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alloftheimaginess · 4 years

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Can you do a supernatural cast series where you’re the wife and you do different interviews, like the videos on YouTube like Ad or thirst tweets or just answering fan questions whatever plz. If you have questions just message me and I’ll try to explain it further

Lol sorry it’s been like four months so don’t hate me but it’s been hard work juggling trying to write, school and work so sorry. I think it sucks but hopefully you’ll like it and I’ll be tagging the other parts in this one

Burning Fan Questions

Other parts

Alexander Calvert

Misha Collins

Jensen Ackles

"Hi I'm Yn Padalecki and I will be answer the fans burning questions about my life" I say smiling at the camera as I grab the bucket that's full of questions.

"I'm super nervous for this because before I got here Jared double dog dared me to answer literally every single question so I can't use my skip button" I say and the crew behind the camera laughs.

"Please for the love of god let their be questions to embarrass Jared more than me so he can eat it" I say giggling.

"First question" I say grabbing a folded up piece of paper from out the bucket.

"Who is the rudest celebrity that you've ever had the chance of meeting?" I read and I laugh.

"Oh that's a lot of them, there's an unsurprising amount of rude celebrities who think that they own Hollywood" I say laughing.

"But enough stalling because I have to answer this question anyway, the rudest celebrity that I've ever met was Christian Bale, no offense but he was a total dick to literally everyone around him, on set, off of set just everywhere" I say digging around the bucket for another question.

"What scandals has your team had to cover up?" I read and I start laughing.

"Noooooo" I say laughing even harder because I know I have to tell them.

"Okay okay. When I was 23 I had first met Jared and we got caught you know doing the deed and then the pictures were about to go out and they had to buy all of them back for double of what they were going to get" I say laughing shaking the bucket up and grabbing another one out.

"Have you ever used your celebrity status to get something for free?" I read.

"One time when I was out my daughter, Harlow we were getting frozen yogurt and I left my credit card at the restaurant we were at before without realizing it and at the register she goes oh my god are you Jared from supernatural's wife and when I'm with my daughters I usually pretend like I'm not but I totally knew she was going to give us the yogurt for free so I was like yeah, and then I asked her how she was and she was like oh this is totally on the house" I say laughing.

"I eventually went back and tipped a massive tip because I didn't pay last time" I say.

I grab another one out and I put the bucket down opening it "how many kids do you actually want?" I read.

"Well I already have two now but I'm aiming for at least five" I say laughing.

"I have a big family I'm one of 9 so I've always wanted a big family but not as big as mine so four or five would be a perfect size family for me, I honestly have a enough love for a million but four or five is definitely good for me" I say grabbing another question.

"If we came to your house what would we find in your cabinets food wise?" I read laughing.

"What an interesting question" I say.

"Everyone in the Padalecki household has their own cabinets because they are huge smackers. Harlow's is filled with the stuff she likes such as teddy Grahams, fruit roll ups, dried Cranberries, jolly ranchers stuff like that. Mine is filled with little cakes, gushers, banana chips which I swear by, peanuts, popcorn and Jared's, he has tons of candy, he is absolutely in love with white chocolate macadamia cookies and he always has those in his stash and Kiernan she's still on baby food so she's fully stocked on that" I say grabbing another question out.

"If you had to marry anyone that has starred along side your husband in his show supernatural who would it be?" I read.

"Oh hmm" I say laughing.

"Okay, Jensen is like Jared's best friend but I'm way closer to Misha so I'd definitely have to say Misha but no offense to his wife because I'd totally marry her as well or maybe even Rob, I love that man to pieces, he's a really good friend but then there's Rich, no offense to his wife Jaci but Rich and I have the best dance off's so that would be something to look forward to" I say laughing as I grab another question.

"If you woke up in Jared's body and had to stay in it for a day what would you do?" I say laughing.

"Easy, I'd leave myself little notes with plans for tomorrow so when I switch back he'll have to go through with them and we could have a perfectly planned out day because I planned it" I say laughing.

"If you go out to dinner with your non-famous friends, do you all still split the bill or do you pay?" I read.

"It depends really, my childhood friends don't like for me to pay for their stuff so we'll all split the bill but if I'm the one inviting everyone out then I'll pay before hand because then it'll be a lot of work trying to break it up" I say grabbing another question.

"What's one thing that Jared does that absolutely pisses you off?" I read cracking up.

"Breathes" I say smiling at the camera.

"I'm just kidding" I say laughing.

"When I'm super busy and like concentrating on my work he'll come over and innocently wrap his arms around me but then when I'm not paying him enough attention he'll start softly biting me and while I'm trying to work that can be so annoying" I say.

"What was the worst rumor that has been spread about you?" I read.

"I've had some pretty bad ones that I like to pretend didn't happen because they were literally so outrageous but I guess the worst one was that I was cheating on Jared. A few years back Harlow and I flew to my hometown for a few weeks and we spent Halloween out there and my twin sister and I dressed up as Sally from nightmare before Christmas because we've always done matching costumes whenever we're with each other and I posted a selfie on Instagram so everyone knew what I looked like but no one knew my twin sister was dressed identical to me and she took Harlow around with her now husband while I helped my parents be set up for the party and the paparazzi caught them together while they shared a kiss and while Eric played with Harlow and she was giggling and they put the photos on the front of the magazine and I was getting so much hate before I even knew what was going on and I was getting calls from our friends and they were asking me like how I could do that and then I had to go and post my pictures with my sister and write this long ass message about it and it was super bad" I say moving on.

"Who do you look up to the most, and what qualities do you love about that person?" I read.

"My grandma, she pretty much raised me. My parents weren't around often so I had to live with her for like 5 years, me and all of my siblings" I say digging in the bucket.

"But the qualities that I love about her is one, the fact that she is the strongest person I've had the honor of meeting" I say holding up one finger.

"Two, her boldness is like unbelievable. I took her to the oscars and she started flirting with The Rock and that's when I realized my grandma was my hero" I say laughing and I pull another question out.

"What's something you did as a child that no one knows about outside of your family?" I read.

"For two years I only spoke in a British accent, I had everyone confused at school because I never broke" I say laughing.

"How often do you and Jared have sex?" I read burying my face.

"No, I'm not going to be embarrassed. Sex is a normal thing, it brings about joy, relaxation, sometimes accidental pregnancies" I say laughing.

"But back to the question, I don't know. He's gone for like nine months out of the year but if he has a three day weekend or whatever then we'll spend a night together but when he's home in the three months he's off of filming it's literally whenever the kids are gone if even just for 20 minutes. We try to keep it as normal as possible" I say laughing.

"What's the last text conversation you had?" I read pulling out my phone and I laugh.

"I texted Robert about his new Batman movie because it was announced the other day and I just seen it this morning so I had to quickly congratulate him and he tells me that while I'm super late he still appreciates it and won't hold anything against me when it's time to hand out movie tickets and I said I'd never forgot about you shiny and he sent the middle finger emoji" I say laughing.

"What are your pet names that you and Jared have for each other?" I read.

"Ha, finally a question that he'd normally not talk about but I was dared so I call him Bubba or bubs" I say laughing.

"Literally it's how he's saved in my phone and he thinks it's so embarrassing" I say pulling my phone out and showing his contact name and photo.

"He's Bubba and he calls me a lot of different things but the one he always goes back to is beautiful or baby" I say smiling at the camera.

“Do your siblings and Jared get along?” I read and I laugh sighing.

“Like I mentioned earlier I’m one of nine so that’s eight siblings and then all of my siblings are older than me. I’m the baby and they are all married so my older brother and his husband love Jared and Jared loves them, we’re actually both of their kids godparents but then with my third oldest sister she doesn’t like me so she doesn’t like Jared by default you know” I say grabbing another question.

“Okay this is a question I have to know how often you do and Jared shower together?” I read laughing.

“Do you have to know that?” I ask laughing harder.

“Sorry to let you down but we don’t really, we’ll not anymore with kids it’s best one of us is out the shower while the other one quickly showers because we can’t leave them along for too long” I say knowing that my answer is not what they were expecting.

“But before kids it’s was an every morning thing we did together before heading out for our different business or whatever we had to do that day” I say.

“Did you have an oh shit moment at your wedding, and if so what was it?” I read and I nod.

“Yeah actually I did. But it’s been so long since we got married that I actually forgot until I read this question. My brother bless his poor heart showed up drunk like he was pregaming our wedding and the security didn’t know he was my brother so they were like kicking him out and my sister runs in like “oh my god Yn, the security just kicked Kalin out” so I’m like half dressed and I go down to try to figure out what the hell is happening and then I meet up with him and he throws up all over me like I’m talking full body covered and the make up artist just left and I had to shower and call her back so she could come fix my face and it was very traumatizing because it was so gross” I say laughing.

“But the whole wedding was beautiful and he didn’t drink at all” I say.

“If you had to pick a song from the late 10’s-2020 to be you and Jared’s couple song what would you pick?” I read and I awe.

“That’s a cute question. I guess I’d have to say Flicker by Niall Horan, we danced together to that song when Alex Calvert and his wife got married and it literally felt so magical and now whenever I hear it, it takes me back to a happy place and I just think about slow dancing with my best friend and husband” I say smiling.

“Do you and all the wives of the supernatural cast get along?” I read and I quickly nod.

“Those girls are some of my best friends, they know what it’s like to have a family and their husband work on supernatural so automatically we have something to bond over also with Alex’s wife she has a massive family so we often talk about the drama and problems that come along with it” I say laughing.

"Last one. What celebrity have you had beef with?" I read laughing.

"Daniel Radcliffe" I say quickly.

"But it was when we were younger filming the Harry Potter movies. We didn't like each other for like the first 4 movies" I say laughing.

"Our characters were close in the movie but on set we hated each other, I don't know why and I don't think he does either, I guess our energies just clashed but when we got to order of the Phoenix and we talked it out before we started filming and have been best friends in person ever since" I say laughing and tipping the bucket over.

"That was my last question. I'm Yn Padalecki and this has been answering fan questions. Thank you for watching and I hope you got a laugh out of at least some of these questions or you learned something you never thought you would learn about me" I say smiling at the camera

#jared padalecki #jared padalecki x reader #jared padalecki x you #spn cast #supernatural cast x reader #sam winchester #jensen ackles #misha collins #alex calvert #Spn cast x reader #cast x reader #reader insert #supernatural #celeb!reader #famous!reader #actress!reader #celebrity!reader

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troybeecham · 4 years

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Today, the Church remembers the Oxford Martyrs.

Ora pro nobis.

When Henry the Eighth of England died in 1547 AD, he left three heirs: his son Edward and his two daughters, Mary and Elizabeth. King Henry VIII had separated the Church of England from the Roman Catholic church, but he had not reformed the church's practices or doctrines.

On Henry's death, his young son Edward became King. Many of Edward's advisors tried to move the English Church in the direction of the Continental Protestant Reformation, especially the reforms of Calvinism. Three such men were Nicholas Ridley, Hugh Latimer, and Thomas Cranmer. Under the influence of such counselors, young Edward became a staunch Protestant (or at least his advisors were). Under his rule, the church services, previously in Latin, were translated into English, and other changes were made.

When Edward died, the throne passed to his sister Mary in 1553 AD, who was firmly Roman Catholic in her beliefs. She was determined to return England to union with the Pope. With more diplomacy, she might have succeeded. But she was headstrong and would take no advice. Her mother had been Spanish, and she was determined to marry the heir to the throne of Spain, not realizing how much her people (of all religious persuasions) feared that this would make England a province of the Spanish Empire.

She insisted that the best way to deal with heresy was to burn as many heretics as possible. (It is worth noting that her husband was opposed to this.) In the course of a five-year reign, she lost all the English holdings on the continent of Europe, she lost the affection of her people, and she lost any chance of a peaceful religious settlement in England. Of the nearly three hundred persons burned by her orders, the most famous are the Oxford Martyrs, commemorated today.

When Mary became Queen of England, one of her first acts was to arrest Bishop Ridley, Bishop Latimer, and Archbishop Thomas Cranmer. After serving time in the Tower of London, the three were taken to Oxford in September of 1555 to be examined by the Lord's Commissioner in Oxford's Divinity School. All three were found guilty of heresy and treason, and sentenced to death by burning at the stake.

The scholar Nicholas Ridley had been a chaplain to King Henry VIII and was Bishop of London under his son Edward. He was a preacher beloved of his congregation whose very life portrayed the truths of the Christian doctrines he taught. In his own household he had daily Bible readings and encouraged Scripture memory among his people. Nicholas Ridley became an adherent of the Protestant cause while a student at Cambridge. He was a friend of Archbishop Cranmer and became private chaplain first to Cranmer and then to King Henry. Under the reign of Edward, he became bishop of Rochester, and was part of the committee that drew up the first English Book of Common Prayer. When Ridley was asked if he believed the pope was heir to the authority of Peter as the foundation of the Church, he replied that the church was not built on any man but on the truth Peter confessed -- that Christ was the Son of God. Ridley said he could not honor the pope in Rome since the papacy was seeking its own glory, not the glory of God.

Hugh Latimer was famous as a preacher. He was Bishop of Worcester in the time of King Henry, but resigned in protest against the King's refusal to allow the Calvinist Protestant reforms that Latimer desired. Latimer's sermons speak little of doctrine; he preferred to urge people to upright living and devoutness in prayer. His sermons emphasized that all people should serve the Lord with a true heart and inward affection, not just with outward show. Latimer's personal life also re-enforced his preaching. He was renowned for his works, especially his visitations to the prisons.

Neither Ridley nor Latimer could accept the Roman Catholic mass as a sacrifice of Christ. Latimer told the commissioners, "Christ made one oblation and sacrifice for the sins of the whole world, and that a perfect sacrifice; neither needeth there to be, nor can there be, any other propitiatory sacrifice." These opinions were deeply offensive to Roman Catholic theologians.

Both Ridley and Latimer were burned at the stake in Oxford on this day, October 16, 1555.

As he was being tied to the stake, Ridley prayed, "Oh, heavenly Father, I give unto thee most hearty thanks that thou hast called me to be a professor of thee, even unto death. I beseech thee, Lord God, have mercy on this realm of England, and deliver it from all her enemies."

Ridley's brother had brought some gunpowder for the men to place around their necks so death could come more quickly, but Ridley still suffered greatly. With a loud voice Ridley cried, "Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit...", but the wood was green and burned only Ridley's lower parts without touching his upper body. He was heard to repeatedly call out, "Lord have mercy upon me! I cannot burn..Let the fire come unto me, I cannot burn." One of the bystanders finally brought the flames to the top of the pyre to hasten Ridley's death.

Latimer died much more quickly; as the flames quickly rose, Latimer encouraged Ridley, "Be of good comfort, Mr. Ridley, and play the man! We shall this day light such a candle by God's grace, in England, as I trust never shall be put out."

While convicted and sentenced on the same day as Latimer and Ridley, Cranmer was executed five months later. Thomas Cranmer was Archbishop of Canterbury in the days of Henry, and defended the position that Henry's marriage to Katharine of Aragon (Spain) was null and void. When Edward came to the throne, Cranmer was foremost in translating the worship of the Church into English (his friends and enemies agree that he was an extraordinarily gifted translator) and securing the use of the new forms of worship. When Mary came to the throne, Cranmer was in a quandary. He had believed, with a fervor that many people today will find hard to understand, that it is the duty of every Christian to obey the monarch, and that "the powers that be are ordained of God" (Romans 13). As long as the monarch was ordering things that Cranmer thought good, it was easy for Cranmer to believe that the king was sent by God's providence to guide the people in the path of true religion, and that disobedience to the king was disobedience to God.

Now Mary was Queen, and commanding him to return to the Roman obedience. Cranmer five times wrote a letter of submission to the Pope and to Roman Catholic doctrines, and four times he tore it up. In the end, he submitted. However, Mary was unwilling to believe that the submission was sincere, and he was ordered to be burned at Oxford on 21 March 1556. At the very end, he repudiated his final letter of submission, and announced that he died a Protestant. He said, "I have sinned, in that I signed with my hand what I did not believe with my heart. When the flames are lit, this hand shall be the first to burn." And when the fire was lit around his feet, he leaned forward and held his right hand in the fire until it was charred to a stump. Aside from this, he did not speak or move, except that once he raised his left hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

These three martyrs were only a small part of the many hundreds who would be murdered on all sides of the Reformation and Counter Reformation era. It is a scandal to Jesus Christ and his Church that those who profess to be his disciples should ever cause harm to each other or to anyone. The Church suffers still today for the grievous sins of Christians killing each other, and blaspheming by daring to claim such deeds are done in the name of God. Our sad divisions remain, and we must pray with our Savior Jesus that all our sad divisions may cease, that we may be one even as Jesus and the Father are one.

O God the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, our only Savior, the Prince of Peace: Give us grace seriously to lay to heart the great dangers we are in by our unhappy divisions; take away all hatred and prejudice, and whatever else may hinder us from godly union and concord; that, as there is but one Body and one Spirit, one hope of our calling, one Lord, one Faith, one Baptism, one God and Father of us all, so we may be all of one heart and of one soul, united in one holy bond of truth and peace, of faith and charity, and may with one mind and one mouth glorify thee; through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.

#father troy beecham #christianity #troy beecham episcopal #jesus #father troy beecham episcopal #saints #god #salvation #peace #martyrs

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rosheendubh · 3 years

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Plant Ylis, or...Rheinwen's Vision

Me, flooking around with horrid photo edits again:::

Ongentheow upon Igrena, fathered Ohthere on a spring tide night when her lord husband, Vortimer-Embreis Wledig-serving the high king, his father, Vortigern, was absent from his home, directing the marriage truce of their daughter, Anna, to Hlot, son of exiled Huns deposed after Atli’s shameful death, and newly commissioned as warden of Alba, southern lords claiming dominion over northern chieftains

And Vortimer ap Vortigern, of Sinfjotli’s/Vitalis’s progeny, passing Volsunga blood, that Vortimer too, slept with his wife after, ignorant of Ongentheow’s insult to her body, dark secret locked away in her heart

So in Uthyr’s veins runs both Ylfing and Yngling/Scylfing, mingled with the blood of emperors, yet Igrena, whose honor was violated and bore a son against her will knows not which man, perhaps both, claim his siring

Infant despised and cast off as an orphan, sweet Madrun-womb-twin of Anna and aunt and mother-raises him as a fosterling in the household of her husband, YnyrGwent/Cyngar of CaerGoch

Until such time as Rheinwen, seeking vengeance for her father’s death, scandalous queen of Vortigern’s aging years, Horsa fallen at Catigern’s blade, Catigern slain in later treachery saving his elder brother, accuses Igrena of adultery and witchcraft, suspicious of this boy of Madrun’s household, boy with no father, she witnessed all the years before, Ongentheow’s ravaging of Vortimer’s beautiful wife, eve of Vortimer’s return from Caledonian lands, her belly swelling forthwith, and no living child proclaimed 9 moons later

Rheinwen, seeking dynasty for her son, Pascentius, by Vortigern, and later, by Cerdic, Cynric will she bear, Plant Ylis, mother of the Saxon race upon British shores, in truth Hibernian and Jute origins, cares not how much ruin from her actions comes, only that Vortimer’s progeny falls, and her own sons stake hegemony on British soil

Igrena, though, seeks justice of her own, and through her unwanted son, boy of 2 fathers or none, is Uther sent abroad to Gaulish colleges, for safekeeping from Rheinwen’s devices, for learning such as the ancients prized, and finally, with his mother’s cool words embedded in his heart

*Do not return to these shores, nor seek my company ever, unless you’ve satisfied blood-price for the wrong done upon me, that was the cause of your life, and are ready to claim rule over this land with the death your father’s father—until Vortigern and Egil Ongentheow hasten to Hela’s gates of reckoning...*

*Obviously, bleached out damsel is Rheinwen, daughter of Horsa (sometimes, Hengist, but it depends on who ya' read)

*Old hippy dude with Bling-Egil Ongentheow (look up Swedish-Geatish Wars-they make for a wondrous tie-in with my Arthurian head canon)

*Blindfolded cloaked person with bambino--maybe baby Uther getting carried away in the night, by Madrun, his older sister (twin of Anna--based off the Tale of St Madrun, daughter of Vortimer and the granddaughter of Vortigern...in combo with St Anne/Anna, my rendition of Morganna/Morgan) at the command of his mother, Igrena, who wants no squalling little mite reminding her of her humiliation at Ongentheow's hand, Vortigern's approval, and Rheinwen's plotting

*Kneeling Roman commander, Vortimer, trying to comfort his dying brother, Catigern, after the Night of the Long Knives, sons born of Sevira, the granddaughter of Magnus Maximus, from Vortigern's first marriage-the house of Vitalis/Sinfjotli, shattered by betrayal and deception, Vortimer/Emrys Wledig, and his brother, Catigern, in open revolt against their father, the OverLord of Britain south of the Walls, where Vortimer, exiled rebel prince, escapes to the Continent, his legions following him, deceived into service by a rising barabarian commander, Earp/Odovacer/Hryp/RithaGaer, to serve in the Western Emperor's desperate power play against the Visigoth army, 12,000 British troops holding the field for Roman reinforcements that never arrive, and 10,000 of them slaughtered

*Vortimer and his remnant companies surviving by the grace of the Savior, and the sudden appearance of a unit of light horse, their standard and their insignias upon shield and helm unfamiliar, but they sweep in to fend the retreat of Vortimer’s few men, a scattering of infantry and cavalry Refusing to abandon their commander, ready to die at his side, until this unforeseen, but welcome salvation salvages what remains of their host

*To Avillion, and the college of holy women and men residing, into the abbess’s care does does Vortimer slowly recover, as do his wounded comrades, under Vivian’s direction, the widowed and clever daughter of Macrobius Ambrosius Theodosius, who had tutored Vortimer and Catigern in their youth, Vortigern, a son of Odin from his father’s side, perhaps, but from their mother’s, Roman heritage and Roman learning for Roman princes of British and Volsung nobility *And there, in the lambent Gaulish countryside, bordering Burgundian holdings ruled by Gundobad—colluding then, with Ricimer against Anthemius, Western emperor who failed to send reinforcements to Vortimer’s aid—alongside a lake shining like glass beneath sky, sun, moon, with the rolling hills washed in rich wheat, graceful estates thrive as though the Eagles never knew of barabarian invasion, sheep herds wander in the valleys, and vineyards braided amongst the highest bluffs, does Vortimer meet his own son, sent abroad at his wife’s, his beloved queen, Igrena’s insistence a decade gone now—how time slips so quickly—a boy come to manhood by the patient authority of God’s learned men, who entertain the philosophies of ancient scholars melded with younger faiths, and that older woman, Vivian, who nurtured his heart, and mind, and body when lust wakened aching loins amid wet sheets, teaching him as much of Eros, and Catullus’s lessons, as of Alexandria’s Cerebral gifts, Llacheu, the son of her middle age, born after Uther, and his own adventurous peers, depart with Vortimer, and the remnant British forces, deserted in foreign lands, banished from an island upon which, for either to return will be death at Vortigern’s order, and Rheinwen’s weaving, her husband easy to manipulate in his dotage

*Uter-Uhthere-Ohthere-Ueter-named after the centurion’s god, the common soldier’s god, Veteris, the guardian of legionaries, bringing Victory in battle, and with each Victory, one day closer to honorable retirement, the judge of warriors to the northern troops recruited along the borders of German forests, the peculiar syllables of Latin, assimilating the Brythonic enunciation to Ucter, to Victor, and back again to Wythr *That when Vortimer, His own Latin name, Ambrosius Aurelianus, the praenomen in honor of his beloved tutor, father of the healer-trained-abbess of Avillion’s holy house of novices, women and men both, the cognomen, a conceit of his grandfather, a Northman mercenary, Sinfjotli, Fitelis, Vitalis-Wihtgils-the father of Hengist, and Horsa by a Saxon princess in his sea-reaving youth, and Vortigern, offspring from a marriage to Roman aristocracy of Glevum/Gloucester, bought with a treasure hoard of gold and ships, and passing on Theonia Aurelia’s heritage, her status, by way of her precious name, that she despised her Volsung husband in the short duration of their union was no secret, after giving him a son, she fled to a convent, left Sinfjotli with no great sorrow, having served her purpose, bearing Vortigern, who would have authority in the world, and whose own sons after him, by way of Sevira, daughter of yet one more Imperial claimant, Constantius III, of which Britannia boasted so many in each generation, would harbor power, supreme ruler ship by dynastic right

*Alas, the tears of Volsung women, their matrimony haunted by god cursed blood, since white-breasted Signy vowed wrath upon the husband who destroyed her family, and war upon the One Eyed God who’d plunged a sword into a broad oak at her wedding, that her sweetest, youngest, bravest brother, Sigmund proved the only one worthy to free that blade, and stirred the jealousy of her loathsome spouse, so that he killed all her siblings but Sigmund, and did sister seduce brother, where 3 seasons later, was Sinfjotli spilled from Signy’s bloody thighs to wreck sorrow upon vile Sikling, a single act that would direct the following decades of the Eagle’s fate to Her dying days, as Brynhild thrust herself upon the same sword, to burn with her dead Sigurd upon his pyre, thence Gudrun’s tears turned to glass, and her heart to stone, watching the love of her maiden years, the father of her golden daughter, Swanhild, turn to ash, as she would later weep in the pools of blood from her daughter’s bruised and trampled corpse, fueling wars with her rage that would shape the fate of whole nations, from East to West, until hatred be spent, and hollowness the only vestige of pain hinged into Gudrun’s hardened heart, her last intention, to see her youngest son, Earp, Odovacer, take the Imperial throne, empty triumph for a child born of her third husband, Edeko, sacrificed to the fallout of violence from Swanhilde’s murder, her fourth husband, the Christian Lord, who at least could not be slain, who might offer solace for the tragedy of her life, yet seemed inclined to spurn her bitter peace, sending her a chit of a girl, a hoyden British princess, or so claimed so many venturing abroad from that beleaguered isle, an orphan whose spirit and determination would soften even Gudrun’s hardened affection in the years she would bring that child to womanhood, and guide her in a curriculum foreign to women, raising her to destiny—a Queen like no other-to shape a new world out of the old world’s wreckage, but where Old Grim may claim a mortal woman as his Valkyrie, Brigantia and Her own Ravens long ago placed her blessing upon the women of that girl’s heritage, so that even a god of wolves and ravens comes supplicant to the Lady of Poetry, Science, and Healing, and her ancient form, as Lady of Beasts, the eternal dance renewed in every Age, embodied now in Venaura of the Cawnur, Votadini royalty, in that fateful moment, the first time Uther’s gaze crosses hers, and she commands him to lower his blade on sacrosanct ground, or risk death before the witnesses of sky, earth, and sea, and his confusion of amusement or amazement, by that point, tried warrior, the commander of the fleet of Black Danes, seasoned by 5 years of raiding, journeying in lands, amid people more exotic than even his old studies might have painted (based on the Travels of the 9th century Ohthere/Wulfhere...), having recently won victories in his father’s reclaiming of Britannia’s overlord ship, against Vortigern, Uther, provoked by the woman’s confidence, commanding in the company of fighting men, taunted her, asking just what would happen if he refused her order, and kept his blade unsheathed, whereby Venaura, unflustered and entirely serious, replied simply, *You’ll die.*

*By whose hand*, he returned.

*By mine*, she stated, firm, without hesitation, her gaze flat upon him, emotionless. *With laughter, and a mocking bow, did he comply to this woman, haughty in manner, but her eyes reminded him of sunlight breaking through the gray mists of fog and storm, flashing with the fire of her spirit, a mind quick and ever questioning. A mind, a will, to match his own.

*And that shadowed sword, Odin’s spirit forged into iron, Mimung, granted by Vitalis not to his son, Vortigern, but upon his deathbed did Vitalis’s words leave Vortigern cold, and to Vortimer, grandson worthier than his own son, did that god-blade pass, iron and lightening, drawing blood from sunlight, or so witnesses swore who had the glory, or foul luck, seeing Vortimer swing that weapon in battle, catching and splitting even sun rays into a spectrum of colors, the sword Vortimer knows will one day, at his own death, be bestowed to the young man who removes his helmet once the safety of their remaining troops has been assured at their final retreat toward Avillion, brown hair like oak leaves in early autumn, plastered in sweaty curls down to his shoulders, tied back by a leather knot, face sharing the deep angles and refined ridge of brow and chin, characterizing Vortigern’s progeny, inquisitive eyes studying his face, they blink in a momentary surprise, the wide, thin line of his lips, a trace of grimness or softness there depending on mood, the narrow cleft of of the nose, his height, tall even for the standards of northern blood, a lean limbed muscularity, at that point of maturity, past gangling awkwardness, an early summer virility still approaching his full prime, glorying in that symmetry of strength and motion and power, Vortimer’s edification that the lad his wife sent off to Gaulish monasteries a decade ago has at least not wasted all his hours breathing in the dust of rotting scrolls, nor shying from the bite of wind or touch of sun

*his son, who salutes him with a bow, one arm crossed over his chest, the honorific spoken in a firm voice, resonant of the West Country where he’d spent his early childhood, his Latin shaped in the precise inflections of the orators of old, *Your Eminence, my sorrow the late word of your dire straits, that we hadn’t arrived before such losses accrued.* His son, who comports himself as one accustomed to circles of authority and rank, but there’s that expectancy flashing in his gaze, not quite experienced enough yet, to disguise the curiosity, hope, eagerness perhaps, though they’ve met once only, a decade ago, at the conclusion of that humiliating tribunal before the bishops of the Papal sees, a mock investigation, the crux of Rheinwen’s scheming, to see Igrena humiliated and dishonored, where Madrun was accused of dark rites, conceiving a half-human child, conjugating with an incubus, and Uther, judged devil spawn, to be consigned to some horrid trial meant to prove his humanity, forced Igrena to protect her treasured daughter, revealing the shame Ongentheow had wrought upon her, and the truth of Uther’s conception, that vile night, during those years when mercenaries from across the North Sea, and the lands of the Sueones, were serving under Vortigern’s hire *his son...or Ongentheow’s, Egil Angantyr, the young man’s eyes hold the color of amber, burnished honey of red clover, lighter than the rich brown of his own, a perfect tarnishing, in fact, bestowed from the pale yellow of Ongentheow’s predatory sight, imposition onto Uther’s parentage, that wakens remorse, Igrena’s grief at the secret she’d kept from him all the years, to save her country from the civil war she knew would erupt when Ongentheow’s act was revealed, her only defense to innocence, a woman’s capitulation to violation, and shame upon her husband’s honor, the bastard born of that union, mark of Providence’s judgement

*he sees, in those moments of mutual scrutiny, that searching mirrored in his own thoughts, wondering on commonality of feature, of expression, or motion, his muscles stiffening from the exertion of battle, mind reeling from the magnitude of disaster, reeking of sweat, dried blood, and mire, and realizes in the young warrior’s countenance, whether it’s his or Ongentheow’s seed, an amalgamation of each, it’s Igrena’s beauty, ultimately, in her son, the mettle, the bold flash of fire spurring intellect, and Vortimer knows, the assurance rising, the sword he bears, Mimung, blade of the Waelsungs, will pass on to this man coming of age in an era of upheaval, shifting loyalties, and turning tides *this young warrior, his son, possessing of Ylfing and Yngling heritage, who, weeks later, when Vortimer stares dejected, considering his dismal prospects one night, no hope forthcoming from the blazing hearth fires surrounding Macrobius’s luxuriant dining chamber, suggests they seek employ with Gundobad, mercenaries, sell-swords, fortune-hunters, the Burgundian king, welcoming to companies of dubious repute, so long as they defend as they’re appointed, promising a fair wage, and quartering amid his own stables and armory

*he eyes the younger man skeptically, mentioning he has no desire in getting caught up in the factional strife of Rome or Ravenna, his men even less so, Uther replying, *Neither do I.* He notices Vortimer’s puzzlement, the sharpened look, a pique of interest clearing the morbidity of thought in these monotonous weeks, *I want to go north, to the lands of our fathers, and beyond that. Where they say the sun never sets in summer, and the sea becomes a sheet of ice that never melts. Carausius’s fleet disappeared beyond that distance two centuries ago-*he breaks off at Vortimer’s scowl.

*So, you want to wander lost among the ice sheets like those forgotten souls?*

*You need a naval force*, Uther continues, undeterred by Vortimer’s jaded assumption, *a fleet, and we need men to replenish ranks. Messengers bring word of a Scylfing nobleman, an exile raised on British shores, seeking fortune hunters like himself, with little to lose of wealth or name.*

*Hunters of misfortune I’d wager, rather than fortune,* Vortimer, unable to mellow his cynicism, *I don’t think your mother sent you abroad to a Gaulish college so she could see her son become a sea-wolf.

*Uther’s gaze hardens, voice gone tense, *No, she sent me abroad to return, equipped to avenge the insult done her, and fight for your claim as Britannia’s rightful ruler. This Scylding, Hrothgar, shares common cause against the Ingveones(Ynglings). Ongentheow rules out of Vendel lands now. Together, United we could take him—*, his eagerness faltering as Vortimer’s chuckle grows deeper, musing on idealism and inexperience.

*The Vendel are a powerful nation, with many allies and liege tribes. Your homeland has enough involvement with them, amid our own domestic wars to not chance stirring foreign rivalries further. What exactly do you hope to gain by such venture, Uther?**

—

*Vortimer and his remnant companies surviving by the grace of the Savior, and the sudden appearance of a unit of light horse, their standard and their insignias upon shield and helm unfamiliar, but they sweep in to fend the retreat of Vortimer’s few men, a scattering of infantry and cavalry Refusing to abandon their commander until this unforeseen, but welcome salvation salvages what remains of their host

*And there, in the lambent Gaulish countryside, bordering Burgundian holdings ruled by Gundobad—colluding then, with Ricimer against Anthemius, Western empower who failed to send reinforcements to Vortimer’s aid—alongside a lake shining like glass beneath sky, sun, moon, with the rolling hills washed in rich wheat, graceful estates thrive as though the Eagles never knew of barabarian invasion, sheep herds wander in the valleys, and vineyards braided amongst the highest bluffs, does Vortimer meet his own son, sent abroad at his wife’s, his beloved queen, Igrena’s insistence a decade gone now—how time slips so quickly—a boy come to manhood by the patient authority of God’s learned men, who entertain the philosophies of ancient scholars melded with younger faiths, and that older woman, Vivian, who nurtured his heart, and mind, and body when lust wakened aching loins amid wet sheets, teaching him as much of Eros, and Catullus’s lessons, as of Alexandria’s Cerebral gifts, Llacheu, the son of her middle age, born after Uther, and his own adventurous peers, depart with Vortimer, and the remnant British forces, deserted in foreign lands, banished from an island upon which, for either to return to will be death at Vortigern’s order, and Rheinwen’s weaving, her husband easy to manipulate in his dotage

*That when Vortimer, His own Latin name, Ambrosius Aurelianus, the praenomen in honor of his beloved tutor, father of the healer-trained-abbess of Avillion’s holy house of novices, women and men both, the cognomen, a conceit of his grandfather, a Northman mercenary, Sinfjotli, Fitelis, Vitalis-Wihtgils-the father of Hengist, and Horsa by a Saxon princess in his sea-reaving youth, and Vortigern, offspring from a marriage to Roman aristocracy of Glevum/Gloucester, bought with a treasure hoard of gold and ships, and passing on Theonia Aurelia’s heritage, and status, by way of her precious name, that she despised her Volsung husband in the short duration of their union was no secret, after giving him a son, she fled to a convent, left Sinfjotli with no great sorrow, having served her purpose, bearing Vortigern, who would have authority in the world, and whose own sons after him, by way of Sevira, daughter of yet one more Imperial claimant, Constantius III, of which Britannia boasted so many in each generation, would harbor power, supreme ruler ship by dynastic right

*Alas, the tears of Volsung women, their matrimony haunted by god cursed blood, since white-breasted Signy vowed wrath upon the husband who destroyed her family, and war upon the One Eyed God who’d plunged a sword into a broad oak at her wedding, that her sweetest, youngest, bravest brother, Sigmund proved the only one worthy to free that blade, and stirred the jealousy of her loathsome spouse, so that he killed all her siblings but Sigmund, and did sister seduce brother, where 3 seasons later, was Sinfjotli spilled from Signy’s bloody thighs to wreck sorrow upon vile Sikling, a single act that would direct the following decades of the Eagle’s fate to Her dying days, as Brynhild thrust herself upon the same sword, to burn with her dead Sigurd upon his pyre, thence Gudrun’s tears turned to glass, and her heart to stone, watching the love of her maiden years, the father of her golden daughter, Swanhild, turn to ash, as she would later weep in the pools of blood from her daughter’s bruised and trampled corpse, fueling wars with her rage that would shape the fate of whole nations, from East to West, until hatred be spent, and hollowness the only vestige of pain hinged into Gudrun’s hardened heart, her last intention, to see her youngest son, Earp, Odovacer, take the Imperial throne, empty triumph for a child born of her third husband, Edeko, sacrificed to the fallout of violence from Swanhilde’s murder, her fourth, the Christian Lord, who at least could not be slain, who might offer solace for the tragedy of her life, yet seemed inclined to spurn her bitter peace, sending her a chit of a girl, a hoyden British princess, or so claimed so many venturing abroad from that beleaguered isle, a orphan whose spirit and determination would soften even Gudrun’s hardened affection in the years she would bring that child to womanhood, and guide her in a curriculum foreign to women, raising her to destiny—a Queen like no other-to shape a new world out of the old world’s wreckage, but where Old Grim may claim a mortal woman as his Valkyrie, Brigantia and Her own Ravens long ago placed her blessing upon the women of that girl’s heritage, so that even a god of wolves and ravens comes supplicant to the Lady of Poetry, Science, and Healing, and her ancient form, as Lady of Beasts, the eternal dance renewed in every Age, embodied now in Venaura of the Cawnur, Votadini royalty, in that fateful moment, the first time Uther’s gaze crosses hers, and she commands him to lower his blade

*that shadowed sword, Odin’s spirit forged, Mimung, granted by Vitalis not to his son, Vortigern, but upon his deathbed did Vitalis’s words leave Vortigern cold, and Vortimer instead, wielding a god-blade of iron and lightening, drawing blood from sunlight, or so witnesses swore who had the glory, or foul luck, seeing Vortimer swing that weapon in battle, catching and splitting even sun rays into a spectrum of colors, the sword he knows will one day, on Vortimer’s death, be bestowed to the young man who removes his helmet once the safety of their remaining troops has been assured at their final retreat toward Avillion, brown hair like oak leaves in early autumn, plastered in sweaty curls down to his shoulders, tied back by a leather knot, face sharing the deep angles and refined ridge of brow and chin, characterizing Vortigern’s progeny, inquisitive eyes studying his face, they blink in a momentary surprise, the wide, thin line of his lips, a trace of grimness or softness there depending on mood, the narrow cleft of of the nose, his height, tall even for the standards of northern blood, a lean limbed muscularity, at that point of maturity, past gangling awkwardness, an early summer virility still approaching his full prime, glorying in that symmetry of strength and motion and power, Vortimer’s edification that the lad his wife sent off to Gaulish monasteries a decade ago has at least not wasted all his hours breathing in the dust of rotting scrolls, nor shying from the bite of wind or touch of sun

*his son...or Ongentheow’s, Egil Angantyr, the young man’s eyes hold the color of amber, burnished honey of red clover, lighter than the rich brown of his own eyes, a perfect tarnishing, in fact, bestowed from the pale yellow of Ongentheow’s predatory sight, imposition onto Uther’s parentage, that wakens remorse, Igrena’s grief at the secret she’d kept from him all the years, to save her country from the civil war she knew would erupt when Ongentheow’s act was revealed, her only defense to innocence, a woman’s capitulation to violation, and shame upon her husband’s honor, the bastard born of that union, mark of Providence’s judgement

*this young warrior, his son, possessing of Ylfing and Yngling heritage, who, weeks later, when Vortimer stares dejected, considering his dismal prospects one night, no hope forthcoming from the blazing hearth fires surrounding Macrobius’s luxuriant dining chamber, they seek employ with Gundobad, mercenaries, sell-swords, fortune-hunters, the Burgundian king, welcoming to companies of dubious repute, so long as they defend as they’re appointed, promising a fair wage, and quartering amid his own stables and armory

*So, you want to wander lost among the ice sheets like those forgotten souls?*

*You need a naval force, a fleet, and we need men to replenish ranks. Messengers bring word of a Scylfing nobleman, an exile raised on British shores, seeking fortune hunters like himself, with little to lose of wealth or name. *

*Hunters of misfortune I’d wager, rather than fortune. I don’t think your mother sent you abroad to a Gaulish college so she could see her son become a sea-wolf.*

Uther’s gaze hardens, voice gone tense, *No, she sent me abroad to return, equipped to avenge the insult done her, and fight for your claim as Britannia’s rightful ruler. This Scylding, Hrothgar, shares common cause against the Ingveones(Ynglings). Ongentheow rules out of Vendel lands now. Together, United we could take him—*, his eagerness faltering at Vortimer’s scathing laugh, musing on idealism and inexperience.

*The Vendel are a powerful nation, with many allies and liege tribes. Your homeland has enough involvement with them, amid our own wars to not chance steeping ourselves further in their rivalries.” Leaning forward, attention narrowed upon the younger man, he challenges this youth, son, or not his son, seeking a better answer than a quest for vengeance. *What exactly do you hope to gain by such venture, Uther?*

*Recompense for the crime committed against my mother,” he answers, anger dark on his features.

*That’s not your blood-debt to collect, Uther—* at which, Uther’s frustration boils over, venting back about the charge Igrena set upon him. *Despite your mother’s instruction, boy!* Vortimer’s voice raging through the quiet hall, slamming his palm down on the table, stunning both of them into silence. Uther exhales in frustration, frowning where Vortimer’s powerful hand rests, splayed by his tension, thickened by callouses, the index finger twisted from a long forgotten injury. Gathering what calm he’s able, Vortimer attempts with more patience, willing the younger man to understand, *Let it go now, Uther.* *Uther’s jaw stiffens, protest rising, but Vortimer’s explanation chokes off his response. *Unless you wish the sin of patricide upon soul, leave it. It’s not for you, avenging the wrong done your mother. Do you understand me?* *Stubborn lad, he sees the storm of struggle over Uther’s face, resistance or acquiescence. And the slow, reluctant nod, the way he casts his gaze down the length of the table, refusing to meet his acknowledged father’s eyes. The fierceness commanding him alters gradually, something numb and tormented, tone rasped by disgust. *It’s true, then? He-that-abscess of filth could have sired me?*

*Resignation falls heavy upon Vortimer. *As your mother counted the days, it’s hard to consider it untrue.* He let’s Uther work through that revelation, the long breath, a quiet sigh following, indicating some kind of acceptance, he hopes. A moment more, offering of truce, and Vortimer says, *Now, try again, Uther. What exactly do you hope to gain by such venture?*

*The amber hued gaze grows distant, as Uther ponders what he envisions such exploration might hold. A young man, and his fellow warriors, clawing out some foothold of status or wealth upon the rise and fall of competing nations, left from the West’s decay.

*Rose tinged rays lengthen past the watery glass of the windows encased in the high stone walls of the chamber. Longing pierces Vortimer’s heart, Igrena’s essence vivid in the youth’s contemplation. Sweet soul, she had been younger than her son now, at the time of their marriage. A union she’d entered unwilling, a widow and mother already, barely out of girlhood at 16 summers. A rebellious princess of the Hibernian Cennsaleigh (Leinstermen), fleeing from an unwanted match arranged by her father, without her consent, Crimmthann, ruler of the Cennselaigh, desiring truce with the Hibernian High-King, Loeghaire, and joining the dominant tribes of Hibernia’s northern and eastern facing coasts. With her lover, a reckless prince of a minor sept, and the collusion of her brother, they’d fled, like the tales of Deirdre and Naoise, to Pretania/Pictland. Refugees with the Fidach, whose lands composed endless mountain ranges, fangs of snow-covered rock, soaring to the skies, gating off the foreboding lakes speckled through deep ravines, the strip of the Nessa’s water plunging to the Underworld, dividing Alba’s vast wilderness, had kept even the Romans in the days of their greatness, at bay. Alas for Cyddbar, chieftain of the Fidach, sympathetic to the young lovers. And far too confidant in the rugged terrain defending his fortress, carved into a bluff, along the Western strand of that long lake, the Nessa (Uquart Castle). He hadn’t accounted for Vortigern’s mercenary custom, nor the hammer of savagery inflicted by the combined forces of the Tyrant’s legions, allied with Jutish companies from across the North Sea. In those years, it seemed no spring or summer passed without some incursion of Picts or Scots, Fidach included, into the territories of southern Caledonians, residing in the lands stretching between both Walls—Valentia—as it was known. A lost name now, lost territory of a shattered Empire. In that first decade of Vortigern’s supremacy, attracting Germani warlords as paid mercenaries with the promise of land and stipend was like baiting sharks with fresh blood. Especially when they were kinsmen, Hengist and Horsa, supplying men and ships, and eager to escape Hunnish submission to Atila’s grasping hegemony, which recognized no bounds, even to the far reaches of lands beyond the sea, since the decimation of the rival Burgundian Gepids. Their hire allowed Vortigern to neutralize 2 problems with one solution. Cull the raiding Picts and Scotti, whilst negotiating leverage with notoriously insubordinate northern warlords of these buffer zones extending from Eboracum to the old Aelian divide, who kept uneasy relations with the Caledonian monopoly of Votadini and AlClut, peopling the cinch zone Of fertile river valleys between the Clota and the Forth. Many of their leaders who retained a model of legate, perfect, and centurion, in their command, accommodating civic governance to ensure secure roads and borders, even some sea-trade if they access to harbors, across that region of mist-shrouded mountains and bleak moors, lost forests where the veins of roads, towns, and forts connected the hinterland of Empire to civilization.

Under the direction of Vortimer and Catigern, combined forces of British and Jute, some Anglen with their related cousins from neighboring lands further to the north, joined too, by Scotti tribes of the Cennsalaigh and Ulaidh, Crimmthann and Loeghaire amongst them, who in other years, would have been enemy, now shared common cause in restoring Crimthann’s wayward daughter, together razed the isolated hamlets of the Fidach, leaving a trail of destruction, and death, right to the path leading to the heights of Cyddbar’s fortress. Self-preservation dictated Cyddbar to accept terms, turning over the decapitated head of Igrena’s lover, tendrils of the flesh still dripping with fresh scarlet to the pebbled ground where both sides had assembled for the surrender along the strand of shore lapped by Nessa’s pewter waters. And Igrena, whose beauty men claimed to be fey-born, even in her stricken sorrow, slender and graceful as a young willow, proud and defiant against her father, a lone, lost figure holding her toddler son in her arms, shaming the grim scrutiny of battle-hardened men with her cold grief, when she was brought before that unforgiving audience. No ally, no appeal, her brother’s life spared, but her son, the bargaining piece to buy her cooperation, submission to the Hibernian high king. Smug Loeghaire, oozing self-satisfaction, eyes shifting like a greedy weasel’s, thinking himself merciful in his justice, accepting Igrena back, despite her infidelity.

When she refused, coloring him with an insult so degrading, the men in immediate ear-shot looked away in discomfort, the sputtering Loeghaire convulsed into rage. With his sword raised to her white throat, he threatened death to her and her bastard child. And before the hard gazes of a 1000 upon another 1000 men, and the impassive attention of her father, Crimthann, who seemed impatient more than anything, to be done with his errant daughter whose impetuosity had cost him gold, men, and status, Igrena merely lifted her chin, pressing the thin flesh of her neck into the edge of Loeghaire’s blade, drawing a thin line of crimson on pale skin. *I’d rather death for myself and my boy, than expend an instant of life as your bride, Loeghaire.*

An instant, as well, when Vortimer could no longer stand to see such a magnificent creature cast off to an obvious fool. Catigern never grew tired of ribbing him for his infamous disdain of female company, unless seeking a temporary physical release from the distraction of desire. Women were diversions from the weightier contentions men were forced to manage in the outside world. Trouble without home and children to occupy their wandering attentions and soft minds, or locked away in a convent somewhere, they became like bored hounds finding mischief when not appropriately engaged. As Catigern sensed as well, the truth of Vortimer’s reticence to female wile stemmed more profoundly with the memory of their mother, Sevira.

Chaste, devout in faith to her Christian God, as to her brother’s attempts at maintaining cordial relations with Roman authority, she suffered Vortigern’s growing abuse as events accelerated toward Britannia’s break with Rome, consequent to her father, Flavius Constantius’s, failed claim to Emperor. An act that stole the life of her eldest brother as well, hastening to their father on the Continent, with the vestiges of Britannia’s last legions. Vortigern’s official invite to his Jutish brethren, promising alignment with the pro-Imperial factions led by her surviving brother, Urbogenus/Erbin, arose from Sevira’s skilled diplomacy, her marriage joining the lines of Mascen Wledig with the Aurelii of Glevum. And catapulting Vortigern to Imperator In all but name. Factionalism inevitably was born when Vortigern, exploiting the nativist divisions of old British tribalism, garnering the support of separatist chieftains from the remnants of prominent southern and western districts, rising war-lords in this new Britannia without Rome, gambled with his Jutish foederati, and moved to dissolve the civitas councils. To that point, Vortigern’s charisma, his decisiveness, the wise advice of his Roman wife, persuasive at her salons, to his opposition, allayed even her brother’s ambivalence over Vortigern’s ambitions. But from that moment, when Vortigern elevated himself with the proclamation of ‘Imperator’, exiling or executing any who opposed his authority, Erbin refused fealty, named Vortigern *tryant*, fleeing to his Dumnonian queen’s family, and for his life, eventually finding refuge amid the British houses of Aremorica, deposed and disgraced. Deserting Sevira to the denigration of her husband, for what Vortigern viewed as her betrayal to his cause, and subjecting her to emotional abuses an aging Sinfjotli was helpless to prevent. And adolescent Vortimer, his younger brother by a year, Catigern, bore witness with ever increasing rebellion to their father’s contemptuous regard of their patiently suffering mother. Sinfjotli, proud of his son’s achievement, but disgusted by how he treated his noble wife, he took charge of his grandsons’ education, sending them abroad to Gaul, into Macrobius Ambrosius’s tutelage. And when they returned, young men ready to take up service in their father’s court, gifted with the rare qualities of intelligence, fortitude, ambition, and temperance, as well as a rare affection to each other, Vortimer and Catigern found their mother swaying from a hemp cord, hung from ceiling rafters, her death-sallowed skin crusted in dried tears that kept falling into her last death throes.

A suicide Vortimer never forgave as a murder, inflicted by his father’s grasping callousness. Sevira’s corpse, suspended in ghostly vision before him, as he challenged Loeghaire, individual contest, for the right to this Hibernian princess, never mind that she viewed all the gathered warriors there, on that beach, with the same revulsion, who’d brought an end to her lover’s life. But her one act, the absolute defiance of death, pierced not only her skin, but Vortimer’s heart, touching a rare tenderness, desire for her obvious beauty, a willowy limbed maiden, whose clean lined harmony of cheek, pale and freckled, a high brow, crowned by a bounty of ashen strands lit by gold, whipped by the driving wind, her sorrowing eyes, long lashed, holding the shades of sea and sand, washing over the gray-green lichen blanketing rocky shores, but it was the taut pride of slender shoulders, lift of her chin, the vitriol of her gaze fixed on every one of those men’s faces, that captured him, and forever bound him to her. Nothing in her look softened upon Vortimer, as her father joined their hands, his trembling, hers slack, in her humiliation and disbelief, being bartered off to a southern British lordling, son of a usurping tyrant, treaty solidifying Leinster loyalty for British wealth, and ensuring no more harassment of new Hiberni colonizers to the territories of Demetia, where previous communities of Scotti had settled over the last century.

Nine years her senior, as Vortimer reckoned his experience and maturity, Igrena’s resentment at their betrothal wrought forth a chasm of isolation and hurt between them, in those first months, he didn’t know how to mend. Gruff by nature, Vortimer was more accustomed, and so preferred, the company of his war-band to that of women. Where he exploded with impatience at his young wife’s stubborn reticence, especially when he demanded she send her bastard son back to her dead lover’s people in Hibernia, it was his brother, a fury in battle, but by contrast, more attuned to a woman’s mind, and her affections, belying a sensitivity in Catigern’s nature neglected in Vortimer, who convinced Vortimer to allow the child in his home. At least temporarily. A comfort to his still grieving bride, who eventually agreed, by Catigern’s orchestration, as compromise with her husband, to send the child for fostering when he reached his 7th year, back to his father’s Hibernian tribe of the Ui Bairrche.

Indeed, It was Catigern who brought out the enchantment of Igrena’s spirit, the weave of her thoughts, reconciling her to the abandonment of her pagan upbringing in Crimthann’s halls, requisitely adopting the faith of Christ when she married her British husband. And it was Catigern who introduced his older, worshipped brother, to the dialogue of respect between lovers. The first time Her acerbic wit, parodying of Britannia’s competing aristocracies, vying for political and martial dominance, sparked Vortimer’s humor, responding to her for once, with more than condescension, and realizing the wisdom she possessed, deeper than her youth. The asset of her talents, yet emerging, as confidant and advisor, partner, equal sovereign, pending Destiny’s preferences. Months passed. Igrena’s pain at her lover’s death gradually faded. And one night, in Vortimer’s modest hall, the old magistrate’s quarters of Venta Silurnum, she graced that chamber with a voice of sweet crystal, delicacy and longing, embodying a magic in the ancient tales of old gods, heroines, lovers, wars, and heroes. Some of her original improvision, fingers wise on the harp. When Vortimer’s tenor, deep and steady, flowed into her song, Igrena’s eyes widened in astonishment, a quaver in her chords, and stirred a murmur amongst his men, of surprise and admiration, not unpleasant for the momentary shock, their lord, usually so stoic in demeanor, suddenly relaxing reservation, a trait commended by a race styling their heritage as warriors and poets. A rare indulgence for Vortimer, the art of song, but a talent freely displayed with the glory of his wife’s yearning melody. Followed later, by other sounds of ecstasy resounding from their private quarters, that first night, and many after, nearly three months following the hastened elopement, born of shame and death, turned into something precious and tender. A passion still too new, viewed ambivalently by both Vortimer, and his golden wife, more so at her confusion, how quickly she ripened in pregnancy to his seed. As like to clash in temper, as treat in gentleness, Vortimer’s happiness, boy-like almost, at the prospects of her growing belly, envisioning a home abounding with children, mocked her guilt, memories of first young love, the son she bore him. The father dead, the boy tolerated as courtesy. Both strong-willed, Igrena seconded Catigern’s description of her husband as sentimentally constipated, while Vortimer reprimanded her quick-temper, biting judgement of the opportunists who plagued his own court, sent by his father. Vortigern ever-thirsting to strengthen his position, his sons the weapons ensuring future dynasty. Their daughters were born on the eve of Vortigern ceding the Cantici lands, to his Jutish brethren,

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fully-known-and-loved · 5 years

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In the beginning...

These feelings started way back when I was younger. Interestingly, it wasn’t boys I started liking first, but girls. I remember in elementary school having a small crush on an older girl (she was a whole year older, oh so scandalous). I didn’t even know her - not even her name - but I thought she was pretty. During recess, I would steal glances at her across the playground as she played with the other big kids. Sometimes I caught myself daydreaming that she noticed me, that she liked me too and wanted to hold my hand. Ironically, there were a few guys in my class who liked me, and I would rebuff their affections. During recess one day, one boy whispered in my ear “I like you.” I proceeded to chase him down in anger, and then I gave up and cried on the playground because I didn’t want him to like me. (Side note: I later saw him again in middle school, but we never spoke of what happened. We didn’t even acknowledge each other’s presence, but I knew that we both knew each other and we knew about what happened on the playground that day. We were kids anyway, so no need to bring up the past...) Anyway, once I moved to a different elementary school, the thoughts of this girl faded and I didn’t think too much about it. I think I was too naive to realize that these thoughts could be seen as “sinful” by the Christian community I grew up in.

But the feelings toward girls continued when I started crushing on a couple girls in my class, especially one who transferred to our school in 6th grade. Again, more daydreams, more hopes, but never truly acting upon these thoughts. I did, however, befriend them just because I wanted to be their friends. As I settled into friendships with these girls, the attraction faded away and I was happy with being in the friend zone. Again, I thought nothing of my attraction toward girls in terms of my Christian beliefs.

Then came middle school. 7th grade was the first time I had a crush on guy. He was in my PE class, and one of my friends let it slip that he liked me. Of course, knowing someone likes you automatically makes you start liking them. Same deal happened where I crushed on him, acted nervous around him, daydreamed if he would ask me out and we would become a couple. But I never made a move, and neither did he. Turns out he liked me because I was pretty good at basketball (figures). But then there were two girls in Band class who were both gorgeous (we’ll call them C and T), and all the guys in Band actively pined for their affection. Not me though, nope. If you can’t already tell, I’m more of a “pine from afar” kinda girl. I would catch myself looking at them and admiring their beauty, which unintentionally led to thoughts of being with them. One time, C was drinking water from the fountain, her bass clarinet in one hand, and I felt a tug inside me (my body was feeling things, if you know what I mean). Same thing happened when I saw T kiss her boyfriend after school in the band room. But again, I eased into friendships with them (which wasn’t hard when you spend time together as part of the band community), and I was happy just being friends with them. At the same time, however, as I delved deeper into my relationship with Jesus (sparked by powerful, Spirit-filled weeks at a summer Christian youth camp) I became more aware of how wrong it was to have these feelings. I remember times when I wrestled with myself, moments of confessing my sinful thoughts to God and asking Him to take them away. As I struggled with having lustful thoughts, I found myself satiating myself by watching romantic moments in movies and YouTube videos (usually harmless, PG stuff like the long-awaited first kiss). But more on that subject another time.

The thing is, I wasn’t raised in an environment where I would have been primed to have such thoughts. I was raised in a Christian household, surrounded by heterosexual couples. The early 90s and 2000s, as far as I can recall, wasn’t as open to the LGBTQ+ community yet, either (at least not where I lived), so there wasn’t as much representation in media or in public in general. So I can’t truly say that I started having these thoughts because of the environment, but it was something in me, who I was. It was just a part of me that happened to be drawn to girls and boys (more towards girls from what I can remember). And so I found myself “praying the gay away” because I was taught that having these feelings were sinful. Yet, the feelings never went away, so I learned to just actively suppress them. I was pretty good at that when high school came along, although there weren’t any girls that I had a crush on during high school. There were a few guys, however, that I came to fancy (never acting upon it, of course), but those were fleeting since these guys never actually acknowledged me (their loss!). At the same time, I was already friends with the aforementioned girls whom I’ve known since elementary and middle school, so I was chillin’ as I enjoyed being friends with them. And if there were any lustful thoughts that came up, I actively repressed and ignored them.

Anyway, the thoughts and attraction were there ever since I was younger. And it makes more sense, looking back now. Instead of looking back with shame, I’m looking back with more clarity and understanding of who I am. It’s kind of fun, actually, putting the pieces together. Of course, the wrestling part was not fun, and still isn’t fun today. But I think God’s been helping me through it as I learn more about my identity now. It was part of the process in reconciling who I am with my faith.

And college is a whole another subject, for another day.

Peace out, for now :)

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ascbh13 · 5 years

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Sermon for Sunday 4th August 2019 Luke 10.38 – 42. Kay Morison.

Introduction: We were given a visitors’ book as a present in 1968. It has stayed, with its successor, in each “Guest Room” of the many homes we have lived in since then.

I sometimes flick through the pages of, by now, two such books; and think “who on earth was that? I can’t recall that person at all!….Why was that person staying with us?”

Obviously, noted in our Visitors’ Books, we’ve had many visits from our families and our particular friends. However, in amongst familiar faces and long forgotten people, are one or two very special guests whom we were really honoured to have staying with us – that’s including the occasional bishop or two!

Also, I readily remember two specific groups of Christian leaders who stayed with us. We lived in large vicarages in those days! These friends of ours were instrumental in the leading, teaching at, and hosting of key conferences and also writing about the refreshing of Church Life in the early days of our ministry: That was way back in the 1970s, with the blossoming of the Renewal Movement in the Church of England.

I wonder now…. As a busy Vicar’s wife, still teaching too, did I drop everything for these folk?? Did I simply sit at their feet and enjoy listening to them and their deep wisdom? Or did I rush about making the best meal possible for such influential and important people?

Two of our guests were from the other side of the Atlantic, from the Church of the Redeemer, Houston, in Texas. So did I serve them roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and Bramley apple pie? Well, I hope I was a good hostess, though the make-up of the menus way back then, escapes my memory!

But I think you can readily see the connection of our personal book and the story to the Gospel reading today: The story, so very familiar, of Mary and Martha. Of Martha who rushes round making a meal for their important, unique visitor Jesus, and Mary who puts everything else aside and simply sits down and listens attentively to our Lord.

This story is a “one off”, only recorded in Luke’s gospel. So why did the doctor and historian, Luke, choose to include it? Remember, writing in those days was not the easy matter of pressing a few keys, and then have the computer check the spelling and grammar for you. No, in those days writing was much more laborious, scribing slowly with sticky ink on thick parchment or papyrus. So to be included, this story must be really important!

And WHY did Luke want to record such a homely incident? One reason can be found in the fact that our Gospel Writer deliberately included this incident immediately after the story of the Good Samaritan. That parable, which was the sermon theme last Sunday, does say clearly that “we are to Love the Lord our God…..and Love our neighbour” Two distinct commands. And it’s so hard to juggle both.

Luke evidently did not want his readers to think that their salvation, their relationship with God, is achieved by simply undertaking Good Works : The sort of dutiful care the Samaritan provided for the traveler. Luke wants to make one point very strongly: that waiting quietly on the Lord is the first call on us and from that, only that, comes truly effective discipleship…Not the other way round. And you’ll remember that the very “religious” people in the story of the Good Samaritan all had fixed rules of behaviour to obey, busy rules, which made it ritually improper for them to help the traveler. But Jesus is not impressed by their rules.

Before we look specifically at Mary and Martha and apply the learning to our lives, here’s just a bit of background to help us: 1. In Jesus’ time it would have been unusual for two sisters to be living by themselves and in charge of their own household. 2. For Mary to be sitting at the feet of Jesus would have been scandalous in the era in which she lived. Sitting at the feet of a Teacher was only for a male disciple. 3. In fact, no woman should have done what Mary did. She would have crossed clear, fixed, social boundaries and was in danger of bringing shame upon her household. …And yet, Jesus allowed her to sit and listen to Him as his Disciple! 4. Another fact: Men and women had separate living quarters and did not meet much. I guess it was a bit like that in Saudi Arabia but when there we only visited the home of ex pats. Or I remember in Bahrain I automatically put my hand out to shake hands when we were privileged to meet with the Imam at the Great Mosque, only to be told “we do not shake hands with women”. I felt Bad! 5. Cultures in other ages are different. It is easy to look at this story with the eyes of our 21st century Western culture, but now we need to switch our eye- sight back to Middle East culture over 2000 years ago.

So with that little bit of background, having tried to put ourselves into the alien (to us) world of 1st. Century Jewish life, let’s see what it may mean to us today….

For there are two aspects of this story which seem very relevant to the life of Christians in the 21st century – and by that I mean you and me!....There is firstly a real need to make:

1. A Time to BE with God.

This is exactly how we see Mary behaving in this story. She chose to sit and listen to Jesus. She was reflective, calm, loving, and attentive to her Lord. Remember this occasion probably occurred as Jesus is going up to Jerusalem and Crucifixion. It was indeed a time to listen intently to Him - He would not be on earth much longer!

That’s why Jesus commends Mary’s behaviour to Martha. her sister: “one thing is needed”. This could be translated as (a) Only a few things are needed for a meal or (Much more likely) (b) Only one thing is actually needed at that moment, which is to listen intently to what Jesus wants to tell them.

Indeed, Jesus adds “Mary has chosen what is better and it will not be taken away from her”.

What will not be taken away? What is that “it”?

Surely it is the message of Salvation about which Jesus was talking to Mary . Salvation which is a gift offered freely, but so often ignored!

This is the key point. Throughout the New Testament. We are told clearly: Salvation is not earned. It is freely given to those who put their trust in Jesus.

The writer of Ephesians puts this so succinctly. It’s one of my favourite Bible verses.!

“For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith – and this NOT from yourselves, it is the gift of God – not by works, so that no one can boast”

Mary realized she could do nothing to earn her salvation: her personal relationship with God her Father, through Jesus. She simply sat, listened and believed. Exactly the same applies to us.

Have you ever sat down and given time to really listen to what Jesus has to say to you in the quiet of your heart? Listened and believed? Openly accepted the free gift that Jesus offers, that of a right relationship with God? Yes, it’s time for each of us to make a proper, regular Time to be with God!

Now we need to move on to appreciate busy Martha, who focuses on:

2. A Time to SERVE God If Mary seems to be reflective, loving and calm, then Martha comes across as practical, impulsive and short tempered!

Again some background: It is unlikely that Martha was just making a meal for the three of them. Jesus’ disciples would have been with him, possibly resting up after the journey in the courtyard, so there were probably a good dozen or so mouths to be fed.

However, in lst. Century Jewish life, it would have been very unusual for two women in to invite a man or indeed several men into their home.

And yet that is what Mary and Martha did. And Martha clearly shows she has a real gift hospitality. 1Peter 4:9–10 NIV: Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling. Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God’s grace in its various forms.

Such a meal would also have involved a substantial amount of food: generosity in itself, but Martha also gives of her time and skill as a cook. She uses her gift of hospitality!

However, we are told Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. Any of us who have cooked for a large number of people will immediately identify with Martha. And remember there were very few “Mod Cons” in those long ago days. It must have a plethora of hard work, trying to undertake several cooking tasks all at the same time!

Martha looks across at her sister, “just sitting” and complains to Jesus . “Don’t you care?” “tell her to come and help me”! She goes straight to the nub of her crossness. She needs help, and Mary is apparently doing nothing. Maybe she was jealous of Mary, listening to Jesus, “just sitting and listening”!

There are many suggestions as to what Jesus means when he says to Martha, “only one thing is necessary”. Did he mean only a very basic meal was necessary? Not maybe all the courses and elaborate dishes Martha was concocting?

But much more likely is that Jesus means the only thing that was necessary at that moment was a right relationship with him?

Remember that quotation from Ephesians, telling us that we do not earn our salvation by what we do, but by simple, active trust in Jesus as our Saviour?

However, it’s sometimes said of certain Christians that:

“They’re so heavenly minded, They’re of no earthly use!”

Does that ring any bells?

I often think of a comment I must have heard years ago. It goes like this:

Forgiveness and Salvation are a FREE gift from God! And we spend the rest of our lives, in thankfulness for that gift, by serving God and others.

But both aspects need to be taken hold of !!

In two simple ways:

We must make time to listen attentively to what the Lord is saying to us…..

And equally a time to get on with what He has told us to do.

Both are essential to genuine Christian life. But the tendency is for us to major on one or the other - Just like Martha and Mary.

So WHO ARE YOU? A Martha or a Mary?

I think you know what to do about it!

Let’s pray:

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clubofinfo · 6 years

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Expert: Birds flying high you know how I feel Sun in the sky you know how I feel Breeze driftin’ on by you know how I feel And this old world is a new world And a bold world For me And I’m feeling good I’m feeling good — Nina Simone, Feeling Good, 1965 The idiocy of our times – those tick-tick-tock-tock empty cranial caverns of the American collective delusion – have us clear thinkers and revolutionaries at heart on the ropes. How do we even sleep walk through the carnival that is Facebook, Saturday Night Live, endless Black Fridays, malls and movies, the spectacle that is un-news and the infantile capacity of adults from Ellen to Trump, from Rachel to Tom Friedman, from MSM punks to you-name-it-still-employed economist to control vast hundreds of millions – check that, billions – of destinies. Looting the tax coffers, hollowing out the middle class, rampant perpetual poverty and indebtedness, chronic illness, crashing climate, and a shit-storm of a planet now that we all think Capitalism is the only solution to death. We fiddle with holiday deals while holocaust looms, and we sit, kneel, genuflect, roll over, lie down and plead in our hog-tied American way. Bombs from the suburbs lifted into space with the deadly drone god while Southern California burns, Phoenix evaporates, and both ends of the country flop around like lice-plagued GMO fish on the sinking deck. Prognostication, this is the daily bread, by the millions – blogs, WoP, WSJ, NYT, endless on-line mutterings of the controlled opposition. We have become Pokémon dealers, shuffling the next culling of the economy, or placing bets on the insanity plea of Trump and Company, hoping for black rain and Sunday bloody Sunday. This is the time of Botox broadcasters, the male and female versions of the same plastic people, there, in their million dollar flats at night, conjuring up more of the same silly and insane narratives about things they know nothing about. They ply their trade like traveling prostitutes, selling their bits of Cellophane wisdom and glowing manicured selves like jesters, clowns. The more they try and sound Ivy League and display Driveling Room Temperature IQ, the more difficult it is to understand them. The elite is not some gang of point-one One Percenters. They are in the several millions, count, sixty million of them in the USA, held together with the thieving accountants and hired hands of the legal-illegal class. They are wannabe’s and blue collar millionaires, two doctor heads of households, high end business owners, the traders of guns, pharmaceuticals, laws and other lies. We may have democracy, or we may have wealth concentrated in the hands of the few, but we cannot have both. — US Supreme Court Justice Louis Brandeis Yet, we have to listen endlessly to the We Are the Ninety-nine, which is the absurdity of double-think. One percent isn’t holding up the house of cards. The minions, and the mighty masses supporting these titans of industry and billionaires, they are the Twenty-Solid (& Hard) Percent, in their glory, libertarians and thieves and unwilling to be the blood coming from their proverbial onion hearts. In the United States, wealth is highly concentrated in relatively few hands. As of 2013, the top 1% of households (the upper class) owned 36.7% of all privately held wealth, and the next 19% (the managerial, professional, and small business stratum) had 52.2%, which means that just 20% of the people owned a remarkable 89%, leaving only 11% of the wealth for the bottom 80% (wage and salary workers). In terms of financial wealth (total net worth minus the value of one’s home), the top 1% of households had an even greater share: 42.8% I dance through this mumbo-jumbo Hollywood and Single-Screen-Scroll-after-Scroll mush we call culture, and I hurdle over the Eichmann’s, big and small, and I end up in the same place I started more than 45 years ago – all thieves and charlatans, but with that big all-you-can-eat American cafeteria grin, the lives set in drive through coffee, grease and drugs delivery. This country, ripe for the taking, after genocide after genocide, and then the War is a Racket turned into America is the King Pin, the Biggest Racket of them All. Blue blood in her circulatory system, ever the slave-trading mindset, dredged in Puritanical and Crypto-Zionism. Promised Land is the Disney Effect, and chosen people come and go, as the drive-in’s turn to weeds and the ever-present huckster and PT Barnum and Lying Lynching Legal class rule over the entire mess, over all of the stars and tycoons. Beady-eyed money changers, and those sniveling ones making markets out of nothing, the very steps we take, breaths we exhale, lives we shed. There will be blood is the banker’s credo now, backed by Smith and Wesson and plethora of rockets bursting in air from every corner of the White Man’s/Christian/Jewish world. Cops and coaches, captains and CEOs, we know their kind, and no matter which XX or XY you attempt to rationalize into the madness of Capitalism, no matter which Gender or Identity serves the point-one One Percent class, the project is all cornered and flayed because Capitalism is the breeder of the heathens, the reckless and ruthless, the smiling and sincerely elitist crew. Yet, we hear endless drivel now about Groping A and Groping B, the slithering tongues of these Capitalists on steroids and amyl nitrate and human growth hormones and T-cells, and lubricated eggs from virgin sturgeon. These people in the center of that millionaire goo, in that trade of body and soul for the spin around the rotunda or jaunt down Sunset Boulevard, no matter which Charlie Rose or Dustin Hoffman or Sean Penn you end up with in the same room or office or court of law, unfortunately, they are all the same, groping or masturbating or climaxing or exhibitionisming or peeping tomming or S & M-ing, no matter how you run with them, these elites will eventually get under your skin like pin worms and chiggers. We’ll be seeing the fallout now of the alleged perversions and sexual overtures and manipulations and cajoling and assaults and rapes, wherever they go with those gag rule clauses after the payoffs and silence money. Just out on this day of infamy, Pearl Harbor Day, December 7, stories on John Travolta, one of the richest guys in Hollywood with 5 planes and jets, and his own runway in Florida. This is the microcosm of what Americans are, what they watch, what they believe. Imagine he and his wife, Kelly Preston, living their multimillionaire tax-evading, money-sheltering, cash-gouging lives. So, old John (the Italian-American actor) is accused of attacking masseuses, and he is now in the pig wash slurry of more scandal, as his movie on John Gotti is being dropped (by Lionsgate) because of the allegations swirling around old John (Travolta) attacking guys coming to his hotel rooms for massages (professional): Mafia leader Gotti was brought to trial multiple times throughout the 1980s, only to be acquitted. Travolta, 63, plays Gotti in multiple stages of his life, including when he finally went to prison in 1992. Gotti died of throat cancer, while still incarcerated, in 2002. Last month Travolta was named in a criminal complaint by a 21-year-old masseur who accused the actor of sexual battery that reportedly took place in 2000. According to the bombshell police report, the masseur alleged that Travolta groped his bare buttocks and indecently exposed himself during a deep body massage at the LaQuinta Hotel in Palm Springs, California. During the alleged incident, Travolta, 63, also made lewd remarks about gay fantasies while at the hotel’s spa facility around 1:30 am on February 15, 2000. The masseur reported the incident to the Palm Springs Sheriff’s Department. Officer Mark Peters went to the hotel to speak with Travolta, who had already checked out by the time he arrived. This isn’t the first time Travolta has been accused of misconduct while getting a massage. In 2012, Travolta was sued over accusations that he tried to have sex with a male masseur during a therapy session at the luxury Beverly Hills Hotel. Okorie Okorcha, the lawyer representing the masseur said: ‘My client is afraid of John Travolta’. He added: ‘Mr. Travolta made very explicit threats against my client, which are contained in the lawsuit. ‘Specifically, John Travolta told my client that Hollywood is controlled by homosexual Jewish men who expect favors in return for sexual activity. ‘Let’s face it, John Travolta is an extremely powerful man, and my client absolutely felt threatened by Mr. Travolta. My client was sexually assaulted by Mr. Travolta and he needs to be held accountable for his actions.’ Read more: I bring this most recent case up to illustrate the insane and perverse and surreal aspect of American society, and the money made by talent-less actors who are in bizarre relationships with spouses (arranged marriage with Preston per Scientology), who have the lives of the rich and famous all bundled up in their wacko ways. Do we want to sit through two hours of Gotti, at $12 a pop per movie ticket? Do we have no common sense in this country? The poor and the rich are the mad crowd, the spectacle now conjoined as aberrations of humanity. Travolta, a deacon in the Scientology cult. Do Americans boycott these people, these companies, these ideas, these death by a thousand cuts philosophies and this repressive un-culture to our own humanity? Boys will be boys, and then some. How many men have made the news for their alleged crimes of groping, harassing, cajoling, blackmailing? How many rabbis are speaking out against the large amount of Jewish men caught up in the allegations? How many preachers and priests are speaking up? What about the school teachers, and those university faculty? Mothers? Daughters? Aunts? Any Trump family out there willing to go out on a limb? Where is that ethical code humanity universally has to live with to make sure we do no harm? Golden Rule, Seven Sins of Gandhi ? On October 22, 1925, Gandhi published a list he called the Seven Social Sins in his weekly newspaper Young India. Politics without principles Wealth without work Pleasure without conscience Knowledge without character Commerce without morality Science without humanity Worship without sacrifice The list sprung from a correspondence that Gandhi had with someone only identified as a “fair friend.” He published the list without commentary save for the following line: “Naturally, the friend does not want the readers to know these things merely through the intellect but to know them through the heart so as to avoid them.” Unlike the Catholic Church’s list, Gandhi’s list is expressly focused on the conduct of the individual in society. Gandhi preached non-violence and interdependence and every single one of these sins are examples of selfishness winning out over the common good. It’s also a list that, if fully absorbed, will make the folks over at the US Chamber of Commerce and Ayn Rand Institute itch. After all, “Wealth without work,” is a pretty accurate description of America’s 1%. (Investments ain’t work. Ask Thomas Piketty.) “Commerce without morality” sounds a lot like every single oil company out there and “knowledge without character” describes half the hacks on cable news. “Politics without principles” describes the other half. In 1947, Gandhi gave his fifth grandson, Arun Gandhi, a slip of paper with this same list on it, saying that it contained “the seven blunders that human society commits, and that cause all the violence.” The next day, Arun returned to his home in South Africa. Three months later, Gandhi was shot to death by a Hindu extremist. The law of reciprocity, and where does that fall on American culture, whether through the lens of millionaire men or millionaire women? One should treat others as one would like others to treat oneself (positive or directive form). One should not treat others in ways that one would not like to be treated (negative or prohibitive form). What you wish upon others, you wish upon yourself (empathic or responsive form). The Golden Rule differs from the maxim of reciprocity captured in do ut des—”I give so that you will give in return”—and is rather a unilateral moral commitment to the well-being of the other without the expectation of anything in return. The fall-out in this dog-eat-dog, one man/woman for him or herself stolen land, which is the undertow of predatory capitalism, unfortunately, is all (unduly so) on the shoulders of all men – fathers and uncles, teachers and social workers, sons and uncles, all of us, righteous and far from any capitalist usury mindset, divorced from the take-take-take that is America, seemingly embraced by every boy or girl, man or woman, all intersexuals and transsexuals. The voyeurism, titillation, exhibitionism, proclivities toward gender and self debasement, and the ejaculatory and phallus aims of those tainted elites, and not so elite, are tied to the usury, exploitative and downright greed in every human or business transaction in Capitalism. Men, alas, the patriarchy, are all tied up with what we in America have become along all gender and sexual identities: paranoid, exceptionalist, supremacist, imperial and self-important, warring, and supercilious, superficial and shallow. It’s an epigenetic cause and effect relationship, inside the DNA code of most red-blooded Americans, gay, straight, lesbian, trans-sexual, and what have you! Scam, flimflam, extort, fine, levy, tax, fee-fee-fee, and then, we steal from our futures, bankrupt our own retirements, rip off generations yet born, dredge the lake for that last caviar-producing fish, and we put it all out there in Google-land, Selfie the Entire Disaster, go on Twitter Tizzies, and then ask for more, and order it all on Amazon, trucked to the door and drone-delivered to the balcony. Funny, how conservative guys like Paul Craig Roberts see this next spasm of looting with the Republicans throwing down their true colors and the Pelosi-Schumer schemers in the Big D club yawning about their protected investments/millionaire and yammering about Russia, here at Counterpunch: What we are witnessing is the complete looting of America and the entirety of the West. While the Western World collapses, the insouciant, submissive people sit there sucking their thumbs while they are being ruined. Nothing is left of the West except looters at work. This tax bill is an abomination, an act of brutal plunder. Its sponsors should be tarred and feathered and ridden out of town on a rail, if not hung from a lamp post. If we really break this down, really, what is that tar and feather routine? Imagine, a real world where we aren’t going to take it anymore, one where the tar is 200 degrees and the feathers are all knife sharp and hardened. Imagine the dunking of those thieves-murderers in vats of their fossil fuel gunk, near boiling temperature. I wonder if that’s what Craig Roberts is asking for? And, then, really, what does it mean to be hung on a lamp post? The old ways put the tarred and feathered tied to a lamp post, but hung evokes a lynching. Is that what this staid and conservative Paul Craig Roberts is asking for? Hmm, a call to action, violence? The reality is Americans love their thug royalty, all the Bushes and Clintons and Obamas and the endless Kennedys and now the Trumps. This country not only tars and feathers dissidents, but we’re strung up to dry on the vine. I have lost jobs for speaking out, for advocating as a teacher or journalist or social worker. I write about this all the time, and many places I’ve called my work place were havens for women, me being in the super minority. I have no bended knee and favoritism for the female side of capitalism, like many now are gaggling about. I have been face to face with ameliorating, middling, and in many cases malfeasance prone supervisors and HR directors with the XX gene, and I am not about to go on a tirade of reverse stupidity and count all men as Harvey Weinsteins or John Conyers. We are living up to our collective reputation as mushy thinkers, in this next Tweeting for the Highest Scream for grope x, y and z. Untethered bathrobes, full-on kisses, and all the other pathetic pranks and sexist fun (sic) these leaders of the free world engage in. But . . . . Bombing the world, gutting the world, and possibly stealing all the world’s things, and we talk about Al Franken the Bumbler. Imagine now, a few days ago, that parading multimillionaire, mutilating man, Obama, calling for more women to be elected to office. “. . . because men seem to be having some problems these days.” In all his neoliberal, girl child killing, female wedding party murdering, undocumented woman deporting glee, he sits on the pile of manure that is American retro-thinking and makes these declarations worthy of the nonsense that overrules everything in this country. This is Obama at a private event in Paris on Saturday, and he, of course, was referring to the sexual misconduct allegations made against many high-profile men he golfs with, rubs elbows with, hobnobs for. Here, this is a must read, his eleventh-grade wisdom and drearily daft psychology: “Not to generalize but women seem to have a better capacity than men do, partly because of their socialization.” Here he is, commenting on the plethora of misdeeds and worse of the great elite class, those champions of perversion like Weinstein or the Franken fellow or Alabama Crimson Tide Moore and Company. This is in Paris, speaking to his elites, arranged by a network of communications professionals known as the Les Napoleons. Millionaires, and many of them perverted on many levels. You think one of these boys and girls club acolytes have a bone of humanism left? Listening to wise scriptures, austerity, sacrifice, respectful faith, social welfare, forgiveness, purity of intent, compassion, truth and self-control—are the ten wealth of character (self). O king aim for these, may you be steadfast in these qualities. These are the basis of prosperity and rightful living. These are highest attainable things. All worlds are balanced on dharma, dharma encompasses ways to prosperity as well. O King, dharma is the best quality to have, wealth the medium and desire (kāma) the lowest. Hence, (keeping these in mind), by self-control and by making dharma (right conduct) your main focus, treat others as you treat yourself. — Mahābhārata Shānti-Parva 167:9 This is 21st Century Google Man, Obama, at his best and most hypocritical, somehow declaring that I as a man should not run for local office or be involved in social change at the political level because of a few perverts making the Twitter feeds? He declares men seemingly have a few problems, and so, this wise American Murder Incorporated CEO (ex) is asking me to stand down as a male and wait for the female leaders, because women have a better grasp on socialization? What the hell does that mean? Where do these Gollum characters come from, this Barak and his Michelle and the millions of shekels shoved into their pockets for their mere existences, for a few hiccuped words ghost-written into Number One Best Seller Hardbacks? The socialization of women like Madeline Albright, Chancellor Merkel, Margaret Thatcher, Susan Rice, Samantha Power, Janet Reno, and, well, the reader can generate his-her-their own list. Socialization of these fine ladies shine a light on their incredible lightness of goodness? This is side-mouth, PC, identity politics talk. These are loopy times, and we’ve been in them for decades, really, since Eisenhauer, as undertow after riptide produced the death of integrity, the death of common thinking, the inability of the American trite and superficial man and woman to advance to a level of sophistication or deep thinking or even wisdom or common sage sense. Look at these fellows and women running the world into the ground while they stash-stash-stash away retirement money enough to feed the world 50 billion times over. Look at how they are not us and they indeed want us prostrate and afraid and on the run and now in their goofy show of faux integrity. All for one, one for all women. Here’s a run down of some of those so-so better socialized women Obama is calling on. I need not go into their dirty deeds, their recklessness, their thieving and in many cases direct connection to murdering thousands and structurally and violently assaulting millions and millions more. That other gender Obama is asking for help from, the female persuasion, is now front and center the only gender to be socially and structurally ready for service to the country, as Obama blurts out during one of his Point One Percent Meetings in France . . . because men seem to be having some problems these days. Madeleine Albright Condoleezza Rice Hillary Clinton . Arizona governor Janet Napolitano as Secretary of Homeland Security Margaret Spellings Secretary of Education Betsy DeVos Secretary of Education Susan E. Rice, Loretta E. Lynch, Laura Bush, Karen Hughes (Bush Women) Samantha Power? (Wow, what a bastion of integrity . . . I had to throw that in). More rah-rah bullshit from mainstream propaganda: Forbes USA Most Powerful Women Fortune’s Most Powerful Women And, the following from other lists, imagine, the power they wield, and because they are women, according to Barak Obama’s calculus, are stalwarts of humanity! Merkel, May, Gates, Trump — bastions of integrity! Angela Merkel is still the most powerful woman in the world. The German Chancellor has held the top spot on the Forbes Most Powerful Women List for seven consecutive years, and 12 years in total. Another prominent political leader, U.K. Prime Minister Theresa May, ranked second. It is her first time appearing on Forbes‘s annual list. Melinda Gates, co-chair of the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, is the highest-ranking American woman, taking the third spot. Seven of the world’s 10 most powerful women are American, according to the Forbes list. Forbes determines its ranking by evaluating four categories: money — which covers net worth, company revenues, assets under management or GDP — media presence, influence and impact. Of the 100 women on the list, nearly half are from the United States. Ivanka Trump, senior adviser to and daughter of President Donald Trump. Here’s the David Letterman Countdown, Top Ten. Gates Foundation, Facebook, GM, YouTube, Fidelity Investments, IMF, Bank, IBM. Just think of those companies, and how unjust, how predatory, and how destructive they are, but with women in higher up positions and even as CEOs, well, according to Obama, we all can sleep better tonight now that women are at the helm! * Angela Merkel: Chancellor, Germany * Theresa May: Prime Minister, U.K. * Melinda Gates: Co-Chair, Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation, U.S. * Sheryl Sandberg: COO, Facebook, U.S. * Mary Barra: CEO, General Motors, U.S. * Susan Wojcicki: CEO, YouTube, U.S. * Abigail Johnson: CEO, Fidelity Investments, U.S. * Christine Lagarde: Managing Director, International Monetary Fund, U.S. * Ana Patricia Botín: Chair, Santander Group, Banco Santander, Spain * Ginni Rometty: CEO, IBM, U.S. Here, an interesting list, with, of course, a few amazing human beings lumped into the superficial and super-rich — Addams, Aquino, Carson, Curie, Mead, Parks, Wolff. But it’s Time Magazine, so we know what that means (run by a woman, or has she been replaced?) Jane Addams (1860-1935) Corazon Aquino (1933-2009) Rachel Carson (1907-1964) Coco Chanel (1883-1971) Julia Child (1912-2004) Hillary Clinton (1947-Present) Marie Curie (1867-1934) Aretha Franklin (1942-Present) Indira Gandhi (1917-1984) Estée Lauder (1908-2004) Madonna (1958-Present) Margaret Mead (1901-1978) Golda Meir (1898-1978) Angela Merkel (1954-Present) Sandra Day O’Connor (1930-Present) Rosa Parks (1913-2005) Jiang Qing (1914-1991) Eleanor Roosevelt (1884-1962) Gloria Steinem (1934-Present) Margaret Sanger (1879-1966) Martha Stewart (1941-Present) Mother Teresa (1910-1997) Margaret Thatcher (1925-Present) Oprah Winfrey (1954-Present) Virginia Woolf (1882-1941) Most Powerful Women According to Fortune Magazine, 2010! Highest paid, take a look at that loot, again, as Obama proclaims, why not have them all (women) run the senate, congress, Supreme Court and the Executive Branch? Carol Bartz Yahoo! $47.2 million Safra Catz Oracle $36.4 million Carrie Cox Schering-Plough $23 million Irene Rosenfeld Kraft Foods $22.1 million Wellington Denahan-Norris Annaly Capital Management $21.6 m Pamela Patsley Moneygram International $17.9 million Susan Ivey Reynolds American $16.2 million Martine Rothblatt United Therapeutics $15.8 million — Carol Meyrowitz TJX Companies $14.8 million Indra Nooyi PepsiCo $14.2 million Angela Braly WellPoint $13.1 million Brenda Barnes Sara Lee $11.5 million — Linda Chen Wynn Resorts $11.2 million — Patricia Woertz Archer Daniels Midland $11.0 million Kim Sinatra Wynn Resorts $10.5 million — Mary Callahan Erdoes JPMorgan Chase $10.4 million Nancy Wysenski Vertex Pharmaceuticals $10.2 million — Jackwyn Nemerov Polo Ralph Lauren $10.1 million Ursula Burns Xerox $9.9 million Martha Stewart Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia $9.7 m Ann Livermore Hewlett-Packard $9.7 million Doreen Toben Verizon Communications $9.2 million Katherine Krill AnnTaylor Stores $9.1 million — Kathryn Fagan Annaly Capital Management $8.6 million Ellen Kullman DuPont $8.3 million You can’t help it. An artist’s duty, as far as I’m concerned, is to reflect the times. — Nina Simone Note: Give it to the New York Daily News to call this “the Weinstein Effect as Sexual McCarthyism” http://clubof.info/

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