entwined, gazing at the skyline in the fading light of a summer evening. He'd love to return to 1986, to live his life in a linear chronological fashion the way everyone else got to. There are people he misses, those he never got to say a proper goodbye to and countless memories he could have made but won't now. That said, he's already become part of dozens of memories in the past few months that he was never meant to be involved in either. If he really had to wish for anything, it was to remain happy throughout life. And currently, he was doing a pretty good job of achieving that.

#jumbled au #jackie mann #jacksepticeye egos #my writing

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eternaleve · 4 years

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Watching A Broken Frame music videos for the first time!

Carrying on with my Depeche Mode video rewatch project with the vids for A Broken Frame (first post is found here https://eternaleve.tumblr.com/post/624649762286780416/ive-spent-the-course-of-covid-lockdown-cycling)

I looked through my vinyl and found I did not steal my mother’s Depeche Mode singles from this album (I only stole all her Elvis Costello and Joy Division and a bunch of Japan singles which I suspect she snuck to me in hopes of making me like them) but they are all mysteriously gone. My abusive stepdad recently moved out and I have thoughts about what property he took, but this just seems petty.

Anyway, let’s talk about A Broken Frame! Vince Clarke left the band to go and be the Paul McCartney of 80s electronic music, forming Yazoo and Erasure. Apparently he did not like success and touring and stuff, which is far because it’s a lot of pressure, so he’s out and Alan Wilder is in after responding to an ad in Melody Maker. Remember music journalism? He joined as a tour keyboardist and appears in the videos for the album, but didn’t contribute to the album.

A Broken Frame was released eleven months after Speak & Spell, which doesn’t seem to be enough time to me for a band to create another whole album's worth of material. It just seems that a band spends a few years perfecting their sound and a selection of songs, and then a record label says, ‘Great! Now do the same thing, but in a much shorter timeframe, under much more stress, and in snatched moments between being shuttled from gig venue to gig venue!’. I understand there’s a ~hype train~ that music acts have to follow, because bands can slip out of notice so fricking quickly, but the pressure does not seem set up to maintain the mental and emotional well-being of people. I’m sure nothing like that will happen in the history of this bad though!

This album cover is considered one of the world’s greatest photographs for a reason. It’s stark and beautiful and has echoes of socialist realism and is just a really striking image. I don’t know who has final say over art direction in the band but whoever does has a great eye for images. The picture is taken over by Duxford and as I’m from the Midlands I have been to Duxford on a hundred school trips (it has a big air centre with WW2 planes and things and bits of the Berlin Wall), so I’ve probably been past this field an uncountable number of times without even realising it.

See You (Jan 1982, No 6 UK charts)

I like how it looks like fuzzy felt. It feels very, very different from the singles art from the last album, I guess to indicate a clear difference in direction? Maybe? This is the first single for the band written by Martin Gore and starting his reign as songwriter.

All the music videos for this album were directed by Julien Temple and are Not Liked by the band. I generally quite like Julien Temple’s work and watched a lot of it as a teen (stepdad being hugely into the Pistols), so I am intrigued to say the least how these will turn out to be.

This does give me a bit of a nostalgia kick for an old-fashioned style train station. It’s pretty much what my home station used to look like before everything was privatised, bought out by Virgin, turned bright red and full of commuters. I like how the station sparks to the beat of the music and that someone okayed an actual spending budget for this time around.

YOU HAVE TO LEAVE THE STATION THE PHOTOBOOTH IS HAUNTED

Not going to lie, this looks 100% like my Dad’s first ever passport photo. I like the addition of the bowtie. It adds a real ‘First Communion’ vibe to the whole look. The nose stud… well, I had a nose stud at the exact same period of my life. Same age too, I think, only mine stayed around a lot longer when it definitely should not have done.

It was at that moment he knew he had made a grave mistake in confronting the ‘Telephone Box Killer’ on his own.

Insert a standard ‘Original Selfie’ joke here. The use of the photobooth gives a cute little through line in the video, as well as giving other band members a chance to be present. I remember using photobooths to take fun photos, before they started costing so much goddamned money and put them only in the most inconvenient places. I still have a bunch that I keep in my purse.

… And now everyone’s working an office job? To show the passage of time? Or because it’s now a bit with music, so we’re showing the use of keyboards through office equipment that sort of requires you to make similar hand movements?

Something, something, statement about technology? The photobooth theme was fine! It was cute! It said something about the regret and passage of time from teen to young adult romance! Why are there now a lot of calculators?

Just in case you forgot - the single’s out now. Wink, wink.

But let’s go back and check in with our corporate overlords. Bob, how are you doing on the spyware floor?

… is this Julien Temple? Is it a music video within a music video? Did he put himself in the video? Could this part not have been done by a member of the band? Like, y’know, that new one who was clearly added in partly through this video?

I like the main core storyline of the video - thinking about a past relationship and then happening to run into them again unexpectedly - but I can see why this is perhaps not well thought of. Next one!

The Meaning of Love (April 82, No 12 UK charts)

This reminds me a lot of the cover for the first Adrian Mole book which was published the same year. It does not match the first single at all or the album, but I guess the album art was yet to be done? Or maybe two different departments handled them, because I would have gone with a different single cover if I knew that one of the greatest photographs of all time was in the wings for the album.

Reader, my heart dropped. I knew we were in for some deeply 80s bullshit. And, like, not good 80s bullshit.

This is the lounge act in the cruiseship of my nightmares

Martin Gore there looking like 99% of the lesbians on the DIY punk scene.

What the fuck is going on?

What, and I must reiterate, the fuck is going on? Are those pies? Pie eyes? Pie eye glasses? What does it mean?

Now’s not the time for your science homework, it’s time to film a music video.

Great, I know what image will be repeating in my night terrors tonight. Martin Gore’s face earnestly singing at me from the depths of a paramecium.

THIS JUST GETS WORSE AND WORSE. THERE IS NO SITUATION ON THE FACE OF THE PLANET MADE BETTER WITH PUPPETS.

No, my night paralysis nightmare will be Dave Gahan’s face turning into a fucking pie over and over and over again.

Oh, I see, the Meaning of Love is that your wife will turn into a bitter harpy that won’t let you live your dream and also your life is ruined because she keeps letting the puppets sleep in the bed.

I guess the video has a sort of XTC vibe? It does remind me of the video of ‘Making Plans for Nigel’, which I do like, but also this video is fucking awful should be seen to be believed. I liked the band’s awkward choreography which was four men showing how much they did not want to be doing any of this.

Leave In Silence (August 82, No 18)

The font is nice. That’s about all there is to say for this. It doesn’t match the other two singles. I’m not saying everything has to be matchy-matchy, but it is nice to have visual similarity and consistency. This looks like the record label gave up on trying.

Okay, so we’ve got the album art sorted and starting out with a - I guess you could call it ‘low rural farming vocalisation’, and neither of these two things match the other singles or music videos, which have had a very poppy, teen girl, Smash Hits vibe.

This week on The Generation Game, you could win a stainless steel bowl, a cuddly toy, and the lead singer of Depeche Mode!

This video started with a group of people vocalising while pouring out grain and looking very plaguecore, now we’re all playing around on a conveyor belt because I think Julien Temple has run out of ideas and is being artsy and surreal and weird to cover that up.

Ladies and gentleman, I’m sad to say that ‘The Fanciest Little Cowboy’ competition will not be running this year due to a lack of other contestants. This is a very fancy Little Cowboy though.

…. I…. what?

I have seen many bad, bad, bad cursed images in my time, but this is going straight up to the top. What the fuck does this say about the song? The band? The image the record label is trying to project? This pointless weird imagery for the sake of being pointless and weird.

It’s okay, Jess. Bright Red Martin Gore can’t really hurt you. Only haunt you.

And now spacehoppers. Because of course spacehoppers!

The players from Pathologic show up to make a cameo appearance, matching nothing in the video, and seeming wildly out of place with everything else. Pick a theme or story, Julien! It is EITHER the Generation Game OR a terrifying children’s show OR guttural Soviet inspired plaguecore. You can pick one! Not all of them!

The Blue Man Group really had a rough start. The wheat is… just there. Because I guess Julien Temple couldn’t think of how to organically weave it an advertisement for the album. So there’s just a bundle of wheat for no good reason.

By this point, same, mate. That is the only reaction I am having.

These videos were… not great. I think ‘See You’ is the best and most cohesive - it tells a cute little story that ties in with the themes of the song and provides an emotional resonance. And then things just go off the bloody chain a bit. They get weird and experimental in a way that does not work in selling the band or the song. They seem pretty disconnected from what a music video should be and Julien Temple seemed to just run out of ideas by ‘Leave In Silence’. C- Mr Temple, must try harder.

And then onto Construction Time Again! ... well, when I get round to it. In a few days maybe.

#depeche mode #a broken frame #i'm making myself laugh at least #see you #leave in silence #the meaning of love

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ms-demeanor · 5 years

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The different approach would probably be, I don’t know, sabotage and killing people? I honestly don’t know what you want people to do, like really, honestly. If we’re already fucked, if the surveillance state is as scary as you’re describing, if all our systems are useless to deal with it (you’re an anarchist, I presume you believe this), what’s left to do? And what’s the point of doing anything if the technology that, like, I absolutely rely on to live is so toxic?

The different approach is to organize.

Organize, organize, organize.

We have been trying to foist the responsibility for evading surveillance onto individuals and that’s bullshit. Your grandma who wants to see baby pictures shouldn’t have to learn how to strip metadata or read a 10K word ToS and argue with it in order to function online.

We are fucked as individuals, we can’t fight this as individuals. It’s a good thing that we don’t have to.

Google and Amazon employees have protested when their employers started working with facial recognition software, corporate and government whistleblowers have told the public when we’re being watched. You might not be able to do those things but you can support the people who HAVE done those sorts of things. You can also work to educate people about the state of modern surveillance and try to get them to pay attention to legislation that they might otherwise overlook.

There is an entire organization (https://www.eff.org/) that exists exclusively to protect online freedoms; if nothing else you can donate to them (because what EFF is doing is working a HELL of a lot better than telling people not to post selfies.

And I don’t know why people always jump to “well so what, killing people is the answer?” when you’ve got “sabotage” right there in your sentence. Yes. 100%. Sabotage the shit out of this system. Spraypaint cameras, point cameras out to people around you, print up sheets of hyperface and wheatpaste it up in high traffic areas.

So much of this shit is blamed on individual people for creating accounts to share news with their family or posting photos on vacation and making individual people feel guilty for being complicit in modern surveillance. Most people don’t even realize that this is a thing. Most people aren’t worried about facial recognition software and the vast files of data being compiled about them because it’s not an immediate problem and I sure as hell can’t blame someone who’s struggling to make rent for not giving a shit about where their face is seen. Our exhaustion leads to apathy and that apathy is being taken advantage of by governments and massive corporations in order to build up a system that does not yet control everyone but easily could in the future.

You can’t kill the apathy. You can’t make a person who says “I’m not important to worry about this, it’ll never impact me” care enough to delete her facebook. So don’t go after her. Find people who DO care and go after facebook. Be shitty and criminal about it and hack it. Be polite and legal about it and agitate for oversight (and not in Zuckerberg’s shitty “we shouldn’t have to be responsible for our platforms, the government should be responsible for preventing bad shit on our platforms while we maintain control of data sales” way).

I brought up David Brin and sousveillance yesterday, that’s a part of this too. The public should have access to police camera footage and since they won’t give it to us we should set up some fucking cameras of our own. You know why we’ve affirmed the right of citizens to film police? BECAUSE PEOPLE FUCKING ORGANIZED. Here, have a state-by-state selection of apps to record the cops: https://www.aclu.org/issues/criminal-law-reform/reforming-police-practices/aclu-apps-record-police-conduct

-----------------------------------------------

So what can you, as an individual, do if you want to step back and get away from some of this but you aren’t quite ready to start slapping stickers on security cameras?

First, detach as much as possible from the toxic aspects of technology as you can.

I’m pretty clearly a big advocate for open source software and surveillance is part of that. Apple tracks your shit. Microsoft tracks your shit Linux doesn’t. Google tracks your shit. Firefox doesn’t. Yahoo tracks your shit. Protonmail doesn’t. Install adblockers, browse incognito, and see how well you do without certain kinds of social media.

I get it, I had to create a facebook page for a job and now I have to keep one for another job and it sucks because you’re forced to participate in order to just be allowed to survive. Participate at the lowest level you can.

(Real talk: I am *floored* that Chrome is a thing. I understand that gmail got off the ground before we all realized how nuts google was and that almost everyone has a youtube account but it is balls to the wall *bonkers* to me that people would use a google browser)

Start running a good adblocker (I like ublock origin) and NoScript. It’ll really narrow your online experience to do so, but it might also make you aware of just how much bullshit is quietly going on in the background of the pages you visit.

Second, become unpredictable.

I wasn’t kidding about randomly leaving your phone at home or at the office. You probably don’t need it with you all the time so don’t take it all the time.

Change the way you get to work, change where you go to eat, change where you shop. Routine is comforting, it’s also a trap. (And if it’s at all feasible cut yourself off from Amazon; don’t shop there, don’t interact with it, don’t use alexa, don’t use their storage products, don’t sell through it. I know it’s really difficult, and if you can’t do all of that try to do the most you can)

It’s easy to observe and build profiles on people who have habits set in stone and a particular path they follow each day. It’ll be good for you to shake yourself out of those habits not only because it blurs the edges of your profile but also because novel experiences are good for your brain. And if you can’t change your commute or leave your phone at home at least vary your behaviors. If you go on tumblr every day start taking a day off once in a while. If you play mobile games on your phone most days maybe switch to an ereader for a bit.

One of my friends once said “your credit card company should always have to call you to check for fraud because they should never know what you’re going to buy next” and honestly I like that philosophy (this came up after he purchased a box of communion wafers and a boat oar about an hour apart). Shop like you’re trying to confuse the fraud department, drive like you’re trying to lose a tail.

Look for alternatives to the things you do every day and start doing the alternative thing once in a while for the sheer novelty of it.

--------------------------------------

Nihilism

The system is broken. The system is broken. It is broken and it can’t be fixed, we let it go too long and by the time we even thought about trying to control this shit it was so far gone that we couldn’t walk away. It’s all well and good to talk about avoiding cameras but people gotta use roads and ride busses and take the subway. People gotta eat. People gotta go to school. It’s all well and good to talk about disrupting data patterns and checking out of social media but you’re still gonna get googled and your name is out there. The cat’s out of the bag.

That is not an excuse to throw up your hands and say “well I guess there’s nothing that can be done,” it’s a reason to say “there’s no reason things should be like this.”

People talk about surveillance and technology and security like they’re set in stone, like they’re forces of nature and can never be changed.

That’s fuckin bullshit. We make this. WE MAKE THIS. And we can change this. We can change it collectively by putting pressure on companies like facebook or amazon or google by agitating for oversight, sabotaging them, or leaking documents. We can change it collectively by making alternative options and participating in open source projects. We can change it collectively by leaking data and supporting leakers. We can change it collectively by filming cops. We can change it collectively by pushing toward norms of privacy, by moving away from always-on, always-reachable culture.

And it’s always going to be a fight. There’s never going to be an end-state in which there *isn’t* someone trying to take advantage of the structures we’ve built. But together we can keep pushing anyway. One must imagine Sisyphus happy, after all.

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acadmie · 4 years

Text

Immaculate Conception

I think I wanted for a long time to be the kind of woman who could be content as a mother to bathe her children immaculately in a claw-foot tub, but I am not, and I have only recently come to terms with that.

My tub is very nice. I take baths almost every day. Some people think baths are gross, which, fine, within your rights, but I’ll take my bath while you take your shower, and we’ll see who comes out more relaxed. My baths are my own time. I close and lock the door to my bathroom the way I always have done since I was a very small child. I run the faucet until the tub is full, and then I sit in it, and I wash my hair, and I look around my tiny bathroom and remind myself what a room looks like when it’s all mine.

Admittedly I made the choice to make rooms not all mine. That’s what being a parent does, in effect - it ensures that you will always share your life with someone else, unless you royally fuck up. I don’t think I’ve ever royally fucked up Elliot, because if I did, he would tell me right away with his smart mouth.

He is the opposite of an immaculate child. He had the opposite of an immaculate conception. He loves to be dirty. He was born dirty, and he will die dirty. Last week he saw the sparrows in the park taking turns bathing in a puddle and flung himself into it. When he stood up, covered in mud and a few comic feathers, he said, “Look, Mom! All clean!”

Yeah.

Bathtime doesn’t go over well in our house except when it’s mine. When it’s Elliot’s, it is a grand affair. He demands bubbles, which I make myself out of dish soap and sugar on the kitchen counter. He makes tidal waves. If I don’t hold him tightly after he gets out of the bath, he will rip himself and the towel from my hands and cannonball back into the water, soaking the floor and the walls and making me paranoid about the state of our grout.

It surprises me every time that such a dirty child can be so enthusiastic about baths. When I was a child, I hated bathing right up until the moment I got into the water. It felt good to be grimy - it was the product of a day well spent. I hid in my closet, behind the door, holding in laughter and reveling in the dirt under my fingernails. Eventually my father would find me and drag me out by the ankles and stick me in the tub while the water ran, and I accepted my fate and put my ears under the water and felt the thundering of the faucet like an earthquake just for me.

It was nice there, under the water. The faucet shut off and there was wonderful, floating silence. I shook my head back and forth and felt my hair against my neck. My sweat and the dirt mixed with the water and left me gently. I lay there until the water got cold, until my fingers pruned and my nails became soft, and when I stood up unsteadily I was as pink and as smooth as I had been the first time I opened my eyes to the world.

I grew up Catholic, which meant one of my first baths was at the altar in a burnished bowl of holy water. I don’t think I liked it. My parents kept the home video footage; I watched it later and could see the moment I was lifted out of the water. I don’t know what it felt like before, so I can’t know the difference from what it felt like after, but I think I must have been perturbed by being so suddenly and rudely stripped of whatever sin I had already managed to commit, because in that moment, the camera focused on my small, grainy face, and I looked into it and gave the first stink eye of my life.

The way I hated church was similar to the way I hated bathing. Waking up on a Sunday was poisoned by it. Everything I wore was too dry and too stiff; I would start to fluff my skirt and my mother would bat my hands away from it. She would only let me eat dry toast for breakfast. “All you can get on you is crumbs,” she declared. I tried to get as many crumbs on me as possible in hopes that perhaps I wouldn’t go to church, but we went anyway, and the next weekend she didn’t let me eat until after Mass.

I was determined to hate church. I lagged so far behind my parents on our walk around the block that my father tugged me forward by the wrist. I scuffed my shoes on the sidewalk. We approached the big stone steps and I hung back, kicking the dirt by the garden. This was the last frontier, usually, because as soon as I got up the steps the old ladies who always stood at the door would start to make a big stink about how lovely my dress was, and how lovely it was to see me, and what a lovely big girl I was becoming. This was the final frontier not because it was the point at which I could no longer escape, but because quietly, I liked it. It was a lovely dress. I was a lovely girl. And so I slid my head under the water.

Those first steps into church were always the best. It was so full of light. Big windows commanded every bit of sun into the room so that it felt open enough to never be full. My parents made their crosses and bows in front of the pulpit and tugged me into a pew where I would always sit on the outside. My father permitted this only because I made a habit of going to the bathroom several times during the service. I made a habit only because I wanted to sit on the end of the pew, closest to the light.

This was how I met Soren. One day during the service, I sat quietly at the end of my pew, reveling in the warmth of the sun. A shadow cast itself gently across my lap. I looked up, and there he was - small and dark in the aisle against the window pane, sitting there, hands tucked together, in the white shirt he always wore. I remember looking at him and deciding that we were there for the same reason, even if that reason wasn’t exactly the right kind of worship.

For all the time that I was made to spend in church as I child, I don’t think I really understood what I was supposed to think of God. The congregation would stand, so I stood; they would sing, so I sang. I ate dry communion wafers and drank water pinked with wine. The priest would talk about God, and so would my parents and their friends and the old lady church greeters. God is good! So was I, if it meant Santa was coming. But when we were in church, and I could drag my eyes away from the windows for a minute, looking at them was like looking at a door left wide open.

Soren was always my best friend. We met in church, but I don’t think either of us really cared about it. It was an understanding that ran between us like water, that we didn’t ever have to talk about. There were things bigger than us, sure. A lot of things. But he and I both preferred the bigger things around us that we could see and touch and smell and taste. At first, the light in church on Sundays. Then the enormous trees that grew in his backyard, then the lake in the summer, then the deafening rhythm of a rainstorm. We were perpetually in awe of the way that life existed carelessly around us, continuing no matter what happened in our lives, the same way that time moved after a clock had stopped, bringing the sun down and up again without the need for an hour hand.

Soren and I liked small things, too. Caterpillars, frogs, water bugs in the stream behind my house. We played cards and read chapter books and built walls out of rocks. I think his hands knew how to do everything since before he was born. He could pick up a moth without hurting its wings, and untie any knot my shoelaces got into, and pack a snowball tight enough that it would explode inside the collar of my winter coat. Mostly we baked bread. His mother was a baker; they had big jars of flour in their house that she used to make cookies and pastries and immense tiered cakes for his birthday. We made whole wheat and sourdough and focaccia and ate it together on the steps of church before the service. He always saved a little for after, too - “I don’t like the way the wine tastes in my mouth,” he explained to me one afternoon after digging a hunk of it out of his small pocket. I didn’t like it then, either, but we were friends for long enough to see each other get a taste for it.

In some time I was seventeen and I found out that my parents were wonderful Catholics in that when they got divorced, they did their best to hide it from God. They lived in the same house, maybe amicably, if you squinted hard enough; they kept their rings; they went to church. The doors that were once open inside them closed. So much of their energy was spent on this that, to me, the ins and outs of their separation were out in the open.

Everything in the house became strictly divided property. They would use the kitchen in shifts. They split the couch apart. They blocked out when their shows were on cable and made topical compromises on who would use the DVR each week when Locke and Key came too close to overlapping with The Walking Dead. I came home from school one afternoon to find my mother surrounded by stacks of books in their bedroom, which had now become just hers, sorting out which ones were his and putting them in boxes to go to his room downstairs. It was so definite, so clean cut, that it felt more violent than if they had fought more openly. It was like they had made the decision to be separate people without allowing me a moment to separate them as my parents.

I had been going to church halfheartedly before they separated, but at some point in the legal and physical and spiritual process I stopped. No Easter service, or Christmas service. No Mass. It was a relief, in some ways - I wouldn’t have to stand between them in the pew anymore, or diffuse conversations with their church friends who they hadn’t told yet. It was an effective resignation from my position as the parent of their divorce. But in other ways, it felt just a little like death. Or not death. Like a door closing. Soren said he missed me during Mass, and I said he should just come over after.

I got used to it quickly. The time that I had used to go to church on Sunday I could now use to sleep in and eat buttered toast and wear sweatpants, three novel things that lost their novelty after the first few weekends and just became what I did with myself. While my parents were gone, the house was all mine. This was a novelty that never wore away. Part of me was ashamed of it. Who got excited about living in their own house?

Another, bigger part of me was more satisfied at home than I ever had been at church. If there was a God, He probably lived in my house. Walking freely through the rooms without being afraid of crossing boundaries or making allegiances or interrupting arguments or staged quiet hours was a new kind of worship that I didn’t know I was capable of. I got excited about opening the drawers in my kitchen, and sitting in the middle of the couch, and pulling up the window shades. I let as much light into every room as I could and lay in patches of sun for hours. When I got bored or listless I could leave, and the house would always be content to wait for me until I came back. For those hours, the divided space I lived in became fully mine.

I did other things, too, besides take baths and practice living in my own house. I had Soren, and other close friends who I could invite over or go out with; we played board games and planted peppers and drove several cars gently into ditches and made a habit of trespassing in the woods across town. They had other friends who had other friends who invited us to concerts and parties and bought alcohol that I wrapped in a sweatshirt and hid in my closet, only to forget about it and find it later when I was hunting through clothes for my rain boots. It was cheap stuff, the kind of vodka that comes in a plastic jug that, if unmarked, might also be used to transport corrosive acid or washable glue, and near the end of my senior summer, when my parents were thinking of selling the house and I was weeks from departing to college, I thought that it would be a good idea to invite everybody over to drink the rest of it.

It was a Wednesday. My dad was out of town - he had found more and more excuses to spend time a couple states away, “on business”. My mom was staying with her sister while her husband (of a successful Catholic marriage) had surgery in the nearby hospital. She had left earlier in the week, with a kiss on each of my cheeks and a pointed look that probably meant, in a loving way, don’t get drunk on shitty vodka while I’m gone. I gave her a look back that probably meant, in a loving way, you need to practice for when you can’t tell me what to do anymore.

I think fondly on it. In the months leading up to and the months after Elliot was born, people kept asking me, “Don’t you regret it?” And I didn’t, and I don’t. I liked sitting on the floor of the kitchen, drinking shitty vodka soda with my friends. I liked playing soft music loud enough to feel it in my ankles. I liked going outside with them and closing the door. I liked walking around the block. I liked Soren stopping us in front of the church, and I liked going in through the basement window, and I liked coming up the stairs to see it like an empty swimming pool, so blue, so broad, so full, still, of light, just the way I had left it.

We scattered ourselves among the pews, in the balcony, at the seat of the big organ and the smaller piano. I wandered through the rooms, in and out of the confessional, climbed the steps to the bell tower and down again. I felt oddly returned to myself. I had done this many, many times. My feet knew how the floors felt under them; my fingers knew how the walls felt under them; my eyes knew where to find the shadows in the dips of the hallway and the cracks in the wood. But I had never seen them like this. Not from this height, or this hour, or without resistance to come in the first place.

The moon shone through stained glass and illuminated the star above Bethlehem.

I wanted to take a bath.

The baptism pool was hidden in one of the side rooms behind the altar. Under the water, the lights were on; they swam green and white beneath the surface, a promise of warmth, of cleanliness. I stripped to my underwear and stepped onto the first shallow stair, and the next, and the next, until the water hit my waist and my ribs and my chin, until I closed my eyes and ducked my head under and felt my hair rise up and float around me as if I was suspended in space, and when I rose to take a breath, it felt like the first time.

The baptism chamber, like most of the church, was lined in windows. Plexiglas along the bottom, but as the ceiling arched, stained glass masterpieces of Mother Mary: at the birth of Christ, at his crucifixion, her holding his body, her mourning, her assumption, her coronation. She seemed to have infinite grace. She was innocent. She was pure. She was holy, in every sense. Was it because of the child? Was it because God chose her to have the virgin birth, to bring forth his voice into the human world? Or was it in the way she carried herself, swaying hips, steady eyes, assured of her place in the world with our without Christ or God or the Wise Men coming out of the desert?

Behind me the door creaked. I could tell without looking that it was Soren - I knew the way he breathed from all the nights we had spent sleeping on each others’ floors.

He said, “How does it feel to be back?”

I said, “I wish you had some bread.”

He laughed softly and came to sit by the edge of the pool and started taking his shoes off with deft hands. I watched him untie his laces and strip off his socks and roll his pants up just above his ankles, and then he dipped his feet into the pool and it was the two of us there together just like it had always been.

Being there with him felt familiar. It felt like knowing him was knowing me inside and out. And so I wasn’t nervous when I pulled myself out of the pool, or when he reached out to touch my wet hair, or when I leaned in to meet his soft mouth. I wasn’t nervous fumbling at his buttons, or lying on the stone floor, feeling the cold on my back but the warmth between us. We laughed together, in gasps, and I could feel his heart beating, and I wasn’t nervous, because this really was something that was bigger than us. I knew it was, lying on my back next to him after, looking up at Mary and thinking that most of the time holy things had nothing to do with God, but just with the knowledge that rightness and goodness existed in places where everyone could find them.

When I had Elliot, my parents freaked out. They told me they were scared for me when they really meant they were scared of me. But I’m not stressed about getting into Heaven, really, because I think I’m probably having little bits of it all the time. When I take a bath. When I sit in the sun. When Elliot and I stay home on Sundays and make bread. Some voice in the back of my head is always saying, when we sit down to dinner with our fresh bakes and with my glass of wine, eat of my body, drink of my blood, and maybe that’s God, but maybe it’s me, instead, content to be dirty and clean at the same time in a world of my own creation.

Elliot is five. That’s old enough now that he likes to take showers, but Monday is bath day for both of us. During the day, Soren takes him to a stream, or up a mountain, or on some other kind of adventure that lets him get absolutely filthy. When they get home at night, I shepherd Elliot into the bath while Soren makes easy dinner. I give him bubbles and soap and the kind of shampoo that won’t sting if it gets in his eyes, and he washes himself and tells me about his day with his dad. When I pull the plug on the drain, he stays until the tub is completely empty, leaving him goosefleshed and giggling until I wrap him in a towel.

While they’re gone during the day, I sit in the water and look up at the window. It’s a cloudy skylight, covered with years’ worth of dirt and grime, but still clean enough to let a good amount of light in. I like to think that if we didn’t live in an apartment, and if we had a good amount of money, I’d put in some stained glass up there. Something innocuous, like a caterpillar or a loaf of challah, but with just the right amount of color and drama to remind me where I came from, and what worship feels like when you do it for yourself.

I stay in the bath for a long time. I run the faucet until the tub is full, and then I sit in it, and I wash my hair, and I look around my tiny bathroom and remind myself what a room looks like when it’s all mine.

#short story #writers on tumblr #x #plot and suspense #spring 2020

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pipesflowforeverandever · 5 years

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11 and 7 :0c

11: What do you like best about this fic?

Of the fic itself: The gradual buildup to and then the reveal of anything to do with Joey; delving into Sammy’s religiosity and mindset; creating a female character I can be proud of.

Of writing it: Seeing people analyze it and see everything I intended and then some, and then gush about it.

7: Where did the title come from?

As a heads up, a lot of these refer to things in each arc so if you don’t want spoilers for parts you haven’t read (and don’t want to be spoiled ofc), I wouldn’t read about the titles you haven’t gotten through yet. It especially includes the major plot twist in ARITR and the end/climax of the whole series.

Hymns of Struggle: This was the very first thing I had to name, and I don’t remember a lot about the process, but I think I was just especially thinking of things I wanted to convey in a way that sounds good. “Hymns” fits both musicality and religiosity, and “Struggle” conveys a feeling of, well, struggle. And together, I intended to give the idea that people are praying through their suffering, with hope (either pointless or good).

Wonders of Heresy: I wanted to keep the same basic rhythm in titles, so this is where the pattern (blank) of (blank) starts. This in particular is supposed to point out the things Francine brings that are amazing, even if they distract or go against Sammy’s faith. This goes for both her phone and new knowledge as well as her meeting Alice. I also think it especially fits the very last chapter where Sammy is trying to teach Francine how to sing/pray to the ink demon and she just… *plop* to the floor like a little kid.

Parables of Empathy: I already knew ahead of time I wanted this part to be about Francine getting to know Alice and the Projectionist better. “Parables” in this case refers to biblical lessons meant to be modeled after, and so this part is about trials Francine (and Sammy secondarily) goes through that she and others will learn from and use in the future.

Flickers of Faith: “Flickers” simultaneously refers to a flame dying and a flame sparking to life; it’s an in between state and by the name alone, you can’t really tell where you are. It’s precarious, and dangerous, and the characters both physically and emotionally are threatened. My first chapter for it is called “The Last Stair,” which tries to convey the idea that sometimes the in-between is more distressing than whatever outcome is next. And so, Sammy for the first time has doubts in his faith, and Francine for the first time begins to question what Sammy has told her and goes out to test it herself.

Tides of Longing: In Flickers of Faith, I use the title here to refer to Francine’s want of something more eating something up Sammy holds dear- if I recall right, his sense of security in the ink demon. Here, I use it to also refer to a recently revealed Joey swallowing the studio up in his curse because he longed for his son. Joey, Sammy, and Francine are all shown here to deeply want something, and they face the moral complications of the pursuit of it.

Cares of Communion: In a way similar to Parables, I knew I wanted to talk about people “communing” or talking and being together. I knew I wanted Francine to talk to Joey again- inevitably so, as they are both very drawn to one another despite justified apprehensions on both sides- and I wanted Sammy to talk to Alice after Francine met with her again. This is probably my weakest title choice, but it’s still not necessarily bad imo because it sounds good and rolls off the tongue. I want to say I changed the title at least three times, even after posting chapter 1 of it.

Dances of Duality: I was talking at either @startistdoodles or @aceofintuition‘s stream and I was asking for ideas for titles of upcoming arcs in general, and Ace suggested either the whole title or at least the Dances part. In this section, I try to make it more apparent that something deeper is happening, that there is mirroring between Joey and the rest of his studio and between Francine and Henry.

“Dances” is both literal and figurative, of course; it can both be something fun and intimate as well as an analogy to dodging one another in a fight- predicting their next move. It goes for Joey especially as he does his best to analyze Francine while simultaneously marveling at the warmth she brings other people, and so Joey ends of in one moment letting himself go and allowing himself to enjoy the otherwise horrid, murderous whimsy/power of the studio with her…and in another moment he has to predict what she is going to do, and what the demon is going to do. And well. I actually already drafted two dancing moments prior to writing this arc, so “dances” kind of fell in my lap…and especially so with Sammy’s dance mirroring Joey’s.

A Rock in the River: I had a big, long talk with Ace about this one. I was pretty attached to the title pattern at this point, but they convinced me that the finale needed something different, because something different is happening in a major way for the story and the characters. And so the title itself represents that- a change. The path of life is being redirected by something towards another direction.

We first came up with the idea that something nature based and/or like a fairy tale is fitting, and a lot of the analogies I use of such things (candles, bodies of water, trees, rain, etc) would be brought full circle. In particular, I was thinking about the second or third chapter of Tides where Joey is described as having the belief that time is like a river, and when Henry left, fate was going in the wrong direction. Joey had faith in magic and believed that it brought him and Henry together, and therefore as a man of magic, he had the ability to change the flow of fate and put things where they were supposed to be. Of course, he only ends up in the most ironic way shifting it entirely away with his selfishness and lack of introspection, and so no one was allowed to continue living as their were supposed to not just as employees but as human beings with proper bodies and souls that can rest in death. Time is askew and means nothing to the studio, and this is not a world these people are meant to be in.

There’s a few people that I could say are the “rock” that comes and changes everything to the way it’s truly supposed to be; most obviously, Francine brings about change and it’s entirely plausible the studio would not be set free if not for her influence. But I also really wanna give credit to Sammy, for one. Sammy goes against everything he’s taught himself to emotionally survive what he’s been through for nearly a century- he runs away with his faith and believes in himself and his friend. He basically kills his “god” in order to set himself free, he is the change he prayed for.

…I really, really need to mention Henry too, though. Henry changed the studio- his game-canon arrival creating the setup of Hymns- but also in his own personal story, he sought for his dad and ultimately left again after realizing (one way or another) that he not only did not change in a way that mattered- and actually got even worse as his destruction created an eternal cycle of self-hatred and perpetuated harm and possessiveness. I haven’t written about this yet, but Henry presumably had to struggle with the aftermath of his decision and try to reconcile the truth that he did what was good for himself and his family. And in the end, Henry survived and left the studio, and he had his own peace living a full life with a loving family. And Joey realizing Henry in spite of Joey’s mistakes still had his own life in his hands of course couldn’t take back everything the 50 years of believing he killed his son did to him emotionally and to the studio, but it managed to undo the knot for Joey to let go; he let go of his son, and his son saw the sun again, and so could everyone else without him.

It’s also less directly relevant, but I feel I should be fair and give a shoutout to Alice for changing too, going from someone that harms others because she believes they’re wasting away anyway- using their bodies to make herself who she wants to be- to someone willing to throw away the body she’s worked so hard for and put her fate into someone else’s hands. She learned to love, and to let someone care for her instead even after being reaffirmed in her first life and the eternal one that no one was really looking out for her.

As another note, I also already planned out the ending where everyone is released at Joey’s “heart”- or his sacred childhood home in a beautiful, natural scene like a fairy tale, and so the title helped wrap everything full circle that way too.

#hymns spoilers #ask box #gingie #hymns alice #hymns sammy #francine #hymns norman #hymns henry #tak talks #tak writes #long post #science5life #hymns of struggle #batim au #fanfic #fanfiction #writer ask

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neonbluewaves · 5 years

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2, 3 & 4 for the Mc and Jacob's Ask, pretty please 🤗💖 ( u sure u don't bite? 👀 )

Wooh I wrote a lot, i think

Anyways, thanks for asking! hope I don’t bore you, under the cut because it a lot

2. How did you come up with your MC and Jacob’s backstory (family, where they’re from, their relationship with each other, etc.)?

Well, since I gave her an English surname and it was pretty randomly chosen, I looked it up to see what could I do with it. Welkin means sky, the heavens or the celestial sphere, so from here I imagined that her family was pretty free spirited, open minded, you kinda get the idea. I planned to make them all very light in palette, pale skin, blonde or light brown hair, and clear eyes. But since I wanted her to be half Spanish, put a little bit of me in there I gave them a second surname, Prieto. Which is a variant from “preto” , dark. And that gave me the idea of making her mother’s side of the family the opposite. Kinda like the Blacks, they’re purebloods proud of it, mixing with the dark arts and having a bad reputation. And that took me to the family drama, because I liked the idea of having some hypocrisy going along. They’re very protective of family, but they’ll destroy each other if they see fit. So we get a muggle grandpa mixed in, to let in that “oh no, they’re not ALL bad” and then you got in the pshyco racist uncle nobody likes.

I wanted to put in one dangerous relative so Neon would have a shadow always lurking, something not only driving her to be better, but that connected Neon’s hogwarts’ adventure and her life outside of the school. When jacob goes missing, their parents try to find him and their uncle strikes in. So in Neon’s mind finding Jacob is the key to getting her parents back. It ties it all together and makes Neon looking for Jacob even more desperate. I added the family book to give Narcisso a motivation to set after his own family, him being evil just to be evil is too much simple. There’s something in that book he wants so bad and I like to keep alluding to it until I finally reveal why ( I don’t wanna spoil it yet).

As for the relationship with each other, I made Jacob and Neon close, loving siblings. Neon needed a reason to be worried and sad. She loved his brother with all her heart, they had fun, they teased each other and fought. That special close bond that only siblings have. They are so loud and annoying to each other, when Jacob dissapears it feels like there’s a hole in Neon, there’s so much silence it’s unbearable, and music only does so much.

At first I thought that her being alone in the world was a bit too cruel and obvious, so I gave her two cousins that act as sisters and two uncles, who although I haven’t really showed much, you can tell they love her as much. I’ll admit this later gave me more material for family drama, so I have that there.

I kinda wanted to make a ”Go ahead, bite the Big Apple. Don’t mind the maggots.”

3. How did you come up with your version of Jacob?

I took inspiration from two people. One my own brother, who will forever annoy me and who I would kill for. The thing is I could only take inspiration from his personality, because when I was thinking about his design I new I couldn’t draw my brother when he was little. HE LOOKS SO FUCKING MUCH LIKE HARRY POTTER IT’S SURREAL. I’M NOT FUCKING JOKING, WE HAVE PHOTOS AND HE WORE ROUND GLASSES, I’VE HAD FRIENDS COME OVER, SEE HIS PHOTO AND BE LIKE “WHY YOU HAVE A PICTURE OF HARRY POTTER AS A SAILOR?” “BECAUSE THET’S MY BROTHER THE DAY OF HIS COMMUNION”

The other person is a childhood friend of mine who was just as much of a brother, I swear people thought we were siblings because of the constant bickering. We always played together and we told each other our secrets and shit.

Both my friend and my brother had a couple of things in common, so it made his personality easy, smart, fun, shy, loyal and thoughtful. I thought making him charming would give him an advantage on how he convinced people to help him and give him what he wanted. Of course he also has his negative traits, like being pretty lazy, bossy, cynical, selfish, paranoid and irresponsible. These last two are specially important to me because I feel like they are the main reasons as to why everything goes to shit and gives the start to MC’s story, and more specifically Neon, since it’s his paranoia of everyone dying what drives him to run away.

I also wanted him to be kinda opposite to Neon to balance them. Jacob is composed, calm, thinks before acting, is shy and Neon is loud, impulsive, acts way before thinking and is bold. One’s ice the other’s fire, and they make a warm home and a horrible lukewarm wet mix when arguing

4. How does your MC cope with everything they’ve endured with Jacob, R, and the Vaults?

I’m pretty sure it’s obvious that Neon’s a mess. The kid gets into fights 24/7 for fuck’s sake, she needs help. She smokes and she drinks. And it all roots to the fact that she almost died once. Remember the river accident? The one were she almost drowned? Yeah, in Neon’s mind she should have died that day, and the fact that she gets strangled by the devil’s snare in first year just proves her she’s right. Do you know Hamilton’s lyrics in Hurricane? “I couldn’t seem to die” that’s what Neon hears in the back of her head. She’s so goddamn reckless because that’s her unconscious way of running away and giving up, she feels like she deserves it, so she self-sabotages, because she won’t actively surrender. And the person who used to help her, be there for her and know when she needed someone is her father, and he’s in a coma.

me @ myself: You fucked up a perfectly good witch is what you did, look at her, she’s got deeply rooted issues

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #hphm mc #ask meme #my art

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chiseler · 5 years

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The Passion of the Bunny: “Here Comes Peter Cottontail” (1971)

Over the centuries, the leaders of the Christian Church have made a habit of screwing around with the calendar in order to piggyback their own holidays on top of popular and long-standing Pagan holidays, quietly co-opting the symbolism and rituals in the hopes of eventually diluting things to a point at which people forget all about that silly heathen nonsense. If they could somehow arrange to target the Pagan symbols directly at stupid children so people take them less seriously, all the better. Most of the time it worked like a charm. That’s why at Christmas we have trees and Yule logs and Santa and so many repurposed carols. Nobody even bothers to ask what the hell a Yule log is anymore. Something to do with Jesus, apparently.

When it came to Easter, though, they got even sneakier than usual. At first you might say, “Easter’s a celebration of the resurrection and the life, an affirmation of our faith and confirmation of the forgiveness of our sins. So what the fuck’s the bunny with the eggs doing in there?”

Well, in Pagan terms the coming of spring was marked by a celebration of rebirth and fertility. So the whole “rebirth/resurrection” thing is pretty clear, and as for fertility, well, we don’t say “fucks like a bunny” for nothing. And nothing fucks like a bunny quite like a bunny, so there you go, right?

But of course Church leaders couldn’t just leave it there, a symbol of unbridled whoop-it-up fornication alongside Jesus rising from the dead like that. It’s...unseemly.

So what they did, see, is turn that horny rabbit into a Surrogate Jesus. Call him the Easter Bunny (instead of, say, Sammy Spermshooter), target him at the kids and all your troubles are over. The Easter Bunny/Surrogate Jesus travels the world handing children chocolate images of himself (an ersatz communion, see?) and brightly colored hardboiled eggs (as, I dunno, maybe some obscure anti-abortion message), and though you may not save any 6-year-old souls, you’re at least prepping the little bastards for what’s to come.

Which brings us to the message of Here Comes Peter Cottontail. For years Jules Bass and Arthur Rankin Jr. had been mining beloved holidays for new and subtle ways to mess with kids’ minds with their creepy animated specials,. I thought Rudolph was bad enough, but with Peter Cottontail they really outdid themselves.

Here’s the set-up: All the Easter bunnies/Surrogate Jesuses live in April Valley, where the chief Easter Bunny (voiced by Danny Kaye) is getting ready to retire. He wants to finger Peter Cottontail (the inescapable Casey Kasem) as his successor, but a wicked, Satanic rabbit named Irontail (Vincent Price) wants the job too, and suggests a contest: whoever delivers the most eggs on Easter gets the job.

Irontail, see, has hated children ever since one little fucker in roller skates severed his tail, forcing him to wear a prosthetic. He only wants to be chief Easter bunny so he can exact revenge. Even seeing this as a kid when it first aired I admired and respected Irontail. His reasoning made sense to me then, and it makes sense to me now.

Anyway, Peter (as the Christ figure here) is at once lazy but burning with ambition. He desperately wants to be chief Easter Bunny for reasons that aren’t clear beyond simple power whoredom.. Yet ambitious as he is, the night before Easter he has a wild and drunken Last Supper that goes on until all hours, and as a result sleeps all through the big day. So fair and square mind you, in a perfectly democratic fashion, Irontail wins the appointment by handing out a single egg. During his inaugural speech he announces that from that point on instead of chocolate bunnies and chicks, they will be distributing chocolate tarantulas and octopuses. Why? Because he’s not a goddamn CANNIBAL, that’s why! (When I was a kid, the chocolate tarantulas were something else that put me decidedly in the Irontail camp. Communion symbology aside, I always thought it was weird the Easter Bunny would want us to eat versions of him. And tarantulas were cooler.)

Now Peter/Christ, upset that he (fairly) lost the competition and the appointment, does what any normal Son of God would do: he cheats.

With the assistance of a primitive time machine piloted by a worm named Antoine, Peter/Christ and his eggs travel clumsily back in time in an effort to re-live Easter and win the appointment. As they bounce from holiday to holiday through the calendar, Antoine sings to Peter/Christ: “People believe what their hearts tell their eyes/So if you can’t get it all together, improvise.”

Has there ever been a more lucid or accurate summation of faith? This is why people see the Virgin Mary in cheese danish and the image of Jesus on the sides of barns. So Peter/Christ starts to lie as well as cheat, by misrepresenting his eggs at each stop as Mother’s Day eggs, Fourth of July eggs, and Christmas Eggs. Forget about that whole “whoever hands out the most eggs on Easter” rule; he’s going to win by whatever means necessary. He’s the Son of God, dammit, and he can do whatever the hell he wants.

Along the way he suffers through the Passion, Rankin/Bass style: he’s rejected at every turn, he’s pelted with his own eggs, he’s robbed, he’s tormented by witches, and then he’s rejected some more. But does he learn anything as a result? Is his spirit purified?

His only friends along the way are Antoine and that other co-opted symbol, Santa. Not only does he not thank Santa after the old man saves the day—he ignores Antoine’s cries for help and abandons him in the snow in his mad rush toward ascension. What a lousy fucking piece of lapine shit he is. Beyond that, at every turn he leaves the eggs unprotected so they can easily be stolen (repeatedly) by Irontail or one of his minions, so he’s a big fucking idiot too, as well as a liar and an ingrate.

He finally wins of course (it’s the Bible after all) when Irontail turns all the eggs green and Peter/Christ hands them out to drunks on St. Pat’s Day.

He lied without gumption, he cheated, he stole an election Irontail had won fair and square, but he got the power he wanted. In the final scene of Here Comes Peter Cottontail, Easter arrives again meaning it’s time to deliver eggs and chocolate communion to all the children of the world (well, the Christian ones anyway). When the time comes for Peter/Christ to hit the road and get to work, he insists that everyone in April Valley come along and help him, because he’s a big fucking lazy asshole on top of everything else.

And that’s what Easter is all about.

by Jim Knipfel

#Jim Knipfel #The Chiseler #Here Comes Peter Cottontail

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