#first thing that is coming out of the drafts in so long and its deranged noir takes what else did anyone expect tbh

[pbnmj]

tfw the man you love against your better judgement gets a kid to help him with his photojournalism and dies trying to expose the criminal he's been blackmailing and then the kid puts on a uniform that's way too big for him and calls himself spider-man after ben urich and you know he's going to get killed trying to serve justice to all the criminals in new york. and now there's a sixteen year old kid bleeding out on felicia's doorstep and again despite her better judgement, she cares. how much of that is a misplaced sense of responsibility for her dead lover, and how much of that is the deep feeling of injustice over how this child is the one fighting, and how felicia knows that she could never turn him away. what then </3

#we need more jaded old man who hates everyone and is overly harsh to the young girl theyre protecting but they end up like family #except the its a jaded old woman and a young boy. and i think noir peter felicia could be set up like this :) #especially bc i rly dont think felicia has a parental bone in her body. the dynamics get better/worse due to this #i really really need that feeling of guilt and helplessness and the 'YOU ARE NOT MY MOTHER' fight with them #i also think they need to have an awkward touching talk about ben and the mess he leaves behind and EVERYTHING #first thing that is coming out of the drafts in so long and its deranged noir takes what else did anyone expect tbh #spider-man noir #spiderman noir #peter parker #felicia hardy #my art #noir #felicia

[un-local]

do you ever have any issues with perfectionism keeping you from writing? and maybe any advice on how to overcome it?

You know, to my own surprise, I’m inclined to say perfection isn’t my big demon. I think I deal with it some, but paranoia is probably what I’d characterize as my biggest problem. 

To clarify: I make art to satisfy whatever deranged impulse bubbles up from the unfathomable depths of my broken brain, right? So as long as I do that, I’m happy. But for me, it’s in the act of posting that trouble arises. Everyone else’s standards are totally alien to me, and it seems that often, they’re way higher. So I have a sort of paranoia that there’s something in my art—which is good enough for me—that everyone sees but I don’t. And it isn’t something endearing, or likeable. I’m not aware something everyone else is, and it’s a real problem. 

So, I think the end result is the same, but the root cause is probably different. 

To me, perfectionism is an inability to meet your own standards. But since I write for emotional satisfaction/catharsis, my own standards aren’t so much a factor.

Perfectionism strikes me as a kind of impatience, at the end of the day. You want your art to be  a masterpiece, right now, first try. And you’ll put yourself through hell when it isn’t. 

But the thing about writing is that you kind of have as many tries as you feel like giving it. It’s not like you’re carving it into a stone tablet—you can hit the undo button. (Which can be its own form of infuriating, I know.)

In terms of advice: 

I think patience is the way forward. Trust, too. Trust in yourself to make it a little better in the next pass-through. That whatever it is now, it isn’t final, if you don’t want it to be. 

It’s not even necessarily giving yourself permission to suck—but permission for your writing to just be whatever it is right now.

I think this is where advice about using fonts like comic sans for your first draft is helpful. It was for me. It kind of lowers the stakes, in a way. 

I think my focus on making sure writing fulfills a very personal emotional need has been beneficial for combatting perfectionism. Words don’t have to be pretty, or groundbreaking, or even noticeable, so long as they all come together to serve the emotional purpose of a scene. 

I think another thing that’s helped combat perfectionism in my writing process is the way I write—it’s probably like sculpting. I get all the basic forms down first, then refine and polish with many pass-overs after. My first draft doesn’t really have much detail. It’s mostly the major building blocks. So I think having a foundation like that helps me keep my focus on what I’m doing and why. And as I refine, if something isn’t working well, I can erase it and still have my end goal in mind. Having that (broad) end goal helps keep your focus on your piece, rather than how it is or isn’t meeting your standards. 

But really, I do think patience has been my best ally. If I can’t see a way out, I change tabs lol. I think being able to keep things on the back burner helps. Having the patience to step back and change gears means you can recharge and come back with fresh eyes. It also means that you can take the progress you have made and take that into the real world for a bit. 

There’s a line in SWRD where Magdalene is in the background, stretching her back in a moment between enemies. I got that from real life. 

In my personal work, I’ve had a story running for ten years. Literally. And over the last four years, I’d spend a few months making huge refinements and restructures in the draft, and then let it sit for anywhere from a few months to a year. And that gave me a lot of clarity in terms of what I was trying to say and why. 

TL;DR:

Hope this helps, anon. Good luck with your writing! Stick with it. In my experience, it all turns out in the end. You’ll get there just fine 🖤

#I hope this is helpful I’m kind of a dumbass #Don’t trust my advice further than you can throw it #But for whatever this advice is worth I do hope it helps #Also sorry for the late answer. I was beset with a stress related health condition. it was harmless but it scared the shit out of me #writing #hare answers #hare posts

[adamsvanrhijn]

i might read John's showing up in Newport thing as a tiny bit less indicative of being Weird than you do... to me it seems sort of like, the sort of Grand Gesture impulsive thing you might do out of total desperation, especially if you consider they've been together a long time, John has been kind of repressing and hiding all his actual emotions about the situation so when he expresses them they come out in big bursts. Also, as far as we know, we never see him get input from anyone else about his relationship like friends etc so maybe its the sort of thing that makes sense in his head and its not like. Actually maybe this is not so good of an idea until he's already gone and done it

Thank you for the ask!! Love 2 read thoughts on this. And I see now after drafting this that you sent follow up ones too but i will go ahead publish this one first

I think my thoughts on that are. The Newport behavior makes sense as something to Think about doing... Many people think about things like that regardless of brainweirds. Winning an argument in the shower etc etc.

But actually doing it... especially when there are SO many steps to doing it. that is bonkers behavior. It isn't like, inherently mentally ill, like is that behavior someone without brainweirds would do—Almost certainly so. sometimes people do ridiculous things. Fully believe there are guys who do that kind of thing and would not get diagnosed with Weird.

But. and this is most important to my brainweirds headcanon. it is not something that seemed to line up with the rest of John's behavior. It came totally out of left field for viewers, everyone went nuts. Blog reviewers that commented on the plotline universally were like "this is deranged and came out of nowhere, what a guy". logistically it is just. ridiculous amount of effort to go to for a guy who is giving introverted and going with the flow in most of his screentime. like he absolutely snapped, he had been holding back and communicating extremely poorly and making assumptions that he could ignore it and it would blow over etc, but the Way that he snapped...

I think a normal person would leave it at the restaurant. well truly I think a normal person would not have gone there during the restaurant but everyone has times where emotions run high! but i think it would have been left there and then he would have had a whole argument in private when oscar got home...

instead he goes completely absolutely out of his way specifically to draw attention to how wonderful and fine his life could be without acknowledging oscar in it at all and that he can make himself more desirable than oscar and harm oscar's plans... there are So many things he could have been trying to demonstrate but all of them ultimately, I think, are intentionally to fuck with or hurt oscar or at least to Teach Him A Lesson...

oscar, someone he otherwise seems to be quite ride or die for and is extremely in love with and is i think trying to serve that With whatever bananas sentiment he is directly trying to express with his newport behavior. Like he cares deeply about oscar but is still taking ridiculous steps to get the upper hand.

That is the part that doesn't make much sense in the context of his previous & upcoming behavior and most of his s2 behavior as well, and makes more sense when you decide you want him to have brainweirds! imho.

because like I think the key thing to keep in mind when looking at My thoughts etc on my tumblr dot com blog is that I am reading John Adams as brainweird because I want to. And I want to because, a, it is historically fun, that family was chock full of brainweirds, but also because, b, I myself am brainweird. But i do think it enhances the text and is supported by his actions !!

Also something I think is Very interesting is that when I polled, most people seemed to think that John would Not feel anything resembling regret or embarrassment etc about his actions in Newport... which was not at All the lens I myself was looking through because of my own experiences. like when my brain makes me do crazy shit it is like. Absolutely cringe and bananas after it's over and i want to forget it ever happened. and in 1.09 when john is so sullen and pouty when Oscar teases him about flirting with gladys...

he's giving 1880s bipolar disorder. to me <3

#(to be clear normally my brainweird incidents are like. to use an extremely recent example. #''I can totally qualify for the Olympic trials in breaststroke and butterfly in 2028! #and to start I am going to sign up for every swim meet in every state that borders mine in the next 4 months! #This is a realistic achievable goal!'' #Like i do not think I am out here pulling john adams relationship behaviors lmao but if i was unmedicated... watch out #john adams tag #johnoscar tag

[starlightshadowsworld]

Son of none

Based off this post: Aka Percy Weasley was abandoned by his family and I don’t think they realised just how much danger an 18 civilian blood traitor son would be when stuck behind enemy lines. Well never fear, a fic is here as if I don’t have any other drafts...any whoooo

@transparentfreakpursepanda

Warning for blood, torture, self loathing. Mentions of bullying and neglect. Cursing.

(Also while writing this I was listening to Polaris by Natewantstobattle and...yeah if you want more angst while reading this listen to them and think of Percy :)  )

Percy deserved this.

Knowing that didn't change things. It didn’t make it easier to make it duck past the office that had once belonged to Barty Crouch Sr without feeling dread and greif. As harsh as the man could be and that he had not bothered to learn Percy's name... Percy still mourned his loss. For all that he was, Barty Crouch Sr had been a good man.

Life at the ministry taught him quickly, that kind of wizard was few and far between.

He wondered if the look Barty Crouch Sr had shared with his son before his death wax the same his father had shared with him the day he left.

Maybe it wasn't wise to compare yourself to a deranged murderer, but if that's the kind of wizard his family thought he was...

"Weasley"

It was stern, drenched in spite that was not unlike his old potions professor. But sadly even Snapes treatment of him in class did not hold a candle to what was happening now.

Percy lifted his head, it felt heavy. Infact all of him felt that he was on fire. The figure infront of him came into focus, not that Perch could quite recall his name. Edward? No that didn't seem right. Not Edward was his wand in hand and looked very annoyed, his dark mark was on full display.

Percy became very well aware in that moment that he couldn't move. He was bound to a chair in a room that looked very much like a cellar. He was still in his ministry robes, though they were dirty and tattered and stained in something.

It took Percy longer than he should've to realise it was his own blood. Not that he knew where he was bleeding from. "You Gryffindors and your bloody stubbornness" sneered Not Edward, he was a broad man, towering over Percy.

"You're wasting my time, and yours of you don't hurry up and tell me where your family is hiding." Percy shook his head, defiantly even if his body protested at the sudden movement. "Like I said before, even if I did know, I would never tell you." 

And than Not Edward would shout profanities all the while using his subordinates to use Percy as target practice till he passed out. That had been the cycle for... Well he wasn't sure for how long. Apart from the first time when Percy had weaved a convincing story about the family heading to Romania to hide away with Charlie...a whole false hunt that ended with the brand he now had on his arm. 

But this time was different.

Not Edward smirked "thought you'd say that, no matter. We've found out how to get there attention, and they'll hand themselves over." Percy laughed, it was a strangled and it sent another wave of pain through his body.

Not Edward was still smirking, in fact if anything his confidence grew. "And better yet, you're going to the bait that brings them here." And that stopped Percy laughing at once, he was quieter. "What makes you think they'd come" the words were barely above a whisper that echoed throughout the room.

Not Edward (Percy really needed to learn this man's name for his own internal monologue's sake) rolled his eyes "don't pull that on me, you Weasely's are more attached than a bunch of grapes. Rest assured, they'll be coming one way or another."

With that he left. Percy tried not to think about the fact a death eater had more confidence in his families arrival than he did. His mind wandered to the day he left, guilt pooled in his stomach. No amount of head trauma would erase the disgust and rage in Arthur’s eyes, Percy knew at that moment he had lost all right to call the man father. 

He could never look him in the eye again, he couldn’t even look himself in the mirror without seeing him staring back. His mothers eyes haunted him, she’d been the only one to try to reach out but he had slammed that back in her face. Not that Percy should have been surprised, he’d always been a parasite. 

If anything they must’ve been relived to be rid of him. 

They wouldn’t come, he knew that. Than why did his heart race, did tears threaten to fall and his stomach churn at the thought? Percy thought of his siblings, young and old...they wouldn’t have given him a second thought. Fred and George would mourn the loss of their favourite target, but they would move on they all would if they hadn’t already. 

For Percy though, this was the end of the line. 

_______________________________________________________________

Weasley family dinners were always something else, Bill knew this better than most. He smiled to Fleur who sat at his side, amusement on her face as they both watched Molly do as she does best. It was organised chaos at its finest, and while Shell cottage was a far cry from the Burrow, somehow it all came together. Harry was laughing at a story Ginny and the twins were telling, Charlie and Hermione were actually helping Molly along with Arthur. 

But even with how familiar it was, it was missing a certain brother rolling his eyes at the story and telling the true ending to the annoyance of the twins. Who would than direct the others to helping out with dinner to there mothers amusement. 

Percy. 

Ever since the watch, a muggle watch at that had arrived on his wedding day, with no name for the sender but only Bill’s name signed by an all too familiar handwriting...Bill hadn’t been able to take his mind of his little brother. His absence at his wedding and just seeing him around the house stuck out like a sore thumb to Bill. He wasn’t the only one either, he could see how his Mum would pause her eyes searching before looking down and moving onto something else.

Much like now when she put down the plates and realised that she’d left a little extra to the side. “Mum, I get that you miss him but you can’t keep doing this. Percy’s not coming back” the first to say it was Charlie, his voice soft like he was talking to an irate dragon. “Good riddance” that came from Ginny, in that whisper that wasn’t even trying to be quiet. 

Instantly Molly became much like a dragon. “Ginevera Molly Weasley, don’t you dare speak about your brother like that!” She yelled, hot tears burning in her eyes. “Molly...” Interjected Arthur, putting a calming hand on his wife’s shoulder “you can’t blame her for her anger. Come on, let’s dig in.” And that should have been the end of it but Molly turned to him, her own temper boiling. 

“Don’t you start, Arthur. Don’t you tell me I should be sat eating dinner while my son is out all alone.” She spat. “Mum, it’s fine Percy’s probably having high tea with the new minister, talking about the importance of  cauldron bottoms” snickered Fred, “pfft yeah, just sat around telling the dark lord about his book report” agreed George. Bill frowned, as did Fleur but that was nothing compared to Molly. 

Her gaze hardened and the twins shut up instantly, they’d never seen her this mad. “I dont care if you hate him, I don’t care if this isn’t my home...you speak of my son following HIM, get out of my sight now.” She said, slumping into a nearby chair. Bill stood up, putting his own hand in his mums which she took gratefully. “Percy may be the most ambitious lion around, but he wouldn’t join you know who. He left to join the ministry because that's what he believed in, death eaters isn’t even in the equation.”

And Bill meant those words. More than he ever thought he would. 

“Though is there any difference between the death eaters and the ministry anymore?” Asked Harry, the place was filled with them after all. “Yeah? Might be but they’ve kept the employees, not that I know what’s going on in there anymore.” Said Arthur, adding his 2 galleon’s into the mix. “And there not going to take kindly to a Weasley” Said Hermione, making everyone look down as if they hadn’t just realised that. 

It didn’t matter if Percy had disowned himself, his family was very much publicly fighting the people he was now stuck with. 

And that was when fate decided to be extra cruel and the radio burst into life. 

“Greetings from the Ministry. Our daily transmission has already been received today but we have an exceptional treat for the wizarding public. We will be instead hosting an interview with one of our newest employees, give a hand folks to Percival Ignatius Weasley.”

Everyone in the room froze, and yet Ron who was the only one of the family minus Fleur not to speak, ran to the radio and put the volume as loud as he could. 

“Say hello your family, Percival.” Taunted the voice, it was very gleeful as it spoke. No response was heard. “Oh, silly me I forgot how many hours you young people work, not to worry let’s get him up boys.” 

A splash was heard and a shuddering scream. “Morning Percival, sorry do you prefer Percy? Don’t care, lets start the interview. So Percival, how are you finding the ministry?” Everyone sat with baited breathe.

And yet it was there Percy who, through shuddered breaths managed to whisper a “fuck you...fuck you and your ministry”

“Well that is very rude, and here I thought your mother would have taught you manners” “don’t...don’t you talk about her.” Said Percy, Molly broke down into tears and Bill held her close. Unable to tear his gaze from the radio, no one could. 

“What do you want to say them? I’m sure they’ve missed you. In fact, just for you we’ll be hosting a party. And there all invited to the ministry, so long as they bring a certain Mr Potter.” 

There was a silence before “don’t come...don’t. Whatever you do, don’t... it’s fine. I’m fine, I love it here.” He laughed, everyone cringed at the sound he made, as if he was choking. “It’s fine, don’t come...parties are overrated yeah.” The transmission started cutting off, Ron frantically along with the twins tried to get it working. 

They heard “too busy. Don’t come, Harry don’t...stay where you are!” Before the  transmission cut off.

No one could speak, horror was etched into all of there faces. The twins were scrabbling over themselves with wand in hand to track where the transmission had come from. 

The Ministry. 

“We’re going...now” said Molly, standing up. Her tears were gone, grabbing for her wand and coat. “Molly...be rationale, we need to plan this.” Said Arthur, Molly spun on her heel and glared. “I am not going to sit here while those...monsters torture MY son! Planning will take to long, did you hear him Arthur?! Did you hear your son crying out in pain...he doesn’t have long left...” Arthur looked down, unable to respond. 

Molly looked at the rest of the family, her gaze saying it all: You can come with me or you can stay. The first to stand was Bill, closely followed by Fleur who met his thankful gaze with a determined smile. Charlie and Ron were next, grabbing there wands with Harry and Hermione following. Ginny and the twins exchanged guilty looks but stood. Arthur couldn’t look at any of them, he simply picked up his wand. 

“Harry, I understand if you wish to stay” said Molly, he shook his head. “I might not know him well but Percy’s family 2...I cant sit here while you guys go even with the danger.” He replied, and somehow that was all it was, Percy was family...enough said. 

And so the family of lions got up and left, to find the one they left behind. 

_______________________________________________________

Percy was terrified.

A part of him argued that he should be grateful they came at all for him. Maybe it was out of pity, out of ensuring that he wasn't able to be used against them.

Yes, that's all it was. He was nothing afterall, he was merely a civilian in a war.

And yet hearing Molly tearfully and frantically whisper his name. Hearing Hermione yell the counterspell to his imprisonment to Ron who did so perfectly. Seeing the light of spells cast by Ginny and the twins to stun Not Edward... (Who was apparently called Edgar... Eh close enough.)

Feeling Charlie carry him in his arms, mumbling curse words. Smelling Arthur's cologne.

It all felt right. It was warmth that he couldn't remember experiencing. It was enough to lull him to a facade that everything was fine.

But when his wounds were healed and he saw them all looking at him... Percy knew he had to shelf that dream. "I told you not to come" was the first thing he said, averting his gaze. (Couldn't look them in the eye)

"And you must've lost a few screws if you thought we wouldn't" said Bill, meeting Percy's gaze. "You shouldn't have" is all he replied. "And what, let you be killed by the ministry?" Gaped Ginny. Percy shrugged "wouldn't have made much difference, you've only gone and put yourselves in more danger."

"Are you... Are you fucking with us right now?" Asked Fred, incredously. "No, im too busy ranting about cauldron bottoms to do that." And if Fred paused, Percy didn't see it.

Seeing as no one was getting anyway, Bill sat beside Percy who immediately felt on edge. "Thanks for the watch" he said simply. Everyone blinked in confusion and than realisation as no one has known where Bill's new watch had come from. Percy smiled faintly "You're welcome, reminded me of you."

"Although, I do wish you could've gave it in person" continued Bill, testing the waters. Percy surprised him by shaking his head "no you wouldn't have. It was your day, I wasn't going to ruin it." Bill frowned "is that what you think?" Percy shrugged again "it's what I've been told."

"You are way to chill after being tortured" said Charlie, Percy looked at his bandaged arms and snorted. "Eh? It's nothing new. That guy was just there for the theatrics, sadist if you ask me." Charlie raised an eyebrow "nothing new?" Percy nodded "yeah, what you think the ministry that's so far up Voldermorts ass would allow me to work there without some 'interviews'."

Everyone paled.

"But than why stay there?" Asked Arthur, Percy froze. Steeling himself, switching from calm to panic to calm in an instant but they all saw. "I've got business there, things I need to get done and ensure are done. Speaking of which, thanks for the rescue but I should be off."

He didn't belong here. Not anymore.

"Percy, you can stay." Said Molly, already standing up to get his room prepared. "No, I can't. I have work, I have a duty... And I'm no longer part of this family." When he said that, Percy felt like the wind was knocked out of him but stood his ground. "Percy... That's not true.."

Percy met Arthur's gaze, his father's eyes. "Really? Than pray tell why did no one tell me you were all in hiding... Or a warning? And don't say it was impossible because I managed to send a parcel to a location I didn't even know about nor knew existed."

No one could answer that.

"I'll be off, and don't worry I won't tell them anything. Just do what you do best, and leave me alone." Arthur managed to grab Percy's wrist though he hissed in pain and pulled his arm back like he'd been burnt. "Don't.. Touch me, Arthur Weasely."

Arthur recoiled, Percy looked away. "I spent my whole life wanting to be someone you could be proud off...I listened to all the critism and yes I was a prat. But the moment I made my own choice you already made me aware I didn't belong in my own house. I’m sorry...that I’m not athletic like Ginny, I’m not smart like Ron or as successful as Bill and Charlie, I’m not a hero like a Ron or fun like Fred and George. That I’m just plain ol prat Percy.”

He began to walk away. Just like he did before.

"That choice was against following Dumbledor, turning against the light." Said Molly, wanting him to understand. Percy laughed, with no humour at all but glaring hard. Rage emanated from him.

"I'm sorry if I choose not to stand behind an old coot who routinely sends an abused boy to his abusers, who nearly got 3 11 yearolds killed because he wanted to weed out a possibility. Who nearly got thousands of children killed and did nothing to save Ginny with the chamber. The man who wouldn't give an innocent man a trial and got him sent to the worst prison for 12 years... Who put teenagers in a death game and let an underage kid join because why not. That man is a monster and I refuse to follow someone like that. But no that means I'm blindly following authority." He sneered, staring at them all.

"And the ministry? Because as corrupt and fucked up as it is I know I can do something. That changes can be made in the systems to benefit everyone, Dumbledor is someone who breeds child solider’s and let's a known abuser teach at his school and somehow I’m the only one who isn't okay with that."

And with that Percy left, no one knew what to say. They simply sat in silence, absorbing everything they just heard. Ginny thought about how Percy had profusely apologised after she was free from the chamber, how he’d made time for her since than. Ron thought of all the times they’d have an adventure and Percy would watch over them like a mother hen. 

Bill and Charlie recalled when Percy would still come to them for help before he started Hogwarts. When they found him bruised and broken from bullies except this was because of them. “He really thinks that doesn’t he...?” Said Fred, George nodded. Neither could smile, guilt pooled in their hearts that they didn’t think he felt like that. 

Molly sobbed for her son who was once again lost and Arthur wondered where he had gone wrong to lose his son all over again. 

________________________________________________

Meanwhile Percy entered a muggle flat in London. Alone again just like he belonged, laying on his bed and looking at the brand on his arm.

'Son of none'

And if that didn't hurt most of all.

Suffice to say they all things to think about for when they’d meet again. 

#percy weasley #Percy Weasely deserved better #angst #self loathing #depression #Percy Weasely needs a hug #blood #Torture #swearing #Sorry if it's rushed

[still-snowing]

#showyourprocess

From planning to posting, share your process for making creative content!

To continue supporting content makers, this tag game is meant to show the entire process of making creative content: this can be for any creation.

RULES — When your work is tagged, show the process of its creation from planning to posting, then tag 5 people with a specific link to one of their creative works you’d like to see the process of. Use the tag #showyourprocess so we can find yours!

thanks @huigusu for tagging me and explaining your incredible magical gifmaking skills ✨ since i was tagged for the hands through the years piece..uhhh..buckle in cause this is going to be long

Planning

I have to say, i’m very glad i got tagged for this one since now i get to show you my absolutely deranged writing process, so! i started thinking about this as a companion to the first piece, exploring the same concept but through lwj’s perspective. i wrote that one in like two minutes and it was basically fine straight away, but i cannot express how hard it was for me to write this one; at one point i was literally saying sentences out loud trying to hear if they sounded right (which was also probably due to the fact that i was writing my dissertation in an entirely different language at the same time and was v sleep deprived and words just lost all meaning). so what i did was write delirious explorations on my phone notes app and i’m going to subject you to the screenshots right now:

on the left, you can see an early draft of the text, with the art described under every line; I decided to split the piece in three parts, with each one having four beats/illustrations; the first part is wwx’s first life, the middle one their parting and reunion, and the last one their second life together. on the right, you can see me hallucinating characterizations and plot points to try and figure out what lwj was thinking and feeling (for a character I relate to I have a damn hard time trying to write in his voice). I’m not sure anything in there makes sense, but it’s part of the work so it’s going in here.

Sketching

I’m not posting the process for every page or this is going to get even longer, so here’s the very first sketch and very first version of the text for the first page, in my chicken scratch handwriting:

what’s written on this? hell if i know.

Drawing

and these are the (mostly) final versions of the sketches with the text already in its final form (I edited a lot of it while writing it down in the document, yes my process for this piece was absolutely chaotic). I took a lot of references from the show for the moments lwj thinks about in wwx’s first life, because well, the show is beautiful and I like mixing canons together until I’m desperately confused 💫 I also feel like the show has a lot more material in regard to the flashback portion of the story and the growth of their relationship, while the novel is a bit more one sided since the pov is very limited and wwx doesn’t really think about lwj that way until he comes back - which I like a lot but I felt like the show canon fit my purpose better).

And here is the finished lineart!!! In the version i posted i added a paper like texture because idk apparently I was very into textured paper at that point in time? but I like this version much better now, I feel like it looks more delicate. This one also doesn’t have the red robes at the end, which I debated keeping or not - I feel like you can understand it’s their wedding even without the red; but I’m glad I kept them in the final version since I saw people in the tags seemed to like them ❤️ plus I’m obviously a sucker for a black/white/red color scheme.

Posting

I sat on this thing for like a week oh my god, I didn’t like it as much as the first one and kept trying to find what was wrong with it, but in the end I realized I was going to go mad if I didn’t post it. I posted it at like 2am in a daze and went to bed and i vividly remember waking up the morning after, seeing 1000+ notes on my tumblr app and thinking oh my god what did I do

so yeah this piece has had probably the most chaotic process of any of my art to date

Tagging

I’ll tag people here as soon as I can get on the desktop app!! I’ve been very sick and unproductive today so I wanted to get this posted at least~

#showyourprocess #my art #I’m so sick I couldn’t get anything done today so it seems fitting to share this absolutely deranged process 💛

[purkinje-effect]

Asking for Trouble

Cait gets a terrible first impression of Melancholy, my Sole.

This blurb has sat in my drafts for a few years now, and I decided to polish it up and finish the thought. Not sure if the encounter will be canon to Anatomy, but it’s here nonetheless. (For those curious to timeline placement, we’ll say this is roughly after the Park Street Station stuff in Fourth Instar, and sometime after his falling out with Mac.)

TWs: Heavy angst, injury and death, drug use and alcohol, explicit description of drug side effects, and violence-baiting.

Cross-posted on AO3 here if you’d rather. Likes, comments, kudos, etc. are all greatly, greatly appreciated.

_____________________________________

Someone at the Dugout Inn had mentioned this place. ‘Choly had come here with a vague recollection that the Combat Zone had once paraded skin. It only served to live up to its name now without any innuendo. Observing a little violence could be cathartic, too, and damn, if he couldn’t use some catharsis after his myriad missteps in Goodneighbor. All his life a spectator, vicarious in every regard.

He belonged here far before Goodneighbor or Diamond City, regardless of looking the part. Who could say a quavering, grey little man wearing a white three piece suit over head-to-toe leather orthotic braces didn’t fit right in among these earthly, physical misfits? He certainly couldn’t see any hackneyed political messes or territory wars erupting here: only people blowing off steam any way they could find it.

He couldn’t entirely say he minded that Angel’s compulsive cleaning habits almost always nettled the Hister Handy into picking up after social locations like this burlesque theater which now showcased cage fights. The possibility any of these raiders might hack it almost avoided him altogether, since he seemed like the only one with a Pip-Boy with which to do so. Such a worry would stick with him long-term after what he’d seen the Rust Devils do to Lowell.

His mind sang praises that Angel had allowed him to resume adding alkaloids to his meal replacement beverage, the Melancholia. Hubeine gave him negligible trouble compared to other options.

The fight unfolding before him was the billed spectacle for the night: for one hour, plus implicit encores, Cait would take down any body foolish enough to step foot into the cage to fistfight her unarmed. He swirled at some bourbon in a shot glass, from his bar seat to one side of the stage. His cataract eyes raised as he watched her continue through the athletic redhead’s performance. Somehow she managed restraint just shy of lethal blows, despite her precision and brute force. Any composure belied the depth of her murderous and bottomless rage. Glassy and lugubrious, he followed her bared teeth and retracted lips, her unblinking eyes, her adrenaline-wired and overworked musculature, her leaden instinctual footwork.

Despite having knocked out seven opponents in twenty minutes already, she wore more of their blood than they did.

In every mannerism, he recognized his enlisted in her. He stopped sipping at his liquor and threw the glass back, only to refill it.

Cait danced with the eighth opponent for about a minute before things escalated. The burly, hairy man pulled a switchblade on her, and managed to gouge her in the arm. In the physical sense, it didn’t faze her. In the mental sense, it had shattered the sanctity of her performance. She roared at him and lunged to sink her teeth into his face.

The crowd exploded. Her ghoul manager stepped in and attempted to stop the match-up, but he knew better than to get between her and the fool. She refused first aid, intent to fuck the guy up. The man kept his distance from her, knife still drawn, clutching at his gushing cheek. she voiced her displeasure to her manager, and he seemed to walk away and leave her again to her opponent... Only to bring her a baseball bat. A bloodied grin ripped across her face as she choked up on it like a familiar friend.

‘Choly smiled quaintly, head askew. The ghoul knew that the crowd demanded results--and more importantly, he knew that the crowd needed to see the consequences of forsaking what little honor they agreed upon in this dive.

She slugged him in the head. As he fell over, she proceeded to beat the shit out of him. The resultant din deafened much how ‘Choly might imagine Fenway Park during the World Series. Not that baseball had been his druthers. God, he wished that had been him on the receiving end. Between her hair, her leather corset, and the carnage, red was so very much her color. Head to toe, she was rage incarnate.

No one wanted to challenge her after that, especially not if they had to step around the bloody mess she’d splattered across the stage.

Time blurred a bit in ‘Choly’s shot glass. The next he looked up, he realized the champion sat beside him to drown herself in a fifth of vodka straight from the bottle. He straightened as coolly as he could, shifting to watch her. He adjusted his half-moon glasses, but could otherwise not obfuscate his alarm. He couldn’t leave alone the familiarity of the untethered ferocity with which she carried herself.

“Forgive me if this is forward of me, but I will get you any chems you want, if you will swear off cyclomorphine. The Psycho.”

“Bull shit,” came a potent Irish twang. She slammed down the bottle. Beneath the indignity in her glower, a tinge of fear felt more like the pressure of desperation. “You suggestin’ I couldn’t possibly fight as well as I do, weren’t I doped up? Your stupid mug hasn’t been here before. I’d remember. Who the hell do you think you are, to go around insultin’ the talent?”

His heart begged hot for her to retaliate. His gloved fingers tapped gingerly at the barely varnished countertop.

“I mean it. Name it. Med-X. Calmex. Anything but Psycho. I’ll even get dirty and brew you the most potent Jet you’ve ever had, if what you really need is escapism and not a low. CM isn’t a chem. It’s a death sentence. And... even if that’s the desired end result, that’s just about as gruesome and painful as it gets.”

She swiveled on the bar stool, resting both hands squarely on her spread knees. Her dead gaze bored through him.

“The fuck do you care so much about this wild theory of yours? You go around cold readin’ everybody’s vices tryin’ to hock your snake oil? Some salesman you are. You’ve got the Charisma of a Mirelurk egg that’s been in the sun.”

He raised his hands in defense, and then said what he meant sooner than meaning what he said.

“I’m not trying to sell you anything. I keep trying to offer solutions to the people I’ve hurt with my life choices, fix the damage rather than enterprise on it. Please let me get you chasing a different devil. Anything but that.”

“You’ve never met me in your life, and I don’t know your name or face from a Molerat in the floorboards. Don’t you try and bullshit me into believing you’re capable of fixing what ails me--and don’t you dare try to take credit for anyone that’s wronged me.”

“I’m the reason Psycho exists in the quantities it does in the Commonwealth. So yes, your pain IS my fault, at least part--”

His jaw seared. ‘Choly found himself sprawled in the floor. He felt around for his glasses, and as they returned to his face, he smiled up at her imploringly from where she stood over him. She cracked her knuckles sourly.

“I don’t have time for this nonsense. Tryin’ t’say I’m the one’s got a chem problem. What color is the sky for you? Forget you.”

Her hard exterior began to show signs of crumblign, in a series of stifled tics, most noticeably a corner of her mouth and the same ear. He could only begin to speculate to what exactly it was she’d taken exception, but he had to keep her attention, hold her contempt. Charm had never come naturally to him, so instead he had to sound the part of insisting at all costs that he was right.

“--Fine, you don’t want to quit. That’s a choice, too. I’ll make however much Psycho you want. You want to go out like that, I can help you with that. But I want you to know just exactly what that death looks like. Abscessed injection sites. Your gums and cuticles bleed. Your tear ducts bleed. It weakens all your capillaries, the tiniest blood vessels in your body. Internal bleeding. Organ deterioration. The numbness doesn’t turn off the pain--it only makes it so you don’t care. Is the anger easier than the hurt? If that’s how you want to go out, I’m not in any position to question it. But you might as well have an expert supplying you with it.”

Rather than help him up, she bore a heel down on his right hand. With an anxious chuckle, he winced, but welcomed being pinned in place. She glared down at him, seething. She didn’t want to hear another word from him, but she had to. Something about him surely sounded more deranged than intoxicated, and it threatened to haunt her.

“Do you know why cyclomorphine exists?” he continued, breath stuttering all the while. “Do you know what it is? Of course not. It was a prewar chemical--I can’t even comfortably endear it a chem--that the military developed so its soldiers no longer felt injury or fatigue. They endeavored to engineer soldiers who wouldn’t quit when hurt, even fatally. And it was only one of a dozen projects of its kind, to exploit the different aspects of human limits. Nothing human came from refining Psycho. It destroys something fundamental to a sense of humanity. The perfect formula didn’t concern itself with whether the patient came back in one piece, or alive at all. The Deenwood Project wasn’t poetic, wasn’t artistic, didn’t make a single beautiful thing. The fact that CM fell into paramilitary use after my tenure ended with the Army... and the fact it now as a result flows freely throughout the country as holdovers from... from the police attempting to keep the peace through intense and consistent violence... The fact is, I’m one of the chemists responsible for cyclomorphine’s end product. Responsible for it being one of the devices of America’s victory at Anchorage... So yes, yes I am. Responsible for what ails you. You’re civilian collateral of the United States Army.”

Her posture shifted slowly from anger to bitterness. She ground her heel into his palm. He pretended the token of her grief got through the reinforced officer’s glove.

“It’s not my place to question the source of your pain, and it’s not my place to insist that I be the one to take it away. I simply know that no matter how great the pain you’re in... Psycho dissolves parts of you, every time you use it to numb you. It begins physically, then advances to spiritually. It robs you of who you are.”

“That’s just the thing. I can’t handle bein’ me. This is the only part I’m fit to play. Besides, Tommy only cares if his juggernaut brings in the caps. I’m beholden to a contract. And the way I see it, you’re tryin’ to come between a man and his money, pokin’ around where your nose doesn’t belong! You’re lucky we’re out here and not in the cage, creep. Either I’m paid to beat your arse, or you’re askin’ to get blackballed.”

He sighed dreamily up at her, almost regretting that she let up on his hand. She drew her fists when his hand went to the lining pocket of his vest, but he chuckled producing a sack of caps.

“I thought you’d never ask. I admire one who rests their agency in someone else’s hands--or pockets, as it were. Surely, this is to the tune of you doing the honors. Add a black eye to the busted jaw. Tack on whatever you like. Ladies’ choice.”

She snatched the sack from him, frowning incredulously.

“What kind of sick flirting game is this? You tryin’ to buy me into bed? I know I’m easy on the eyes, but this isn’t a brothel these days, in case your damaged brain can’t tell the difference.”

He knew he wouldn’t be getting back the sack, but at least he’d tricked her into accepting some fleck of reparations from him.

“How many caps would it take to break your contract? To get you out of here?”

A broken sarcastic laugh crackled out of her. He’d long since surpassed overstepping, having moved on to stepping on toes.

“You’re insane if you think I’d ever want to leave the Combat Zone, especially not on the arm of the likes of you. I’ve got everything I could want here--except right now, not a place without you. You’re the one who needs to lay off the chems. Get your stupid brain-damaged arse out of here before I ask Tommy what I can do with you.”

He whistled for Angel, then retrieved his cane to stand.

“I suppose if you won’t let me help you, obliging you is the least I can do.”

With his Handy by his side, the two left without further question.

On his walk back to Hotel Rexford, he accepted that he’d probably never know the answer, but still he wondered if he had the same or opposite trouble as Cait: Were the two chasing a perpetual numbness, or were they chasing the futility of trying to feel anything again, at any cost?

#fallout #fallout 4 #fallout cait #cait fallout #sole survivor #combat zone #melancholy #deplorable karma sole survivor #battle for anchorage #psycho #whump

[septembriseur]

You guys know that I’m back to working on Transposition. But it is, frankly, a challenge, and I feel a lot of pressure to put something out there and prove that the story will be finished. So I’m posting what is essentially some AU tidbits, because it’s a draft of part of Chapter 52 that I threw out and totally reconceptualized. It is not particularly good, but here it is!

Telford trades the tel’tak to a junk dealer in the P3S-805 system and ends up in a ratty little cobbled-together half-Kerobottri exoship that shakes when you try to engage its makeshift FTL drive, but, hey, it comes with no questions asked. And it’s not like he has any reason to be picky; he’s just trying to get a couple of gate-trips ahead of Kiva’s people before he finds a spaceport and settles down to get drunk.

The place he ends up in is a shithole clustered around the North Pole of a medium-sized planet in the Formalhaut Debris Ring, about twenty-two light years from Earth. It’s a frozen, sandy desert with a dozen tiny speckling moons above it, and not a single building more than three stories tall. It caters to frack miners running hot crews through the debris ring, which the LA’s First and Second House periodically squabble over, and the occasional Goa’uld war criminal hoping to lay low. That makes it a good place for Telford, even if the liquor is shitty. So he hauls out some of the raw data crystals that he stripped off the Sixth House tel’tak and pays enough to dock his ship, then keeps paying until the barkeeper at the watering hole hands over the bottle.

It’s whatever the latest thing is that the Lucian kids are cooking up out of kassa. It doesn’t really taste like anything; just like ethanol and antiseptic. He hunkers down in his ship and knocks the stuff back without a chaser. And again. And then again. For a while, grimly determined, that’s all he does: limiting his world to the fumes that he breathes out, and the back of his throat, where the mucous membrane is burning.

He doesn’t have a jacket anymore, but he’s got what the bounty hunter threw in with the exoship: a couple of Himalayan-looking blankets made out of knotted-up fibers, and a hooded coat lined with some kind of animal fur. So he puts the coat on, and, after a while, the hood too, then drags one of the blankets over his shoulders and breathes into his cupped hands. He can smell the coat’s earthy leather, and whatever it is that fur smells like. The air smells like naquadah and ozone. He looks out over the bulks of the ships, great beasts sleeping in the desert on every side of the outpost-city, some as tall as the buildings and twice as big. The dim light of the sun, filtered through dust clouds, glints off the shinier of their surfaces, along with the occasional scattered fleck of a moon. They’re like shrapnel wounds, that spray of moons— not quite regular enough to be strafe-marks, but deep enough that you can see the inside of whatever it is that was punctured.

He takes another abrupt swig of the liquor.

He thinks his first step should be to take stock of what he has left. The Hemingway is gone now, and the Dostoevsky. The— assorted personal knickknacks that he hadn’t needed anyway. He took enough shit off the tel’tak to last him a little while if he barters, but when he’d made his elaborate back-up plans, he always assumed he’d be leaving from Earth. So he hasn’t got a whole hell of a lot of assets out here in deep space. He can always sell intel, but that comes with the risk of someone back-tracing the information. Or he can take the sensible option and just turn mere. It’s what a lot of guys did on Earth, anyway, after they’d left the service, if they’d gotten deep in debt or just couldn’t fit in.

He’d tried to imagine it himself, when he was younger: leaving the service. Retiring. Consulting. Security. A house, a car, a wife, a couple of kids. On some level that language didn’t reach down to, the thought had always repelled him. He’d thought that if he tried it, he would end up like one of those guys you heard about who just went missing, just up and walked away from their lives one day. They turned up twenty years later running a tackle shop off the coast of Alaska, or flying prop planes in the South Pacific, or else they didn’t turned up, and stayed question marks forever, strangers who had sealed whatever secret they carried so well inside them that they had taken it, totally unknown, to their graves.

It was possible to do that. It wasn’t a failure. Maybe it even meant that you’d won. Whatever was inside you, you’d kept it: pure and unsullied, a hard bright crystal, a fuel you could burn. It was uncontaminated and yours forever.

He can feel it inside him now: a pain in the region of his chest, close to but not exactly contiguous with the heart.

He drinks and watches cosmic dust catch the amber glow of the distant sunlight.

A cold wind shifts and rattles the sand.

***

An ice storm in the morning, with no rain: only hailstones rattling like pebbles against the walls of the exoship. He wakes from a restless sleep still wrapped in fur and heavy blankets. He feels like God has picked up the box he’s hiding in and shaken it right next to His ear to hear if anything left inside still scuttles. He thinks about Rush explaining Wittgenstein’s beetle. There is something alive in us, though it may be a very singular creature. It may not be what other people thought— hoped— it was.

Still. Something scuttles. Insect legs against the siding.

He erases his travel history in the ship’s computer and swallows down another couple fingers of kassa liquor for breakfast, tunelessly humming Mahler under his breath, then throws it up an hour later courtesy of his hangover.

When he stands, he sees starbursts against the array of evening. It’s not really evening, of course; there’s not really night or day, this close to the magnetic pole of a planet, unless you count the constant half-dim polar twilight. One long night lasting half a year, deranging the little rock’s temporalities like every other kind of measurement was deranged by the location. Get too close to the axis of something, and you lose all sense of how to chart it.

He’s familiar with the problem.

***

Ships come and go like fireflies in a summer time-lapse, their engines burning off into the dusk.

It’s fall on Earth, he guesses. So: no more fireflies, which: fuck ‘em, anyway. They only last a few months before they’re done. Like humans, when seen from an Ascended perspective. Little chips of mica; little specks of dust. You could lose a fistful and not notice, so why should they matter?

He thinks of Rush sinking his hands in the floor up to the wrists, as though he could reach down and reclaim the mineral flecks trapped there for eons. As though the whole universe were just water, none of it yet set in stone around him.

It should’ve been me, Telford thinks. It should’ve been me who—

But he hadn’t had the genes.

Always something missing.

***

He doesn’t speak English out here. He speaks the degraded Babylonian of Sixth House. Or at least that’s what Jackson had always said it was— the bastard child of Akkadian and Aramaic, mixed with the Hebrew dialects of the Asar planets, sort of like what might have happened if the Babylonian Empire still existed. He’d had to learn it from scratch when he went undercover the first time, in case the translation matrix ever encountered a glitch. It was hard work, but he was good at it, at least according to Jackson. Jackson had seemed faintly surprised; Telford had said, “You thought I’d be as dumb as a brick.” “No,” Jackson had said, but his eyes had slid guiltily away. Telford had smirked, grimly pleased by the implied admission. Jackson had said, too hurriedly, “I didn’t. II wasn’t surprised because— I mean, I wasn’t alluding to— obviously that’s not what I meant.”

What he’d meant didn’t interest Telford. At forty-two years old, he’d had every version of that conversation, the one that was all ellipses. The last thing he wanted was to rehash them again with fucking Jackson. So, instead, he’d said, “Aramaic in space. Doesn’t it ever make you wonder?”

Jackson had looked uncomfortable. He’d adjusted his glasses with both hands. “Wonder what?”

“Oh, don’t play coy with me. If Jesus was— you know.”

“Extraterrestrial, you mean? A Goa’uld? The idea’s been floated.”

“And?”

They’d been sitting in an empty conference room, waiting for some meeting to start; it had been late, Telford thinks now, or very early; there had been this hush, like sound was suppressed. Sometimes late at night there, he’d feel like he was under the ocean: the pressure deforming his eardrums, till all he could hear was the rush of his own blood. Jackson had toyed with a pencil, balancing it on the side of one finger. Unbidden, Telford had been reminded of the Egyptian scale of justice, where your heart was weighed against a feather after you were dead. The image had seemed apt; Daniel, he’d thought, what a fan-fucking-tastic Eternal Judge you’d make, sitting there with your schoolboy pout and your moralizing.

Without looking up, Jackson had said, “Oh, I don’t know. Not really the Goa’uld modus operandi, is it?”

“No? Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s; forget about getting what you deserve, and God’s going to magically provide you with loaves and fishes?”

“That seems like a very thin interpretation of the Gospels.”

Telford had half-laughed incredulously. “You’re going to come over all Christian on me, Jackson?”

Jackson flattened his pout out into a thin line. “I hardly think it has to be Christian to suggest that the impulse behind one of Earth’s major religions, and a full interpretation of its sacred texts, is about more than just the redistribution of resources.”

“So— what, then?” Telford moved restlessly in his chair.

“Divine justice,” Jackson said. He had the air of someone offering a challenge. “The idea that there’s something beyond us, some truth, some ultimate harmony or knowledge. Something that we’re a part of, if we want to be— if we want to be good.”

Telford had felt incredulous. “Knowledge,” he’d repeated. “Ultimate knowledge.”

“You don’t think that’s what God is? Knowledge?” Jackson seemed genuinely curious. His forehead was furrowed.

“Well,” Telford said, “for starters, I don’t think God is good.”

“I can’t tell you how amazed I am to hear it.” Jackson’s mouth gained a sad quirk. He looked down, at where the pencil was perfectly balanced on his finger. “So: not harmonious, but maybe— maybe still knowledge.”

Telford had shaken his head— slowly at first, and then faster, like a round of sardonic applause building. “Don’t get me wrong, Jackson— I know you’ve been a floating space octopus of pure light and shit, and gotten the sublime wisdom of the Ancients, but to paraphrase a much wiser man than myself: kid, I’ve flown from one side of this galaxy to the other, and I’ve seen a lot of strange stuff, but I’ve never seen anything to make me believe that all I need is more information, like a giant celestial textbook is going to make it all make sense.”

“That wasn’t what I meant,” Jackson said.

But he looked hurt; stung, somehow. His face had closed off. He curled his fist around the pencil. Telford had felt a brief surge of triumph; he liked defeating Jackson. At the same time, he had recognized Jackson’s expression. Back then, he hadn’t known why or what it meant. Now, he remembers it and senses some vague association with the dreams in which he tries to find the Chinese room. He wants to trust that there’s a place in which the answers will all be provided. He wants a dictionary that will teach him how to be a man. Unlike Jackson, though, he doesn’t think that one exists. There are no universals. There is no truth that we are trying to uncover in the only way that Jackson would’ve understood— the way an archeologist sifts through layers of dirt, patiently looking for the pieces that were once part of a coin, a corpse, a kettle, before the annihilating storm of history blew through. There’s a churning mass that has never had a meaning. It isn’t moving towards or away from something. It just is what it is.

When he was undercover, speaking Babylonian had helped; he’d felt like a different person. He’d felt like he was moving through a different world, one that wasn’t organized according to the same kind of principles he’d grown up with. There was no right or wrong to it; just a different set of facts. He took to it like a fish to water, once he’d mastered the language. The sense of alienation was familiar to him. When he went back to Earth between assignments, that was the strange part— standing in his own house, his own kitchen.

And now he never has to go back there. Never has to speak English again, if he doesn’t want to. He can move through different languages, different truths, like putting uniforms on and taking them off when you’re finished.

“Shkarum,” he says to the bartender, tapping the bar with two emphatic fingers. “Ak shkarum yahab, vakash.”

His accent is very good.

***

#the stargate pit #transpo #my fic

[writeanapocalae]

Writeblr Reintroduction!

Hey guys! Thank you all so much for the 1,000 followers! I never thought I’d get here with writing, of all things! So, I thought I’d do a new writeblr intro to say hi to all the new guys! This is going to be long, I’m so sorry. 

I’m Worm/Whatsan/Gene/Your dad! Why am I your dad? Because I got really mad about all the bad dads out there one day and decided to take over! Feel free to send me an ask anytime if you need writing or life advice or just some comfort and a dad joke, feel free to send me an ask! I love asks and tag games and interacting with people. 

Some things about me: I am a transgender man, I am pansexual, my girlfriend (!!!!!!) and I have been together for 6 years and I love her a LOT. I do have chronic fatigue and some undiagnosed sleeping issues which, mixed with my working full time in customer service, leaves me with very little energy for writing, reading, and drawing. Still, I write and draw far too much for is healthy. I’ve just gotten very good at taking naps (not great at getting out of bed after though). Oh, I’m also almost 30 too!

I am a horror nut and most of my writing has at least some horror elements in it. I also love urban fantasy and science fiction. I cry about robots a LOT. Like number 1 thing I cry about. I have a lot of wips going and quite a few that have finished the first draft stage. 

Birdlime - Zalis must follow the thief of a great magical artifact before parasitic magic can take the world back over. 

Broken Blue - A young witch finds that humans have unleashed a world ending curse and is sent to retrieve the book that caused the curse before it starts another war between humans and witches, aided by a witchson, a stone golem, a stuffed animal, and a child forced into the body of an adult.

Caecus - A team of investigators go into the abandoned Caecus facility, where every employee went missing while trying to create sentience in their androids, only to find that the remaining robots have grown violent and hungry, trapping the humans within the facility. 

Donation Bin - A university for robotics gets a new shipment of robots but one of them still retains some of its police training and worse, some of the information on a major crime. 

The Dream Estate - In the name of science a group of volunteers get sent into a shared lucid dream state but, when things go wrong, with monsters and a deranged killer, Jackson, the sole survivor of a similar test, is kidnapped and forced into the dream. 

Nanowrimo from 2012 - This was my very first Nano, which is about a vampire, Sanks, and a human prince, Crin, and their journey through a country in which nonhumans are almost criminal. 

Legends of Casteval - Casteval is a normal man who is told that he’s actually an arthurian-style hero, and also that he’s dead, and he has to go through the land of the dead to find the original Casteval so that he won’t have to save the world himself. 

One Man’s Son - A continuation of the concept of Silent Hills P.T., Carl finds himself in a continuous looping hallway, learning about a past he’d long hidden from himself. 

Scoped - A novella about a genderfluid assassin, Anson, who is hired to kill a business competitor, who’s already hired an assassin of his own to take out Anson’s employers.  

The Thrall Incident - When their friend sells herself to a thrall rental agency for vampire consumption, Coryss, Nico, and Tali get involve with sorcerers and vampires and other monsters in order to get her back. 

Westbrooke - Pen’s best friend, a paranormal journalist, goes missing when exploring the abandoned Westbrooke mall, making her follow him and find that the mall has come alive with a need for shoppers. 

You can find me in other places too!

Ao3 | Art Blog | Fandom Blog | Fashion Blog | Inspiration Blog | Ko-fi | Shitpost Blog | Spotify | Twitter (18+ only) 

#writeblr intro #wip intro #transwriteblr #moodboard #writer intro #my god this took me over 2 hours

[mjihkaaaa]

Transcript: “Randy Writes a Novel” by Randy Feltface

I have transcribed this hour-or-so-long comedy piece. if I put the transcript on tumblr, it might pop up in the search results of some poor sod wondering whether it’s a thing that exists. fAiR uSe DiScLaiMEr or something, I’m making no money off of this and am posting it out of the goodwill of my heart, and also I sat down for two hours to make the transcript so it’s probably work. /original date of transcription, not that it makes a difference: 2019-07-16 /link: you can find the actual piece yourself or buy the dvd like a good consumer

||[Beard guy] Hey Randy? Yeah mate? ||[Beard guy] Ready to do this? (exhale) Yup! ||[Announcer] Please, without further ado... Welcome to the stage... The purple one... Randy! (Applause) YEEES! HELLO! THANK YOU! LOOK AT YOU ALL, MMMH! This is so EXCITING! This is my favourite bit of the show, this bit; The expectation - You don't know what to expect, I don't know what to expect. I've got high hopes for you people. I think you're gonna be fantastic. Some of you may have never seen me before, there's probably a couple of you wondering what the fuck is going on right now - couple of people up the back probably regretting smoking that spliff before they came in... "... ... ... the fuck is that?" it's alright, just relax. Throughout the show I'm probably gonna walk from about here, over to here. Any further than that, it's gonna ruin the magic, alright? And, um, this is pretty much what it's gonna look like for the next fifty-fix-and-a-half minutes, so just adjust your eyeballs to this shit accordingly. Looks pretty good, we did my tech rehearsal today, and we set this lighting stand and was like that looks good, that's good, and Stu, my lighting guy back there, said "iS tHaT iT?" and I was like ehh... eh... no, Stu, we can turn on the lamp as well, like this ... (lamp turns on). Yes. So we did that just to justify Stu's certificate for... in fucking... theatre production. GIVE IT UP FOR STU! UP THE BACK! (Applause) Who's having an alcoholic beverage this evening? (wooing) Ah-WOOO! I don't drink anymore, I used to SLAM that SHIT into my FACE like a WEAPON but I quit ... and nothing really changed, you know, I didn't notice too many differences between being sober and being a drinker ... UNTIL ... the first time I got pulled over by a cop, and had to do a random breath test sober. Because my physcial and emi-seeonal reaction was exactly the same as it had always been when I was a drinker. Which was ... - "OOOOH fuck I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked" - "wind down your window please sir" - "IIIII'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked" - "one long breath into the bag sir" - "NAAAAAAAAAA I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm- (blow) I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm fucked" - "... you're free to go mate" - !!! ... oh yeah, I am, and the sense euphoria I felt was the closest feeling I've had to being drunk since I quit drinking. To the point where I now drive around on friday and saturday nights, LOOKING for cops. And if I get pulled over, I pretend I'm drunk just to get an extra rush... AHHH! Seriously, if you ever get pulled over, and you're sober, pretend you're wasted. Oh, the BUZZ! It's like shelving nine pills at once, it's fucking sick. Seriously, the next time the cop's walking towards the car, just be like - - "ohh, shush everyone he's COMING! act normal he's comin- put it down! put it down, he's coming! shush he's comi-!! he's here!" - "... ... ... Wind down your window please, sir." - "yeah, I'ma do that, I'ma do that, I'M DOING IT! ... Ah, it's electric. The button's in the middle 'cuz it's electric." - "... ... ... Have you had anything to drink tonight, sir?" - "NOOO ossifer [officer] not on a tuesday" - "It's a friday-" - "NO friday either mate!" - "One long breath into the bag please, sir." - "yes I will, you fucking champion ... y'know, people say youse are cunts but I don't reckon youse are, PBRRTT (blow) - WOOO! hahaaa..." (Cop checks bag, shocked.) - "Uh... You're free to go." - "FUCK YEAH! BRRRRRRRRR MEEPMEEP" (Applause) I took it so far once, I got down to the station for a blood test - ahhahaAA, gets addictive when you get to that stage... I've got track marks, it's out of control! and laDIES AND GENTLEMEN - you're very close, aren't you. Hello! (Shriek) Um... The reason we're here is because, didididii, didididi-didii, I wrote a book! Yes! Woo! Yeah, you can clap, but I'm concerned that it might be a bit shit. I don't know. It's weird - this is it here - I'm not sure if it's any good 'cuz I think I'm too close to it, y'know, I can't tell anymore. I'm concerned that it might be, like, an ugly baby that I'm looking at through the eyes of a loving mother? And it's not until I take it out for a walk in its little pram and people start screaming in horror and crossing the street to avoid me that I'll realize I've made a piece of shit baby? There's nothing worse than a piece of shit baby, is there... - "Ah, who's this little guy- WAUGH YOUR BABY'S A PIECE OF SHIT!" - "God... damn it..." But do I need to be told it's good to know that it's good? You know, that's how it goes with comedy; If I come up here and tell a shit joke, you tell me it's shit by not laughing, and I stop telling that joke. But with a BOOK I won't know it's shit until it's out there. Forever. Until I DON'T sell a million copies. Just wake up one morning, surrounded by towering boxes of unsold books, featuring on an episode of mentally deranged hoarders... We need to lay off hoarders, by the way. I think there's one too many television programmes "exposing the horrors" of people that like collecting shit. It's their house, let them do it! - "No we have to fix them!" No you don't, people are fucked up! If they wanna climb over a stack of cat shit stained national geographic magazines from the nineteen seventies to get to the kettle, fucking let 'em. THEY LIKE IT. - "Yeah but it's a mental illness-" Yeah, well, may be, but I would argue it's MORE insane to film them doing it, and then package it like a tacky microwave meal for one, so assholes can sit at home going "LOOK HOW SHIT THAT PERSON IS! They've got too many of the same thing..." ... Who's more insane in that sce-nario, I ponder... ANYWAY my book... My book is called "Walking to Skye", it's about a young man who walks from the southernmost borders of Scotland up to the Isle of Skye in the far north, retracing the footsteps of his great-great-grandfather and having a massive existential crisis along the way. It's a reeeeeeeeeeal HUMDINGER, and now that I've written it I'm terrified to let anybody read it, so what I've decided to dewwww, is; I'm gonna read bits of the book out, you're going to react, and then at the end we'll all collectively decide whether or not I should kill myself. Okay? Okay. Here we go. Hm-hm-hm. Ready? Everybody comfortable? No-one needs to go to the toilet, or get a drink, or anything? No? If you do, seriously, just go for it, because fucking... (waves hand in front of eyes). I'm not.. going.. to notice... Ahem, okay, ahem... Here we go. Alright. Here we go, here we go, okay. Khm. Blblbl. Okay. Phew. Alright. Here we go. Walking to Skye, chapter one. ... Phew. Okay. Khm. Blbl. Okay. Khm. Phew... (Sigh)... (Shivering) Read it... Just fucking read it... Come on man... Just... Son of a bitch... Pth... EHGgghhh... I'm too scared. (Audience goes "aww") No, fuck off. It's weird being scared for this, y'know, it's strange to be scared of something so intangible as JUDGEMENT. You know, I care what you people think, but taste is so subjective. Y'know, one man's "To Kill a Mockingbird" is another man's "Twilight" saga. Hello there, what's your name? (Matthew:) "Matthew." Matthew! N- where- right about there, mattie (adjusting line of sight)? Tell me, Matthew, what do you fear, what's your greatest fear, what are you scared of mate, we're all friends here, open up, unpack some shit, what are you-.. What's your biggest fear, Mattie? (Matthew:) "It must be rejection." Rejection? Same as me. <close> what do you know about my fear of rejection? </close> How old are you, man? (Matthew:) "Twenty-six" Twenty-six! The twenties are the time for rejection, my friend, it is the best time for rejection. Have you been rejected a few times? (Matthew:) "Quite a lot." Fucking rack it up, Mattie, rack it up mate, you just get- you wear those scars like a fucking warrior, mate! And then you get to thirty-six, my age, and you could not give a fuck, my friend. I'm telling you mate, rack up the rejection while you can, and then just.. fucking.. grab whatever's left. That's what you've got to look forward to. Let's hear it for Matthew! Yes! (Applause!) Rejection, eh? I think, actually, Mattie, Mattaroonie, Matterectomy, I think for me, Mattanoonles, I'm actually more scared of ... failure, in this case. I fear that I might've written a shit book, and as a result I'll fail, y'know. But I believe, Mattress, I believe it was Ernest Hemingway who put it best when he said "The first draft of everything is shit". And I often thought of that while I was writing my book, it's a great thing for young readers and young writers, sorry, to keep in mind, because it kind of lets you off the hook, y'know. And it makes you feel not so bad when you churn out something akin to Fifty Shades of Grey fanfiction. - "Every nerve ending in my body tingled as he boldly placed his swollen member directly onto my left shoulder ... and whispered into my ear ... 'tickets please' ... suffice to say, that won't be the last time I catch the bus to Broad Meadows." Khm. True story, true story. Okay, I'm gonna read the book - Broad Meadows, good suburb, Broad Meadows, good name! (Audience member goes WOOO!) Hahahaha, WEEEEEW! Has Broad Meadows ever had that reaction anywhere ever? How good is Broad Meadows- WOOOOOO! WOO! Wooing is one of few things you can do in a crowd. You can't woo when you're on your own, can you... You can't just be walking down the street like WOO! - "What's wrong with that person?" But if there's a group of you going "woo!" it's like, - "Naw, they're having a nice time, aren't they..." Wooing in- when you're in an audience is one of the few times you can get away with wooing. You can't, fucking- don't woo at the butcher's, y'know? - "I'll just have a ... 2 pounds of some sausages and uh, some pound of mince, and let me- six pound fifty WOOOOO!" - "I no longer wish for you to purchase my meat products." What was I talking about? Ah, Broadie? Yeah, Broad Meadows, it's a good name, Broad Meadow, like it makes sense, there was an expanse of just fucking... no stuff, there was some broad meadows, and they went "let's fucking build it here" and it was an honest name. All these new subdivisions now, they're all fucking, just... - "What are we gonna call this deserted swamp?" - "Um... Spring Valley Mountview Niceface." Fuck that! Name them honestly, y'know? - "Where are you living now?" - "Shitty water feature." - "Ah!" - "Where are you?" - "Stabbyville." - "Ah! ... How's that?" - "Yeah, it's good, it's close to schools, which is great, but um... We do get stabbed a lot though, it's a... You know, we knew the risks..." - "'Cuz it was in the name?" - "'Cuz it was in the name! yeEEeeAh." I like an honestly named place. I was Broken Hill recently, that's an honestly named place. - "We had a hill, we fucking broke it. Welcome to Broken Hill." Actually, Broken Hill have gone one further, they've named all the streets in the centre of town after elements. 'Cuz it's a mining town, they went thematic with that shit. So you're walking down Chloride, and you hit the corner of Bromide, or Oxide, I love that! That makes sense to me! I live in Collingwood - it'd be much easier to direct people to my house if I could send them to the corner of Soy Latte and Hipster Fuckwit. That'd take out all the guesswork ... When you're heading to Frankston, don't forget to check out the beautiful parklands on the corner of Bucket Bong and Pregnant Teenager. They are just enchanting. Alright. Gonna read the book. Blblblbl. You cool Matt? Sick. I'm gonna keep talking to you so you feel included. Therefore, not rejected. Khm, okay. Alrighty. Okay. Here we go. Alright. Shut up, I'm gonna read it. Okay. Phew. Walking to Skye, chapter one . . . Fascinating man, Ernest Hemingway. I didn't know a lot about him, but I kept thinking of that quote, "the first draft of everything is shit", while I was writing my book, and I started to think, "who are you to tell me my first draft is shit, Hemingway? What did you ever do that was sO fUckIng gOOd?" So I realized I didn't know anything about him, so I decided to do some research on him, and it proved to be an excellent means of putting off writing my book. And now I can tell you everything I know about him as an excellent means of putting off reading you my book, so... Swings and roundabouts, my friends, swoongs and rimbledibbledoodledoodoos, as they say in Scotland ... They don't say that. No-one has ever said that. Anyway, what I suggest we do, okay, is I'm just gonna tell you a little bit about Ernest Hemingway, bit about Hemmers, and then we'll just let the segway into reading the book develop organically. Like a runaway fungus at the bottom of a misplaced coffee cup. - "Aw, guys, how long has this been behind the couch? ... There's little people in it!" - "Save us! Save us from our porcelain prison!" - "wwWAAH!" (tosses cup) KSSSH - "We're free!" - (Running noise, tktktktktktk) - (Randy steps on the little people with an audible crunch) It's just for me, that bit, it's just for me!.. Okay. Okay, here we go, ladies and gentlemen, for the very first time I would wager in all of your living memories, I now am proud to present to you, the life and times of Ernest Miller Hemingway in approximately three and a half minutes. Go! (Background shifts) Born in Chicago in eighteen ninety-nine, son of a physician and a musician, reasonably uneventful childhood, decided to study journalism. Enlisted with the Red Cross during World War One, got blown up in Milan and spent six months in hospital with severe shrapnel wounds in both legs, fell in love with a nurse, they decided to get married. He came home to prepare, she stayed there and ditched him for an Italian soldier, which initiated a life-long pattern of him rejecting women before they had a chance to reject him. Take note, Mattie. Got a job as a foreign correspondent, fell in love with his roommate's sister, married her and moved to Paris. They hung out with Gertrude Stein, they kicked it with Pablo Picasso, he started writing in earnest, moved to Toronto, had a kid, moved back to Paris, published a couple of books, cheated on his wife, got divorced, married the other woman, converted to catholicism ... ... ...  Cut his head open after pulling on a cord thinking he was flushing a toilet, and instead ripped a skylight from the roof and smashed it onto his face, moved to Kansas City, had another kid, his dad committed suicide, he shot a lot of bears for some reason, had a car accident, had another kid, went to Africa to kill some wild animals and got dysentery - Karma! -, published another book, moved to Cuba, shot himself in the leg whilst aiming at a shark! Cheated on his wife, got divorced, married the other woman, published "For Who the Bell Tolls", sold half a million copies in a couple of months and got nominated for a Pulitzer prize, cheated on his wife, got divorced, married the other woman, became the self-appointed leader of a band of village militia outside of Paris, and was subsequently brought up on charges for contravening the Geneva convention and got away with it like a FUCKING CHAMPION! Got pneumonia, moved back to Cuba, and spent most of his spare time on his boat, tracking nazi u-boats with a machine gun and a pile of hand grenades - I AM NOT MAKING THIS SHIT UP! Had a few more car accidents, three more concussions, got clawed while playing with a lion! ... Got depressed, drank, got fat, published a couple of more books, went back to Africa to shoot some more wild animals and barely survived two separate plane crashed in the space of twenty-four hours, winding up with a fractured skull, internal bleeding, cracked spine, ruptured liver, first degree burns, and a paralyzed sphincter muscle - Karma! -, won a Nobel prize, had a file opened on him by J. Edgar Hoover, left a bunch of shit in a safe in Cuba and moved to Idaho paranoid that the feds were following him, which they were, because he spent most of the nineteen fourties working for the KGB! AGAIN, NOT-MAKING-THIS-SHIT-UP! Suffered from hepatitis, nephritis, hypertension, hemochromatosis, anemia, and impotence - Karma! -, got committed, received way too much electroconvulsive therapy and came out all fucked up, started hinting at suicide so immediately got re-committed, received another couple of months worth of electroconvulsive therapy, got released, put both barrels of his favourite twelve gauge shotgun into his mouth, and BLEW HIS FUCKING HEAD OFF. WHAT A GUY!!! (Applause) Ah... That is all true! What a fucking unit! Hemingway is the quintessential anti-hero, the talented, charismatic, belligerent, suicidal, alcoholic genius that can't keep his dick in his trousers. And he still found time to write about fifteen books! I've written one, and it took me ages, because I procrastinate like a motherfucker! I only got this written by doing most of the work in my local public library, because it's very difficult to masturbate in the reference section without getting caught. It's... It's almost impossible, in fact ... Almost. I don't even enjoy masturbating anymore, I just do it to avoid other tasks. And if it's something I really don't wanna do, I can seriously just go back-to-back wanks, just AARGH, just 'till it's painful, like NAAAAAAAAH, like hurty cum, like MWOOOAAARGH, WOOOMMMHHH MHHHH MMHHMHMMM RMMMMMHHHHOOkay fine I'll do the fucking dishes. And you know the weird thing about books is that you only really need to write one to be considered to be a great writer. Until last year, "To Kill a Mockingbird" was the only book that Harper Lee ever published. One book in eighty-nine years. To be fair that one book did win the Pulitzer prize and sold over fourty million copies, so she didn't really need to do another one, did she... - "Hey Harper, you gonna write another book?" - "Nope! Did you read the first one? FUCKING NAILED IT! FUCKING NAILED IT! I'm just doing the one. Just doing the one." Imagine if I did that. Came up here, told one joke, and then stared at you for fifty-eight minutes. - "You gonna tell another joke?" - "Nope! Did you hear the first one? FUCKING NAILED IT! I'm just doing the one." There's not many jobs where you can just do the one, is there... Just... Writers, and... Suicide bombers. Hard to do two of those... Or maybe UFC fighters that get punched in the head so hard in their first bout that cerebral fluid trickles out of their eye sockets. - "Ohhh, that's fucked Randy..." It happens. It's pretty much the perfect example of why we're sort of festering in this evolutionary cul-de-sac, isn't it? - "Welcome to planet earth, there's approximately seven billion of us, as you can see there's quite a few of us that don't have any clean drinking water, OH! Here's a large group of us that get paid millions of dollars to knee each other in the face! Obviously still... Ironing out a few of the kinks." Martial arts, mixed or otherwise, should not be the domain of fat-necked roughians trying to stomp on each other's ballsacks. Just as yoga should not be taught by twenty-two year old gym instructors that did a one week yoga retreat in Bali and now get around in low-slung fisherman pants with a bindy and a plat talking about mindfulness like they've ever had any fucking life experience at all. I'm sorry, you can tell me to relax and center myself when you spend maybe ten or fifteen years considering what that actually means. Until then, go back to taking photos of the froth on your coffee and shut the fuck up. And I'm torn! I'm torn because I do yoga! I buy oragnic vegetables. I blindly sign internet petitions without reading the fine print, give myself a good old pat on the back and go back to downloading hardcore pornography... I'm trying to be a good buddhist, I'm trying... But it's even difficult to identify as buddhist in the current climate without coming off as some sort of new-age pompous twat dipping his toe into the "What does it all mean?" kiddie pool while holding a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and staring lecherously across the back yard at your cousin's tits. - "Geez, Tamara's grown up since last Christmas, hasn't she..." And I mean, Buddha was just a dude who found enlightenment sometime around the fifth century, and he decided to stick around and talk about it, y'know. But he made it clear that everything's optional, I guess, y'know, "here's the thing I've discovered, I think it's pretty nifty, but you can find your own way through it". He was kind of like a benevolent woodwork teacher, just overseeing the workshop, but allowing his students to discover for themselves which machine is most likely to cut their fucking head off. - BRRRRRRRRRRR-WAUGH! - "It was that one, Gareth, well done. A plus, matey, A plus for you." And there's been loads of other buddhas since, right, but they haven't necessarily felt the calling to stick around and talk about it. I guess they just become enlightened and fuck off. I think that's fantastic. But ... Are you only enlightened if you're able to share it with people? Y'know? If I write a book and nobody reads it, is it still art? What is the collective noun for monkeys? ... ... ... Seriously, does anybody know what it is? I was trying to think of it all day. Anybody? (Inaudible audience response) What? (Audience member:) "Gang" Gang? Gang of monkeys? Coming through on my gang of monkeys, we're a little gang of monkeys, ooh-A-A-A! It's not gang! Anybody else? If you come up with something stupid, I'll sing a dumb song about it ..? What else? (Inaudible audience response) What is it? (Inaudible audience response) ... Oh you people are fucked. Does anybody know what it is? It's not barrel, by the way. It's troop. What, what did you say, uhh... Gang. Who-what, what's your name, who said gang? Where are you? (Victoria:) "Victoria." Victoria? How are you, Victoria? (Victoria:) "Great." Thanks for coming to my show. Hey, Victoria, riddle me this m'sister, have you read "Go Set a Watchman"? Harper Lee's new book? (Victoria:) "Naw." Naw. Has anybody read it? (Audience member:) "Half." Half. That is the best book review ever. - "I read half." Has anybody read "To Kill a Mockingbird"? (audience responds yes) yEES we reAD IT at scHOOL, fuck off. For those of you who haven't- for those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, "Go Set a Watchman" was the Harper Lee book that came out last year, right, and if you don't know the backstory, alright, I'll just fill you in. Victoria, listen up. Um... Basically, Harper Lee, right? So, Harper Lee, she had a stroke in two thousand and seven, and until she died earlier this year, she was in like, assisted care, she was in a wheelchair, she was deaf and she was blind, and her sister Alice had been taking care of all of her affairs, until Alice died in twenty fourteen at the age of one hundred and three, like a fucking boss... Anyway before Alice died she was pretty much the last line of defence between Harper and this 'lawyer' that had just sort of been loitering in the wings, right. And when Alice died, this 'lawyer' just happened to discover the manuscript for "Go Set a Watchman" in the locked safety deposit box in an obscure vault in a random bank, where it had been busy minding its own business for the last fifty-six and a half years, and according to the 'lawyer', Harper was delighted that the manuscript had been discovered, and suddenly reversed her life-long vow to never ever ever publish another book ever ever again, particularly not "Go Set a Watchman" which she actually wrote before "To Kill a Mockingbird" and didn't think was very good. Other people think that maybe the 'lawyer' was attempting to get filthy rich by brutally fist-fucking an eighty-nine year old stroke victim, but the question is; ... ... ... The question is, if "To Kill a Mockingbird" had've stayed in that vault, alongside this newly discovered manuscript, would it still technically be a work of literary genius? Or is it only when something's been evaluated by the world and possibly someone's made some cash off it that it's considered to be valid artistic expression? Is art only art once it's been witnessed? Acknowledged? If I don't take a bow at the end of this show, does it devalue the performance? Will you feel unsatisfied? Or rejected? ... I recently read that book "The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work" by Alaine de Button, and in it, he says; "we might consider art as anything which pushes our thoughts in important, yet neglected directions". Now, I'd like to consider what I do artistic expression, but that sort of poses the question - do people really need their thought pushed in the direction of old ladies being brutally fist-fucked? Is that my artistic legacy? Is that what I'm gonna leave behind? Y'know, "Randy... He was the old lady fisting guy, wasn't he? Eh. Very droll, very droll. Yeah." Because Ernest Hemingway is remembered more for his literary talents than for being an insufferable cunt with a penchant for killing shit and cheating on his multiple wives, does his artistic legacy outshine his tactless and unfortunate personal life? Is it better to be a mindful human that leaves no palpable remnants of artistry behind, or a violently unlikeable sexual deviant that shits handfuls of heart-breakingly beautiful sonnets and sonnatas out of his asshole before brunch? Because it's the image of the tortured, self-destructive artist that prevails nine times out of ten. Amy Winehouse was just a girl that wanted to sing some songs, do you know what I mean? So... Should I just keep my fucking mouth shut? And try to navigate towards enlightenment, leaving behind an intangible trail of good deeds? Or do I dive deeper and deeper into the inky, black ocean of self-destruction and self-indulgence until I nail my chosen art form, leaving an echo for the eternal wonderment of countless future generations that will just breeze over my asshole personality? ... it's what's keeping me up in the night times. Eh... (Pause) Y'know, from the moment we're born we become less than human? You know that? E-... E-hh... Eh... All the bacteria from our mother is passed onto us on the way out of the womb, and from then on, we just continue to collect shit, on the inside and the outside, until the day we expire. Occasionally, you get to choose what that shit is, but most of the time you have very little say in where it comes from or when. You just have to duck and weave your way through the shit for as long as you can, until the chunk of shit with your name on it finally-AAARGH! cleans you up. Look, I know this was billed as a comedy, but a-ha-ha-HAA! LET'S TALK ABOUT DEATH! Woo! There are some pretty fucking ridiculous ways to die, though- OH, like that guy, that scuba diver they found when they put out the bush fire! *oh my go-od have you heard this fucking sto-ory?* They put out, like, a bush fire, and they found a dude in full scuba gear, and they figured out that the water bomber plane or helicopter that scoops up the water to put out the fire accidentally picked up a diver and dumped him into the flames! What a fucked up way to go! It's pretty much the polar opposite of "He died peacefully in his sleep", isn't it? Just dumped out of a plane into a blazing inferno... with a highly flammable gas tank instead of a parachute strapped to your back? - "NOOoo!" (Explosion noice) "I just wanted to look at the fish..." What do you say to his family? - "Uhh... At least he died doing what he loved." Well, he was a firefighter that enjoyed skydiving and water sports, but I'm not sure he ever wanted to combine the three... That's better, isn't it? - "Tell more jokes you little purple fucker." I had a good joke the other day - How do you know if a hippie has been to your house? ... They're still there. Haa... How do you know if someone's vegan? ... They'll tell you, yes, ahaHAHAA! Hahahaha, I'm vegan. Um... I initially became vegan for environmental and ethical reasons, and now I just do it to give people the shits at dinner parties. Like, - "Get it away, I can't eat that, meat is murder, STOP HAVING FUN EVERYONE!" It's a funny conversation, the vegan one, you bring it up, people just go - "... shut up fuckhead" But it's funny, 'cuz you know you don't actually need to eat meat. You don't NEED it. Nobody actually needs it. Unless you're on hemodialasys and you have to inhale a rare porterhouse steak every three hours to stop your kidneys backing in, you don't actually need it. That makes it a choice, and it's your choice. As long as you understand that that choice is born from belief and that particular belief is called "carnism". It's an inherited belief system that sort of conditions us to eat meat, and the notion is so... pervasive, I guess, it's viewed as a given rather than a choice. But it's totally a choice. - "Where do you get your proteins from then you little poofter!?" PEAS! (Gasp) It's crazy. And I know it's easy to just lump veganism in with all the other food allergies and just go - "They're the annoying fuckheads that don't eat the good stuff" which I get, I totally get... We're having Christmas at my house this year, right? Three months out, my cousin calls me to discuss her son, my cousin's son, which makes him... Someone I couldn't give a fuck about, anyway; She calls me up, the first thing she says - she doesn't even say hello - the first thing she says is "Brayden can't have blue." - "What the fuck? - "BRAYDEN can't eat BLUE FOODS." Apparently this kid, if he eats anything with a blue food preservative in it, he just KLKH (imitates death) just taps out. That is bullshit! Firstly, don't call your kid Brayden. Secondly... secondly, blue is not even a natural colour for foodstuffs. It occurs very rarely in nature- name me one blue food. (Audience member:) "Blueberry." BLUEBERRIES ARE FUCKING PURPLE! I'm talking about mentos blue, like seven eleven slushie blue, what flavour is that? Fucking highlighter? - "Ah no Randy, blue means mint-" MINT IS GREEN- if you planted mint and it came up blue, you would SET that SHIT on FIRE. - "And that's cool! It's cool! it's like ice, it's like water!" Water is clear. The only time water is blue, is when there's billions of tonnes of it and it's all in the one spot. And then it's got all sorts of shit in it, like salt, and SHARKS ... BLUE MEANS SHARKS IN IT! don't eAt iT it'S gOT SHARKS IN IT! You know, when sharks eat people, it's fucked, but it shits me how they immmediately go out and kill the shark like - "awrH it's gONe roGUe. iT's gOnE rOgUE!" No it hasn't, it's just doing what millions of years of evolution have programmed it to do, fucking swim around eating shit. - "yeeeeeeeah but ... ... ... it came into our bit. thIs bit's oUR bit oF tHe ocEAn." No-see that bit there? That big fucking wet bit? That's its bit. This bit here, all of this dry bit here, that you're standing on with your legs, your legs that have evolved to stand on the dry bit, that's your bit. You go into its bit, you're going to get bit. That's the lesson. ... Paddle out next to a seal colony and wiggle your ass around like a slutty little ol' dove, complaining when you get munched. It's that weird disconnect, y'know, it's the same thing as carnism, it's like if I imagine a pig is just a pig, and all pigs are the same, then I can detach what is on my plate from how it got there. It's just how most of us are brought up, y'know. But if you saw someone slit the throat of a Labrador, and then string it upside down to die an excrutiating death just squirming and bleeding out at the end of a steel hook, you'd think it was a bit fucked. How is a pig any different? It's not. It's actually not ... I said that on stage in Rock Hampton, in Queensland about four months ago. I was like, "how is a pig any different?", and a man in the audience yelled out "BACON!". Touché, sir. You win this round. He actually came up to me after the show - I was standing at the merch desk not selling anything - and he-.. I saw him coming from the other side of the room, just this massive dude, like - (stomping noises) - "Ah, you're a large man" and he said - "I was the one that said bacon" - "fucking don't kill me" and he goes - "nah, you alright mate, you alright mate, you alr-" It's the most passive-aggressive Aussie male thing you can say to another- - "naah, you alright mate, you-" It basically means "I wanna punch your fucking head in, but I don't wanna upset me misses. You alright mate." Anyway, he goes to me, - "Mate, you're not gonna make any friends in rock hampton being vegan. Did you know that Rocky is actually the beef capital of Australia-" - "ah fuck I didn't know that" - "-with over two and a half million head of cattle within a two point five k radius of the town centre?" - "fuck I didn't know that either" - "And that is a fair wack of the thirteen million head of cattle in Queensland alone, seventy percent of which is bred purely for export. Few fun facts for ya matey, few fun facts." I said - "thank you sir I did not know any of that" Did you know that, globally, cows produce thirty-eight percent more greenhouse gas than every single car, truck, bus, boat, train, and plane combined each year? That breeding animals for food uses up one third of the planet's fresh water? Takes up fourty-five percent of the earth's surface, and is responsible for a whopping ninety-one percent of amazon destruction, making it the number one leading cause of species extionction, resource consumption, and environmental degradation destroying the planet on a daily basis? FEW FUN FACTS FOR YA MATEY, FEW FUN FACTS FOR YA! Now, I'm aware this is in danger of becoming a TED talk at this point... - "jesus, a lot of statistics, is there gonna be a test?" It's alright, it's fine, I'll read the book, alright? I'll read the book. Not forcing my opinions on you, I'm merely saying them with a microphone, and you're paying for it. LOCK THE DOORS-no, seriously, okay, here we go. Khm. I'm gonna read the book. Y'know we've got McDonald's home delivery now? Does anyone do that? (Audience responds) You... You do? You know you can already get it in your car? You can get it without getting out of your car, but what McDonald's have now done is they've removed the gruelling walk from the front door to the car, so you no longer have to do that humiliating - "BWAAAAAARGGGGGHHHHH- WUUUUUUUUUAHHHH! OOOOOOOAAAAARGGHHHH! Now I have to reverend carpool! Oh, God damn you, God damn you -click- MRRRRRRGHHHH! HMMMMMRGHH! MMMMOOUUHHH WHY CANNOT THEY JUST BRING IT TO MEIN HAUS?" Well now they can. I think it's a good thing. Keep the fatties off the streets, STOP 'EM HOGGING UP THE FOOT PATHS, if they wanna eat shit, let them do it in their own home- WHO'S WITH ME? (Audience starts applauding) Don't clap that, it's a horrible thing to say. yoU'RE moNSTerS! ... Okay. You all good Mattie? Sweet. Okay, here we go. Blblblblbl, okay, kh-hm, alright, here we go, buggedabuggedabuggeda, okay. Stop it! Okay ... Do you like my typewriter, by the way? Isn't it beautiful? It's basically here just as a prop, but occasionally I am always tempted to just go ... (humming). Eh? A few "Murder She Wrote" fans in the house? Heyo? Everyone else going - "What? What is that? Sounds like an old person's joke." ... it is! It is! It totally is! Alright. Here we go. Okay, fuck, here we go. Blblblblbl. Walking to Skye, chapter one ... I bought a bookshelf on Gumtree recently, um, it was an amazing experience, I'll quickly tell you about it and then I'll read the book, but- I found it strange, becasue it made me start to think about the way our, like, methods of communication have sort of changed over the years, y'know? In the old days, if you wanted a bookshelf, you'd just go see Gareth the Bookshelf Guy, 'cuz he was the dude in your tribe that made the bookshelves, he had a little bookshelf cave, he was REPUTABLE. Now any mad bastard can sell their shit on Gumtree, you know what I mean? As a species, we're sort of able to cope with knowing and gossiping around like a hundred, or a hundred and fifty people. That's like the limit of our tribe. Any more than that, it starts to get confusing, which is why we created abstract constructs like territories and deities to unite larger groups of people under an imaginary common factor. And it works the trick, because we only really gather en masse on special occasions, but I think like social media and mmmh... It's fucking all that up, y'know? I think we're able to deal with the thousands of people we're connected to on a daily basis, and as a result we neglect our immediate one fifty, y'know? That's why I never get invited to parties anymore. It's not 'cuz I ramble on about veganism and fisting old ladies, it's because I'm not on facebook and everybody just assumes you are. I am so behind on the births, deaths, and marriages of my friends that I feel like the time traveller's wife every time I go to a party, I'm like... - "This is Tim, he's our son, he's six now-" - "Fucking... Didn't even know you were pregnant." Anyway, you know smartphones, aren't they great? You know that, right, they're not, they're not that great, you don't need the internet in your pocket, you work at Cole's, okay? You're not working for the president, you don't need it, you don't need that much information. And also, what was the point of developing opposable thumbs for you to take a photo of your head, post it on the internet, and then just stand by for validation. No-one gives a fuck about your head! They'll only validate it in order to gain permission to post a photo of their own head on the internet and stand by for validation. The people who give a fuck about your head will at some point see it in real life. Fuck your head and the neck it rode in on. Your vanity is sucking up my bandwidth ... Anyway this is what's going through my head as I'm on Gumtree looking for a bookshelf, because- you know when you put something on the... on the... in like... in the search in booktree- in booktree? what the fuck- When you put something in the search on Gumtree - I'm having a stroke up here - When you put something in the search, right, and like, there's always a couple of things that come up in the list that are like the polar opposite of what you searched for, and like "get out of my head gumtree algorithms, CONSPIRACY!"? No but seriously, it's all you type, it's like "bookshelf", and it's all bookshelf, bookshelf, bookshelf, grammophone? Huh. Bookshelf, bookshelf, bookshelf, combine harvester? What the fuck? ... Huh, that's actually a pretty good price. Anyway, on this particular day, I found two bookshelves that worked for me, in terms of cost, and more importantly, geographical convenience, 'cuz I'd be fucked if I'm driving to Broad Meadows to pick up a bookshelf, right? So I type in bookshelf, and I see the two things, and I'm like okay, one seller is Cathy, the other is Morgan. I send them both the same text message, "Hello! I saw your bookshelf on gumtree, is it still available?". Cathy texts back straight away, saying - "sorRRY iT wENt thIS MorNING!" - "That's cool, Cathy, I'm sorry I gave you an annoying voice in the retelling of this story." Morgan's response came through a couple of minutes later, and simply read, - "It was my wife's bookshelf." ... HOW DO YOU RESPOND TO THAT? Aside from the fact that it doesn't answer my fucking question... His use of past tense in that sentence unnerved me slightly. I'm like, aahhh, I should probably just find another bookshelf... And then I noticed he lived in the suburb next to me, so I replied; - "Is it still available?" He responded with the letter Y. Just a Y. Is he asking me why I wanna know if it's still available? Or is it a Y for "yes", and he's so in the throws of grief that he can't manage the E and the S? I assume it's a Y for "yes" and respond, - "Cool! I'll take it. When's a good time to come and pick it up?" No reply for fifteen minutes, I'm like... ah he's forgotten about it, fuck it, I'll find another bookshelf, and then when his reply actually does come through I realize he spent those fifteen minutes crafting his response, because it's a FUCKING THESIS. He must've felt so bad about only using a single consonant in his previous text that he just massively overcompensated with this one. Also, for some reason, felt that the use of punctuation? Entirely unnecessary. So it's just one obscenely long sentence, which reads; - "You must come and pick up now I only have short time here at house and also it wide so bring van or trailer and there's stair but I can help you carry it down stair if you come park out front walk up path ring bell and I will help you carry it to trailer or van I only accept cash and if you do not come now I will sell it someone else" (Shriek) Again I'm thinking, ahhh, I should just find another bookshelf at this point, but now I am FASCINATED by Morgan, and I simply must meet the man. So I drive over to his house- before I left, I sent him a message saying - "Cool, I'll be there in ten minutes" and he replied "ok", but spelled it OK-A-Y which just fascinated me more, that he'll use four letters to spell a two letter word, but only one letter to spell a three letter word, MORGAN IS OFF THE FUCKING CHAIN! And as I'm driving over to his house, I'm trying to picture what he's gonna be like, y'know... His pidgin English might suggest ethnicity of some sort, but I don't wanna racially profile him; Maybe he's an old man who recently lost his wife and is not that very good at texting, or maybe, and I'm really hoping this is the case, Morgan is just batshit crazy. So I get to his house, and I go up to the- ehe, I park out front walk up path ring bell, and I... I brace myself for the door to be opened by like, an old man in a smoking jacket, wearing fishnet stockings and suspenders, just puffing on an opium pipe while a butler just creepily polishes a goldfish in the background, and then a tiny pugdog wearing a fez hat just trots up the hallway, sits on the mat, looks up at me and says "RELCOME TO OUR ROVERY ROME!"... And then the door opens, and I am thoroughly disappointed. Before me stands an average caucasian male in his mid-thirties, dressed casually, hipster sheek, stubble, glasses with designer frames, expensive watch - I immediately think "architect?" but the house is too cheesy for that - it's like a double story doll's house with bay windows - but definitely a designer of some kind? Maybe a graphic designer? He's too skinny for manual labour, but he's too hip for the public sector, BUT THIS CAN'T BE MORGAN. Because Morgan's text messages would suggest that he's not that technically savvy, and then the man standing in front of me says - "Hello my name is Morgan" AND THE PLOT THICKENS! He invites me in, shakes my hand, closes the door, and twenty minutes later, I will be witnessing Morgan perform some of the most aggressive acts of violence I've ever seen in my life, and I will be speeding away in my car bleeding from the face. Here's how this shit went down... I go into the house, and I notice two things immediately; One, this is a house in the throws of renovation. Nothing too extreme, but there's like drop sheets on all the furniture, there's freshly painted walls, there's a bathtub wrapped in plastic in the hallway, awaiting installation- someone's doing some work on this house. The second thing I notice, on the way up the stairs to the second floor, on the first floor landing, is a wedding photograph featuring a very cleanly shaven Morgan with a very beautiful bride. Very much in love! The photograph is very much on the floor, and the glass in the frame is very much smashed. She's not dead, she's left him, and THE PLOT THICKENS A BIT MORE FOR MORGAN! And as Morgan unceremoniously like, kicks the photo frame to one side on the way up the stairs, I really wanted to pry into Morgan's life and ask heaps of inappropriate questions... But he was clearly a broken man. He had this terrible air of sadness around him, so I didn't wanna intrude. Luckily for me, though, I didn't have to, because Morgan immediately began oversharing and told me the whole fucking story aaAAAH! Thank you Morgan! I shall hang off your every word and then retell your tale to two hundred strangers and record it for a fucking DVD! He IS a graphic designer -YES!- and he's really good at it. He does like massive rebranding campaigns for large corporations, he gets flown all over the world doing this shit, right? About four years ago, a woman hired Morgan to rebrand her florist business, and he did such a great job she married him. And he thought everything was just fine, until about three months ago. Morgan had to do a presentation in Sydney, right? But he was on his way home from overseas and got stuck in Dubai due to a flight cancellation, so rather than cancel the meeting, Morgan suggested to these businessmen in Sydney that they do a Skype chat, because he's so technologically savvy, despite his fucking baffling text message style. So Morgan checks into a hotel, cracks open his laptop, and starts skyping with this room full of businessmen in Sydney, who are all watching Morgan on a massive screen on their boardroom wall, right? And everything's going great, Morgan is totally nailing it, until about halfway through; He realizes that a file he wants to show these dudes is on the desktop of his home computer back in his home office in Melbourne. And he decides to live share the desktop of his home computer on the Skype chat. He knows how to do that, he can remote control his computer from anywhere in the world, it's not particularly new technology, but Morgan makes it sound so impressive. So this room full of businessmen are all watching keenly, like - "OOAHP! MARGARET, BRING IN SOME BISCUITS, THERE'S SOME NEW-FANGLED SHIT GOING ON IN HERE!!!" as Morgan clicks a few buttons and (click) brings up the desktop of his home computer on the Skype chat. Now, what Morgan doesn't realize is that his wife has been using the "Photobooth" app on that particular computer to take pictures of herself. To take naked pictures of herself. To take naked pictures of herself... doing some pretty fucked up shit. It's embarassing, to say the least, just as Margaret came back in with the biscuits- - "I've got you the b-WHUIEAAAAURRRHHH!!!" Now, those of you who are familiar with the Photobooth app will know that how it works, is it accesses the built-in camera in your computer and with the click of a button, (click) takes a photo of you when you're standing in front of your screen. And if you know that, you also know that if you leave that application open, the camera also stays open, witnessing whatever may be happening in front of the computer, in real time. Such as your wife, in your home office, fucking your best mate. OOOOOOOOOO NOOOOOOOO MOOOOOOOORGANNNN... Nooooo... Morgan then goes on to tell me she's keeping the house, his former best mate is moving in, and while they're out for the day shopping for fittings, Morgan must suffer the indignity of moving his shit out, and selling the stuff they don't want on Gumtree to this guy. Ahhh... It's at this point of the story that Morgan starts crying, he breaks down, and I do not blame the man, it's fucking horrible and I just wanna give him a big hug and say "Everything's gonna be alright, Morgan", but I am holding the full weight of a BOOKSHELF halfway down a set of STAIRS and Morgan is the only thing stopping that bookshelf from caving my face in- I was like, MORGAN! MMMMORGAN! And Morgan managed to pull himself together ... for about eight seconds? And then just went BAHHH and let the bookshelf go. I fell backwards, it literally rolled over me, and took out the light hanging above the staircase, I'm now lying on my back getting showered in broken glass, as the bookshelf turned end over end and just went FONK right through a freshly painted wall at the bottom of the stairs. I'm like, AAH. aaAAAh. aaAAAAAAhhh. aaAAAAAHHH. I've got a tiny cut on my forehead which is just pissing blood, for some reason - apart from that, I'm fine. Morgan, however - he's not fine! Morgan is the opposite of fine. Something happened when the bookshelf lodged itself in the wall and his sadness just (click) went away in a second, and he started PISSING HIMSELF laughing. Hysterical. And he had the creepiest laugh I've ever heard in my life- I'm standing there like "this is weird" and he's like "mwhueHUEUEEUEUEUE! mhhwuEUEUEUE!" like some sort of demonically possessed baritone cookaburra, - "mwhueEUUEUEE, a-HOGUGUGUGAGAGAGA!" - "Um... Uh..." - "mwueEUEUUEUEUE" - "can I still have the bookshelf?" - "yuuEEEEAAH" We extract it from the wall - the bookshelf, incidentally, showing no sign of having just rolled down a staircase and smashed through a wall. We carry it out to my car- we had to stop about six times, 'cuz Morgan was like - "Hang on a minute, mwueHUEUEUEUEUEE" We got it to my car, put it on the trailer, and Morgan was in such a great mood he let me have the bookshelf for free. Ohh! Hahaha... Mm... And that's where the story SHOULD end. But there was something about the bookshelf going through the wall that flipped a fucking switch in Morgan's head, and he is now hungry for more destruction. So as I started tying the bookshelf down to my trailer, Morgan just strolls over to like an upright mailbox on the front lawn and just starts trying to wrench it out of the ground. Really putting his back into it. I'm like, "are you okay buddy" and he's like "YEAP" (struggling) HUAH! He pulls it out of the ground whereupon he wields it like a fucking battleaxe and just starts smashing up the front garden, just beheading the daisies, fucking up the lavender... I'm like, "uhh, hey Morgan, maybe you wanna stop and think about that" and he whirled around and looked at me like Jack Nicolson chasing Shelly Duvalle up the stairs in the shining and said - "WHY DON'T YOU MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS?" ... yep, yep, cool, man, yep, yep... Now, I like tying knots. I'm quite good at tying knots if I tie something down I take my time because I want it to stay there... But as Morgan nonchalantly strolled up the driveway, rolled up the garage door, and put the mailbox through the windscreen of an Audi!? I must admit, I kind of rushed my knot tying job. I got in my car, I'm about to drive off, I'm like, looking at the house going "ah, I'm sure he'll be fine" and then an armchair smashed out of an upstairs window and just went DOINK DOINK DOINK DOINK down the front lawn. I was like "... what's my duty of care in this situation?". I didn't want to call the cops on him, I didn't want him to trash the house, I'm like - "daw fuck I'm gonna have to talk to Morgan" So I got out, I walked up the driveway shitting myself- you know when someone does something really violent and you're just like "ah, fuck, we're not supposed to do shit like that!"? Yucky, just yucky feeling in my tum-tum- and I'm standing there, standing there in the garage and there's like an adjoining door in the garage that leads into the house. I can see in through the door into the house, up the staircase, it's like a wooden staircase, and I'm standing in the garage just going - "ah fuck..." (gulp) "morgaaaan. Morgaaaan!" Like I was calling a cat for its dinner? "Morgan! Moggie-moggie-moggie-moggie-moggie!" And then I notice a small trickle of water start to come from the top step. And then a little bit more water, and then QUITE A LOT OF WATER, just pissing down the stairs like shitty water feature, I'm like "aw that can't be right" and then Morgan appeared on the top step holding a hammer like this: - "BAAAH!" (jumps out) I was like - "WOAH!" and he's like - "mwhuEUEUEUE" Starts running at me wielding the hammer, like "UEUEUEUE", I'm like "aw no no I just wanted to buy a bookshelf..." he's like "UEUEUEUEUEUE-.. RRAH!" runs straight past me, I'm like - "Where are you going?" he's like - "UEEEH!" made a beeline for my car, I'm like - "NO, MAN! STOP!" he's like - "UEUEUEUEUUEUE" - "STOP IT! JUST STOP!" He spins around and goes - "I just checked my phone, she texted me fifteen minutes ago saying she'll be here in fifteen minutes, WE'RE GONNA GO!" and gets into my car! - "fucking... jesus... fuck me" I run down the lawn, get in the driver's seat, I'm like - "What was with the water?" he goes - "Ah, I put plugs in all of the sinks and turned all the taps on!" I'm like - "Oh that's fucked" He's like - "JUST DRIVE!" I was like - "AAH!" I took off so quick, rounded the corner of his street, and the bookshelf just went "mrrreeUUWh-BOOSH" and exploded against the guard rail, just exploded in a shower of badly tied knots and broken dreams... So me and Morgan just fucking left it there, like a little breadcrumb for his ex wife to find on the way home to her destroyed gingerbread house. I dropped Morgan at a train station. I have never seen him again. And that, my friends, is why I no longer shop on Gumtree. Thank you very much! Thank you very much. (Applause) Haha, ah, fuck... You know my favourite bit of that story? I just made it up. Yes, not true. There is no Morgan. MMMH! It's very unsatisfying, isn't it? - "But I saw him in my head. I saw Morgan in my head." ... ... ... Why is it we can feel so robbed when someone tells us a story we just heard isn't true, and yet so satisfied at the end of a fictional novel? Y'know? You know that? ... You know the other great thing about that story? First draft. FUCK YOU HEMINGWAY! ... (sigh) Can't end on that, can I? - "Those LIES? WE DID NOT COME HERE TO BE HOODWINKED, SIR!" The truth, eh? ... The truth is, I'm... I'm not an exceptional person, y'know? Nothing interesting really ever happens to me, I'm massively flawed, and I think I'm quite forgettable, if I'm being a hundred percent honest. And this isn't the shit bit at the end of the show where I get on the cross, I'm like "lOve mE on the wAY OUt thE doOr". It's not that, it's just that I don't think- on a scale from one to memorable, I'm not that memorable. Not on like the Morgan sort of scale, not on the Ernest Hemingway scale, certainly, y'know... But if I tell a great story, maybe people will remember that instead. Remember the card trick and just... pretend that they don't know how it's done, y'know? ... But must we leave a legacy? MUST we make an impact? Do we HAVE TO leave a footprint? Is it okay to just settle, seek safety, nest, y'know? Or must we constantly shake our lives up, or suffer the indiscriminate cruelty of having it shaken against our will? Must we try to carve a path through the tall grass, feeling as though no-one has ever felt how we feel? Terrified at what may be lurking low in the grass on either side of us, but just pressing ever on with that paleolithic instinct deep within our chromosomes that the only way is forward, that you HAVE TO keep going? That eventually you'll stumble upon the edge of the field, hitch a ride from a passing car, and meet up with the rest of the gang for tea and sandwiches at the old town hall? ... (deep breath) Do we feel like the path that we are carving through the grass is all our own? Only to finally float above the field with the sweet relief of expiration and realize that the field is insignificantly miniscule in size, and that there's only one path through the grass - the exact same one that every human has trod before us will ever after, just stumbling blindly along a tiny hyphen between the words "birth" and "death". And when reduced to that level of crisp simplicity, fear cannot exist ... So. (pausing, readying) Phew. Walking to Skye, chapter one: (Blackout) (Applause and credits)

[youngneemleaves]

“There’s no need to play the reluctant ingénue with me.” - Killing Eve episodes 2.01 and 2.02 in retrospect

Based on a discussion with @onaperduamedee​ that drove us both slightly crazy, LOL

Espionage stories are inherently all about fixed spaces and boundaries - nations and borders, centres and their entry and exit points - all very clearly defined systems operating on a specific language. Agents - rogues, spies, carriers of information, currency, weaponry - serve as the connective tissue in this framework. It’s a far, far more chaotic intersection of worlds than most agencies would have anyone believe, and being in control and in power is the best and most crucial spectacle that one can manage. 

How does this work with women, who have, traditionally, never been considered a part of essential frameworks, be it morality or politics?

I don’t pretend to know the ways of the world.

A means to an end seems a way.

Whoever’s got the most of whatever’s best - 

All the better,

May the best man win.

This song has played thrice in the show till now: the first time when Villanelle climbs the pipes into a countryside mansion in Italy to murder a mafia lord in an extraordinary display of physical vitality and witchy absurdity. The second time, when Eve defies Carolyn’s instructions to travel to Paris to meet Villanelle, helped along by an unwitting Elena - who hasn’t even been taken on the trip to Russia and simply wants to join Eve the same way Eve had once wanted to join in the thrill of a spy’s life. The third time, it’s Eve uttering her name to open the gates of her new office, entering as a professional, where she’ll be working in an enhanced capacity to apprehend secret female assassins.

It takes the bewildered confession to an absent Carolyn for Eve to realise just how horribly awry her attempts to game the rules of the intelligence mission in her favour - her single-minded goal to find Villanelle - have gone. Villanelle comes to much the same conclusion when her new handler releases his choke-hold on her - her ability to rewrite the plot to the end that she becomes its irreplaceable protagonist, shielded by Konstantin till now, has gone up in smoke. The world is suddenly far less tolerant of Villanelle’s desires, and she’s no longer in a position to just not care about the system’s insensitivity. Both Eve and Villanelle have become trapped in a snarl of their own making, where their own wishes have been revealed to be incompatible with the systems they are a part of. The System is determined to show the two women their place - in the margins, in the streets, where they are servers, workers, pawns, carrying out the will of the state.

And they feel the same pressure; the bosses and handlers in this equation aren’t gone. Carolyn is just as ruthless as Raymond, only she doesn’t resort to physical violence to compel Eve to remain with the MI6, and she isn’t a mere handler. Like Flo said, Carolyn has reevaluated Eve on her return from Paris, and she sees her in a new light now - as an asset. And, I would add, as someone who knows, and figures out, a lot more than Carolyn can always control. The only way to keep a tab on the unfiltered information that leaks out is to keep a hand on Eve’s shoulder.

With the new turn of events (series 2), Carolyn’s attitude towards Eve seems to have changed accordingly. Her body language is slightly different, somewhat more showy. She’s less deadpan and professional as she’d been earlier, and a process that began with Carolyn and Eve spending time together as part of the mission and together in the hotel in Moscow has developed into Carolyn having become used to Eve’s admiration to the point of consciously expecting it. In the scene at the end of episode 2.02, where Konstantin is revealed to be alive and currently reading a book in Carolyn’s drawing room, Carolyn smiles while scrutinising Eve’s reaction to the reveal. It’s a very confident smile, demanding a response from Eve, certain that she’d be impressed. And Eve is impressed. Carolyn expects Eve to be frightened, perhaps, intrigued, or even paranoid. She admires Eve’s roguish tendencies although they frustrate her quite often, and she likes Eve’s appreciation of a mystery, and of women who can keep them. Part of Carolyn’s control over this brilliant, emotional woman is to amplify the image Carolyn shows everyone else - as a mastermind who can do incredible things, things for Eve (linking her her moisturiser of choice, arranging a witness protection scheme for her, even a new name), things to Eve (bringing back people from the dead to keep an eye on her as well as protect her, throwing her into Villanelle’s path to be devoured as a matter of course), anything to anyone. The bigger difference here is that Carolyn, probably for the first time, is bringing Eve closer to understanding how it works.

Eve: What am I doing here, Carolyn? Going through the charade of solving your test.

Carolyn: Well, you’re proving yourself useful.

Eve: No. What’s going on? With Konstantin and Moscow, and what were you doing, talking to Villanelle in that prison? I mean, who do you even work for? Are you part of the Twelve?

Carolyn: What really happened in Paris? Why was Nadia’s note addressed particularly to you, and why are you and Villanelle so interested in each other? You see how it works?

If that necessitates revealing sensitive information to Eve in carefully considered pieces - Kenny being Carolyn’s son, Carolyn playing a part in keeping Konstantin alive - so be it. Revealing information, as Flo said, would be a test of Eve’s ability to use it, and to gauge her behaviour.

Flo, as usual, was bang on target when she said in the tags that Carolyn shouldn’t be surprised about Eve’s obsession with Villanelle; Carolyn might be just as obsessed with Eve. Eve isn’t alone in her descent into the abyss, as Bill had called it so long ago. They’re all on their way down. Eve’s particular obsessions are very much a product of the “normal” relationships in her life, their high points and their lows. It’s just that Eve doesn’t always bother to hide her desire, which, like Villanelle’s and perhaps Carolyn’s too, completely diverges from the limited spectrum allotted to women by the traditionally androcentric medical, psychological, and philosophical institutions. They literally are deranged. But Eve’s very real penchant for violence and politics is born out of her own hard work and her own psycho-spiritual crises and epiphanies.

Although she still underestimates herself, I think Eve does understand the power dynamics she's become a part of with Villanelle, Konstantin, Kenny, and Carolyn. She's taking her time to process everything because, in spite of the trap she’s found herself in after the encounter in Paris, her new position suits her. The power she has now becomes her. And she's honestly loving the fact that she's an important part of investigations without being encumbered by too many rules because she's still on the edges of The System. Eve’s status as an outside expert, a rogue agent, is her greatest weapon as well as her Achilles heel. It’s impossible for her to just “go home” now; her locus has shifted. She’d thrown away home for the sake of the world outside, The System beyond the home, and now she’s adrift. She can’t pretend anymore.

Villanelle: I know her better now. I know her better than anyone. Better than she knows herself. 

Eve: You think he was murdered. You think he was.

Carolyn: Yes, so I thought I’d draft in the head of the fan club.

(Also, that last bit is hilarious. You can tell the head writer is a woman.)

An eye for an eye

Is a blind man’s rule.

I wasn’t going to follow.

I’m nobody’s fool.

So now, Eve is the one - like Villanelle in ep. 1.01 - entering and exiting government intelligence offices, palaces and parliaments of knowledge and power, who must be given protection against assassins, who’s not entirely comfortable in her marriage, who’s surrounded by people - powerful people - who want her input on Important Stuff. Eve is now the princess in the castle, and Villanelle must now play the part of the hero from the more mainstream romances, the errant knight reinterpreted, who must remain herself and journey across foreign lands and endure a Whole Lot Of Crap to reunite with the princess. The gender dynamics have been subverted and plugged to industrial-strength batteries to set the screen and our minds on fire. As Flo pointed out, Eve is at the centre of others’ attention, especially the admiration of both the government intelligence officer and the enemy assassin, the two big polarities of a spy story, but the optics is different because this triangle has nothing to do with the male gaze and the male fixation with the heroine. On the other hand, in the final scene of ep. 2.02, Konstantin sits on the sofa as simultaneously the most and the least important person in the room - the ace in the hole with some tricks of his own still left, but in the end a subject in a plot engineered by women, where the main tension is between two women negotiating the balance of power between themselves. For perhaps the first time in fiction that traditionally operates on strict gender roles, a man serves as currency here, a floating element used to reinforce the relationship between women.

Talking of home and the gender dynamics here, something in Carolyn and Eve’s exchange sticks out: 

Eve: I need to go home.

Carolyn: Home? Is that really what you want? I mean, what do people do at home?

It’s the first time this season that Carolyn’s anger shows for just a second before she reins it in. But compare that with the exchange in Annihilation (2018): 

Ventress: We need to come to an agreement about what to do with you.

Lena: You’re not going to let me go home?

Ventress: Is that what you want? To go home?

And then with Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000): 

Jade Fox: [to Jen] What good is a home? You’ve gone so far. Now we can go all the way together.

Home is an extremely fraught topic here. Just gonna quote Flo here: “This show is a dream come true when it comes to so many female narratives. We never talk about home to male characters unless as something to leave behind to live an adventurous life.” But the dynamic is so different here where the heroine and her mentor/boss are both women, and they understand on a level where the other woman is coming from. The mentors don’t want the heroine to decline the call to adventure. Carolyn certainly doesn’t want to lose Eve; she’s too powerful, too clever, too useful. Carolyn had herself given up her life and her son’s to her career long ago, to the point that her relationship with Kenny now is inextricable from her political machinations. But the female mentor here also manipulates the heroine but ever so lovingly; defining the paths they will both tread on while assuring the heroine that its all going to be okay - no, that this is the best way. It’s more subtle, but in principle, it’s not very different from Villanelle approaching Nadia in her prison cell tenderly and mockingly, and then killing Gabriel in the hospital. Villanelle here classically serves as the monster whose shocking actions mirror the twisted relationships in Eve’s world. 

So just how fundamentally Eve, Villanelle, and Carolyn have already rewired The System in their favour, although it is still innately hostile to them (Villanelle is now being used brutally by the Twelve, and Eve and Carolyn are both in dangerous positions), can be seen in the overall image of them as the primary trio of the show. Flo pointed out that Carolyn is almost omniscient, but Eve is the one who brings her the information truly necessary, and Eve is the one who discovered first Villanelle and now the Ghost. It’s why both Villanelle and Carolyn find Eve so fascinating, because Eve occupies such a precarious position and is so unpredictable and impactful. The Holy Trinity here, then, is Carolyn as God, Eve as the first human (incorporating aspects of Lilith here), and Villanelle as the Devil. Carolyn, said to be always twenty steps ahead of everyone else, brings Eve back into Paradise, the secret office full of resources and speculation that’s like the inside of Eve’s brain, that lets Eve run free with her pursuit of female assassins, the landscape where she can chase Villanelle. There's a wall full of maps and images trying to establish a pattern, and Carolyn's good at spotting patterns and understanding how people tick. Her whole agenda is to capture evil so that it serves her purposes, the purpose of the good. But this is so different from her previous exercises and missions - this necessitates the use of carnal knowledge that only Eve can bring. Passionate Eve, constantly toeing the line between desire and sanity, her perceptive, intuitive heart her finest treasure. Even before Villanelle has offered Eve the apple, both Villanelle and Carolyn know that here’s someone who is truly special. And now its their game to play, their mystery to stage.

#killing eve #eve polastri #villanelle #carolyn martens #ke meta #eve polastri meta #villanelle meta #carolyn martens meta #ke 2.01 #ke 2.02 #my writing #mine: killing eve

[cometsweepandleonidsfly]

David Sims: “ As a fan of the TV show, I felt battered into submission. This season has been the same story over and over again: a lot of tin-eared writing trying to justify some of the most drastic story developments imaginable, as quickly as possible....[T]ime and time again in recent years, Benioff and Weiss have opted for grand cinematic gestures over granular world building, and Drogon burning the Throne to sludge was their last big mic drop.

Spencer Kornhaber: The penultimate episode of Game of Thrones gave us one of the most dramatic reversals in TV history, with the once-good queen going genocidal. The finale gave us yet another historic reversal, in that this drama turned into a sitcom. Not a slick HBO sitcom either, but a cheapo network affair, or maybe even a webisode of outtakes from one. Tonally odd, logically strained, and emotionally thin, “The Iron Throne” felt like the first draft of a finale.

When Dany torched King’s Landing last week, viewers were incensed, but I’d argue it was less because the onetime hero went bad than because it wasn’t clearwhy she did. Long-simmering madness? Sudden emotional break? Tough-minded strategy? A desire to implement an innovative new city grid? The answer to this would seem to help answer some of the show’s most fundamental inquiries about might and right, little people and greater goods, noble nature and cruel nurture. Thrones has been shaky quality-wise for some time now, but surely the show would be competent enough to hinge the finale around the mystery of Dany’s decision.

Nope. The first parts of the episode loaded up on ponderous scenes of the characters whose horror at the razing of King’s Landing had been made plenty clear during the course of the razing. Tyrion speculated a bit to Jon about what had happened—Dany truly believed she was out to save the world and could thus justify any means on the way to messianic ends—but it was, truly, just speculation. When Jon and Dany met up, he raged at her, and she gave some tyrannical talk knowing what “the good world” would need (shades of “I alone can fix it,” no?). But whether her total firebombing was premeditated, tactical, or a tantrum remained unclear. Whether she was always this deranged or just now became so determines what story Thrones was telling all along, and Benioff and Weiss have left it to be argued about in Facebook threads.

The Dany speechifying that we did get in this episode was, notably, not in the common tongue. Though conducted in Dothraki and Valaryian and not German, her victory rally was clearly meant to evoke Hitler in Triumph of the Will. It also visually recalled the white-cloaked Saruman rallying the orc armies in The Two Towers, another queasy echo. People talk about George R. R. Martin “subverting” Tolkien, but on the diciest element of Lord of the Rings—the capacity for it to be seen as a racist allegory, with Sauron’s horde of exotic brutes bearing down on an idyllic kingdom—this episode simply took the subtext and made it text. With the Northmen sitting out the march, the Dothraki and Unsullied were cast as bloodthirsty others eager to massacre a continent. Given all the baggage around Dany’s white-savior narrative from the start, going so heavy on the hooting and barking was a telling sign of the clumsiness to come.

Jon’s kiss-and-kill with Dany led to the one moment of sharp emotion—terror—I felt over the course of this bizarrely inert episode. That emotion came not from the assassination itself but rather from the suspense about what Drogon would do about it. For the dragon to roast the slayer of his mother would have been a fittingly awful but logical turn. Instead, Drogon turned his geyser toward the Iron Throne. Whether Aegon’s thousand swords were just a coincidental casualty of a dragon’s mourning or, rather, the chosen target of a beast with a higher purpose—R’hllor take the wheel?—is another key thing fans will be left to argue about.

Then came the epilogue, a parade of oofs. David, you say you were satisfied by where this finale moved all its game pieces, and if I step back … well, no, I’m not satisfied with Arya showing a sudden new interest in seafaring, but maybe I can be argued into it. What I can’t budge on is the parody-worthy crumminess of the execution. Take the council that decides the fate of Westeros. It appears that various lords gathered to force a confrontation with the Unsullied about the prisoners Tyrion and Jon Snow and the status of King’s Landing. But then one of those prisoners suggests they pick a ruler for the realm. They then … do just that. Right there and then. Huh?

It really undoes much of what we’ve learned about Westeros as a land of ruthlessly competing interests to see a group of far-flung factions unanimously agree to give the crown to the literal opposite of a “people person.” Yes, the council is dominated by protagonist types whom we know to be good-hearted and tired of war. But surely someone—hello, new prince of Dorne! What’s up, noted screamer Robin Arryn?—would make more of a case for another candidate than poor Edmure Tully did. Rather than hashing out the intrigue of it all as Thrones once would have done, we got Sam bringing up the concept of democracy and getting laughed down. The joke relied on the worst kind of anachronistic humor—breaking the fourth wall that had been so carefully mortared up over all these years—and much of the rest of the episode would coast on similarly wack moments.

It’s “nice” to see beloved characters ride off into various sunsets, but I balk at the notion that these endings even count as fan service. What true fan of Thronesthinks this show existed to deliver wish fulfillment? I’m not saying I wanted everyone to get gobbled up by a rogue zombie flank in the show’s final moments. Yet rather than honoring the complication and tough rules that made Thrones’ world so strangely lovable, Benioff and Weiss waved a wand and zapped away tension and consequence. You see this, for example, in the baffling arc of Bronn over the course of Season 8. What was the point of having him nearly kill Jaime and Tyrion if he was going to just be yada-yadaed onto the small council at the end?

One thing I can’t complain about: the hint that clean water will soon be coming to Westeros. Hopefully, someone will use it to give Ghost a bath. As the doggy and his dad rode north of the Wall with a band of men, women, and children, the message seemed to be that where death once ruled, life could begin. Winter Is Leaving. It’d seem like a hopeful takeaway for our own world, except that it’s not clear, even now, exactly how and why the realm of Thrones arrived at this happy outcome.

Lenika Cruz: Do I have answers? Who do you think I am—Bran the Broken? Before I get into this episode, I need to acknowledge how unfortunate it is that Tyrion decided to give the new ruler of the Six Kingdoms a name as horrifyingly ableist as Bran the Broken. You could, of course, argue that the moniker was intended as a reclamation of a slur or as a poignant callback to Season 1’s “Cripples, Bastards, and Broken Things,” when Tyrion and Bran first bonded. But given the “parade of oofs” this finale provided—including the troubling optics of Dany’s big speech—it’s hard to make excuses for the show.

Now that we’ve gotten our “the real Game of Thrones/Iron Throne/Song of Ice and Fire was the friends we made along the way” jokes out of our system, where to begin? I basically agree with Spencer’s scorched-earth take on “The Iron Throne.” I was already expecting the finale to be a disappointment, but I didn’t foresee the tonal and narrative whiplash that I experienced here. At one point during the small-council meeting, my mind stopped processing the dialogue because I was in such disbelief about the several enormous things that had happened within the span of 15 minutes: Jon stabs Dany. Instead of roasting Jon, Drogon symbolically melts the Iron Throne and carries the limp body of his mother off in his talons. A conclave of lords and ladies of Westeros is convened, and Tyrion is brought before them in chains, and they know Dany was murdered, and Tyrion argues for an entirely new system of government while being held prisoner by the Master of War of the person he just conspired to assassinate. Excuse me? (The way that Grey Worm huffed, “Make your choice, then,” at those assembled reminded me of an impatient father waiting for his children to pick which ice-cream flavor they want.)

David, Spencer—of the three of us, I’ve been the most stubborn about thinking this final season is bad and holding that badness against the show. I don’t fault viewers who’ve become inured to the shoddy writing and plotting, and who’ve been grading each episode on a curve as a result. But I personally haven’t been able to get into a mind-set where I can watch an episode and enjoy it for everything except stuff like pacing issues, rushed character development, tonal dissonance, the lack of attention to detail, unexplained reversals, and weak dialogue. All of those problems absolutely make the show less enjoyable for me, and I haven’t learned to compartmentalize them—even though I know how hard it must have been for Benioff and Weiss to piece together an airtight final act solely from Martin’s book notes.

...Much like with last week’s episode, I can actually see myself being on board with many of the plot points in the finale—if only they had been built up to properly and given the right sort of connective tissue. For all the episode’s earnest exhortations about the power of stories, “The Iron Throne” itself didn’t do much to model that value.

For example, I can’t be the only one who was let down, and at a loss for a larger takeaway, after seeing a high-stakes contest between two ambitious female rulers devolve after both became unhinged and got themselves killed. After all the intense discussion about gender politics that Thrones has spurred, and after seeing characters such as Sansa, Brienne, Cersei, Daenerys, and Yara reshape the patriarchal structures of Westeros, we’ve ended up with a male ruler (who once said, “I will never be lord of anything”) installed on the charismatic recommendation of another man and served by a small council composed almost entirely of … men.

Perhaps there’s no deeper meaning to any of this. Or perhaps this state of affairs is a commentary on the frustrating realities of incrementalism. I am, of course, beyond pleased that Sansa Stark has at least become the Queen in the North—a title that she, frankly, deserved from the beginning. But I haven’t forgotten that this show only recently had her articulate the silver lining of being raped and tortured. Nor am I waving away the fact that Brienne spent some of her last moments on-screen writing a fond tribute to a man who betrayed her and all but undid his entire character arc in one swoop. My sense is that the show’s writers didn’t think about Thrones resetting to the rule of men much at all, and that they were instead relishing having a gaggle of former misfits sitting on the small council. See? the show seemed to cry. Change!

At times, Thrones gestured more clearly to the ways in which the story was going a more circular route; this was especially true of the Starks. Jon headed up to Castle Black and became a kind of successor to Mance Rayder—someone leading not because of his last name or bloodline but because of the loyalty he’s earned. Arya’s seafaring didn’t feel out of character to me—it fit with her sense of adventure and reminded me of her voyage across the Narrow Sea to Braavos all those years ago. Sansa became Queen in the North in a scene that recalled the debut of “Dark Sansa” in the Vale, but that felt like a true acknowledgment of how much her character has transformed. I’ll admit, the crosscutting of the scenes showing the Starks finding their own, separate ways forward was beautifully done. It made me wish the episode as a whole had been more cohesive, less rushed, and more emotionally resonant.

Spencer, I think you smartly diagnosed so many of the big-picture problems with the finale—the sitcommy feel, the yada-yadaing of major points, the many attempts at fan service. So rather than elaborate even more, I’ll end this review by saying something sort of obvious: Viewers are perfectly entitled to feel about the ending of Game of Thrones however they want to. After eight seasons, they have earned the right to be as wrathful or blissed-out on this finale as they want; it’s been a long and stressful ride for us all. I’m genuinely happy that there are folks who don’t feel as though the hours and hours they’ve devoted to this show have been wasted. I know there are many others who wish they could say the same thing.” 

#game of thrones #spoilers #such rotten storytelling

[hollywoodjuliorivas]

‘Dirt’ reveals a failing of book industry

The establishment deemed it the great immigrant novel, yet it doesn’t reflect Latino experience

JEANINE CUMMINS said she was nervous to write a story of the plight of Mexican migrants and wished “someone slightly browner than me would write it.” (Joe Kennedy)

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ESMERALDA BERMUDEZ

By now, you’ve probably heard about the uproar that took place last week over a book.

“American Dirt” by Jeanine Cummins was celebrated by critics as the great immigrant novel of our day.

“Masterful.”

“Pulse-pounding.”

“Soul-obliterating.”

“A ‘Grapes of Wrath’ for our times.”

Even Oprah Winfrey dove in early Tuesday morning, the day of the release, and anointed “American Dirt” with the holy grail of endorsements, selecting it for her book club.

“I was opened, I was shook up, it woke me up,” Winfrey said in a promotional video. “I feel like everyone who reads this book is actually going to be immersed in the experience of what it means to be a migrant on the run for freedom.”

It was a perfectly orchestrated mega-budget campaign that might have gone off without a hitch if weren’t for Latinos. Many who grew up in actual immigrant families unleashed a storm of criticism — unlike anything the book industry has seen in years.

I was among those who spoke up.

I’m an immigrant, after all. My family fled by foot and bus to the U.S. in the 1980s as right-wing death squads were killing and torturing thousands across El Salvador, including several of my relatives.

The trauma of those dark days shaped everything about me.

I figured I might recognize some part of my story in Cummins’ book, which follows an immigrant mother and son on their harrowing escape north from Mexico.

Then I read the book. My skin crawled after the first few chapters.

Not because of the suspense, though that’s probably the only thing this narrative does well, like a cheap-thrill narconovela.

What made me cringe was immediately realizing that this book was not written for people like me, for immigrants. It was written for everyone else — to enchant them, take them on a wild border-crossing ride, make them feel all fuzzy inside about the immigrant plight.

All, unfortunately, with the worst stereotypes, fixations and inaccuracies about Latinos.

Sure, I know it’s all fiction and I’m no literary critic. Cummins is not obligated to write a book that reflects my life. But it’s strange that a novel so many are praising for its humanity seems so far from all the real-life immigrant experiences I’ve covered.

Never in nearly two decades of writing about immigrants have I come across someone who resembles Cummins’ heroine, a Mexican woman named Lydia.

She’s a middle-class, bookstore-owning “Mami” who starts her treacherous journey with a small fortune: a stack of cash, thousands of dollars in inheritance money; also an ATM card to access thousands more from her mother’s life savings.

Why is she fleeing? Because while her husband, a journalist, was investigating a drug lord, Lydia was flirting with that same narco.

Moments after he walked into her bookshop, “She smiled at him, feeling slightly crazy. She ignored this feeling and plowed recklessly ahead.”

Later, when Lydia is running for her life, debating whether she and her 8-year-old son should jump on La Bestia, the perilous northbound freight train that’s cost many immigrants their limbs and lives, she has an identity crisis. She used to be “sensible,” “a devoted mother-and-wife.” Now she calls herself “deranged Lydia.”

Because hint, hint, reader: Any immigrant parent desperate enough to put their kids in such danger must be crazy, right?

It’s a book of villains and victims, the two most tired tropes about immigrants in the media, in which Cummins has an “excited fascination” with brown skin, as New York Times critic Parul Sehgal pointed out in one of the few negative reviews of the book. Her characters are “berry-brown” or “tan as childhood.” There is also a reference to “skinny brown children.”

When two of her leading characters, sisters migrating from Honduras named Rebeca and Soledad, hug, “Rebeca breathes deeply into Soledad’s neck, and her tears wet the soft brown curve of her sister’s skin.”

When’s the last time you hugged your sister and stopped to contemplate the color of her skin?

All novelists offer vivid descriptions of their characters, but Cummins’ preoccupation with skin color is especially disturbing in a society that constantly measures the worth of Latinos by where they fall on the scale of brownness.

Soledad, by the way, is also “dangerously” beautiful. She’s a “vivid throb of color,” an “accident of biology.” Even in the “most minor animation of the girl’s body … danger rattles off her relentlessly.”

Of course. Everywhere we Latinas go, our bodies are radioactive with peligro.

Speaking of Spanish, you’ll pick up quite a few words in “American Dirt.” Cummins, in stiff sentences that sound like Dora the Explorer teaching a toddler, will introduce you to conchas, refrescos, “Ándale,” “Ay, Dios mío,” “¡Me gusta!”

All this, it pains me to say, was praised by nearly every U.S. critic who reviewed it as a great accomplishment.

It’s what the Washington Post’s critic “devoured” in a “dry-eyed adrenaline rush,” what kept the Los Angeles Times reviewer up until 3 a.m., what the New York Times initially said had all the “ferocity and political reach of the best of Theodore Dreiser’s novels.” (The latter paper later deleted the tweet, and an editor explained the line had been from an unpublished draft.)

The heart of the problem is the industry — the critics, agents, publicists, book dealers who were responsible for this project. They’ve shown just how little they know about the immigrant experience beyond the headlines.

So we are left with this flawed book as our model, these damaging depictions at a time when there’s already so much demonizing of immigrants.

Cummins said she questioned whether she was the right person to tell this story.

She was born in Spain and raised in Maryland. A few years ago she identified herself in the New York Times as “white,” though in the book she plays up her Latina side, making reference to a grandmother from Puerto Rico. Her publisher publicized the book by promoting Cummins as “the wife of a formerly undocumented immigrant.” She doesn’t mention that her husband is from Ireland.

“I worried that, as a non-immigrant and non-Mexican, I had no business writing a book set almost entirely in Mexico, set entirely among migrants,” she said in her author’s note.

“I wished someone slightly browner than me would write it.”

Still, she saw herself as a “bridge,” so she plunged in.

I don’t take issue with an outsider coming into my community to write about us. But “American Dirt” so completely misrepresents the immigrant experience that it must be called out.

Cummins said her goal was to help immigrants portrayed as a “faceless brown mass.” She said she wanted to give “these people a face.”

How’s that for a captivating book pitch?

The industry ate it up. In a rare three-day bidding war, Flatiron Books reportedly won Cummins’ book for a seven-figure sum.

The number astounded many writers. It fell with a blunt force on Latinos, who are constantly shut out of the book industry.

The overall industry is 80% white. Executives: 78% white. Publicists and marketing: 74% white. Agents: 80% white.

These numbers include 153 book publishers and agencies, including what’s known in the book world as the Big Five, which control nearly the entire market.

This diversity study, the most comprehensive in the industry, was launched by a small independent children’s book publisher in New York called Lee & Low Books. They’ve conducted it twice, in 2015 and in 2019. (Figures noted above are from the latest study, which will be released Tuesday.)

In those four years, the numbers showed no significant change.

“The power balance has been off for so long,” said Hannah Ehrlich, director of marketing and publicity for Lee & Low. “Even when a big mistake is brought to their attention, when there’s a sense of urgency, publishers don’t fix it — or they try, with good intentions, but they don’t know how.”

They don’t know how. (Insert emoji of head exploding.)

The solution is simple: Hire more Latinos. More people of color. Listen to them. Promote them. Treat them fairly so they don’t leave.

Ehrlich kindly walked me through the world of publishing, which of course is very similar to journalism, including in its glaring lack of racial diversity.

Often, Ehrlich said, what happens is gatekeepers go looking for good stories, stories that resonate with their view of the world. If they come across a compelling pitch about a person of color, the question becomes, “How do you sell this idea to a broader, mainstream audience?” Translation: white people.

By focusing on one audience, the industry makes it harder for writers of color to break through and also for publishers to build a more diverse customer base.

So it goes, in a long process that many writers of color know all too well, where the best of our stories are frequently sanitized, devalued, tropicalized, manipulated, shrunk down, hijacked.

All for sums that don’t come close to seven figures.

And for deals that don’t get the kind of superstar treatment of “American Dirt.” That includes books that Cummins studied closely to prepare for her novel, with real migrant stories like Oscar Martinez’s “The Beast,” Sonia Nazario’s “Enrique’s Journey,” Luis Alberto Urrea’s “The Devil’s Highway.”

Cummins has no regrets about reaping the benefits of the system. She already got a movie deal and will travel to the border with Oprah for more publicity.

“I was never going to turn down money that someone offered me for something that took me seven years to write,” she said in a recent interview.

When asked about the criticism, the author often keeps the focus on the question of appropriation, saying writers shouldn’t be silenced. I have no desire to silence her, but her book is a symptom of a larger problem.

Cummins said people should direct their attention to the publishing world, not individual writers like her.

She’s got a point. In the end, the real fight over “American Dirt” is not about this writer. It’s about an industry that favors her stories over ones written by immigrants and Latinos.

Still, it’s hard to let Cummins off the hook.

Not when she has posted photos on her Twitter account showing her celebrating “American Dirt” with floral centerpieces laced with barbed wire.

“That’s what I call attention to detail right?!” she wrote in a comment below the photo she posted of the party.

I can’t explain the gut punch I felt when I saw this image on the internet.

Growing up, my family spoke of this barbed wire. How it encircled them, how it tore their hands and legs in their treacherous trek north.

For us, the boogeyman that forced us to leave El Salvador was not some drug kingpin with a quivering mustache like La Lechuza.

It was a brutal 12-year war of terror waged on poor people by oligarchs, backed by the United States, which spent billions to train and equip Salvadoran death squads and the Salvadoran military; the U.S. helped pay for their weapons, bombs, jeeps, uniforms, gas masks. More than 75,000 Salvadorans died in the fighting.

Before my third birthday, I lost just about everyone: My grandfather, uncle and aunt were killed. My father was exiled. My mom was forced to leave me behind in El Salvador to come north.

It’s a story that repeats itself among the hundreds of thousands of Salvadorans who fled to the U.S. in the 1980s.

Because of greed, a thirst for power and government violence in Central America — a place where the United States has heavily intruded since the 1800s — thousands of families continue to run north. From Honduras. From Guatemala. From El Salvador.

This is the immigration story of our times.

Hopefully, soon, the book world will gather the nerve to let more of our own writers tell it. And give that story the same royal treatment it gave “American Dirt.”

[ramajmedia]

Why Joker Is Facing Backlash Despite The Great Reviews

Todd Phillips' Joker movie is receiving great reviews, so why is it also facing a backlash? The DC movie, which stars Joaquin Phoenix as the Clown Prince of Crime, premiered at Venice Film Festival this weekend, and was also screened for critics elsewhere, and the early reviews for Joker have been very positive.

Phoenix stars in Joker as Arthur Fleck, a would-be stand-up comedian in Gotham City who, after a series of failures and setbacks, finds himself turning to a life of crime and becoming more deranged while he's at it, which sets him on the path to becoming the Joker. Directed and co-written by Phillips alongside Scott Silver, Joker has been on many most anticipated lists since its first trailer dropped, showcasing a very different kind of comic book movie.

Related: Joker Final Trailer Breakdown: 13 Last Minute Story Reveals

As per the reviews, that's what Phillips, Phoenix et al have delivered with Joker, which received a standing ovation in Venice, and yet online the discourse about the movie has already started to sour, with multiple backlashes and controversies emerging before the film has even been properly released.

Joker's backlash started before anyone had actually had a chance to see the movie, and instead came when the script leaked online. Despite the fact that this was just a script, and even if real not necessarily the most up-to-date version, it led to some general unhappiness and ill-feeling towards the film online from those who read it, because Joker isn't going to be a typical comic book movie.

Many who read Joker's script weren't happy with the direction it was going in, which represented a shift away from the version(s) seen in the comics and previous DC movies. There was talk that it was going to make the character of Arthur Fleck too sympathetic; that its handling of more topical or political issues was way off; and other controversial elements that we'll not mention outright here for sake of spoilers, but needless to say made some big deviations from what's generally known or accepted about the Joker.

A lot of Joker's script, and the backlash to it, seems to be that it wasn't what people expected or wanted from the film. Of course, the script was an early one, and Phillips has since confirmed Joker's script changed, and it doesn't include the fact that direction, performances, and just about everything else can elevate a weak script into a good movie. What's on the page and what ends up on the screen are often very different things, but that didn't stop people being unhappy with Joker's script.

Related: Film Festival 2019 Preview: 12 Biggest Movies With Oscar Chances

Something that was noted by reactions to Joker's leaked script, but has definitely gained more traction now that critics have seen the film, is the idea of Joker being a dangerous movie. Joker is about a man who is rejected and deals with that in a very violent, aggressive way, and it has been suggested by various critics that the film could lead to people taking the wrong message from it: that it actually supports incel culture, and that it could lead to acts of terrorism. That's not to say that Joker openly encourages such acts, but that it could be interpreted that way by the wrong person.

There is some historical precedent for this, in fairness. One of the biggest inspirations for Joker, and a film it's long been compared to, is Taxi Driver. When John Hinckley Jr. attempted to assassinate President Ronald Reagan in 1981, Taxi Driver formed part of his delusional fantasy that triggered the incident. Hinckley Jr stated that his actions were to impress Jodie Foster, whom he was obsessed with, and he had copied the hairstyle of Travis Bickle, while his attorney even played Taxi Driver in court as part of the defense.

In more modern times, and within the DC universe, there was a shooting that took place during a midnight screening of The Dark Knight Rises. At the Century 16 cinema in Aurora, Colorado, a gunman - James Eagen Holmes - opened fire on the theater during the movie, killing 12 people and injuring 58 others. According to initial reports, Holmes identified himself as the Joker at the time of his arrest. That was only seven years ago, and since then the political climate and numbers of mass shootings have only worsened, so it's understandable why there might be some concerns over Joker.

Joker was always going to be a controversial movie in some way. He's too big and popular a character, not to mention too disturbed, for there not to be people unhappy with how things turned out for one reason or another, whether it was Phillips' direction, Phoenix's performance, changes to the character, or something else entirely. DC movies have long been divisive, so it was fair to assume Joker might be too. But it's the reasons for the backlash to Joker that don't seem completely warranted.

Related: IT and Joker Can Save Warner Bros' Disappointing 2019

Firstly, it's harsh to judge any movie based solely on a draft script. As mentioned earlier, there are so many factors that go into a movie, on top of there being no guarantees it was the version of the script they shot, that it's impossible to say a movie will be bad simply by reading what's on the page. Joker is, according to most reactions, a good-to-great film, and it should be judged by people who have actually seen it; there's little point critiquing a work of art without knowing what it's like.

The second point is a little more delicate. On the one hand, it isn't completely unfair to point out that a movie might have a serious negative impact on a person who is already vulnerable. Joker contains themes and images of violence, revenge, loneliness, anger, masculinity, and much more, all of which could be taken in the wrong way. But is that a reason to criticize, condemn, or "cancel" the movie itself? This risks taking things into murky territory with regards to censorship and who a film is "acceptable" for, calling to mind the BBFC banning The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, which was deemed "all right for you middle-class cineastes...but what would happen if a factory worker in Manchester happened to see it?" It's also similar to the frequent backlashes to violent video games, despite research showing no link between video games and violence or aggression.

In this sense, Joker does feel like Taxi Driver or Fight Club, where yes, there are people who will take the wrong message from it. But is that the fault of the creator? David Fincher made Fight Club as a satire of toxic masculinity that does not paint it in a favorable light, so is it a failing of his as a filmmaker that there are people who hold it up as a celebration of it instead? How much should Joker sacrifice its own story in order to hammer its point home? Going into the movie, the title along should be clear that this is about a character who is a bad guy, since the Joker is one of the most famous villains in pop-culture history, and one there's very little mistaking for a hero, anti-hero, or anything else to be potentially looked up to. It's sadly true that there will be people who'll take the wrong message from it, but then those people would also take the wrong message from reading comics, or some other work of art. Movies are open to different interpretations, and while filmmakers should be responsible with what they're making, that doesn't preclude the fact that there could always be someone who can take it the wrong way. What matters most to the director is making a great movie, and there are far greater issues to address when it comes to acts of terrorism or just the culture of toxic masculinity than Joker.

More: Theory: Joaquin Phoenix Isn't The REAL Joker

source https://screenrant.com/joker-movie-backlash-reviews-explained/

#screenrant

[fughtopia]

Dr. King spoke of the Triple Evils: racism, militarism and materialism—meaning, in contemporary society, capitalism.

The sum total of these evils is U.S. imperialism, the global system that was committing the violence he came to that church to oppose—the system of capitalism as it actually exists, that is headquartered in the United States, and whose violence is the greatest obstacle to the construction of a humane civilization.

When Dr. King said that “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice,” he was expressing confidence that humanity would throw off—overthrow—these evil systems.

That did not sit well with the captains of imperialism, and Dr. King was dead exactly one year later.

But, that did not silence the voices of Black anti-imperialism. Those voices, including Dr. King’s own, had gotten even louder and more defiant after the assassination of Malcolm X, three years earlier.

The Black Panther Party’s appeal was so compelling that its chapter infrastructure could not absorb the tens of thousands of Black youth that wanted to join.

SNCC, the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, which some folks thought of as the children of Dr. King’s Southern Christian Leadership Conference, were agitating against the war and the draft years before King. They had taken up the anti-imperialist banner in the years after the exile of W.E.B. Du Bois and the erasure of Paul Robeson from public life—men who were giants of anti-imperialism.

When Dr. King was shot down, there erupted the greatest wave of Black rebellion in the history of the United States. That rebellion fueled the explosive growth of the Black Panther Party for Self Defense, whose appeal was so compelling that its chapter infrastructure could not absorb the tens of thousands of Black youth that wanted to join.

It was a revolutionary Black nationalism that was profoundly anti-imperialist—proudly and loudly socialist—a movement determined to join with a world that was up in arms against the empire.

It was Malcolm’s child – out to avenge Dr. King.

Therefore, it had to be crushed by the massive repressive forces of the State, in a dirty war that reached its most savage peak in 1969 with a merciless campaign of political imprisonment and assassination, including the murder of Black Panthers Fred Hampton and Mark Clark by Chicago police and the FBI.

The Party was driven into retreat, back to its founding turf in Oakland, California.

However, the decisive blow to the Black movement for self-determination and against U.S. imperialism was delivered by forces internal to the Black community. It came from a class that had not been concerned about justice in any civilizational sense, but only about getting rid of Jim Crow—American apartheid—so that they could also walk the halls of the empire and live the corporate life.

Their vehicle—the only one that was open to this Black aspiring class—was the Democratic Party, because the other party was busy transforming itself into the White Man’s Party.

With very few exceptions, this was a class for itself, consumed by a mission of “representationalism.” They wanted no part in social transformation; they wanted only to be represented in the upper echelons of corporate, governmental and symbolic media power.

Their agenda was solely concerned with their own upward mobility. They were not about justice or peace.

Here are two examples—founding members of this new, Black Misleadership Class:

Carl Stokes, the first Black big city mayor, elected in Cleveland, 1967. The first thing he did was to appoint a Black retired general as police chief, and the first thing the general did was to arm the cops with hollow point bullets.

Maynard Jackson, the first Black mayor of Atlanta, elected in 1973. Four years later, he fired 1,000 striking sanitation workers – the same folks that Dr. King had gone to Memphis to support nine years earlier—and died trying.

The rise of a selfish, servile, corporate ass-kissing Black class, combined with murderous application of state power, snuffed out the Black Liberation Movement, which was anti-imperialist at the core.

There was a brief resurgence of Black “movement” politics with the campaign against South African apartheid. But, only briefly.

For two generations, Black movement politics was smothered by the hegemonic power of the Democratic Party, whose tentacles strangled the militancy out of virtually every Black civic organization. The churches, the fraternities, the sororities—all behave like annexes of the Democratic Party.

They invoke Dr. King’s name, and use the word “justice” a lot—and the word “peace” every so often—but justice and peace cannot possibly find a home in one of the two parties of war.

So, the question becomes: Does two generations without a real peace and social justice movement in Black America mean that the Black Radical Tradition has been crushed? Have Black people, the historically most left-leaning constituency in the United States, shed their anti-imperialism and embraced war?

The most definitive answer that I have seen to that question came in a Zogby poll, conducted in late February, 2003. It was only a few weeks before George Bush crossed into Iraq—a war that everyone knew was coming. The Zogby poll asked a straightforward question. Here it is, verbatim:

“Would you support an invasion of Iraq if it resulted in the death of thousands of Iraqi civilians?”

A super-majority of white males said, “Hell yes, let’s get it on.” A bare majority of white females felt the same way. Sixteen percent of Hispanic Americans said they would invade, even if it meant killing thousands of civilians.

However, only 7 percent of Blacks agreed with that statement—meaning, only a marginal segment of Black America had any willingness to kill Iraqi men, women and children. This shows that the Black worldview is worlds apart from that of most white men and women. It’s also very strong evidence that Black people remain anti-imperialist, despite two generations without a movement that was loudly and proudly and defiantly anti-imperialist.

But, then came the First Black President: Barack Obama.

We at Black Agenda Report feared, correctly, that a pro-war, Black Democratic president would have a profound effect on Black political behavior. We were very anxious about the rise of this guy who we knew would be a war president. We worried about the effect that his presence in the Oval Office would have on the Black worldview. We expected, and got, the worst.

We feared that Black people, for the first time in history, might begin to identify with U.S. national power if one of their number was the personification of that power. That is a very, very heady brew for a people who had been rendered invisible for most of their sojourn in North America.

There was never any question of how the Black Misleadership Class would react to having a Black Democrat in the White House. Their agenda is to stick as close to Power as possible, and to celebrate Blacks being represented in the halls of power, even if that person is engaged in crimes against humanity and crimes against peace. And so, the Black Misleadership Class did not surprise us in terms of their behavior under President Obama.

Back in 2002, when President George Bush was asking for War Powers permission to attack Iraq, only four members of the Congressional Black Caucus went along with him. But by June of 2011, when the United States and NATO were doing their regime change mission in Libya, more than half of the Congressional Black Caucus—24 members—gave their full permission and assent to Obama’s continued bombing of Libya. And 31 of the 40 or so voting members of the Caucus opted to continue spending money on the Libyan operation. That number includes John Lewis, who tries to cloak himself in all the vestments of Dr. Martin Luther King. He also voted to continue funding for that war, AFRICOM’s first war on Africa.

Keith Ellison called that war “a blow for freedom and self-determination.”

But, what about the masses of Black people? There was some disturbing evidence of the effect that Barack Obama’s presence in the White House was having on Black people’s historical, bedrock anti-imperialism. Back in late August of 2013, Obama threatened to launch airstrikes against Syria. Polls showed that 40 percent of Black Americans would have supported such an airstrike, compared to only 38 percent of whites and a smaller percentage of Hispanic Americans.

It is true that only minorities of any American ethnicity supported Obama’s threatened strike, but this was the first poll in the history of polling in which more Black people were for a warlike action than white people. Compare that to the only 7 percent of Blacks that supported an invasion of Iraq, a decade earlier. Obama has had his effect.

With the current hysteria about Russia, we see the entirety of the Congressional Black Caucus and the Black Misleadership Class badmouthing the Kremlin with the same intensity and insanity as their white counterparts. What really disturbed me, however, was a conversation I had with a brother who styles himself as a revolutionary. He’s head of the Revolutionary Black Panther Party. I was interviewing him after the police “vamped” on some of their members in Milwaukee. All of a sudden, out of the blue, he starts talking about those damn Russians! And he’s supposed to be a revolutionary Black Panther!

Dr. Gerald Horne speaks of the “Putin Derangement Syndrome” that afflicts the ruling circles in the United States, who fear the U.S. is losing its dominant position in the world. But, somehow, this insanity has filtered down, even to folks that call themselves Black revolutionaries.

The First Black President has left us with a deep and lingering problem. Even out of office, he packs a weaponized legacy.

Source: MLK and Barack Obama: Diametrically Opposed Legacies - Glen Ford, Black Agenda Report via Truth Dig

#mlk #martin luther king jr #barack obama #antiwar #black agenda report #amerikkka #nation of lawless nazi psychopaths

[icechuksblog]

Mr. President, many believe that you cannot read and those that believe that you can claim that you cannot go beyond three lines. They say outside of that you can only comprehend cartoons. I do not share either view. I know you well enough to concede that when you consider a literary submission of sufficient importance you have the presence of mind, discipline, health, intelligence and ability to read through it very slowly and very carefully weighing up every word. And that is precisely as it should be. The first open letter that I wrote to you was in December 2015 and the following serves as the second. You will forgive me because this is a long letter and I am fully aware that your attention span or ability to keep too much information in one fell swoop may not be as good as it used to be. Nevertheless, I urge you to do your best to muster the courage, energy and intellectual stamina to stay the course and to find the time out of your busy schedule to read it from beginning to end. I have written it because our nation is entering into dangerous and precarious waters and I sense that something will give very soon. I am therefore constrained to use this medium to bring my observations to your attention. Be rest assured that I speak out of nothing but love and concern for the welfare of the Nigerian people and it is not my intention to insult you or undermine and disrespect your office but rather to shine the light of truth on all your activities to assisting and encouraging you to change your ways. You will agree with me that, no matter how bitter it may be, that truth must be told. This is a sacred obligation on our part as leaders and a matter of duty and honor. I owe you, the Nigerian people and posterity that much and I have little doubt that no matter how badly you may feel after reading it, history will vindicate me and prove me right and one day you will acknowledge and recognise the profundity, wisdom and foresight in my constant and consistent criticisms, admonitions and counsel. Outside of that it is my earnest prayer that the God of Heaven, whose I am and whom I serve, will judge between you and me. Your Excellency, please note and consider the following: You released hundreds of Boko Haram fighters from prison claiming that they are reformed and a few days later 30 of your citizens are blown up by the same Boko Haram in Borno state. Worse still, on that same day,16 members of the same family and four others were herded into a room and burnt alive by Fulani militants in Kaduna state. After these terrible events instead of rushing back home to stand with your people, you stayed in Addis Ababa, lamenting and crying about the security situation in Libya and you sent your Vice to a funeral in Nairobi. Such insensitivity, even by your own standards, is rarely seen. It took you three long days to finally see fit to leave your foreign friends, leave Addis Ababa and fly directly to Maiduguri to express your condolences to the Governor and people of Borno. Even then you could not muster the courage to go to the town of Auno where the bombing took place but only to Maiduguri, the capital of the state. Understandably you were received with boos, jeers and shouts of “ba ma so” (meaning “we don’t want”) by the crowds that lined the streets and this was an eloquent testimony to the fact that the entire nation, including the north that you claim to represent and be a champion of, is fed up with you and can no longer bear your incompetence and inability to run the affairs of our nation. Worst still hours after your condolence visit Boko Haram attacked Maiduguri itself hitting one of its suburbs called Jiddari Polo. Their leader, a cowardly creature that can best be described as a psychopathic, delusional, sociopathic, mentally deranged, murderous, bloodthirsty, bloodlusting and unconciable monster by the name of Sheik Abubakar Shekau, even had the nerve to send you a public warning in a recorded message released to the public after you left in which he arrogantly and boastfully declared that you must never come back to Borno again or you would be attacked and that you “should fear and serve God and not cows”. He added the following, “Buhari thinks he is a General but God says he is nothing. He hasn’t achieved anything in the sight of God. Buhari is deceiving the people and playing to the gallery”. Mr. President, he has sent his message to you and to Nigeria and we have heard him loud and clear. Yet most disturbing was not his sheer effrontery but the fact that the only thing that you had to offer the leaders and people of Borno state when you got there was a lame and self-debasing question which was “I wonder how Boko Haram still survives?” You went further by blaming them for “not taking care of local security” forgetting that is meant to be your job and not theirs. In your so-called condolence visit you refused to take responsibility for your own inaction and failure and instead you sought to pass the buck to the very victims of terror that you claim to have come to mourn! You refused to inspire and encourage them and instead you accused them of, at best, responsible behaviour and, at worst, collusion with the enemy. This is not just a case of rubbing salt in their wounds but it is more like blowing them up and killing them all over again. Worse still as you spoke your Minister of Defence, who sat just a few feet away from you, fell fast asleep! Mr. President, I really do wonder whether you have any feeling or any compassion at all? Has the milk of human kindness stopped flowing through your veins? Do you know that young students, women, infants and babies were among those that were blown up in the Auno atrocity? Yes you issued a statement immediately but you didn’t show up till three days later and your Vice, who was in the country the day it happened, never showed up at all and instead jetted out to President Arap Moi’s burial in Nairobi! Kindly tell me what the Nigerian people have done to deserve this level of contempt? Or is there more to it than meets the eye? Forgive me Mr. President but I am constrained to ask, why do you love terrorism, bloodshed and violence so much? Why do you find it so easy to forgive terrorists that are slaughtering your own people? Are you feeding your spiritual foundation and getting your power from the spilling of innocent blood? Meanwhile, your own Chief of Army Staff has told us today that: “We have defeated insurgency but we are facing the challenge of terrorism. There is no-where you will not find Boko Haram, even in Lagos here, there are Boko Haram. In Kaduna there are Boko Haram. There are more across the North East. Many have been arrested here in Lagos. We have been tracking them. We arrest them and take them into custody”. I commend the Chief of Army Staff for his admission of failure but what he didn’t add was that after taking them “into custody” you ordered him to release them and even draft some of them into the Nigerian Army on the spurious grounds that they have repented and that they have been reformed. Again the truth is that neither you or him ever “defeated insurgency” or anything else. Instead you encouraged and supported it! Both of you have failed the Nigerian people just as I predicted that you would and if you had any decency or honor you would BOTH resign. Aside that it takes a very mean, callous, wicked and cruel President and Commander-in-Chief to release 1,400 terrorists who have murdered, butchered, slaughtered, tortured and maimed his soldiers and terrorized his people over the last 5 years. Mr. President, I am constrained to tell you that some believe that you are a sadist! They believe that your heart is as hard as stone and your soul is as black as night. Relevant and instructive are the words of Mr. Charles Ogbu, a brilliant writer and essayist who has consistently proved that he is not only insightful but also deeply profound. Three days after the Auno bombing he wrote the following: “Those who are asking for the sack of the Service Chiefs as a solution to the upsurge in Boko Haram terrorism are missing the point. Nigeria is not being overrun by terrorists because we have a set of incompetent service Chiefs or soldiers who cannot fight the terrorists. Not at all. “The only reason the Boko Haram terrorists are having a field day is because we have a President and a Commander-in-Chief who shares the same ideology as the terrorists and as a result prefers pandering to them as opposed to fighting them”. He went further: “In fact a betting man would bet that the only difference between the Boko Haram terrorists killing, maiming and beheading Nigerians in the Northeast and our President and Commander-In-Chief is in their name and location. One is named “Boko Haram” and operates from the bush while the other one is named “Muhammadu Buhari” and operates from Aso Rock. If we were to remove the cloak of fear of detention by state oppressive forces, we would all admit they are both pursuing the same goal and doing a very good job of it. You that is reading this, you know this is exactly what is happening even if you may not want to publicly say it for whatever reason”. He concluded by asking: “Who ‘rehabilitates’ and releases captured terrorists back into the wild at a time the terrorists are still visiting death and destruction on his country? Even America with her advanced military doesn’t release arrested terrorists in the heat of the war because the chances of these terrorists going back into the wild to continue killing are very high”. Mr. President, forgive me for saying so but the verdict is out and Mr. Ogbu has made a valid point. This calls for much soul-searching on your part. I urge you to bear in mind that trading in the blood of your own people and indulging in all manner of barbarity, suppression of dissent, persecution of your perceived enemies and evil comes with a heavy price. Every Pharaoh, Sennacherub, Herod, Jezebel and Nebuchadnezzar has a bad end. Every tyrant, no matter how powerful and highly placed, will eventually account to God and the people for his brutality and wickedness. Yours will be no different. Anyone that doubts that should consider the plight of the Sudan’s former President, General Al Bashir. As the great black American Nation of Islam leader and one of my favourite heroes, Malcom X, once said “the chickens have finally come home to roost”. This has always been the case and it will always be the case. It is only a matter of time. Over the last 5 years, hundreds of thousands have died under your watch and almost all have been killed by those from your core northern region. You turned a blind eye to it and even encouraged it. Today belongs to you but let me assure you that tomorrow belongs to those of us that you have killed, persecuted, oppressed and treated with disdain and contempt. On the 11th of February, at the burial ceremony of the 18 year old Christian martyr Nnandi Michael (the Seminarean that was abducted and later murdered by Fulani herdsmen) the respected Catholic cleric Bishop Matthew Hassan Kukah, a man of immense moral authority and intellectual vigour, courageously admonished you before the entire world, spoke the bitter truth and reflected the thoughts of millions from all over the country. Amongst many other things he said the following: “This President has displayed the greatest degree of insensitivity in managing our country’s rich diversity. He has subordinated the larger interests of the country to the hegemonic interests of his co-religionists and clansmen and women. The impression created now is that, to hold a key and strategic position in Nigeria today, it is more important to be a northern Muslim than a Nigerian.” He did not stop there but went on to say: “We are being told that this situation has nothing to do with Religion. Really? It is what happens when politicians use religion to extend the frontiers of their ambition and power. Are we to believe that simply because Boko Haram kills Muslims too, they wear no religious garb? Are we to deny the evidence before us, of kidnappers separating Muslims from infidels or compelling Christians to convert or die? If your son steals from me, do you solve the problem by saying he also steals from you?” He then said: “The Fulani, his (President Muhammadu Buhari) innocent kinsmen, have become the subject of opprobrium, ridicule, defamation, calumny and obloquy. His north has become one large grave yard, a valley of dry bones, the nastiest and the most brutish part of our dear country”. He added: “Today, our years of hypocrisy, duplicity, fabricated integrity, false piety, empty morality, fraud and Pharisaism have caught up with us. Nigeria is on the crossroads and its future hangs precariously in a balance. This is a wakeup call for us. As St. Paul reminds us; The night is far spent, and the day is at hand. Therefore, let us cast away the works of darkness and put on the armour of light. It is time to face and dispel the clouds of evil that hover over us. “On our part, I believe that this is a defining moment for Christians and Christianity in Nigeria. We Christians must be honest enough to accept that we have taken so much for granted and made so much sacrifice in the name of nation building. We accepted President Buhari when he came with General Idiagbon, two Muslims and two northerners. We accepted Abiola and Kingibe, thinking that we had crossed the path of religion, but we were grossly mistaken. When Jonathan became President, and Senator David Mark remained Senate President while Patricia Ette was chosen by the South West became a Speaker. “The Muslim members revolted and forced her resignation with lies and forgery. The same House would shamelessly say that they had no records of her indictment. Today, we are living with a Senate whose entire leadership is in the hands of Muslims. Christians have continued to support them. For how long shall we continue on this road with different ambitions? Christians must rise up and defend their faith with all the moral weapons they have”. I assure you that these were not the words of Bishop Kukah alone but rather the Holy Spirit speaking through him. He spoke the mind and the oracles of the Living God and you would do well to humble yourself, take heed and appreciate the Lord’s admonition and counsel. Let us hope that you disregard the advice of the hardliners around you, learn from these words and change your dastardly ways though I doubt that you will. Whatever the case and whatever you choose to do or not to do, know this: the die is cast, Caesar has crossed the Rubicon, the horse has bolted from the stable, the cat is out of the bag, our eyes have been opened, we have lost all sense of fear and Nigeria can NEVER be the same again. Mr. President, here ends my counsel to you but let me to end this contribution with a closer look at the north that you love so much and that you seek to empower and enthrone forever. According to the World Bank “87% of poor people in Nigeria are in the North”. One wonders what 58 years of northern oppression, tyranny, aggression, manipulation and hegemony over Nigeria has actually done for the northern masses. Since independence mass poverty, terrorism, religious bigotry, ethnic hegemony, Islamic fundamentalism, arrogance, born to rule syndrome, the worship of cows, ignorance, disease, hate, racism, feudalism, pedophilia, child marriage, VVF, gender inequality, male chauvinism, the persecution of Christians, the suppression of women, corruption, deceit, greed, ingratitude, a sense of entitlement, tyranny, insensitivity, bloodshed, genocide, ethnic cleansing, mass murder and gratuitous violence have all been deeply embedded in and associated with the core north. Worse still, according to UNICEF, if Nigeria were to ever break up the core north would be the poorest spot on planet Earth. I guess this is why northerners keep screaming “one Nigeria” and threatening the lives and liberty of those that do not share their view. Without Nigeria they would be groping in the dark, wobbling on their feet and literally starve to death. All this yet they insist that they were “born to rule” and that southerners and Middle Belters were “born to serve” them and be their slaves! Professor Yusuf Dankofa of the Faculty of Law at Ahmadu Bello University who happens to be a northerner himself put it in very clear terms and spoke the bitter truth when he wrote the following: “I think the north is only interested in power and nothing more.The sweetness of power and the allure it brings is what appeals to them and not work. If not, how can a region be so decimated by its own internal contradictions and trudge on as if the region is not regressing. “In the face of calamity, what you see is eerie silence, since power is with their elites who are thoroughly dependent on public treasury to survive.The poor too draws happiness from the fact that power is in the hands of their elites even if they will die of poverty and insurgency. We are happy that power is with us even though we don’t know what to do with it.This mindset will definitely lead others to seek to move out of the union. You can’t slow down your own progress and those of others and expect them to clap for you”. Dankofa is absolutely right! What a people! What a country! Yet I do not blame the core northerners: I blame southern and Middle Belt politicians and leaders who have refused to unite and who have failed to resist them and stand up to them over the last 58 years. The history of our nation records that there were a few great men of remarkable courage, extraordinary fortitude and immense valour that not only did their best but were also gallant, fearless, selfless and outstanding in their quest to deliver our people. Some of them were martyred and others were jailed whilst all suffered an unprecedented and unbearable level of humiliation and persecution. Yet despite it all they continued the struggle. They identified and understood the problem and fought hard in their respective ways to fix it and deliver our people from northern hegemony, domination and bondage but sadly they all failed. The new generation of southern and Middle Belt leaders must NOT fail because this is the last lap. For our generation failure is NOT an option. We have no choice but to use all lawful and non-violent means to break the yoke of subjugation, servitude, slavery and bondage and to succeed in our quest for total liberation. If we fail to do so future generations of our people shall NEVER be free again. We need the prayers of the saints and the fasting and supplications of the intercessors, the Prophets, the men and women of God and the Body of Christ! We need the Holy Spirit of the Living God: the El Shaddai, the Elohim and the Adonai. We need the Man of War, the Comforter, the Lord of Hosts and the Ancient of Days! We need a great deliverer: a Moses, a Joshua, a Caleb, a David, a Cyrus, a Samson, a Gideon, a Jeptha, an Esther and a Jehu all rolled into one. We need men and women of courage to pick up the gauntlet, take up the challenge and lead us in this great and cataclysmic battle and this monumental struggle. We need to close ranks, build bridges among ourselves and forget past hurts, past disputes and past disagreements and agree to be totally and completely united. Finally, we need to look within ourselves and firmly resolve that it would be better to live a short life and die as free men than live a long one and live as slaves. We fight not for ourselves but for future generations of our family, our lineage, our loved ones and our compatriots. God forbid that they should have to live through the hell that we had to suffer called Nigeria: a land where the accursed rule over the blessed and where slaves ride on horseback whilst Princes and Kings walk around in bare feet.

http://icechuks2.blogspot.com/2020/02/an-open-letter-to-president-muhammadu.html

#http://icechuks2.blogspot.com/2020/02/an-open-letter-to-president-muhammadu.html An open letter to P

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(Bloomberg) -- Senator Majority Leader Mitch McConnell is starting his summer break under siege. Democrats are intensifying pressure on him to take up gun legislation, expletive-hurling protesters have shown up at his front door and his campaign generated social media outrage over a tweet.It’s been a rough stretch for the Kentucky Republican, and the aftermath of two mass shootings in 24 hours last weekend guarantees he’ll remain under the spotlight. McConnell, who is up for re-election in 2020, must decide whether to step away from his rigid defense of gun-owner rights as he works with an unreliable partner in President Donald Trump, who is sending mixed signals about where he stands on the issue.The self-described “grim reaper” of liberal policy plans has stayed firmly in control in the GOP-led Senate by successfully shepherding a host of conservative judges through confirmation, staving off Democratic legislative initiatives and staying out of the line of fire from Trump. The gun issue, one of the most volatile in U.S. politics, will test his ability to maneuver between the Democrats and the president.McConnell said Thursday that he and Trump spoke earlier in the day about the issue, and both agreed a bipartisan deal is needed and that “two items that for sure will be front and center” are background checks for gun buyers and encouraging state “red flag” laws intended to take firearms away from dangerous or mentally ill people.“The urgency of this is not lost by any of us because we have seen entirely too many of these outrageous acts by deranged people,” he said in an interview on Louisville radio station WHAS. He added, though, that he won’t bring the Senate back early from an August recess to act.The renewed emphasis on gun control comes as McConnell also is fending off Democratic attacks over his unwillingness to allow votes on legislation aimed at securing U.S. elections before 2020, in response to findings that Russia acted to swing the 2016 vote in Trump’s favor. MSNBC’s Joe Scarborough tagged McConnell as “Moscow Mitch,” kicking off the social media trend that’s been picked up by chanting protesters.McConnell on DefensiveDays before lawmakers left Washington for a month-long recess, McConnell took to the Senate floor to angrily defend his record on Russia and to take on his detractors in an unusually impassioned extended address. He accused his critics of engaging in “modern-day McCarthyism.”National scorn and Democratic attacks have followed him back home to Kentucky, where he is campaigning for a seventh term. At a political picnic in Fancy Farm, Kentucky, on Saturday, protesters chanted “Moscow Mitch” as he spoke. Other protesters appeared outside his home in Louisville this week, shouting expletives while he was inside recovering from a shoulder injury on Sunday.His campaign also was derided by critics over a photo posted on McConnell’s Senate re-election twitter account shortly after the Saturday shootings at a Walmart in El Paso, Texas, that left 22 people dead. The photo showed cardboard replicas of tombstones that depicted the Democrats’ “Green New Deal” on climate change, his Democratic opponent in 2020, Amy McGrath, and socialism.McConnell’s remarks on Thursday provided the first hints of what he might consider. He told the Louisville radio station that restoring a lapsed ban on assault-style weapons probably would be discussed but that he questions how effective that would be. On background checks, he pointed to an earlier proposal by GOP Senator Pat Toomey of Pennsylvania and Democratic Senator Joe Manchin of West Virginia as a possible model. Their measure, blocked in the Senate in 2013 in part because McConnell’s opposed it, would eliminate loopholes for making background checks part of firearms transactions.“McConnell is a cool customer and he’ll let the Senate work its will without taking up Democratic House-passed legislation,” said Ron Bonjean, a Republican strategist who was a top aide to past GOP leaders of both the House and Senate.Trump has been inconsistent about where he is on the matter, hinting at a tough challenge this fall for McConnell when senators return to work.Trump on Monday gave support to a proposal intended to take firearms away from the mentally ill as he called for bipartisan action following the shootings in Ohio and Texas that killed 31 people and wounded dozens of others. He has proposed nothing that would curtail the availability of firearms.While the president has threatened to veto House-passed legislation on background checks, on Wednesday he told reporters on the White House lawn that he is in favor of some form of bolstered vetting for gun buyers.Background Checks“I’m looking to do background checks,” Trump said. “I think background checks are important.”Trump has a track record of backing away from proposed new gun laws. Two weeks after last year’s massacre at a Parkland, Florida, high school, Trump convened an extraordinary meeting of top Democrats and Republicans. He indicated he would push through universal background checks and other measures that Democrats long have supported. He ended up backing away from universal checks in the face of opposition from the National Rifle Association.Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer this week repeated his call for McConnell to bring the Senate back for an emergency session and take up legislation approved in February by the Democrat-led House that would require background checks on all gun purchases -- including at gun shows and online.“We’re saying to Leader McConnell, do the right thing,” Schumer said at a news conference where he was joined by GOP Representative Peter King of New York, who co-sponsored the measure. Modest ChangesLast year a number of modest policy changes were enacted after the mass shootings in Florida and Las Vegas. The administration took action to ban so-called bump stocks that allow semi-automatic rifles to mimic fully automatic weapons. Congress also voted to improve background checks for gun purchases, spend more on school safety, and let the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention study gun violence -- ending what was in effect a 22-year ban that was supported by the NRA.But they were small steps compared with the 1994 assault-weapons ban that lapsed in 2004.The twin attacks in recent days seemed to renew momentum for action to address gun violence. Trump ally and Senate Judiciary Chairman Lindsey Graham said Monday that he and Democratic Senator Richard Blumenthal, a gun-control advocate, will draft legislation to help states adopt so-called red flag laws intended to take firearms away from dangerous or mentally ill people.A number of leading Republicans also called for action. Ohio Governor Mike DeWine, a Republican, on Tuesday issued proposals including a “red flag” law, background checks for most firearm purchases, and tougher penalties for felons with guns and straw purchases.In the Senate, some senior Republicans called for action on “red flag” legislation, including several members of McConnell’s leadership team. That includes Senator John Thune of South Dakota and Senator Todd Young of Indiana.‘Multiple Problems’“Clearly we have multiple problems in this country – problems of hate, social alienation, and the devaluing of human life – and we’re going to have to work together as a nation to address these challenges,” Young said in a statement.But there were few calls for enhanced background checks, with the exception of two GOP senators: Toomey and Susan Collins of Maine.Democrats are keeping the pressure on. Representative Tim Ryan, an Ohio Democrat who’s among the crowded field of candidates seeking the party’s 2020 presidential nomination, said Thursday he’d start a caravan from Niles, Ohio, to McConnell’s home in Kentucky to demand action on gun-safety bills. “People say ‘Why is it different now?’ I just think this has all accumulated,” Ryan said during an interview Thursday with CNN. “You go back: it’s Parkland; it’s Sandy Hook; it’s Columbine. It’s all of these things over the past 20 years.”As McConnell navigates the matter, there is some prospect that the pressure to act will be reduced in the weeks before Congress returns to work, said Republican strategist Whit Ayres. Passage of a few weeks means advocates could “lose the momentum of the moment,” he said.“I am hesitant to make any predictions in the aftermath of the latest tragedy, given the fact that past tragedies have raised the possibility of changes in our laws that have never come to fruition,” Ayres said. Demand for legislation is clearly growing, but he said it will take “an alignment of the planets to get something significant changed given the controversy over any sort of laws affecting guns.”(Adds McConnell comments in 4th, 5th and 10th paragraphs.)To contact the reporter on this story: Laura Litvan in Washington at [email protected] contact the editors responsible for this story: Joe Sobczyk at [email protected], Laurie AsséoFor more articles like this, please visit us at bloomberg.com©2019 Bloomberg L.P.

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