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science-fiction-is-real · 5 years

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In which i talk about joseph stalin for a long time and also about intersectionality

You know who i’ve been reading a lot about recently?

Joseph Stalin.

And I’ve been reading, and while i’m at work all day, working mostly alone, no music or distractions, i’ve been thinking about everything i’ve been reading.

and this fucker who died before my parents were even born has been on my mind, because i just don’t fucking get it.

This idiot was a revolutionary. a god damn REVOLUTIONARY. Did hard time in siberia as a political prisoner. (I mean, probably also a prisoner for all the organized crime he was doing---to fund the REVOLUTION) That’s not the sort of thing a grifter, who is only interested in power, gets into. It’s an absolutely terrible grift. It’s a lot of risk to take if you aren’t a true believer.

And in between all the bank robberies and what not, he edited a newspaper and did a lot of writing. There’s a database online where you can read pretty much everything Stalin ever wrote (Along with pretty much every thing pretty much every other famous Marxist ever wrote). I can’t really bring myself to read too much of his stuff. Eww. Why would I want to. Gross. But also I feel like i should in the name of fact checking, and understanding what I’m talking about before I talk about it.

But the stuff i did read, was...... not terrible....? Some of it was replying to other socialist writing (because what do lefties enjoy more than arguing with other lefties, amiright???), a lot of it was old fashioned marxist stuff talking about working class vs capitalists, and a lot of it was describing legitimate complaints about the Czarist government. Expressing anger at the pogroms and the suppression of ethnic minorities and hunger and poverty. Sounds like a good reason to have a revolution to me.

Of course, those were all the same sorts of atrocities he himself would go on to do. again. eww.

But, after all of this, it’s pretty clear to me that pre-revolutionary Stalin was a true fuckin believer.

And that kept me up at night. Because how come that would change when he himself came into power?

Is it because once you’re handed power, the temptation to abuse it is just far too great? Is it because when the revolution is over, and the complexities of the ‘’Real World,’’ are obvious, and it’s all to easy to abandon idealism in order to get things done? Are all post-revolutionary periods destined to be violent and oppressive, because the new government wants to assert its power? How much blame does he get personally, and how much goes to the other founders of the revolutionary movement--Lenin and Trotsky and the like-- who laid the groundwork for how things would function? IS socialism itself just cursed to fail like my republican grandma told me?

Or is this just a classical example of the other thing our republican grandmas warned us about, radical idealists turning cranky and cruel and conservative in old age just like they did? I mean what sort of things did stalin do while in power? A lot of pretty republican things. LMAO. Banning the gays and abortion, enforcing strict gender norms, getting TOUGH ON CRIME! Beefing up the military on money that should be used to provide for people’s basic needs....

If the right gets to try and pass off Hitler as a socialist, the left gets to say that Stalin was a moderate republican. (Not full republican. I mean, he did actually react appropriately when he found out there were Nazis in his country. Just moderate republican.) LMAO!

But then i thought about it a little more.

No. He was not a right winger. No one who spends the first half of his adult life trying to overthrow a government that had been ruling for 300 years is a god damn fucking right winger. He was left wing. But..... Old timy left wing.

Because he did make good on a lot of the socialist ideas while in office. I’m pretty sure he set up a fairly solid welfare state, free housing and education and healthcare and whatnot. That was pretty new and revolutionary for the time.

But... Old timy left wing.

and if you think about old timy left-wingers. most of them are only left wing in SOME areas. The right absolutely LOVES to point this out. ‘’Sure Margaret Sanger was a radical feminist, but she was also a racist!’’ ‘’This person was a racist, this person was homophobic! All your icons are fake frauds!’’ I mean, they probably were all racist and homophobic and whatnot, but that doesn’t actually deminish the radicality of the stuff they were ‘’woke’’ on.

And that’s true for the pre-marxist left too. We can hate on Thomas Jefferson all day long for being a creepy rapy slave owner and rich asshole who should have been tarred and feathered and (sorry, i brought up thomas jefferson, i have to go take 5 and cool down before i punch something) But he still was..... left. To say ‘’all men are created equal,’’ even if you just mean straight white men, was still kind of radical in the 18th century, when the world was still divided up between the gentry and the common men, and people were presumed to have class status that was bred into them and was part of their very inner nature. The idea that you could just throw out the idea of a nobility ruling class, or the monarchy, and initiate some sort of meritocracy based system, was out of this fucking world at that point.

And you can say the say the same thing about the russian revolutionaries. You can criticize them up and down and left and right for being undemocratic, but the idea that wealth should be something everyone has guaranteed access to, that no one should hold economic power over you, that working people deserve some sort of dignified recognition for what they do, that was--AND STILL IS--radical.

Lenin, who lived in monarchical empire, saw the western countries move away from monarchies and embrace our versions of Western Capitalist Democracy (TM). He decided his revolution would go in a different direction, one of economic instead of political democracy. The western style of revolution had been tried, and now it was time to try out an eastern style of revolution.

I think he would have said something like ‘’look, ya’ll in france and england can vote, and i’ve been to france and england. Those places suck ass. You’re poor and hungry and miserable and working 10 hours a day for shit pay and going home to your crammed tenement apartments before dying of cholera at the age of 12. Hell of a lot a good DeMoCrAcY does. We need ECONOMIC democracy instead.’’

I do remember a quote from lenin, that said something along the lines of ‘’Yes, my system isn’t ‘democratic’ but if you think about it, it’s a hell of a lot more democratic than anything they’re doing in capitalist countries.’’

Of course, we modern folk who fancy ourselves so enlightened by hindsight will point out that you need BOTH economic and political democracy. A democratic government being run alongside an undemocratic economy is oppression. Anyone who lives in the United States and has read more than three books in their life can see this. It SUCKS. Likewise. An egalitarian economy being run by an undemocratic government is also oppression, because the government can do whatever it wants to the economy, like, say.... sell all the country’s food on the international market to fund various different 5-year-plan projects. Had Stalin been subjected to democratic processes, he never would have been allowed to do that.

In the early 20th century, there wasn’t really much of a concept of INTERSECTIONALITY. in the modern left, we pretty much agree that if you want to have freedom and equality in one sphere of life, you also need to pursue freedom and equality in other spheres. Oppression is contagious. If you allow discrimination against Gays for example, this leads to discrimination against the sexes because people are going to be forced into stricter and stricter gender norms. And of course, if you want political equality under the law, you also need racial equality so that one group of people isn’t disenfranchised from voting or fair treatment by the courts.

Just like how political democracy has to happen alongside economic democracy.

So yeah, I guess after the end of all this long ranting and shit. I think it makes sense why a serious revolutionary true believer like Stalin can grow into a tyrant. Because Old timy left-wing politics was underdeveloped and had lots of blind spots. People didn’t realize that it was important for movements to be led by people who were seriously committed to intersectional emancipation. Young Stalin when he would go hang out with all of his socialist dude-bro friends, planning their bank heists, wearing their newsboys hats, trying not to die of cholera, he probably wasn’t being called out on sexism or racism. They were just an economic-left movement that didn’t care much about the other stuff.

But there isn’t really a whole lot to gain by doing a character analysis on some ass wipe who kicked the bucket before color television was even invented. All the terrible things he did and all the good intentions, sincere or not, that he had, that is between him and whatever God is governing this bitch of a universe. We on the left know better than to look at individuals to answer important questions, we know to look at systems. And gather lessons so that we can build better movements in the future.

Yeah, whatever, intersectionality.

Sorry this was so long and poorly written. I shall cite no sources and do no editing. Fuck you. Thanks for reading.

#history #hot takes #politics #socialism #opinion time

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isidar-mithrim · 5 years

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Perhaps it seemed a day like any other to those who hadn’t been at Hogwarts to fight the last, decisive battle.Then the news of the victory and the name of the fallenbeganspreading and – for better or worse – it suddenly became a day impossible to forget.

{Collection of drabbles, flash fics, short one shots}

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{Disclaimer: the one shot is inspired by the first chapter of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince; you may find similar expressions and some direct quotes.}

I gift this (hopefully decent) translation of the firs chapter to the lovely @elanev91, because she's written an amazing Jily AU with Lily as Minister of Magic and James as Prime Minister :) If you are into Jily AUs, you can’t miss it!

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The Prime Minister

It was still dark when he suddenly woke up.

He realised in an instant that something was different, but he needed a couple of seconds to guess what.

He raised his hands in front of his eyes, moving them just for the pleasure of doing it at his own command.

Finally, he was free.

The Prime Minister looked at his wife, asleep on the other side of the bed. He smiled, almost moved realising that, despite how careless he’d been in the past months, she’d patiently stood beside him.

A stomach cramp took him by surprise, and he suddenly realised how hungry he was. Too often they’d kept him on a leash preventing him to be properly fed, too often they’d interrupted his rushed and improper meals.

He got up hesitantly, afraid that his legs wouldn’t support him; it was a relief finding them as solid as ever. He went in the kitchen, put the kettle on and grabbed four slices of bread, slipping them in the toaster – it was the first time in months he touched electronics. He looked for milk, sugar, a teabag, jam and butter, and when water was hot and the slices were ready he and arranged his breakfast with no hurry. The meals was essential, but the simplicity of it helped dissolving a tension in his muscles that he wasn’t even aware of until then. He took all the time he needed to finish his breakfast – it was quite early even for his standard, after all – and then he went to the bathroom, eager to enjoy as a free man the pleasant sensation of hot water flowing upon his skin.

Before getting in the shower he studied his reflection on the mirror: he was pale and gaunt, but clean-cut; his stubble was less than a day old and his hair was messy from the night, but decent.

Unlike his Junior Minister, who’d entertained the public impersonating a duck, he’d always had to act beyond reproach in his professional capacity – that Who-Know-Who had probably thought he’d have been of a better use remaining credible. They didn’t bother with appearances when he was with his family, though, and he suffered a great deal because of it. He had no idea how he was going to justify his past behavior to his wife, but the fact that she stayed through it all made him hope that she’ll eventually forgive him. After a last look at his reflection, he entered the shower and let the hot water wash his worries away.

It was half past six in the morning when he descended in his office, ready to start working again as a free man.

When he reached his room he went to the window and opened it for the first time since ages – they’d never bothered to make him do that, as if they weren’t even used to.

He couldn’t resist the temptation to peer outside, letting his gaze wandering while the early breeze caressed his face.

The weather was unusually nice: the morning mist was already fading, the sky was cloudless, the air fresh, and for a mere minute he let himself enjoying it, almost pretending that London was embracing his renewed freedom.

He then lowered his eyes on Downing street, already alive with cars and people, and he noticed a funky cluster of persons dressed in weird long robes; they were whispering in excitement, and he imagined they were heading to some sort of convention – didn’t those Star Wars fans celebrate their beloved saga at the beginning of May? Yes, that must have been it.

An instant later, a horrifying thought crossed his mind. What if he’d lost track of time under that spell, and it was actually Halloween?

He hurriedly grabbed his personal phone from its belt pocket to check the date, and a wave of relief washed over him when he read it was May the second as he’d expected.

It was only when he saw a flock of owls crossing the daytime sky that he finally put the pieces together.

He remembered needing a fistful of second to found the source of the rhythmic patter. He’d been astounded when he’d seen the majestic brown owl that was pecking insistently at his window in full daytime.

He’d turned the other way, ignoring the bird, but it’d kept drawing his attention from the window. Eventually the Prime Minister had opened the window, letting the owl storm in. It’d dropped an envelope on his desk, dunked his beak on his tea, eaten a biscuit and left.

Still taken aback, the Prime Minister had read the letter, which had turned out to be pretty short.

The Ministry of Magic has fallen. The Minister is dead. I won’t be able to come to your office anymore. – C. Fudge

He’d barely finished to read when a hooded man in a black cloak had entered in his room and had waved his wand.

The Prime Minister clenched his fists at the memory.

By now, he knew enough about magic to be aware that it couldn’t be a coincidence that those owls and those wizards – they hadto be wizards – had appeared precisely the day he’d regained his free will, as it couldn’t be a coincidence that the mist was finally fading away.

It was time to demand an explanation.

For years he’d tried to ignore it, but this time he stepped firmly towards the small, dirty oil painting in the far corner of his room.

It was frustrating to find it irrevocably empty.

He had to wait several ours before the froglike man with the silver wig came back to his frame.

The Prime Minister been pacing on the antique rug when he finally heard the awaited coughing. He’d been eager to talk to the portrait, but he walked towards him feeling rather anxious nonetheless. After all, as far as he knew the last wizard he’d met was the one that put him under the Imperial Spell – or whatever it was called.

He greeted the man with a stiff nod, and in response the portrait began speaking with his usual crispy voice.

“To the Prime Minister of Muggles. Urgent we meet. Kindly respond immediately. Sincerely, Fudge.”

He sighed in relief learning that his visitor was going to be Fudge. Even if the wizard had always brought bad news and had the bad habit to treat him like an ignorant schoolboy, the Prime Minister wished his return was a good sign.

“Oh, well… er, very good, then… he may come” he mumbled. He then remember that he was the one that had wanted the meeting in the first place, and added with more resolve that he “had to urgently meet him too, anyway.”

He hurried behind his desk and he’d just finished adjusting his tie when bright green flames burst into life in his marble mantelpiece and a man came out, a lime green bowler hat in his hand.

“Prime Minister!” he exclaimed delighted, stepping forward to offer his hand without even caring to brush the ash from his cloak. “What a pleasure to see you!”

Fudge was thinner and balder than the last time he’d seen him, but the wide grin on his face made him look several years younger.

The Prime Minister shook his hand and politely greeted him, but he wasn’t affected by the wizard’s mirth.

“You look well!” said Fudge with enthusiasm, taking a sit. “Sure, you’re a bit knackered, but who wouldn’t be after months under the Imperius Curse?”

Imperius, that’s how it was called.

He needed few seconds to grab the other implication of those words.

“Wait, you’re telling me you knew?” he asked bewildered.

“Of course I knew!” exclaimed Fudge. “Who didn’t know?”

The Prime Minister suddenly remembered why he disliked those visits so much. “Well, why haven’t you done something, then?!”

“Don’t you think we didn’t try! But it was utterly impossible to sort thing out with our own Minister under the Imperius Curse as well.”

“Your Minister was controlled too?” he asked, taken aback.

“Unfortunately, he was” said Fudge wearily, losing his mirth for the first time. “He was You-Know-Who puppet.”

The Prime Minister didn’t miss the use of the past tense, but Fudge kept talking, cutting his attempt to demand an explanation.

“Oh, I almost forgot. Nothing personal, but they want me to check if you’re clean. I can only be that sure, you know?”

He did’t know at all, actually, and he certainly didn’t appreciated his hygiene to be questioned, but his retort was stuck in his throat when Fudge took a glassy spinning top from a pocket and laid it on the desk. Even if motionless, it creepily stayed up.

“Well,” said Fudge, cheerful again, “I suppose it’d spin if you’d still been under the Curse!”

“I’m not under any curse anymore!” he argued indignant.

“No, it doesn’t look like that. Well, that’s a wonderful news, don’t you think?” Fudge asked, clapping his hands in delight.

“Of course I think it is! And since you clearly weren’t the one to set me free, I’d like to know why the spell broken! And I also demand an explanation about those dressed up wizards in Downing Street, and don’t even let me start about the owls!”

“Sure, sure, you’re right, you’ve the right to know… but Merlin, I can’t believe there still somebody that haven’t heard the news!” Fudge said with excitement, and he felt the sudden urge to punch him in the nose. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead. Harry Potter defeated him!”

At those words, the Prime Minister leant heavily on the back of his chair and took a deep breath.

“So… it’s over?” he asked hopefully.

“Well, it’s gonna be a while untile we catch all the survivor supporters, settle things with the Muggleborn, retake control of the Dementors, prevent little retaliations, etcetera, but yes, it’s over” confirmed Fudge. “We won.”

“When?”

“This evening, at Hogwarts. You know, our school. A huge battle, many dead. We’ll remember them with full honors, of course, but today wizards and witches all over the world are celebrating. I believe we’ll make a breach of the Statute of Secrecy as the last time” Fudge added with a knowing smile.

The Prime Minister had no idea when that ‘last time’ was, but he nodded nonetheless, finally feeling thrilled as well.

It’s really over…

“I’m sorry we couldn’t protect you, you know? But it’s nice to see you’re fine, considering our last two Minister are dead” admitted Fudge hesitantly. “And of course, if you wish, I can send a team to change your family memories.”

Of course.

“I… I’ll think about it, thanks.”

He wanted to be involved with magic as little as possible, but at the same time he hated the idea of making things up to give his family a believable explanation.

“Well, don’t hesitate to ask if you’ll need something! You know were to find us.”

The two men stood up. They were about to shake hands again when the Prime Minister recalled a last, essential question.

“So… are you the Minister again?”

Fudge smiled sadly. “I highly doubt anybody we’ll ever want me covering that role again, to be honest. But don’t worry, you’ll be happy to know that the Wizengamot picked Kinsgley Shacklebolt as acting Minister of Magic. He’ll pass by one of these days.”

The Prime Minister felt relieved at the welcomed news. Even if at the end Shacklebolt failed to protect him, he remembered him with fondness, and he’d been very sorry when they’d made him spread his mugshot.

He smirked at the idea that he had had the new Minister of Magic as secretary of his outer office.

While Fudge disappeared among the green flames, the Prime Minister thought that perhaps, for the first time, he was going to be treated as peer by the other Minister.

#fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #one shot #short one shot #collection #collection in progress #post battle of hogwarts #may the 2nd 1998 #missing scene #canon compliant #deathlyhallows #minor character #prime minister #10 downing street #cornelius fudge #kingsley shacklebolt #the frogman with the silver wig in the portrait in the far corner

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militant-holy-knight · 5 years

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Baelor the Blessed and the Role of Historical Counterparts in the World of Ice and Fire

Of the seventeen Targaryen kings to have sat the Iron Throne in George R.R. Martin’s World of Ice and Fire, Baelor the Blessed was by far the most pious, almost to a fault. Though his reign only lasted ten years, it resulted in a peace with Dorne that lasted the entirety of his reign, as well as a reform of most of Westeros and the building of the extravagant Great Sept of Baelor in King’s Landing. Though Baelor I Targaryen is a small part of a fictional history, his reign is not entirely fictional, as it borrows from the lives of factual historical figures who ruled in various places and times in medieval Europe and were later remembered as saint-kings whose religious zeal guided their reigns. These historical connections not only provide Baelor’s character with a narrative foundation but also allow the audience to engage with the narrative by drawing on historical parallels to build theories and predictions about the course of the narrative as well as provide a location for essential moments in the story.

The most direct historical inspiration for Baelor the Blessed is King Louis IX of France, son of Louis VIII and Blanche of Castile. Both Baelor and Louis led zealously religious lives, and Louis was even canonized as a saint. There are many similarities between the two pious kings, especially between what they did and how they chose to rule their respective realms: both made attempts at reconciliation with neighbouring territories, both made a pilgrimage of some kind, and both oversaw many religiously motivated changes. One of Baelor’s first actions as king of Westeros was to travel to Dorne, where his late brother King Daeron I had died attempting to put down a rebellion, “‘with neither sword nor army,’ to return their hostages and sue for peace”, rather than have the hostages executed and the feud with Dorne continue. Louis IX also made attempts to reconcile with neighbouring nations—in his case, he made attempts to annex Toulouse after the revolt and death of Raymond VII. For Louis, this was a political move, but for Baelor, forging an alliance with Dorne and forgiving them their treason was an act of piety, and Maester Yandel, the fictional historian in The World of Ice and Fire, writes in his account of Baelor’s reign that “[m]any similar acts of piety and forgiveness followed throughout Baelor’s ten-year reign”. For both kings, this involved a pilgrimage, though the fictional and the historical kings each carried this out in their own way—Baelor walked barefoot from his throne in King’s Landing to deliver the Dornish hostages to their home in Sunspear, while Louis took a crusader’s vows and travelled to Jerusalem. While the motivations behind both kings’ pilgrimages were undoubtedly both religious and political, it is the manner in which they left their kingdoms that sets Louis IX and Baelor I apart: before embarking on his crusade, Louis IX ensured his subjects’ security and “wanted to leave the realm pacified and subject to a just power”. Baelor, however, did not take any precautionary measures before departing for Dorne, only leaving Prince Viserys, his brother and Hand of the King, to rule in his absence. Again, while their motivations for embarking on these pilgrimages were similar, that Baelor put his religious activities before the needs of the realm indicates an important distinction between the fictional king and his historical inspiration: Louis IX did not let his devout nature hinder his ability to rule France, but Baelor’s piety became the focus of his reign. This distinction is demonstrated by the remainder of the two kings’ reigns. Both made attempts to reform their respective realms, Louis IX’s being described as “a political and moral reform of the realm”. Baelor’s attempts, however, are described by Maester Yandel more negatively: the people were outraged when he outlawed prostitution and “chose not to acknowledge” the unrest that it caused; he poured funds into his religious ambitions, using the royal treasury to “fund his charitable acts” and to build a grand new sept that he claimed to have seen in a vision; and he confused the line of succession when he dissolved his marriage to his sister Daena, claiming it had never been consummated, locked his three sisters in the Maidenvault to eliminate temptation and to “preserve their innocence from the wickedness of the world and the lusts of impious men”, and, taking a septon’s vows, would never wed again, therefore having no heir except for his brother, Prince Viserys. Maester Yandel writes that “[t]he king’s edicts were becoming more concerned with spiritual matters at the expense of the material”. By contrast, Louis IX, “[t]hough pious, even devout, […] never sacrificed the royal prerogative”. Therefore, Louis IX did not allow his piety to hinder his ability to rule competently, but Baelor I’s reign suffered because of his. So, while the two kings shared some traits and motives, Baelor the Blessed is depicted by Maester Yandel as almost too pious and a poorer ruler than Louis IX is depicted in historical accounts. Many aspects of Baelor’s reign are certainly inspired by that of Louis IX, yet his religious fervor and the consequences of his piety are greatly exaggerated for the purposes of the narrative.

A less direct historical counterpart for Baelor the Blessed is Edward the Confessor, the Anglo-Saxon who was king of England from 1042 to 1066. Both were noted for their generosity to the poor, and both were childless after allegedly unconsummated marriages. In Baelor the Blessed’s case, “the smallfolk loved him—he emptied the treasury regularly to fund his charitable acts”, though the nobility in Westeros were less pleased, in part because the king was “aided and abetted by a High Septon who was becoming increasingly more influential in the kingdom”. While there seemed to be a negative reaction to King Baelor’s generosity, Edward the Confessor’s “reputation for holiness was based on his generosity to the poor and his allegedly unconsummated marriage”, which gives no indication that these two items were an issue with the nobility. In fact, Edward used his childlessness to his political advantage, making promises of succession to his lords in order to secure their loyalty. Baelor, however, took no advantage of the results of his religious nature in order to improve the realm’s political situation, instead focusing on moral reform in Westeros. While there are fewer connections between Baelor and Edward than there are between Baelor and Louis IX, it is still evident that Baelor’s reign is inspired by many different historical counterparts, and although Edward the Confessor’s life was not entirely focused on religion as Baelor’s was, it is still likely that the events in his life are a part of the foundation for Baelor the Blessed.

Some other parallels can be drawn between the reign of Baelor I and the lives of historical pious kings, though they are less obvious than Louis IX and Edward the Confessor. Oswald of Northumbria, who spent much of his youth in exile and was converted to Christianity by monks on the island of Iona, is attributed with bringing Christianity to Northumbria in much the same way that Baelor the Blessed enforced the Faith of the Seven in Westeros. Just as Baelor’s rule was guided by the High Septon, the reign of Emperor Henry III was heavily influenced by the Church, with which he was also deeply involved: he selected several popes during his reign and was a supporter of the Cluniac movement. Much like Henry III, Baelor was very much involved with the Faith and did not rule idly when it came to issues of religion. Baelor’s reign was influenced by many different historical figures, although in The World of Ice and Fire the more religious aspects of his life are exaggerated for the purpose of the narrative and are depicted as having a negative impact on his reign, while historical saint-kings were often well-balanced between politics and religion.

These historical inspirations do more than simply give Baelor’s history foundation—they encourage the audience to look further into the narrative and make predictions based on connections made between the fictional and the factual. Many fans of the Song of Ice and Fire series produce intricate theories regarding the backstories of characters and the direction that the narrative will be taking. One fan, under the username Crowfood’s daughter, posted in October 2014 on the site “A Forum of Ice and Fire” a theory regarding Baelor the Blessed and the possibility of a prophecy connecting him to Prince Rhaegar. The theory suggests that Baelor was celibate and locked his sisters away not out of piety but out of fear of a child being born who would fulfill said prophecy:

My theory is that Baelor I feared something that he read and thought it had to do with one of his sisters having a child. Even though his sister wife was imprisoned, Daena escaped many times and, “had an affair with her cousin Prince Aegon, despite his marriage to his own sister-wife Naerys. When she became pregnant she refused to name the father of the child and became known as ‘Daena the Defiant’.” —the wiki. As we all know this son was the bastard Daemon Blackfyre, and the father, Prince Aegon became King Aegon the Unworthy.

Crowfood’s daughter then goes on to support this theory not only with research from The World of Ice and Fire and quotes from the novels, but also with two myths: the Greek story of King Acrisius and his grandson, Perseus, and the Celtic story of Balor and his daughter, Eithne. In both myths, there is a prophecy that the man’s grandson will murder him, so he locks his daughter away in the hopes that no man will ever find her, only to have his plan foiled and his daughter impregnated. This is similar to Baelor’s decision to lock his sisters away in the Maidenvault—in his case, it was his sisters and not his daughter, and according to Maester Yandel, King Baelor was not murdered by anyone, but the theory suggests that the studious king came across something resembling this prophecy and, fearing either for his life or the good of the realm, locked his sisters away. It is also noteworthy that his sister, Daena, did in fact bear a child, just as the daughters in the Greek and Celtic myths did, whose father she refused to name. The child was later revealed as one of Aegon the Unworthy’s natural sons, Daemon Blackfyre, and Crowfood’s daughter’s theory suggests that this may have been the very thing that Baelor was trying to prevent, since the Blackfyres later caused much turmoil in the realm with their many attempts to claim the Iron Throne. By making connections between the narrative and the outside world, fans are engaging with the text on a level that would not be possible if Baelor’s history were not inspired by historical figures and cultural mythologies such as the ones referenced by Crowfood’s daughter.

It is important to note that the history of Baelor’s reign does not exist within the narrative simply as a backdrop. Baelor the Blessed and his legacy act as a recurring motif throughout the narrative, as parts of his history, his actions, and his sept are often referred to in passing. In the fifth season of the television series, a scene takes place in an old chapel underneath Baelor’s sept when the High Sparrow is speaking to Cersei about Queen Margaery’s trial:

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Here Baelor the Blessed is spoken of in a negative context as the High Sparrow compares Baelor’s extravagant methods of worship to a simpler kind of religion, or what he believes is “clean faith.” Baelor’s sept is not only used here as a setting—his legacy is also used as preamble to lead into Cersei’s arrest, a pivotal moment in the narrative in which power suddenly changes hands and the plot takes a very different direction. Another critical moment in the series in which Baelor’s sept serves an important role is in the ninth episode of the first season, when Eddard Stark is executed on the steps of the sept:

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Again, the Sept of Baelor is the location for a pivotal moment in the narrative when a character who appeared to be the protagonist meets his untimely demise, sending the narrative into a new and unexpected direction. The location of the execution of Eddard Stark is mentioned once again in the paperback series’ fourth installment, A Feast for Crows, when Cersei meets with the High Sparrow for the first time. Cersei complains of the filth that the Sparrows are leaving on the steps of the sept, and the High Sparrow replies that “[n]ight soil can be washed away more easily than blood, Your Grace. If the plaza was befouled, it was befouled by the execution that was done here”. It is evident that the location of certain events are remembered by the characters, and to one such as the High Sparrow, the fact that such an event took place outside the Sept of Baelor is not easily forgotten, and this reminder to Cersei serves as a warning to the reader that the High Sparrow is not going to be her ally. Therefore, Baelor the Blessed is not simply a figure mentioned in passing: he is mentioned again and again throughout the narrative, and his legacy is an integral part of the plot, providing a setting for pivotal events and a subject to emphasize the religious inclinations of many characters.

It is clear that the reign of Baelor the Blessed is not a wholly fictional creation: Martin draws on several historical figures for inspiration—saint-kings such as King Louis IX of France and Oswald of Northumbria, whose rule was guided by their devotion to their faith, much like Baelor I was led by his. In The World of Ice and Fire, the most extreme examples of Baelor’s piety are presented, many of them similar to events in the lives of Louis IX and Edward the Confessor but exaggerated to make apparent that he was pious to a fault. This is also a product of Maester Yandel’s bias as an historian, as much of his research is based on legends, tavern tales and ancient scrolls. However, the historical connections to Baelor have more purpose than simply giving him a more concrete backstory. They also allow the audience to engage with the text, much like the fan theories that draw on historical parallels for evidence. Therefore, while there are many differences between the reign of Baelor the Blessed and those of historical pious kings, the similarities that do exist allow for another level of engagement with Martin’s texts, both on the page and on the screen.

#Game of Thrones #history

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buttsonthebeach · 6 years

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*bangs fists on the table* I need a Hamilton solas meta! Have you done this and I missed it? I think it’s such a cool idea and you’ve done some cool stuff with the idea 💕

MY FRIEND.

Thank you for giving me the excuse to do the post I have wanted to do forever and ever and ever. (It got really long. I’m sorry?)

I was deep in the depths of my Hamilton obsession (which, like Solavellan hell, is eternal) when I first played Inquisition, and at first I thought it was just the fact that I was obsessed with both that made me see so many parallels, but the more I have thought about it, the more I have thought that there are truly some fascinating connections between the two “main” characters in the musical (Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr) and our favorite unwashed apostate hobo, as well as the overall plot of Inquisition.

For starters, who do you think said something along these lines: I can totally fix this mistake by making a different, bigger mistake. (Okay, this one isn’t a direct quote, but listen to the song “Hurricane” and tell me it isn’t what Hamilton is saying.)

Or this: Death doesn’t discriminate / Between the sinners and the saints/ It takes and it takes and it takes / And history obliterates / Every picture it paints / It paints me in all my mistakes

Sound eerily familiar?

So, the meta that has guided my characterization of Solas pretty much since I started writing him is this: Solas was an Alexander Hamilton who lived long enough to see himself become an Aaron Burr, and if he has any hope of redemption, it lies in him returning to those Hamiltonian sides of himself.

When you first meet Hamilton in the musical, he is the “young scrappy and hungry” revolutionary who talks too much and cares even more. To me, this is the perfect analog to Solas in his early days in Elvhenan. As he tells Blackwall, he was once “cocky and hot-blooded,” just as Hamilton is when he first arrives in America. We know he was highly idealistic, just as Hamilton is, and it wouldn’t shock me to find out he also had something to prove. I doubt he was a member of Elvhenan’s ruling class, at least not to start out. I also love that both young Hamilton and Solas are anti-slavery, a position that was revolutionary in both of their societies at the time.

Next, Hamilton and Solas both get wrapped up in a war, and are handpicked by a famous general to be their “right hand man” - in Hamilton’s case, Washington’s - in Solas’s case, Mythal’s. I tend to believe that Mythal was not Solas’s lover, but instead a trusted mentor and friend, or even a mother figure, just as Washingotn becomes a complex father figure for Hamilton. I also tend to believe that Solas may have struggled to overcome his cocky and hot-blooded nature despite his increasing social status and political power, just as Hamilton does.

(Now, this is where we skip a big chunk of the musical - mainly the romance with Eliza - but I’ll get back to that.)

Like Hamilton, Solas is an incredible talent, but this talent begins to sow the seeds of their undoing. Hamilton is an incredible legal and financial mind who writes “financial systems into existence” the same way that Solas creates the Veil, which was equally as unprecedented. But, even as they reach the peak in their careers, they also approach their downfall - Hamilton because of his affair with Maria Reynolds, and Solas because of his inability to accept Mythal’s betrayal and death. (Although Solas’s downfall also seems to be connected to his deeply held ideals, and we don’t have the full story there yet.)

Both men take drastic actions that they believe will fix this - Hamilton with the “Reynolds Pamphlet” confessing to the affair before anyone can use it against him, and Solas with the creation of the Veil. Both actions fix part of the problem, but lead to a ripple of unintended consequences (Hamilton’s estrangement from his beloved wife and loss of his political career, and Solas’s descent into uthenera, and the end of Thedas as he knew it).

Here is where they diverge - Hamilton’s downward spiral leads more or less to the death of his son, his reconciliation with Eliza, and then to his death in a duel. But while Solas seemingly dies - he also wakes up thousands of years later in a world he barely recognizes.

Enter Aaron Burr.

Burr already has status, wealth, power, knowledge - but he is deeply alone, saying that “everyone who loves me has died,” and deeply obsessed with his legacy. Sound like Solas, post-elevation to “godhood” and uthenera? Rather than choosing to stand for something, Burr wants to “talk less and smile more” and always seeks to take actions that lead to his own advancement, rather than choosing his actions based on his ideals. To me, this rings so much of Solas in his early Inquisition days. He actively hides behind a mask, he deceives, he takes actions that benefit his agenda and no one else’s (like giving the orb to Corypheus). Burr, unlike Hamilton, does not cultivate a close group of friends, and instead stands alone, much like Solas.

The thing is, in my mind, Solas never slips fully into being Burr - we still always get glimpses of the Hamilton underneath, or of Burr’s own softer side. (One great thing about this musical is that Burr is never fully a villain, just as I would argue that Solas is not fully a villain.) Burr also falls in love, also becomes a father, also has doubts and insecurities. Solas still approves when you help people, still approves of the Inquisitor seeking the understand the world around them better even as he plans to destroy that world.

Now, enter Eliza/Lavellan. (See, I said we’d come back to it!)

Of course, this is where the parallels only exist if you play your game this way. I can’t necessarily say that this is true of all Lavellans, or of worldstates where Solas does not have a romance. But, I do think it has some great parallels to any worldstate where Solas is romanced, even if they aren’t perfect.

Eliza is in awe of Hamilton, saying that there’s “nothing that [his] mind can’t do,” and describing how her love for him has her “helpless,” a word that feels innocent enough in the throes of young love, but still contains the seed of future heartbreak. She is a grounding force for Hamilton, constantly seeking to draw him back to the real, to the now, and out of his world of grand ideals. “That Would Be Enough” will forever be one of my all-time favorite Solavellan songs for that reason. I mean, look at this:

Oh, let me be apart of the narrative

In the story they will write someday

Let this moment be the first chapter

Where you decide to stay

And I could be enough

And we could be enough

That would be enough

(Again, the characterization of your Lavellan might not fall in line with this, but to me it captures so much of the wistfulness that I see in so much Solavellan.)

But, here’s where I see another parallel - Lavellan is also a source of temptation for Solas, pulling him away from his true purpose and plans. She is not only his Eliza, but his Maria Reynolds. “Say No To This” was actually the first song that made me sit up and go “holy shit, this is such a Solas song.” I mean, come on:

Lord, show me how to say no to this

I don’t know how to say no to this

But my god she looks so helpless

And her body’s saying hell yes

I see you, Mr. I-can’t-stop-myself-from-kissing-Lavellan-even-when-I-know-it’s-a-bad-idea. (Also, look at Lin-Manuel Miranda flawlessly bringing the word “helpless” back, this time with a different woman, to draw his own parallels between Eliza and Maria. Damn, he’s good.)

And unfortunately, just as Eliza and Hamilton’s love story has a tragic ending, Solavellan does too.

That euphoric helplessness Eliza feels when she first falls in love with Hamilton turns to actual helplessness as he has an affair, tells the whole world about it, indirectly gets their eldest son killed, and then loses his own life. That second arc in their story reminds me so much of how Solavellan ends. “Burn” will forever be one of my favorite Lavellan songs for Trespasser, as she bitterly describes how Hamilton’s ideals and legacy mattered more to him than his family - just as Solas’s ideals and beliefs ultimately matter more to him than his love for Lavellan.

But.

There is a beautiful, heartbreaking little song called “It’s Quiet Uptown” that gives me the tiniest bit of hope for Solas, and for Solavellan.

Eliza and Hamilton do reconcile before his death.

They do find a way through something as “unimaginable” as losing a child - through “moments when [they’re] in so deep / it feels easier to just swim down.” It takes Hamilton stepping up, acknowledging that everything he has done is wrong, that he still loves Eliza, and that he would be happy if he can just stay by her side. He owns up, and then he gives Eliza the choice to forgive him or not.

If we could have a moment like that - a moment where Solas finds his way back to Lavellan, where he acknowledges his faults and problems and asks for forgiveness, with no action on her part - if he truly wants to be redeemed, as Hamilton does in that moment - then I think we too could get that refrain of “forgiveness / can you imagine?”

I can’t think of a better ending. But it has to come from Solas, just as it has to come from Hamilton himself.

And, then, you know, he has to not give in to the other side of his nature and end up dead in a duel, as Hamilton does.

Anyway, thank you for coming to my TED talk about Hamilton and Dragon Age, I have 500000 more parallels in mind, and you can see most of them in The World Turned Upside Down, my Inquisition retelling paired with Hamilton songs, although I also have fun drawing parallels in my other fics. I have accepted my place in the deepest pits of Hamilton and Solavellan hell. I’ll be here forever and ever!

#solas meta #hamilton x dragon age #listen #i could probably write another 50000 words on how this has informed my other characterizations #like dorian as an angelica to a romanced lavellan #how my own ellana is eliza and maria and george washington #how so many songs directly relate to the inquisitor's arc #asojvglH #I LOVE THIS MUSICAL AND THIS FANDOM

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smkkbert · 6 years

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Olicity Fanfic Recommendation

Here we go again with another one of my Olicity Fic Reviews. Admittedly, it’s a little late because now we have Arrow back on our screens, but I guess there is always some time to read a nice story. Hence, here’s my review for Can’t escape this now by @callistawolf.

OVERALL PLOT

I think it’s safe to say that the first major topic of the story is about all types of family – the one you are born with and the one you gain during your life, the one you are related to by blood and the one you are related to by law or maybe just bonds you connected in whatever way.

Family or rather family politics is actually the starting point of the story. Readers are immediately pulled into the powerful even if very dark side of the life of the Queen Family. It’s Malcolm Merlyn’s personal problems who actually prompts Moira’s idea that the best idea to protect her family from gold diggers and inappropriate relationships is to get Oliver married to a girl of her choosing. Her plan is very simple – Oliver gets married to a sweet, little girl who just nods along to everything and is not much of an inconvenience.

Of course Oliver’s reaction isn’t characterized by excitement. For the most part, he’s actually quite against the idea. Oliver isn’t a man to get married, so he doesn’t want to. Oliver might not want to do so, but, unfortunately, in the words of Moira Queen, his opinion doesn’t matter. That’s what being a Queen is mean after all.

Anyway, Oliver isn’t the only one opposed to the idea of getting married. Moira’s choice for Oliver’s bride is the daughter of a guy who owns the family a lot of money. Giving his daughter into a marriage with her son is supposed to waive him all his debts. Suffice to say, that our lovely bride Felicity Smoak is not happy about getting married, either.

Just like Oliver, she doesn’t have much of a choice now because, just like Oliver, she is putting her family above her own needs and desires. Her father, Jerry Smoak, might not deserve his daughter’s help, but he is family to her.

The family theme continues as Oliver and Felicity get married and are family, at least legally. Of course the circumstances of their marriage are not ideal to be a real family to each other. Can you love a person you have been forced to get married to? A person you don’t know and don’t want? Can someone who has been forced into your family by your parents be someone you actually consider a family for the connection of your hearts rather than the connection of your legal status? Well, that’s the question that the family-theme revolves around, and the question is actually raised quite soon and prompts a quick back and forth that is exciting (even if at times maddening) to read.

The second theme of the fic could be called The crazy women from Oliver Queen’s past. Honestly, that man has really bad taste in women (Felicity being the one exception), or maybe he’s just attracting these crazy women.

The question you will ask yourself when reading the fic is which of the women from his past is going to create the greater mess.

It’s a lot of fun because, honestly, there is always the excitement and tension of not knowing who will attack at the end. I can spoil someone is going to attack and it’s a really huge BOOM!

TONE OR RATHER TONES OF THE STORY

I’d say there is a little bit of everything. There is dark Bratva-Style.

There is sweet bonding.

There is romantic fluff.

There is even a little bit of smut which, if you ask me, never hurts.

Oh, and of course there are a lot of moments where you will feel like you want to jump into the story and kill someone… or something like that.

FELICITY

What Moira Queen looks for in a possible daughter-of-law is “someone innocent, respectable and easily groomed […] a sweet, timid girl that she could easily steer and direct and influence. She would make her the perfect society wife; the sort of woman who turned a blind eye to her husband's infidelities, who looked good on his arm and said yes to everything the family required of her.”

Everyone who has even the slightest idea who Felicity Smoak is will think – well, she’s safe than because that is certainly not who Felicity Smoak is. Since Moira Queen doesn’t know our girl the way we do, it’s safe to say she misjudges her entirely for exactly that kind of girl.

Felicity Smoak is everything but this. She agrees to the marriage to save her father. She selflessly gets into this loveless marriage and agrees to live her life like that. Since Felicity is who she is, she is trying to make the best out of it, though. She connects with her sister-in-law, and, eventually, she even connects with the role of being a Queen.

Things are complicated, though. The life as a Queen is dangerous, not just for Oliver but also for her. Things are destined to go wrong, and, when things go wrong and people are vulnerable, feelings can start to show.

OLIVER

Oliver’s story begins in Russia where he has been sent to more than a year ago after he killed the man who killed his father – Poor guy never gets a break in fics (which obviously is no complaint because I do the same when I write fics, so it’s all good). Though his time there changed him, marriage is just like a little too far out of character for him. Like said before, Oliver has no choice here, though, and so the story started going.

Being in this marriage is no easier for Oliver than it is for Felicity. Since he has no idea what to do with a wife he doesn’t really care for, Oliver does what he thinks is best – he just avoids her as much as possible. Yet, it’s hard to do that when you are living together. Even the most spacious house doesn’t give the room to avoid each other forever. Besides, when little sparks of getting to know the person you are married to already set your heart on fire a little bit, it’s even harder to resist the temptation.

Despite the messy situation, Oliver starts seeing things from Felicity’s point of view. He understands that she is just as much an unwilling participant in this as he is. The logical consequence is that he starts making things easier and better for her as much as he can. Well, as much as he thinks he can.

OLICITY

I guess it’s redundant to repeat that Olicity does not have the best starting point in this, but usually that makes the best stories.

The way they are brought together is complicated and easy at the same time. Of course, with the framework conditions of their wedding, they are not supposed to have a happy married life like so many normal people do which does sound complicated. Since they agree on this with the same knowledge of what to expect it’s kind of easy on the other side. They are married, but they don’t live as married people – a lovely marriage on the outside, strangers without feelings on the inside. It’s not that hard, right?

To quote Reddington from Blacklist: “You know what’s the problem with drawing lines in the sands? With a breath of air they disappear.”

It’s destined to happen eventually, so, of course, it does happen. The lines start blurring. Feelings start showing – on both sides luckily.

It does not make it any easier. Oliver and Felicity feel it’s complicated as it is. Hence, they are both playing safe again and again, pretending nothing is going on when the other is around. Fake marriage is complicated as it is after all.

Or in the words of Speed (1994): “I’ve heard relationships based on intense experiences never work.” “Okay. We’ll have to base it on sex then.”

CONCLUSION

I really, really loved the fic. There can’t be enough stories of Olicity in any universe, but fake marriage is something to become particularly fond of. This story just reminded me on why I love this setup so much. Two people brought together by complicated lives and, against all odds, developing feelings is just something to never get tired of.

I particularly loved how early things were starting to shift, but how hesitant they both were on reacting on it. I also loved the threats that were dropped on this lovely not-so-married-yet-married couple all through the story and the action parts of the last chapters. They kept me on my toes.

It was a great read with an amazing story and wonderful writing!

#arrow #olicity #olicity fic #olicity fanfic #olicity fic rec

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elisaenglish · 3 years

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All the Difference in the World

It seems almost contradictory to think of shining a light on dystopias. And there’s a certain element of “Why should we?” when history offers a damning surplus of cautionary tales and the future beckons with innovation yet too murky to fully judge. Here we are at the pivot. The pendulum swings without a concrete place to land and opinion drowns consideration. Meanwhile, the clock ticks on; we vacillate like a metronome as spectacle draws attention.

Thus, herein lies our quandary. We can speculate, but we can’t know. We can weigh, but far from settle. Literature presents some longed-for clues, except less discerning eyes are prone to over-simplify the essentials.

After all, non-literary figures frequently cite Orwell as science fiction’s most incisive voice and I agree that there’s grain of truth there. But I can’t help but feel somewhat sorry for poor old George, languishing in his premature grave, largely misread and far too easily utilised to justify all manner of dubious agendas. Quote-mining? Never a good idea. It’s like taking the moral high ground; there really is only one way to go. As for the ghost of the writer? There are two words you need to embrace: context and oeuvre. And in this case, I suspect he’d also like his name back. Because anyone of sober mind really would.

So if not Orwell, then who? If not a partial analogy, then where resides completion? And I hesitate at this juncture because parallelism is never an exact measure and variables come and go. Still, it feels safe – and by ‘safe’ I mean ‘absolutely fucking terrifying’ – to place our bets on Brave New World.

Not entirely original, I know. You could argue that it’s a bit mainstream, a bit staid, possibly a bit done to death. I could trawl obscurity to find something – well, obscure. But no, because what would be the point? Huxley, to use a technical term, knows his prophetic shit.

And ninety years later, here on the brink of some digital abyss, it looks a lot like we’re living it. Or at least we will be, before the next half-century’s done.

Of course, the world was negotiating its own horrifying pre-show in 1931. Lest we forget, communism and fascism were entrenched on the eastern and southern flanks of Europe. Meanwhile, Nazism was on the rise in the crumbling Weimar Republic and the Great Depression took its social and economic toll on the entire globe. In the midst, however, Huxley drew together a vision of a political model that had evolved civilisation beyond war, or famine, or plague, or suffering. A place of continuous peace, prosperity, where the government artificially, by means of advances in biotechnology and social manipulation, keeps everyone in a permanent state of contentment so that no one ever has any reason to rebel.

Control through love and pleasure, we see, is far more potent than that acquired through fear and violence. A whole population anaesthetised, and on and on they beg for another, and another hit. Familiar, isn’t it? And somehow under your skin because unlike 1984, it isn’t as easy to pinpoint what makes this scenario the worst of the worst, or even just one of them.

We turn, then, to the novel’s climactic moment. John the Savage, having lived all his life on a remote reservation in New Mexico and symbolic of the authentic and passionate mindset eliminated in the name of ‘benign’ tyranny, is brought before Mustapha Mond, the World Controller for Western Europe and the only other man in London to know anything of Shakespeare or God, or it must be said, freedom:

““My dear young friend,” said Mustapha Mond, “civilisation has absolutely no need of nobility or heroism. These things are symptoms of political inefficiency. In a properly organised society like ours, nobody has any opportunities for being noble or heroic. Conditions have got to be thoroughly unstable before the occasion can arise. Where there are wars, where there are divided allegiances, where there are temptations to be resisted, objects of love to be fought for or defended—there, obviously, nobility and heroism have some sense. But there aren’t any wars nowadays. The greatest care is taken to prevent you from loving any one too much. There’s no such thing as a divided allegiance; you’re so conditioned that you can’t help doing what you ought to do. And what you ought to do is on the whole so pleasant, so many of the natural impulses are allowed free play, that there really aren’t any temptations to resist. And if ever, by some unlucky chance, anything unpleasant should somehow happen, why, there’s always soma to give you a holiday from the facts. And there’s always soma to calm your anger, to reconcile you to your enemies, to make you patient and long-suffering. In the past you could only accomplish these things by making a great effort and after years of hard moral training. Now, you swallow two or three half-gramme tablets, and there you are. Anybody can be virtuous now. You can carry at least half your morality about in a bottle. Christianity without tears—that’s what soma is.”

“But the tears are necessary. Don’t you remember what Othello said? ‘If after every tempest come such calms, may the winds blow till they have wakened death.’ There’s a story one of the old Indians used to tell us, about the Girl of Mátsaki. The young men who wanted to marry her had to do a morning’s hoeing in her garden. It seemed easy; but there were flies and mosquitoes, magic ones. Most of the young men simply couldn’t stand the biting and stinging. But the one that could—he got the girl.”

“Charming! But in civilised countries,” said the Controller, “you can have girls without hoeing for them; and there aren’t any flies or mosquitoes to sting you. We got rid of them all centuries ago.”

The Savage nodded, frowning. “You got rid of them. Yes, that’s just like you. Getting rid of everything unpleasant instead of learning to put up with it. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them... But you don’t do either. Neither suffer nor oppose. You just abolish the slings and arrows. It’s too easy... What you need is something with tears for a change. Nothing costs enough here. Exposing what is mortal and unsure to all that fortune, death and danger dare, even for an egg-shell. Isn’t there something in that?”

[…]

“There's a great deal in it,” the Controller replied. “Men and women must have their adrenals stimulated from time to time.”

“What?” questioned the Savage, uncomprehending.

“It’s one of the conditions of perfect health. That's why we've made the V.P.S. treatments compulsory.”

“V.P.S.?”

“Violent Passion Surrogate. Regularly once a month. We flood the whole system with adrenin. It’s the complete physiological equivalent of fear and rage. All the tonic effects of murdering Desdemona and being murdered by Othello, without any of the inconveniences.”

“But I like the inconveniences.”

“We don’t,” said the Controller. “We prefer to do things comfortably.”

“But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.”

“In fact,” said Mustapha Mond, “you’re claiming the right to be unhappy.”

“All right, then,” said the Savage defiantly, “I’m claiming the right to be unhappy. Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen to-morrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind.”

There was a long silence.

“I claim them all,” said the Savage at last.”

So it is that he rejects the ‘blessings’ of modernity and retires to the wilderness to live out the rest of his days as a hermit. Having tried – and failed – to incite rebellion in those shackled by the system, he has learned from their apathy that they cannot be saved unless they possess inside them the will to liberate themselves. Such instincts are instilled in us through the multiplicity – not least of all, our stories, our art. Without them, we are husks of our generational selves, perhaps never to be salvaged.

True to form, as we see in these our days now, John is eventually hounded to death; his novelty of antiquated longings yet more fuel for a public driven rabid by consumerist lust. But so, his soul remains:

“He was digging in his garden—digging, too, in his own mind, laboriously turning up the substance of his thought. Death—and he drove in his spade once, and again, and yet again. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. A convincing thunder rumbled through the words. He lifted another spadeful of earth. Why had Linda died? Why had she been allowed to become gradually less than human and at last... He shuddered. A good kissing carrion. He planted his foot on his spade and stamped it fiercely into the tough ground. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport. Thunder again; words that proclaimed themselves true—truer somehow than truth itself. And yet that same Gloucester had called them ever-gentle gods. Besides, thy best of rest is sleep, and that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st thy death which is no more. No more than sleep. Sleep. Perchance to dream. His spade struck against a stone; he stooped to pick it up. For in that sleep of death, what dreams?...”

What death? What purity? What dreams? And of course, what strength?

Choose your dystopias wisely, you could say. But nonetheless, choose. As Huxley writes in his essay Drugs That Shape Men’s Minds, “Generalised intelligence and mental alertness are the most powerful enemies of dictatorship.” We are the intuitive solution; we are the nuanced light. And for all of Miranda's mistaken claims, we might live to “see how beauteous mankind is.” Just be wary of the distractions.

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lubbuthedigitalnomad · 3 years

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IN ONLY @1000 WORDS — Clarity, Communication, Politics, and Religious Arrogance

About the Author

Doug “Ten” Rose may be the biggest smartass as well as one of the most entertaining survivors of the hitchhiking adventurers that used to cover America’s highways. He is the author of the books Fearless Puppy on American Road and Reincarnation Through Common Sense, has survived heroin addiction and death, and is a graduate of over a hundred thousand miles of travel without ever driving a car, owning a phone, or having a bank account.

Hello from the Himalayas!

I hope you are happy, healthy, and enjoying the winter. Things are just beginning to possibly change for the better. There are logical reasons to think that 2021 will be a better year than 2020 was and, in a few months, Spring and the new life it brings may witness some progress in the human condition. From out here, it looks like we will have to remember at least two things in order to have any chance of that progress taking hold.

1. Staying active on behalf of the lessons we’ve learned is essential. The Himalayas didn’t briefly become visible again by accident. It happened because people and their machines started pumping less crap into the atmosphere. The environment is certainly not the only issue at hand — but if that issue isn’t addressed immediately, there won’t be any other issues.

2. Many of us see life through the wool that has been pulled over our eyes, and attend to illusions and delusions more than we attend to the world we would see without them. No matter how unpleasant reality is in spots, we cannot allow ourselves to be frozen into inaction by externally manufactured and dangerously manipulative bullshit, or internally manufactured fears and frustrations.

“The greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world is to see something and tell what it saw in a plain way. Hundreds of people can talk for one who can think, but thousands can think for one who can see. To see clearly is poetry, prophecy, and religion all rolled into one.”

John Ruskin

This is an excerpt from the book Fearless Puppy On American Road

Mary and I have hitchhiked over fifty thousand miles together by now. We are not judgmental or prejudicial but have put in enough observation time and earned enough experiential education to recognize some patterns in humanity.

Three Types of Communication

When you are hitchhiking, there are three types of communication that you can have with your host. These are:- a shallow conversation, a deeper conversation, and silence. Silence speaks for itself. It can range from uncomfortable through comfortable, and on to transcendent.

The shallow conversation mode may have more of religion and politics in it. Many people seem to think that just choosing these topics to speak about qualifies the conversation as being in deep mode. I have to disagree. Regardless, politics and religion seem to be the most popular subjects in human dialogue.

The evidence of fifty thousand miles worth of listening suggests that many folks may not give these subjects as much thought as they should before they open their mouths about them. That doesn’t seem to stop many of my fellow humans from talking about these subjects for hours on end — and thinking that their personal opinions should become global mandates.

I can sum up what I’ve learned from listening to several thousand hours of conversation on these subjects in two very short chapters.

Defeating Organized Religious Distortion

The quality of attention paid by the student is more important than who the teacher is. A kind Christian is better than a harmful Buddhist. A kind Buddhist is better than a harmful Christian.

Jesus is not going to keep you dry if you piss into the wind.

(Almost) every religion is waiting for someone to come save us. Jesus is going to come back and save the Christians, Messiah is going to come to save the Jews, etc. My guess is that all this divine saving comes later. There seems to be a lot of saving that needs done by us amateurs before the professionals get here.

Some folks think that Salvation will never come. Some folks think that it’s already here. It seems more likely that Salvation has been circling the planet for a very long time but can’t find a suitable place to land! Unless each individual human on Earth starts taking on the serious tasks of saving both themselves and their fellow humans, we will disappear as a species — with or without God’s help.

There have been many examples of how very capable we are of getting the job done if we would all just get about doing it.

Ending Political Malfeasance

Some politicians may be less full of shit than others. Maybe not. Maybe some are just better at hiding it. As a rule, politicians get to be more full of shit as they climb higher up the political ladder. Some start out full of shit. Some actually start out with the altruistic intention that would be necessary to do the job correctly. After a period of time, they also succumb to the necessity of playing the game and the self-interest that has become the basis of political systems.

The self-interest of the rich and powerful in every society seems to have consistently required the compromise (or martyrdom) of that society’s authentic leaders. Couple that general coercion and threat with the more personalized temptations (money, sex, power, cars, control, etc.) offered to those who would be public servants and leaders, and the result is the sacrifice of moral priorities by those climbing up the ladder and…

Actually, all of the above is a very shortsighted observation. None of these malfunctions are the fault of individual politicians, even the most despicable ones. It is the duty as well as the right of the public to install the systems and representatives that we want to be governed by. Politicians are indeed full of shit, but the public is responsible for that. We let the situation get out of control and we are the only ones who can potentially reel it back in.

Politicians don’t rate praise or blame. We do.

Supposedly, the government is in the process of saving us from several varieties of terrorists. No one has quite figured out who is going to save us from the government, and from the power brokers that bend government to their will. It seems it will have to be us.

Part of what we built works great. Part of what we built badly needs fixing. It is delusional to think that a few politicians can fix what took several hundred million people to build — and run down.

And The Very Next Ride…

From New Orleans, we got a ride with an annoyingly loud evangelist preacher. He was driving his brand new Cadillac to Houston for a big revival meeting that would reap him “many souls and dollars to do HIS work, Amen.” The man was wearing enough money in diamond rings to feed a small nation.

After about an hour of his self-righteous attempts to convert us in the name of his Lord (who, it seemed, also had a very good credit rating, no concern for humanity, and the ability to prattle on at a pace that would scare the shit out of an auctioneer), we asked to be let off at the next exit.

“But I’m going all the way to Houston,” said our host, who it seemed had mistaken himself for The Host.

“Thank you anyway, but we won’t be going with you.”

We got out of the car and walked to the nearest town for coffee. Mary showed me what the preacher had inspired her to write during her silent hour in his luxury car’s back seat. She was so impressed by the arrogance of one of his statements that she quoted it as the title.

“I Think What God Meant to Say”

“You think you know everything, in general. This seems to interfere with you knowing anything specifically. You crisscross the country as quickly as delusions cross your mind, as quickly as mindless platitudes fly from your mouth. You maintain a facade of happiness, but it is only a vehicle for salesmanship. You strive to control the weak and gain stability through materialism. Your pace is too fast, false, and graceless for the normal human to want to learn from. Your only visible value is teaching by negative example. You are what not to do. You are who not to be.

“You are trapped in the quicksand of your own outdated bullshit. How could you be expected to re-examine preconceived notions when you run so quickly past thought in order to reach manipulation? You don’t have the time or heart to pay attention to your own conscience, much less anyone else’s needs.

“Professed internal wholeness is belied by your fragmented external judgments and condemnations. You relay pretentious truths of minimal depth with maximum coercion. I heard them all a thousand lifetimes ago!

“Business gets done. Profits, not prophets, have made you pay them a heavy price. It’s not my way.

“Go on by yourself!”

Mary was a very smart woman. She was also an exceptionally kind-hearted, patient person and rarely had a bad word to say about anyone. I think the few paragraphs above are as ill as she ever spoke of another living thing.

The books Fearless Puppy On American Road and Reincarnation Through Common Sense by this same author are also available through Amazon or the website, where there are sample chapters from those books. Very entertaining TV/radio interviews with and newspaper articles about the author are also available there. There is no charge for anything but the complete books! All author profits from book sales will be donated to help sponsor an increase in the number of wisdom professionals on Earth, beginning with but certainly not limited to Buddhist monks and nuns.

If you missed the Introduction to the new book that will be titled Temple Dog Soldier or would like to see several chapters of it that are available for free online, go to the Puppy website Blog section. This is a book in progress. You will be reading it as it is being created! Just like you, I don’t know what the next chapter is going to be about until it is written. As the Intro will tell you, this is a totally true story — and probably the only book ever written by and about a corpse journeying completely around the world!

FEARLESS PUPPY WEBSITE BLOG

FEARLESS PUPPY ON AMERICAN ROAD/AMAZON PAGE

REINCARNATION THROUGH COMMON SENSE/AMAZON PAGE

FEARLESS WEBSITE (About Author section)

#Travel Books #travel adventure books #travel adventure book #buy books online #buddhism books #buddhism #fearless puppy on american road #Reincarnation Through Common Sense #amazon kindle #kindle books

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frederickwiddowson · 4 years

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The writings of Luke the physician starting with his version of the gospel - Luke 4:1-13 comments: Satan tries to tempt Christ

Luke 4:1 ¶ And Jesus being full of the Holy Ghost returned from Jordan, and was led by the Spirit into the wilderness, 2 Being forty days tempted of the devil. And in those days he did eat nothing: and when they were ended, he afterward hungered. 3 And the devil said unto him, If thou be the Son of God, command this stone that it be made bread. 4 And Jesus answered him, saying, It is written, That man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word of God. 5 And the devil, taking him up into an high mountain, shewed unto him all the kingdoms of the world in a moment of time. 6 And the devil said unto him, All this power will I give thee, and the glory of them: for that is delivered unto me; and to whomsoever I will I give it. 7 If thou therefore wilt worship me, all shall be thine. 8 And Jesus answered and said unto him, Get thee behind me, Satan: for it is written, Thou shalt

worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve. 9 And he brought him to Jerusalem, and set him on a pinnacle of the temple, and said unto him, If thou be the Son of God, cast thyself down from hence: 10 For it is written, He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee: 11 And in their hands they shall bear thee up, lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone. 12 And Jesus answering said unto him, It is said, Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God. 13 And when the devil had ended all the temptation, he departed from him for a season.

We’ve already discussed that the person of the Holy Ghost is the very mind of God. Here, the Holy Ghost is referred to in His person and in His activity. Ghost and Spirit are used in the same sentence referring to the same individual. As Spirit is a reference to the actions of the mind of God it is sometimes referred to as it while the Holy Ghost is always referred to as he.

Here is another verse where the two words are used synonymously

1Corinthians 12:3 Wherefore I give you to understand, that no man speaking by the Spirit of God calleth Jesus accursed: and that no man can say that Jesus is the Lord, but by the Holy Ghost.

Here, we have the Holy Ghost referred to as he.

John 14:26 But the Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost, whom the Father will send in my name, he shall teach you all things, and bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have said unto you.

And here where the Spirit is referred to as it.

Romans 8:16 The Spirit itself beareth witness with our spirit, that we are the children of God:

The one sin, possible only while Christ walked the earth, that no Jew could be forgiven of, was ascribing the work of the Holy Ghost as from Satan rather than God.

Mark 3:22 ¶ And the scribes which came down from Jerusalem said, He hath Beelzebub, and by the prince of the devils casteth he out devils. 23 And he called them unto him, and said unto them in parables, How can Satan cast out Satan? 24 And if a kingdom be divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. 25 And if a house be divided against itself, that house cannot stand. 26 And if Satan rise up against himself, and be divided, he cannot stand, but hath an end. 27 No man can enter into a strong man’s house, and spoil his goods, except he will first bind the strong man; and then he will spoil his house. 28 Verily I say unto you, All sins shall be forgiven unto the sons of men, and blasphemies wherewith soever they shall blaspheme: 29 But he that shall blaspheme against the Holy Ghost hath never forgiveness, but is in danger of eternal damnation: 30 Because they said, He hath an unclean spirit.

An important point must be made about verse 2. To tempt is to test or try.

Revelation 3:10 Because thou hast kept the word of my patience, I also will keep thee from the hour of temptation, which shall come upon all the world, to try them that dwell upon the earth.

When Satan tempts one, tests one, the ultimate goal is to make them fall. God never tempts anyone of His people for the purpose of making them stumble as it says in James.

James 1:13 Let no man say when he is tempted, I am tempted of God: for God cannot be tempted with evil, neither tempteth he any man:

God tempted Abraham but knew that Abraham’s faith would keep him from disobeying.

Genesis 22:1 And it came to pass after these things, that God did tempt Abraham, and said unto him, Abraham: and he said, Behold, here I am.

Hebrews 11:17 By faith Abraham, when he was tried, offered up Isaac: and he that had received the promises offered up his only begotten son,

A temptation then is not merely a matter of whether you looked too long at the magazine rack at the airport but a test of your faith, a trial. Only who is it from; the Devil, Satan, to make you fall or God to prove your position in Him, if only to yourself? Job’s entire ordeal can be called a temptation. Early Christians were sometimes faced with a demand that they reject Christ or die. This is also a tremendous temptation, an assault on one’s faith, belief in God, and trust in God as can be an illness or pressure from the world. Noteworthy scripture on temptations include;

Luke 11:4 And forgive us our sins; for we also forgive every one that is indebted to us. And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil.

1Corinthians 10:13 There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.

James 1:12 Blessed is the man that endureth temptation: for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life, which the Lord hath promised to them that love him.

Satan wishes to have Jesus take the Crown before the Cross and subvert His mission as Saviour of the world. He uses His human hunger to begin demanding that He turn stones to bread but Jesus answers with Scripture.

Deuteronomy 8:3 And he humbled thee, and suffered thee to hunger, and fed thee with manna, which thou knewest not, neither did thy fathers know; that he might make thee know that man doth not live by bread only, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of the LORD doth man live.

Then, Satan tempts Him with power and the glory of the kingdoms of the world. God has given those over to Satan and the lowest of men rule over nations through him as the god of this world system (2Corinthians 4:4). He demands worship.

Daniel 4:17 This matter is by the decree of the watchers, and the demand by the word of the holy ones: to the intent that the living may know that the most High ruleth in the kingdom of men, and giveth it to whomsoever he will, and setteth up over it the basest of men.

One day Jesus will seize these kingdoms.

Revelation 11:15 And the seventh angel sounded; and there were great voices in heaven, saying, The kingdoms of this world are become the kingdoms of our Lord, and of his Christ; and he shall reign for ever and ever.

Christ replies with Biblical truth.

Deuteronomy 6:13 Thou shalt fear the LORD thy God, and serve him, and shalt swear by his name.

Deuteronomy 10:20 Thou shalt fear the LORD thy God; him shalt thou serve, and to him shalt thou cleave, and swear by his name.

Satan then tries to tempt Him with presuming on God, to his sense of self-preservation and tries to create a sense of needing to prove at this time His relationship with God the Father. He quotes:

Psalm 91:11 For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. 12 They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.

Jesus replies by alluding to this Scripture.

Deuteronomy 6:16 Ye shall not tempt the LORD your God, as ye tempted him in Massah.

In these things, Satan tempted Christ with the lust of the flesh regarding hunger [see Deuteronomy 12:15 for lust and hunger], the lust of the eyes regarding power and glory of man’s kingdom, and the pride of life with the temptation to display His supernatural power.

These are types of the temptation that disobedience to God put in the hearts and minds, the spirits, of Adam and Eve.

Genesis 3:6 And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat.

It is what the Christian must face and oppose to truly love and serve God.

1John 2:15 Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him. 16 For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world.

On a note of personal opinion I think these passages teach us that it is inconsistent with being a Christian to be constantly employed with seeking to satisfy our physical desires, to seek political power for self-glorification, or to presume on God’s mercy and love for us.

Satan, who understood the prophecies concerning the Messiah in the Old Testament certainly better than the Jews or us, having failed in his desire to subvert Christ’s mission, leaves Him.

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spellcastersjudgement · 4 years

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For the number thing, possible 1 and 44 for Joey and Kaiba...? O-or 11 and 14 for Ryou and Kaiba, of course you don’t have too

OKAY SO first of all thank you for this!!! second, the reason this took so gosh darn long is because i am a long winded person and though this was supposed to be a drabble/ficlet ask thingy but i think im physically, spiritually, and emotionally incapable of writing anything thats short. please enjoy this 4500 word fluff bomb because i know i sure as hell enjoyed writing it

#1: chocolate + #44: puppy love

This was a load of horseshit if Seto Kaiba had ever seen it. He’d lived through whatever the fuck happened to his Battle City tournament, that fucker Dartz highjacking his company, the existence of Maximillian Pegasus, and hallucinations of an ancient version of himself subservient to the Pharoah that supposedly lived in Yugi Moto’s necklace, but this—this was what brought him to his knees.

“Seto, I know you’ve got nothing better to do tonight.” Mokuba had said, and if it weren’t a phone call Seto had no doubt his little brother would be fixing him with the trademark Kaiba stare, the one he reserved for board meetings and press conferences and had inadvertently passed on to his sibling. “You’re gonna come and you’re gonna be polite and you’re gonna have a drink and you will leave no earlier than ten.”

“I have no interest in hanging out with the dweeb patrol.”

“Seto Kaiba I know where you keep your deck and if you think I won’t hold your cards hostage you are sorely mistaken.”

The CEO stopped typing his reply to the millionth email of the day at that. “Is that a threat, little brother?”

“It’s a promise. You need human interaction and if I have to be the one to socialize you, I will.”

The serious tone of his voice plus firsthand knowledge of how crafty Mokuba could be when he wanted (Seto would never forget the pancake batter in his shampoo incident) made Seto wary to call his bluff. Taking his hands off the computer leaning back in his chair, he breathed out as loudly as possible to communicate that he was not a fan of Mokuba’s demands but that he would do it anyway.

“Good, it’s settled. Remember, you don’t have to be nice, just polite.” There was too much satisfaction in his little brother’s voice and Seto could feel the smug smile through the phone.

“If you’re lucky I might be cordial.” He huffed as Mokuba hung up, his last words to not be late and for the love of god don’t wear that trenchcoat.

Presently, Seto was replaying the conversation as the car slowed to the front of Yugi’s apartment complex. In hindsight, he should’ve just moved his deck and maybe left the country until Mokuba’s annoyance wore off to avoid any pranks that would ensue, changed his phone number so no one could contact him, then reappear in a Blue-Eyes themed blaze of glory with a new tournament or the schematics for a new virtual reality game that would prove his solitude was an asset rather than a detriment.

Socialization. Mokuba and Roland were enough socialization for him, plus there were the other executives and his assistant and he answered all his emails personally. He was very well-adjusted and had plenty of human contact, the fact that most of it was through technological means notwithstanding.

“Call if you need anything, Mr. Kaiba.” Roland waved as Seto stepped out of the car.

“I need you to take me home.” Seto adjusted his tie, looking at his scowling reflection in the car window. He may have not worn the trenchcoat, but he would be damned if he didn’t go out looking like he was ready to crush whatever mere mortal dared speak to him.

“Not until ten.” Roland laughed as Seto glared. Of course he and Mokuba were co-conspirators. Fondly, Seto remembered a time when Roland would shatter under his anger. “It’s three hours, Seto. If you can last through a conference call with Pegasus you can make nice with the nerd herd—” here Roland took his hands off the wheel to emphatically do air-quotes “—long enough to appease Mokuba and maybe even enjoy yourself.”

Scandalized, Seto slammed the car door as loud as he could and whipped around, ignoring the muffled from the car. “You’re fired!” he yelled as Roland drove away, causing a woman walking her dog across the street to turn her head and fix him with a raised eyebrow.

He hadn’t even made it into the party or whatever the fuck this thing was before he felt like strangling the next person that spoke to him. This was a prime example as to why Mokuba’s plan to socialize him like a feral cat fresh from the shelter was ill-conceived and probably a torture method banned by the Genera Convention.

Why hadn’t he just moved his deck and left the country?

Thinking of how this torture would most likely buy him another sixty days of Mokuba not plotting to kill him via friendship, he squared his shoulders and steadied his breathing. Polite. Mokuba said he had to be polite, not nice or friendly and his little brother had certainly not demanded he enjoyed himself. Roland had only said that to get a rise out of him and god damn had it worked.

Apartment B23—god when was the last time he’d even set foot in an apartment? Probably when he visited Mokuba a few months ago. Seto had taken about five steps into the dorm room and promptly decided that the cramped space and plastic mattresses and general lack of anything that would provide privacy deemed it unlivable. How Mokuba lived with a roommate he would never begin to understand.

It wasn’t difficult to find Yugi’s apartment, the too-loud music a veritable death omen. Steeling himself and forcing his face into a neutral expression, he rapped on the door and waited with bated breath.

The door swung open, and Seto saw the spiky, obscenely gelled hair of his sworn rival. “Kaiba!” Yugi’s voice was so cheery and genuinely happy that Seto almost felt bad for writing off this evening as a waste of time.

Almost.

“Come on in!” Stepping out of the way so Seto could enter, Yugi hollered his arrival over the music. “Kaiba’s here, everyone!”

Seto was afraid of who “everyone” was.

“It’s so great that you could come,” Yugi was smiling and Seto found it in him to politely smile back, not a real smile but enough to appease the shorter man. “Mokuba’s already here—let’s get you a drink and join the party!”

“I’m not drinking nasty cheap beer.”

Fuck. That was not polite or cordial.

Maybe it was because he hadn’t seen Yugi in a while since Mokuba was the one who was unironically friends with their little group, but he expected the other to give him a disappointed look and lecture him on how he should be nicer and open to friendship and all that. Instead, Yugi simply laughed and beckoned Seto to follow him to the kitchen.

Well alright.

The unmistakable voices of Tristan and Duke grew louder as he ventured deeper into the apartment, which certainly meant Wheeler was lurking around some corner ready to nip at his heels like the annoying mutt he was. He had already been rude to Yugi, and though that had been met with laughter (why were all of his scathing remarks not landing today he wondered) Wheeler would certainly try and fight him—physically and/or verbally. Mokuba would not be happy with him if he couldn’t resist the temptation and Seto knew his little brother would be watching him the whole night.

He couldn’t believe his little brother now doubled as his babysitter.

“Okay, so,” Yugi opened the fridge. “There’s beer in here—obviously Tristan brought the Natty but there’s a variety in there if you want. There’s white wine too, just don’t touch the Riesling, that’s Téa’s. Mai bought some really fancy stuff I can’t pronounce—basically we have everything.”

“Thanks.” Seto said. If Mai was here then there would be at least one person he could tolerate. “You went all out, I see.”

“I had to, it’s Téa and Joey’s welcome back party.” Yugi beamed. “They flew in from New York yesterday and we haven’t seen them in person in so long we had to celebrate.”

A welcome back party? Mokuba had mentioned that Wheeler had left for whatever reason, but Seto had assumed it was a permanent situation. Why on earth would Mokuba require he go to a party in Wheeler’s honor?

“I’ll be in the living room!” Yugi made his exit, leaving Seto alone in the kitchen.

Grabbing a plastic wine glass, which is something he’d never though he’d do ever in his life, Seto went straight for the wine Mai brought as she had an above average taste in pretty much everything. Maybe if he started with the quality alcohol he could stomach drinking the shitty stuff when he got buzzed.

Pouring himself a generous glass, Seto stared at the buttery yellow color of the wine and immediately decided that if he were going to get through this night he needed to get a head start.

He would never admit this even on pain of death, but he shotgunned that wine like a frat boy during hell week, not even bothering to enjoy the taste. He then poured another, more reasonable glass and took great comfort in the fact no one would be the wiser.

“—and then—shut the fuck up Duke you don’t get to tell the story—then this shithead tells me that no open containers in the pit and I’m all ‘if you give me two fucking seconds this drink will be gone’ and he threw me out!”

Seto took a long sip of wine.

“Hey, look who’s here!” Duke cut off a very inebriated Tristan who was still trying to continue the story. “Look at that, Seto Kaiba himself drinking out a plastic glass.”

“Take a picture, Devlin.” Seto quipped.

“I just might—I’ll even tag you in it.” Duke laughed and Seto felt like he’d been robbed once again of engaging in verbal fisticuffs. “Scoot over, asshole—Kaiba you can sit here.”

“So you can spill your drink on him?” Mai said, and Kaiba was relieved to see that there was a spot next to her on the loveseat. “I saved you a spot, Seto.”

“Thank you,” he said, and he truly did mean it.

“Why do you get to call him by his first name?” Tristan took a long sip of that nasty canned shit that was closer to cat piss than beer.

“Because I don’t test his patience like you do,” Mai returned, smiling over the edge of her glass. “And I beta test all the VR technology.”

Seto surveyed the room as they traded banter over who could call him what. Mokuba wasn’t in the room, which was surprising given that there wasn’t a lot of other places to be. It did seem that there was a balcony, and Wheeler’s little sister—god rest that child’s soul for having to share genetic material with that dog—was standing out there, talking to someone he couldn’t see. Tristan, Duke, Yugi, and Bakura were all crammed onto the couch, meaning that Wheeler, Téa, and Mokuba were the only ones unaccounted for.

“I’m glad I’m not the only one that dressed up.” Mai held out her own plastic wine glass for a toast. “Yugi said it was casual but I never learned the meaning of that word.”

Seto tapped his glass against hers, the toast not as satisfying since there was no clink but he wouldn’t say no to drinking more. That first glass he’d downed was starting to make his cheeks heat up but he was not nearly buzzed enough to take the edge off.

“Téa!” Tristan called, and Seto looked over his shoulder to see her emerging from the bathroom. “Can you get me another beer pretty please?”

“I thought this was supposed to be my party.” Téa rolled her eyes in a manner Seto was actually impressed by. He remembered her as the annoying little cheerleader on the sidelines at their duels, somehow getting into every tournament despite never being invited. Maybe her time in New York had shaped her into more than a megaphone for friendship speeches.

“It is, that’s why I need more beer.” Tristan countered, pointing finger guns at her and earning him a laugh. “Thank you Téa, I love you!”

Gross. Seto drank again.

The conversation and music blended into white noise around him. Tristan and Duke were telling another story, cutting each other off every other word and being generally loud. If Seto were inclined to such things he might find it amusing. Yugi and Bakura were laughing and asking questions like their story wasn’t just a retelling of some boneheaded drunken scheme and needed elaboration and explanation. Téa came back with the beer and her own drink before settling down next to Yugi on the already cramped couch, the two of them sharing a smile before Yugi laid his arm around her shoulders and kissed her.

Oh. Gross. Seto finished his wine and tried to forget he’d witnessed that.

“Where’s our other guest of honor?” Seto asked Mai. He wasn’t sure why he was even interested in knowing. He blamed it on the alcohol.

“Outside with Mokuba and Serenity.”

Serenity. That was the sister’s name. Seto tried to remember that in case he had to talk to her later.

As if on cue, the door to the balcony slid open. Mokuba and Serenity came through first, followed by the faint smell of cigarette smoke and then Wheeler.

Holy shit. Was that really Wheeler?

“Kaiba took your spot, Joey.” Tristan said.

“Guess I’m gonna hafta sit on your lap then.” Joey was still loud as ever, with his stupid accent and stupid hair and stupid face.

What was definitely not stupid was how he looked—Seto remembered him as this gangly little fucker that was the only person in the room the same height as him and never knew his place, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and knockoff sneakers making it look like he’d rolled out of bed seconds before leaving the house. Now, Wheeler was even taller—probably taller than Seto though he was loathe to even think about it—and he was tanned like he’d spent day after day working outside (here Seto glanced down at his hands and was smacked in the face by how pale he was), and his shoulders were broader and his he was much more muscular, the sleeves of his halfway unbuttoned gaudy Hawaiian shirt looking like they could barely contain his biceps.

The fashion could use some work. Wheeler looked like a white suburban dad in his Hawaiian shirt and jeans.

“Mai, you want anythin’ from th’ kitchen?” When the fuck had Wheeler crossed the room? Seto buried his nose in his cup and tried not to think of how he’d been appraising the mutt’s body.

“If you’re offering, you can grab the bottle I brought.” Mai held her cup out to him. “Try it, you might like it.”

“This what you and moneybags are drinkin’?”

Moneybags. Those were fighting words. Seto couldn’t help himself.

“What? Did you expect me to drink the same swill as you, mutt?”

God damn it. Now Mokuba, who had pulled up two chairs for Serenity and him to sit in, would know he’d not been “polite” or “cordial” or any variant thereupon.

The whole room interrupted in cheers and Seto was absolutely fucking floored.

“Take a drink!” Wheeler held up Mai’s wine and downed the rest of the glass, as did everyone else in the room, even Mokuba who looked like he could barely contain his laughter. “’Dere he is, same ol’ Kaiba.”

“What the fuck just happened?” Seto turned to Mai.

“When Joey found out you were coming he said we all drink whenever you call him a dog-themed insult.” Mai didn’t even try to hide her amusement. “So unless you want all of us to be absolutely hammered I would get creative.”

Slumping back into the cushions, Seto was inclined to throw a tantrum. Wheeler was supposed to return fire, not take their verbal sparring and make it into a goddamn drinking game.

Was he in the twilight zone? He had to be. This had to be a hallucination.

When Wheeler returned, he handed the bottle to Mai and made good on his promise to sit on Tristan’s lap. Seto’s head was still spinning as Mai poured him another glass so he didn’t even get to relish in Tristan pushing him onto the floor and pouncing on him, the two of them roughhousing like elementary schoolers.

“Let’s play a game!” Yugi turned down the music.

“Not Duel Monsters, a game we can all play together.” Téa added as Wheeler perked up from where he was pinned under Tristan. “This is my party too, Joey, don’t give me that look.”

“A’right, a’right. What’d you have in mind, T?” Wheeler shoved Tristan off of him and Seto tried not to think of muscles.

He couldn’t decide if he needed to drink more or stop drinking for the rest of his life.

Seto missed the discussion of what game they would play. He vaguely heard their voices but he was mostly focused on his wine and how he would never be able to show his face in public again if he kept these thoughts about Wheeler and his dumb broad shoulders and his dumb biceps and how his dumb hands looked so rough and strong and so unlike his own lily-white smooth ones.

Fuck. Seto drained his wine and set the cup firmly down. He needed to take a break and regain control over himself.

The nerd herd had decided they would play Monopoly. Seto had never played but it surely couldn’t be that difficult. Wheeler was positioned directly across from him, as if purposefully tempting Seto with the exposed skin of his chest—what had possessed that mutt to not button all the way up? Mere minutes after it had started, Seto broke his prohibition on drinking and poured himself another glass.

It was eight now. He only had to survive until ten, then he could call Roland and be spirited away.

Monopoly, as Seto soon discovered, was hell.

“I don’t understand how I’m supposed to win.” He groused. Mai’s wine was long since gone and they’d both had to move on to subpar red wine that only went down because Seto was riding the line between a strong buzz and drunk. “Anyone who gets Boardwalk is guaranteed victory.”

Bakura was the proud owner of a Boardwalk hotel. “Oh surely you can afford it, Kaiba.”

“If this were real money, then yeah, ‘course.” Seto begrudgingly handed over the money and crossed his arms tightly over his chest, well aware he resembled a child rather than the CEO of a multi-billion dollar company.

“C’mon moneybags, you can pull off the upset.” Wheeler chided him, laughing as he drank his Blue Moon, which was weirdly high quality for him. “If ya’ can’t what’ll ya’ shareholders think?”

“It’s not the same, Wheeler.” Seto had wisely refrained from dog-themed insults.

“Okay, I seriously have to pee.” Duke interrupted. “Let’s take five and then we can go back to humiliating Kaiba.”

A break sounded like a good idea. Seto regretted wearing business casual, as between the alcohol and the long sleeves he was sweltering. Extricating himself from the loveseat and gingerly stepping over Yugi and Téa, who were sitting next to each other and holding hands under the coffee table and being generally gross and affectionate, he made his way to the balcony. His legs were a bit wobbly from sitting down so long, the alcohol not helping, but he kept himself relatively composed as he slid the door open and stepped out.

It was blessedly cool outside. He closed the door behind him and stepped to the railing, leaning on it and enjoying the feeling of the night air. The last time he’d looked at the clock it was eight, and as he pulled out his phone to check it he was surprised it was a quarter to ten.

Huh. That hadn’t felt like almost two hours.

Behind him, the door opened and shut. Seto turned around to see Wheeler holding two plates, an unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

Oh god.

“Yain’t eaten all night, rich boy. Here, have some cake.” Wheeler put a plate on the railing in front of him and pulled out a lighter.

“What the hell is this?”

“Never seen cake before?” Wheeler puffed on his cigarette and stabbed the cake with a plastic fork. Did Yugi not believe in real flatware?

“Of course I’ve seen cake before.” Seto contained the mutt at the end of his sentence. “Why did you bring me some? And since when the hell did you smoke?”

“I only smoke when I drink. Nothin’ compliments a night of drinkin’ like a nicotine buzz.” Wheeler smiled though a mouthful of cake and Seto wanted to reprimand him for being so uncouth but his alcohol-addled mind could only think of how disgustingly cute he looked with frosting on the corner of his mouth. “An’ to answer ya’ other question, I brought ya’ some because you and Mai been guzzling drinks all night and neither one of ya’s eaten. I ain’t cleanin’ up vomit at my own party, moneybags. Plus, Téa makes the best chocolate cake.”

Seto looked down at the confection precariously placed on the railing, eyeing it with suspicion. Had Wheeler actually done something nice for him? Now that he was looking at food, he realized he actually hadn’t eaten since breakfast this morning and it would be a good idea to eat. No other reason.

Silence fell over the balcony as Wheeler smoked his cancer stick and they ate their cake. Seto was pleasantly surprised. Wheeler hadn’t been lying about Téa’s baking abilities. Unlike Wheeler, who had shoveled in the cake like he was a prisoner on death row and it was his last meal, Seto exercised some restraint, eating in neat, careful bites.

It was strange how quiet Wheeler was being. Seto had never been within a hundred feet of the guy without the two of them berating each other, which would culminate in a duel that Seto would win and Wheeler would vow to win the next one. It was their ritual and Seto didn’t know what to make of this amicable silence between them.

Just as Seto was beginning to feel comfortable with the silence, Wheeler spoke.

“Would ya’ believe me if I said I missed ya’?”

Seto choked.

“’M gonna take that as a no.” Wheeler thumped his back and Seto tried not to think of how big the mutt’s hands were as they rested between his shoulder blades. “’Das my fault rich boy, didn’t mean t’ make ya’ choke.”

“Then what did you mean to do? Give me a heart attack perhaps?” Seto spat, violently ignoring how heat, blush heat not alcohol heat, was in his cheeks and how Wheeler’s big dumb stupid warm hand was still on his back.

“I apologized, Kaiba. Didn’t know ya’d react like that.” Wheeler was smiling, his eyes holding an indiscernible look. Seto remembered there used to be only anger when Wheeler looked his way and desperately wished this was all a cosmic joke because there were too many new variables. Seto Kaiba had two emotions: disappointment and rage. When it came to Mokuba there were more, but Wheeler was not Mokuba and he didn’t get the benefit of Seto’s emotional range. Wheeler wasn’t angry though. If Seto had to put a name to what he saw in Wheeler’s eyes it would have to be fondness.

Disgusting. The mutt couldn’t just look at him like that.

Seto thought back to how this party was a violation of the Geneva Convention.

“It’s true, though.” Wheeler continued, moving his hand to Seto’s shoulder and suddenly the night air wasn’t so cool anymore. “I did miss ya’ Kaiba.”

Did Wheeler think this was some Nicolas Sparks novel? Did Wheeler expect him to say he missed him too?

“Why are you telling me this?” Seto asked, his gut twisting, the chocolate cake threatening to come back up. What. The. Fuck. He hadn’t seen Wheeler in forever and now because he’d come back with sunkissed skin and broad shoulders and thick muscles and Seto’s emotions were threatening to get the better of him? Un-fucking-believable. It had to the be the alcohol.

“I dunno actually. I just wanted ya’ to know. Back in th’ day we’d be at each other’s throats and I missed you and ya’ snarky attitude and ya’ dumbass trenchcoat and that godawful dragon jet. There ain’t nobody quite like you Seto Kaiba.” Wheeler squeezed his shoulder and smiled and Seto felt like he was staring into the sun. Seto fought to keep his face neutral and thought about how he was going to shave Mokuba’s head in his sleep for making him come to this stupid party and making him see stupid Wheeler and have stupid fucking emotions he never should’ve had in the first place.

“Ya’ don’ have to say anythin’ back. Just wanted ya’ to know that and that I’m glad ya’ could come tonight. You’re a sight for sore eyes, Kaiba.” Wheeler dropped his hand from Seto’s shoulder and Seto desperately wished that he didn’t want to grab it and put it back. The mutt gathered their empty plates and fixed Seto with another smile. “C’mon, we got a game to finish.”

“I’ll be inside in a minute.” Seto said, angry he lacked the normal acerbic edge to his voice.

Wheeler closed the door behind him and Seto could hear muffled voices welcoming his return. What the ever loving fuck had just happened?

His phone buzzing shocked him out of his reverie. Roland was calling.

Placing the phone to his ear and leaning heavily on the balcony, Seto answered. “What?” he spat, still not happy with the man from his earlier quip.

“It’s five past ten Mr. Kaiba. You ready for me to come pick you up?”

Retrospectively, Seto should’ve known that’s what Roland was calling about. He looked over his shoulder into Yugi’s apartment, and could see they were all talking and laughing and Wheeler had Yugi in a headlock and they all looked happy. Maybe it was because of the alcohol, maybe because there seemed to be no more bad blood from days long past, maybe it was because Seto Kaiba really had nothing better to do tonight, but he wanted to go back in to Yugi’s quaint little apartment and maybe have a few more drinks and maybe try to win that godforsaken Monopoly game.

“Actually, Roland, I think I’ll stay a bit longer. You might say I’m enjoying myself.”

#anon #asks #ygodm #this was so much fun #thank u for sending this in #i had so many feelings near the end i almost fuckin shed a tear #i love puppyshipping so much

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raevanmun · 7 years

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why were you drawn to each one of your characters?

Apparently you and @symmarilshatterunwra are both sadists.I have to preface this response with a little literarydrivel. I am a huge, HUGE fan of transgressive fiction. In my writing I have done my best to adhere tothe basic elements of the genre, though my writing style is often more floridthan is typical. So, all of my characters tend to have deviant pasts, secretsand proclivities that are both a source of relief from lives that are eitherbanal and meaningless or are broken by trauma and sometimes a mixture of thetwo.Usually, a narrative emerges either from some music, a pieceof art, or just musing in general and sometimes through the combined creativeeffort of myself and a writing partner. A few of these characters have beenconceived of with and for partners I have or have had.Raerys (Rosewood) Songbrook - Raerys’ isa compilation of feelings and narratives that I spliced together from writingdone with @symmarilshatterunwra and a deep interest in actual cults that I have. I havespent several hundred hours watching various documentaries about religiouscults. Raerys family were involved in a very fringe cult of Sun WorshipingQuel’dorei. In it there is love of power for power’s sake, the corruption thatcomes from that and the fanatical drive to create a “pure” blood line thatwould create the greatest minds in the pursuit of the Arcane. That pursuit of apure bloodline and the use of both religious doctrine and sexual coercion aremain themes in her life, start to finish.Her journey is one of cleansing and redemption, a move towardwholeness and healing after a life of privileged trauma.The next I have to take in Tandem - because their stories areintertwined.Kaereah andPhaedrei Bitterdawn - The Bitterdawn sisters are opposite ends of theemotional and social spectrum. This is due to some really shitty stuff thathappened when they were growing up. They are in truth, half sisters. Phaedreiis the elder of them. Kaereah is the baby of the family and the result ofan “Oooops” their mother had after having been widowed. Phaedrei is responsible to a fault, is taciturn, cruel and fairly ACE. Headcannon says she's never been with anyone, romantically or otherwise. She's toofocused on her work, on her magic, on herself and the compartments of her life.She is deeply sad, a dank sort of depression eats at her and keeps her at arm'slength from anyone. Kaereah is the opposite side of the same coin. She is gregarious, friendly, andgenerally "open" to people she meets, but then, she's also aprostitute and has been for many years. She is not really open, any more sothan her sister, though she has been in love once. Was hurt terribly, and sincehas walled off her emotions and used sex as a way of life and a weapon since. They are in equal parts the unfortunate reaction to a childhood in which theironly role model found validation in relationships, not in herself or herchildren. Determined not to follow in their mother's footsteps they respondedvery differently, only to arrive at essentially the same emotional place. Theyhate one another, because both judge the other as maladjusted, without seeingthe irony of their situations and having any empathy for the other and all thatthey have suffered.Nolah Blackfyre - Nolah is a amalgamof rogue tropes, which are usually played out by men. I was drawn to her as acharacter because she is a SHE. She is devil may care, full of swagger andpomp, but she's also wears that like a mask, hiding behind it is a ruthlesskiller who no one would ever imagine is capable of the things she is. She isalso, an incurable romantic, seeking for that perfect lover who to quote TheEagles, "won't blow my cover, but they're so hard to find." As I posted ages ago on her tumblr, she is made of cigarettes and song lyrics.She is a poet, a ponderous creature who writes secret poetry and who is tragicin all the ways that rogues usually are.

Kordelaine Sunbriar - Kordelaine ismy idea of a "millennial belf." She likes techno, house and trancemusic. She is into her gadgets, thinks the world is all fucked up but feelspretty powerless to fix it. It sounds strange I know, but she's in no smallpart inspired by both of my sons, one who has had some issues with drugaddiction and depression and the other who is a quiet and very nerdy kid. I was drawn to her as a way to sort of tap into what I enjoy most about millennials.What makes them interesting to me as a GenX'r. Their music, their sardonic viewof the world, their desire for community and connection in a world that isincreasingly small and yet isolated by technology.

Tzilli Bloodsky - I am drawn toTzilli because who doesn't want to play a comic book villain? She's a completeasshole. She's a narcissistic, overly intellectual anarchist who is really justa nihilist. She is in her mind, "Self Made" in the same way that mostAyn Rand female characters are... whichis also fun to mock and play with. She's really just Ra's al Ghul with tits anda cute face.Selkara Blackvale - Selkarah and herTwin Selakiir are Castor and Pollux. Or were... until something terriblehappened. She was always the darker half, the dangerous one, the thinker ofdeep and dark thoughts. He was the kind one, the sweet one, the good one... andthen the Void. I am drawn to Selkara because she has been utterly undone withher brother's corruption. Thrust from the role of the corruptor into the role of the caretaker has lefther unbalanced, freewheeling and frightened. She now struggles with theknowledge of her brother's slowly creeping madness, to feel him mentally,spiritually and emotionally within her, but unable to affect what is theeventual outcome of his state. The struggle to change horses midstream and become a hero in her own life iswhat is interesting about Selkara, that and her adoration and love for Rey. Reyhas helped to soften her, to support her transformation from shadowy bitch intosomething deeper, more and closer to wholeness. Rila Greenleaf - Rila is the Fool ofthe Tarot, but in female form. She is the child in William Blake's Songs of Innocenceand Songs of Experience. She is moving from utter ignorance through temptation,corruption and with luck, out the other side. I am drawn to Rila's arc in thesame way that anyone who's read De Sade's "Justine" is drawn to thecharacter and the conclusion of her story. How does the madness of absolutelibertinism end if it is born by one of a completely pure soul?

Jonadori Winterborne - Jona has beenbashed around in some pretty unfortunate rp arcs. She's not broken but she'sbeen reworked a bunch and at present I am not sure I am utterly in touch withher. So, I am not sure what to say about her in this respect.

Aembrose/Ambrose Longroad - Aembrose is a side character inRaerys' larger story. I originally made him just to play a part in herprogression, but there has been some interest in maintaining him as acharacter. I just haven't found found his voice yet. I am working on it.

Joaquin Brightquiver - He is a new character, very wetbehind the ears yet, but I am drawn to him because of his romantic and artisticsensibilities. He's a loner, been kicked around a good deal by life, but heloves to pain, he's consumed by his art, wine and women. He could be great, agreat and well-respected painter, but his addictions to alcohol and women whoare trouble keep him from being able to really move forward as an artist. I amdrawn to him, for the voice he offers.I don't usually play men, but when I write him, or plot for him, I feel such astrength of narrative that I feel sort of compelled to see the guy out. We'llsee if I really get under him and into his pov, it is still emerging, but whatI have done with him, I have really enjoyed.

Bryonny Larkspur - Bryonny is not yet entirelyfleshed out, that said... I find that character creation requires interaction,at least to firm up details. However, she's interesting to me from a conceptualpoint of view. Unlike Nolah who is despite her vocation a pretty easy to getalong with lady, Bryonny is far more "muy macho" and I have nicknamedher "The Shootist," in order to make the connection between her andold school male western tropes. She's a female in a man's world, she's mean andruthless. I haven't written a characterlike her in a long time, and perhaps it is the opportunity to write one again,re-working the idea and refining it that makes her interesting to me.Violet Dal'vir - Violet is theoldest character I have here. She's an Apostate Blood Knight who for manyreasons rejects "current" Sin'dorei culture and wallows in her angstand resentment. She has little use for others, little use for friends orcompanions. The only people she's known for some time who care for her or caredfor her, eventually left her behind because she could not and would not bebudged from her bigotry and her dogmatic and uncompromising dedication to aregime and a world that no longer exists.I like her, because she's kind of my "Uncle Rukus" character. She issocial commentary turned inside out and upside down. If I bring Violet aroundto interact with your characters, you can expect it is because either I thinkyour character is too fluffy, or too edgy. She likes to shave the plumes offone and knock the corners off the other. This is why, in many ways, I equateher with trolling. Greneda Brightmorn - Greneda is thenewest of my characters and I won't lie, I've pretty much fallen in love withher. She is a taste of all my favorite old time movie vixens, mashed up with agood dose of Lucile Ball and Carol Burnett. She feminine exaggerated, she's gota dirty mind, a warm laugh and she loves people, all sorts of people. She likesto use politeness like a weapon, relies heavily on her "Blanche" likemanner when social situations get difficult or taxing, and when she'scomfortable with people or her context, she's a delightful companion. I am deeply drawn to her, because I lovepeople like her in real life.

Thank you @ouroandarGreat if somewhat difficult question to answer.

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ericdeggans · 7 years

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Why I Think Bill Maher Should Lose His Job at HBO

Here’s why I think Bill Maher should lose his job at HBO: for making me have to endure yet another discussion/fight/consciousness-raising session on social media about why white celebrities should never use the n-word in public.

I didn’t even know what Maher had done until I got an email from a producer at Canadian Television asking me to go on camera and comment. When I realized it was an offhand joke on his HBO show Real Time where he referred to himself as a “house nigga,” I got even angrier. (he has since apologized in a statement.)

It should go without saying that nigger is a complex word. On the one hand, it’s a symbol of hundreds of years of dehumanization and oppression visited by a white-dominated country on those of us, as Curtis Mayfield once described, “who are darker than blue.”

On the other hand, there are a lot of black folks who have found a wide variety of uses for the term. In the same way we turned collard greens and pig intestines into cultural culinary staples, we have redefined the n-word for our own purposes. It can be a term of endearment, dismissal, accusation or acceptance, depending how it’s used.

(Below and throughout this piece are some of the tweets sent to me during my conversation on Twitter about this controversy.)

This isn’t about a TV host using a vulgarity. It’s about the ideas behind the word. And for those who claim its power can be diminished by saying it more often, I disagree. I don’t think you can overcome all of the word’s history, hidden meaning, stereotyping and psychology just by saying nigger more often. Though it’s easy to fool yourself on that score.

The simple fact is, black folks are still working out how we feel about our use of this word, and I doubt we’ll ever be settled on it. Richard Pryor rejected it onstage nearly 40 years ago; Dave Chappelle used it in his standup specials less than three months ago.

You can argue that using it internalizes degradation – which is kind of my view – but we also have a long history of rebellion through action that’s also damaging (see gangsta rap). Potato, potahto.

But, because it’s also used by very cool cultural figures like Chappelle and Chris Rock and a great many rappers, there is always the temptation by white people trying to be cool – which is the definition of a great many celebrities – to sling the word.

When I wrote about comic Lisa Lampanelli calling Girls creator Lena Dunham “my nigga” in a tweet four years ago, I noted the difference between members of a marginalized group using a slur about their group and people outside the group using it.

Jon Stewart can crack jokes about Jewish culture that non-Jewish people couldn’t risk without looking anti-Semitic. Female comics talk about women, gay comics talk about gay life and Latin comics talk about Hispanic culture in ways people outside that group will find problematic.

But this isn’t just about a slip of the tongue. Lampanelli has an act that she pretends is about breaking down political correctness, but too often seems like an excuse to sling a bunch of racist jokes the audience wouldn’t tolerate if she didn’t act as if it was about something more meaningful (a sample that I quoted in my column: “What do you call a black woman who has had seven abortions? A crime fighter.”)

And that’s where Bill Maher comes up short. He has used the word nigger before on TV, during an interview on Larry King Live to accuse conservative politician Newt Gingrich of using code words to refer to Barack Obama that were a stand-in for the slur.

But beyond that, Maher has talked about race, the Muslim faith, women and transgender issues in ways that make me and many other critics cringe. In particular, he’s alluded to a vision of authentic blackness which doesn’t include more assimilated or polished brothers like Barack Obama and Wayne Brady.

For example, on CNN, he told Fareed Zakaria: “I thought, when we elected the first black president...as a comedian, I thought two years in, I’d be making jokes about what a gangsta he was, you know? Not (joking) that he’s President Wayne Brady. I thought we were getting Suge Knight.”

Maher might have been the only person in America who expected Obama to act more like a rap impresario known for his brutality and ties to street gangs.

So this slip of the tongue, just like in Lampanelli’s case, is no mere mistake or ham handed attempt at cultural appropriation. It’s evidence of a pattern – one that HBO now needs to decide whether it wants to continue to be associated with, especially for a channel where 22 percent of its viewership comes from black people.

And, to answer all of the oddballs who came out of the woodwork to engage me in this debate on social media, this controversy – and others like it – is not about avoiding hurt feelings or insult. Images, archetypes and attitudes about people of color that are transmitted through media can affect how America’s white-dominated society handles a myriad of issues affecting people of color – from drug sentencing to policing issues to education funding and much more.

So it is very serious business when it comes to the question of who “gets” to use the most incendiary racial slur in America’s history on television or elsewhere in mass media. And it certainly shouldn’t be someone who isn’t black who views the issue so cavalierly, he would toss it in an offhand joke that also references slavery.

I gave a speech on racial issues to a group in Austin, Texas Saturday, and I told them that one of the greatest achievements of the civil rights movement is that it has made the open expression of naked racism socially unacceptable in mainstream American society. (Want proof? Consider how many people who clearly believe white racial culture is superior, still bristle at being called a racist.)

I still believe that is true. But I also believe it only stays that way by continued effort and self-examination.

And by calling out clueless celebrities when they forget the hundreds of years of oppression leveraged by the word nigger, every time they utter it in a public space.

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ancientpokemonrock · 7 years

Text

So I Married a Dragon...

Hiroshi paced agitatedly back and forth before the couch, his wife Elenora looking equal parts embarrassed and smug. His favorite suit jacket was long since gone, his sleeves were charred, and his tie was hanging on by a single silk thread. Hiroshi refused to think about what his normally neat hair looked like at that moment. In contrast, Elenora was the picture of composed, this in spite of her current emotional state. She had come out of the three day fiasco looking like she had just been grocery shopping. Clean dress, gently curled hair, makeup that was only slightly smudged. Only her shoes gave her away, caked with mud and blood and other things he didn’t want to remember.

Against his own desires, Hiroshi gave a great sigh. He loved his wife, really he did; but they needed to talk about what happened and all the things she had been hiding from him. Anger was the only thing keeping him awake, keeping him on his feet, and he clung to it with the stubbornness of a starving dog. Hiroshi had been astonished when their anniversary weekend went to hell, and discovering all the things Elenora had been keeping from him had just been the proverbial cherry on top.

Tired and mad, he flopped on the couch next to her, pulled off his glasses, and covered his eyes with the other hand. The headache was beginning to set in.

“Let’s go over it, just so I know I’ve got it straight,” he began, resolutely studying the lines of his hand, “First off, you’re a dragon.”

“Yes,” she kept her eyes on her knees when she spoke.

“A dragon.” Even after what he had seen, Hiroshi still had trouble wrapping his brain around that one fact.

She nodded.

“An honest to goodness, fire breathing scaled beast that flies and collects precious metals and gems.”

“I wouldn’t say beast…”

Hiroshi raised his voice to be heard over hers. “And you chose to live like a human to get away from your dad’s political scheming. Which you hate, because you’re the sort of person who hates having things decided for you without your input.”

Narrow shoulders slumped. “Yes again.”

“And sometime, when you were hiding and running,” the hand holding his glasses gestured vaguely at the room, “you fell in love with me.”

Her eyes lit up even though he could not see them through his palm. “Oh yes. From the moment I met you I had fallen in love. I yearned for you, darling. You were a temptation I could not resist, nor did I want to.”

Hiroshi removed his hand long enough to put his glasses back on and give his wife a flat stare, which she returned with a quirk of her lips. “Back on track; you’re not just a dragon, but you come from, what was it? A ‘prestigious warrior clan’?”

A flinch, and she looked away with a mumbled, “Everyone thinks we’re warriors, but the only thing my family has really fought in the past 2000 years are accounting forms.”

“What?”

“All the other races think that, since we’re dragons we’re some kind of super warriors, but that’s only true for about three clans in the world. The rest of us have normal professions, like carpentry, or doctors, or mechanics.”

“So that creature in the restaurant…”

“It was a Red Cap, and it was misinformed, like all the rest.”

Hiroshi rolled his eyes slightly. “A Red Cap then. Was it right?”

“Only in that we’re prestigious. Prestigious accountants.” The embarrassment had returned full force. Years ago, when they had gotten married, he had asked her about her family. She hadn’t wanted to speak of them then, and he hadn’t pried, afraid of bringing up bad memories. Now he wished he had.

“Okay, accountants. And you’re the ‘princess’,” he made air quotes for emphasis, “and the strongest of the clan.”

“I’m not royalty, just the daughter of the clan head who was supposed to follow tradition and become an accountant like all my relatives. And as for the strongest-” Elenora hedged. Hiroshi cut her off.

“After what I’ve seen you and the other dragons do? Honestly, I would hate to meet someone stronger than you. That would be a freaking nightmare.”

“You wouldn’t believe the number of combat classes I skipped as a child, nor have I been practicing since I began living among humans. I’m weak.”

“You’re strong enough to beat those Red Caps.”

His wife flinched again, one hand rising to her mouth in a too familiar nervous gesture. It made him feel guilty. “I panicked.”

“You are strong, Elenora,” his tone softened. “I thought you were just strong in heart and mind, now I know you’re strong in body too. Not much has changed the way I see you.”

It took a moment for her to meet his eyes, which were less angry than before. He smiled. “Now I know why Cassander was always hanging around you.”

Elenora outright cringed. “Please don’t talk about him! Male dragons are slaves of their hormones. Our clans are spread out a thousand miles or more apart to keep territory lines undisputed. Just because I’m the only female he’s met who isn’t a blood relative, he thinks we should be together. The male my father had picked out for me wasn’t any better, just someone whose clan wanted an alliance with us. They’re both too young, and awkward, and—and nothing like you.” Ernest green eyes looked at him, desperately willing him to believe her. It wasn’t hard for him; he had seen evidence of her loyalty a hundred times over the last three days. He knew she wouldn’t have gone through all the trouble of keeping him alive if she didn’t love him with all her heart.

“I know, my dear. I know you love me more than anyone else.” Hiroshi took her hand in his and patted it with the other. “About the rest.”

Another cringe.

“The way you obliterated those Red Caps down to their last molecule was both incredible and terrifying. I can’t handle watching something that again.”

Her head drooped. “I can’t promise that more won’t come. It’s not like I have any control over those creatures.”

“I understand.” He raised her hand to plant a kiss on the back of it. “Just…next time something like this happens, don’t try to hide it from me. I think that caused most of our problems.”

She nodded, the red of embarrassment creeping across her cheeks.

“Alright.” He kissed her hand again and stood up. Hiroshi released her hand to stretch his back, and was rewarded with a handful of satisfying pops. “Where was I?”

“Me being a dragon?”

He hummed. “There was one thing that boss Red Cap said that’s been bothering me. Is it really because of you and your ‘draconic aura’ that has attracted wealth for us and the clinic?”

“Kind of,” Elenora fingered her wedding band. “I drew it in, your own talents made it stay.”

“Huh. Good to know. Is it possible for you to, I don’t know, turn it off? If only to better hide from those things in the future.”

His wife shook her head. “No, not even if I wanted to. That’s why Red Caps are so anxious to get their claws on a dragon. We can feed their greed just by being alive. It’s caused quite a few clashes in the past.”

“Any that humans would’ve noticed?”

Her shoulders hunched. “Ever heard of Pompeii?”

Hiroshi stared at her. “Seriously?” he threw his hands in the air and resumed pacing. “Pompeii. Pom-freaking-peii.”

“There was also Atlantis, Avalon, Babylon, Sumaria, Ancient Egypt…” she trailed off.

Another sigh escaped him. “Basically, every kingdom that had fallen was because of Red Caps hunting dragons.”

“Yes.” Her hand was back at her mouth.

“Okay then. Why didn’t the Red Caps follow us over the ocean?”

“It’s the salt in the ocean. Red Caps can’t handle salt, and the ones that fell in died almost instantly. It’s why dragons prefer to live near the coasts and on islands. Makes it harder for the hunters to get us.”

His tie finally failed and slid to the floor. Hiroshi just sighed at it. “Anything else I should know about? Anything important?”

There was a beat of silence. “I’m pregnant.”

It was too much. Hiroshi fainted.

#short story #dragon #surprised and frustrated

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biofunmy · 5 years

Text

Woodstock 1969: A Story Vastly Bigger Than Editors Realized

The other articles, all crammed on to page 25, included a “Man in the News” profile of Max Yasgur, Reeves’s piece about the festival’s financial woes and another with the headline, “Bethel Pilgrims Smoke ‘Grass’ and Some Take LSD to ‘Groove.’” From nearby Monticello, Michael T. Kaufman wrote a piece about how the residents of the largest town in the area banded together to help “the sick, the hungry and the marooned.” The description of the music, in a review by The Times’s rock critic, Mike Jahn, was buried at the bottom of the page. His favorite performance belonged to Sly & the Family Stone.

The group, which is led by a former San Francisco disk jockey, Sylvester (“Sly”) Stone, has artfully risen above the mass of soul bands by using melody styles vastly different from what is usual in soul music.

The best example of the group’s sound fusion is “Everyday People,” its song about brotherhood, which became one of the most popular records released this year. Sly and the Family Stone has managed to combine a happy-sounding melody line with an infectious and very danceable soul beat.

The crowd here responded many times more warmly than to any of the groups or individuals that appeared earlier.”

Aug. 18, 1969

‘Morning After at Bethel’

On Tuesday, The Times editorial page weighed in. Shakespeare was quoted.

Now that Bethel has shrunk back to the dimensions of a Catskills village and most of the 300,000 young people who made it a “scene” have returned to their homes, the rock festival begins to take on the quality of a social phenomenon, comparable to the Tulipmania or the Children’s Crusade. And in spite of the prevalence of drugs — sales were made openly, and “you could get stoned just there breathing,” a student gleefully reported — it was essentially a phenomenon of innocence.

The music itself was surely a prime attraction. Where else could aficionados of rock expect to hear in one place Sly and the Family Stone, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Jefferson Airplane and those other lineal descendants of the primeval Beatles?

Yet it is hardly credible that they should have turned out in such vast numbers and endured, patiently and in good humor, the discomforts of mud, rain, hunger and thirst solely to hear bands they could hear on recordings in the comfort of home. They came, it seems, to enjoy their own society, free to exult in a life style that is its own declaration of independence. To such a purpose a little hardship could only be an added attraction.

***

Five thousand people were treated for injuries, illness and an excess of drugs. One hundred arrests were made on drug charges. And for three days traffic was tied in knots — for most of the rebels against the consumers’ society have cars.

By adult standards the occasion was clearly a disaster, an outrageous upset of all normal patterns. Yet the young people’s conduct, in the end, earned them a salute from Monticello’s police chief as “the most courteous, considerate and well-behaved group of kids he had ever dealt with.

Perhaps it was just the communal discomfort, that whiff of danger, that they needed to feel united and at peace. For comrades-in-rock, like comrades-in-arms, need great days to remember and embroider. With Henry the Fifth they could say at Bethel, “He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, will stand a tiptoe when this is nam’d.”

Aug. 25, 1969

‘Woodstock: Like It Was in Words of Participants at Musical Fair’

A week after Woodstock ended, perhaps after recognizing that the original news coverage may have leaned a bit too much into the traffic jams, the mud and the drugs, and ignored what it was now calling “the most ambitious music festival ever held,” The Times ran another front-page article. Gelb wrote that he had “the sense that something of considerable significance had taken place — but what?” To unpack that significance, the paper assembled six attendees for a round-table conversation — five men, one woman, ranging in age from 16 to 22. Gelb even joined the four reporters to conduct the interview, which lasted two and a half hours. The resulting piece came with a disclaimer:

“Because of the wishes of some of the parents — or, in one case, because a participant was on probation for a drug offense — the full names of the young people are withheld.”

After the Woodstock attendees talked about why they went and their impressions of the scene — Lindsey, “a 16-year-old junior at one of the city’s better private schools,” said the music drew her there and she was blown away by the atmosphere — the conversation turned to drugs. And the paper performed some Times-splaining:

All the panel participants carried some kind of drug to the festival — mostly marijuana (known as “grass” or “pot.”) But there was also hashish (abbreviated as “hash”), barbiturates (“downs”) and LSD (called “acid” after its chemical name, lysergic acid diethylamide).

On the way to Bethel, the participants worried about being searched by the police. Once concealed drugs in a hollowed-out arm rest of a car; another hid his on the floor, reading to ram it through a hole if a search began. A third said he was prepared to hide his in his underwear and demand that the officers produce a warrant made out in his name. None was searched.

Once they reached the festival their caution evaporated in the air made sweetish by thousands of burning “joints” (cigarettes hand-filled with marijuana). Anything they didn’t bring seemed to be readily available, even heroin (called “skag”) though none of the participants actually sought or saw any.

Not infrequently drugs were given away by young people eager to share. What couldn’t be had free could be bought from dealers roaming freely through the crowd, or others who stayed back in the woods on what they took to calling “High Street.”

Most of the participants regarded the drugs as an essential part of the scene — like flags at a Fourth of July celebration.

What The Times called “conflicting themes of alienation and commitment” were woven throughout the conversation, as the other attendees, all from “comfortable middle-class backgrounds,” weighed in.

Some of the young people had taken part in the political fervor that culminated in last year’s Democratic convention in Chicago. Some had been in peace marches and campus protests. One of the boys had spent his Easter vacation rebuilding the run-down house of a poor black family. But there was also the temptation of living a life of comfort free from “too much responsibility.”

Judy. There were so many people there, I thought, wow, wouldn’t it be a good idea if we could show our power by, you know, getting political. And then I thought a little more about it and I said, oh, what for? It’s already here. We already know it, we haven’t got to bother.

Dan. I think it was apolitical, if anything. Chicago was very political. Woodstock was just like government and politics just didn’t exist.

Jimmy. But although they didn’t exist up there in Woodstock, people were very aware. Like whenever Joan Baez said anything about, you know, about the laws that do exist, whether they were being put into effect at Woodstock or not, the fact that they do exist was not forgotten by anybody.

Bill. Oh yes. There was evidence of outside politics. I mean you saw the Army and you thought of Vietnam and things like that. I mean when I saw the helicopters landing and picking up the wounded, it reminded me of Vietnam.

Sept. 7, 1969

‘Mike Lang (groovy kid from Brooklyn) plus John Roberts (unlimited capital) equals Woodstock’

Several weeks later, Mr. Reeves, who would go on to write critically acclaimed books about John F. Kennedy and Richard M. Nixon, delivered a lengthy piece for the Sunday magazine that evoked the New Journalism then revolutionizing magazine writing. He used his incredible behind-the-scenes access at the festival to capture the frayed relationship among the organizers, as Woodstock Ventures careened toward $1.3 million in debt.

Here comes Mike Lang! He’s rolling along the New Jersey Turnpike in a U-Haul truck filled with a few thousand psychedelic posters and other salable stuff. The kid from Brooklyn is coming home from Florida, 23 years old, curly brown hair down to his shoulders, Indian vest and dungarees. Groovy! February, 1968. Look out, New York! Look out, America.” Look out, John Roberts!

There’s John Roberts in his apartment on East 85th Street. Same age as Mike, horn-rimmed glasses, Rogers Peet suit. At 25 he’ll inherit the first million dollars from the Polident trust fund. Outasight! A year ago he and a friend put that advertisement in The New York Times: “Young men with unlimited capital looking for interesting and legitimate business enterprises.”

Beautiful! There were 1,400 replies, including one from the man with the flying car and another from the lady with a formula for watermelon-flavored Popsicles.

Mike and John were meant for each other, poet and patron. Sorry, Popsicle lovers, but Mike got most of that unlimited capital. He had an idea, the greatest happening in history — The Woodstock Music and Art Fair.

“I knew it was going to happen,” Mike said the other day as his white Porsche stopped in front of the Plaza. “Even before I found his money, I knew it was going down. I have this sense of time.”

“Mike’s from another planet,” said the lank redhead with him as men stopped to watch her climb up out of the little car. “He has these two bumps on his head, like horns. And funny leprechaun ears and eyes that slant up.”

Nov. 6, 1969

‘Woodstock Festival Costs Bethel Official His Post’

Woodstock has continued to reverberate throughout the ensuing decades, as the event took on almost mythic qualities. But there were some more down-to-earth, and much more local, repercussions, soon after the festival, as this Associated Press article in The Times made clear.

The Democratic Supervisor of the Town of Bethel lost a re-election bid by eight votes yesterday after a campaign with one issue — the massive rock festival last summer.

Daniel Amatucci has permitted the Woodstock Music and Art Festival to be held in Bethel. About 300,000 young people descended on the tiny Catskill Mountain community.

Mr. Amatucci lost 598-590.

Sahred From Source link Arts

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timclymer · 5 years

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It's A Wonderful Life

Sadly, many pro-choice advocates tend to label their counterparts primitive believers. It would seem that, to such ��progressive’ people, all practices who oppose abortion are but lower species, and their faithful are merely a primitive herd. However, they do not dare to take a look at the man in the mirror, which is proof of hypocrisy and primitivism. Who is displaying a lack of tolerance in this story? Do not they say that a lack of tolerance is typical of primitivism?

What is the definition of primitivism? Every person must decide for themselves, because every person has been privileged on occasion, sooner or later in life (and by this I do not mean being in the cradle as a child, because this is where we are at our most tolerant). We should really think about it: if faith fosters love, compassion and kindness towards the other in people, then those who call all of this primitive must be the most primitive of all. Love connects people, hatred tears them apart. Each person, as a free individual, is entitled to free opinion, and life should be the judge of who’s right and who’s not. But how are we expected to get an answer from life if we kill it to begin with?

I do not know much about victories, but there is on thing I am sure of: compassion is the greatest of victories of the human spirit. I am writing from my own experience because, as a youth, I was a skeptic blinded by myself, by raw lust, alcohol, drugs, cynism, arrogance … and one day I arrived at the very edge of life. I thought I should simply leave this world because I never became as famous as I expected. I cheated on women who sincerityly loved me due to raw lust, and then I felt His hand on my shoulder. Even if you think that your aimless straying is over, know that you’ve only started off on the right path. , and it will take you into the hearts of many. Be the voice of those in need, be the voice of love, be the voice of freedom, and you will turn yourself and others into better people through your versions. “

Since that day, I feel much happier and fulfilled, not because I think that I’m special or free of sin, but because I realized that I am just a sinner who really wants to better himself, and I can safely say that there is a higher holy force that makes us better. I do not know what He looks like, but I do know He exists, with all my heart and soul. I will not attempt to look for Him here or there, because He teaches me that whenever you’re doing good to others, He is within you. Ever since then, I have learned that faith accounts for a strong spirit, which is any person’s best ally in times of temptation, because weak-spirited people will be the first to fall. Who is falling?

Those who fail to show compassion for others;

Those who are ready to rebuff themselves for the sake of power and money (such people become slaves to greed);

Those who hate more than they love;

Those who want to rule over nature (A person can only feel all the enchantment of nature if they love it as they love themselves, and in synergy with nature – the sun and the wind – people will create energy that will take them into space, to shake brotherly hands with other creatures of God);

Those who want to clone stem cells to create human beings in laboratories, while at the same time there are millions of people dying of hunger (We know that a human being is only complete with emotions, which comes from the soul that can never be created by another human);

Those who hope that hunger will decimate humanity, because there is too much people in this world anyway (If that happens, the cloned man shall rule, and tears, laugh, sorrow, hope and faith will be gone, as well as humans with souls );

Those who attempt to cure the emptiness within with futile lust (To love is to place our happiness in the happiness of another – Leibniz);

Those who are afraid of solitude (of the man in the mirror);

Those who consider the faithful to be primitive.

Many people like to play with statistics, but I say that those who are slaves to statistics are slowly losing the most important thing that makes them human – their emotions. Yes, life teachers us that the day we master our own emotions, we lose them forever. And, regardless of statistics, we have to listen to our hearts, which tell us that faith does not teach us anything bad. Is faith in compassion a bad kind of faith? Is helping those in need a bad kind of faith? Is faith in love a bad kind of faith? Is faith in the idea that every living being has the right to live a bad kind of faith? I will allow myself to quote a great comment by a forum member at a Croatian news portal: "Those who claim that there are ten thousand abortions a year due to a” bad social situation “, rape (or forced sex in marriage), or Medical indications during pregnancy, are fools. Most of these abortions are performed on the younger female population. These are mostly young girls who get pregnant, and then their mothers, who are around 40 and do not want to become grandmothers, drag them to the doctor to have an abortion. The worst thing is the fact that many of them have several abortions. The fact that it’s almost like going to the dentist is shameful.I am sickened by this society’s hypocrisy. long ago. Would any pro-choice coordinators dare to say – in public, and on that particular day – that it’s acceptable to have an abortion if tests show that the child will suffer from Down’s syndrome. reason, among ot hers! And it is legal. The test is performed during week 11 of the pregnancy, so that the pregnant woman may have an abortion in case of bad test results, as abortion is legal up to week 19. What is the difference between such a pregnant woman and the Nazis, who considered the ill to be degenerate and freaks that should be extinguished? ”

Why am I so touched by this unfortunate abortion story? Because I am an extramarital child of a poor mother with a rich soul. My late mother told me at her deathbed that my mother was a great dreamer, and that I must have inherited that trait from her. Grandma acknowledged that her young daughter was abandoned by her partner, who left her behind pregnant, with the promise that he would return for her as soon as he makes some money up north in the Big Apple, and he would take her to paradise, but she never heard from him again. Grandmother tried to talk her into having an abortion, because they were barely able to survive, even without a child, but at that point she joined her hands in prayer and, looking up, she said: “Thank God, she would not listen to me … your mother is a hero, she took up the toughest of jobs to be able to raise you … and when social services wanted to take you away and give you up for adoption to a wealthy couple from a big northern city, she said that it would happen only over her dead body! ”

My mother drew her indomitable strength from the Texas prairie. She always standing upright like a cactus, she withstood the winter, the wind, the drafts – to cut a long story short, the capricious winds of destiny never drove her to her knees (sadly, the man who left her pregnant and left off to New York was a weak-spirited coward, even though he was Texan). When I went to football games as a youth, I used to compare the football coach to my mother. I remember the words of the late coach, who was adored by the fans almost as if he was a saint. He himself was a fan of the working class, and he used to tell his players: “We always have to think and play from game to game, because this is the credo of the people of this city. we live in. People have to fight in order to survive. we can not let them down. What we feel when we take the field is not pressure … Pressure is when these people go home missing the money to feed their kids. ”

Yes, my mother was from a poor family, but her soul is noble, and that’s why I’m always proud to say that my mother is blue-blooded and nobility, because there is no greater nobility than love. I can proudly claim before the world that I have inherited my love of the earth, not just the golden Texas prairie, but our one only planet Earth, from my mother. SACRIFICE, modesty, humility, respect, hard work, faith … that’s the motto, not just of my humble family, but of most people across the proud Texas prairie. There is no government or money that could keep me from fighting for nature, and this is also why I fight against bankers, oil corporations, greedy dictators, political castes (by this, I do not mean political visionaries like myself, who fight to save nature) because, lest we forget, global warming is not a natural process, but a product of human greed. I remember my mother singing the old “Tennessee Waltz” to me when I was a kid. If you listen to the immortal Patti Page, you will know the kind of singing voice my mother had when she was young. I’ll never forget watching her sing and look through a small window into the distance, like a golden bird locked in a cage. But instead of her, her baby bird left the cage and flew off into the world in his early youth. What sacrifice it must be to voluntarily impersonate your youth and beauty into a small dark room for the sake of your child, I think while wistfully looking at a pale family photo. One Christmas Eve I asked her if she ever considered an abortion, and she looked into the distance and said in a tired voice: “I must admit that there were moments when I blamed all my troubles on God, but my faith was stronger .. My faith kept me from falling, and an angel who whispered to me that I should look for work as a cleaner in the maternity ward. Those newborn children have the strength to stand up and fight. Yes, son, there were troubled times. ahead, but I saw an ocean of craving in your big blue eyes that made it worth living for … ”

After listening to this story, I often thought how great it would have been if all the newborn children had mothers like that. I never turned out to be wealthy, or a great politician, but I wrote some poems, novels and plays that made it worth to live. After all, who gave us the right to decide whether to have an abortion or not ?! It’s not important what kind of country or family a child is born into, it may still become a great journalist, poet, actor, philosopher or humanist politician some day, someone who will make the world a better place to live. Or else, they might become the most important thing – a simple honored human being.

Yes, life is wonderful in deed, and when you think that there is no way out, just remember Frank Capra’s classic movie “It’s a Wonderful Life”. The younger generation should watch that movie in school, because the movie, with acting virtuoso James Stewart, teaches us that life is worth fighting for even when you think that there is no way out and, what’s most important, how to remain human. Yes, this movie proves the positive power art can have on the human soul, and this is why the world should pay more attention to art that enriches all the values that make us human. Literature and motion pictures with noble messages deserve more attention from people, instead of slavery to raw profit.

It is common knowledge that every person has the freedom to choose between good and evil. When I read a true story about a homeless man in New York, who found a bag full of money and returned it to the owner, I was proud to be human, but when I read that the same man became homeless due to bankers’ greed , I am accused of being human. It is interesting to find out that the same story happened twice, in the USA and in Croatia. When journalists asked the Croatian homeless man in Split why he returned the money, he just shrugged and humbly replied: “Even though I lost everything, partly because of my own mistakes, and partly because of the bank’s usuries, all I want is to remain a faithful and honest man. ” Yes, this man is a hero of mine. Of course, I do not promote poverty. I want to be successful, but I do not want to lose my soul in the process. I always vote for capitalism with a human face and a human soul. Yes to success, but no to greed! This is my life’s motto, lest we forget that greed is a disease much more dangerous than the pest or cholera. The Croatian political caste is proof of greed being a dark bottomless pit. Imagine a small and beautiful country blessed by mother nature, with a thousand islands and a clear azure sea, fertile lowlands and paradise green valleys, yet with many thousands of people, both old and young, going through garbage bins because of the political caste’s greed. Now try to imagine how endless the politicians’ greed is: kind people who want to donate food to the poor must pay taxes to the state on any food or other goods they donate to the poor. Thus, the paradox is that it is easier to just throw away the food into garbage than to donate it to the poor. This political caste (the “reformed” communist party) is not satisfied by millions paid in bribery by “investors”, or by selling state-owned companies with brand names for peanuts, like insurance companies and banks, and other malversations. No, they simply must steal whatever little the paupers have left. Is not greed really an accursed disease? It does not simply destroy the body, no, it also destroys the human soul. It is a dark bottomless pit that can never be filled, and it feeds on human souls. This is what my noble mother taught me. She would never allow herself to be separated from the family brooch she inherited, displaying a smiling Christ figure. There are many people who look down on people like her, and they think that gold credit cards give them the right to consider them the betters of the poor faithful. Well, they’re wrong! The worst kind of poverty is the poverty of the spirit. Those who are working their way towards power and money, looking down on the faithful, should know that those who ridicule faith are those who call His name the loudest on their deathbed. I do not support fanaticism in anything, and certainly not in faith, because the Creator teachers us that tolerance and love for others is the best way towards faith. So, even when I criticize greedy people, I do not hate them. Instead, I am doing it from the depths of my soul, hoping for them to see the world through the eyes of the faithful someday.

History teachers us that even the greatest among unbelievers experienced a sincere conversion at the end of their lives (and I do not mean Pharisees). On his deathbed, Jean-Paul Sartre said to his best friend: “You know, Francois, I was a great skeptic all my life as far as faith is concerned … but there must be a higher deity that enriches the human soul with all those values I was searching for like a castaway on the ocean of temptation … ”

Yes, and I would add: taking a step at a time on the path to true freedom is not easy, as the great Plato taught us. Weak-spirited people will choose their safety in the dark, while those who are blessed with faith search for light, becoming genuine messengers of freedom in their lifetime. Those who close the doors on a child at its conception should know that this is how they turn the light of life on themselves.

Walter William Safar

Source by Walter William Safar

from Home Solutions Forev https://homesolutionsforev.com/its-a-wonderful-life/ via Home Solutions on WordPress from Home Solutions FOREV https://homesolutionsforev.tumblr.com/post/184546720115 via Tim Clymer on Wordpress

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homesolutionsforev · 5 years

Text

It's A Wonderful Life

Sadly, many pro-choice advocates tend to label their counterparts primitive believers. It would seem that, to such 'progressive' people, all practices who oppose abortion are but lower species, and their faithful are merely a primitive herd. However, they do not dare to take a look at the man in the mirror, which is proof of hypocrisy and primitivism. Who is displaying a lack of tolerance in this story? Do not they say that a lack of tolerance is typical of primitivism?

What is the definition of primitivism? Every person must decide for themselves, because every person has been privileged on occasion, sooner or later in life (and by this I do not mean being in the cradle as a child, because this is where we are at our most tolerant). We should really think about it: if faith fosters love, compassion and kindness towards the other in people, then those who call all of this primitive must be the most primitive of all. Love connects people, hatred tears them apart. Each person, as a free individual, is entitled to free opinion, and life should be the judge of who's right and who's not. But how are we expected to get an answer from life if we kill it to begin with?

I do not know much about victories, but there is on thing I am sure of: compassion is the greatest of victories of the human spirit. I am writing from my own experience because, as a youth, I was a skeptic blinded by myself, by raw lust, alcohol, drugs, cynism, arrogance … and one day I arrived at the very edge of life. I thought I should simply leave this world because I never became as famous as I expected. I cheated on women who sincerityly loved me due to raw lust, and then I felt His hand on my shoulder. Even if you think that your aimless straying is over, know that you've only started off on the right path. , and it will take you into the hearts of many. Be the voice of those in need, be the voice of love, be the voice of freedom, and you will turn yourself and others into better people through your versions. "

Since that day, I feel much happier and fulfilled, not because I think that I'm special or free of sin, but because I realized that I am just a sinner who really wants to better himself, and I can safely say that there is a higher holy force that makes us better. I do not know what He looks like, but I do know He exists, with all my heart and soul. I will not attempt to look for Him here or there, because He teaches me that whenever you're doing good to others, He is within you. Ever since then, I have learned that faith accounts for a strong spirit, which is any person's best ally in times of temptation, because weak-spirited people will be the first to fall. Who is falling?

Those who fail to show compassion for others;

Those who are ready to rebuff themselves for the sake of power and money (such people become slaves to greed);

Those who hate more than they love;

Those who attempt to cure the emptiness within with futile lust (To love is to place our happiness in the happiness of another – Leibniz);

Those who are afraid of solitude (of the man in the mirror);

Those who consider the faithful to be primitive.

Many people like to play with statistics, but I say that those who are slaves to statistics are slowly losing the most important thing that makes them human – their emotions. Yes, life teachers us that the day we master our own emotions, we lose them forever. And, regardless of statistics, we have to listen to our hearts, which tell us that faith does not teach us anything bad. Is faith in compassion a bad kind of faith? Is helping those in need a bad kind of faith? Is faith in love a bad kind of faith? Is faith in the idea that every living being has the right to live a bad kind of faith? I will allow myself to quote a great comment by a forum member at a Croatian news portal: "Those who claim that there are ten thousand abortions a year due to a" bad social situation ", rape (or forced sex in marriage), or Medical indications during pregnancy, are fools. Most of these abortions are performed on the younger female population. These are mostly young girls who get pregnant, and then their mothers, who are around 40 and do not want to become grandmothers, drag them to the doctor to have an abortion. The worst thing is the fact that many of them have several abortions. The fact that it's almost like going to the dentist is shameful.I am sickened by this society's hypocrisy. long ago. Would any pro-choice coordinators dare to say – in public, and on that particular day – that it's acceptable to have an abortion if tests show that the child will suffer from Down's syndrome. reason, among ot hers! And it is legal. The test is performed during week 11 of the pregnancy, so that the pregnant woman may have an abortion in case of bad test results, as abortion is legal up to week 19. What is the difference between such a pregnant woman and the Nazis, who considered the ill to be degenerate and freaks that should be extinguished? "

Why am I so touched by this unfortunate abortion story? Because I am an extramarital child of a poor mother with a rich soul. My late mother told me at her deathbed that my mother was a great dreamer, and that I must have inherited that trait from her. Grandma acknowledged that her young daughter was abandoned by her partner, who left her behind pregnant, with the promise that he would return for her as soon as he makes some money up north in the Big Apple, and he would take her to paradise, but she never heard from him again. Grandmother tried to talk her into having an abortion, because they were barely able to survive, even without a child, but at that point she joined her hands in prayer and, looking up, she said: "Thank God, she would not listen to me … your mother is a hero, she took up the toughest of jobs to be able to raise you … and when social services wanted to take you away and give you up for adoption to a wealthy couple from a big northern city, she said that it would happen only over her dead body! "

My mother drew her indomitable strength from the Texas prairie. She always standing upright like a cactus, she withstood the winter, the wind, the drafts – to cut a long story short, the capricious winds of destiny never drove her to her knees (sadly, the man who left her pregnant and left off to New York was a weak-spirited coward, even though he was Texan). When I went to football games as a youth, I used to compare the football coach to my mother. I remember the words of the late coach, who was adored by the fans almost as if he was a saint. He himself was a fan of the working class, and he used to tell his players: "We always have to think and play from game to game, because this is the credo of the people of this city. we live in. People have to fight in order to survive. we can not let them down. What we feel when we take the field is not pressure … Pressure is when these people go home missing the money to feed their kids. "

Yes, my mother was from a poor family, but her soul is noble, and that's why I'm always proud to say that my mother is blue-blooded and nobility, because there is no greater nobility than love. I can proudly claim before the world that I have inherited my love of the earth, not just the golden Texas prairie, but our one only planet Earth, from my mother. SACRIFICE, modesty, humility, respect, hard work, faith … that's the motto, not just of my humble family, but of most people across the proud Texas prairie. There is no government or money that could keep me from fighting for nature, and this is also why I fight against bankers, oil corporations, greedy dictators, political castes (by this, I do not mean political visionaries like myself, who fight to save nature) because, lest we forget, global warming is not a natural process, but a product of human greed. I remember my mother singing the old "Tennessee Waltz" to me when I was a kid. If you listen to the immortal Patti Page, you will know the kind of singing voice my mother had when she was young. I'll never forget watching her sing and look through a small window into the distance, like a golden bird locked in a cage. But instead of her, her baby bird left the cage and flew off into the world in his early youth. What sacrifice it must be to voluntarily impersonate your youth and beauty into a small dark room for the sake of your child, I think while wistfully looking at a pale family photo. One Christmas Eve I asked her if she ever considered an abortion, and she looked into the distance and said in a tired voice: "I must admit that there were moments when I blamed all my troubles on God, but my faith was stronger .. My faith kept me from falling, and an angel who whispered to me that I should look for work as a cleaner in the maternity ward. Those newborn children have the strength to stand up and fight. Yes, son, there were troubled times. ahead, but I saw an ocean of craving in your big blue eyes that made it worth living for … "

After listening to this story, I often thought how great it would have been if all the newborn children had mothers like that. I never turned out to be wealthy, or a great politician, but I wrote some poems, novels and plays that made it worth to live. After all, who gave us the right to decide whether to have an abortion or not ?! It's not important what kind of country or family a child is born into, it may still become a great journalist, poet, actor, philosopher or humanist politician some day, someone who will make the world a better place to live. Or else, they might become the most important thing – a simple honored human being.

Yes, life is wonderful in deed, and when you think that there is no way out, just remember Frank Capra's classic movie "It's a Wonderful Life". The younger generation should watch that movie in school, because the movie, with acting virtuoso James Stewart, teaches us that life is worth fighting for even when you think that there is no way out and, what's most important, how to remain human. Yes, this movie proves the positive power art can have on the human soul, and this is why the world should pay more attention to art that enriches all the values that make us human. Literature and motion pictures with noble messages deserve more attention from people, instead of slavery to raw profit.

It is common knowledge that every person has the freedom to choose between good and evil. When I read a true story about a homeless man in New York, who found a bag full of money and returned it to the owner, I was proud to be human, but when I read that the same man became homeless due to bankers' greed , I am accused of being human. It is interesting to find out that the same story happened twice, in the USA and in Croatia. When journalists asked the Croatian homeless man in Split why he returned the money, he just shrugged and humbly replied: "Even though I lost everything, partly because of my own mistakes, and partly because of the bank's usuries, all I want is to remain a faithful and honest man. " Yes, this man is a hero of mine. Of course, I do not promote poverty. I want to be successful, but I do not want to lose my soul in the process. I always vote for capitalism with a human face and a human soul. Yes to success, but no to greed! This is my life's motto, lest we forget that greed is a disease much more dangerous than the pest or cholera. The Croatian political caste is proof of greed being a dark bottomless pit. Imagine a small and beautiful country blessed by mother nature, with a thousand islands and a clear azure sea, fertile lowlands and paradise green valleys, yet with many thousands of people, both old and young, going through garbage bins because of the political caste's greed. Now try to imagine how endless the politicians' greed is: kind people who want to donate food to the poor must pay taxes to the state on any food or other goods they donate to the poor. Thus, the paradox is that it is easier to just throw away the food into garbage than to donate it to the poor. This political caste (the "reformed" communist party) is not satisfied by millions paid in bribery by "investors", or by selling state-owned companies with brand names for peanuts, like insurance companies and banks, and other malversations. No, they simply must steal whatever little the paupers have left. Is not greed really an accursed disease? It does not simply destroy the body, no, it also destroys the human soul. It is a dark bottomless pit that can never be filled, and it feeds on human souls. This is what my noble mother taught me. She would never allow herself to be separated from the family brooch she inherited, displaying a smiling Christ figure. There are many people who look down on people like her, and they think that gold credit cards give them the right to consider them the betters of the poor faithful. Well, they're wrong! The worst kind of poverty is the poverty of the spirit. Those who are working their way towards power and money, looking down on the faithful, should know that those who ridicule faith are those who call His name the loudest on their deathbed. I do not support fanaticism in anything, and certainly not in faith, because the Creator teachers us that tolerance and love for others is the best way towards faith. So, even when I criticize greedy people, I do not hate them. Instead, I am doing it from the depths of my soul, hoping for them to see the world through the eyes of the faithful someday.

History teachers us that even the greatest among unbelievers experienced a sincere conversion at the end of their lives (and I do not mean Pharisees). On his deathbed, Jean-Paul Sartre said to his best friend: "You know, Francois, I was a great skeptic all my life as far as faith is concerned … but there must be a higher deity that enriches the human soul with all those values I was searching for like a castaway on the ocean of temptation … "

Walter William Safar

Source by Walter William Safar

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