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ruminativerabbi · 6 years

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The End of Privacy

I have been revised! The news came just the other day in an email from ancestry.com informing me that my DNA profile has been revised in light of serious amounts of new data that they have recently processed and which now allow them to refine my ancestral portrait based on the DNA sample I sent them last spring. And now for the results: instead of being of 96% European Ashkenazic heritage, 2% Sephardic, 1% South-East Asian (a true mystery) and 1% of indistinct origin (whatever that meant exactly), my DNA profile has now been revised to yield the completely un-startling result that, genetically speaking (as well as by disposition, worldview, and appearance), I am of 100% Ashkenazic/European origin. Was I surprised? Not very! And yet…I had come to like the idea of having some weirdly inexplicable Sri Lankan blood in me somewhere, something that, at the very least, could have turned into a good short story. I suppose I’ll get over it. I might as well!

Joan took the test too and received similarly expected results. I suppose most people do. But, of course, not all do. I wrote to you last year about the remarkable way that a woman from Chicago discovered that her (apparently) 100% Irish Catholic father turned out to have started out in life as a 100% Jewish baby boy who was sent home with the wrong set of parents and whose real parents (i.e., the woman who gave birth to him and his biological father) took whom the (actually) Irish Catholic baby who grew up to be a Jewish man from the Bronx and the patriarch of a large, complicated Jewish family. (If you find that confusing, you can revisit that letter by clicking here.) There, I mused aloud about the malleable boundaries of identity, about what it means to be who we are—and what that means with respect to the ultimate definition of Jewishness or, for that matter, any kind of identity deemed to inhere in an individual at birth. To my great surprise, I actually received an email from the woman with the Jewish Irish Catholic father in response to what I wrote about her case and I was very gratified indeed by her very generous appraisal of what I had to say about her situation and her father’s.

You have to be a serious genealogist to take advantage of most of what these online DNA sites offer. When I visit the ancestry.com website, for example, I can see the names of more than a dozen people whom the site says are “almost definitely” my fourth or fifth cousins. (Fifth cousins are people, one of whose thirty-two great-great-great-grandparents was a sibling of one of the other person’s thirty-two great-great-great-grandparents.) I’ll have to upgrade my membership if I want actually to contact any of them, but I haven’t taken that step. Nor do I think I will in the future. (In all fairness, they’ve also dangled the names of two second cousins to see if I’ll take the bait. So far, I’ve resisted.) But it turns out that there is a lot more to all of this than learning the names of theoretical cousins possibly descended from theoretical siblings who lived in the eighteenth century.

One of the side developments of all this DNA testing is the discovery some men have made, not of distant cousins, but of children inadvertently fathered somewhere along the way and in any number of different ways. (This phenomenon, which will only become more common in the coming years, has touched one family in our congregation and it has touched my own family as well. Those two stories were different in detail, but identical in terms of result…and, although both appear to be having happy endings, it feels unlikely that there are not out there people whose entire lives have been or will be turned upside down by this kind of unanticipated revelation.) Another has to do with the forensic use of these data banks to solve crimes long consigned to the “cold case” bin and only now becoming solvable in the wake of the proliferation of these online DNA banks. You may recall reading about the arrest of the man police accuse of being the so-called “Golden State Killer,” a violent criminal considered likely to be responsible for fifty rapes and a dozen murders committed between 1976 and 1986 whose identity was only revealed to the authorities after they uploaded DNA taken from the crime scenes to a site called GETmatch.com. (To read more about that specific case, click here. Making that specific case more interesting is the fact that although the suspect did not personally offer his DNA to any of the online testing sites, a few of his relatives did…and matching the crime-scene DNA to their profiles led to the arrest of the sole individual to whom they were all related.)

But the specific issue I want to write about this week has to do neither with the discovery of unknown offspring nor the solution of cold-case crimes. Instead, I’d like to write about an issue that feels as though it has the potential to dwarf both those issues in terms of the impact it could conceivably have on society.

To date, about fifteen million people have consciously and intentionally sent in samples of their DNA for analysis to sites like 23andme.com or ancestry.com. Another couple of million have signed up at a few less well-known sites. We are, therefore, talking about far less than 10% of American citizens, but the implications of this phenomenon are far greater than the numbers suggest. Just this week, a study co-written by Yaniv Erlich, Tal Shor, Itsik Pe’er, and Shai Carmi was published in the journal Science that suggested just how important this whole phenomenon is…and how it will soon affect the lives of millions of people who themselves have not sent in their DNA for analysis.

To date, about sixty percent of Americans of North European descent—Brits, Germans, Poles, Danes, Swedes, etc.—can be identified through these databases regardless of whether they have personally sent in their DNA for analysis. And that number is only the beginning: within two or three years, the authors of the Science essay imagine that a full ninety percent of Americans whose families originate in northern Europe will be identifiable through their DNA even if they themselves have not personally contributed any DNA sample.

To me, that sounded unbelievable. It’s one thing, after all, for my ancestry.com page to say that mitchKK (whoever he is) and I are “highly likely” to be second cousins. (I think we probably are cousins, by the way—the 2nd K matches the odd way my great-grandparents spelled their last name so I’m guessing one of his grandfathers must have been one of my grandmother’s brothers.) But that only sounds plausible because we both contributed samples of our DNA and so opened ourselves up to being identified as each other’s relative. But how could this possibly work with people who specifically have not contributed their DNA? That’s what I set myself to trying to figure out.

I’m not sure I understand the Science article entirely correctly. (To try for yourself, click here.) But as far as I can understand, the whole thing has to do with third cousins because, it turns out, the way the tests work is precisely to identify people whose DNA samples match closely enough for them to be third cousins, i.e., the great-grandchildren of siblings. Most of us apparently have about 800 people in the world whose DNA matches ours to that extent. And if just one of those people is in the data base, then someone who truly knows what he or she is doing can extrapolate information based on other public records to find a trail to a sought-after individual even if that person has not personally contributed DNA of his or her own. This does not bode well for people who value their privacy.

The authors of the Science article chose thirty DNA test results at random from the GEDmatch database and then, by analyzing that data and using public information available to all, they were able to identify third cousins of about 60% the people whose DNA they had selected for study. (GEDmatch, with only a million customers, is significantly smaller than its competitors but was amenable to allowing the experiment to proceed.). In an article describing the experiment published in the New York Times this week (click here), Heather Murphy quoted Yaniv Erlich, one of the authors of the Science article, as saying that, “to identify an individual of any ancestry background, all that is needed is a database containing two percent of the target population.” That stopped me in my tracks.

Is that really possible? Graham Coop, a genetics professor at the University of California Davis who is cited in the Times article, thinks so and is quoted as saying that “society is not far from being able to identify 90 percent of people through the DNA of their cousins in genealogical databases.” In my opinion, anyone who doesn’t find that both startling and seriously unsettling probably hasn’t thought the matter through carefully enough!

I’ve been sensitive for a long time to the slow erosion of personal privacy in our American culture. For most of us, that thought conjures up almost funny images of some drone at the NSA poring over trillions of emails that could not possibly be of interest to anyone other than the person to whom they were sent. But the thought that society seems to be blundering almost unawares into a future in which personal privacy is a thing of the past and the fullness of an individual’s genetic heritage is suddenly a matter of public record regardless of whether that individual has or hasn’t chosen to become part the digital quarry from which amateurs like myself presumed such data could only be mined—that seems to me to be far beyond something reasonably referenced as a quirky innovation of the digital age. The right to personal privacy in life—to live free without the oversight of others and without their interference—is one of the fundamental privileges of citizens in a democracy. That we appear to be on the verge of losing control over that foundational right is just another sign of just how out of control things are as we barrel into the future only vaguely aware of what we ourselves have wrought.

#DNA testing #privacy #ancestry.com #23andme.com

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maidenofsophia · 5 years

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Thoughts on Mary Magdalene (2018)

Here is my completely non-professional review of Garth Roberts’ film ‘Mary Magdalene’:

....Meh.

Okay, to be fair, I watched this on New Years Day when I was slightly hungover so I probably owe it a rewatch with my full attention. But here are my initial thoughts. There really isn’t much to spoil but, for what little is ‘original’ on this take....Spoilers Ahead!

The Good.

- I enjoyed the scenes with Mary’s family. I think the shift to making her a midwife made a lot of sense and reminded me a little of the Red Tent (which, like this movie, also has a squicky scene that reminded me why I never want to give birth, but that’s another point). But I like the connection she had with her....sisters in law, I think? Possibly even a stepmother? To be honest, they don’t do too well establishing who these people are or if it’s just a community sharing a house. The jist I got was that Mary’s blood relatives were her brothers and her dad, who I did like. They were patriarchal and traditional, but they weren’t painted as villains. Even when they try to ‘cleanse’ her, you can see how torn up about it they are, and believe what they’re doing is out of love.

- I especially liked Mary’s dad. Most Magdalene legends always have him as an asshole who just views his daughter as chattel to sell off, but you could tell this dude adores her and stops his sons from almost drowning her, and he holds her throughout the night, clearly wracked with guilt. The scene where he tearfully lets Mary go to join Yeshua was really well done and I’m kinda sad we don’t see him for the rest of the movie. This is mostly a personal thing but I just personally prefer the idea of Mary being close with her father, as something of a mirror to Yeshua and his mother.

- Joaquin Phoenix is a very different Jesus than what I’m used to seeing and I’m glad about that. I can’t say he’s my favourite (that’s still Ralph Fiennes), and yes it’s another sad case of white washing a Palestinian Jewish man. But that aside, I thought he brought a vulnerability to Jesus that you don’t usually see, unless it’s during scenes like the Passion which mostly take place off screen here as it’s all through Magdalene’s POV. Like you see Jesus become overwhelmed and drained by healing people and, like Mary, I did feel like I just wanted to get him away and somewhere safe, even though Peter and the others kept encouraging people to come to the Messiah.

- As I mentioned before, Mary is given a different backstory here than the penitent prostitute. She’s also not given the ‘madness’ of being possessed by any actual, or implied, demons. It’s more that she’s trapped in a life she doesn’t want and feels depressed, which is definitely relatable, now as much as back then for a lot of people; women especially. So I thought Yeshua’s scene of ‘healing her’ being less of a “Begone demon!” and more him comforting and consoling her, reassuring her of God’s love, was pretty sweet.

- Similar to Mary, this movie follows a bit of a ‘Gnostic’ trend, on its take with Judas as well. He’s given a more personal motivation, as he’s not just out for bloody revenge on the Romans, it’s more that he wants the prophecy to be fulfilled so he can see his late wife and daughter again. Other than her tense relationship with Peter, he’s the disciple that Mary talks to most and they have a close connection to the end. And the movie implies that Judas’ betrayal was ‘part of the plan’ or what needed to kick things into motion....or at least he believed that was the case. It wasn’t just a case of selling his rabbi out for silver.

- Mary baptising the women. Honestly it was seeing gifs of this scene that made me want to see the movie and it didn’t disappoint. It was just a nice moment. Also how they bookended the movie with the verse on the mustard seed and the woman who tended to it tying into Mary helping to grow the kingdom. Also, I LOVE that the focus of her is that she is a spiritual woman in her own right. While she clearly loves Yeshua, it is not even implied to be sexual. Romantic, possibly, but could also be just as much platonic. The two have decent chemistry for what their bond is - SHE IS NOT HIS WIFU. Thank you, movie! Also the scene of her washing his feet followed by sitting at his side at the Last Supper with the shot being framed with her as his right hand girl. Nice little touches that just showed this movie cared about wanting to do the image of Magdalene justice.

Right, now the....Not So Good.

- Anyone familiar with the Gnostic gospels knows that Peter doesn’t always get shown in the best light, especially in his and Mary’s relationship. So, other than the Romans etc, he’s the closest this movie has to an antagonist, in that he’s the one who is most opposed to Mary in the group. And while his character isn’t terrible, he’s not even technically a bad guy, there’s something annoying about how they white washed everyone else but had the antagonist played by a black man. It just annoys me when movies and tv do that, like; “see, we have diversity! The heroes might be white but the guy you’re meant to be against is a poc!” BBC are apparently doing a similar thing with their latest retelling of Les Mis.

- If you’re going to tell a Jesus story through the eyes of Mary Magdalene, how about take advantage of the source material. There’s a pretty good scene where Mary helps Jesus speak to women in a village before she baptises them and he speaks about forgiveness etc and it’s a fine speech. But I feel like opportunities were missed to see Mary involved in canon scenes of Jesus interacting with women; like the woman who touches his cloak in the crowd, or raising Jairus’ Daughter or the Canaanite Woman’s child, or the woman at the well, or the ‘cast the first stone’ woman who is often wrongly said to be Magdalene. The movie also forgets that Yeshua had other women followers besides his mother, who also doesn’t get as much screen time as she deserves. There’s no sign of the younger Mary, or Martha, or Salome etc who we could have seen Mary interact with or even preach to. At the end we get a bit of a cool shot where, after the men have dismissed Mary’s vision, it’s the women who gather to her - but it’s very brief and feels too little too late.

- I wouldn’t be too miffed at them cutting out scenes from the Bible if they were going to replace them with anything interesting and unique, but the movie just...doesn’t. There’s a sort of side quest plot where Peter and Mary go to a village to preach and find a load of people dying and at first I thought the point was that it strengthens their friendship...but in the end it didn’t and I didn’t really understand the point other than to show Mary was compassionate and Peter kind of short-sighted which was already pretty clear. Maybe use that time to establish more why Peter has something against Mary other than just the implication that he’s...jealous, I guess. The movie is almost two hours long and between Mary leaving her family and them coming to Jerusalem, I can barely tell you what happens in that hour or so.

- I get the feeling that this movie wanted to focus more on Mary’s time with Jesus before the Passion, which are scenes we’ve already seen focused on enough times, and I’m all for that. But how the Passion, Crucifixion and Resurrection scenes are handled feel very rushed. She’s absent through most of the crucifixion until the very end, the scene of her witnessing the resurrection is pretty badly juxtaposed (and there’s no “do not touch me” moment) that I had to watch it twice to see if it was really there or a different ‘vision’. And her being the actual Apostle to the Apostles feels like it was trying to mix in the disciples rejection of her from the Gospel of Mary and I felt like you could have had that be two separate scenes. Basically the key moment Magdalene is celebrated, whether in Orthodox or mystic Christian circles, is barely present in the movie centred around her.

- And the biggest criticism I have with the movie is sadly Mary herself. Most of this might be subjective but one of the most captivating traits of Magdalene’s character is her passion. Her energy. It contrasts her to the mild and patient Virgin Mother. This Mary is very quiet and collected, which doesn’t make her a bad character, but it just doesn’t feel very Magdalene-y. And I think you can still have her be passionate while still taking away the ‘mad whore’ stereotype she’s been wrongly given for so long. The Red Tent, again, managed to do a wonderful job having Dinah as a strong, no-nonsense heroine. There didn’t seem to be anything that really made Mary stand out from any other woman around her. She starts off with a bit of a Disney Princess trope of not wanting to get married and wanting more than is expected of her, but given her surroundings and the women she meets later on, that also doesn’t make her stand out all that much. The actress does okay with what she’s given, but - other than some key scenes between her and Yeshua - I just don’t really my Magdalene there.

But, to the movie’s credit, I do feel like it was trying to show THEIR Magdalene, which is fair enough. And just like Yeshua, there really is no one right way of seeing her. I prefer to see her as a loud, loving, somewhat eccentric passionate spiritual teacher and leader, but this movie wanted to show her as something different from what we’ve seen before; brave but restrained, caring and understanding, and definitely enlightened as much if not more than the male disciples. And it did a pretty good way of showing that, even if I think it could have been done better with an improved overall narrative.

Overall; I just kind of found the movie dull. I respect it for trying to show the Magdalene in a better light and almost as an example for women as leaders in the Church. But I hope this can also be done in a more entertaining movie someday. Again, my favourite Magdalene depiction is still from the Miracle Maker. Yes, it begins with following the ‘repentant mad prostitute’ story, but that’s pretty quickly resolved in a powerful scene and she remains throughout the rest of the film at his side and her meeting him outside the tomb always gets me teary eyed. Similar to Prince of Egypt, I enjoy biblical movies more when they don’t shy away from the drama and character conflict, rather than trying to focus on pushing the story we already know. We can all just read the Bible to get that but the point of a movie is to make us feel like we are there and invested and, for lack of a better word, entertained. Animated movies allow more of the drama to get expressed than live action actors can. It’s a shame they are both written off as ‘childrens versions’ because I think both PoE and MM feel more adult and handle their stories with more depth than the live action versions.

Would I recommend this film though? I guess if you’re a die-hard Magdalene fan like me, you’ll get something out of it with seeing a story where she isn’t turned into a prostitute, and getting to see her baptise people and get across how she understood Yeshua’s message. Just don’t be expecting anything amazing. Kind of annoyed there wasn’t a rental option on Amazon Video because I definitely don’t think it’s worth a buy, but hey ho.

#mary magdalene movie #religious films

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hethrewmyheartinthecut · 6 years

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Ten Things • Alfie x Reader

This is the part where you’re supposed to blush for the stain on your dress, the teacake at four in the afternoon, the state of your hair, eavesdropping, or looking at him. Or all of the above. But your mind has ascended to such a state of fucklessness that you merely cock an eyebrow at him.

He breaks out into a crooked smile of surprise. It’s not so bad to look at, and it reminds you that you are, in fact, a creature with particular interests, even if work lately has restricted those interests to your imagination and your own two hands.

@alfiesolcmons said:

What up my names Vanessa, and I never fuckin learned how to read. lol jk. ok I'm 5'3" , relatively curvy, i like books and eating to much food (bread is delicious, just carbs ok). Kinda quiet most of thw time unless the subject which ppl are talking about is something I'm interested in, in that case I'm screaming from the rooftops. I'm Alfie trash and I like beards.

So I took those qualities, added my own innate bitchiness, and voila! Here she is, all 8762 words of her.

Warning: this thing is a mess start to finish, but at least parts of it are fun?

I. Exhaustion Teacake It’s been a long, long day, and your students have been particularly heinous; Jimmy Westin kept trying to take a cookie from little Maisie Fletcher during lunch, and when you stopped him, he chucked a chunk of ham at you. Now you’re walking home, lugging a bag full of schoolwork to grade, with a brownish stain on your cardigan that looks quite a lot like dried blood.

Fuck it. Fuck it, you’ll take the shortcut.

You’ve been told by more than one person not to venture through the heart of Camden Town, but frankly you can’t tell how much of that is real and how much of that is just people hating Jews. And also, you’re tired as fuck. Even if you do get mugged, it might be nice. Being hit over the head would be the perfect excuse to just lie quietly on the sidewalk for an hour or so.

It is when you’re almost out of Camden Town, sweating slightly and at your absolute weakest, when the smell hits you. Intense, almost sweet, it’s unmistakably the smell of fresh bread wafting out the propped-open door of a bakery. You squint up at it; from the striped green-and-white awning to the gold lettering on the windows, it seems almost a little too good to be true, like someone wandered into your heart’s desires and plopped this shop down in front of you for the express purpose of making you miserable.

Dinner’s in three or four hours. And you’ve been saving up for a new dress, because your favorite red one has been slowly turning pink after being washed so many times. But, fucking hell. You inhale deeply.

You go in. The boy at the front notices the stain on your blouse, but says nothing. You, in turn, eye a long loaf with a crust that looks like it’d give you a proper crunch. There’s also another one, darker and faintly shiny, that looks like it’s been braided. Ultimately, you settle on a beautifully iced teacake and pay up.

There’s no tables or chairs anywhere, just a long counter, but you think of the distance remaining to your flat, you breathe in that sweet air, and fuck it. Standing in one corner of the shop, bag on your arm, you tear off a piece and begin to eat, mentally daring the boy to make any kind of eye contact with you. He does not.

Through the door in the back, muffled voices become clearer, as if from men ascending or descending stairs. They’re speaking a language you don’t know (Yiddish? probably?), and arguing, one defensive, one very, very aggressive. Mind half-fogged with pure bready bliss, half-curious, you peek into the open door that leads into the back of the bakery and see two men, one unspeakably enormous, dark-haired one, and one bearlike man made half of beard and half of rage. Halfway through barking something that sounds like an order, the bearlike one glances out at the shop beyond and makes direct eye contact with you.

Then the bearlike man barks an order, and the boy at the front hurries to close the door between the back rooms of the bakery and the front of the shop. You shrug. Almost done with the teacake anyway.

II. Trouble-

Once a week is reasonable, right? It seems reasonable. At any rate, the two people most often manning the front, the curly-haired boy from before and his extremely talkative mother, soon learn your name, and you theirs (Ezra and Judith, respectively), and there’s a pleasant if mildly embarrassing familiarity in that. You come to anticipate the divine, doughy smell and your little corner in the bakery with great pleasure, knowing that it’s the one moment in your day that will likely be silent, free from students or flatmates; even the chatty Judith seems to understand, and lets you stand and eat in peace.

The man’s there too, though rarely. Maybe once every three weeks. You watch him, and sometimes he catches you at it, but he doesn’t seem to mind. You catch Judith talking to him animatedly one day, and venture to ask his name. There can’t be much harm in a name. Castles in the air are for yourself and yourself only, right? Anyway, his name is Alfie, which doesn’t appear to suit his usual growling demeanor much, but pairs decently enough with his guffaws. He gives you something to think about that isn’t the news, or your family, or your flatmates, or your students, and though he’s rarely speaking English, his animated ways give you plenty of entertainment. He’s like a walking, talking dime novel with that swagger. And he’s free, or at least comes free with the pastries and bread.

And the beard’s not bad.

This goes on for a few months, and he still doesn’t know your name but that probably doesn’t matter. There’s a golden moment that more than makes up for it, when you look up from your bread and he’s perfectly framed in the doorway, vest unbuttoned, white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, kneading the dough. You decide the heat’s not so bad if it’s making him sweat. You decide this is almost certainly a trap set by some kind of fiend. (Gods you don’t believe in, but little assholes with the power and will to fuck with you seem pretty reasonable.) You decide you’re not going to look away.

He looks up at you, and you don’t move. He looks back down, and gets on with it. But for the next ten minutes or so, he stays in full view, and you don’t stop looking, and poor Ezra keeps his own eyes glued to the newspaper at hand.

As soon as you get home that night, you start to make inquiries. Out of the five girls that you have crammed into one flat, you get lucky with Letty, whose mother is Jewish.

“Do you know an Alfie?”

“Alfie what?”

“I don’t know. He works at this bakery in Camden Town, built like a barrel.”

“Jesus Christ, Vanessa.”

“What?”

“I knew you’d get after a man eventually. Tessa told me it’s been two years since the last, but him?”

Only two weeks ago, your principal threatened to fire you for not being able to handle the workload, even though your workload has doubled since Ms. Spinelli suddenly quit. So yeah, you went behind the school and drowned the very last fuck you had to give in the river. Her reaction only has you amused. “What’s the problem? He’s not married. Did he kill his wife?”

“Not quite.”

“He’s got the clap? He votes Tory?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I wouldn’t call him a gangster,” she concedes, “but he runs around with that type. He’s killed a man. And everyone knows the bakery’s not really a bakery.”

“Isn’t it? The bread there tastes a lot like bread.”

“It’s a front for something.”

“Mm.” Alright, so now he really is straight out of a dime novel, and you’ve got more fodder with which to entertain yourself. What could one do in a fake bakery? Forge money?

“Oi. Vane.”

“What?” You look over. “Oh, you thought that was going to scare me off him?”

“Doesn’t look like I succeeded.”

“Nah.”

You can feel her reassessing you, and obligingly pull a lazy smile.

“Quiet girls have the most surprises, huh,” she says after a second.

You shrug. “You know where I come from?”

“Orphanage, same as the rest of us.”

“Yeah, but when I turned fifteen, they sent me to the Stoker place. You know what they say about Stoker’s?”

“I’ve heard it’s got a reputation.”

“Stoker’s was for the troublemakers and the troublefuckers.”

“Am I supposed to guess which one you were?”

You smile.

III. Cocktail (The Wrong Kind)

They hire a new teacher. Ms. Solokov, and as you walk home that day, you feel a sense of relief mixed with trepidation.

Truth is, you love your students, the grimy, shouty little assholes, because they give you so much trouble. You wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with a simple, quiet life; you feed off the chaos, on trying to control it, most of the time, wrangling all of them into learning whether they like it or not.

You’re tired of looking and feeling like a wreck, of course, but with things much tamer, you’re starting to worry about the boredom. Your off days have gotten significantly less entertaining since Tessa got married; she no longer drags you to hip spots around town, and you try (and fail) to not resent Craig for that. Anyways. It’s looking like a boring weekend.

This particular Friday, you have a simple roll, not even toasted, not even with butter. You tear tiny pieces off it and savor the taste as it melts on your tongue. Alfie’s in the back, but you only caught a glimpse of him once, so he’s probably down in the basement, so you turn your imagination to the people outside, making up increasingly ridiculous or tragic stories to explain the baby in that pram (dead mother! Horrible rich father! Will certainly become a bratty heiress!) or that newspaper-throwing boy (destined to become a great writer! Cut down too soon in a foreign war!) or that tall, angry-looking fellow in the long coat (secretly a terrible husband! Soon to be brought down by his crafty wife!) until the tall fellow stops and pulls a bottle out of his coat.

And that’s not too out of the ordinary (a man? Drinking? gasp.) but then you see he’s stuffing something in the bottle, and then out come a lighter and oh shit, that’s a rag about to be lit.

“Oi!” you bellow, because there’s no time to do anything, and Judith ducks down behind the counter as you huddle in your corner, wishing you had something more solid than a dinner roll to chuck back. Fuck there’s a lot of wood in here.

Then it gets worse. The man takes out a revolver and shoots twice, shattering the large windows in a spray of glass, then cocks back his arm, the Molotov cocktail ready to go. Then a third shot blasts through the air, and red blossoms through his gray coat, and he crumples to the ground. The bottle shatters on impact, splashing oil all over him. The rag catches him on fire, and he spends his last minute on earth very noisily.

You’re distracted from the blackening corpse by a yelp. It’s Judith, dismayed, darting into the backroom past Alfie, who’s standing there gun in hand. You know you’re supposed to be scared, but it’s not a bad image, white shirt open at the throat and all. He looks at you. You take a bite and chew slowly. You don’t look away.

You’d be happy to stand there forever, but unfortunately that was your last bite, and. Well.

“Guess I ought to go before the police arrive?” you say.

“Aw, the police don’t care about Camden Town.”

“You seem to manage well enough without them.”

There’s a flash of that crooked grin again. Then he comes around the back of the counter towards you, walking carefully, big boots crunching over the glass. He offers you his hand, the same hand, you can’t help but notice, that held the gun. You take it.

This whole delicate-damsel thing would work a lot better if you had worn some fucking heels, but your walk to work is considerably too long for that nonsense, so instead it’s the crunch crunch of flats over glass. You use him for support even though you don’t need to. His hands are rough and you’d like to know where the calluses come from. You wouldn’t mind feeling them a bit more.

He walks you over the glass, to the door. A few gawkers have begun to cluster in the windows of the dress shop opposite. There’s no more glass, so you relinquish his hand.

If this is a dime novel, you’ll play the cowboy if you want to. And you want to, even if you haven’t got a gun. You know the right lines for the damsel--gratitude, mostly--and they’re fucking boring.

“Till next week, Alfie,” you say, and you leave before he can answer.

You don’t know if he’s watching you go. You hope he is, but you’re feeling pretty pleased either way.

IV. Style/Busy

Now that your workload has lessened, you’ve got the time to spare to, oh, not just dunk yourself in a tub of water and scrub like mad before you pass out on your bed atop still-wet hair. No, you’ve got time to use those curlers. Time to slip a tube of lipstick in your purse. Time to take your savings and get that new dress for yourself, a sensible choice, blue printed with tiny flowers, fake pearl buttons for a touch of, oh, don’t call it class, but maybe style. (You know it flatters the curve of your ass, too. There’s that.)

The shoes. The shoes are a mistake, and you know it even when you’re putting them on, but damn if those delicate heels don’t make your legs look good. You know they make your legs look good.

By the time you make it to the shop that Friday, your toes are pinched all to hell, but you lean into the pain and order yourself an iced bun, telling yourself that the sugar will make up for it. You eat it slow, so slow, and he doesn’t show up; there’s not the slightest flicker of movement in the backroom, and it’s fucking disappointing. You take to eating about a bite a minute. Tiny, tiny bites. You won’t buy anything else to eat; there’s no dignity in that. But if you can just make this one stretch out for--

A car screeches to a halt in the street outside, and you press yourself into the corner as Judith runs into the backroom. Not again. But no, it’s him, jumping out the driver’s side door and walking fast to the door, his white shirt crimsoned by a gash in his shoulder. He barges through the door and pulls up short at the sight of you. Maybe, maybe it was an offense that he forgot about you for a moment, but the look on his face more than makes up for it. Yeah, there’s a considerable distance between your limp-haired, shit-dressed look and your red-lipped, heel-sporting look. You know you look a proper fashion plate. You know he’d like a look underneath the blue.

You raise an eyebrow.

He starts, remembers there are other things he needs. Fumbles for the words.

“I take it you’re busy?” you prompt.

“You could say that.”

He’s dripping blood on the floor, and there’s a pleasure in the fact you don’t have to give a damn about it. He’s no child that needs to be told to sit down and get bandaged up. He’s a man, and if he’s going to run round wounded, that’s his goddamn choice.

“Go on, then,” you say.

He disappears into the backroom, thunders down the stairs, and emerges minutes later carrying a long black box rather like a violin case, except rectangular and far, far too long to be for a violin.

You watch the car careen away, and then you call to Judith, “It’s fine!” Shoving the rest of the bun in your mouth, you chew with gusto and begin your walk home.

Next week, you wear a softer lipstick and ditch the heels, but the hair’s the same and so is the dress. A little effort’s fine. The blackberry scone is sublime. And then, no matter how slow you eat, he doesn’t fucking show.

“He is alive, isn’t he?” you say to Judith.

“Yes, dear.” Bless her, she doesn’t judge you a whit, just says it and gets back to the paperwork she likes to do during slow hours.

“Thanks, Judith.”

V. Good People

The next time you go, you wear what you want: the cute dress, the aggressive lipstick, flat shoes. The newspaper was interesting that morning so you didn’t bother with the hair. You’ve got no expectations, and things are a little lighter that way, albeit a little less exciting.

Due to an extended all-school meeting, you’re dreadfully late and the place is jam-packed, but that doesn’t matter. The shop turns up a delightful surprise for you: a man named Moshe, just a year younger than you, who was trained as a teacher at the exact same time. Who incidentally you couldn’t marry for the same reason you’ve never been able to marry, namely that you’ve never wanted to. But it’s still good to see him again.

All through the line, you talk about your respective schools, and end up hotly debating pedagogical methods, the relative psychological merits of penalties and rewards. Somehow that slips into the relatively modern history of English schools and the influx of lascars and freedmen and loops right back around to the balance of power between the teacher and the parent and then you get a beautiful spot where you’re the only one that can talk because Moshe’s busy ordering two loaves and then you’re so invigorated that you get a small loaf that’s still larger than both your fists put together and far too large for one sitting. And then the two of you huddle in the corner and dip into the ethics of bodily autonomy and you know you’re gabbling like an idiot but fuck it’s been a long time and you’ve missed all this arguing--

“Y’know, me,” rumbles a voice behind you, “I vouch for a smack upside the ‘ead. Is that not an option on the table? Because it should be.”

Alfie slides into the conversation, much too close, and on the wrong side. That is, he leans into Moshe’s personal space, and the poor man blanches.

“Mr. Solomons!” He fumbles with his bags in order to get his right hand free, then offers it. “We so appreciated your, ah, your actions regarding the school redistricting. Truly. A disaster averted.”

Alfie shakes his hand too hard and for too long and you’re on the verge of rolling his eyes.

“He’s just getting a couple loaves for his family,” you say. “Wife and three children. We trained together.”

“Oh, do you know Vanessa?” says Moshe, smiling anxiously, shaking out his hand by his side.

“Vanessa? No.”

“Oh.”

But the both of you are looking at each other, you in faint exasperation and Alfie in an irritating mask of benevolence, so Moshe adds, “I should get home, there’s a list of groceries as long as my arm that I still have to pick up. Good seeing you again, Vanessa, very good seeing you, Mr. Solomons.” Then he slips out the door.

Behind you, the rush of the day has petered out to just a couple customers and Judith. It’s few enough for you to talk properly.

“He was nice,” you say. “And he’s a good man, which is rarer. You shouldn’t scare off good people.” Even if they’re good people that you have indeed fucked, thank you very much.

He gives you one of those shit-eating grins. “If they’re good people, they’ve got no reason to be scared of me, innit”

“We both know that’s not true.”

“Mmh.” There goes one of those undefinable sounds whose meaning is lost in his beard. You choose to take it as a grunt of concession. Then: “Do you always talk that much?”

You shrug. Judith, without looking up from the change she’s counting out, says, “No, she doesn’t.”

You have to stifle a smirk at that. So much for the appearance of a private conversation. If Judith knows, the whole neighborhood knows, but it’s not your neighborhood and you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Do you bake?” he says abruptly.

“Would I be here if I did?”

“Would you like to learn?” he says, sardonic and a little slow.

“What would it cost me?”

“Oh, whatever you can spare.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

VI. Fast/Slow

The sun has just set as you make your way to the shop. There’s not many people around; most are finishing up dinner with their families. The shop has been closed for about an hour now, but the backroom is lit and when you try the door, you find it unlocked. You lock it after you.

The backroom much larger than you previously thought, a cavernous space complete with what seems like miles of countertop. Alfie’s in a chair in the back, heels up on a table, reading the finance section of the newspaper and smoking a cigarette. When you come in, he chucks the cigarette in the ashtray and gets to his feet.

“Vanessa!” he cries. Then he stops short. “Did you bring a gun?”

“No.” You hand over your purse to prove it. “Are you disappointed?”

“Very fuckin’ disappointed.”

“Then get me one yourself. I don’t have new-gun money.” You reach over, pick up the cigarette, and have a puff. It’s an old vice of yours, not one you indulge often. But tonight’s a night for vice, clearly.

“You have teacake money.”

“I have my priorities in order.”

Up close and in private, you’ve got the ability to try and figure out whether his eyes are green or blue. So you do. Green, you decide, and then you sweep your eyes over the rest of him.

“Go on and bake,” you say. “I’ll watch.”

“What ‘appened to student participation?”

“I imagine that’ll come later on.”

You perch on one long countertop, smoking and swinging your heels, as he begins measuring and mixing the dry ingredients. Well. You say measuring, but he’s mostly eyeballing it.

“So you’re a teacher, eh?” he says.

“Yes. Do you want to be taught?”

“Tell me about the Italians.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything in the last twenty years. Politics, culture, London immigration history.”

It is flattering that he thinks you know all that. And you do know all that, having taken particular interest in modern immigration, but there’s just one thing.

“Are people going to die?” you say.

Halfway through cracking an egg, he looks up. “People die every day, Vanessa.”

“Are Italians going to die?”

“Italians are people, stands to fuckin’ reason.”

“Three of my students are Italian.”

“Any kid young enough to be your student probably has at least another thirty years on ‘em.”

You consider this. “All right, I think you’ll be most interested in the Sicilians…”

And you’re off to the races. You talk through the ingredients mixing, you talk through the dough getting kneaded (your favorite part), and then he puts it in a bowl and you’re still talking and--

“Doesn’t that lot go in the oven?” you interrupt yourself.

“I thought you were fucking with me when you said you didn’t know how to bake.”

“Well, surprise.”

“It needs to rise.”

“Needs to what now?”

“It’s going to grow until it’s twice the size it is now.”

“Shit, I didn’t know baking was interesting.”

“Yeah?” He scratches his jaw with a couple beringed fingers. “You’ve seemed pretty interested.”

“Come here,” you say, and he does. “How long does it take to rise, do you think?”

“Half an hour, forty-five minutes.”

“I can think of some ways to pass the time.” You spread your legs a few inches.

He grins, and settles himself between them, the fabric of his work trousers rough against the insides of your thighs, the metal of his rings cold on your knees, his right thumb tracing tiny circles on your left leg, warm. “You’re a fast little thing, aren’t you?”

“Little, maybe. A thing, no. And Alfie?”

“Mmh?”

Hooking your thumbs in his belt loops, you grasp his hips and pull him forward till he’s flush against you, your heels tucking him in closer. “Nothing about this has been fast. I’ve been wanting you inside me for four months now, and you’ve wanted the same for nearly as long. Four months of thinking about it, and nothing stopping you, four months of wondering what you’re going to taste like, four months of only my own fingers and a--”

He kisses you hard and you smile your victory into it till the smile melts under heat, his hands rucking up your skirt, yours frantic at his belt buckle, hips rolling and words vanishing till his rings clatter off onto the countertop, he slips a hand into your panties, and the kiss suddenly ends.

The expression on his face, the surprise there, followed by gratification? Delicious. He brings his fingers up to his mouth to taste, and that’s a sight, isn’t it? He must know it is, because you catch a glimpse of pink tongue, and that was entirely unnecessary for the purpose.

“You did that,” you admit to him. “Don’t get--” Your fingers dig into his shoulders when you feel him pressing into you. “--fucking arrogant about it.”

“Too late,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is on your throat and his fingers stretch slow and perhaps there’s a rebuttal to that but you can’t be bothered to think of it when you can run your hands through his hair instead.

He fucks you like you expected, hard and fast, the edge of the counter cutting into your thighs, the stretch in your cunt more than worth it, and his mouth travelling everywhere, an unexpected bonus. It’s good and then it’s too good to be true, because despite your best attempts at clinging, he pulls away.

Now it’s his turn to enjoy the expression on your face, but then, there are options here. You have options.

“I’ll do it myself,” you say, and sure enough one finger slides in easy, then two, and you know yourself, know just how to crook your fingers and find the right spot and he’s drinking in the sight like a man in a desert but before you can hit a proper rhythm, his hand closes over your wrist.

You make a desperate sound down low in a part of your throat you didn’t even know was capable of making noise. “There are easier ways to make me fight you.” Your voice is ragged to your own ears.

“If nothing about this has been fast, with half an hour left, why start now? I can take care of you. Are you going to let me?”

You rest your head against the wall, taking in the sweat-soaked sight of him. You’re tempted to just pull him in, knowing you could persuade him in two seconds to fuck you again. He’s good at bluffing, but his cock’s more than enough evidence of impatience.

Curiosity has always been your weakness, though, and he’s not specified how he wants to take care of you.

“Yes,” you say.

He kneels.

The insides of your thighs are red. You’re going to have beard burn there for a couple days. It’s worth it.

VII. Lend Me Your Rear

He shows up at your front door, which is a mistake. Not one he could’ve known, because you haven’t talked to him about your flatmates yet, but still a mistake.

You don’t bother asking how he got your address.

“What can I do for you?” you say.

A wolfish smile spreads across his face. “I was thinking--”

You open the door much wider, revealing your roommates, four other women, listening in unabashedly. Letty waves.

He waves back.

“I, ah, got you a book,” he says.

“Really.”

But he has. It’s packaged in brown paper, but you can feel that it’s a thick hardback.

“The Bible? That’s very sweet of you,” you say.

“Right.” He reaches to take it back, but you’re too quick.

“I’ll open it later.”

“When?”

“When you drive me to your flat, in about two minutes. Let me get my purse.”

He doesn’t look particularly happy with that, but he can’t object, can he? Not when he’s already butted into your place.

His flat is odd, clearly not meant for visitors, small and very full, with two bookshelves and a massive bin holding a ridiculous number of unwashed clothes, plus six apples on the kitchen table for no apparent reason.

You gesture at the shelves. “What’s all this?”

He shrugs. “Got a taste for it in prison. Quakers used to donate old shit, and I was bored.”

“Are you still bored?”

“Sometimes.”

You move a pile of paperwork from a chair to the floor, then sit down and start tearing at the brown paper packaging.

“Volumes one and two of Gibbons’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.” You look up. “Not quite what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

“The Kama Sutra?”

He laughs. “I have that around here somewhere.”

“Save it for a rainy day.” You trace the edge of the cover with one finger, then flip it open to a random page and begin to read. “The troops fought like men interested in the decision of the quarrel; and as military spirit and party zeal were strongly diffused throughout the whole community, a vanquished chief was immediately supplied with new adherents, eager to shed their blood in the same cause.” You look up and grin.

“Wot?”

“The Italian information wasn’t just because Italians are going to die. You get off on this, don’t you.”

“Is it so unusual to want someone with a full head?”

“As opposed to an empty one? No, not unusual. But gratifying.”

“How gratifying?”

“Come over and find out.”

It’s nice to finally fuck on a bed for once. Afterwards, you drape yourself across his back, tracing the scars there.

“You’re Shakespeare, you know that?” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Though she be but little--”

You bite his shoulder.

“It was a compliment!” he protests.

“She is fierce? I know.” You press your lips to the bitten skin. “It was a thank-you. I’m fond of Beatrice.”

He checks it over. Sure enough, you didn’t break skin, but there are marks on him now. He makes a face.

“If I knew you were so delicate…”

You both laugh.

“You remind me of Shakespeare too,” you say.

“Yeah?”

“You want to guess?”

“I am a Jew.”

“I’m aware, Alfie.”

He grunts; you grin. “I take it that The Merchant of Venice was one of the old things donated?”

He nods.

“Go on, then.”

“I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?” At first, he starts lightly, trying to inject irony in his voice, distance, but it doesn’t work; the rhythm of the words carries him along. “Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed?” You can see, now, why Moshe called him Mr. Solomons and not Alfie; why he seems able to command the entire neighborhood. You see where the ability to ignore his own spilled blood comes from.

The rest of the speech is one long exercise in seeing how low his voice can go, and at the very last line, he strokes your cheek, tender like he’s never been, a menace in it that makes your mouth go dry.

“The villainy you teach me I will execute,” he murmurs, “And it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction.”

You didn’t think that you could be surprised by wanting him in any kind of way again, but here you are, thighs still sticky from the last time and you want him, you want him, you want him. And you take him, giving what you received, bruising but also, also. Taking note when he trembles.

Later, when you’re so worn-out you won’t even lift your head to talk, you say, “You didn’t guess right.”

The truth is, you were thinking about the time a teacher asked for an analysis of Marc Antony’s famous speech and you ended up wanting to fuck him. The ambition, the skill, the bloodlust underneath it all, the wrenching sobs in front of a crowd, flash of white teeth grinning victory in private--yeah, you could ride that ancient motherfucker. Alfie’s not at that level of duplicity, but he’s got the same charisma, the same savagery underneath.

“What was it, then?” he says.

His ego is healthy enough already; it doesn’t need feeding.

“Exeunt, pursued by a bear.”

VIII. A Problem

“You know what? There should be a problem by now,” he declares.

“Mm?” You lean back in your chair. He likes to monologue and you don’t mind listening.

“The honeymoon’s fucking over, innit.”

“I wasn’t aware we were married.”

“We’re not, but it’s been three months. Three months means we should’ve found a fucking problem. You give any two people three months together, and they should be able to find a dozen problems and go their separate ways, right?”

You eye him suspiciously, but he doesn’t seem to be gearing himself up for a separation; on the contrary, he just looks like he’s pontificating as per usual. You relax. “A problem like what?”

“Like the danger isn’t very fucking sexy anymore now that you’re close enough to get shot if a man comes through that door. Like you’re tired of staying inside and you want to be walking on my arm, like you haven’t seen a share of the profits, like you realize you’ll never get any further in, like you want kids, like you’re fuckin’...worried about saving my soul or some such shit.” Alright, maybe this is not a usual speech. He does look mildly worried.

“That’s a pretty big ego you have there, Alfie,” you say. “You do see that none of it fits, right?”

“I see that, and it’s very fucking concerning, because I’m wondering what brand new three month problem you’re going to come up with. You and that imagination.”

“A finger up the ass is not innovation, Alfie, it’s a pretty common cure for temporary boredom.”

“And the fucking marathon last Friday?”

“That I’ll proudly claim as a personal invention.”

He smiles, and it’s a little terrifying, that. Yeah, maybe he is a little fond of you, maybe you’re a little fond of him, but it’s still two people getting what they want, at the core. That’s what it is.

“Listen,” you say, “If you want a problem, you’ll have to make it up yourself, because I have none. And for the record, there’s a three-month mark for women, too, and it’s wildly different.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You get up out of your chair and got to sit in his lap, tilting his chin up, beard itchy in your palm. “At three months, he’ll start to think he owns you. You can see this because he’ll start to try to make you marry him, start to get bored and see other women, start to try in bed less and less, start to push you around.”

“You think I’d do that?”

“I think if we’re going to talk about changes at three months, we should talk about how completely unwedded I am to you, in every sense of the word. How I know that the good shit--the nearly unbelievable shit, the way you try to read ahead of me in Gibbons, the loaves you give me when I go, the way you get off on getting me off--how I know that good shit sometimes doesn’t last. How I abandon wells that have gone dry, how I’ve got too much fucking experience for that.” Your grip on his jaw tightens. “Don’t you fucking dare. Don’t pity me, it wasn’t me. It was my sister, and a girl I trained with, and probably half the other women out there. It’s only common sense, nothing personal.”

“You don’t trust me, eh?”

“I don’t see the need. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you have an entire room you keep locked every time I come over.”

He looks guilty, and that’s not at all what you wanted, not what you expected. To have a locked room is not beyond the bounds of what you’re here for, after all.

“Don’t get hurt feelings,” you say. “It’s not my fault a woman can’t be both safe and sentimental at the same time.”

“She could try.”

“She doesn’t want to. You kill people, Alfie.”

“...Yeah.”

“Then there we are.” There’s something in his eyes you can’t read, and that’s a problem, that right, there, but if you can’t figure it out, you can’t fix it. You kiss him by way of a panacea, and then you get up and wander over to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

“Is it that simple?” he calls after you.

“It is.”

IX. Rum Is For Pirates

And it seems that way for another very good two weeks. You still stop by the bakery every now and again, but it’s rarer; mostly he picks you up at eight and returns you before midnight, and that’s a little less sleep for you but a lot more fun. Problems, despite his prediction, do not arise.

Until rum night. After much wild guessing, you’ve finally hit upon the distillery in the bakery basement, and he’s agreed to fill you with about as many samples of the product as you can bear, it being a Saturday night and neither of you heading to church Sunday.

“It’s shit, innit,” he says, pulling a face after his first drink.

“Then why are you having another?”

He shrugs, and grins, and you’re halfway to kissing that off his face when the phone rings.

He mutters his replies, again in Yiddish, and you’re idly contemplating the possibility of licking something off his shoulder blades. Not rum, whiskey maybe. But his voice rises in concern and lowers back into something steadier than usual, which you read as reassurance, and by the time he hangs up, you’ve got your shoes on.

“I can walk from here,” you say. It’s not a great time of night, but nobody’s going to touch you.

“No, I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with me,” he says.

“I’m not doing a thing for your business.”

“It’s closer to your business than mine.”

Which is how you end up knocking on the door of a crowded flat with a five year old girl jumping up and down shouting on the sofa and a twelve year old boy, face grave, answering the door.

“Hi,” you say. “I’m Vanessa.” You stick out your hand, which he shakes like he’s a fortysomething banker. It would be charming if the backdrop wasn’t so sad.

“I’m Joshua. Did Mr. Solomons send you?” he says.

“Yes, he just drove to get you some groceries.”

“The stores are all closed.”

“He’ll find a way.” Thankfully, this seems to satisfy the little man, and you don’t have to elaborate on what’s undoubtedly going to be a fair bit of theft. He steps aside and lets you in.

“How long has it been just you two?” you say.

“Two days.”

“What’s her name?”

“Tabitha. Tabby for short.”

“Alright.” You lock the door behind you, then squat in front of him. “Joshua, you’ve done a good job. We’re going to take care of this. Can you do something for me?”

“Maybe.”

God, the kid’s smart. Your chest aches. “Can you get some water for you and your sister?”

“Why?”

“Because dehydration always comes first.” You straighten.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to have a look in the bedroom.”

“Don’t.”

“Love, someone’s going to have to do it. Or it’s going to make the whole flat smell very bad. It’s not going to go away.”

His face crumples. You squat down again and give him a hug, and presently the little girl has climbed down off the sofa to join in. She smells like piss but that’s understandable. Your dress was going to be a wreck after tonight anyway.

When they’re both done crying, you sit them down at the kitchen table for some water each, and then you venture into the bedroom. You were expecting a mother, but this is clearly more of a grandmother, hair gray, and not beginning to smell too much, yet. Eyes closed, thank God. You’ve not dealt with many bodies in your time, but it’s always twice as bad when the eyes are open.

Likely there’s some sort of culturally polite way to deal with this, but there are children waiting on you to get it over with, so you untuck the edges of the sheet from under the mattress and tie her up in the sheets, bundling pretty tightly.

Joshua doesn’t seem to like the silence much, so you end up talking loudly through the crack in the door, even as you start in on the bathroom with soap and a rag.

“Miss?”

“Yes, Joshua.”

“Who are you?”

“Vanessa.”

“Are you Mr. Solomon’s wife?”

“No, I’m a teacher.”

“I’ve never seen you at school.”

“There are other schools.”

He absorbs this.

“Miss?”

“Yes, Joshua.”

“Who is Mr. Solomons?”

You want to laugh. “I’m not sure, sometimes. I suppose he’s a baker. He likes rum. Maybe he’s a pirate.”

“Pirates need ships.”

“A pirate on land, then. He has the beard for it, right?”

“I guess.”

“How do you know him, Joshua?”

“He was there when Dad went to jail. Dad��s a murderer,” he says, like murderer is the same as florist or milkman.

You find yourself saying, “Oh,” politely, like you do to old friends declaring marriages you don’t approve of.

“Yeah, and he gave us a card with his phone number on it. It had a flower on it. It was pretty fancy.”

Just then, the door opens, and Alfie storms in in a flurry of jovial Yiddish and a mass of bags. By the time you emerge into the kitchen, the kids are stuffing their faces with makeshift sandwiches of bread and cheese. You wait until you’re quite close to him, then you lift onto your tiptoes and murmur in his ear: “Do you know where you’re taking her?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you should do it now.”

You cover Tabby’s eyes with one hand, but Joshua’s such a little man, he won’t let you, and you don’t have the heart to force him to look away. Anyways, when Alfie carries her out, all wrapped up in the sheets, she just looks like a bundle. You tied those knots tight.

The miracle is that Tabby actually likes taking baths, so that’s not so difficult, and then the food hits her and Joshua at about the same time.

“You didn’t have to touch the body,” he says, as you both watch them, curled up, asleep on the sofa.

“It was the work at hand.”

“I can have Ollie walk you home, if you want.”

“Ollie?”

“Tall, dark hair. You could bump into him while robbing his house and he’d apologize to you for it.”

“Oh, that one. No, it’s fine. There’s still laundry to do, and I know you’re shit at laundry.”

“I’ve done my own laundry for decades now, mate.”

“It’s a little sad that you’re so proud of it, Alfie.”

“I can handle this myself.”

“I know. But I’m here now, so I might as well.”

It’s several hours of work, but not without its peculiar rewards. While packing up the grandmother’s clothes, you even catch Alfie shining Joshua’s little shoes.

“Wot?” he says, as if you’ve accused him of something.

You just shake your head and get back to folding blouses.

After what feels like a month but is probably more like several hours, Judith shows up, and the house is clean and as childproofed as can be, you and Alfie both dozing in separate chairs.

You don’t even bother to explain, just lurch up out of the chair.

“Wait,” says a little voice. It’s Joshua, blinking sleepily up at the three of you. “Where are you going?”

You start forward, but Alfie’s closer, and he holds up a hand, so you let him take it. You watch as he kneels next to the sofa and starts talking, softly. You don’t understand the words, but you don’t have to. Joshua’s little face is earnest and rapt beneath the sleepiness.

“Hello,” Judith says to you, brightly.

“Hello.” You offer her a smile. You know this is all ridiculous, or maybe again that’s the sleep deprivation.

She reaches into her purse and produces a muffin.

“You’re a queen among women, Judith. An absolute queen.”

The muffin doesn’t last you nearly long enough; soon you find yourself sitting next to Alfie in the car, and nothing to do with your mouth. You think you might be supposed to say something, but you don’t know what it is. You’re not quite sure how to act. Because now you’re not just the foulmouthed teacher that doesn’t know when to stop, and he’s not just the violent baker that amasses power via killing and stealing in his spare time. You’re still all of that, but other things too, enough to make you people.

“Have we found a problem?” he says.

You shake your head. “It’s just different.”

Maybe it is a bit of a problem, because now that he’s more than a cock with various attractive qualities attached, he’s a man, and you’ve never known what to do with a man before, never having seriously tried.

He’s watching you. “You still want a drink?”

You look out the car window. The sky is beginning to lighten in the east, and all your body wants to do is sleep, but leaving him now feels like leaving something unfinished. “Why not?”

X. High Sun

You wake up to a lick on your face. “No.” You push away, but your hand meets fur, not skin, and--”Alfie!”

“Wot?” He ambles in from the kitchen, looking like he’s not even hungover, the bastard, already dressed, apple in hand.

“You had a dog this whole time and didn’t tell me?”

“Yeah.” He clucks at the little brown spaniel, which leaps off the bed and circles his feet, panting excitedly. “Want an apple?”

“No.” You sit up, swiping your hair out of your face. The first time you’ve slept in his bed, and you didn’t even fuck first. You’re not sure how to feel about that. “Is that what you kept all locked up in the room?”

“I have guns and papers and illegal shit in there. My neighbor takes the dog when you come over. But he had to go to work this morning.”

“Right.” You make it to the bathroom in time to throw up in the toilet, which helps, oddly enough. You wash yourself up, bath and all, and emerge in one of his shirts, partly because your dress is spoilt but partly because you’ve always wanted to. He demonstrates his appreciation for the sight first by handing over toast spread thick with butter, then by watching you eat with particularly avid eyes. You lick your fingers clean when you’re done.

“Alfie?”

“Mm?”

“You’re going to have to lock the dog in the bathroom for this part.”

He does.

You take your time unbuttoning the shirt while he rushes to get off the vest, the shirt, the trousers, the socks, it’s funny and then suddenly he’s crawling up the bed, sliding a hand up your thigh, and you forget what’s funny with his head between your legs, taking his time. He licks into you and palms your breasts and you’re not used to this, the odd, luxurious feeling of hardly moving at all, flexing a little under him, taking everything and giving nothing. But it’s on offer, so you take it.

He doesn’t make it easy on you, though. He usually knows when you’re close, because your nails leave crescents on his shoulders, or his hair gets a sharp tug, but this time he backs off even before that, slows down the pace, lapping at you in a way that’s nowhere close to satisfying. He reaches up and palms your breasts, but that’s not much use, either. You bite your lip and wait. Clearly, the man has a plan, and you’ll indulge him.

The plan turns out to be him touching you in every possible way that’s unsatisfactory: one finger slipping in, shallowly, a slight prickle of teeth dragging down your neck, two fingers in while he mouths at your nipples and that’s--oh that’s alright, that’s better, but the rhythm’s barely there and you’re this close to just shoving him off and taking care of yourself (as you’ve done twice now, on occasions when the frustration became too much), but then he ducks back down, starts sucking at your clit properly, and and you sigh a yeah, like that.

When he finally lets you come, you’re whimpering for it, hands clutching at the sheets, words lost to the pleasure, sight almost too. You look down, afterwards, and he’s got his head resting on your thigh, watching you with a pride that doesn’t annoy you as much as it used to. Doesn’t annoy you at all, actually.

“Come here,” you say.

He crawls up obligingly for the kiss, moans his encouragements when you feel him through his trousers. He breaks away entirely when you unbutton them and guide him into you. So much, so soon after your last orgasm, you can feel yourself twitching like mad, squirming into him, away from him, but you hold yourself to it because you want to see. And when you look up, yeah, there it is: the slightest of hesitation, buried under ten layers of his cock thinking for him, enough that he moves far too slowly to be giving anything to himself. There it is. You were right.

You push him off, clumsy still but determined, push him till you’ve got him on his back, where you want him, and you can mount him again, biting down on a fuck at how much it all is, oversensitive yes but determined more than anything else. You roll against him once, give a shit-eating grin at his groan, and then start to ride him in earnest. “Come on,” you pant, when you’ve got your voice back enough to manage two syllables. You’re five strokes behind coming apart, but you’re holding on, you want to take him with you. “Fuck me,” and he looks up at you, trembling above him, with something like awe, and obeys.

When a wet washcloth has done its work and you’re side by side in the bed (another first) and the record player sings out some sweet contralto, he discovers that he likes to play with your hair, and you don’t see any point in stopping him.

“We could do this again,” he says.

“I was planning on it.”

“No, all of this. Breakfast, and the dog.”

“And scrubbing down floors at 3am?”

“I’ll try to keep the dead bodies out of it, love, but I can’t promise it’ll be all be sunshine if you stick around for more than three hours a week.”

Yeah, that’s fair. You should say no to the whole thing. But there’s worse things than a dog, some toast, an midday fuck. There’s worse things than sweet and savage, fingers sure on your thighs, on a trigger, on the handle of a broom. Where else are you gonna find a man that can play tenderness straight to a little boy, gentle and right, and then turn around and play tenderness twisted up to a threat too, rasping in a way that makes you wet? You would’ve been just fine with the cock alone, but there’s other things to consider, you see that now. You decide to let yourself consider them.

“I’ll think about it.”

Requests currently closed. For others like this, check out my desktop masterlist, my "mine” tag, or my ao3 account.

#God I'm such an asshole #Alfie x OC #Alfie x Reader #Peaky Blinders imagine #Peaky Blinders #Peaky Blinders fanfiction #Peaky Blinders fanfic #Alfie Solomons #alfiesolcmons #mine

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renegadesrpg · 3 years

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Paladin, Part 13: Forrest Rossi. Forrest.

I was born 1945 in Roma Italy as bullets flew in the air above my mahmens head and my Sire was dragged away by German Nazis in broad daylight killing him instantly. My mahmen only survived long enough to give birth to me in the hidden basement of an old cotton factory. Italy has fallen to the allies as Hitler killed himself as he realized that he lost the war. That was the story I told all my life to all the other children as I grew up in an orphanage in Savannah, Georgia, USA. When I was asked by older peers how I ended up in Savannah when born in Italy. I told them all the same lie that I had snuck on a ship from a harbor in Italy that was heading to the Americas.

In truth, I was a 3rd generation Italian in the USA, for me then my mother, had been killed in a car accident when I was 4 years old and with no living relatives and an unknown father I had been put in the system and grown up at an orphanage for boys. The staff at the orphanage weren’t cruel, not the loving doting parents but they were ok. Bad behavior was punished, good behavior awarded. I was something in between and even though I did well in school, always was bright and my teachers and caregivers tried to reward my good academics. They didn’t have the money or the interest to make sure I got a higher education. The day I turned 18 I was kindly but firmly shown the door with a packed suitcase and a hundred dollars in my pocket. Hating the city I headed south until I found a more permanent job in northern Florida. While working for a Jewish shoe maker he taught me how to mend shoes and showed me how to make leather shoes from scratch. It was through him as a human man I learned that I was more than a quick learner I had a photographic memory. He was also the one who got me thinking of medical school.

At the age of 18 I had no idea who I was, more than the fact that I had become an orphan at the age of 4, because my mother died and my Sire was no one I knew who he was. My mamhen never talked about him or mentioned him. I learned quickly that she wasn’t interested in talking about him and therefore I stopped asking. Dedicated to finding away to get into medical school I started to take courses at night to get my grades up and also get grades in classes the teachers at the orphanage hadn’t taught, like physics and chemistry only to apply to medical school but being shut down because I didn’t classify for student loan and I wasn’t what they were looking for to hand out a scholarship too. I decided that I wasn’t going to let that be my downfall and moved to Savannah to be closer to the school I wanted to go too and worked both 2 and 3 jobs to pay for living but also try to save up money to go to med school. I did for years by the time I was 20 I hadn’t even been able to save up for a full year's tuition and it was the first time I got demotivated questioning whether or not I could do it. That was the year of 1975 five years before I went through my transition and about 3-4 years before I met Rehn.

After that I got depressed and went on a downhill spiral using some of my hard earned cash to party, buy myself lap dances and even a few nights with a companion in bed. Luckily enough I managed to get myself in shape before I spent it all and I got back into working hard finding another job to help fill up the hole partying had put in my savings account. For years I worked, slept and studied. I self studied whatever books I could get my hands to help myself learn as much as I could to make medical school easier. I loved learning about human anatomy and with my head for learning I was like a sponge. It was 1979, and at one of my self imposed study sessions, I was sitting in a diner drinking cold coffee reading about the human heart and arteries that I met Rehn. I had the table covered with notes and books reading and writing till my eyes and fingers bleed. He came from out of nowhere sliding into the booth on the opposite side of me ordering a coffee and two burger plates with extra bacon. I thought he was weird to the point that I almost cut and ran. Rehn was and still is pretty intimidating, even very intimidating if you don’t know him. When he was younger he also had the cockiness to go with the intimidating persona. I am not a small guy, I am 6’6 broad shoulders, well built but as a pretrans I wasn’t really the same. I could handle myself in a fight but I relied more on my charms and charisma rather than my fists.

I remember my first meeting with Rehn like it was yesterday, we sat there staring at each other across the table of that booth for what felt like an eternity. When Rehn said “I’ve been watching you” it was just his don’t fuck with me tone that kept me from hauling ass out of there. I wasn’t dumb though, as Rehn proven he wasn’t an immediate threat I allowed him to buy me the burger. I wasn’t dumb after all a free meal was a free meal and I lived off ramen noodles to keep my food costs down. It was that meeting and joining him after that had lead me to one week later be invited to his home for dinner that I found out what I really was and within a year I was going to have to change my entire way of living, avoid the sun, drink blood, get mad cravings for bacon dipped in chocolate (as fucking if). He said he could smell the change in me and that it was coming. At first I thought he was mad for real and I told him as much too. Even though Rehn was, and still is, intimidating I was never not even then afraid of him. I think that is why we are such good friends to this day.

Rehn is my family, besides my mahmen he is the only family I have. I would lay down my life for him and that isn’t just because he is the one who helped me get through med school. Kicking and screaming yes because I hated taking his money but at the time I had only been able to save up to half the tuition myself, but in the end it worked out really well. I was his to-go-to and he was mine. We were like brothers and the race could never have too few doctors and other medical staff which became a win win for us both. Without Rehn I’d never have lived through my transition. Because of him I was prepared and had what I needed to live through it both for the moment but also in knowledge.

I would never be where I was today with my own clinic serving the race living in Savannah, Rehn’s people. Standing up I walk over the large set of windows in my office that is in my brand new clinic and look out watching the people walking down the streets, humans on their way home, and vampires just starting their day. Yeah, life was good, the buzz of the phone in my pocket catches my attention and I pull it out grinning as I see Rehn’s name on the screen. I swipe my finger over the screen “What did you do now? Paper cut?” I tease. There’s a long growley speech about how I should watch my mouth ending with him asking to meet him for the first meal. “Well, my friend you are in luck there’s no one on my table bleeding… but I guess the day is still young.” We laugh and hang up. Grabbing my coat as I leave the door click shut behind as I head to meet my best friend for first meal.

#ForrestRossi #Renegades #RRPG #BDB #AU #Vampires #Witches #Reapers #Wolven #Ghosts #Angels

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romancatholicreflections · 7 years

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1st Nov >> Daily Reflection/Commentary on Today’s Mass Readings for Roman Catholics on the Solemnity of All Saints (Revelation 7:2-4,9-14, 1 John 3:1-3 and Matthew 5:1-12a)

God’s holy Church rejoices that her children are one with the saints in lasting peace. (from Solemn Blessing for today)

1. As we come to the end of the Church year we celebrate this great feast of All Saints. It is important to emphasise from the beginning what we mean here by ‘saints’. Normally we apply the word to people of extraordinary holiness who have been canonised or beatified by the Church. Among them each one has their favourites: St Francis of Assisi, St Therese of Lisieux, St Anthony, St Joseph and so on.

But today’s feast uses the word in a much wider sense. It refers to all those baptised Christians who have died and are now with God in glory. It also certainly includes all non-Christians who lived a good life sincerely in accordance with the convictions of their conscience. We simply do not know how many people we are talking about but it must be a very large number. Putting it the other way, there is no way we can decide which people have made an irrevocable choice of rejecting what is true and good and have chosen to be alienated from God forever. Hopefully, their number is much smaller.

There is a third group which we will remember tomorrow and they are those who have died but need still a process of purification before they can come face to face with the all-holy God.

2. The Gospel chosen for today’s feast is interesting. It gives us what we know as the Eight Beatitudes from the beginning of the Sermon on the Mount. It is, in fact, a charter for holiness. When many people think of holiness they think of keeping the Ten Commandments and perhaps some other requirements of the Church like going to Mass on Sundays or fasting during Lent. What we often tend to forget is that the Ten Commandments really belong to the Old Testament and are part of the Jewish law. Of course, they are still valid and Jesus said clearly that he had not come to abolish the Jewish law but to fulfil it.

We might say that the Beatitudes are an example of that fulfilling. The Beatitudes go far beyond the Ten Commandments in what they expect of a follower of Christ and yet the sad thing is that one hears of relatively few Christians saying that they base their lives on the Beatitudes. When we go to Confession it is the Ten Commandments we normally refer to and not the Beatitudes. And this is sad because it is clear from their position in Matthew’s gospel that the Beatitudes have a central place. They are a kind of mission statement saying what kind of person the good Christian will be.

3. Let us look at them briefly in the short time we have available. But first we need to clarify a few of the terms used. The word ‘blessed’ is sometimes translated ‘happy’. It might be more accurate to translate it as ‘fortunate’. In other words, people who have these qualities are really in an envious position. All of these beatitudes are indications that we belong to the ‘kingdom of heaven’. This is to be understood not as a place, still less as referring to life after death. It rather describes the kind of society that exists when we live according to these values – a place of truth and love, of compassion and justice, of peace, freedom and sharing.

The general message is that those are really blessed when they know their dependence on God and on their sisters and brothers; when they commit themselves totally to the Way that Christ invites them to follow.

The Gospel says that particularly blessed are:

a. Those who are poor in spirit. They are those who are aware of their basic poverty and fragility and of how much they need the help and support of God as opposed to those who foolishly claim independence and full control of their lives.

b. Those who are gentle: These are the people who reach out to others in care and compassion and tenderness, who constantly are aware of the needs of others.

c. Those who mourn: those who are in grief or sorrow for whatever reason will be assured of comfort from the loving community in Christ they have entered.

d. Those who hunger and thirst for what is right: Whatever the price, they will work that everyone will be given what is their due to live a life of dignity and self-respect. The price they may have to pay could be high, very high, even life itself.

e. Those who are merciful: They are the ones who extend compassion and forgiveness to all around them.

f. Those who are pure in heart: This does not refer to sexual purity but rather to a simplicity and total absence of duplicity, of prejudice or bias. Not surprisingly, they are described as being able to see God. For such people God’s presence is all too obvious in every person and experience.

g. Those who make peace: Perhaps one of the most beautiful of the Beatitudes. These are people who help to break down the many barriers which divide people – whether it is class, occupation, race, religion or anything that creates conflict between individuals or groups. Not surprisingly, these people are called “children of God”. God sent Jesus among us precisely to break down the barriers between God and his people and between people themselves.

h. Those who are persecuted in the cause of right: Persecution of itself is not a pleasant experience and may result in loss of life. But blessed indeed are those who have the strength and courage to put the values of truth and love and justice for all above their own survival. Among the saints we most honour today are the martyrs, those who gave their lives in the defence of truth, love and justice.

This is the kind of Christian we are all called to be. It is these qualities which made the saints and which will make saints of us too. They go far beyond what is required by the Ten Commandments. If taken literally, the commandments can be kept and not with great difficulty. Many of them are expressed in the negative, “You shall NOT…” so we can observe them by doing nothing at all! “I have not killed anyone… I have not committed adultery… I have not stolen…” Does that make me a saint?

Being a Christian is a lot more than not doing things which are wrong. The Beatitudes are expressed in positive terms. They also express not just actions but attitudes. In a way, they can never be fully observed. No matter how well I try to observe them, I can always go further. They leave no room for smugness, the kind of smugness the Pharisees had in keeping the Law. The Beatitudes are a true and reliable recipe for sainthood.

3. “Think of the love that the Father has lavished on us, by letting us be called God’s children,” the Second Reading reminds us today. Saints are not self-made people. They are people who have responded generously to the love of God showered on them. And the completion of that love is to be invited to share life with God forever in the life to come.

“What we are to be in the future has not yet been revealed,” the Reading also says. We do not know and have no way of knowing what that future existence will be like and it does not help very much to speculate. In fact, some of the conventional images of heaven are not terribly exciting! Kneeling on clouds playing harps for eternity- partly derived from a too literal reading of the book of Revelation – is not exactly a turn-on!

It is better to go along with St Paul who says that life face to face with God is something totally beyond our comprehension. Let us rather concentrate on the life we are leading now and let it be a good preparation for that future time.

4. Indeed, the First Reading from the book of Revelation presents an apocalyptic vision of those who have died in Christ. They are numbered at 144,000 – a number taken literally by some Christian sects. However, the number is clearly symbolical. It consists of the sacred number 12, squared and multiplied by another complete number, 1,000. It simply represents the total of all those who have died faithful to Christ their Lord. They represent “every nation, tribe and language” for access to Christ is open to all. They are dressed in white robes with palms in their hands. They are the robes of goodness and integrity. The palms of victory are a reference to the joyful Jewish feast of Tabernacles for these are the ones invited to live in God’s tent or tabernacle.

Together with them are the angels, the 24 elders (perhaps representing the 12 patriarchs and the 12 Apostles) and the four living creatures (a very high rank of angels), all prostrate in adoration before the glory of God. The song they sing has been magnificently set to music by Handel in his “Messiah”. Praise, glory, wisdom, thanks, honour, power and strength are seven attributes of perfect praise.

And who are these people in white robes? “They are the people who have been through the great trial”, in other words, those who have been through persecution, particularly the persecution of Nero, which occurred about the time this book was written. And, paradoxically, “they have washed their robes white again in the blood of the Lamb”. It is the blood of Jesus Christ which brings salvation but only to those who have united with him in sharing its effects. Many of them, of course, are martyrs and they have mingled their own blood with that of Jesus.

It is a picture of total victory and the end of all the pains and sorrows they endured in this life. It is not a newspaper reporter’s description of heaven!

5. Today’s feast is first of all an occasion for great thanksgiving. It is altogether reasonable to think that many of our family, relatives and friends who have gone before us are being celebrated today. We look forward to the day when we, too, can be with them experiencing the same total happiness when “they will never hunger or thirst again”; when “sun and scorching wind will never plague them, because the Lamb who is at the heart of the throne will be their shepherd and will guide them to the springs of living water; and God will wipe away all tears from their eyes” (Revelation 7:16-17).

Today is a day too for us to pray to them – both the canonised and the uncanonised – and ask them to pray on our behalf that we may live our lives in faithfulness so that we, too, may experience the same reward.

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savedfromsalvation · 7 years

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From the writings of Acharya S - Truth Be Known

Proof That God Doesn't Exist,

Prayer Doesn't Work

And Religion Creates Psychosis

"A believer is a bird in a cage. A freethinker is an eagle parting the clouds with tireless wing."

Robert Ingersoll

On the first page of this website is a prayer: "God, protect me from your followers." Well, needless to say, it doesn't work, thereby providing concrete proof that God doesn't exist and that prayer doesn't work. And those who have squeaked through the supernatural protective net have expressed psychosis, which proves that religion creates it.

Some of the nutty messages received include the following. These comments are so generic and typical that they apply to basically any blind believer, with the emphasis on blind.

"Your time will come!" This remark could be taken two ways: The friendly interpretation is that someone is wishing me luck. The hateful interpretation is that I am being condemned to judgment by a monstrous god person.

"Eternity is a long time to be wrong!" All freethinkers have heard this retort, which is a more refined version of "You're going to hell!" This comment is psychotic, in that these blind believers believe there is a "loving" and "forgiving" god person who will hideously punish anyone who dares to question "his" existence. Obviously, we reject such an ugly concept, so this threat doesn't scare us. Also, what if YOU'RE wrong? You have condemned millions of people to hell in your thoughts and words, not to mention that, if you're a Christian, you believe the Jews are guilty of killing God! These are pretty heinous accusations, so you had better be sure that you're not wrong. Blind belief is not a win-win situation. Indeed, it is intellectually dishonest and harmful.

"When you die, you will meet your Maker and fall down on your knees before Jesus and ask His forgiveness." Ditto with the above. Why would the "omnipotent" Jesus and "His Father" be so threatened by our unbelief? Did "He/They" not provide us with intelligence? Yet, "He" wishes us to spit on "His" gift and not use it? This asinine comment also means that the hundreds of millions of Buddhists and others who don't believe in the Jewish godman are diabolical and will be severely punished. Those who subscribe to such bigotry are already living in hell.

"Have you read the Bible cover to cover?" Actually, I have, and the hypocrite who asks such a question obviously hasn't, because the Bible is full of dreadful stories about genocide, murder, adultery, incest, deceit, greed, arrogance, megalomania, sexual perversion, and all sorts of despicable behavior. On second thought, perhaps the people who ask such a question HAVE read the Bible, as we are sure it creates dementia.

"Who made you so angry?" This comment one is full of implications, and I could answer in a variety of ways. One favorite response is "Who made you so dumb?" But I could focus on the "made" part and say, "Well, God made me, so he must have made me angry." I could also point out that the question itself is extremely angry, and that those who see anger everywhere are themselves seething with anger but are repressing it and are thus not mentally balanced. Human beings SHOULD be angry, because their situation is atrocious. If there were such a god person directing everything, they should be very angry at "him," because this world is a mess and every day abominable things are happening to millions of people. Of course, the standard stupid response to this is that "God gave us free will." (See A Question of Free Will.)

"I'll pray for you!" This comment sounds like an alien language to freethinkers. It comes out something like this: "BZZZPPFFFFTTT." When interpreted, it becomes clear that the person who is making such a comment feels quite smug and superior in that he/she has chosen the RIGHT god, compared to whatever it is you do with your consciousness, such that he/she now has a direct pipeline, whereas you do not, and he/she will put in a good word for you, you lowlife scum. Since the concept of "God" is completely arbitrary, we could respond that we will pray to the Cosmic Mickey Mouse that our well-wishers become intelligent. Naturally, we are not talking about loved ones who make this heartfelt prayer comment in times of true trauma. We are addressing the condescending offer presented by missionaries and proselytizing fanatics who have never even met us but who feel they know we are sinners who need prayer to their "Father in heaven." Theirs is a rather unctuous and smarmy mentality.

Now, just in case you think I'm being a bit harsh in pronouncing these statements and sentiments psychotic, I offer up the following email--you decide. Do you truly want to live in a world dominated by this kind of mentality?

"Alas, your vile vulgarness comes out. It's obvious you and your mind belong to Satan. The message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing. You are a very sad excuse of a human being. You babble about things you know nothing about. The Jews aren't Christkillers. Whoever told you that. Jesus died for all of us, so we all are Christkillers.... Whether or not you like it, or admit it, you were created by God, you will be judged by God, and you will be punished by God. You can play all the games you want to until that day of judgement, but it's coming."

To these loving, advanced concepts, I respond, "You and your mind obviously belong to Ahriman the Devil! Ahura-Mazda the Almighty will judge and punish you! My Persian boogeyman is bigger than your Judeo-Christian one! You barbarian with a bone in your nose! Ooga-booga!" Then I follow this with much saber-rattling, teeth-baring and chest-beating.

All of these comments reflect that the believer is angry, volatile, primitive, arrogant, mentally unbalanced and does not display critical thinking. Let us now spell it out:

If you believe there is an invisible giant man of a particular ethnicity in the sky who is directing everything and who is so hateful he will viciously punish us for challenging his existence--

If you believe that this invisible giant man got a 13-year-old virgin girl pregnant, who then gave birth to him as his own son--

If you believe that this god person wrote a book--and one book only--

If you believe that "confessing the Lord" will instantly remove your sins, thus allowing you to commit more--

If you believe that a stone will remove your sins, thus allowing you to commit more--

If you believe in vicarious blood-atonement, i.e., that "the Lord died for your sins" and thus you can commit as many as you wish--

If you believe that merely believing in such a god person makes you righteous, no matter what atrocities you commit and what hatred and intolerance you carry and spread--

If you believe that some "good" god person is going to reward you for killing living, breathing human beings "in his name"--

If you believe that going to church, temple, synagogue or mosque, making pilgrimages, or wearing particular clothes or headdresses, makes you a righteous person, even though you don't behave like one otherwise--

If you believe that you are special and chosen because of what you believe--

If you believe that it is good to mindlessly go along with whatever anyone tells you about the nature of God and religion--

If you believe that believing in one God makes you better than and superior to those who don't--

You are not displaying critical thinking, not using your mind. You are also uneducated as to the world's cultures and history. It is not a sign of great intelligence to blindly believe what someone else has told you is true, especially when such beliefs basically condemn hundreds of millions of other people. Many of these blind believers are simply not very bright, yet they assume that their belief equalizes them with those who are smarter. "Jesus loves you just the way you are!" is the hypocritical hue and cry of those who feel inferior but who will not recognize it and admit it. Yet, according to these same cheerleaders, Jesus DOESN'T love you just the way you are--you must thoroughly change, surrendering your mind and soul to him. A bit of a psychotic extortion racket.

The bottom line is that those who dare to question and challenge cherished beliefs which are not rational and reasonable, and who live relatively righteous lives without such irrational and intolerant beliefs, should be recognized as being the epitome of what any god person would wish in "his children." They are utilizing all of the gifts that such a god person would provide, were "he" real. And if they have utilized these "God-given" gifts, they know that the interpretation of "God" is a cultural artifact, not an absolute truth that must be defended and beaten into other people. In using these gifts, they will discover that over the millennia, hundreds of millions of people have held differing opinions as to the Infinite, which is only common sense, since it is, after all, Infinite.

Humans need to lighten up! Their gods and religions are dreary, humorless, wrathful, intolerant, oppressive and generally unpleasant. There is no love, no joy, no fun! Humans are under the dominion of ideologies that are slowly but surely killing them. They need to release them and be free! No one is going to punish them for enjoying life, and there is no point to living if they can't enjoy it. No good god person wants to see people stumbling around in dread seriousness, doing cockamamie rituals and constantly beating up themselves and others. Life is a joke. There is no purpose, so everyone is free to create his or her own, making it as amusing, joyous and scrupulous as possible.

(Hey, folks - the comment that this page constitutes "proof" is TONGUE IN CHEEK. Get it? Geesh.)

Acharya means “teacher.” In real life she was D.M. Murdock, a brilliant classicist scholar and linguist. Yes, she read the entire bible - In all the original languages it was written in, as well as the classical religious writings of many other cults. Thi Pat Robertson or Joel Osteen did that? This was one of her humorous rants, but many serious discussions disproving the backbone of most religions can be found on her website: http://truthbeknown.com Laz

#Acharya means teacher. In real life #whe was V

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reginaldqueribundus · 7 years

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99% done with this website

i thought i’d heard every bit of misapplied stupidity this dung heap had to offer when i was told

white people aren’t allowed to cosplay as a purple space alien

drawing mr spock with slightly greenish skin is a hate crime despite the fact that he has green blood

being sexually attracted to the wrong race of alien lizard people means you support nazism

artists shouldn’t draw xmas sweaters on fictional 23rd century spacemen because the actors who play some of them (the actors, not the characters) are jewish, and anyone who disagrees is an anti semite

I also once expressed disgust/amazement that there was already a blog shipping orson krennic and jyn erso a full month before rogue one even came out, only to be told by a complete stranger that I shouldn’t “crosstag” (what?) because it’s triggering to survivors.

and then, based on my response to that fourth one, some teenage trash goblin decided to tell me i “hate jews” which i am sure will cause no end of disappointment among my numerous jewish relatives, you absolute fuckwagon.

im fed up. im tired of ignorant little “ur fav is problematic!” shit hats running around peeing on the stuff i like and calling everybody a bigot because they think their headcanon should be real and anything can be oppression if you squint hard enough. forget twitter, tumblr should be the one with the bird logo because it’s full of screeching featherbrained fucklords either squawking at the top of their lungs or parroting whatever stupid thing they heard, never once having an original thought, vomiting the same half digested discourse into each others open mouths and shitting everywhere. it plays hell with my anxiety and sucks away the energy i want to use for discussing actual issues that matter. im mostly here for fun fandom shit but that doesn’t mean i don’t want to talk about charlottesville, colonialism, perceptions of mental illness in society, hell i even want to talk about how unfair it is that batman and superman got 14 movies between them before wonder woman even got one, but im too busy defending myself to some 12 year old who says im hitler because i dont think kara zor-el is a lesbian. you think you’re doing some great thing but really you’re just trivializing the issue and ruining any chance at a serious discussion.

i joined this hell site in spite of what i’d heard about it because i thought it would be a fun easy way to share my thoughts on pop culture and couldn’t possibly be all that bad. but sweet buttery breakdancing buddha on a biplane, i was wrong. i’ve tried to stay away from it but y’all have driven me so close to just up and walking away from all my followers, my mutuals, my friends, from the one place where i get to fucking talk about star trek because its the only place where i know people who love it as much as i do. the one outlet i have, and you self fellating jack in the boxes wana ruin it for me. all because the only emotion you’re capable of feeling is the smug satisfaction of telling someone they’re wrong. god forbid anyone make an honest mistake out of genuine lack of knowledge, because some self righteous fuckbucket will appear behind them like a goddamn anime ninja to give them a lecture which they probably won’t even fucking understand because they haven’t leaped facefirst up tumblr’s cancerous, prolapsed rectum and memorized every bit of shitwit special terminology it has to offer.

you have nothing meaningful to contribute, so you take some sociopolitical concept you read about one time and start slapping it onto every book or cartoon you read/watch, regardless of whether it fits, throw in a couple of buzzwords you don’t fully understand and voila! suddenly you have an excuse to go around telling people they’re not having fun the right way, all while being immune to criticism because you’re “calling out” biphobia / ableism / whatever. if anyone disagrees with you just harass the shit out of them because let’s face it you have nothing better to do. then when they finally break down in tears and block you / get so frustrated they stop responding, you get to sit smugly in front of your keyboard and jerk yourself off thinking about what a good person you are.

i never use the term sjw because im not some transphobic assmaster from reddit or 4chan who thinks racial slurs are hilarious, but even if i did, it wouldn’t fucking apply here because you flapping circus clown labias aren’t fighting for justice. you’re only fighting for yourselves.

god help me if it wasn’t for some of y’all i’d pack my star trek shit in a hobo bindle and flip this place the bird on the way out. i love you guys. you know who you are. sorry about the rant im so tired

#rant #im fed up #sorry everyone #vent post #a post by me™

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stevedonnellyfaith-blog · 5 years

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Evolution (Post 93) 6-17-15

Some friends of my parents stopped by this week. They are a fun couple. He is a folksy, puttering, retired physics teachers who once took my father’s side in a debate with other faculty members about why the lighting fixtures in the dining room were swinging back and forth in time. “Hal’s conjecture is both right and wrong,” Mr. Dorson offered in mediation, “While he is right that this is an earthquake, Hal is wrong about the oscillating motion of the chandeliers. They are stationary; it is the building that is moving back and forth.”

It is helpful to have a physics teacher around to interpret natural phenomena, but for his wife, a liberal librarian, being married to an ultraconservative who is going deaf can be a trial. I believe she has taken up gardening and visiting museums as a means to deal with the relentless onslaught of Fox News with the volume turned up to eleven. It heartens me to see two people with differing views living together in toleration rather than consternation. It is easy to see though, who a blaring news or sportscast could upset peace within an American family.

The news doesn’t really interest me much anymore. Today my mother asked me what I thought of the drama of some felons that had escaped from prison somewhere quite a while ago but hadn’t been caught yet. Initially, I thought she was talking about the Texas jailbreak from about a decade ago. Come to find out she was talking about a new escape that I had only vaguely heard about accidentally. I am currently in kind of a news gray-out status with the expectation of placing myself under an out and out cone of silence in the Christmas season once the presidential hi-jinks begin in earnest. By February every broadcast on every channel will be wall to wall politicians, people who used to be politicians and people who once worked for politicians for the foreseeable future.

While temporal debates are consequential and do impact The Church, I seem to be developing and increasingly lower tolerance for posturing, weasel words, taking others out of context, flamboyant exaggerations and smarminess. Then once the commercials are over, I can’t stand the news commentators either. It does seem like whenever Joe Biden blows his nose, Fox News will air alternating Democrat and Republican operatives who will dramatically exaggerate the significance and importance of the color of Joe’s handkerchief. MSNBC will cover the same story with two Democrat operatives who refer continuously with nauseating condescension to a particular hanky that they both remember Dick Cheney using at one point last decade. I vaguely remember that there may actually be another cable news channel, or there once was one, but it has become so irrelevant now that it is only watched in airport waiting areas by travelers who have forgotten to pack earphones as protection. So that pretty much leaves the often biased CSPAN broadcast as my only probable news source. Unfortunately CSPAN is pretty much a consensus pick for the most boring channel not dedicated to auctioning shiny baubles. So I mostly ignore the political news.

With regard to social issues, my views are mostly insulted on MSNBC and so vociferously agreed with by Sean Hannity that even I begin to question axiomatic beliefs that I have held all my life. Mostly, I listen to a couple of minutes of Al Kresta on my drive home and compare my own conservative views against whatever Pope Francis has to say. I try to allow his words to change my heart in a way that my mind can make sense of after the fact. Sometimes his views challenge me, but I am confident that Francis truly believes what he says and that the Pope doesn’t add spin. In general, whenever a Vatican mouthpiece is pontificating for him though, I change the channel as fast as I can.

With respect to matters of the faith, I do buy into whatever Pope Francis has to say lock, stock and barrel, whatever that means. (I search Google for stuff like that all the time and send kind thoughts towards David Katreeb as I’m doing it.) Anyway, I think, for instance, that the Pope quite reasonably explains the Church position on evolution in a rational way that is consistent with a man who holds a degree in chemistry. I agree with Francis when he articulates that evolution as a theory is not inconsistent with Church teaching. God most likely may have chosen to work His design using evolution as a tool to mold the earth until Jesus entered creation in the flesh of a man. As Supreme Being, He could also have chosen the more unlikely path of creating a whole mess of fossils and bones as a kind of archeological window dressing so that people wouldn’t be forced to believe in Him. I don’t expect that He would do that, but as a man, I am not a self-appointed umpire of all that He does. I am also not a competent judge of the intricacies of how other men think creation happened. My only strong belief is against the neo-Darwinist spin that the theory of evolution proves that God doesn’t exist. I know God does exist so I try to take a pass on things like hedonism, euthanasia, eugenics and genocide for which atheism provides license.

Here is a metaphor to explain my feelings on how neo-Darwinists extend the evolutionary theory into atheistic excess. Nicholas, Abby and Natalie were visiting Pam’s parents in Maryland this weekend. During the visit, Nicholas discovered a record turntable and a nunchaku set in the basement. He also ran across a Bud Light clock but that is entirely beside the point. His conjecture that both relics were a cool find is perfectly acceptable. If Nicholas extended his reasoning to assume that when placed before a karaoke microphone, his grandfather would belt out, Kung Fu Fighting by Carl Douglas, Nick would be pretty far afield. His grandfather is actually partial to Roy Orbison – the Okinawan fighting sticks belong to Nick’s Uncle Chris.

Anyway, my point isn’t that the neo-Darwinist (Darwin believed in God) atheists have been hitting themselves in the head with sticks too much, even though I don’t agree with their misguided negation of God. It seems as if we can reasonably believe that dinosaurs became birds or whatever inference paleontologists can reasonably support with evidence. It doesn’t bother me that no fossil evidence of a missing link between me and Zippy the Chimp. I’m sure a very low percentage of living troglodytes were actually preserved in shale sandwiches, so I am unconcerned by missing monkey bones.

To me it seems reasonable to believe that proto-evangelical Jesus oversaw evolution; that seems to be what Francis either believes or allows. That interpretation is also consistent with what Jesus has lead me to believe through the Holy Spirit and my discussions with Pam. It doesn’t bother me when Traditionalists take the Old Testament more literally. To me the Pentateuch doesn’t read as Adam’s, Abraham’s and Moses’ diary any more that the New Testament reads as a Jesus’ memoir. The Bible provides us with enough information to feed our faith a healthy meal, while still allowing the atheists enough freedom to come to the conclusion that random chance bred herds of allosaurs, then extincted them, while leaving their bone caches so that we can script an increasingly ridiculous Jurassic movie franchise.

Science is wondrous. Georges LeMaitre, a Belgian Catholic priest used science to formulate the Big Bang Theory which gives us a window or inkling into how God created all of this and all of us. For those less interested in the beauty of God’s creation, there is also a funny television show by the same name. God intended us to engage in science so that we can discover more and more about what He has wrought. Certainly, we will not discover it all, any more than we will find all the dinosaur bones, but what we do find will lead us closer to Him … if we engage in science honestly.

Not everybody follows the scientific method that was originally formulated by the Catholic Church. Agendas other than truth can warp scientific findings and theories like evolution into false doctrines. Eugenics, for instance, the bastard child of evolutionary thought, lead men to massacre their neighbors. Whether the corpses were Armenian, Jewish, Cambodian or Tutsi was immaterial, the blood was on the hands of atheists who purported to be using junk science for rationale. The last century was bulwarked and sandbagged with bodies killed by men liberated from the enslaving belief in a higher power. In this century the Neo-Darwinists are bringing us contraception and chemically induced gender selective abortion on demand, an abomination that would have horrified Hitler himself because it is double-decimating his master race within the course of several short generations.

For faithful Catholics, let us forgo intramural arguments about monkey DNA. Because our observations are made of potshard fragments of a complete vase of knowledge, we will never fully understand the entire tableau that God has wrought until we learn everything we desire to know in the fullness of time. I look forward to answers about Fatima and Lourdes and the Tilma of Guadalupe as well as how exactly the Big Bang was boomed. With regard to evolution I have one last thought that interests me: could there indeed be evolution beyond Jesus incarnation? Also is Jesus’ glorified body an evolution of a different order that we will follow into, leaving our monkey relatives to their banana smoothies? In the meantime, let’s stick together as Catholics and try to sway the thought of those who no longer recognize evil and cruelty for what it is.

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rageingdemon24-blog · 7 years

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cancer symptoms after hysterectomy

Did you know it's possible to get ovarian cancer even after you've had a hysterectomy? I learned the hard way. My sister, who had a hysterectomy about 10 years ago, simply received a diagnosis for a type of ovarian cancer.

If you have a partial hysterectomy, which removes your uterus, or a total hysterectomy, which removes your uterus and cervix, your ovaries remain intact and you can still develop ovarian cancer, in agreement with the Mayo Clinic.

If, like my sister, you have a total hysterectomy with salpingo-oophorectomy, in which your cervix, uterus and both ovaries and fallopian tubings are removed, ovarian cancer is less likely but still can occur.

The details are confusing--surgeons talk fast and don't like to slow down for patient explanations--but my sister's surgeon says she has primary serous carcinoma, which glances and behaves much like ovarian cancer and likely originated from ovarian cells.

As he clarified it, when the status of women undergoes a hysterectomy and has her ovaries removed, some ovarian tissue may be left behind. Ovaries are not well-formed organs like our liver or kidneys. They are soft tissues that can( and do) come apart when you try to remove them. When parts are left behind, some cancerous or precancerous cells may develop from that tissue. In some females, the ovarian cells moved to the peritoneal field during menstrual cycle before the ovaries were removed and grew cancerous later on. It's also difficult to tell whether the cancer is coming from ovarian or peritoneum cells--and it doesn't much problem. It is treated the same.

My sister's cancer showed suddenly, without warning. Two weeks ago, she started having severe abdominal anguishes. At first she thought it was a stomach virus or food poisoning. But, after two days of worsening indications, her internist cast her to the emergency room. The ER doctor wanted to send her residence with a stool softener, but my sister, being the strong-willed maiden that she is, refused to leave.

When a doctor analyse her the next morning, he found a mass on her colon and are determined to do an emergency colonoscopy. But, the mass was pulping down so difficult on her colon that he couldn't do a colonoscopy. The procedure unexpectedly became disaster removal of her entire colon because the mass had pinched off the tissue and killed it.

Once the surgeon came inside her abdominal cavity, he detected cancer cells throughout her abdomen. As he described them, they were sticky blob of cells that were gluing her organs together. He removed what he had been able to in what was becoming a lengthy and complex disaster surgery.

He was not sure she'd pull round the surgery, but, thankfully, she did. We're still going explanations and are a long way from triumphing the battle against cancer. But we're extremely glad that she's lived to fight it.

I've learned a great deal about ovarian cancer in the past few weeks, and the most important thing I've learned is that it's very important to get an early diagnosis--but there's no screening research for women at norm peril for ovarian cancer.

There are determining factor that would encourage your health care provider( HCP) to be more vigilant in go looking for ovarian cancer, so know your risk factors--and let your HCP know if you have any.

These are risk factors for ovarian cancer:

A "first-degree" relative( mom, sister or daughter) who has or had ovarian, tit or gastrointestinal/ colon cancer

Age; most cases occur in brides 60 and older

Eastern European Jewish ethnicity( Ashkenazi )

Mutation in the BRCA1 or BRCA2 gene

Personal history of heart, endometrial/ uterine or colorectal( colon) cancer

Have never been pregnant or had agitate giving birth

A high-fat diet

Obesity

Endometriosis

Early start for your points( before senility 12) or later-than-average menopause( after age 50 )

Of all determining factor, the most important ones is a family history of breast and/ or ovarian cancer. However, it's important to keep determining factor in perspective. Most women around risk factors for ovarian cancer will never get ovarian cancer. And most women with ovarian cancer is not have any strong determining factor for the disease.

The Ovarian cancer symptoms ( in particular in its early stage) are often not self-evident or intense, but if you have known determining factor, you should definitely talk to your HCP if you show any indications. Ovarian cancer symptoms include:

Pelvic or abdominal anguish, pressing or awkwardnes

Vague but lingering gastrointestinal worrieds such as gas, nausea and indigestion

Frequency and/ or urgency of urination in is a lack of new infections

Changes in bowel habits

Weight gain or loss; specially weight gain in the abdominal place

Pelvic or abdominal grow, bloating or a sense of fullness

Back or leg anguish

Pain during intercourse

Vaginal bleed or abnormal vaginal removal

Ongoing fatigue

If you or your HCP accuseds you may have ovarian cancer, or you have a very high risk of developing it, you may undergo certain diagnostic tests, including likeness tests, biopsy and blood tests.

Your HCP may require a blood assessment that are searching for CA-125, a protein found in the blood of countless women with ovarian cancer. Nonetheless, other conditions, including normal ovulation, endometriosis and pelvic inflammatory disease can also heighten CA-125 positions. And some women with ovarian cancer may have normal levels of CA-125. Because of these problems, the CA-125 measure is not recommended for women at median danger of ovarian cancer.

Because my mother croaked of breast and my sister currently has ovarian cancer, I know that I have significant risk factors. I will talk to my doctor about what measuring is title for me. As with the majority cancers, early diagnosis is the key to survival.

#cancer #cancer cells #symptoms #treatment

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drewkatchen · 7 years

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L to R.: Family friend, my Pop and my Am circa mid-1990s.

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

On the morning of January 14, 1998 in New York City at around 8 a.m., three men in ski masks carried empty duffel bags into the north tower of One World Trade Center, according to a report in the New York Times.

Naturally, the reason for their visit wasn’t social.

The men from Brooklyn and Staten Island had a distinct plan all too obvious, a scheme which led them to a passenger elevator bound for the the 11th floor, where they then boarded a freight elevator and confronted a Brinks guard delivering money to the Bank of America corporate currency exchange center. The money was handed over, and the three men escaped the tower with $1.6 million. No one was injured.

For a brief period before their capture, these guys existed in the city, fanning out individually with a lot of money in their bags and one big secret in tow.

----

There’s no aspect of my life that overlaps with the story above really; I was not in the World Trade area at the time and you should trust me on that. On that morning many years ago, I was just a 21-year-old kid waking up in my grandmother’s central New Jersey home -- a sturdy, wooden affair from the late ‘50s -- in a lumpy bed far too small for all the college weight I was carrying around at the time. I didn’t live in her home, but my grandfather’s recent death from Parkinson’s demanded I leave school in South Carolina and board the quickest flight to EWR to be there, to say goodbye to an elder. One moment I was hanging out with my roommate in our spacious and rundown university apartment as a new semester started up, and the next I was in a crush of family -- great aunts all the way down to cousins -- all at different stages of sadness and relief. I hadn’t seen some of them in over a decade, and a few still longed to pinch my cheeks and or ruffle my curly kid locks. Like a lot of people, I didn’t know my Pop well; he began deteriorating when I was still a boy, and because I lived nowhere near him for most of my youth. Pictures show me as a chubby kid smiling in his lap, but I don’t remember much about him really. I remember his sideburns, bushy and gray and smelling of cigarette smoke. I know he had a flair for natty suits and sipping martinis during the day and that he had a full head of white hair. I know my grandmother loved him more than anything, and while she was happy he was no longer in the locked, debilitating prison of his disease, her primary reason for living had now gone away with a whimper. There’s apparently a legendary picture of him mowing the lawn in formal attire. Everyone still talks about it. And that was him, a man who left Irvington to give his wife and three kids a solid middle-class Jewish existence in the burbs.

The house in Bound Brook is now gone. Sold to a young couple.

---

I’ve been thinking a bit lately about the process of coming out. What coming out in my younger years meant to me, how the art I found at the time taught me to be fearless in the face of people waiting to strike me down, what being outed by taunting high school students meant to my emotional development, how the support from friends and the punk community buoyed me and who I told and when and why and the tension and joy and happiness and sadness that all came with this thing that some of us in the world have to do in order to break through to a new stage of living and truth. It honestly feels like a blur and then it also feels like I can call up every nanosecond, speck of dust and conversation from those times, because living through them was so arduous and exhilarating. I’m probably thinking about this now mostly because I just married and I’m old and boring now and I’m stricken with that thing people in their forties get when they maybe do too much reflecting, but it’s such a curious thing, this heavy soul-baring that has to pass your lips, and if you’re lucky this happens to you at a young age with little to no damage incurred. But it also means there’s a bold declaration you must make in order to be fully healthy, whether or not you want to make a bold declaration in order to be fully healthy. It’s not one a lot of the friends around you have to make, but it’s one you do.

I never came out to him, my Pop, and I don’t have any real feelings about it. I’m sure my Am -- a fervent and socially progressive Jewish woman until her dying breath -- holding onto his still hand as he sat in a chair in the nursing home, shared the news with my grandfather at some point before he passed.

At the time, death was still somewhat abstract to me, which is a luxury not everyone can claim, I know. Pap, the grandfather I had on my mother’s side, an irrepressible alcoholic, was mostly someone I didn’t know, and he died alone in his crumbling apartment in a nothing Pennsylvania town when I was still in high school. I got the call about that while at band practice, and I didn’t feel sad. One minute I was home, the next I was stuffed into a car with my mom, stepdad and two siblings headed to bid him goodbye. Later in 1998, I would find myself openly grieving with most of my community for Matthew Shepard, a complete stranger to me in life but who in essence was me and my friends, was any gay kid in America, really. At the time of his death he was 21 just like me, and his murder reminded me the unthinkable was still very much on the table. Yet I felt safe as an out college student in Columbia, but what did that really mean? What was I safe to do or not do? Safe from what?

---

On January 13, we buried my Pop next to his mother and father at a Jewish cemetery in Clifton, New Jersey -- the one behind the diner. My grandmother would join them all in just under ten years. I remember her in the limo ride back to her home; she was holding a relative’s hand and just staring out the window with a very small smile on her face as we drove south on the Garden State Parkway. For the moment, she wasn’t crying or saying anything. She just looked out the window as we drove past the neighborhood of her youth -- its current state of disrepair evident from the highway -- I don’t know if she ever went back to visit in her life. I wonder now what she saw looking out the window or if she could make out the day she met my grandfather as the blocks went by in a blur. I won’t ever know.

I only had a day left in Jersey before I left for home. Old friends and family were around sitting shiva and plying my grandmother and uncles with more lox, pastrami and matzo ball soup -- the usual elixirs -- than she knew what to do with. There were some things I wanted to do outside of the house, beyond the radius of sympathy flowers and bunched tissues deployed to fight the raw grief, and I set out to accomplish one of them.

There was a cafe in the West Village with my name on it; I just had to get myself there and experience it again for a few hours.

On that same night in the city as Port Authority police searched high and low for the men who made off with Bank of America’s money, the day after the funeral, I had my own little secret, one that came with me on the Manhattan-bound NJ Transit line from Bound Brook, New Jersey and into the mouth of Penn Station. Mine didn’t involve weapons or large sums of ill-gotten gains and police in hot pursuit, but it still felt like a weighty one a the time. I also had someone I wanted to share it with. Matt, who grew up down the street from my grandmother, came along, suspecting nothing more was up than a quick traipse around the city.

It’s not accurate to call Matt my best friend, whatever that means, even with three decades of a certain bond under our belts; the only times we’ve really spent together were my summer vacations and the holidays and by the time I was living in the north, he was long gone, first for a finance job in San Francisco and then permanently to Hong Kong for another finance job. Aside for the first few years of my life, we’ve never lived in the same town or close to one another. Yet I’ve known Matt since kindergarten, the longest I’ve known someone not in my blood family, and the fact that his home was just a few doors down from my grandmother and thus a refuge to a bored kid away from home helped a firm bond develop over toys and MTV. I can vividly recall us, complete first grade dweebs in short shorts, playing cards on his living room floor while Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger played on the turntable. And if Matt wasn’t my best friend, he was still someone who meant a lot to me, just because of the sheer longevity, and he deserved to know what was up with me.

He also still does matter to me even if I haven’t seen him in years.

---

For someone who enjoys getting lost in the land just beyond the tracks, an evening train ride to the city from Jersey is never as good as it could be; the blinding fluorescence inside the car at night turns the windows into mirrors. While everything outside is basic and flat, I sometimes cup my hands just to get a look at the row houses and sleepy towns. Just to see. I don’t remember anything about my ride with Matt into the city that night, but I’m sure there were nerves running through me as the towns rolled by me unnoticed.

By 21, I was just about totally out. I’d already had a boyfriend before moving on to a devastating grad school crush that about broke my heart into a million pieces. Maybe the more conservative elements in my family didn’t have confirmation but suspected it due to my lack of a girlfriend, but that wasn’t a concern of mine. Matt didn’t know either, a fact having more to do with geography and not wanting to bare my soul to him via a land line than anything else. He was a Catholic school jock though, so it could end up being not great. Had I heard him make gay jokes? Did he ever use the F word? Maybe it wouldn’t be alright, and if that ended up being true, I needed to prepare for the possibility. In the late nineties, coming out to the wrong person could still be a damning line in the sand, effectively ending relationships or familial bonds, and while I know that still applies in 2017, perhaps less frequently, I did feel the sting of rejection from a few people, people who really mattered. It was mostly temporary, but it still happened. Back then, sharing who you were even to a sympathetic ear still felt monumental. Just ask Ellen. I suspect for the person coming out now, either at 16 or at 80, it still feels that way.

---

The city always held an undeniable allure for all the obvious reasons: not far but seemingly unattainable and dangerous and exciting and where everything happened, from Gorilla Biscuits gigs to Keith Haring exhibits. I guess I reasoned that regardless of what happened, Matt still had to ride home with me, so he was basically stuck accepting it whether he liked it or not, and together we’d work through whatever stages of whatever he was feeling. And maybe more than that, it was perhaps a subconscious wish to connect myself to the activist community of the city, and to allow myself to be tethered to their stories and lives in the most superficial of ways, to have told someone within the confines of New York that I am out and gay, to feel the strength of the West Village at my back for a quick moment. To have a story of my own anchoring me to the fight for equality, even if mine were really small and mostly only significant to me. Back then I had no idea I would be spending most of my adult life working in and hovering around New York, so I imagined this might be the last time I would be in the area for some time.

Or maybe I just thought Matt needed a night in the gay part of town.

And if I knew what made the city famous culturally, I certainly knew nothing about getting around, and neither did Matt. At the time, the map of the city in my head looked something like “CBGB A7 ACT UP VENUS RECORDS CHRISTOPHER STREET AVENUE A BLEECKER STREET YOUTH OF TODAY RECONSTRUCTION RECORDS,” which isn’t really a map at all, or not a real one on paper. But having no working knowledge of the city then is what makes the night so memorable now, and it’s why in part I still reflect on it so much. Even now, whenever I’m in the Penn Station area, I can see Matt and me emerging from the escalator, still two dorks, and I can see the gears working in my head. I’d been to the West Village maybe twice prior to this night, but where it was on a map I didn’t know. The subway was out of the question because I’d never been on it and I didn’t know how to find it or where it went. The one thing I did know was I needed to get there, find this beacon in the night that was a cafe on Christopher Street, open my mouth a little and then somehow get back to Jersey unscathed.

The distance between Penn Station and Christopher Street isn’t really all that significant, but to a rookie kid without a map and with nothing more than a mere hunch, it may as well have been a thousand miles from one to the other. I don’t know what it’s like anymore to walk for twenty blocks wondering where the street I need is: I’ve been working in the city now for 13 years, so I know the basic lay of the land and even in the rare case now when I don’t, my phone does. All I remember of that walk is basically telling Matt every few blocks “It’s coming up soon; I promise.”

The things I remember about the night all this time later: Matt’s look of surprise when we got to the Factory Cafe and I sat him down and said what I had to say. He didn’t reject me or panic, and I’m sure it was no big surprise to his ears. But I remember he needed a minute to adjust, and he laughed a lot. Not at me, but as a response to new information.

“I remember that it really didn't matter, black, white, purple, bi, straight, gay,” Matt recalls over email. He lives in Hong Kong now, so it takes him a bit to respond. “You were already my friend and a close one at that.”

All around us, couples were on dates and people were catching up with friends or were lost in books, and I felt plugged into something -- a confidence? a safety? -- I didn’t normally feel in South Carolina...or...anywhere else really. Maybe everyone thought we were a couple sharing coffee before heading out for the night.

There’s no big dramatic conclusion to this other than we eventually finished our coffee and ended up playing pool at Stonewall before catching the train back. I kept my friend, and I still have him. For all the unknowns, Matt rolled with it and only later admitted he was stunned at what I told him. There are a million reasons why coming out to Matt, and to anyone, mattered. This isn’t abstract to me. Like I said, he wasn’t my best or closest friend, but he was the closest thing I had to a brother my own age, someone who knew my history and his support was vital in a bigger sense.

I think about my night with Matt often as I walk past the old Factory Cafe, which is now a clothing store. When I pass those big windows, I think about a younger me (a me with a full head of hair), nervously fidgeting in his seat near the front, working up the nerve to tell my oldest friend something that was both weighty and trivial. Trivial because I was still me; I hadn’t changed. I see myself laughing once it left my mouth, and I see people next to us turning pages of their New Yorker or brushing the hair out of their spouse’s eyes. I obviously see the ghosts others all around me doing the same thing, with their declarations sometimes being met with mixed results.

It’s been a long time since I felt I had to come out to someone; I’ve been me for what feels like forever, and so has my husband. But for a kid from South Carolina, that night in the Village at Stonewall -- a place that still remains a vital gathering ground -- helps remind me I’ve always had people on my side and always will. I came out to many many people when I was young, but I only came out once in New York City, and that somehow feels important to me in a way I can’t fully quantify.

I’ll close with some further bits of Matt’s email to me, because they’re fun and illuminating and characteristic of his open jocularity: “I certainly didn't expect it, but it did clear some things up in my head. All my friends had always been into sports, girls; you never seemed bothered by that, and you never even tried to hide or fake it. Hell, I remember you drawing on your Dad's Playboys, I'm thinking ...’Is this dude nuts????? He drawing on Ms Novembers double DD's’”

I’m glad Matt’s still out there and that he’s still with me.

#storytelling #coming out

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dfroza · 3 years

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A tragic lie.

which illuminates the need for honesty in life, since Love is always pure and True. and we only really find our True selves in Love’s truth.

we simply cannot allow ourselves to live a lie, to be taken captive by its power. we have to surrender to the grace that sets the heart free.

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 5th chapter of the book of Acts:

Once a man named Ananias, with his wife Sapphira fully cooperating, committed fraud. He sold some property and kept some of the proceeds, but he pretended to make a full donation to the Lord’s emissaries.

Peter: Ananias, have you allowed Satan to influence your lies to the Holy Spirit and hold back some of the money? Look, it was your property before you sold it, and the money was all yours after you sold it. Why have you concocted this scheme in your heart? You weren’t just lying to us; you were lying to God.

Ananias heard these words and immediately dropped to the ground, dead; fear overcame all those who heard of the incident. Some young men came, wrapped the body, and buried it immediately. About three hours had passed when Sapphira arrived. She had no idea what had happened.

Peter: Did you sell the land for such-and-such a price?

Sapphira: Yes, that was the price.

Peter: Why did the two of you conspire to test the Spirit of the Lord? Do you hear those footsteps outside? Those are the young men who just buried your husband, and now they will carry you out as well.

She—like her husband—immediately fell dead at Peter’s feet. The young men came in and carried her corpse outside and buried it beside her husband. The whole church was terrified by this story, as were others who heard it.

Those were amazing days—with many signs and wonders being performed through the apostles among the people. The church would gather as a unified group in Solomon’s Porch, enjoying great respect by the people of the city—though most people wouldn’t risk publicly affiliating with them. Even so, record numbers of believers—both men and women—were added to the Lord. The church’s renown was so great that when Peter walked down the street, people would carry out their sick relatives hoping his shadow would fall on some of them as he passed. Even people from towns surrounding Jerusalem would come, bringing others who were sick or tormented by unclean spirits, all of whom were cured.

Of course, this popularity elicited a response: the high priest and his affiliates in the Sadducean party were jealous, so they arrested the apostles and put them in the public prison. But that night, a messenger of the Lord opened the doors of the prison and led them to freedom.

Messenger of the Lord: Go to the temple, and stand up to tell the people the whole message about this way of life from Jesus.

At dawn they did as they were told; they returned to their teaching in the temple.

Meanwhile the council of Jewish elders was gathering—convened by the high priest and his colleagues. They sent the temple police to the prison to have the Lord’s emissaries brought for further examination; but of course, the temple police soon realized they weren’t there. They returned and reported,

Temple Police: The prison was secure and locked, and the guards were standing in front of the doors; but when we unlocked the doors, the cell was empty.

The captain of the temple police and the senior priests were completely mystified when they heard this. They had no idea what had happened. Just then, someone arrived with this news:

Temple Messenger: You know those men you put in prison last night? Well, they’re free. At this moment, they’re at it again, teaching our people in the temple!

The temple police—this time, accompanied by their captain—rushed over to the temple and brought the emissaries of the Lord to the council. They were careful not to use violence, because the people were so supportive of them that the police feared being stoned by the crowd if they were too rough. Once again the men stood before the council. The high priest began the questioning.

High Priest: Didn’t we give you strict orders to stop teaching in this name? But here you are, spreading your teaching throughout Jerusalem. And you are determined to blame us for this man’s death.

Peter and the Apostles: If we have to choose between obedience to God and obedience to any human authority, then we must obey God. The God of our ancestors raised Jesus from death. You killed Jesus by hanging Him on a tree, but God has lifted Him high, to God’s own right hand, as the Prince, as the Liberator. God intends to bring Israel to a radical rethinking of our lives and to a complete forgiveness of our sins. We are witnesses to these things. There is another witness, too—the Holy Spirit—whom God has given to all who choose to obey Him.

The council was furious and would have killed them; but Gamaliel, a Pharisee in the council respected as a teacher of the Hebrew Scriptures, stood up and ordered the men to be sent out so the council could confer privately.

Gamaliel: Fellow Jews, you need to act with great care in your treatment of these fellows. Remember when a man named Theudas rose to notoriety? He claimed to be somebody important, and he attracted about 400 followers. But when he was killed, his entire movement disintegrated and nothing came of it. After him came Judas, that Galilean fellow, at the time of the census. He also attracted a following; but when he died, his entire movement fell apart. So here’s my advice: in this case, just let these men go. Ignore them. If this is just another movement arising from human enthusiasm, it will die out soon enough. But then again, if God is in this, you won’t be able to stop it—unless, of course, you’re ready to fight against God!

The council was convinced, so they brought the apostles back in. They were flogged, again told not to speak in the name of Jesus, and then released. As they left the council, they weren’t discouraged at all. In fact, they were filled with joy over being considered worthy to suffer disgrace for the sake of His name. And constantly, whether in public, in the temple, or in their homes, they kept teaching and proclaiming Jesus as the Anointed One, the Liberating King.

The Book of Acts, Chapter 5 (The Voice)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 4th chapter of Song of Solomon (Song of Songs) that points to the significance of the marital bond between husband & bride:

Him (to her): You, my love, are beautiful.

So beautiful!

Your eyes are like doves

nestled behind your veil.

Your hair moves as gracefully as a flock of goats

leaping down the slopes of Mount Gilead.

Your teeth are pearl white like a flock of sheep shorn,

fresh up from a wash.

Each perfect and paired with another;

not one of them is lost.

Your lips are as red as scarlet threads;

your mouth is beautiful.

Your cheeks rosy and round are beneath your veil,

like the halves of a pomegranate.

Your neck is elegant like the tower of David,

perfectly fit stone-by-stone.

There hang a thousand shields,

the shields of mighty men.

Your breasts are like two fawns,

twin gazelles grazing in a meadow of lilies.

As the day breathes its morning breeze

and shadows turn and flee,

I will go up your myrrh mountain

and climb your frankincense hill.

You are so beautiful, my love,

without blemish.

Come with me from Lebanon, my bride;

come with me from Lebanon.

Journey with me from the crest of Amana,

from the top of Senir even the summit of Hermon,

From the lions’ dangerous den,

from the mountain hideouts of leopards.

My heart is your captive, my sister, my bride;

you have stolen it with one glance,

caught it with a single strand of your necklace.

How beautiful is your love, my sister, my bride!

Your love is more pleasing than the finest wine,

and the fragrance of your perfume brings more delight than any spice!

Your lips taste sweet like honey off the comb, my bride;

milk and honey are beneath your tongue.

The scents of your clothes are like the fresh air of Lebanon.

You are a locked garden, my sister, my bride, open only to me;

a spring closed up tight, a sealed fountain.

Your sprouts are an orchard of pomegranates and exotic fruits—

with henna and nard,

With nard and saffron,

calamus and cinnamon—

With rows of frankincense trees

and myrrh and aloes and all the finest spices.

My bride, you are a fountain in a garden,

a well of life-giving water flowing down from Lebanon.

Him (to the winds): Rise, you north wind;

come, you south wind.

Breathe on my garden,

and let the fragrance of its natural spices fill the air.

Her: Let my love come into his garden

and feast from its choice fruits.

The Song of Solomon, Chapter 4 (The Voice)

A note from The Voice translation:

What does he mean by “my sister, my bride”? Is this a sudden revelation of an incestuous relationship? No. He is describing how sexual expression can bring two people intimately together, as close as two people can be; the man and woman are now family. This image would have been particularly meaningful in ancient Israelite society, where life was centered on familial relationships and calling someone “brother” or “sister” was a sign of deep intimacy and care. Blood relatives lived together, worked together, traded with each other, and were buried together. By calling the woman “sister,” he is declaring they are now blood relatives. In the covenant relationship called marriage, blood is drawn during consummation, bonding the two parties together as man and wife, as brother and sister, forever.

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for friday, june 4 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons about discovering True identity in Light and in Love:

“Wherever you go, there you are...” You can’t escape from yourself; you can’t run away from who you are, and therefore your relationship with yourself is as inescapably eternal as your relationship with God. Indeed how you relate to yourself expresses your relationship with God (Luke 15:17). If you are self-abusive, if your life is a “living hell,” you must first of all face yourself and quit denying the condition of your heart. The LORD delivers through the wound; he does not offer you “Nirvana” to extinguish who you really are... If you have a critical spirit, if you cast eyes of suspicion upon others, then understand how this reveals your own self-rejection and leads to the hell of never accepting yourself... Perhaps you learned to reject yourself through your earliest experiences, or from your family’s secret pain, but regardless you must be delivered from the fear of who you are, and only God in his mercy can heal you from that wound... Only when you are rightly related to God in the truth are you able to become a healed self; only by God’s power can you come alive from the dead to know the truth of God’s redeeming love. [Hebrew for Christians]

6.3.21 • Facebook

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

June 4, 2021

Marital Problems

“And whatsoever ye do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God and the Father by him.” (Colossians 3:17)

Marriage has always had a high place—a high calling. In the beginning, God’s stated purpose in marriage was to propagate children (Genesis 1:28) and to eliminate solitude (2:18). Such a state was deemed “very good” (1:31). But sin entered through Adam’s rebellion, and the universal Curse resulted. Out of this came a new marital relationship, one full of potential problems, for “he said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee” (3:16). It is safe to say that the many excesses on both sides of a marriage that we see today are the legacy of sin.

Not only is marriage affected by the Curse, Satan himself delights in destroying marriage. Immediately after the Curse, we see that he introduced numerous practices that are detrimental to a proper marriage. The ungodly lineage of Cain began to practice polygamy (4:19). Later, Noah’s son, Ham, indulged in sexual thoughts and innuendoes (9:22). Even godly Abram participated in an extramarital affair that, even though not specifically condemned, was harmful to his marriage (16:1-3).

Soon after this, we read about all sorts of immorality, including homosexuality in Sodom and Gomorrah (19:1-10); fornication, rape, marriage to unbelievers (34:1-2); the practice of incest (35:22; 38:13-18); prostitution (38:24); and seduction (39:7-12).

What is the solution for this age-long attack on the family? We must heed the guidelines given in Scripture for a godly marriage. Passages such as those surrounding our text are well worth our study. JDM

A tweet by illumiNations:

@IlluminationsBT: With your prayers and gifts, the Sambla people will gain access to Scripture in their Seeku language!

Learn more at: https://bit.ly/3vLe6Jb

6.4.21 • 12:04pm • Twitter

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latestnews2018-blog · 6 years

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The turmoil of Stan Lee: What’s going on?

New Post has been published on https://latestnews2018.com/the-turmoil-of-stan-lee-whats-going-on/

The turmoil of Stan Lee: What’s going on?

After the death his wife, the 95-year-old Marvel icon has found himself in the middle of a fight over his finances and legacy

Stan Lee, the Marvel Comics maestro and co-creator of Spider-Man, X-Men and Black Panther, lives in a world of heroes and villains. But these days, it can be hard to tell which is which.

Few creators have left as profound a mark on popular culture. According to The-Numbers, a box office data site, films featuring Lee’s superheroes have grossed more than $24 billion worldwide. He has a huge Twitter following, and admirers have included Federico Fellini, Ronald Reagan and George R.R. Martin, the author of Game of Thrones.

“Stan is right up there with Walt Disney as one of the great creators of not just one character, but a whole galaxy of characters that have become part of our lives,” Martin said. “Right now, I think he’s probably bigger than Disney.”

Yet at the summit of Lee’s career, storm clouds have gathered. The last year has brought an unsettling mix of tragedy and scandal, including the death in July of Joan Lee, his wife of almost 70 years; suspicions that millions of dollars have been siphoned from his accounts; even gossip reports that a former business associate stole his blood to sell to fans.

Last month, The Hollywood Reporter published an investigation that said Lee, 95, is the victim of “elder abuse,” partly at the hands of his 67-year-old daughter, Joan Celia Lee. The Daily Beast reported that Lee, who is said to be worth around $50 million (Dh183.64 million), was “surrounded by a panoply of Hollywood charlatans and mountebanks” and being “picked apart by vultures.”

A radio talk show in Orlando, Florida, even aired a rumour that he is being “held captive” by handlers who “have him basically locked up in the house.”

But on a recent visit to Lee’s home in the Bird Streets, a celebrity enclave high in the hills of West Hollywood, California, the man himself said otherwise. “I’m the luckiest guy in the world,” Lee said, chuckling and sounding like a 95-year-old teenager. “Nobody has more freedom.”

He also defended his daughter, known as JC, against claims that she has been physically abusive and a financial drain. “My daughter has been a great help to me,” he said. “Life is pretty good.”

A HOUSE IN DISARRAY

For four decades, Lee has lived in a relatively modest two-story house in the middle of what has become some of Los Angeles’ most valuable real estate. Dr. Dre is a neighbour, and Leonardo DiCaprio lives down the block, on a street where houses can list for north of $30 million.

The house is a time capsule of late 1970s Hollywood. “My wife, she’s the only person in the world that I would know of who would put a big mirror on top of a big mirror,” Lee said. “And when she was here, she had so many paintings, all over. Most of them have left now. My daughter took a lot of them, and a lot of them have gone elsewhere.”

It’s the vagueness about what has “gone elsewhere” that has some of Lee’s friends so worried. Since Lee’s wife died last year, his household has been thrown into disarray, with three factions of once-trusted aides vying for control. Lee’s current gatekeeper is Keya Morgan, who has ousted former staff. A former memorabilia dealer from New York, Morgan moved to Los Angeles as the executive producer of the mobster biopic Gotti and now describes himself as a “producing partner of John Travolta.”

Sitting at Lee’s side, he was dressed in a black suit and tie, black bowler hat and dark sunglasses, which he lowered on his nose to see indoors.

In February, Morgan called police to the house to physically remove Lee’s longtime road manager, Mac Anderson, known as Max. Anderson was accused of, among other things, attempting to bribe a nurse to make statements that Lee was being held hostage. “He got into a big fight with Stan and Stan’s daughter” and was fired soon afterward, Morgan said.

Reached by phone, Anderson declined to comment.

Also out was Jerry Olivarez, a Hollywood publicist who briefly obtained power of attorney over Lee’s affairs last year, during which time more than $1 million left the Marvel creator’s accounts. That included a $300,000 check made out to Hands of Respect, a novelty company owned by Olivarez and Lee that makes a $10 lapel pin advocating racial harmony.

In unrelated matters, $1.4 million may have vanished in a series of wire transfers, and a Chanel handbag full of cash may be missing from the house, according to Morgan. Also, a trove of Marvel memorabilia, including character sketches and figurines, is the subject of disputed ownership between Anderson and Lee, as reported by The Hollywood Reporter.

Lee may be a creative genius, but he isn’t a financial one. “I’ve been very careless with money,” he said. “I had a partner or two who, since I’m not a money counter — I let them take care of keeping track of the money we made,” Lee said, as he sipped a bottle of mineral water to soothe his raspy voice. “Lately, I have found out that a lot of the money we made is no longer available for me. I don’t know where it is, but a guy, and maybe one or two others, have found a way to take it.

“So, I feel bad about it, and of course we have a lawyer trying to get it back again,” he said. “But money isn’t worth losing your cool about, you know?”

SUPERHERO FACTORY

The child of Romanian Jewish immigrants, Stanley Lieber was born in New York City in 1922. He was hired in 1939 as an assistant at Timely Comics, the not-especially-promising division of a pulp magazine publisher that would eventually be renamed Marvel. Following a staff exodus the next year, the newly rechristened Lee (an alias he adopted to save his real name for the great novels he aspired to write) was appointed its editor.

His greatest streak of inspiration began in 1961, when Lee was almost 40 and thoroughly disenchanted with his career. With artist Jack Kirby, he created the Fantastic Four, a hit he bested the next year by inventing Spider-Man with artist Steve Ditko. Among the enduring characters he created over the next decade with those artists, and others, are the X-Men, Iron Man, the Hulk, Thor, Doctor Strange and, in 1966, Black Panther: an African warrior-king whose recent film adventure has grossed more than $1.3 billion.

“I’m sorry I didn’t introduce black characters a little sooner,” Lee said. “I tried to create an Asian superhero, I tried to create a South American superhero. And at that point I also was thinking it’s ridiculous that we don’t have a black superhero.”

Asked if contemporary comics and films could be doing a better job of representing women and superheroes of colour, he replied, “yes,” but expanded: “You can’t force anything on the public. But if you do a black hero or heroine and you see that it’s well-received at the newsstand, then you’d be an idiot not to come up with more stories like that. Everything depends on the marketplace.”

Yet Lee may have underestimated his own value in the marketplace. While he has made exponentially more money than any of his Marvel co-creators, he only ever collected a paycheck, and does not receive any continuing royalties from the films based on his characters.

In 2005, he received a one-time payment of $10 million from Marvel, to settle a provision in his contract that had entitled him to 10 per cent of the profits from television and film adaptations. Four years later, Disney bought Marvel for $4 billion; it is unclear whether Lee was able to reap any benefit. (As Marvel’s chairman emeritus, he still receives a salary, reported to be $1 million.)

And while his personal appearances (including charging fans $120 for an autograph) are a lucrative source of income, later-life attempts to create wholly owned superhero properties have foundered. Stan Lee Media, a digital content start-up, crashed in 2000 and landed his business partner, Peter F. Paul, in prison for securities fraud. And Lee is embroiled in disputes with POW! Entertainment, the company he started in 2001 to create new shows, including “Stripperella,” a cartoon starring Pamela Anderson.

POW! was sold last year to Camsing International, a Hong Kong-based company seeking to clone Marvel for the Asian market. Lee says he has not been paid, which the company denies. “Mr. Lee has been paid and continues to be paid by the company,” said Shane Duffy, the chief executive of POW! “Statements like this only heighten our concern for Stan’s well-being.”

As part of the escalating fight, Morgan and Lee’s daughter entered the POW! offices on Santa Monica Boulevard on the night of March 14 and removed items they say belong to Lee. They triggered a silent alarm, prompting POW! to file a police report.

The Beverly Hills police subsequently dropped the burglary investigation, but the fighting continues. “They’re acting as if they bought the company and everything on the four walls belong to them,” said Lee, sounding downcast. “So, another lawsuit.”

AN OSCAR FOR STAN LEE?

Outside the bubble of legal drama and personal strife, however, Lee’s creative influence remains at an all-time high. “There’s no doubt that Stan, in terms of American popular culture, he’s one of the giants of the 20th century,” Martin said. “Spider-Man and Iron Man; the X-Men — they’re still as viable as ever.”

From the floral sofa in his sitting room, Lee is a font of highly entertaining stories from the glory days, even if some of them sound taller than his 1962 creation Giant-Man. Like the time Picasso was so taken by Joan Lee’s beauty that he approached the couple in a New York restaurant and sketched her on their tablecloth. “We ran home to tell my father about what happened,” Lee said. But, “in our excitement, we had left the drawing in the restaurant. We never found it!”

Or the time when DiCaprio told Lee that he had written the president of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, lobbying for Lee to receive an honorary Oscar for his numerous cameos over the years. (Lee appears in nearly every Marvel movie, including Black Panther, in which he plays a gambler in a South Korean casino.)

DiCaprio also wants to portray Lee in a film about the Marvel creator, according to Morgan, who accompanied Lee on a recent visit to DiCaprio’s house. (A spokesman for DiCaprio would not confirm this account of their conversation.) The thought of a biopic starring DiCaprio gave Lee pause. He looked out over the pool, to the canyon beyond, and pondered being portrayed by an Oscar-winning actor.

“I don’t know if he could capture the essence of me,” he said, after a moment. “We have to talk about that.”

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whatisonthemoonarchive · 6 years

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*** Hak Ja Han speaks at East Garden on December 21. ***

Please take your seats. I am happy to see you all. Seeing your faces, I feel, “It is good to have come.” Some of you may not be aware of it, but I have an extremely full schedule. The demands of such a schedule made it difficult for me to come this time, but I purposefully set up a separate schedule and here I am. Now, when I see you, I feel truly happy.

This nation must bring two thousand years of [providential] Christian history to a good conclusion. There is no doubt that this country has been blessed by God. However, with blessings comes responsibility. Responsibility. Moreover, True Parents shed blood, sweat and tears for 40 years in this nation for the sake of the worldwide providence.

Through the initiative of King James, the Bible was translated from Hebrew into English in the 17th century. As a result, laymen could [read the Bible for themselves] and form an understanding of God’s providence. Prior to [the Bible’s widespread availability], laymen could not attend God to their heart’s content due to the man-made institutions and strictures enforced by the Catholic Church. However, as lay believers came to fathom the Bible’s contents, they were moved to develop a movement whose aim was to ‘freely worship God in the family.’ Fully aware of the religious restrictions in force in Europe, these [fervent] believers looked to America. These were the Puritans who emigrated to the American continent.

The American continent [was populated]; it had native owners, native American Indians who lived here. However, Heaven worked to advance the providence through the Puritans. Why was that so? Heaven [worked to establish] an environment for the returning Messiah to be welcomed. Within the relatively short period of 200 years, the United States developed into a democratic nation that currently moves the world. [In order for America to reach this level, Heaven made] various sacrifices.

Therefore, when the United States began placing national interests first, Heaven could not idly watch. Who came as savior when the United States was afflicted with egoism, individualism, the break-down of the family, teenage delinquency and substance abuse? It was True Parents. But how were True Parents treated? Despite trying to realize the dream of Heavenly Parent and the wish of humanity centering on this nation, True Father was even imprisoned. … Would this nation need to pay indemnity as a result?

You need to understand that it took four thousand [Biblical] years for Heaven to send God’s only begotten son, Jesus, among the chosen people of Israel. However, neither [the Israelites nor the Jewish leaders of the time] understood Jesus’ essence or the purpose of his advent. And yet, the desire to usher in a world of peace must have been the same for the people of Jesus’ time as it is for those living today.

And yet, what happened? Jesus had to walk the path of the cross and could not accomplish the purpose of his advent. Mary, a central figure, failed in her responsibility. She is the main culprit behind Jesus having to walk the path of the cross. Nonetheless, the Catholic Church reveres her as the Holy Mother. This is the result of ignorance.

Jesus clearly prophesied that he would return to host the Marriage Supper of the Lamb. What does this mean? It means that Jesus will return to form a family and become the True Parent of humankind. Unfortunately, today’s established Christianity does not clearly understand this point. Moreover, the United States thinks that it owes its prosperity to its own virtues. Unfortunately, self-centeredness is rampant here. What happened to the people of Israel after Jesus had to walk the path of the cross? What indemnity did they have to pay? For two thousand years, the Israelites lived without a nation [they could call their own.] Furthermore, [further calamity befell them] when six million were massacred during World War II.

What caused such calamities? This was indemnity for the crucifixion of the [only begotten son who had come] after four thousand [biblical years] to be the True Parent of humankind. The same applies to you all. Those who are blessed must fulfill their responsibility. What is that responsibility? It is to realize the dream of the true owner of this cosmos, God—our Creator, our Heavenly Parent! To do so, humanity must be born again through True Parents, who have victoriously emerged in the midst of human beings.

[Looking at its origins], Christianity rose through the Pentecost of the Holy Spirit. The work of the Holy Spirit was then carried on by the apostles. Unfortunately, even the apostles could not provide clear answers about the origin. Throughout history, believers have tried to answer questions regarding the origin’s essence. Unfortunately, since the Bible was compiled by people based on personal experiences and it is filled with parables and metaphors, clear answers cannot be found. What is clear is that Jesus prophesied his return to host the Marriage Supper of the Lamb. Hence, any effort to understand [the origin] must focus on this point. However, what happened? There has been little progress.

When the time for True Parents’ advent drew near, Heaven blessed the democratic nation of the United States to lay the foundation for True Parents’ advent. Moreover, as the center of the providence to welcome the returning Messiah, the only begotten daughter must be born. The returning Messiah’s advent cannot be complete unless God’s only begotten daughter is born.

Despite being fifty-years strong, the Unification Church has not properly taught [about the only begotten daughter] because it was not embraced by Christianity. This is why I have been revealing the truth regarding [providential] history. When did I begin to do so? During the 50th anniversary of mission work in Europe. I proclaimed that “I am God’s only begotten daughter!” in the UN Office in Vienna. [During my address, I also] proclaimed that “We should not engage in a movement to believe in God, but in a movement to attend God!”

Although I have clearly revealed and taught this, humanity still remains ignorant. Hence, you who have learned the truth and received the blessing ahead of others, what should you do? You must fulfill your responsibility! You must fulfill your responsibility!

I listened well to the report on [Heavenly Tribal Messiahship] in the United States. Even though it feels a bit late, it was very good to see [the American movement] set goals with the determination to run forward! However, the right providential time does not wait for us. We have a goal, VISION 2020 and [idly continuing] with our current ways is greatly insufficient for victory. You need to change. Do you understand? [Yes.]

Korea, Japan and the United States are the central nations in the global providence and I am restructuring all [three] nations so that as I lead you all on a charge towards the high ground, we can reach this high ground without fail. Will you [charge] forward? [Yes!]

Do you remember what deputy chief of staff Dr. Yun said? If you become one with True Mother—If you unite as one with me—heavenly miracles happen. You all must personally experience this. Look at the [amazing] things happening. Isn’t that so? Until when will you remain in the evening? You ought to usher in the morning and see the bright morning light… To do so, you need to rise, unite in mind and body and act. Do you understand? [Yes.]

This is why prior to coming to America, I restructured Korea. Korea is the fatherland, God’s homeland. Shouldn’t such a nation’s dignity stand properly? This is why [when restructuring], I considered Korea to be a region (continent) and divided it into five sub-regions. Each sub-region is equivalent to a nation within the Korean region. Do you understand? If a leader’s area of responsibility is too large to manage, that area must be divided. This is why I appointed [sub-regional leaders] in each sub-region.

My request to all leaders is the same one I made five years ago: Family Federation must advance with the spirit and the truth. The spirit and the truth! Unfortunately, it is true that [some of you] have not been able to deeply experience [the spirit and the truth]. However, I can no longer wait. As I implemented the restructuring of our movement, this is what I said during the Osaka rally, “From now on, humanity and the multitudes of believers in various faiths should not limit themselves to believing; you must guide [humanity] to attend God and to do so, you must fulfill the responsibility of Heavenly Tribal Messiahship.” The movement to attend God should begin at home, [then expand] to your neighbors, your tribe, your nation and the world. When the entire world attends God, the world of peace and happiness that is the wish of humanity, the Kingdom of Heaven on Earth can be realized! [Applause]

You need to know that this responsibility must be fulfilled while True Parents, when I, the Only Begotten Daughter, am still on earth. [If you do so], you will be remembered and revered by posterity. Your descendants will sing your praises, saying, “Our ancestor was a filial son, a filial daughter, a [true] patriot!’ The recognition as filial child is only possible while the parents are alive. Once the parents have ascended, no matter how devotedly you seek to be filial, no-one will recognize your efforts. The time for recognition will have passed. As this very moment, whether or not you fulfill your responsibility will determine your past, your present and your future. It will determine whether or not your descendants will live with no indemnity and live the blessed life of the Kingdom of Heaven on Earth. Understand that you need to open the path your descendants will walk.

Now, the Unites States is too big to consider as a nation. There are fifty states, right? This is too great a responsibility for one single person to manage. Therefore, I would like to restructure HSA-UWC into five sub-regions and establish a system such that 100% to 120% results can be achieved.

The present HSA-UWC system is now over; it is now ‘Family Federation for a Heavenly America.’ The headquarters of the American movement is in New York, right? [Yes] The area centering on New York will be sub-region 1. The area centering on Washington, D.C. will be Sub-Region 2….Rev. Kim Ki-Hoon will later explain the details to you. The United States will also be divided into sub-regions 3, 4 and 5. [The goal for each sub-region] should be, how can we achieve the national restoration of the United States by 2020? Let us make it happen! I am implementing this restructuring so that the ‘Let us make it happen’ movement [can take root].

All organizations must come together and provide their full support. The current president of HSA-UWC is now the president of Family Federation for a Heavenly America and the sub-regional director of sub-region 1 will be the vice-president. As regional group chair, Rev. Kim Ki-Hoon must assiduously tour the country and ensure that churches, family churches and even community (tribal) churches are established in all fifty states and all areas so that Family Federation for a Heavenly America can guide the people of this nation to realize the time has come for all of them to receive the Blessing and attend Heavenly Parent and True Parents with a heart of gratitude.

Beloved leaders, will you do so? This is the only path for this blessed nation, the eldest-son nation, to stand proud before the world and stand proud before Heaven in the position of having fulfilled its responsibility. Do you understand? [Yes.] You must do so. [Yes.]

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