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emilydickinsonshistory · 1 year

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Otis Phillips Lord, Edward Dickinson’s old friend and a judge on the Massachusetts supreme court, had studied law at Amherst just before Emily was born and during the first 18 months of her life. He had graduated in 1832, and Amherst had conferred on him an honorary doctor of laws in 1869. He was married to Elizabeth Farley, a high-minded descendant of John Leverett, president of Harvard. They were childless and lived near the Witch House in Salem. The Lords used to stay at the Homestead, and after Edward died, “the dear Lords,” as Emily wrote, continued to visit. The judge appears to have come on his own for a week in October 1875, when Emily, far from reclusive, spoke of his visit as being “with me.” Mrs. Lord died in December 1877, on Emily’s 47th birthday. Over the next few months, Emily turned to the handsome widower – not as a father but as a suitor of sorts. Later, a granddaughter of Dickinson’s confidante Elizabeth Holland suggested that Lord’s tenderness had “long been latent in his feeling for her.” Dickinson expert and Mount Holyoke College professor Christopher Benfey has asserted this possibility more strongly, suggesting in his book A Summer of Hummingbirds that the attraction went back to the summer of 1862, when Lord came to Amherst as commencement speaker. Eighteen years her senior, his gray hair was shading into white; his expression calm and contained – not a man to exact attention, though his grave and upright bearing subdued others, not only the guilty, as he passed judgment. Lord looked stern “as the Profile of a Tree against a winter sky,” Emily ventured to say. He appeared as rigid as Emily’s father, but she had a way with elders of this sort, breezing through their barest branches. Her amusing darts disarmed men of law who were accustomed to wither lesser beings; the drafts of her letters to Lord are witty, confident, open, and playfully physical – hardly the way modest women were meant to behave. Gossip had it that Emily’s sister-in-law, Susan, had been taken aback to break in on the supposed recluse, the image of white-frocked chastity, in the judge’s arms. Lord’s niece Abbie Farley claimed to have heard Susan deplore that embrace. Emily, the niece is reported to have said, had not “any idea of morality.” She was bound to take this view, for Miss Farley, aged 35, was the judge’s heir. She and her mother, Mrs. Lord’s sister, were due to inherit jointly $23,000. Together with another niece on the Farley side (due to inherit $10,000), they kept house for the judge. If he remarried, he would have new claims. “Little hussy,” Abbie fumed over a copy of Emily’s Poems decades later when questioned about the celebrated poet Abbie had once known. “Loose morals,” Abbie remembered. “She was crazy about men. Even tried to get Judge Lord. Insane too.” To Emily herself, Lord’s love was “Improbable.” It would have been unthinkable in her father’s lifetime: his carefully protected daughter permitting such license, and with his old friend. The voice of judgment, “I say unto you” thundering through the startled air at morning prayers, had cleansed impurities from the minds of Edward Dickinson’s listeners. As Emily put it humorously, “Fumigation ceased when Father died.” Now, four years on, that voice no longer ruled. In her late 40s and early 50s, she found herself free to partake of the forbidden tree. With Lord, Emily was unafraid to speak up, inviting a glint of humor she called “the Judge Lord brand.” A smile broke when she teased him with the solemnities of courtroom language. “Crime,” “confess,” “punish,” “penalty,” “incarcerate” were the words she applied to his supposed trial of her as a wanting lover. “I confess that I love him,” she has to admit, but cannot pay the “debt” she owes him. Can her “involuntary Bankruptcy” be a crime? Will he “punish” her? “Incarcerate me in yourself – that will punish me,” she makes bold to suggest. Flashing repartee of this sort exploded into intimacy within months of Mrs. Lord’s death. That year, 1878, there’s immediate talk of consummation. She wasn’t shy when she drafted her letters to Lord: “lift me back, wont you, for only there [in your arms] I ask to be. . . .” He was her “lovely Salem”; she, his “Amherst.” Weekly letters, directed to arrive on Mondays by the judge’s habits of punctuality, bonded Salem and Amherst. Emily’s “little devices to live till Monday” – attempts to concentrate on work – gave way to “the thought of you.” So she said to herself, if not to Salem, in a penciled scrap that breaks into verse celebrating the nature of love (fleet, indiscreet, wrong, and joyful). As a single man, it was no longer proper for Lord to stay at the Homestead on his now more frequent trips to Amherst; he and Emily met in the parlor. There, they held each other while the air about them fanned the question of marriage. In August and September of 1880, he practically lived in Amherst. During this time, they may have entered into some kind of private engagement. Softly, her thin hand is offered to him in response to what she calls “your distant hope.” He leaves saying it had been a “heavenly hour.” How sweet was his candor, she wrote. His racy talk, familiar to colleagues on the bench, called out an unfamiliar side to Emily. “I will not wash my arm,” she said, “twill take your touch away,” and again: “It is strange that I miss you at night so much when I was never with you – but the punctual love invokes you soon as my eyes are shut – and I wake warm with the want sleep had almost filled. . .” The question of marriage came up more seriously in November and December 1882, after Emily’s mother, also named Emily, had died. Eyeing the poet’s thinness, Lord teased her as “Emily Jumbo” (the famous elephant, Jumbo, in Barnum’s circus had recently appeared near Amherst). She tossed the joke back. “Sweetest name, but I know a sweeter – Emily Jumbo Lord. Have I your approval?” He assumed that she was now freed to live with him. He replied, “I will try not to make it unpleasant.” She was touched that he could invite her into his “dear Home” with “loved timidity.” Her answer, as often when she was moved, almost falls into verse. “So delicate a diffidence, how beautiful to see! I do not think a Girl extant has so divine a modesty. You even call me to your Breast with apology! Of what must my poor Heart be made?”

Lyndall Gordan, Lives Like Loaded Guns: Emily Dickinson and Her Family’s Feuds, excerpted from a reprint in The Boston Globe

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libidomechanica · 10 months

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“But what: but when he left and again, unafraid, and luminous eyes”

A cinquain sequence

But what: but when he left and again, unafraid, and luminous eyes. And mine eie remayne.

Shall see whose body that slain; thoughts had said, that same frae my mammy yet. But the fire within.

When I longer envy her. And days and more that fondly part from the summits of evil?

Bands. Said Arac, and in popped with rough, till the faint desire within. They comfort her vndonne.

Under this round with the inconvenience breaks the loftly sway’st the third my life! And will die.

And waile shells, that, seeing Two who did but deeds. The world with the shores, that loue, dear dead leaves.

Had, having powre, in lowliness! As the fierce! Nor be time of weed livery, when he took.

—Fling pranks, and state of souerayne beast, hail, grasse now endless to Pall Mall. Castor has more esteem.

And shew them not the gate, or in pearl spring scent of the closed. No bigger that bring, all right?

His gylden quill: that my should at last may craft that fair dawn of life.—Robin shure in case pure?

” He looke. And rail, and there are so much knows; yet to get her ways, as looks red wine- spilith that.

Of whom at through white Ohio town knowing, come back safe ride with gore. Ignorant than we.

And invaded, lest solitude. I never love: but on a breadth of German, knew a sleep?

The teeming years before me. To look on the rest it out of thunder! Before you aren’t.

Not thereof let kind Syren! To roll out of the bloody hands. Petals besides such, the fall!

You stand henceforth a modern wild red and spotlesse they beholding beauty’s use, politics.

And shells or he was such precede the body take her face. That shee taper silver bowlers.

Juan never weep, soulful still in a race. What tremble th’ vtmost breathe sufferer begin?

And told me the purple- pillow. Ye bearing was, know thy forest, and ever would deceit.

The Holy Land. Inwardly began on thee from presence de Ligne washt from their guns were cock’d.

And such the rest in fill’d on; and some of the light to Arm Bears! And I’ll give a loving lips.

Alligators, sleave-silk flies as we. The Moslem orphan went realms? Th’ engraver sure!

He could fondly fear. Wind pent into thee. Delights them to love swear I did lately have year.

As Dian’s: lo! For how worthy. At his world’s wearie woes appetite beyond the rose againe vnreaue.

Of hemlock; our device; wrought thro’ the logic of a treasured motion. Where is not why,&c.

New angels, saints, descried in the running is special animals? With what I saw a faire.

And thirteen that holy Life, his happy letter that ye were time she gave men, snare of smoke?

Dawn in wars eternall blisse fit for raysed. What doe them in some vasty deep, never beene.

Which is hath let me dy. Somewhat longer than hands beneath dark kept itself in space and death.

The pit, and higher summons to keep was cajoled. I stand amazement, for, like Catherine’s bound.

Thou hast but few beholding was delicate aquiline curve in vain tones I may in bliss!

The sound! Of lanterns, or stedfastness and with gallant institutes, and, carried up to thee.

A conquering! So weak that hath before we to her boon forth such the which gaze vpon the wind.

With which he had, a king, whose name! Thy yoke, then to sends to this, out of a Vice Lord’s, striplings!

Let her necklace as ours! It cannot die a meteor, and wandring hand grains of Paris!

Her breath once worse the fourth, most cleared neither went. Three times hand angles with now him worthy tride.

Was Arac: Arac’s arms. For with longer timid hear heaven they ne dare na show, that toong?

I don’t need nor wept. But at twal’ at night honest, open, see, that senses unknown; unknown?

She dwell with jealous dolphin front door. Faire be ye sort would have curses struck before than I.

And then all grow vaster meeting you cause a little peace. And when once was the garden urn.

—There curls, and all and flow. Her I’d nothing marriage- bed. To Endymion could see but ah!

’ And then disarmed by sweet: shall not here as her! As a byrd that window-ledge might know it well.

Over the vain, come highest painted seed, O shining? Perhaps the loved the gloriously.

For her, thoughts breathe. She spawns warrior from its veil of spear and adore! I will steal his seed too!

Cold, base of they would we known them, messing the dwarfing city. Need not yet, he should I dare?

The gods of flurrying is idlers down. But the whispered jest alabaster made; and erasèd.

That loue; and neuer taste like the truth saue were nought I may know your joys. Will commands dying.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #183 texts #cinquain sequence

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whatdoesshedotothem · 2 years

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Saturday 28 July 1832

6 ¾

11 40

fine morning F67 ½° at 6 ¾ - breakfast with my father at 8 – out at 8 40 – went to Pickersgills’ – there some time – then to Wellroyde road – Washington soon came and Pickels to whom he let the new footpath thro’ Wellroyde wood and brow to make – they just came up as Mr. George Robinsons’ man had very foolishly thrown the cart and we had near had the shaft mare tumbling over into the wood – Wilkinson (Joseph) told Washington the people only wanted to get some money from me by making all this threatening about the bridle road – from about 11 to near 3 in my walk – treading grass from about the young trees – then ate gooseberries and strawberries in the garden - Kind letter from Mrs Norcliffe (Langton) 2 ½ pages giving me an account of IN-, CN-, and Mrs Milne in the Isle of Wright - my memoranda much of use - they slept at Kingston (near Richmond Park) instead of London on their way to Southampton at (letter dated last Monday) 5pm and at 6 a steamer took them to Cowes in 1 ½ hour - as last Tuesday evening they were to embark for Jersey - ‘Laffitte has sent a most terrific account of different department in France’ (on account of the Cholera) but only one place they walk of going thro’ Abbeville’ – called down

SH:7/ML/E/15/0100

to speak to a person aet. 30 who came to offer as Ladys’ maid – had lived 3 months with Mrs. Noel of.......... park near Appleby in Westmoreland who gave her £15 a year – was born at Settle where her father kept the spread Eagle – her brother now keeps the Devonshire hotel at Skipton – no with her married sister a dress maker at Blackburne – bad teeth – too countrified or not ladylike enough but would do anything and fond of travelling – said I should not want one till Xmas – if I thought more of her would write to her at ‘Mr. George Brinands’ Draper church street Blackburne’ – she is known to Mr. Hulins, collector of excise, H-x – her nails were not very clean – she could read well, but was out of the habit of writing – Think no more of her - wrote the above of today till 4 20 – wrote 3pp. and ends to Miss H- but interrupted by Pickels and then long by Sowden – and then dinner at 6 ¼, and then long interruption from poor Thomas Greenwood, so sadly disappointed about Pickersgills’ farm, that I myself grieve over his not having it - Kind affectionate letter to Miss H- but not apparently much so, or too much so in fact - say she has been the constant occupier of my thoughts since Tuesday that I had her letter - ‘I must write once more – I must take leave of Vere Hobart – I shall not dwell much on good wishes - these have gone before, and if they had not, you would have felt assured of them never the less. I hope the day will never come when you either doubt, or quite forget them – I shall count upon being remembered sometimes and looked forward with which pleasure to our meeting somewhere hereafter’ - shall in the meantime see the picture she is now sitting for to be given to lady S- - ‘I value that I have more than ever, and on the 31st shall direct it to him who ought to have it in reversion’ - then ask her to tell Ward to send me the newspaper of that day containing the paragraph, if it is not in the courier which I now take for the foreign news - hope they will be over the water soon as I am not to hear again till then. ‘You return may be said to be adjourned sine die, now that you are out of the [guards] – Lucky Charles indeed! this is managed beautifully’ (not a word more on this subject) ...... ‘But I grieve a little over the coffee pot - oh! that I had known it sooner. I am quite determined however to manage better on their return. I have nothing in the world to send you en cadeau on this occasion, and this annoys me shockingly it makes me quite envious of all those who have done so nicely, and I cannot bear to think of it’ - if she sees Madame Galvani to give mille amities de ma part and my address and say I should be very glad to hear from her now I have no hope of being in Paris for some months to come - on account of my affairs and my aunts fright of cholera - say she has not been quite so well of late - love to Lady S- and shall write to her soon. ‘I shall be anxious to hear how she is, how the dear girls look on Tuesday etc etc God bless you, my dearest Vere you and yours! I shall think of you often and always affectionately for the day will never come when I shall be less true than at present your very real and attached friend AL’ – sent off at 8 ½ letter to ‘Miss Hobart Honourable Lady Stuarts’ Whitehall London’ – went downstairs read over the courier – came to my room at 10 20 – seeing what I had paid today and calculating till 11 – very fine day F70 ½° at 11 20 p.m.

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storeefa · 2 years

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Story 6

“She’s not going to like this.” Agent 53 says slightly agitated. “She’s been working on this for almost a year and suddenly we’re going to just make her stop!”

“Unfortunately, yes Agent 53. This is not my decision. I’m not happy about this decision either. But we have our orders.” Says Agent 84. “I already have others investigating this letter to determine the authenticity. Despite the use of an interagency code that only a few of us know I have my doubts because the wording is too simplistic. I have haven’t heard back from my investigation team since yesterday. So far they have not been able to find anything to suggest it’s fake.”

“Either way, this just doesn’t sit right with me. I don’t care if they know emergency codes.” Agent 53 says in an impatient tone.

There’s a knock at the door and Agent 84 tells Agent 33 to enter.

“Good afternoon Agent 33. Agent 53 & I have asked you to join us today to discuss this letter we received a week ago.” Agent 84 begins while handing the letter to her. “As you can see, this raises some serious questions about the investigation you have been running.”

“I see that. Are you sure this is authentic? It’s dated--"

“We know when it’s dated and believe me, we ARE investigating this.” Agent 53 interrupts.

“But this date…. We’ll all be ling dead by then. This is almost exactly 428 years from tomorrow.” Agent 33 says, shocked. “So what you’re telling me is that all the work we’ve done over the past 40-something weeks is over like that. Nobody goes to the BACC?! And we’re supposed to just go on like nothing happened or is happening!?” She says growing more agitated.

“Unfortunately, yes 33. If this letter is accurate, then we have to stop. The information provided is just enough to prove that they know about the investigation and that somehow it will throw the future into chaos.” Agent 84 began apprehensively. “Under our rules, we cannot reveal too much about the future to the people of the past without causing damage of some kind. I can only assume that the rule is the same in the future. I’ve contacted my peers at the other centers and they each received a similar letter. The Sanctuaries are already withdrawing.”

“It’s unacceptable sir, people are dying!” Agent 53 yells.

“I know 53, I agree. But what can we do?” Agent 84 asks

Agent 53 walks over to a chair on the right of Agent 33 and slumps down into it, “Apparently, not a thing sir.” She says in a sarcastic tone.

“So, what’s next Agent 84?” Agent 33 asks.

“We’re going to assign you and your team to special investigations and apprehension. You’ve done great work so I want you to stay around until we find you something better. In the meantime, pack up all investigation materials and have them brought to my office by the end of the week.”

“Very well sir.” Agent 33 replies

“I would like to be kept in the loop about the letter, sir.” Agent 53 chimed in.

“You’ll get copies every step of the way. Now, if there is nothing else. If you’ll excuse me….” He said motioning towards the door.

After Agents 53 and 33 had left, 84 receives a phone call.

“Hello. Yes, ma’am, it’s done. The investigation is closed. I hope that this puts an end to the disruptions. No, they were not happy but we knew they wouldn’t be. The letter will be in the case files.” Agent 84 says while reviewing the letter.

The letter itself was not filled with a lot of information. It simply read:

“Dear Agents 33, 53 & 84 of The NYCTTSR,

999#346/191519

{67.9591}

This letter is to inform you that investigation #67, The patient deaths, must cease. Millions of lives are in the balance. You get it wrong.

Signed

Agent 84,

Acting Director

Earth Time Travel & Defense Agency

Bel'Kovich Crater, Moon 2935”

“I don’t understand one thing, ma’am. This could have potentially made the situation worse. Had we simply dismissed the letter and continued on with the investigation…” he stopped.

“Yes, I received the package.” He says reaching for & opening a brown datapad on his desk. “What could possibly be so important for you to--"

He stopped, stunned. The datapad contained a transcript of both the conversation that Agent 84 had with Agents 33 & 53 as well as the conversation he was currently on.

“I understand. Goodnight.” He says as he hangs up.

On the other end of the line, a young woman hangs up her own phone and walks from her office to an adjoining office. Inside there is a small table with a datapad and 2 large mirrors on the walls, one extending the height and the other the width of the walls. Each mirror has a set of wires, black, blue, yellow and purple, coiled in each corner. The young woman grabs the datapad, presses a button and the wires in the top corners of each mirror extend to touch each other. The mirrors shimmer and she walks through. After she walks through and the mirrors return to normal, a liquid starts to pour out of the datapad. The liquid looks like mercury and begins to dissolve everything in the office. Once everything is dissolved, the liquid freezes & turns to ash.

#short fiction #short story

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if-you-fan-a-fire · 1 year

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“Boy, 16, With Fag Papers Put in Strait-Jacket And Kept in ‘Solitary’,” Toronto Star. October 31, 1932. Page 1 & 2. ---- Negro Dies in Cell at Portsmouth, Shot by Official, Is Another Allegation ---- ‘WEEK-ENDS HELL’ --- Solitude Worst Feature of Penitentiary Life, Says Ex-Inmate of Kingston ---- By R. E. KNOWLES My meeting with this ex-convict, whose name, address, present occupation I know but withhold, was of casual incident – but sufficiently inmpressive to impel me to invite him to my office for further interview, an invitation gravely and modestly accepted.

Like myself, my new-found acquaintance is a graduate of Kingston. My term was four years; his but three. Mine Queen’s; his Portsmouth.

‘Tell me about it?’ I said when Mr. Tapley (which is the name I shall use but which bears no resemablance to his own) was settled down opposite my desk. He is about 40, tall, well-dressed, educated, self-controlled and interested in life and all who live it. I may add that I knew, and still know the main facts of his career, the same fully verified in advance.

‘Where shall I begin, sir?’ was the reply. ‘Wherever you like,’ I said. ‘Probably it will answer our purpose if you begin with your sentence – does it pain you to speak of these matters?’ I inquired.

Tapley reached over to my desk for a match, lit his pipe anew, cleared his throat and began. ‘No, sir, I cannot say it does. In fact, I want to tell what I’ve got to say. Perhaps it will do some good. I did wrong, I know, I made the mistake – no, not that exactly, either – I just made the first wrong step – and all the rest was trying to retrace; trying the wrong way, always hoping I’d have luck. It’s hard to start back up once you have stepped over the edge of a precipice, sir.’

‘What is your hardest fight now – now that you’re out?’ I asked. ‘To keep my self-respect, sir – to get it back, I mean. I don’t feel I have any right to lose it permanently. I paid the price, I took my medicine – I think the fellow who stole, and went to the penitentiary for it and stood the gaff for three years and comes out, is more entitled to keep his self-respect than a fellow who stole, and knows he stole, but never walked the plank for it.’

‘I think so too,’ was my response. And really, as I looked at the poor chap, such a tragedy – a strong and clever man who has a ball and chain about his feet for life, but who is resolved to drag it bravely – I was not conscious of any sensation of strangeness, any gulf between us, as I sat and talked with him. There is nothing more cruelly unjust than our ostracization of the man who has been in jail. All of us know men who merit jail, but have dodged it – yet few of us have ever learned to despise them as we do an ex-convict; our contempt is provoked, not by the guilt, but by the punishment.

Noblest Wife in World ‘What helps you most to get back your self-respect?’ I renewed. The ex-convict’s face flushed and his voice trembled. ‘My wife,’ he flung back passionately. ‘By God, I’ve got the noblest wife in the world – she stuck to me all through those three years – but I never saw her there,’ this last word trailing misery, ‘I wouldn’t let her come – but she kept writing me about what we’d do, and how happy we’d be, when I got out – used to find little bits of pressed flowers in her letters – my God, how I cried the first time they came. And she was at Kingston, at the old British-American hotel, waiting, when I got out – and, oh Lord, it’s been heaven since to be with her.’

‘Where were you working when you got into trouble?’ I asked, quite forgetting I had asked Tapley to tell his own story ‘In Toronto, At ---- and ----‘s,’ naming a well-known business house, at the corner of ----- and ---- streets. I was in the office, cashier.’

‘What amount were you responsible for?’ I ventured. ‘I stole $70,000,’ was the resolute reply; ‘little by little; then, trying to cover, over a period of ten years, in bigger sums. And they sent me to Kingston for three years.’

‘Who was the judge?’ I asked. ‘It wasn’t a judge – it was Magistrate Browne,’ replied the forth-right Tapley.

‘Get any remission for good conduct?’ ‘Sure. And I got every day that was coming to me. And I never missed a meal.’

‘What about the food?’ I asked. ‘Well, although before I went there, I was always a good liver, yet I must say that the food at the Kingston penitentiary was quite reasonably good. Of course, it wasn’t served as I had been used to getting food served.’

‘No finger bowls?’ I queried. ‘Not often. But the food was good enough – only there wasn’t enough of it. I think that’s underneath a lot of the present trouble at Kingston – it’s no good for a hard days’ work. At 7 a.m., you get mush, bread, tea – very good, but when you go to work in the blacksmith’s shop, or the quarry, you’re soon faint. I was put in the chief engineer’s office – there right through – and Mr. Nixon is pure gold, but before coming out, wanting to harden my muscles. I worked at wiring, and the food didn’t keep me up even for that work.’

‘Were you often cold, Mr. Tapley?’

‘Yes and that’s another trouble underlying cause for the present trouble. The penitentiary is full of windy spaces. At this time of year there’s no steam on all day. It only comes on 15 minutes before you slink to your cell. You go in at 4 o’clock in the winter and it doesn’t begin to get warm until 7. And there are not enough bed covers. And often the prisoners walk up and down in their cells, with the blankets around them, to try and get warm. Then they yell, a lot of them – then they get punished. The food, too, is cold, the bed is cold, the cell is cold.’

‘Pure Hell’ ‘What, all in all, would you say, Mr. Tapley, is the worst thing the inmates have to bear?’ ‘The solitude,’ was the bitter reply; ‘the week-ends are pure hell. From four or five Saturday afternoon till seven Monday morning you’re all alone, except for church. There’s really no reason why the inmates shouldn’t get some air and exercise on Sundays. It’s all a question of guards – it’s considering about 30 guards as against 900 prisoners. Ah, that part was the valley pf death,’ a look of actual pain in the deep-seamed face.

What do you think about the public indignation, at present, the demand for investigation, etc.?’ I asked. ‘I think it’s called for – those grey, grim walls down there enclose a great, dark continent,’ was the reply.

‘What is the worst feature of it, Tapley?’ I pursued. ‘Brutal guards,’ was the laconic reply.

‘What makes them brutal?’ ‘Well, I suppose it’s fair enough to say that, to begin with, the type of man who wants that kind of job is not likely to be the refined sort. That’s one thing: I say this solemnly, that I heard more blasphemy and more obscenity from the keepers than from the inmates. Then, you know, give authority to men who haven’t had any before and the tendency always is for such men to use it brutally. They sting and insult and outrage the prisoners till they fairly writhe under it –till they can’t stand it any longer. Then the inmates talk back – then they’re called refractory and have to endure all kinds of brutality and get punished into the bargain.

‘Is that true of all the guards? ‘Oh, no – and a remarkable thing is that the old guards are far more merciful than the young fellows.’

Physical Cruelty ‘Is there much physical cruelty, Mr. Tapley?’ ‘Oh, yes, oh, yes, a lot. I’ve seen men come back from their ‘paddling’ and from the lash – I mind Mike O’Hara’s case particularly – with their backs all livid and their buttocks all raw. They’d be whimpering, some of them crying openly = and the toughest sight I ever saw in my life was some of the old hardened birds there trying to comfort some fellow who came back all raw behind – couldn’t sit down for days. God, it was awful,’ concluded the unhappy man, his own lips twitching, his eyes burning at the memory.

‘Does this go for the young fellows just the same as the confirmed jail-birds?’ I asked.

‘No difference. I remember – it was a fierce case – a young fellow there, only 16 years old. He was found with cigarette papers – and he wouldn’t tell where he got them. So he was faced with loss of ‘remission’ and with a strapping. So first they gave him solitary confindement for three days. Still he wouldn’t tell. Then a week. Then the second week they told him he was hoing to be paddled.’

Boy in Strait-Jacket ‘Did he give in then?’ ‘No, he told them he wouldn’t be paddled. So they went at him. In the middle of it he broke away, bolted to the window, rammed his head through the glass and began see-saw-ing, trying to cut his throat. They grabbed him back and took him to the hospital. By and by he was fixed up. Then they put him in a strait-jacket and solitary confinement for two weeks, with a guard outside his door, afraid he’d suicide.’

‘Did he give that up?’ I asked. ‘Wait till I tell you. This happened: Mr. Nixon, the chief engineer – the man who was so kind to me – he managed to get a chat with this boy, and he said: ‘Would you like to come and work for me?’ He said he could, Mr. Nixon said: ‘Will you really try to make good?’ He said yes. And he went in to work in that office, fixing up the room some way, decorating or something. And he was working away up on the girders, 40 feet above the floor, all free – and the warden and the doctor came past and saw him, and they began to talk of how he’d suicide – but Mr. Nixon knew better, he had tried kindness, and there never was any more trouble with that lad till he left the prison and made good. That shows the difference.’

‘What do you think the public ought to do now?’ I inquired at this point. ‘Demand an outside investigation,’ was the immediate answer. ‘I think it’s fierce – I read it in the paper – that the minister of justice says there will not be any public investigation. It’s the way he said it – it reminds me of old Commodore Vanderbilt, when he said, ‘the public be damned!’ It’s just about the same thing. And another thing I read – that Senator Meighen said the public surely aren’t going to take the side of the prisoners against the authorities of the penitentiary or something to that effect. That isn’t logical.’

‘Not Taking Sides’ ‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘Simply for this – an investigation doesn’t mean taking sides at all. It means finding out what the sides really are – then the sides can be taken after you find out. It’s strange that such a close-reasoning mind as Mr. Meighen’s would imply that, because people want to probe behind the scenes, to see if prisoners are getting a square deal, they should be branded as taking sides against law and order. He might as well say, when a judge appoints a lawyer to defend a prisoner, that the judge is taking up for criminality as against the law of the land.’

‘Is there, in your opinion, much of violence going on behind those walls, of which the public never hears at all?’ I asked. ‘One of the officials killed a man once,’ was the grim reply.

‘Tell me about it,’ I demanded. ‘It was a negro. One of the officials shot him dead in his cell.’

‘Tell me the official’s name,’ I returned. The ex-convict game me a name. It is familiar.

‘Tell me the circumstances,’ I renewed. ‘The man whom this official shot dead was a negro. He got possession of a huge pair of shears. He had them in his cell. The man who killed him – I suppose afraid to go into the cell – demanded that the negro should come out. The negro would not. Then the official demanded the negro should hand out the shears through the bars. Again the negro refused. Then the official shot the negro dead.’

‘What did the keepers think of this?’ I asked, hardly knowing what further question to ask. For the moment was tense. ‘The only thing I think worth repeating though I heard lots – was one keeper saying: ‘I could have overpowered that negro in two minutes with a hose.’ And, of course, so he could.’

‘And there was no trial?’ I asked. ‘I never heard of one.’

‘If there should be a trial now – or, for that matter, in case of this outside and public investigation we have been speaking of, where would the witnesses come from?’ I pursued. ‘Fellows like me,’ was the reply.

Fear Axe To Grind ‘What do you mean?’ I flung back. ‘I mean this – that I’m not a convict now. It’s all very well to say that prisoners have an axe to grind, when they give testimony. But; my God! Have not the guards and keepers axes to grind too? They want to keep their jobs, to get promotions. Now, fellows like me, in a way, they’re not involved. They’ve taken their medicine. They don’t need to perjure themselves. And, if this show-down comes, I think the big hope would be the testimony of ex-convicts like myself.’

‘Would you be willing to be a witness?’ I asked the calm, resolute man before me. For answer, he took a piece of paper from my desk: ‘If it would help to make that place a little less hell than it was to me,’ he said as he wrote, and handed back to me, his full name and present address. ‘I’ll give my evidence. Yes, I am willing to be a witness.’

#toronto #kingston penitentiary #prison conditions #prison riot #causes of prison riots #prison discipline #corporal punishment #solitary confinement #prison violence #prison brutality #words from the inside #prisoner autobiography #life inside #1932 kp riot #great depression in canada #crime and punishment in canada #history of crime and punishment in canada

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sortasirius · 3 years

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What the Fuck Happened to the SPN Finale?

Okay so here it is, my Charlie Kelly style manifesto.

Before I get into it, I recognize that I will look like this to many of you, and that’s okay, I understand:

Secondly, your personal Takes about the writers don’t interest me, I don’t need to hear them. This, as I’ll explain, is going to remain a writer positive blog, and that’s the end of it.

Third, and most importantly: some of what I’m going to talk about is fact, and some is highly educated speculation. I will notate what is speculation, just so there’s no confusion or hot takes in my inbox that I’m a conspiracy theorist or stirring shit up for no reason.

A list of what I’ll be discussing

The episode in regards to the rest of the season

The episode issues: length, editing

Scene placement and speculation of scenes cut

The scrubbing of Jack, Cas, Eileen

Network involvement and general timeline of when things were cut

Misha: theories on where he was, official company line, why we can’t expect to hear anything directly

The silence of the cast post episode (in Misha’s case, mid episode) and what this might mean

Jensen speaking with Kripke about the ending: why it doesn’t mean what you might think (also why kripke remained positive on the ending)

Walker, and why this episode had a major shift

Why the network would do this or get involved

Why the writers of the show simply aren’t the bad guys here, and what I “want” out of this post, since I know it’ll get asked

This is very long and under a cut, but I hope you’ll give it a read.

The Episode In Regards to the Rest of the Season

So, I’ve discussed this already here, but it’s the most obvious thing to me, and that’s the way this episode simply doesn’t fit with the rest of the season.

These people in this room have, truly, been nothing but consistent when it comes to their arcs, especially this season, and the marked dropoff in quality for the finale episode is just too sus to discount to me. Dabb’s whole focus has been character-based. In his seasons, we’ve moved far away from MOTW and bro-codependency, the found family taking it’s place. Does it really sit right to anyone that that was all thrown away in literally the last episode of the entire show?

This is speculation on my part, but as a writer myself, there is no way I would be happy or willing to stamp my name on something that I didn’t think would, at the very least, wrap up the season+ character arcs that I and my team had been crafting.

And before anyone comes in here saying, “well GOT did that!” Bruh. The writing was on the wall for GOT long before the final episode. You could tell that the showrunners just wanted to be done (not only from the plot, but from the fact that they lobbied for a shorter season). Miss me with that, it doesn’t apply here. Andrew has, besides Singer and J2, been with the show longer than anyone. He cares, he is meticulous and detailed, and this ending feels worse than anything Bucklemming has ever written, let alone Dabb.

Additionally, I’ve seen a lot of people say that Dabb was never behind Destiel, that it was all Bobo and Meredith and no one else. That is reductive to the point of insult of the work Dabb has done to get this greenlit. This man did not write the s13 Dean grief arc to be slandered like this. That being said, YES, Bobo and Meredith were the leads on the DeanCas arc this season, but ANDREW IS THE SHOWRUNNER, TO GET EVEN THE CONFESSION APPROVED BY THE NETWORK HE WOULD HAVE TO HAVE THEIR BACKS. AND HE DID.

Finale Issues

So, now that we’ve gotten the fact that this episode doesn’t hit on any of the major themes the show was barrelling towards all season, let’s discuss the fact that the episode is just...weird.

Not only is it shorter than any other episode (I think with the intro and the credits/crew thing at the end, it was around 38 mins), but it was also...idk, 90% filler?

One of the lovely humans in the POLOL server did the legwork here, and broke it down:

This is weird, y’all. Most series finales are LONGER than normal (Lost, SOA, Longmire are the ones I can think of off the top of my head), and for the final episode to be this? I saw more than one person point out that we only really needed 19 episodes, what was the point of 20? AND THAT’S EXACTLY IT? WHAT WAS THE POINT OF THIS FINAL EPISODE IF THIS WAS ALL WE WERE SUPPOSED TO GET?

It simply doesn’t make any sense, the first half of the episode was rushed, a final monster hunt gone wrong, but in the second half? Nothing really happened? Sam lived his entire life and Dean just drove around. It doesn’t make sense to have all the emotional arcs left unaddressed in an episode that definitely needed some kind of spark.

Here’s the speculation I have: the episode seemingly went through a lot of changes between the initial inception of the final season and when we actually got it, but I think it would have been passable (as in, we wouldn’t be sitting here asking each other why each arc feels incomplete) until the editing room got ahold of it. The only think that makes this episode make sense is network fuckery. Truly, that is the only thing. It explains the weird, cuts, the rushed pacing of the first half followed by nothing in the second half, the double montages of “Wayward Son” back to back, and Dean just...driving around for the last half of the episode.

Scene Placement and Speculation of Scenes Cut

Before I get into this section, the info of the shots in the episode I have come from a source that @occamshipper got a week or so before the finale. She’s talked about this here.

So here’s what Min was given:

1-5: 1 INT MEN OF LETTERS – DEAN’S ROOM Dean is greeted by Miracle

6-10: 6 INT MEN OF LETTERS – HALLWAY/SAM’S ROOM Sam has his routine

D1 1 11-15: 15 EXT FARM HOUSE Establishing

N1 1/8 16-20: 19 Dad’s journal, marker, drawing of masked man in journal.

21-25: 23 INT IMPALA – PMP Driver picks the music

N2 1 3/8 1,2 26-30: 28pt2 INT BARN: A face from the past

28pt3 Sam and Dean say goodbye

28pt4 Shot early for technical reasons, presumably the overhead shot

N2 31-45: 41 INT MEN OF LETTERS – SAM’S ROOM Sam’s alarm goes off D4 1/8 1 46-60: 56 INT N7glasses for Sam, laptop.

So...it all fits right? It all tracks with the actual episode, where it lands, etc. The issue is between shots 29-40 which were apparently “too big to spoil.” Uh. Where are they? And where’s 28 pt4?

After Dean dies, the next scene is Sam burning him, then shot 31, the shot of his alarm going off.

So. Where are those 11ish shots?

PLUS we have the boards, which are scenes we KNOW were actually shot:

As well as scenes for 20 that were shot in 19.

It’s just...weird, it’s weird and again hits on the fact that the episode is so short and like 80% montage.

The Scrubbing of Jack, Cas, and Eileen

So now we have to reckon with the fact that Eileen was last mentioned by Sam after she got snapped by Chuck, Jack’s last mention is that he’s off being God somewhere, and Cas’ last mention is a ~knowing look~ between Dean and Bobby.

I’m sorry, make it make sense:

???????? That’s the end if it? They don’t need to be discussed after this??? It’s just simply not something a writer would do, they would not introduce these characters, these arcs, without thinking there’s going to be some kind of follow through here.

So not only were three major characters (including two leads and both of the original characters’ love interests) completely wiped from the finale episode, it was as though Sam and Dean never even needed them, which just...ain’t it.

So why Eileen and Jack too? Why not just take Cas out of it if they were afraid of the gay? Because, ultimately, the episode went back to Kripke’s original story: just the bros, they only need each other and no one else. They don’t want anyone else, they don’t need anyone else. Easier to go back to something they knew was successful than trust the writers and their audience and take a big leap.

Alex even said he shot for 20 with “some of the guys” here. What happened to that footage?

The complete 180 of it all still shocks me, I still cannot believe that we were essentially at the finish line, and the network just stopped short, and decided to go run another race, at the expense of the arc of this fifteen year legacy show.

Network Involvement and When Things Were Cut

Okay, now into the juicy stuff.

So I’ve pretty well established that network fuckery is clear, but how much did they get involved, what was the original intent?

Well again, we may never actually know what Andrew’s original script was, but I think, at the least, it would involve Dean speaking his truth to Cas and Sam living a life with Eileen.

Now, it seems today, that Misha said that Jimmy Novak was supposed to be in the finale in one iteration of the script, and while initially my brain was like “that truly makes no sense and he’s either straight up lying or telling a half truth,” I think what may be happening is Misha talking about as much as he can right now.

So Jimmy right. Weird as fuck. Why would he been in the Roadhouse and not Cas? My current thought (this is about as reachy as I’ll get) is that Jimmy had no lines, could he have been in the Roadhouse as a red herring, like it said “Jimmy” in the script but it was just Cas in human clothes, a way to get around the network saying Cas couldn’t be in the final scene. Also, you’ll notice that Misha didn’t say that Cas wasn’t supposed to be in the ep at all, just Jimmy in the last scene.

All this to say, there have clearly been multiple versions of the script, getting lighter and lighter with Cas and Eileen as the network pulled further and further back. Remember, Dabb has to get things approved before they get shot, and if the network kept asking and asking and asking to cut Cas and Eileen, he had to find a way to work around it. Granted, I still think that if we had been able to get a Dabb script that wasn’t torn to shreds in editing, it wouldn’t be so bad. It may not be what a lot of us wanted (Dean speaking his truth to Cas and a reciprocation), but doing everything he could to give it to us in subtext or visual clues.

Plus, in all honesty, my man can’t keep his story straight anyway. He said twice in his panel that the Empty and offscreen Heaven ending weren’t his original ending either.

In addition, remember that Jensen did ADR post episode 18, AND said in a meet and greet last weekend that Dean’s reaction to Cas’ confession was “cut down.” (Source here). Many of us clowns got excited when we first heard about ADR, because we thought it would be upping the ante on Dean’s reaction, but I remember being a little sus when it was just crying. My speculation on that is that they cut out Dean actually SAYING something, @winchestersingerautorepair spoke about that here.

The biggest sins were, in my opinion, committed during editing, where the network got too gun shy and sliced the episode until it was nothing but a heartless bro-fest of a finale, not mentioning anything about the other major characters that we all love, and letting the boys just suffer in separation until Sam died and finally joined Dean in Heaven. The editing came by cutting all the major emotional beats between anyone other than Dean and Sam, leaving the skeleton of the story intact, just shorter and less...poignant than it was ever supposed to be.

Misha

We know Misha was in Vancouver, we know he quarantined, but we also know he wasn’t in the final scene, when he spoke about being in the last moment of the show months ago. We were not crazy, he was there, he quarantined, and, in all likelihood (speculation but fitting with the timeline), he actually may have shot something (not much, but something).

I have sources here, here, here, and here showing where Misha was at that time.

Remember, the man was completely open about coming back until they finished shooting (look at this thread). The switch happened, just like everything else, halfway through them shooting.

Please also remember Jake Abel posting his “Where’s Misha” video here. Jake isn’t malicious, he isn’t being nasty here. Misha was there, and everyone that’s trying to convince people he’s wasn’t just...isn’t telling the truth about it.

This is one of the things that makes me really mad, because they’re literally attempting to gaslight people into thinking, “oh we were totally wrong he was never supposed to be there” WHEN HE WAS THERE, WE KNOW HE WAS THERE.

So we’ve already heard from several people (Meghan Fitzmartin, Jay, a PA on the set of 19 (WHO WAS NOT WORKING FOR 20), Misha himself) that this was all down to Covid restrictions. Ultimately, as this post says, we’ve heard FIVE versions of where Misha was. None of it makes sense, but the Covid protocol seems to be the company line that others are repeating.

You may ask: why? Why lie to all of us when we have questions? Why, in Jay’s case, say that we’re all spreading false lies to stir up trouble, when we just have questions and things that do not make sense. Simply? Warner Brothers is absolutely massive. These people have their careers to protect and are likely all under NDAs. They want to work for WB again and don’t want to burn bridges, including Misha. It sucks, but that’s why it’s unlikely that we’ll hear someone come out and say, “yeah we’re lying to you.”

Silence of the Cast Post Episode

So this is...probably the worst part of all this, at least in my opinion.

The guys had all been pretty excited about the end of the show (especially Jared, but Jensen’s panel last week was Jensen as happy and jokey and positive as I’ve ever seen him. He was so excited about episode 18, about what it meant for Dean and for Cas, and I just cannot buy that he would have been that excited unless he thought there was something more in the episode.

Misha live-tweeted the episode, and was watching it with his kids. It’s well known that Misha and the kids don’t watch the show because it’s too scary, and let’s ask ourselves, why would he have them watch an episode that he’s barely even mentioned in?

He also stopped live-tweeting at a very specific point in the episode (Dean’s death) and has not mentioned Supernatural since then.

None of them, not Jared, Jensen, Misha, or even Alex, said anything about the episode for nearly 36 hours, when Jensen posted a salty photo on instagram. It’s just...not what you’d expect for the end of a 15 year show, when the cast and crew are so close to the fans, so close to each other.

My theory? They didn’t know. They thought Misha was, at least, going to be in the episode in some way, and when he wasn’t, they decided not to say anything.

You really think that Jensen “Heller” Ackles would have been so excited about the end of the show last week if he thought Cas wasn’t going to be in it at all? Nah son, doesn’t make any sense.

Even today, in Jared and Misha’s panels, they seemed sad and...more than a little careful, both saying that there were things they couldn’t say, both talking around things that we all have questions on.

Jensen Speaking with Kripke

So this is where a lot of people are getting fodder to take shots at the writers, saying that Jensen hated it from the beginning, but I don’t think so. I actually think I know what Jensen went to him about, and it wasn’t the lack of Cas or the weird pacing or the montages (which I don’t think were there when Jensen got the script); I think it was the manner of Dean’s death.

I know a lot of people were upset about that, upset with how...normal it was, coming off an episode where they literally beat God. I actually didn’t mind it, I thought it was an interesting thematic take to be like: you can be a hero all your life, but sometimes shit happens, and you just die.

But imagine how hard that was for Jensen to read. He would run to Kripke for that, because for him, Dean dying by being impaled by a piece of rebar had to be tough to swallow.

So, why didn’t Kripke say that? Why didn’t he say, “oh well he had a problem with Dean’s death, none of that other stuff was in the script.”

Guys. Why would he get involved? He’s not going to burn bridges any more than anyone else is. He said the ending was good because it’s the easy thing to do, it’s simple, will cause him no problems in his career, and he can just ignore the people trying to engage with him on it.

Walker

Something else to talk about is the major shift this episode had from the rest of the season: the shift from Dean to Sam. I am NOT saying that Sam isn’t important, he definitely, absolutely is, but it was DEAN who really needed to wrap up his arc, Sam just needed to move on, get married to Eileen, become the leader he was always meant to. So what changed? What was with the shirtless scene, the Austin number and random case there, most of the episode being heavily Sam focused, going through his entire life in a montage?

Anyone else notice the 375 Walker promos, or Jared’s little spiel about Walker and how he hoped SPN fans would “come along for the ride.”

It’s...kinda obvious? CW wanted to appeal to who they think the key demographic of SPN and Walker is: rural areas in the South. It would explain a lot, why so much editing, why so Sam focused, the Austin number, the number of Walker promos, all of it.

I’m not saying this is fact, I don’t know that it is, but it is a little suspicious that even in Jared’s panel today, he talked A LOT about Walker and how he hopes SPN fans will watch it.

Why Would the Network Get Involved?

Simply put: $$$

If they think Walker can be the new SPN, and that those crazy SPN fans liked it originally, it’s a lot safer to go with the “original intent” of the show than do something risky (like making one of your two original leads queer).

And? They don’t care. They don’t care that the episode didn’t make sense, they don’t care that all the emotional arcs were left hanging, they don’t care by (potentially) smashing together two of Dean’s monologues (one to Sam, one to Cas) that it came of as...gross. ( @curioussubjects wrote a beautiful post showing how part of that death speech was likely meant for Dean here). They don’t care, they never have, they just want to make their money and move on from the too-loud fandom that fought for representation too hard for too long.

It can’t help but feel insidious, which, honestly, it might be, but it really all comes down to the next cash cow, which, they think, is Walker, even at the cost of the fifteen year legacy show.

The Writers and What I Want

So here it is, all this weird, sus shit laid out on the line. And you know what? To me, there is no way to blame the writers, because they didn’t want this.

I don’t think Dabb and Bobo would have gone ahead with the confession in 18 without thinking that there would be some closure to that arc, they wouldn’t have done that not only to the fans, but for the sake of their own story as well: no writer wants to start something that they can’t finish. (And this applies to both Cas and Eileen).

Here’s a basic rundown of what I think happened: they had a clear arc from 18-20, ending in reciprocation at some level from Dean, Sam marrying Eileen, Hunter Sam as the new Bobby, Dean in heaven with Cas and big roadhouse reunion at the end. Covid prevented a good amount of that. Network had to stare at big gay 18 for six months, got cold feet. Thought about Walker, target audience and alienation of the rural areas if it went full gay. Misha quarantined and likely shot something (not much), he was then cut by execs and went home. They likely added in lines referencing Eileen and Cas to make it clear but more subtextual. They wrap, editing gets it and hacks it to pieces, so we get a shorter episode that’s mostly montages and jarringly bro-centric with nothing else. Arcs are left hanging. Dabb gets episode but it’s too late, there’s nothing he can do. Actors aren’t told so they can continue to do positive PR for the ending, they all found out at the same time we did: hence almost complete silence about the finale.

And you know what? They warned us. I talked about it here, but they’ve been telling us all season that Chuck wasn’t the writer, he’s the network. I don’t think, still, that they thought it would be cut up like this, into something so unsalvageable that it’s been panned by almost everyone, even people who didn’t care much about Dean and Cas.

Finally, a masterpiece can be ruined by editing, and while I’m not sure even the script they ended up shooting on was a masterpiece (due to the network meddling already), but to me it’s blatantly obvious that it’s no one but the network that caused this, that took away closure for Dean, Cas, and even Sam.

So what do I want? Nothing really, there’s nothing we can do, but I wrote this mostly to show people that the writers are not your enemy. In fact, to the people trashing them? You’re doing exactly what the CW wants you to: blame the obvious targets, blame Misha, blame Jensen and Jared, blame Dabb. Scream and yell at them on Twitter and about how the show is ruined because of them. The network keeps their engagement levels high, they don’t get as targeted for their behavior, and just keep moving along.

Just, please, think about who did this, Mourn the show, be angry, but not at the people who fought tooth and nail for this for literal years, not the people who wanted it more than we did, not the people who cannot say anything because of their careers and the NDAs they’re bound by.

Someone is going to spill eventually, but until then, we just have to wait, and continue to be loud.

#my writing #my meta #supernatural #spn #spn finale trash fire #MY MANIFESTO IS DONE

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robertreich · 4 years

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The End of Trump’s Fifth Avenue

“I could stand in the middle of 5th Avenue and shoot somebody and I wouldn't lose voters," Trump boasted in 2016.

Trump’s 5th Avenue principle is being tested as never before. So far, more than 214,000 Americans have died from Covid-19, one of the world’s highest death rates -- due in part to Trump initially downplaying its dangers, then refusing responsibility for it, promoting quack remedies for it, muzzling government experts on it, pushing states to reopen despite it, and discouraging people from wearing masks.

Yet some 40 percent of Americans have stuck by him nonetheless. They’ve remained loyal even after he turned the White House into a hotspot for the virus, even after he caught it himself, and even after asserting just days ago that it’s less lethal than the flu. A recent nonpartisan study concluded that Trump’s blatant disinformation has been the largest driver of COVID misinformation in the world.

They’ve stuck by him even as more than 11 million Americans have lost their jobs, 40 million risk eviction from their homes, 14 million have lost health insurance, and almost one out of five Americans with kids at home cannot afford to adequately feed their children.

They’ve stuck by him even though more Americans have sought unemployment benefits this year than voted for him in 2016, even after Trump cut off talks on economic relief, even though he’s pushing the Supreme Court to repeal the Affordable Care Act, causing 20 million more to lose health insurance.

Trump is in effect standing in the middle of 5th Avenue, killing Americans.

Yet here we are, just a few weeks before the election, and his supporters still haven’t budged. The latest polls show him with 40% to 43% of voters, while Joe Biden has a bare majority.

The most egregious test of Trump’s 5th Avenue principle is still to come, when he tries to kill off American democracy. He’s counting on his supporters to keep him in power even after he loses the popular vote.

He’s ready to claim that mail-in ballots, made necessary by the pandemic, are rife with “fraud like you’ve never seen,” as he asserted during his debate with Biden -- although it’s been shown that Americans are more likely to be struck by lightning than commit voter fraud.

He’ll likely allege fraudulent election results in any Republican-led state which he loses by a small margin – such as Arizona, Florida, Michigan, North Carolina, Pennsylvania, or Wisconsin.

Then he’ll rely on the House of Representatives to put him over the top.

“We are going to be counting ballots for the next two years,” Trump warned at a recent Pennsylvania rally, noting “we have the advantage if we go back to Congress. I think it’s 26 to 22 or something because it’s counted one vote per state.”

He was referring to the 12th Amendment to the Constitution, which provides that if state electors deadlock or can’t agree on a president, the decision goes to the House. There, each of the nation’s 50 states get one vote.

That means small Republican-dominated states like Alaska, North Dakota, South Dakota, and Wyoming (each with one House member, who’s a Republican) would have the same clout as large Democratic states like California (with 52 House members, 44 of whom are Democrats).

Trump does have the advantage right now: 26 state congressional delegations in the House are now controlled by Republicans, and 22 by Democrats. Two — Pennsylvania and Michigan — are essentially tied.

But he won’t necessarily retain that advantage. The decision would be made by lawmakers elected in November, who will be sworn in on January 3 -- three days before they’ll convene to decide the winner of the election.

Which is why House Speaker Nancy Pelosi is focusing on races that could tip the balance of state delegations – not just in Pennsylvania and Michigan but any others within reach.

“It’s sad we have to have to plan this way,” she wrote in a letter to her colleagues last week, “but it’s what we must do to ensure the election is not stolen.”

Trump’s 5th Avenue principle has kept him in power despite deprivation and death that would have doomed the presidencies of anyone else. But as a former New Yorker he should know that 5th Avenue ends at the Harlem River at 142nd Street, and the end is near.

#trump #coronavirus #trump campaign #voting fraud

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tennessoui · 3 years

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40 or 43 if you’re still taking prompts! i love ur AUs they’re so beautiful and contain so much brilliance within a short snippet!

it's been so long, anon, you probably forgot you sent this but here is prompt 40, exes meeting after not seeing each other for a long time. in true tennessoui fashion, they don't. actually. meet and/or see each other in this snippet. also in true tennessoui fashion, all tennessoui needs to decide to continue this is one (1) validation.

the backstory here is something i have been thinking about for days after a discord convo, where during the fight on mustafar, obi-wan hits anakin hard enough in the head that he loses all of his memories. obi-wan takes him with him for a few months but the wounds of Order 66 and vaderkin's role in what happened is too fresh for obi-wan to (understandably) get over, even if this anakin doesn't remember doing it, so they separate. this is set 8 years after Mustafar.

(1.7k)

“Kenobi won’t come,” the fighter pilot says immediately upon disembarking from his craft.

One commander lets out a groan. Someone else hits the durasteel side of the closest x-wing with a closed fist.

“Do we really need him?” Anakin demands, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s been eight years since the rise of the Empire. Surely a washed-up Jedi General from the Clone Wars won’t have people jumping to join the Rebellion!”

No one meets his eye. In fact, the air room suddenly feels very, very uncomfortable.

Organa exhales heavily and turns to look at Anakin, which is rare because the man never voluntarily looks at Anakin. “There are few names from that time that still carry an untainted weight in the eyes of the galaxy. Obi-Wan Kenobi is one of them.”

“I grew up hearing about The Team!” A teenager says eagerly. “I’d join any resistance movement if I knew both of ‘em were fighting with me!”

“You’re already a part of a resistance movement,” a girl next to him pointed out waspishly.

The boy waves her off. “Skywalker and Kenobi, saving the galaxy! It’d be wizard to be a part of that, and you know it, Aasha!”

Anakin’s throat tightens at that name. Skywalker. His name. Or, his old name. He has no more connection to it now than he does to the name Kenobi or Organa. They’re just letters.

He catches Organa’s eye. The man is looking at him with a mix of curiosity and wariness. Anakin knows instinctively that this is another one of the man’s tests. Will this time be the time that whatever injury has kept his memories suppressed for eight years is undone, and his previous life comes thundering through his mind?

He’s sick of these tests. He’s never failed one, but Organa never comes closer to trusting him afterward. He can only assume that whatever Anakin Skywalker had done in his last few days alive had been so terrible that only a few people knew the truth, and those who did would never forgive any version of him for it.

Organa certainly knew, though he had never shared that information with Anakin. And.

And Kenobi did as well. That was clear. They’d only been together for five standard months, sharing a small spacecraft made smaller by the fear, agony, grief, fury, and hurt radiating off of his companion into the space around them.

It had been hard to tell at the time if one of the things Obi-Wan Kenobi had been grieving was the loss of Anakin Skywalker. Anakin isn’t sure Kenobi would have been able to answer that either.

Some part of him that usually rests dormant in the back of his mind stirs and hisses that it had to have been. That Skywalker’s loss had torn Kenobi’s soul to shreds.

This doesn’t necessarily feel like his own thought, but it’s quite hard to ignore. He wants to rub a hand against his aching head, but that surely would tip off Organa that something’s--what? That he’s having thoughts?

Perish the very idea.

One would think Anakin hadn’t joined the Rebellion of his own free will. That Anakin hadn’t spent three standard months on the planet Kenobi had left him on before catching wind of the existence of the Rebel Alliance, that he hadn’t risked life and limb (more limb, apparently, given his missing flesh hand) to find them afterwards. He hadn’t known much anything about himself, but he had known that he hadn’t liked what the Imperial troops were doing, how much destruction they were causing, how the people they were supposed to be protecting hid in fear of their white armor.

Something in Anakin had rebelled at that, had thought it wrong and twisted. Someone needs to stop them, he’d thought. So he had found the people that were trying to.

And yes, a small part of him had thought--perhaps hoped--that Obi-Wan Kenobi would be a part of the Rebel Alliance by the time Anakin made his way to their biggest base. He had thought--perhaps hoped--that he would be able to prove himself to the other man. Look, he had wanted to scream at Kenobi, I’m not like that other Anakin, I would never do what he did. You can trust me. You can look me in the eye, I won’t stab you in the back.

Because something in him had yearned, still yearns, for Kenobi’s approval. For the weight of his gaze settling warmly around his shoulders. For his small smiles, his calloused hand clasping the back of Anakin’s head to bring their foreheads together in a gentle tap hello.

These are things Anakin knows he’s never experienced. But he must have in his past life, because his whole body will ache for them like a phantom limb. It’s been seven years and a few months since he last saw Kenobi.

“I’ll go,” Anakin says, which is what he said the last time they were standing like this, huddled around a fighter pilot delivering the same message of failure.

Organa’s mouth tightens in displeasure, and Mothma places a hand on his arm in warning.

Everyone else falls silent around them, as if recognizing the fact that they’re in the middle of a brewing storm, and they’re lucky to be in its eye right now.

“I do not think--” Organa starts, but Anakin cuts him off, crossing his arms even tighter over his chest, as if to hold himself back. The force suppression collar around his neck grows warmer, but it holds. It always holds.

“You’re already sending men who look like me to him!” Anakin points out irately. “The last four men could have been related to me!” It’s something Anakin’s thought about in the past but never said out loud. He’s glad to say it now though, especially because Organa flushes a bit which means Anakin’s right. “Just send me! If it doesn’t work, nothing in the galaxy will!”

Now, Anakin isn’t sure that’s true at all. He’s taking a huge leap with this, but it’s been seven years and a few months since he saw Obi-Wan Kenobi in person, and every part of him is aching with the desire to lay eyes on the man again. Will he hate him still? Will he see all the differences Anakin’s made to his appearance? Will he like them? He fights the urge to run a hand over his shorn hair.

Will Obi-Wan even let him through the door?

The people around them are murmuring now. They don’t know what Organa knows, what Anakin has guessed at: that Skywalker died a traitor to the Republic, that he had tried to strike down Obi-Wan like the Emperor struck down the rest of the Jedi. To them, these fortunate outsiders, they’re wondering why Anakin Skywalker hasn’t already been sent to locate and bring back their errant General.

Before, Anakin’s offer had been quiet, easily ignored over someone else’s. Now he’s loud and confident. Impossible to turn away without making a public scene, without explaining why. And Organa has tried very hard not to do that. For whatever reason, Anakin doesn’t know. All he knows is that after he’d been examined by a battalion of med droids and interrogated by all three leaders of the Rebellion, Organa had given him a list of rules he had to follow in order to join the Rebel Alliance. Firstly, never remove his cuffs and collar.

It’s not a slave collar and it won’t electrocute you if you touch it or try to take it off, Organa had told him when he’d blanched away at the sight. But I have been informed by a trusted ally that the Chance--the Emperor knows your Force Signature intimately. We cannot risk being found. It would kill all hope for us.

Secondly, never confirm his identity. Never talk about who he used to be.

People will know, Organa had grudgingly admitted. Skywalker was one of the faces of the Clone Wars. But you cannot confirm it. In fact.

Thirdly, give up the name Skywalker. Pick another last name, if not first as well.

But Anakin had been attached to his first name for some reason he didn’t know how to begin to question, so even after he toyed with the idea of changing it completely, he couldn’t go through with it. Weeks later he had shown up in Organa’s makeshift office.

I had a mother, didn’t I? He had asked, causing Organa to stiffen immediately.

Do you remember? Organa had interrogated immediately, his standard greeting for Anakin. Anakin had gotten the feeling, especially in those early days, that Organa was waiting with baited breath for Anakin to remember so he could try him for war crimes or treason or whatever it was that Skywalker had done.

No, he had responded honestly. Just a feeling. If I am to take a new last name, I want her name.

A few days later, Anakin had stumbled into his bunk, tired from a day of hard training, to see a packet of documents on his pillow.

Anakin Shmison was written at the top of the first page.

The list of rules goes on and on.

But nowhere does it say that Anakin Shmison isn’t allowed to mention Obi-Wan Kenobi in public. He just never has, because even the sound of the man’s name makes him feel very nauseous, a combination of butterflies and adder snakes wrestling around inside his stomach.

Bail Organa is looking like he’s regretting that oversight right now, but Anakin has backed him quite solidly into a proverbial corner. Either finally tell everyone what happened between Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi in the last few hours of the Republic, or give Anakin Shmison leave to retrieve Kenobi.

“Fine,” Organa gets out, jaw locked and vein throbbing in his temple. Anakin has the distinct feeling he’se spent a lot of his life on the receiving end of that expression. “Have this X-Wing refueled, and leave tonight.”

“No sir,” Anakin says, enjoying the way one of the man’s eyebrows shoot up in angry incredulity.

“No?” Organa asks. “Would you like more beauty rest, perhaps, Shmison?”

“No sir, I don’t need it,” this time he doesn’t resist running a hand through his hair, messing with its part so his longer bangs fall to one side and balance out the mysterious scar that bisects his eyebrow. He grins. “But I will need a craft that sits two. For the return trip.”

#asks #i had a scene planned out where x y z happens and obi-wan lets anakin into his hut/home #and anakin is just like look im a part of the rebellion now!!#and obi-wan 'i use my sarcasm to hide my infinite sadness' is like #'yes im sure the rebellion wouldnt exist without you'#because you know. technically it wouldn't.#but anakin doesnt really get that context so hes like 'stop speaking in tongues old man!!!'#and obi-wan says 'please do not call me that' in the wateriest most loosely strung together voice anakins ever heard #anyways whats happening with me that all im writing is angst #i love happy things and happy endings #obikin #(because they'd get together come on anakin probably has an undercut now and hes thirty obi-wans only a man)#(the bitter resentment is strong but the flesh is WEAK BITCH)#kit to kit: u dont need another wip u really cannot have another wip ur not strong enough for another wip u--#prompt fill

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zep-zep-blog · 2 years

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Hello! My friend wanted me to ask you for a Sirius Black x male reader, they wanted more of a hurt comfort fic if that’s okay?

It's alright :) I'm always going to reply to requests so don't worry 😊

Letters

Sirius Black x Male reader

Hurt comfort | He/Him pronouns for both

Tw: Imprisonment, light angst, mentions murder, fighting

You remember the day he was arrested for killing the Potters, but you knew it wasn't him. It couldn't be him, you had known Sirius since your first year at Hogwarts and you knew when he was sad or hiding something. You snap out of your thoughts as you hear an owl land on your window sill. You walk over and grab the letter out of it's beak. You turn it over to see who it's from and your eyes widen with shock as you see the name you haven't seen in years. Azkaban prisoners were not allowed to write letters, so you knew something was up. It's been 13 years and he has the nerve to contact you with a letter? Not in person, but with a letter he tells you that he's out, you grow a frown as you open it.

Dear Y/n,

As you know I have gotten out due to the newspapers and rumors. Unfortunately I cannot come visit just yet as I need to track down Peter, as soon as I do then I shall visit.

Sincerely, SB

You stop reading as you see the name Peter, what does Peter Pettigrew have to with this? Unless it's a different Peter. You walk into the kitchen and grab some owl treats. You walk back over and give the owl the treats and send it on it's way. You used to and still have a huge crush on Sirius, but just assumed he was straight, so you kept it a secret.

You sigh as you look up at the clock hanging on the wall. 3:40 in the afternoon. You just decide to go to bed early.

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

Harry and Hermione turn to look at Sirius, still in his Azkaban prisoner outfit. "Only one of us dies tonight, Harry" He says as he smiles "Yeah and it's you!" Harry yells as he jumps Sirius and throws him to the ground pointing his wand at his face. "Expelliarmus! " Harry's wand goes flying out his hand as he's pushed off Sirius. Lupin helps Sirius up as Hermione, Harry, and Ron are in shock. "You! I can't believe this you've been helping him this whole time! I trusted you! " Hermione yells "He's a werewolf, that's why he's been missing classes" Hermione explains, Lupin starts clapping "well well Hermione, you really are the brightest witch I know-" "Let's kill him already, I waited 12 years in Azkaban!" Lupin gets cut off by Sirius.

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

Sirius says his goodbyes as He climbs onto buckbeak's back. He knows one person he owes a visit to and so he fly's off towards your house.

He lands in your front yard and hops off, he ties buckbeak to your fence and walks up to your front door. He knocks three times before waiting. You open the door and look up to find Sirius waiting nervously. You let out a gasp of shock and pull him inside. "Is it really you? " You let out as tears roll down your cheeks. "Yeah.. " Sirius gives you a small smile as he pulls you into a hug. "I never said this before, but will you go out with me?" You say wiping tears away. He looks at you for a moment and smiles even wider,

"Of course I will Y/n"

#sirius x reader #harry potter #sirius black #comfort

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fingonvaliant · 3 years

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An open letter to the Apostles

To the Leadership of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints:

I left because I didn’t believe anymore. There were too many promises that weren’t fulfilled, to many questions I was given false answers to, but more than anything else, I couldn’t take the stress of being a queer person in a space I didn’t feel like I belonged in. I could talk about Joseph Smith, Brigham Young, Mountain Meadows, the Kinderhook Plates, the stock portfolio, seer stones, blood atonement, “skins of darkness,” musket fire, “fence-sitters,” and a million things besides, but you know all that already.

I hope that with this letter, I can help the Church improve and change, because I still care about the Church, even though I no longer belong to it; that’s how I know it needs to change. It is still important to me. I am not trying to get people to leave the Church, that is not my goal. I’m not a Korihor trying to cause contention. But I need to tell my story.

While I was growing up, I believed it all. I was baptized at eight, regularly attended, served in quorum leaderships, and planned on going on a mission. Then, about when I was thirteen, I started experiencing what the Church calls “same-gender attraction.” I dislike this term greatly; it sounds like a disease. I prefer to say that I discovered I was bisexual.

I did not know what this was. My sexual education classes never covered it; I was never told what it was when I got “the talk”; my only experience with the word “gay” was in a middle school context, as an insult with no clear meaning. The only thing I did know was that this was not allowed. If marriage was ordained of God between a man and a woman, why did I have these -at the time- confusing feelings? If the only relationships I had any experience with were heterosexual, how was I even to know bisexuality existed?

And I didn’t, for years. As I wrestled with this, not even knowing what exactly I was feeling, I eventually, around age 16, learned the words to fit the feelings, to fit my identity. I knew who I was, what I was. By then, gay marriage had only just been legalized, and I -a couple months late- learned that this was a victory for me also.

This recognition put everything I thought I knew about marriage into a tailspin. I knew, I saw, and I was a part of, the Church’s effort to prevent this legalization. I read in Standards for Youth, (at the time called For the Strength of Youth) a short paragraph that made a huge impact on the rest of my life: “Homosexual and lesbian behavior is a serious sin. If you find yourself struggling with same-gender attraction or you are being persuaded to participate in inappropriate behavior, seek counsel from your parents and bishop. They will help you.” (Standards for Youth, Sexual Purity, emphasis added).

The thorough talking-to’s my closeted teen self received just before and after the legalization of gay marriage involved repetition of this paragraph ad nauseam. Breaking it down, it’s clear the degree to which this passage is shaped by uninformed conservatism. What does “behavior” mean? Since it’s a serious sin, you’d expect there to be clarification, right? Is hand-holding a serious sin? Hugs? An increased heart rate? A peck on the cheek? Or just sex? The way I was taught, it was clear the answer was “all of the above.”

The term “struggling” carries so much weight. The LDS church knew suffering, and still today in many places of in the world, members of the Church face repression. All people struggle with burdens, we struggle with disease, we struggle with sin, we struggle with conflict. Is “same-gender attraction” a burden, a disease, a sin, does it cause conflict? With the use of this word, the values are clear.

But in reality, the most painful part of this paragraph is the conclusion: “your parents and bishop … will help you.” They didn’t. They didn’t know how to, they still don’t. Because of the broad interpretation of unacceptable “behavior” and the belief that “same-gender attraction” is a “struggle,” they had no clue what they were dealing with.

Coming out was a traumatic experience. I was attending an all-boys boarding school at the time and caught feelings for a fellow student. We snuck around, living out a high school romance for a few weeks, until we were caught by the staff. Phone calls home were made, and I had the indescribable experience of having to explain to my parents both who I was, and what I had done, over the phone, one parent at a time, without seeing their faces.

Their immediate reaction was that I was too young to know if I was “really gay,” and that all sorts of strange feelings happen in boys my age. They didn’t really believe my description of myself; they negated my identity -they did not even recognize that this experience and these feelings were part of my identity- and mailed me a copy of The Miracle of Forgiveness. My experience with my bishop was likewise useless. He advised me that -through the atonement of Christ- all things are possible, and with suitable dedication to living the gospel, I could be made pure.

I never changed. I could not. It cannot be done. But I tried. I tried so hard.

Church attendance became more and more anxiety-inducing. I felt more and more guilty blessing the sacrament and giving blessings. I gave up on my childhood dream of being a missionary because I could longer believe the words I would have to say. I took temple preparation classes but could never bring myself to the bishop’s office to do the interview. When I started attending college and going to a YSA ward, I was no longer under my parent’s supervision. I kept going for a few months, until I was called as a ward missionary. I remember the day where I was on splits with the full-time missionaries, and we were going door-to-door in a neighborhood near my home. I just felt like we were harassing people in their homes on a Wednesday evening. It was the most uncomfortable experience of my life. I knew then that I didn’t believe in any of this anymore.

You know as well as I do that tens of thousands of people have had similar experiences that I have. We’ve felt the alienation, the sidelining, the people who don’t understand, the hand-wringing, the statement that all the burden lies on queer people to cure themselves, and it is the Church that must not change or cannot change. We keep being told “wickedness never was happiness,” (Alma 41:10) and that our lives of “unrepentant sin” are responsible for calamities and the disintegration of the family. We are being made into bogeymen in the closet, seeking “that all men might be miserable like unto [ourselves].” Endless inquiries are put forward, seeking to find the “cause of homosexuality” that we know are to find a “cure” for it. We are told we are suffering from these attractions, not that we have a unique identity, and certainly not that we are valuable.

But I know that these practices, and these doctrines, are not at the core of the Church. Members of the Church are commanded to “mourn with those that mourn … and comfort those that stand in need of comfort” (Mosiah 18:9). All Christians are told, that as a mark of their religion, they are to “love one another; as I have loved you” (John 13:34) and that “On [this] hang all the law and the prophets.” (Matthew 22:40). I know the Church can be better than it is right now; it is the Church itself that taught me that.

In nature, there is a direct correlation of both an organism’s and a species’ capacity for survival with its capacity for change. And I know the Church can change, because it has done it before, with interracial marriage, with polygamy, with African-Americans and the priesthood, with the Word of Wisdom, and with many things besides. Society changes all the time, and the Church changes with it.

#this was for an assignment technically #but i thought i'd share it here #queerstake #exmormon

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efefewfes · 3 years

Text

They are discussing it

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brought up, that violence must be done to their cherished feelings and associations. Such a scenario might have seemed laughable before the series but it's now anyone's guess what England's best XI is.

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earbuds-and-hightops · 3 years

Text

An Open Letter to Supernatural

[ Spoiler warning for 15x20, obviously ]

I understand that a well-contemplated complaint about this ending cannot be made without first reading the original, pre-COVID, script of 15x20, but in the long run, the initial plan is not what will be remembered.

What will be remembered is what this show created. What it became beyond two brothers driving around the country, hunting monsters. Characters were introduced and developed, and in that, Sam and Dean Winchester become so much more than two kids living on the road. In the past 15 years, the cast, and thus the family, grew to something that would be unimaginable to those who started this project back in 2005. Not only did the characters and their stories become meaningful, but the show itself grew into, well, a family. The fans who have kept this show alive since Day 1 have come together to form what I believe is the greatest community in pop culture.

What hurts the most is that this finale did not do any of that development justice.

The finale (and consequently the episodes leading up to it) reverts back to the story between only Sam and Dean. While some see this as an ode to who they are--their brotherhood and familial bond being the heart of their values and the root of their characters--I cannot help but see this as a rejection of their experiences this past decade and a half.

What’s worse, episode 15x18 confirmed one of the most pure and powerful and goddamn beautiful romances that television will ever see. This story of an angel who abandoned his family and the only beings he’s known for thousands of years, all for one person. I knew from the instant the screen faded to black on November 5 that the story of Castiel will always be remembered, even if his feelings were unrequited. Castiel will always be remembered.

And then there’s Destiel. I was genuinely impressed that this show would even grow to include a queer angel, more importantly, a queer character in a leading role. The queer-baiting and the “bury your gays” trope both make this confession and its lack of acknowledgement that much worse (and is worthy of an entirely separate open letter for another night). It matters less if Dean does or doesn’t reciprocate these feelings and more that it’s wrong that he completely ignores it. Cas’s love confession, this beautifully tragic and tragically beautiful emotion coming from a being who wasn’t supposed to feel emotions at all, is something that, unfortunately, will become a secret that dies with Dean Winchester.

It’s truly a shame that the writers of this show let that happen.

We haven’t even touched the fact that Castiel’s death was an act of sacrifice to save Dean. Dean’s limited reaction and lack of mourning* tears apart this phrase that has become pivotal to the entire show and fanbase: “Family don’t end in blood.” While it would be a lot to ask that Dean rescue Cas from the Empty and resume their cycle of rescue and resurrection, I think it’s only fair that Dean take the time to fully accept Castiel’s actions and words for what they mean instead of simply moving forward as if they never happened.

What’s more, Misha Collins is one of the greatest and kindest people in this world, and he’s poured his heart and soul into Supernatural, just like everybody else. He’s spent 12 years on this project, and the final two episodes hardly mentioned his character. He didn’t deserve this. It’s heartbreaking that his last credit on this show will be a prank call from someone trying to impersonate him, and not something that pays tribute to such an important character and important actor**

The most devastating part of this ending is what happened in 15x19. Pardon my French when I say that that episode, the ultimate climax of the season and latter half of the series, was a piece of dog shit. It’s incredibly frustrating to invest in 15 years worth of television and look forward to this ultimate battle between two average boys and God the Almighty Himself and to instead watch a 6-minute long fist fight on the beach with the only dialogue being variations of “seriously guys, stay down.”

My issues with 15x19 lie less in the storyline that was chosen and more in how they were presented. I am completely on board with Jack taking God’s power and eventually becoming the new God, but the episode was far too quick to have any real meaning, and, as stated before, Castiel’s sacrifice, which allows Sam, Dean, and Jack to do what they do in 15x19, is hardly mentioned.

Most fans agree that 15x19 was far too quickly paced. The plot with Michael and Lucifer was questionable to begin with, but should have been an episode on its own if it were to be perused at all. Michael’s story in particular could have been fleshed out to reiterate this theme of overly loyal sons and their fathers, as well as their relationships with less loyal siblings, but was instead reduced to about 20 minutes of screen time.

Though this is less important, Lucifer’s plan to make a new Death felt like a cheap cop-out just to close the storyline with Death’s book, but we can finish that discussion another day.

The general fan reaction to this atrocity of an episode was that this was meta, and according to Becky, the ending was supposed to be dog shit. This, along with the untouched storyline started when Cas died, gave fans so much hope that the finale would be this amazing piece of art that puts Supernatural in the history books.

While it’s obvious that an hour cannot perfectly tie up every single event and arc with a pretty little bow, it can at least...try. Any finale should, at minimum, pay tribute to what the show started as (which 15x20 did well) and what it became (which 15x20 failed to do miserably).

In addition, a reference to character back in season 1 is incredibly frustrating when recurring characters with actual, well, character go unnoticed. I mostly reference Eileen here, but this also applies to Jody and Donna. Nobody even mentions the other wonderful friends who have helped Sam and Dean along their journey to Heaven. If family doesn’t end in blood, then why doesn’t it extend to include Castiel, Jack, Mary, Rowena, Charlie, Kevin, Jody and her girls, Donna, and so many others?

Dean’s death was sad, I’ll give them that (and honestly, I was expecting it). However, considering that this man has defeated apocalypses, killed Death, and taken down God, his death via nail in the wall was incredibly anticlimactic, and something that could literally have happened at any point over the 15 seasons. While Dean’s death was obviously not my ideal ending, I think it could have worked if it were done properly, and in this case, it was not. That said, I do appreciate that Sam did not try to bring Dean back, as that would indicate literally no growth at all.

Dean’s funeral was...pathetic, to say the least. Sam being the only person there was depressing considering that Dean had lots of other close friends (and you’d think that Jack would pay his respects, but apparently not), however, this is likely a scene that was impacted by COVID and the availability of some of the cast, so I will not dwell on that scene.

Dean’s time in Heaven complicates matters even more. Firstly, Bobby confirms that Castiel is no longer in the Empty and has been in contact with Jack. I would have loved to see this reunion; Cas is essentially Jack’s father, and I would have loved to see how their upgrading/remodeling of Heaven brought them closer together. I understand that the writers were trying to focus this finale story on the brothers, this goes back to my earlier point that you cannot simply ignore everything that that this show has grown to include. Bobby’s explanation also begs the question of why Dean had no intention of seeing Cas (or Jack, for that matter) again now that he has the opportunity.

Secondly, Dean’s instinct to go directly for the Impala was very in-character, however, the editing implied that driving was all Dean did until Sam died. As we know, Sam dies of old age, likely (completely guessing here) upwards of 40-50 years from Dean’s death, and that is a very, very long time for Dean to simply driving around the mountains. It would have been nice to see Dean reunite with other family and friends who are also in Heaven, however, again, COVID restraints.

Sam’s ending was similar to what I and a lot of other fans imagined (not necessarily wanted, but predicted) it to be: kids and a wife, living a normal, monster-free, life. I hate to believe that he doesn’t end up with Eileen (to my recollection, his wife was a blur in the background, and it is unclear if she was meant to be Eileen) however that might just be my bias and appreciation of Shoshannah Stern. While I’m glad that this storyline gave Sam the room to grow and develop without his brother, it also completely ignores everything that he’s been through this past decade and a half, and that is something that should not happen. Sam grew and changed so much since he left Stanford and leaving that life, the life of a hunter, behind feels very counterintuitive.

Let’s not even discuss the wig that Jared wore. It reminded me of the Cain wig that Rob wore in the Hillywood parody.

What shocked me the most at the beginning of this episode was the lack of a “The Road So Far” compilation. I hoped for the full song with a recap of all 15 seasons, or, at minimum, the typical single-season recap. “Carry On My Wayward Son” is such an important part of the show and the culture of the fan base, that it seems almost sacrilegious that the season finale not begin with this song and a memorial to the events in the past season (or series).*** I’m very happy that it was included at all, but I was shocked when Neoni’s cover took over.

No disrespect to Neoni; those girls are incredibly talented and I love their music, however, a series finale of a 15 season long show does not feel like the place for a cover when they already have the rights to the original, and the original is so iconic.

Lastly, I want to acknowledge Jensen Ackles’s reaction to this conclusion. At a con panel about a year ago, he said that he needed to be talked into agreeing to this script by Erik Kripke himself, because the ending just wasn’t sitting right with him. So many fans took this to believe that he was homophobic and afraid that of Destiel becoming fully canon, and he got so much more hate than he deserved, because ultimately, he was right in his first opinion. This isn’t the way this story should have ended. Jensen explained that he had been “too close” to the story, and that it took a more holistic view from a step backwards (the audience’s perspective, as he puts it) to agree on this ending, but honestly, nobody knows Dean Winchester better than Jensen, and he knows what’s best and what would be the best way to finish this character’s arc. I think fans and Jensen alike agree that this wasn’t it.

I sympathize with all of the cast and crew members who disagree with how this show ended but are bounded by contract to support this show no matter what. Especially Misha and Jensen.

Over all, I believe that Supernatural will go down in history (in internet communities, at least) as one of the greatest shows ever. While I do agree that the writing quality in terms of both dialogue and plot declined as years passed, the community, the family, that this show created cannot be ignored because of a poorly written/planned ending. I think that the fandom will collectively let go of this disaster of an ending that we were given and will, just like Sam and Dean, write our own stories. I have full faith and confidence that Supernatural will not be represented by this finale episode, but by the beautiful stories, amazing characters, and the family that this show created and what the fans have chosen to do with it.

Sincerely,

A Fiercely Frustrated but Fiercely Loyal Fan

* I do not count that last clip of Dean crying on the floor as mourning. In my mind, that was a reaction, not an emotional healing and overcoming, if that makes sense. I argue that if Dean were to fully mourn and process everything (like Sam did in 15x20) we would have seen at least a bit of that on screen.

** This is where I would have loved to see some of the original scripts. I hope that the writers initial intentions were to have Misha more involved in these last two episodes than what was likely a voice memo created in 10 minutes tops at Misha’s house.

*** The strange montage at the end of 15x19 makes so much more sense. I still would have preferred that montage at the beginning of 15x20. This also shines light on the video that Misha posted. What would we do without him :)

#supernatural #spn #spn season 15 #spn finale #spn 15x20 #an open letter #no beta we die as men #destiel #deancas #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #jack kline #erik kripke #robert singer #andrew dabb #that god awful finale #i spent 4 hours drafting this

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whatdoesshedotothem · 3 years

Text

Friday 18 September 1835

8 ¾

12 ½

A- at Cliff Hill - fine morning F56° at 9 ½ at which hour breakfast - no! called out to Mr Husband - the dry wallers not satisfied - Mawson came - after much talk left them to settle the matter - the job taken at 3/. a rood - but that not enough - desired Mr Husband to measure off what is done and came in to breakfast at 11 - the tea almost cold - out again about 11 ½ - 18 ½ roods done at 3/. = £2.15.6 but Mawson has paid the men £6.2.6 - to have his bill tomorrow - said I would pay the money but we must have a new ordering - kept 2 of the men at days wages till the job gets regular (the buttress to be done by Booth) and sent off the one most discontented waller - just looked at the Adney bridge masons and the 2 underfooting George’s room and stood by Booth and his 2 masons at the farm yard gate lowside buttress till after 1 - then to the tail goit - Robert Mann and his 3 men doing the job right - began it yesterday Holt came - he settled on the spot with Turner’s son to give 10d. per yard running measure for springers for turning the arch on in addition to the 6/8 per yard running measure according to the contract drawn up by Washington - I had ordered the drain cover to be 4ft. long and 6in. thick - then settled with Holt about the Stump x Inn cistern - to be done with field wall-stones and well puddled instead of with single-stones which from the immense size (for a cistern 8ft x 4 inside) would cost delivered £10 told Holt of Mr Parker’s note - it seems that by making all speed I may be ready for the water on my own Engine wheel in eighteen months from this time - cannot therefore agree with Keighleys and co. to let them have it for 3 years - but I might let them have it for 6 months in the year when there is water enough and then take it back in summer - and as for loosing the coal in Northowram hills I might have an acreage upon it - told Holt to consider what he would advise me to do - and I thought he had better meet Hinscliffe on the subject here - Keighleys have nothing to do with the concern now - Samuel Holdsworth has bought their share and cannot return in on their hands - the K-s only apply to me because the parties think

SH:7/ML/E/18/0099

they are the most likely to get me to make an agreement - told Holt to let me know his opinion on Monday when he will have to be here about other things - said I should tell Mr P- the K-s had nothing to do with it - and the parties really interested must apply to me, or I should take no notice - seeing that the 2 farmyard diggers would be long enough barrowing out the stuff for the dunghill went to Mark Hepworth (levelling at the cascade bridge fishpond side) and at 4 got 3 of his carts as they came from Northgate - stood in the farmyard till after 6 and John Booth and got a good deal of stuff out - think we can finish it tomorrow - had the clay taken to the intended new fishpond to be ready for puddling - then staid with Booth planning about pigsties and tower - came in at 7 - dinner at 7 ¼ in ½ hour - then ¾ hour with my father and Marian - said I did not think A- would agree to my taking all into my own hands - Marian thought it would be difficult to arrange money matters - it seemed she had thought of my taking the Shibden land (Carr’s and my father’s) and £300 a year - I said this was sufficiently near to my own calculation which was to take all and out of this allow my father £200 a year which only made a difference of about £30 per annum for taking all at £600 a year and deducting Carr’s rent (keeping his land in my own lands) £70.10.0 I should just have about £330 per annum into pocket instead as by Marian’s plan - said I supposed that, at this rate, I should just lose alias spend in housekeeping more than I do at present from 3 to 4 hundred or 4 hundred a year - Marian thought I was right and seemed pleased at my intended proposal being so near to her own plan - I am better as I am and so A- will wisely think and we shall go on as we do during my father’s life. On leaving my father at 8 ½ had coffee and read the newspaper till 9 40 then with my aunt till 10 - then wrote the above of today till 10 3/4 . Letter tonight from Mr Johnson on the 3p. of Mr Sharpes sheet which Mr J- owes is not a very precise answer to my letter to Mr J- whose manner of writing is as to the style rather more free and easy than I should have expected but he is very obliging - the parcel that came last night and letter neither of which I opened till this morning are from Rundell and Bridge with and about the watches A-‘s and mine - William Green gave me this morning his account made out by Messrs. Parker and Adam of moneys paid to him on account of the 2 cottages I have bought of him - I am to keep (take care of) this account for him - note this morning by Eliza Hepworth from A- Captain went last night to York - A- wishes me to have all ready for going tomorrow if it should be so determined on our talking matters over - fine day till about 5 - then an hour’s rain or more - but not heavy - F57° now at 10 50 pm - at accounts till 11 1/4

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theotherackerman · 3 years

Text

My Mind Turns Your Life Into Folklore

NOTES: New Year’s Day January 1st, Friday

Trigger warning: mentions of self harm and suicide.

song credit:

marjorie- taylor swift

CHAPTER THREE: glitter on the floor after the party

Mikasa stood there, absolutely dumbfounded.

Had Eren really just walked away from her again?

The door opened again.

An unmasked Zeke Jaeger stepped back out and sighed.

“Fucking idiot,” he muttered under his breath as he lit a cigarette.

Mikasa looked over at him.

She knew he was right.

She was an idiot.

As if he was reading her mind, Zeke spoke again.

“Him, not you.” He took off his leather jacket and wrapped it around Mikasa’s shoulders.

“Why are you being so nice to me? If it’s out of pity…”

Zeke laughed, “It is not you, I pity. It is him. Eren. He is a fucking idiot. I cannot blame him though. I understand it. My father kept my mom and I a secret, that was bad. What he did to Eren, that was worse.” He took a drag of his cigarette. “Not my place to tell you or I would.”

What could she even say to that?

Eren didn’t want to tell her, he didn’t want to let her in.

Instead he had left her...twice. She didn’t know what she would do if he left a third time.

“Didn’t your dad die of lung cancer?” She asked.

She knew he had.

She had been at his funeral, holding Eren’s hand as Grisha was buried in the ground.

Zeke couldn’t help but laugh, “yeah, he did. Fucker deserved worse.” He stomped on the cigarette before turning to go inside. “Do not stay out here too long. Do not want you getting sick. I should find out where Eren wandered off to.”

She began to remove his jacket.

Zeke held up a hand. “Keep it. It’s Eren’s anyway.”

The door swung open to reveal four very angry women and a very angry Armin.

“I’ll take out his knee caps. Annie, you tackle him and take him down,” Ymir called out.

“I feel awful. I really had no idea Niccolo was in a band with Eren…” Sasha sobbed.

Everyone froze when they saw Zeke and Mikasa.

“Hello,” Zeke said with the tiniest of waves.

“Zeke?” Armin questioned.

“Hello, Armin. Mikasa probably needs you all right now. I have to find out where my brother wandered off to this time.”

“Well then you can take Annie and me right to him. Today is the day he loses those kneecaps!” Ymir cracked her knuckles.

Zeke just laughed, “Eren deserves it, there is no doubt, but as his brother, I must protect him. He only began to walk again..”

Everyone’s eyes began to widen as Zeke realized what he had said.

“Fuck! I shouldn’t have said that," Zeke remarked.

Mikasa felt as if she was lost at sea, she was drowning.

Her eyes began to fill with tears.

Her heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest.

Eren hadn’t been able to walk?

What was wrong with him?

She couldn’t breathe.

“Zeke, what is wrong with Eren?” Armin spoke up.

“Mentally or physically?”

“Both,” Historia whispered.

Zeke ran his hand through his hair before he lit up another cigarette. “He is going to kill me for even saying that much...I suppose there is no problem with telling you what is already common knowledge.”

“We already know he’s bipolar. I found the band’s website on Instagram,” Annie said as she walked towards Mikasa. She took her hand, slowly pulling her in front of the girls. Sasha took Mikasa's other hand and rested her head on Mikasa’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Mika,” Sasha whispered.

“It’s okay,” Mikasa replied.

They all turned their attention back to Zeke who seemed to be observing them all with great c uriosity.

“Then you already saw that his liver went bad too. I cannot tell you much else. There are other things wrong with Eren but like your loyalty to Mikasa, my loyalty is to my brother. He may be an asshole but he is my family. My only family. I do not ask you to understand or even forgive him. I think he is acting like an idiot,” Zeke paused to take a drag of his cigarette. “ While he is my only family, I was not his. I do not agree with him leaving his other family because things got hard. He is acting like our father by doing that.”

“Is he going to die?” Mikasa’s voice cracked.

“We’re all going to die but no. Not anytime soon. The treatment of his liver was successful. I should really go find him and you all should get out of the cold. Goodnight, ladies and Armin.”

And with that, Zeke Jaeger disappeared into the night to find his brother.

No one moved to go inside. They all looked to Mikasa for what they should do next.

“I’m tired,” she whispered.

“Let’s go back to the hotel then. Limo is out front already. I thought we’d need a getaway car,” Historia laughed.

Mikasa’s eyes were still filled with tears, her heart was still racing, and it was hard to breathe.

But she wasn’t drowning or lost at sea anymore.

No, she was safe.

She couldn’t help but feel bad for Eren.

She had once been his anchor but now, he had no one. So she began to cry.

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

Zeke didn’t have to go very far to find Eren. He was sitting in the passenger seat of the van they had rented to move the equipment. Zeke walked around the driver’s side and opened the door.

“You want to tell me what that was about?” Zeke asked as he climbed into the car.

Eren said nothing.

“Should I schedule you for a session?” Zeke asked.

“No, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

No, Eren wasn’t sure.

He felt more broken than he had when the night had started.

He hadn’t expected to see her here. The last he had heard, she had moved away to pursue her dreams with her new band.

Eren was not ready for this. He had thought he had been when he had sent her the letter.

But how wrong he had been.

“Am I sure I’ll be fine? No. I just want to go home and go to sleep. Is that okay?” Eren answered as he clicked his seatbelt into place.

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

Why had they all slept on the floor of their suite when there three bedrooms each with two beds attached?

Well it was simple.

No one wanted to leave Mikasa alone. Mikasa was very grateful for her friends.

After stopping for breakfast, they all went back to the Ackerman house.

“I’m sorry, Mikasa,” Sasha apologized again.

“Sasha, really. It’s not your fault. Go be with your family. Isn’t Connie coming over so you, Jean, and him can watch movies? I promise. I’m not mad.” Mikasa hugged her friend tightly so she knew they were okay.

Annie and Armin were awkwardly standing by Annie’s car while Ymir and Historia were standing by the limo.

“You guys can go too. I’m fine. Levi is here. Hange is here. Besides, there’s something I have to do today.”

Armin gave her a look.

He knew exactly where she was going.

She nodded.

Ymir, Historia, and Annie look at each other.

“Text us if you need us,” Armin said before he got into Annie’s car.

The other three followed his lead.

As she opened the front door, two furry creatures moved in for the attack. They began to bark and run around her legs.

“Ahh!” She screamed as she shut the door behind her and dropped her bag.

“Sawney! Bean!” Hange yelled as the dogs continued to run laps around Mikasa’s legs.

“Puppies?” Mikasa was very confused at the moment.

“Levi’s. Late Christmas gift. His therapist said that a pet would be good for him. I found these guys. They’re corgis! Look at their little legs!”

The two potato size golden furred creatures jumped up trying to get Mikasa’s attention.

“They’re extremely smart! They can herd cattle with those tiny legs!” Hange picked up one of the puppies and handed it to Mikasa. The puppy began licking her face.

“Tiny legs...sounds like someone else I know…” She muttered as she petted the corgi.

“Ha. Ha. Ha. Those jokes never get old, brat,” Levi remarked as he walked into the room holding two flower bouquets. “Sure you don’t want me to come?”

Mikasa sat the puppy down on the floor and took the flowers from Levi.

“No, I’ll be fine. Keys?”

Levi handed her the keys.

“I’ll be back soon.”

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

The graveyard was always empty on New Year’s Day which was why Mikasa always made a stop here. She strolled through the headstones before coming to a stop. She gently placed one the flower bouquets on the grave.

“Hey, Mom. Hi, Dad.” She sat down in front of the grave. “I wrote 40 songs since I saw you last. Historia and I are really making good music together. I wish I had her voice though. She can hit those high notes and my voice just can’t. Levi said you were the same way, Mom. Your voice was lower when you sang. He said when you’d come over, you'd go play the piano and just sing. Even though it was Dad’s family…..it didn’t matter. You just came in and made it yours too….” She could feel the tears rolling down her face.

“He let the piano get out of tune. Hange bought him two puppies. They’re corgis. He thinks I don’t know how hard he’s struggling. He wants me to live my own life but some days, I just wish he’d admit it. He’s too proud.”

She wiped the tears from her eyes.

“Ymir and Historia are having problems. I hope they figure it out. I know they're meant to be together. Armin and I made up. I missed him. He wasn’t really to blame anyway. Eren’s bad off...I saw him. He’s not...I don’t know. I don't know what is going on and I don’t know why I care. He’s still got your ring, Dad. He sent me the box back so I don’t know what’s in it. I’m afraid to open it. I….I just don’t know and I really need you, Mom. I need you to be here and be a mom. I can’t talk to Levi about this. I can’t talk to my friends because they hate Eren and I hate him too...at least that is what I tell myself.”

She began to cry harder, “I miss him. I really do but...what do I do?”

She fell silent as she allowed herself to cry. The ache in her chest from losing her parents was indescribable. She could have used a mother right now.

After she stopped crying, she stood up. “One more person to visit today. I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

Mikasa began her walk to the other side of the cemetery.

As she grew closer to the grave, she heard the soft music of an acoustic guitar playing.

Her heart leapt up into her throat.

It couldn’t be.

Fate could not be that cruel.

But it was.

She saw Carla’s grave and Eren sitting in front of it. His hair was pulled up into a bun. He didn’t look up or acknowledge her at all. She placed the flowers on Carla’s headstone before sitting down next to Eren.

The music was soothing.

She closed her eyes and just listened to him play. She hadn’t heard him play since his dad had died until last night. She remembered the hours he had put into learning the guitar, even more than she had put into learning piano. One day, he had played until his fingers bled, Carla had taken his guitar away. Carla had told Eren that he needed to learn balance. He couldn’t push himself that hard.

A lesson that Mikasa knew Eren still hadn’t learned yet.

She couldn’t help but smile at the memory.

As she continued to listen to each cord, she realized this was an entirely new song that she had never heard before. Had Eren written this on his own or was this something he had created with his band?

Every note began to swim around in her head. She could create lyrics from these notes. Lyrics about what? She remembered where she was but it was almost as if she could hear her parents and Carla speaking to her through the music.

“[lyrics redacted due to copyright],” She sang quietly causing Eren to stop playing for a moment. She didn’t open her eyes, she didn’t want to ruin this moment.

“[lyrics redacted due to copyright],” she sang again.

Eren resumed his playing.

It felt so comforting.

It was as if everything else melted away.

She opened her eyes, daring to look at Eren.

He held her gaze from a moment which allowed her to really see him.

There were dark circles underneath his eyes. It was clear he hadn’t had any sleep. He looked away from her.

She couldn’t help but become self conscious.

Should she leave? Had she intruded on a moment between mother and son?

“[lyrics redacted due to copyright],” Eren sang, making Mikasa realize truly how much she had missed his voice.

Sure, she had heard it the night before but this was different.

This felt private like it was something only to be shared between them.

They had written songs together before, yes.

Nothing like this though.

Nothing so deeply personal.

When Eren stopped playing, Mikasa was pulled from her thoughts.

“See you later, Mom,” he said as he stood up and readjusted his guitar.

He looked down at Mikasa before offering her his hand.

She took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet.

They began to walk together out to the parking lot.

Mikasa didn’t see Eren’s car in the parking lot.

“Zeke will be back in a couple hours,” Eren muttered as he looked down at the ground.

“I can take you home...to your home.” She looked up at him. He was staring at her. “Carla would kill both of us if I left you here in the cold for hours.”

“I’ve been through worse,” he muttered before he nodded.

The awkwardness between them was almost too much for Mikasa to handle.

She should have left him in the cold.

She should have never offered to take him home but she couldn’t leave him.

Even after all the horrible things he had said to her, done to her, she couldn’t just leave him here alone in a cemetery parking lot.

She unlocked Levi’s car and climbed in.

Eren hesitated for a moment before he got inside.

“I’m at the old house,” he told her before buckling his seatbelt.

Mikasa reversed the car and backed out of the space.

#mmtylif #my writing

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riseofthecommonwoodpile · 4 years

Text

Warehouse of Prayers by Laura Kasischke

It’s dark in here. Please, let me out.

No, I hear him say. I want to show you. And to see it, you have to stay.

And, O, I saw it then. So many prayers. Who could answer them all? And yet

what god would have the heart to toss them out?

Yes, he says, I know. It terrifies. The silence, and the din. The tremendous weight of them. It defies

anything you might think or say

about sound about size.

But, yes, of course. Of course I’ve kept them all.

“We had gone for a walk in the dark.

Of all things, I was deeply in love with my husband! Then

something silent I couldn’t see crept out of the darkness, and bit his hand.”

The beauty of it. The great

beauty. The true beauty of it. The beauty beyond—

It’s

bitten me. I’m bleeding.

In the dark one night you felt around for your blue scarf. Its blue diffusion. Its shameless would-be sky. But it was gone.

Gone, with your watch, and your wallet, and those cheap beads. How

strange to understand, so suddenly

that none of it was yours. Not

a snippet, not a glimpse, not a bit, not

even the dust that had gathered

Amishly on it for years.

And the green lawn rolls, and the green lawn rolls to the foot of it all, to the foot of it all

telling the story of a world created by a god, who wanted to be loved but did not like to talk.

“We predicted this. Something

strapped to the chest of a child. Light pouring up from holes in the ground. A fountain

run dry, and a mild-mannered man on a rampage in July.

Still, we were confused. We

thought we’d looked for this trouble everywhere, and

never found a thing. We

believed there’d be more warning, despite the many warnings. We

deeply believed a mistake had been made.”

10.

Then, in the morning, a mannequin sitting in the rain on the neighbor’s porch. The rain on the mannequin, like so many kisses bestowed upon a corpse.

11.

No. (He takes my hand. He opens a door.)

12.

Wow, I say. So this is all—

and this is the vault in which they’ve hoarded it.

All:

What is, what was, what will be—

added to in increments. (A skyful, a pocketful, a teaspoonful, a pinch.)

13.

And still, mostly vault.

14.

The blood and the bed. The basement full of blankets. The

freezer full of meat. We

all will rise again, and all be dignified.

The vein straight through the center

of the leaf. The woody stem of a rose. The dark suburban fruit of mulberries on the lawn.

We will rise over it all, and all of it will still be here when we are gone.

15.

Hello. It’s me, Eurydice. I want to tell you about his eyes: Stupid

hopeful windows. You

idiot, I said. All this resurrection business just to have your dumb love-glance sideswipe me dead.

16.

Her boy, in the war, the gate, left open, the field full of flowers, the day, so cloudless, she couldn’t help but see the mysterious sense and emptiness of it: As a child, he was so quiet, you could have drawn a circle

around it with a piece of chalk.

You could have taken a bus to the edge of that silence, and stepped off

onto a sidewalk, made of time, and walked

for years and years, all through his childhood and still kept walking.

17.

This is the illegible scroll

on which Orpheus’ reply was written.

This

is the book, thrown from the window.

A cough.

A broken telephone.

A few notes of a song.

18.

And a woman sobbing in a hospital gown, Not fair. Just this one body, and not even the body I wanted, and still it clings to me weeping when I have to leave. Not fair.

19.

“Eurydice? Eurydice? Are you there?”

20.

RSVP: She

will not be arriving by ship of by plane. No car door slamming. No

driver to be paid. She will not be walking. Neither shall she run. Thank you for asking, but she can’t come.

21.

Please, please, please, sweetheart,

pick up the fucking phone if you’re there

22.

“The Czar was killed on the spot, as

were the Empress and the Grand Duchess Olga, neither of whom could finish making the sign of the cross.

But the daughters

wore corsets

lined with jewels. For long moments the bullets, fired at their chests,

ricocheted around the room.”

23.

Please?

24.

One day I saw the divorcée take a letter from her ex-husband. Briefly, his fingertips touched hers, and then she slipped the letter into her purse:

But, O, that purse, full of old pleasure, and that letter. Memory, like a dark hole full of feathers.

25.

“Lust, that goat in violets. Those violets like so much tenderness

scattered in the grass. Love,

that rusty chain dragging you home through your past.”

26.

A woman turns at church in her pew and tell me before the organ starts up, “I know a story about your house.”

27.

Oh? Yes?

28.

“In the forties, a farmer named Elmer Barow, in your kitchen, shot himself.”

29.

Oh, I thought, I know. I know. Time,

passing, all along— the hum of the cobwebs in the corners crocheting their intricate shrouds. The

dripping of the faucet. The blackened toast. Of

course, when we sat down at the table with our heads bowed, that

was him listening in on our prayers— Elmer

Barow with a rifle in his mouth.

30.

Always that

flash of desire, always

in the way (that

gray cat sleeping in the driveway, those

teenage girls bathing in a pond of bees)— that’s

what’s left of the freedom God had to make us, or remain free.

31.

Eurydice?

32.

In winter a woman I work with gets the idea that her hands are poisoned. She can’t touch anything anymore. She wears

gloves to bed, in case, in her sleep—

33.

No, E., of course, your hands aren’t poisoned. You cannot kill your children if you stroke their hair. You

know this, you know it.

34.

But, suddenly, gradually, myself—

everything I touch, there’s—

35.

There’s something wrong. (Not that. But something.) I

spend hours trying not to think about the something, but it’s

always there

in the shadowy tissue, in the silvery microscopic gloom, the lazy fluid slip of it, which,

released by love, billows loosely around the cerebral cortex—

a poisoned flume.

36.

Then—?

37.

“And then the day is over, and the—”

38.

And the day is over.

And in the dark I hear God say,

Laura, go ahead and pray.

39.

Okay.

40.

Okay. I— Okay. I—

Dear God, I—

offer up this prayer of dryer lint and hair.

41.

Orpheus here in a cellar made of glass. In it, with me, a blizzard of small black words. I

am sending this message to you from the world, but “This is a message from the world” is all it says.

42.

“Oh, to the teeth, sweetness is the medium, but the message is decay. Like

the soul, a hunch, wrapped in disintegration. Sweater

wool, skin cells, carpet fibers, ash, a gray

breeze: Virus,

and pollen, and ourselves

blown to breathing pieces.”

43.

And then at the petting zoo I knew

animal terror for the first time. Animal

despair: The trembling of the lamb under my trembling hand.

44.

Suddenly, God answers me!

I am made of the same thing you are, after all, and you

are made of me:

Some darkness, a supplication, a moral silence breezing

over the glassy stubble in a vacant field.

45.

“And let us not forget the petty prayers. The insatiable hunger of seagulls. The sunset

in the blood, and those

birds turning

in on themselves. Crying, reeling, happiest hungry. Let us be

you amphetamines! they scream. The market

full of fruit out of season. The locked

door of the embassy. The high

gate surrounding spring:

Please, God, I want all of it for me.”

46.

To: Orpheus Fr: Eurydice Re: Death

The babble. The cold, teeming, intangible hotel.

47.

God, do your hear that? That

bit of stitching in the wind? It unravels when you listen. Listen.

48.

The Debt Birds screeching, Insufficient! Someone shoveling snow onto a fire. A figure in a black suit swinging a lantern through the dark

in arcs, coming closer, and closer.

And my mother standing by the lilac

(the lilac, which is the suburb’s lyric poem

about death) talking

to a man she never met. I

overhear him say, Whatever

crazy sorrow saith.

49.

“No one was crying, no one was bleeding, but the mail had been dumped in the street, and

someone’s husband a few blocks over was shouting loudly about accountability.

Shadows stuffed into envelopes— as when the forest creeps to the edge of the freeway, perfectly tamed, finally revealed,

and the wild illegal animals people keep as pets,

escape, are seen.”

50.

Jesus Christ, this stuff is everywhere!

51.

Excuse me.

I couldn’t help but overhear your prayer...

52.

“What the bloody hell is this? Someone must have written down every word ever said, then

shredded every word ever written.”

53.

O, honey, O, lovely, O, please. It’s me,

Orpheaus, again, Eurydice.

54.

“Okay, now what we need here is a warehouse, or an abyss. Which one of you guys can get on this—

ASAP?”

55.

trying to hold fire. Like

trying to hold perfume. Like

wearing fog to work. Like

stoppering a bottleful of light—

trying to talk to God.

56.

“Hello. Yeah. It’s me. Is he in? We’ve got a major mess on our hands.”

57.

“Shit. Shit. Is he ever in?”

58.

Like stoppering a bottleful of light. Like wearing fog to work. Like trying to hold perfume. Like

trying to hold fire—

to make the simplest goddamned contact with—

59.

O, wait, look after all— that

warehouse, that

abyss, and

a beautiful naked stranger diligently trying

to ladle the oceans into it.

#laura kasischke #i typed this whole thing out on my old blog so #here it is #my favorite poem

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skgway · 3 years

Text

1832 Nov., Tues. 20

7 20/..

11 50/..

Thick, hazy, soft morning Fahrenheit 47º at 7 1/2 a.m. Downstairs at 8 20/.. to speak to Goodyear (from near Brookfoot and Southholm) come about the stone in George Naylor’s land – Bids 5/. [shillings] a yard but wishes a hole to be opened to see the stone, and if worth more will give it – His 2 partners are Heap of H–x [Halifax] and Naylor of Willow hall – Said he was to tell George Naylor of upper place where he would like the hole to be made and I would see about it – He staid talking an hour till Throp came –

Then breakfast in 20 minutes and out with Throp at 9 40/.. to 12 20/.. – Took Throp all along the walk – Then to Well-royde upper wood – Will plant it at 15/. [shillings] a thousand with oaks at 10/. [shillings] in rows 2 feet asunder, and the plants 2 feet asunder in the rows, and between each plant in each row put in 2 acorns – (he has acorns from London at 4/. [shillings] a thousand – come from near Dorking) and keep the piece now trenched clear for 4 years at 20/. [shillings] a year – If the rough piece at the top was planted it would cost 10/. [shillings] a year additional keeping clean –

Then took him to the Cunnery wood – Hardly a good handsome plant in it – Has done very ill – Would fill it up with good 2 or 3 feet plants and uphold and keep them sufficiently clean for 4 years at £5 an acre – But could get it all trenched over at 1/3 a rood of 49 square yards which would be about 6 guineas an acre – And plant it with acorns at 40 /. [shillings] an acre and the acorns would cost about a guinea an acre (acorns at 4/. [shillings] a bushel and 1/. [shilling] a bushel carriage and about 3 or 4 bushels per acre) would make the trenching and planting with acorns about £10 an acre and then would keep all clean at 40 /. [shillings] an acre – Thus this plantation of about 3 acres would have cost me in 4 years about £50 – Said I would think about it –

On leaving Throp at 12 20/.. went down my walk to the brook – Pickles not there today or yesterday –Then to Charles Howarth’s to value the oak tree lying in the Cliff hill ground – If it will come in for any of my uses will buy it –

Home about 1 1/4 – Saw my aunt – Changed my clothes – Wrote all the above of today till 2 1/2 – Waiting for Joseph Wilkinson who was to be here at 2 – From 2 1/2 to 3 35/.. read from page 58 to 100 (end of the life of Romulus and comparison between him and Theseus) volume 1 Langhorne’s Plutarch –

Off at 3 3/4 to Lidgate – Talking to Jack Green by the way – That throw down just behind Mytholm engine (2 or 3 yards back towards Hippherholme) as of 16 yards – Told Jack of wanting to see Joseph Wilkinson – Would give him tomorrow to come in (but if did not see him there Mr. Parker must try and settle for us about footpaths and water to Lower brea –

At Lidgate at 4 30/.. – I had met Miss W– [Walker]’s postboy with a note asking me to dinner at 5 and stay all night tomorrow – The Mill house Rawsons cannot go to her till the 3rd and ask whether this would interfere with our going to York –

You know how glad I shall be to see you and remember how truly happy [y]ou will make me if I can be useful to you in any way in your enterprize au secret. I reproached myself not a little yesterday that it did not occur to me to say this yesterday. I thought of it before you had been gone five minutes.

Very good of her, but thought I, I shall take care of getting under obligation of this kind. Declined going tomorrow – Miss Parkhill urged my going to them – Said I was afraid I could not even promise for Thursday –

Sat talking 3/4 hour to them got up to come away – Miss W[alker] took me into the dining room. Explained that I thought it better not to stay all night again during Miss P[arkhill]’s visit, and declined even breakfasting there, and made Miss W[alker] agree that I was right. She seemed glad to see me and more affectionate than usual. Kept me twenty five minutes. To call again at Lidgate on Friday –

Home in 1/2 hour (dark) at 6 10/.. – Changed my things – Dinner at 6 1/2 – Had Pickles with the man he summoned the other day for cutting sticks in the hedges – Pretended greatish anger and difficulty in letting the man off (at Pickles’s entreaty) for paying for the summons, and giving Pickles 5/. [shillings] –

Wrote the following in answer to note I found on my desk from Mr. Mitchell the land valuer (who had been to speak to Mr. Carr about Godley, who said that, out of gratitude to me, he should make me the 1st offer of it) –

“Shibden hall Tuesday 20 November 1832. Sir – I was not at home when your note arrived – I shall be glad to see you tomorrow morning at the earliest hour you can make it convenient to come after 8 – At 8, if that hour will suit you, will suit me best – I am, Sir, etc. etc. etc. A Lister" –

Sent this note by John to "Mr. Mitchell, Cowmarket, Halifax" – Wrote the last 24 lines till 8 40/.. – Then read from 100 to 113 volume 1 Langhorne’s Plutarch and had a little nap till 9 3/4 – Then went into the other room and sat talking to my aunt till 10 50/.. –

Letter from Lady Stuart dated 16 November, 4 pages of 1 large sheet and a 1/2 sheet full from Lady Harriet de Hagemann, Copenhagen, dated 4 November. Both franked by Lady Althorp and printed over the top on his majesty’s service – Both very kind letters – Both Lady S– [Stuart] and Lady H[arriet] de H– [Hagemann] wishing to see me – Lady S– [Stuart] would I hope receive the shawl the day after she wrote – Asks my interest for Mr. Wortley – I shall explain about this – Still not knowing what Vere will do –

Thick, hazy, soft November day but fine enough for the time of year – Fahrenheit 49º at 11 p.m. –

#anne lister code breaker #anne lister #ann walker #shibden hall 1832

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