#class 10 civics

[vavaclasses]

Study Notes on NCERT Power-Sharing - Class 10 Political Science (Civics)

Introduction:

Power-sharing Class 10 is a vital aspect of democratic governance. It refers to the distribution of power among different organs of government, levels of government, and social groups. This ensures that no single entity can control all aspects of governance, promoting stability and unity in a diverse society.

Key Concepts:

1. Forms of Power-Sharing:

Horizontal Power-Sharing: Power is shared among different organs of government such as the legislature, executive, and judiciary. Each organ checks the others, ensuring a balance of power and preventing any one organ from becoming too powerful.

Vertical Power-Sharing: Power is divided among different levels of government. This includes central or national government, state or provincial government, and local government.

Community Government: Power is shared among different social groups, particularly in ethnically diverse societies. This form of power-sharing ensures representation and participation of various communities in decision-making processes.

2. Importance of Power-Sharing:

Promotes Unity: Power-sharing helps in maintaining the unity of a country by giving a voice to diverse groups and ensuring their representation in governance.

Prevents Conflicts: By distributing power among various entities, power-sharing reduces the chances of conflicts and tensions that arise from the dominance of a single group.

Enhances Stability: It promotes political stability by preventing any one group or organ from becoming too powerful, thus encouraging cooperation and compromise.

3. Power-Sharing in Belgium and Sri Lanka:

Belgium:

Belgium has a complex system of power-sharing to accommodate its diverse population, consisting of Dutch-speaking Flemish, French-speaking Walloons, and a small German-speaking community.

The constitution prescribes equal representation of Dutch and French-speaking ministers in the central government. There are separate governments for the three communities, each having powers in cultural, educational, and language-related matters.

Sri Lanka:

Sri Lanka's power-sharing arrangements have been less successful, leading to tensions between the Sinhalese majority and the Tamil minority.

The government adopted majoritarian policies favouring the Sinhalese, leading to demands for autonomy and resulting in a prolonged civil conflict.

4. Ethnic Composition and Accommodation in Belgium:

The Belgian model of power-sharing is based on the principle of accommodation, ensuring that no single community can impose its will on the others.

The constitution requires equal representation from the Flemish and Walloon regions, and the Brussels region has a separate government where both communities have equal representation.

The principle of ‘Community Government’ allows each community to have control over their cultural, educational, and linguistic issues.

5. Majoritarianism in Sri Lanka:

The policy of majoritarianism in Sri Lanka led to the marginalization of the Tamil minority.

The Sinhalese-majority government made Sinhala the official language and provided preferential policies for Sinhalese in education and jobs.

These measures led to widespread disenfranchisement among the Tamils, resulting in demands for an independent Tamil Eelam and a civil war.

6. Types of Power-Sharing:

Power-Sharing Among Different Organs of Government: This involves the distribution of power among the legislature, executive, and judiciary.

Power-Sharing Among Governments at Different Levels: This involves the division of powers between central and state or provincial governments.

Power-Sharing Among Different Social Groups: This includes mechanisms to ensure representation of various social groups, such as religious and linguistic minorities.

Power-Sharing Among Political Parties, Pressure Groups, and Movements: This ensures that various political entities and civil society organizations have a role in governance.

Conclusion:

Power-sharing is a cornerstone of democratic governance, ensuring that power is distributed among various entities to prevent the concentration of power and to promote stability, unity, and accommodation of diverse groups. The experiences of Belgium and Sri Lanka illustrate the importance of adopting inclusive and accommodative approaches to power-sharing in ethnically diverse societies.

Important Terms:

Majoritarianism: A political philosophy that emphasizes the primacy of the majority's will.

Community Government: A form of governance where different communities have the power to manage their own affairs.

Civil War: A war between groups within the same country.

Study Tips:

Understand the key concepts of power-sharing and why they are important for democracy.

Compare and contrast the power-sharing arrangements in Belgium and Sri Lanka to see how different approaches can lead to different outcomes.

Remember the different forms of power-sharing and the examples that illustrate each form.

Reflect on the implications of majoritarian policies and the importance of accommodating minority groups to prevent conflicts.

This summary should help you grasp the essentials of power-sharing as discussed in your Class 10 Political Science (Civics) NCERT textbook.

[fcku-justletmelook]

psst you tagged this "flags"

is not a flag, is a map

[illubean]

Nerd!Gojo x Goth!Reader

Characters: Satoru Gojo Type: College!AU, Oneshot, Gn!Reader

part of a mini series of oneshots :3 lmk if you want a p2

Warnings: none? reader wears makeup/dresses but is still gn

For someone with the hobbies and interests of the likes of Satoru Gojo, he was pretty popular around campus. Men and women alike often talked about his looks, or the fact his family owned a large corporation, but what they didn't care to talk about was that Satoru Gojo was a complete loser.

Despite how popular or known he is, he only has about four friends and is the captain of the varsity E sports team for crying out loud. Not only that, but he was a computer science major..

Let's just say they're not really...known for good things.

Despite how nerdy and awkward he is, he still managed to draw attention to himself, whereas you preferred to separate from the masses. There was no doubt your dark, elaborate outfits and heavy makeup turned some heads while you roamed the corridors and quads, but other than that you've kept a relatively low profile. Though most people never really paid much mind to you aside from an initial glance, you managed to catch the eye of the aforementioned varsity E sports player.

He thought you were stunning.

From your flowing black dress and large boots to your eyeliner sharp enough to cut a bitch, the white haired boy was completely and utterly enamored with you. And when a dopey smile forms on Gojo's face and his head gets all spacey, that's when Geto and Shoko realize he's spotted you somewhere across the field. Despite almost everyone preferring the weekend, Gojo's favourite days were Mondays and Wednesdays.

The days you sat in front of him in creative writing.

He spent most of the class periods staring at the back of your head, leaning against his palm with hearts in his eyes as he fantasized about what it would be like to be yours. He would watch as you scribbled away in your notebook, perfecting your story for next week, which he always looked foreword to reading during critique. Gojo has never once had the courage to approach you directly, though. Your ethereal beauty scared him; there was no way someone as perfect as you would even spare him a passing glance.

So, his friends got to listen to him sigh and daydream about you with no end.

"Did you see their outfit today? That lacey corset compliments them so well. And that dark lipstick. I wonder if it's flavored-"

"Holy shit can you shut up? We get it, you like the goth kid," Shoko complained, taking a drag from her cigarette.

Geto chuckled at her annoyance before making a remark of his own.

"Instead of spending all this time wondering, why don't you actually go talk to them."

'You know I can't do that! They're just...they're just so cool," Gojo whined, shrinking into himself and resting his head against the table they were sat at.

"Tough luck then," Shoko said, putting her cigarette out before gathering her belongings and standing from her spot.

"I have to get to my bio lab."

"I should head off too. I have civics in 10 minutes. See ya, Satoru."

And with that, Gojo was left alone having already finished the last of his classes for the day.

Damn it. What do I do now?

Gojo pouted while he continued to sulk for a moment, pondering what he could do with the rest of his day. After a while of sifting through his options, the snowy haired male picked up his bag and made his way to the library.

Maybe I can check out the new VR center.

Gojo's mind began to wander as he thought about all the things he could try on VR. He was lost in thought, feet taking him down the halls of the library before stumbling into someone, the sound of books thudding against the floor snapping him from his thoughts.

"Oh, sorry about that," a soft voice spoke.

Upon raising his head, his eyes came in contact with a pair of (color) ones, his cheeks heating up slightly upon realizing who he just bumped into.

After a beat of silence, his eyes widened as he scrambled to help pick up all of the books you dropped, noticing one in particular that he recognized.

“...'Mythology of Ancient Civilizations’?” Gojo asked before realizing how silly he must have sounded.

You raised an eyebrow. “You familiar?”

Gojo nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, I’ve read it like… five times. I mean, the whole concept of storytelling through myths is incredible. The gods and monsters… They’re like the first fantasy novels, you know?”

Your mouth twitched into a small smile, intrigued at his words.

“Huh. I didn’t take you for someone who’d read stuff like this.”

“Yeah, I guess I don’t look it,” Gojo chuckled, scratching the back of his head nervously. “I’m usually more into… y’know, video games and stuff.”

“I could tell,” You comment, motioning towards his street fighter T-shirt. He looked down towards what he was wearing before his face flushed with embarrassment, sinking into himself as you chuckled at him.

"Gojo, right? You're in my creative writing class. I assume you like story telling, huh?"

The male's face lit up at this, before going on a tirade about the topic.

"I love story telling! I'm a computer science major and I'm trying to be a game dev which is why I'm taking creative writing. My favorite types of games are RPGs, like the LOZ franchise or Final Fantasy. They're not just about shooting stuff or solving puzzles, but they're interactive worlds that should matter just as much as books or movies! I'm actually working on a game right now about-" he cut himself off, seeing you now had a sly smirk stretched across your face.

Feeling shy once again, he cast his gaze down before saying "Sorry. I kind of went on a rant there..."

You let out a small, melodic laugh at this.

"It's okay, you're passionate about something. I think that's cute."

His heart fluttered at your words while his blue eyes wandered everywhere but to meet yours. He realized he was still holding on to your books, and he rushed to hold them out to you.

"Uh- sorry again. Here."

You gently took the books from him, fingers slightly brushing past his, setting off the butterflies in his stomach.

Their skin is so soft...

"Well, I'd love to hear about your game sometime, but I gotta get going. You free friday?"

Gojo couldn't believe his ears. You were asking him to hang out!?

"Um- yeah! I have practice from 1-3 though..."

"And by practice, you mean playing League of Legends for 2 hours?" you teased.

He nodded, slightly embarrassed by this.

"Meet me at 4 then. See ya!"

You sauntered past him, waving as you made your way towards the exit.

No way.

I have a date!

[prettyflyshyguy]

eucalyptus tissues have once again saved me from the torment nexus (the yearly cold/flu that you inevitably will contract every winter) and despite being in and out of bed all day - i have to complete my civic duty so lets do this.

You know the drill. Live slug reaction under the cut.

EP7 lets give it up for EP7

Firstly -- jesus did they not take anytime to give Gura a new uniform because he's barely patched up, and covered in someone elses brain matter and this thumbnail pic looks like they're on the hopper getting ready to EXIT STAGE LEFT

not the ONE MONTH EARLIER timeskip you cant DO THIS TO ME

Ok but like. Bharadwaj did you have to admit infront of the entire group AT A FANCY RESTURAUNT that you and Pin Lee had a bit of a fumble like "Sorry for the discomfort I caused you" GIRL THE WHOLE ROOM CAN HEAR YOU GNILERSNGILAEGNBLIHB

--- wait I'm an idiot they're doing a group sharing thing arent they. They were literally chanting her name a minute ago. Jesus christ the flu's left me one impatient little shit hasnt it LMAOO

Anyway before I move on -- can we talk about how pretty Bharadwaj is in this scene wtfffff

Tiktok voice: WE LISTEN AND WE DON'T JUDGE

STOP THAT STOPPPPPPP I'M IN THIS PICTURE AND I DON'T LIKE IT AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGH thank you mr dastmalchian for the performance of my life

Ratthi saying "Who is the next victim!" I'm crying its gonna be gurathin isnt it

THIS BACKGROUND CHARACTER I'M SOBBING

I could write a fucking essay on this scene regarding the class difference, the cultural differences and the undertones. But I have the fucking flu. You're all smart people you can psychically connect with me on this right.

OH. HOMEBOY WAS A SPY. WORKING FOR THE CORPORATION RIM.

GNURIEHGULEAHNURTSGHUIERGHJUIEHGNUERISG

that was a fucking bombshell revelation

Re; him being forced to take substances as a means for coercion and control. Look I'm not sorry this is just making me go bonkers he's just like my best girl O'Byrne for real you guys don't understand the accidental parallels between him and her are sending me into a fucking frenzy. I made her like in 2016 for a story and I swear I've never even heard of murderbot till this show came out I can't believe this holy shit holy fuck

This also adds SO MUCH MORE WEIGHT to how angrily he shut down LLB's suggestion at cracking open a medkit for stimulants (for fun). Initially I got the vibe that it was just a general "thats a stupid fucking idea we need those they're important" but now its like

Ah.

this show's going to make me fucking cry his performance is going to make me fucking cry

This was a very. Very good conversation between these two. I am once again in this picture and I don't like it. Maybe its the sickness, maybe it's because I've been self reflecting, but this hit me in a soft spot.

"My risk assessment module was a piece of crap" yeah yeah alright blame it on the fucking module ya dickhead go on then hahahahahahahahahahahaa idiot

GOD AS really just has an incredibly imposing figure combined with excellent camera work to make this thing look deeply unsettling. Great body acting. Great framing. I love a good freak 10/10

THE WAY EVERYONE INSTINCTIVELY JERKS BACK HOLY SHIT OF;IJEIRGHALIERHJA;EOGHJEOSJGH

YESSSSSSS YEEEEEEEEESSSSSSS HAHAHAHAHAHAHA OH MY GOD THE WRITERS GET IT. THEY REALLY GET IT. THEY REALLY REASLLY GET IT HAHA YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

"I'm asking you to please get in the hopper. Unless you feel like dying.

I-I mean from them. Not from me."

screaming crying throwing up this show is both so so so fucking funny and just hits such a particular itch I have in character dynamics and the monstrous I'm cackling. Every time it awkwardly stutters or fumbles its words when it realises it came across wrong for how it's trying to present itself I feel giddy ("you're not disturbing. Me." when it was trying to hide and now THIS)

"You should be afraid of me. Please don't be afraid of me." real shit I'm slurping this up like the chicken soup I made last night

this is just like when I watched Supernatural for the first time last year and it made me go insane and I doubled down on writing my own story after and now murderbot is fuelling me now you dont understanddddddddd I'm going to explode if I dont publish Virtual Ground in some capacity by the end of this year

I have to. This show makes me want to make my own damn story better and stronger and get this shit out there SO BAD

RATTHI I LOVE YOU BUT I'M STRUGGLING TO WATCH THIS SCENE THE 2ND HAND EMBARRASSMENT WILL KILL ME

"Cooool. Okay good talk."

SOBBING

"Aah thank you so much for the concern."

"I didn't indicate concern, I was stating a fact."

bitch I need them to get locked inside a room for 12 hours. I need them to have to undertake a duos mission forcibly. I need them to have to cooperate on a highly specialised task that they both are required to participate in and cannot do alone completely.

Do you understand it makes me physically ill

"Ungrateful." WELL WELL WELL IF IT ISNT THE ACTIONS OF MY OWN CONSEQUENCES IRHTGALUHGELGAEULRH

Love that this is just one humungous miscommunication error on full display on both human and construct sides. Both cannot quite understand how the other operates and at this fundamental base incompatibility it results in both struggling and tension constantly forming. Impeccable. Waiter can I have another serving please.

ALSO IT'S STUPID LITTLE GRUMPY WALK AWAY HAHAHA

Thank you Mensah voice of reason (and I'm crying at everyone consistently not pronouncing LBB's name right)

"I was one whole confused entity" UGH WHAT A GOOD LINE

once again I love how this show uses subtle chromatic aberration to show when MB's having a moment of mind palace imagination.

"Circle"

"Nope."

"Absolutely not."

NFGBUIERAUHGULIJEHGLIHBERSUTGHUISLRTHGLUSRHG

You guys didn't even *try* and explain to it what you're doing and why, you just assumed it'd understand!! You need to talk to it!! You need to tell it what this whole thing is! Just like Gurathin "I'm not very good at this game" you have to communicate it!!!!!!!!!!!!

oK i've just been absorbing the entire outside-the-hopper conversation and its good food your honor. No one is happy. Everyone's getting snappy. No one has a good plan. Everyones confused and upset. Uguialerhguhga

CRICKEY, WHAT A BEAUTY!!!

BLIMEY!!!!

Ok that took a shocking and unexpected turn

I'm not going to comment on this

YEP.

God.

PIN LEE I'M SOBBING I ALSO DON'T WANT TO LOOK AT THEM

THIS FUCKING FIGHT CHOREOGRAPHY IS SO FUNNY

BHARADWAJ COMING IN WITH THE ROCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And then they confiscated their clubs and my rock...

sorry that's a shockingly specific reference to a Dead Kennedy's track in which the frontman just tells a story. Anyway here's a relative timestamp to the quote.

ANYWAY. That's not the flu talking, I have a habit of just quoting that.

If I had a dollar for every time there was robot vore in this show I'd have two dollars. You know the rest.

once again I am looking respectfully at the robot gore on this show however

"We're going. You can come. If you want."

Loving the emphasis on the reality that MB has a choice. It's shitty and pissy about it and it sure does love to complain but it's chosen, thus far, to protect them. It's chosen multiple steps of the way to be helpful.

It's still not entirely clear to the prexaux crew that thats the case (bar Mensah. She gets it the most.) but I think they're starting to recognise it a little more. The focus, care and attention it gave when the worm showed up was the biggest indication.

But MB itself also deeply struggles to recognise the whys and the hows of how prexaux approach it and feel about it. Cause after all it's just one whole confused entity. Aren't we all.

Anyway. I'm still not satisfied in the Gurathin reveals. I need to know so much more. I'm so fucking hungry. This only furthers my theory that he was augmented against his will. It's thrown a jerry can onto the bonfire actually.

I swear to god it wont happen this season but if we get a season 2 (I know the books go different places hear me out) I NEED MB and Gurathin to go on a shitty little duo mission together where they're forced to hang out and cooperate on something IT'S LIKE LIFE SUPPORT TO ME.

IF THE SHOW WON'T WRITE IT, I WILL.

Anyway I love that, once again, everyone has problems, and half of them arise from communication breakdowns. And it feels like we're getting closer to a breakthrough of mutual understanding. Mensah does your back hurt from how much you're carrying right now.

Now this meme comes with inevitable 'parent' connotations -- put those aside for a sec because it's not about that it's about her being the one fucking thing thats keeping two very chaotic forces together (everyone else in presaux and MB) and stopping them from destroying themselves or each other

Anyway. My whole body aches. I feel so fucking ill. I'm worried I've said something really stupid or nonsensical or a bad take here -- flu brain's got me paranoid.

I love you Gurathin you make me want to write my own story so much more and I swear to god I'm gonna make this a thing. I hope I can make Virtual Ground a mere fraction of how enjoyable this show's been to experience.

[dragoneyes613]

Suddenly, everywhere you look, the Jews are disappearing.

You feel it like a slow moving pressure system, an anxiety of exclusion and downward mobility. Maybe you first noticed it at your workplace. Or maybe it hit when you or your children applied to college or graduate school. It could have been something as simple as opening up the Netflix splash page. It’s gauche to count but you can’t help yourself: In academia, Hollywood, Washington, even in New York City—anywhere American Jews once made their mark—our influence is in steep decline.

For many Jews, the first instinct is to look inward: We blame intermarriage, assimilation, the loss of the immigrant work ethic. This is, of course, a cope. Because the most significant cause of the decline isn’t Jews themselves, but that American liberalism, our civic religion, has turned on us. Where Jewish success was once upheld as a sign of America’s strength and progress over its prejudices, Jewish “overrepresentation” is again something to be solved, not celebrated.

A tenure-track humanities professor at a prestigious public university tells of the finalists for her department’s next graduate school cohort. Of the 20 or so candidates, four to five are Jews. One is a working-class yeshivish applicant with an incredible backstory and even better recommendations. He is passed over for not being “diverse” enough. Of course our professor doesn’t complain— her own tenure is at risk. In the end, not a single Jew is offered admission.

Another Jewish professor applies to work in the UC system. In his mandatory diversity statement, which he describes as “the most shameful piece of writing I’ve ever done,” his sole aim is to convey the impression that he hopes to be the last Jewish man they ever hire. He still doesn’t get the job.

And why would he? Using YouGov data, Eric Kaufmann finds that just 4% of elite American academics under 30 are Jewish (compared to 21% of boomers). The steep decline of Jewish editors at the Harvard Law Review (down roughly 50% in less than 10 years) could be the subject of its own law review article.

The same pattern holds across America’s elite institutions: a slow-moving downward trend from the 1990s to the mid-2010s—likely due to all sorts of normal sociological factors—and then a purge so sweeping and dramatic you almost wonder who sent out the secret memo.

Museum boards now diversify by getting Jews to resign. A well-respected Jewish curator at the Guggenheim is purged after she puts on a Basquiat show. At the Art Institute of Chicago, even the nice Jewish lady volunteers are terminated for having the wrong ethnic background. There’s an entire cottage industry of summer programs and fellowships and postdocs that are now off-limits to Jews.

In 2014 there were 16-20 Jewish artists featured at the Whitney Biennial. After a very public campaign against a Jewish board member with ties to the Israeli defense establishment, the curators got the message. The 2022 biennial featured just 1-2 Jews.

From 2010 through 2019 there were at least three Jews in every MacArthur Fellowship class, sometimes as many as five or six. The Forward would write effusive columns celebrating the year’s Jewish geniuses. Since 2020, just 0-1 Jews a year have been awarded grants. The Forward hasn’t bothered to take note.

Today American Jews watch with Solomonic bemusement as Students for Fair Admissions v. Harvard is argued before the Supreme Court. On some level we sympathize with the Asian American plaintiffs, who are suing Harvard for using admissions criteria that discriminate against them on the basis of their race. Maybe they really are the new Jews, facing the same barriers—insidious racism, personality scores, rural geographic preferences—that we once did.

On the other hand, fancying ourselves to be high caste members of a beneficent elite, we pretend not to notice that “diversity, equity, and inclusion” is a cudgel used to exclude certain groups of Americans, including Asians and Jews. Desperate to maintain their waning status within the liberal coalition, Jewish communal organizations ignore these contradictions. Once a protector of specifically Jewish interests but now secure in its new role as handmaiden to power, the Anti-Defamation League filed an amicus brief—in support of Harvard.

In the 1940s, the ADL took a different tack. For decades unofficial quotas at most Ivy League universities limited Jews to around 10% of the student body, despite evermore qualified Jewish applicants. Jewish organizations made it their mission to break this invisible barrier and by the end of the 1950s the quotas were a dead letter. The long summer of American Jewish success had begun.

But the seasons always change. A FIRE/Yougov survey found that self-identified Jews now number just 7% of Ivy League students, compared to 10% during the height of the antisemitic quotas.

In his gripping podcast Gatecrashers, about the history of Jews in the Ivy League, Mark Oppenheimer describes the troubled state of Jewish campus life. Harvard has gone from being 25% Jewish in the 1990s and 2000s to under 10% today. “In theory it could be the case that Jews are the same percentage of whites at Harvard as they always were,” he explains. “But Harvard has not shrunk the number of athletes it admits […] and they’ve kept their geographical diversity. So if you’re a Jewish kid who’s not an athlete and not a legacy and not from Wyoming … then there’s not much room left for you.”

According to the Hillel College Guide, Penn’s Jewish population declined from 26% in 2015 to 17% in 2021; NYU’s dropped from 24% to 13%. Princeton, Columbia, and Cornell have seen smaller but significant declines (Brown and Dartmouth, with different institutional priorities, are by all accounts happy exceptions).

Data from the Yale Chaplain’s Office—which appears to be the only Ivy League university that still tracks religious affiliation—shows a similar trend: The Jewish population went from 19.9% in the 2000s to 16.4% in the 2010s. A couple of years ago, the school’s chaplain told Meir Chaim Posner, the Chabad rabbi at Yale, that around 11% of Yale undergraduates were Jewish. “It’s dropped slightly since then,” Rabbi Posner told me in November.

“The university has decided that DEI is the overarching principle of admissions,” one Hillel director told me. “There’s a general consensus that it’s more difficult for Jewish students to get into top tier schools.” Nor is this difficulty confined to secular Jews—the modern Orthodox population has also crashed. A college counselor at a top Jewish day school reports that as universities have revamped enrollment and gone test-optional, the number of Orthodox students has decreased. “Every year has been harder,” he said. “Our ability to thoughtfully predict the likelihood of admission has gone way down.”

An uneasy omertà settles in. The Ivies skip college nights at Jewish day schools they visited for decades. At Penn there used to be two daily minyans—now there’s one. There are hushed whispers that if current trends hold, some of these colleges might no longer be able to support an Orthodox community at all.

The 1999 Hillel College Guide now reads like a map to a lost civilization. Harvard and Yale have 1,500 Jewish undergrads apiece. There are 5,000 Jewish students and grad students at Columbia, 6,000 at Penn, 14,000 at NYU. It’s hard to imagine that as recently as 2008, articles were being written about the “race” to attract Jewish students.

What was normal less than two decades ago sounds like a siren call from a distant golden age. To even suggest that a 15%-20% Jewish undergraduate student body might be acceptable in a country in which Jews make up 2.4% of the total population is anathema in today’s liberal society.

The 1999 Hillel College Guide now reads like a map to a lost civilization.

In New York—the seat of American Jewish political power—there are almost no Jews left in power. A decade ago the city had five Jewish congressmen, a Jewish mayor, two Jewish borough presidents, and 14 Jewish City Council members. Today just two congressmen and a single borough president remain. Only six Jews now sit on the 51-person City Council. Shelly Silver, the corrupt Orthodox former State Assembly leader, was replaced by Yuh-Line Niou, a pro-BDS “progressive” whose oligarch father was featured in the Panama Papers. Not even the Lower East Side Tenement Museum is recognizably Jewish anymore.

“What you have is a lack of identity of Jews as Jews,” the Democratic political consultant Hank Sheinkopf told The Washington Post. “And they don’t have the power to ensure that there’s more than one Jewish congressman. It’s astounding.”

Younger Jews are being excluded from the liberal organizations their parents and grandparents helped create. Identitarian meltdowns roil the progressive world. The Women’s March, the ACLU, and the SPLC all get rid of Jewish leadership. There will be no more “Mighty Iras” in our lifetime. Not even the Jewish president of the Audubon Society is safe.

There are still powerful Jews in Washington—neo-Nazis on Twitter like to post photos of Biden’s cabinet—but the influence is waning. Is it a coincidence that in the U.S. Senate (a handsy group of old men if ever there was one) the only senator forced to resign during the #MeToo panic happened to be Jewish? Or that activists pushed for Dianne Feinstein’s resignation for the explicit reason that she be replaced by someone who isn’t Jewish?

Of the 114 federal judges appointed by Joe Biden (as of this writing), just 8-9 appear to be Jewish—in a field that’s historically been at least 20% Jewish. Liberals worship Ruth Bader Ginsburg as a magical Jewish Teletubby, but they wouldn’t dare nominate another “white woman” to the highest court anytime soon. We are back to the single Jewish seat on the court.

Apparently Jews have so much power and influence that the highest-ranking Jewish senator in history finds it too politically difficult to hire a 22-year-old version of himself. There were at least 15 Jews on Chuck Schumer’s staff of 64 in 2014. After facing pressure for not being diverse enough, and despite an enlarged staff of 89, he can no longer make a minyan.

In Los Angeles—America’s second most Jewish city—there are now just two Jewish City Council members, down from six in 2000. In last year’s infamous dustup, Nury Martinez, the sharp-tongued council president, had despicable things to say about Black people, Oaxacans, even Armenians—but Jews were barely a footnote. “Judíos cut their deal with South LA,” she said. “They are gonna screw everybody else.”

It’s gauche to count but you can’t help yourself: In academia, Hollywood, Washington, even in New York City—anywhere American Jews once made their mark—our influence is in steep decline.

Speaking of LA, a decade ago there were 22 Jews on The Hollywood Reporter’s annual list of the Top 50 Showrunners. In 2022, that’s down to 13. Other than the half-Jewish (and already famous) Maggie Gyllenhaal, you’d have to go back six years to find a single Jew on Variety’s annual list of 10 Directors to Watch.

Thanks to the odious new Hollywood house style that requires a detailed ethnic and racial classification at the top of all capsule biographies, we can see just how many self-identified Jews are in the Sundance writers and directors labs, or the NBC, Paramount, and Disney writers and apprenticeship programs—it is zero. It seems not being Jewish is actually a primary qualification. So much for Jewish control of Hollywood.

The decline is so rapid—and the golden age so close to living memory—it’s a running joke. On the latest season of Curb Your Enthusiasm, Larry David meets with a group of younger non-Jewish studio executives to convince them to cast a Mexican American girl as Young Larry’s Jewish love interest. On Reboot, Steve Levitan’s Hulu show, an old guard of Jewish sitcom writers clash uncomfortably with their younger and woker—and noticeably non-Jewish—colleagues.

Not even Hollywood’s Jewish history belongs to Jews anymore. The new Academy Museum, dedicated to “radical inclusivity” and paid for with Haim Saban’s Jewish money, couldn’t bring itself to include Hollywood’s Jewish founders. In Babylon, Damian Chazelle’s epic flop about Hollywood’s golden age, the director follows an ahistorical Mexican studio executive and an Asian American lesbian rather than any of the very real Jewish moguls or screenwriters or directors of the era. What’s telling isn’t that Chazelle ignored Jews (anyone can do that) but that not a single reviewer bothered to notice this “erasure.” The culture has moved on.

What remains of Jewish Hollywood lives on borrowed time. Spielberg can make his Fabelmans, James Gray his Armageddon Time, but only because these are nostalgia pieces. Soon there will be no more RBG’s, no more Spielbergs, just a few off-brand Seinfelds doing a heritage act. There will certainly never be another Larry King or Andy Borowitz, Jews of such astounding mediocrity you wonder what was in the water.

In the 1950s, after Stalin’s death, after the purges, the Politburo turned to another pressing issue: the overrepresentation of Jews in Soviet life. Proportional representation (3% Tajik! 2% Uzbek! 12% Ukrainian!) became official policy, and the next decade saw the quick erosion of the Jewish nomenklatura. Soviet Jews—who had disproportionately contributed to and benefited from the building of the communist state—had outlived their usefulness.

A 1964 New York Times article explained that because Soviet republics assigned a certain number of students “preferential admission” based on their nationalities, other nationalities—aka Jews—were excluded. “A higher percentage of Jewish students was permitted to attend universities in Czarist Russia than is enrolled in the USSR today,” an outraged American Jewish Congress declared. “The 8.2% of university graduates who are Jews contrasts sharply with the present Jewish university enrollment of 3.22%.”

As true believers in the postwar liberal project, American Jews spent decades advocating for tolerance and equality of opportunity, not least because we were the prime beneficiaries. The ADL didn’t fight the quotas in the 1950s so Jews could matriculate in proportion to their percentage of the population. But there’s a tension between meritocracy and representation. The new DEI regime treats any disparity between groups as evidence of unfair advantage—and yet we’re supposed to think it’s a coincidence that Jewish representation plummets at the exact moment America frantically pushes to racially rebalance all high-status industries.

Because what is framed as a backlash against America’s “white” centers of power is in many cases a clever sleight of hand. Jews are being disproportionately purged from liberal institutions because Jews disproportionately exist within those institutions.

When activists and journalists and executives talk about how Broadway or NPR or publishing is “too white,” what they really mean is “too Jewish.” When The New York Times says it wants to make its internal demographics look more like New York City’s (excepting the Hasidim, of course), what this means is “fewer Jews.” Twenty years ago, if Pat Robertson spoke along these lines—making the same complaints about the same people and industries and institutions—there would have been a rush to condemn it as antisemitic. Today it passes for social justice.

In the 1960s and ’70s, facing hard barriers to their professional advancement, Soviet Jews lost the faith. The children and the grandchildren of the revolution tried to emigrate. When the authorities wouldn’t let them, American Jews rallied to their cause, created brand-new communal organizations, petitioned Congress, rallied thousands-strong outside the United Nations. Ours was a community confident in its power and confident in its future.

Asian Americans have the dignity of looking at admissions practices and demanding fair representation. The Jews, as ever, are a people apart. From civil rights to Vietnam to the spectacular bounty of their cultural and political achievements, liberal Jewish boomers always managed to be on the right side of history. It is a supreme irony that they’ve helped empower a movement that now places their children and grandchildren on the wrong side.

If Putin or Orban reduced their universities’ Jewish populations by 50%, the ADL would be howling. But Harvard and Yale can magically lose nearly half their Jewish students in less than a decade and we’ll take it on the chin. That this is occurring with the full acquiescence of a terrified liberal Jewish establishment should tell you just how much power Jews in America still have.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 9)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 8, Part 10

summary: You both come to a realisation.

warnings: smut! f! masturbation, grinding, humping, fingering, (implied) recreational drug use, alcohol, dubcon (-ish! reader is drunk but the interaction is consensual, tagging just in case xx), teeny tiny bit of mutual pining. 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: yuhh

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 7.2k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

all that light lost in gaps

You're gone, in the morning.

…he should've expected it. Miguel stumbles out of sleep, groggy and disoriented. He finds himself reaching out for something in the half-light. 

He finds himself reaching for you. And when you're not there, leaving a person sized gap at the crook of his arm, his stomach churns. He pretends it's not disappointment, or the sharp crack of yearning ; settling at his chest like a crowbar, and prying open his ribs. It's worry, he decides resolutely, a perfectly normal, healthy amount of worry. As your roommate; and nothing else, he keeps reminding himself; he's just worried about where you've rushed off to, especially after yesterday. 

Senior year. He was assigned a bullshit paper in a Civics class – one he'd usually half-ass for an easy A. He'd wax poetic about morality – amorphous, vague platitudes about duty and societal expectations. By the end of the year, he had it down to a science: a couple thousand words remixed and plucked from lesser known philosophers, videos online, and overdue library books. Either he was getting too good at it, or his teacher was too stupid to notice; but regardless, he coasted through the class right up until graduation. His last paper, and he remembers it distinctly, was on the book of the same name; aptly titled What We Owe Each Other. A plodding, pluralistic read; of which he had only scanned through, anyways. Extra credit, anything to graduate early, and he'd had more than enough on his plate at the time. 

 And so, he wasn't expecting the B+ underlined and circled in red ink on the front page. It felt like his teacher had handed it back to him face down, slammed onto the desk like the thunderous crack of a whip. And he didn't need that A, strictly speaking. Yet, he had found himself staying over after class, crinkling that piece of paper in hand as he'd asked why. 

She sighs. Miss Hunter's glasses slip down her nose, as they are prone to do. 

"You're an outstanding student. I hear you're graduating early, and you're off somewhere prestigious in the fall. This is… definitely not a bad grade, and it's nothing, I promise you."

It doesn't work like that, for him. His teacher doesn't get it, but it will eat him up inside-out if he's not able to understand. 

"Was it my referencing?" He fumbles with the strap of his bag. 

"No. Not at all–" 

"I did the extra reading…the article you mentioned in class, and–" 

He's cut off by the scrape of a desk chair. Miss Hunter gets up to close the door, before settling on her desk. 

Arms crossed, she seems tired. Worried, maybe, but it doesn't register with Miguel. The thought doesn't even cross his mind, that there are others with the capacity to worry about him. 

"Technically, it's well written. As usual, Miguel." She gives him a weak smile. "It just… lacked heart."

His brows jump up. "...heart?" 

"There's not really a narrative voice, here."

He taps at the paper on the desk, frustrated. "You didn't ask for a narrative voice, though. You didn't ask for… for heart. I read the book, I did the extra reading, and I wrote a report. That was the brief."

"Not quite." She says it gently, but it still sounds like nails on a chalkboard to him. "The brief was vague, intentionally so. 'What Do We Owe Each Other? Discuss.' I gave examples, sure: excerpts from the book we touched on in class, articles, academic papers, etcetera. They were… suggestions."

"...suggestions." He's incredulous. 

She nods. "You followed it to the letter, Miguel. You gave me a summary, with a few key links. Fully referenced, yes. Well-written, yes. But this feels like a sum of parts. It doesn't tell me anything about you; your perspective, your angle. Your voice."

He's biting back choice words. It sounds like bullshit to him, for lack of a better word. Flowery, hoity-toity BS; served up to him on a steaming platter. That's it? 

Maybe it shows on his face, because she's asking, as delicately as possible, 

"Is everything okay?" 

Instinctually, he seizes up. 

"Yeah. Yes. I'm good."

"I know you don't take this class as seriously because it's not an AP, or an elective, or maybe not as challenging as you need it to be. And that's okay, Miguel. I'm happy for you to use my class as a break from all the other stuff." She swallows thickly. "You're not from our usual feeder schools. The Academy is particularly rigorous. But considering your… situation, we can make exceptions. If there's anything I can do–" 

"There isn't a 'situation'."

"Right. Of course, I'm sorry. But if you need a couple days off of school because of…" She pasues, saying the next part softly. "Because of the baby… I mean, you're already acing my class–"

"No." He says it firmly, eyes trained onto the wood grain peeking out from underneath piles of documents. He wants to ask how she knows, and how he's always the last to find out that rumours have spread, and–

"Miguel." Her voice cuts through dense fog. She repeats her previous statement. “If there's anything I can do–”

“If you want to help, you can give me that A.” It's bone dry, said with the kind of sarcasm he's grown accustomed to. He wears it over his shoulders, sometimes; draped to keep out biting cold, or unfamiliar warmth from a stranger - it all feels the same, now.

She gives him a rueful smile. “Need more than that, m'afraid.”

Heart. Voice. What We Owe Each Other – and he doesn't know why that phrase sticks in his throat. It's been drilled into him since childhood; family and community, helping each other out of the starting blocks; and beaten out of him during adolescence. The creaking and cracking of bones after each step, where out in the world it's a different matter entirely. 

His mama has bad taste in men, and he finds himself picking up the pieces. Gabi is more sensitive than he'll ever admit, trying not to cry amongst broken plates and chicken-wire hidden in a bouquet of peonies: prickly words that cut and hack, and it's Miguel that wipes the tears from his brother's cheek. That devastatingly gentle sigh when he had told his mama what he had done - how he had fallen for a soft bed and even softer lips at the ripe age of 16 and a half - and Miguel carries that weight. What We Owe Each Other – and he's only ever fed entitled egos. Not his family, of course, but he's been burned. He's had more than his fair share of it. 

He doesn't owe the world shit, he thinks. 

He doesn't owe you shit. 

It doesn't help that he's been stuck in place, grasping at cushion covers and a raggedy blanket. Trying not to drown in the heady scent of you, he's been dragging thick fingers over the fabric as if in a trance. You don't owe him anything, either. Nary an apology, an explanation; so much as a sorry spilling from pretty lips in that way where they quiver like a gentle flame. 

He's touched them, felt them drag across his skin like the finest silk, and dropped to his knees in search of something you've never given him. It doesn't matter if you don't; kiss him , that is; the swirling, desperate sort that leaves him heaving and creaking and begging for more. He thinks he'd still scuff up the denim at his knees if you asked, regardless - he'd do anything , if it was for you. 

It's not realistic to expect anything from you. You don't need to tell him where you've gone or why you've left so early. You don't need to, and yet he finds himself reaching for his phone. 

Miguel sends a well placed message; deft fingers tapping away at the screen. Before he changes his mind, it's sent; and he's chewing his lip whilst waiting for a steady three dots. Lyla is slower than usual, but she comes through. She doesn't ask questions - because she knows him better than he knows himself - and gives him a thumbs up. 

They'll call each other later, that much he's sure of, but for now he reads between the lines. Short bursts of text, like firecrackers flashing across a night sky, and only through nonsensical emojis and odd slang can they understand each other. 

This part, he can do. And he'll do whatever he needs to, not what he owes.

~~~

You make it to Pam's just after it opens. 

At 7 o'clock sharp, you've made the journey; in an empty subway car, spilling out onto the streets like treacle left in the neck of a bottle. It's not quite a squeeze, passing by only a handful of people, with nothing but a jacket thrown over last night's clothes. In a daze, you realise too late: it's Miguel's. A dusty, worn thing; brown leather crackling at the sleeves and heavy on your shoulders. It feels like a hug, and it feels like him : warm and stiff. It smells like him too, and you bury your nose in the collar on the subway, sleeves kissing your palm like his hand is in yours. 

It's a feeling that takes you all the way to the doors: past the slats bolted shut and down a familiar alley. You push past them, sneakers on slick tiles, and give a weak smile to the woman that perks up from behind the counter, kicking away the mop and bucket. 

"Hiya, welcome to Pam's! How can I–" 

"Oh, God , no." You wave her off. "Take your time. I need a minute, if that's okay."

Settling on the barstool, you watch as the young woman smiles, picking up a rag and wiping at the counter. You sit in it, for a while. 

Dregs drip in through the front. The bell at the top of the door chimes, tinny and cheerful in the relative gloom of a quiet morning. 

It's cold , outside. Autumn, biting at your fingers and nose. Eventually you opt for a coffee, piping hot to stave off that chill. Bitter, the aftertaste lingers at the back of your throat. You find yourself picking at the chipped mug, chasing away that taste with fluffy pancakes. The combination doesn't feel quite the same – not after many a morning with your roommate. 

You settle into the seat. You wrap that old jacket around you. You sip at tart coffee and pick at your nails. A quiet morning, one to yourself, one to keep hidden at the crook of your chest. Some semblance of peace , wrapped up in the spindles of a dandelion. That is to say; delicate and fleeting, whipped away by the breeze. 

You've decided not to think too hard about it. That kind of thinking ends dangerously, you've realised: with long, hot nights spent tossing and turning. It ends with a head full of cotton, and a pounding at your chest. With blood, with tears, with a stranger in your bed. And so, you go for the cleaner option. The safer one, all things considered, that's less likely to end in a broken heart. 

You float around for a while. Walking without a real destination, trying to ground yourself. Eventually, you end up home,  opening the door to an empty apartment. There's no traces left of a night spent in Miguel's arms. Good, you think, slipping your shoes off at the door. It doesn't feel good , but if you say it enough times you just might believe it. 

The cleaner option; the one with less gristle and bone; is a familiar one. You settle into a shower; steamy and soapy, taking your time to clean out the blood from under your fingernails. The grime, the dirt ; you watch it swirl into the drain, hands running across soft flesh. You try to do it like Jamie did, once upon a time. It doesn't feel right, and has you leaning onto the cool tile. The shower head sputters, a shaky pressure on your back but you lean into it and close your eyes. You rub a hand at the crook of your chest, and then down, down, down, circling your breast and then following the curve of hips to the apex of your legs. Tipping your head, letting the hot water stream through your hair and then your back; and you touch, feel , and you can almost taste him ; sweet and saccharine Miguel, at your lips. 

With two fingers flat against your clit, you rub little circles at the nub, dipping into your hole for much needed wetness. Your other hand travels up soft skin, pads of your fingers grazing collarbone, and then they curl around your neck. With a little pressure, your thumb grazes your jaw. Like he does, except your hands aren't as deliciously rough or as large. You slip a finger in, and then two, water pounding your back and eyes screwed. You push past that initial tightness, searching for a little give. When it comes, cunt clenching around your fingers, just shy of that sweet spot as you press your clit with the heel of your palm; you're imagining it's your roommate. He'd wrap those thick forearms around you, press his cock to the crest of your back and touch you like you deserve. 

You do it like Miguel would, reverent , touching you as if you were clay at a potter's wheel. In the hands of God herself, you cum; falling, falling, falling; tumbling down white water rapids and spit back up into the rushing water. You're panting, now, out of breath.

When you sink onto your bed, you realise it's not quite enough. Still in a fluffy robe, steam curls from your skin like clouds – ones that smell of cheap body wash and shampoo. Before you know it, you're reaching for your phone, sending two quick messages to a certain somebody. 

[Sent: 15:32]

hey mig

[Sent: 15:32]

where did u go? 

You don't expect a quick reply - he's never been much of a texter. But those three dots pop up in no time at all, much to your surprise. 

[Received: 15:33]

Out. 

[Received: 15:33]

Running errands. 

It's succinct and to the point – of which you expect nothing else from Miguel. Your thumbs fly to the screen to reply but another message tugs the rug out from under your shaky legs. 

[Received: 15:35]

Is everything okay? 

[Sent: 15:35]

yeah

[Sent: 15:36]

all good

When that provides no response, you're left chewing on your lip, anxious. He's seen the message, he's read the message; but for some reason, several minutes go by and there's no response. 

You're ready to give up and chalk it to your roommate's hot-and-cold nature, when your phone rings. 

Immediately, you pick up. 

" Don't believe you." His voice rings out, tinny, nestled amongst the covers. 

"Hey, Mig." You settle down on the bed, putting him on speaker and placing it by your ears. 

" Did you hear what I said?" His tone is deep and intense, making you shiver. It's not quite the same, of course, but you're reminded of nights spent with his lips tucked close the shell of your ear. 

You swallow. "Yeah. I… I did."

" You sure? Because you suck at lying."

"Don't be an asshole." 

" Think I get a free pass when you disappear for the whole day."

You roll your eyes. “You didn't call–”

“ Would you have answered?”

Ouch. He sounds frustrated, the quiet chatter of his background bathed in heavy silence. Silence thick with tension, and you almost choke on it.

He breaks it with a heavy sigh. “ You okay? ”

“No. Not really.”

“ Okay. ” He lets it sit for a while, before saying, “ I'll be home, soon. There's leftovers in the fridge, and you should eat, sweetheart. You want anything from the store? ”

His voice is so, so soft. It crackles like kindling on a fire: warmth that blooms and spreads to your chest. Like slipping off frozen gloves to thaw off in front of a heater, and he just makes you feel impossibly warm. 

“Not really, thanks.” You mumble it, and hear a satisfied grunt from the other end. Before you change your mind, you say, “Sorry. M'sorry.”

Miguel gives a light chuckle and you think you can hear him smile, the kind you always chase after a stupid argument: one that tugs at the corners of his pretty lips.

“ You've got nothin' to be sorry about .”

He gives you a moment to feel the weight of his words, and ends the call. That heat at your chest blooms. 

If Miguel O'Hara is the Sun, then maybe you don't mind being pulled into his orbit; bathing in steady light and warmth.

~~~

He comes home with flowers. A beautiful bouquet; delicate and balanced, featherlight wildflowers and brush, interspersed with sprays of blue and purple and pink. It's wonderfully dense, reminding you of the tangles of colour a child might decorate a picture with in wobbly crayon. Simply put, it's nothing short of a vision, and you notice how delicately he places it on the dining table.

With the rest of the grocery bags, Miguel clatters in, and you can't help but be curious. You're poking through the bags, sitting on the counter as he puts them away – after offering to help, of course, but he bats you away easily. Your bare legs bristle in the chill brought on by the window cracked open, and he just breezes past. 

The cabinet opens with a thud , and your roommate busies himself with putting away food. Carefully, you watch the way the muscles of his back flexes this way and that - cut and lean under that thin sweater. He’s otherwise occupied, and so you take the opportunity to stare, playing with a loose string at the hem of silky shorts. And so, it makes you jump when your phone buzzes beside you. Innocuously, you glance at the notification, and your eyes go wide.

“Who’s that?” Miguel asks, voice light. With that freaky sixth sense of his, he doesn’t need to turn around to know, it seems. 

“Lyla.” You murmur, reading the rest of the message.

“ ...And? ”

“Uh. Well…” Blinking, you can’t quite believe what she’s asking. “ Girl’s Night . I-I mean… she’s asking me to come with her for a Girl’s Night.”

“Really?” His tone is surprising, and you can hear how he beams by its lilting nature. Maybe he’s laughing at you, maybe he’s not, but you snap back regardless.

“ ... don’t act so surprised.”

“ You sound surprised.” He laughs.

“It’s different when I do it.” You say simply. “I just… I didn’t expect it. I didn’t even know we were close enough to–”

“Bullshit. You text her all the time.”

“A couple of times, Mig.” You correct him, trying to pin down a suitable response to give Lyla. You draw a blank. “I don’t want her to feel like she has to, or anything.”

He turns around, sleeves still rolled up. The look he gives makes you wither: one that could say about a million things. You think it means cut the crap , but he could just be constipated: you haven't quite mastered the art of reading Miguel O’Hara.

“Do you want to go?” He gets closer, hand flat on the counter next to your thigh. 

You nod, and his hand creeps up and up. 

Giving you a little smile, he shrugs. “Then go.”

It makes you shy. Bashful , even; and you’re wriggling as he squeezes the flesh. A hand on his forearm, and he’s close; so much so that all you can feel is the press of skin, and feel gentle breath fluttering past your cheek. You’re stuck underneath the gaze of his pretty lashes, and entranced at the way he licks his even prettier lips. A sudden thought seizes you - so heavy it makes your chest tight and leaden. 

Oh. You want to kiss him.

In a moment, it’s gone. A broad palm nudges your thigh aside, and you’re shifting so he can reach the drawers just by your legs. You oblige, falling back into familiar routine. 

Life moves on. Like Miguel said it would, and you find yourself entwined with the idea of time passing. Lying awake each night, picking out sand from underneath your fingernails, after clawing your way out of the hourglass. Steady, slow dregs; and it's tipped over each morning, restarting the clock. 

The flowers disappear from the dining table. Miguel retreats into the folds and dark corners of your apartment; you see him less and less. Passing ships in the night, you seem to miss each other by a fraction of a second. All of a sudden he's busy , and all of a sudden you're swamped with work. You only see each other at night, looking out for the bits and pieces left as proof of life: sometimes he'll leave a hot flask out for you in the mornings, and you'll greet him with a cheesy soap in the evenings. If he's not leaving later and later after work, that is. 

He looks tired, you note. Exhausted; prone to little yawns as you turn to him every now and then whilst watching on the couch. It's sweet, the way his frown has made way to a dopey smile, but it's frayed at the edges, tinged with something you can't quite place. You let him sleep that night, bringing pillows to lay his head on, and wrapping him up in that old blanket. 

Girl's night creeps up on you. It shakes you by the shoulders when you collapse on the sofa after a long day – and you're rushing to get ready. There's no Miguel to make sly remarks or prod you into action, this time. You wonder what he'd say about what you're wearing; a leftover dress buried in boxes from your ex's apartment. 

Short, tight, snug; it has you feeling glamorous – but you hope it doesn't look as fanciful as it feels. Too much; yet again, you're worried about being too much. Even though you're running a little late, you take the time to carefully apply makeup; something shiny on your lids, a dab of blush, and gloss slathered onto your lips. When you sling on little heels, and snatch a petite bag from the hooks near the door, there's barely enough time to catch that last glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Down and out you go, into a dusky night.

~~~

“I had to go through her manager– and wait, can you believe this girl has a fucking manager, now?” Lyla bats at MJ's shoulder, and the redhead laughs good-naturedly. 

“It's not– she's exaggerating! My manager's just my mom, I swear.” 

“It's a good thing, no?” You smile, taking a healthy swig of a brightly coloured cocktail. 

“It means she is booked, and–” Lyla hiccups, raising an unsteady glass that threatens to tip. MJ straightens her elbow instinctually, before raising her own. “ – very busy .”

It's your turn to laugh, glass held high in the air. With a clink , there's a clash of crystal that's all but drowned out by the chatter in the upscale bar.

Somewhere fancy, courtesy of Lyla. One of those places that serves tiny portions in big, empty plates, a fusion of cultural food with white, upper class owners. No-doubt the result of summering somewhere in the ever-broad global South , Lyla had said slyly, under the lip of a menu. 

There's powdered sugar on the rim of your flute. It dissolves on your tongue. You down the rest. Sickly sweet, and you wipe what drips onto your lips. 

It has you checking your phone. Miguel hasn't called, not that you were expecting anything. Whilst Lyla and MJ talk, you scroll mindlessly through his chat; a smattering of one word answers. Missed calls. Unanswered messages.

" –what about you, babe?" 

Your eyes snap back up to meet Lyla's, expectant. 

"Uhhh…"

"Nevermind." Sharp eyes travel to your phone, and there's a flash of recognition. "Miggy said you're in school. He said you're gonna graduate early, this year."

"He said that?" You're confused. "I mean… I'm trying but it's not looking like that, right now."

She wags a finger, shaking her head like she's trying to remember something. "No, no, he seemed adamant. Said you're working hard, doing well."

"Doing better ." You correct her, shyly. 

" Bullshit. " She says it the way Miguel does, and it makes you laugh. You see it now; he's the product of the people he loves. A kind of Frankenstein's monster, he's stitched together those bits and pieces; he's made himself beautiful. You wonder what piece of you he carries. If he even holds you that close to his chest. 

"I bet you're doing amazing. " MJ finishes. Her smile is warm, and copper-coloured; it feels hazy and ambered in your little corner. "Better than me, anyways. I would rather die than go back to college."

"Back?" You ask. 

"Oh, of course! You don't know." She giggles, leaning in like she's about to say something scandalous - the drink is clearly doing its job. Her next words are an exaggerated stage whisper. "I dropped out."

" Seriously? " You play along, with faux shock. 

"...damn right she did." Lyla gives a drunken wave to a nearby waiter, asking for another glass of wine. Something expensive, she whispers, giving a deceptive smile. 

"It just wasn't for me, I guess. I went because everyone around me was going, even Pete. Uhh, English Lit, or something. And it didn't… I–I mean it just wasn't–" 

"It didn't click."

" Right!" She snaps her fingers. "It was too much. I didn't know what I was doing, I was 18, for God's sake. Think I stuck at it for a bit too long, honestly."

"...and the world didn't explode." You breathe. 

MJ answers with a knowing nod. She chugs the rest of a crisp Mojito, raising the empty glass once more. 

"To doing better ."

You're quick to follow. "To doing better."

Lyla frowns, looking for a glass that's tucked into the corner. The room must be spinning already, with the way she pats around for it. You nudge it towards her with an elbow, and she's raucous; crumpling into a fit of giggles. 

One drink turns to two, two turns to three, and then four ; until you're ready to spill out onto the busy strip. When the waiter places a slip of paper into the centre, one with so many zeroes it makes your eyes bulge, you don't even have to pretend to reach for your wallet. Gleefully, Lyla picks up the bill, sliding a shiny Amex card onto the dish. 

She's generous, you note, as she buys a bottle of wine to go when MJ picks up her bag. She's perceptive, too. You see it when MJ wrings her hands, still tipsy and stuttering in her heels as you pile onto the street. She's making apologies already - I've got an early start and need to see my May - but Lyla intercepts. There's the gentle clink of a bottle thrust into her hands, something expensive, and she kisses the apples of her cheeks before sending her off in a taxi. 

Her own cheeks are ruddy, rosy with drink and she splits into a wide smile. The back of her hand comes up to your neck. Warm , she whispers, before linking arms with you like a schoolgirl off to do something they shouldn't. 

Eventually, with shaky legs, you end up in a nightclub. She knows someone who knows someone, apparently, and you're ushered into a packed place just off 76th. Lights and pounding music, a flurry of limbs; you let the crowd take you in. If this is what it means to be a part of a whole; some writhing, heaving beast, to be more than your hand in someone else's and theirs in yours; then you could live here forever, you think. Forever, for the night, for the next ten minutes; you blink , and time passes. 

You're having fun, you think. Letting the blood rush to your head, hips swaying to the music and you don't push away the quiet snap of a phone camera, nor it's red recording light. Dancing, singing, many seem to be pulled into orbit around you. This is how it works , pushed into an ebb and flow of people held together by broken lyrics and a thumping bassline. You let it wash over you, all-consuming, dragging yourself into murky depths. 

You're in a booth, now, anchored by a dainty hand around your wrist. Pupils blown, she cups your face to inspect you, to figure out where you've gone. Someone's bought you a drink, there's a stranger's arm around your shoulders, but Lyla pushes them both away. Too much? It's a question, of which you shake your head firmly - lolling and with a distinct lack of fine motor skills - no. Not enough. 

You blink. Bitter liquor hits your throat, and you chase the taste of somebody else's lips. A stranger, and even under the influence you know it doesn't feel right. Bile rises, and you're gone, clamping onto your stomach and trying not to hurl. 

You blink. You're on the sidewalk, with a heavy head on someone's shoulder. The strap of your heels dig into your ankles and you fumble with it, trying to stop the road from spinning. Lyla holds you up, not much more up to task than you are. 

A car pulls up, and at first you don't recognise it; entranced by shiny rims coming to a stop. You look up, still buried in Lyla's thick jacket; and you see it. You see him. 

Miguel's wearing glasses. That's the first thing you notice, stumbling to your feet. Immediately, your face cracks into a dopey smile, leaning onto the lip of the open window. He gives you a once over, swallowing thickly, brows drawn. 

Quiet chatter flys straight over your head. Lyla arguing, Miguel wagging a finger at her; but all you can see is him. It's like you've got blinkers on, tunnel vision making you focus on the curve of cheekbone, and the way his eyes scrunch up around black rims and glass. 

You clamber into the backseat.

“Get in, Ly.”

The other woman seems resolute. “ M'not –”

“Did you take something?”

“Fuck you.” Flashing a middle finger, she wraps up her coat like a robe, walking away down the road. 

He's adamant, driving up next to her. You keep your head on the glass where it's cool.

“Let me take you home. Please. ”

Frowning, she stops. When he leans over to open the passenger's side, she slips off her boots, and sidles in.

Their voices feel like a blur. You can barely register, only picking up half of the words hissed under their breath.

“... I called you, you can't give me a lecture…”

“...not fair, Lyla…. can't keep babysitting…”

“... fucking hypocrite… not the only one… I'm going through some shit…”

“...too far…. always taking it too…”

He drops her off outside of the apartment. From the backseat, you're sobering up; able to catch his heavy sigh as he watches her through the window. It's only when he sees her walk in does he turn to you, passing bottled water kept in the console.

“You want to come out to the front?”

You like the way he says it, for some reason. Any anger or frustration he had towards Lyla dissipates. He doesn't bring that into a quiet conversation with you.

He's too solemn, too serious, and so you clamber into the front over the console; limbs and legs everywhere, as obnoxiously as you can. A slight elbow to his chest, a hand clutching his shirt; you want to make him laugh. As you settle onto the seat, you see it: huffing dramatically, he gives you a small smile.

Miguel reverses back out onto the road.

You blink, and you're home. Legs still shaky, he helps you up the stairs, settling you onto the sofa. Car keys clink onto the dish by the door, and he slips off his coat – that brown one, your favourite, you think.

Fumbling with the strap of your heels, it must be too painful for him to watch as Miguel settles by your feet. His big, strong hands are surprisingly deft when he undoes the dainty buckle.

“Are you mad at me?” Meekishly, you watch and he shakes his head, not making eye-contact. Maybe it's the alcohol, but you're staring; looking for that light in his eyes amongst the dark room. 

Now, he looks up. “What?”

“M'just looking.” You say, chewing the inside of your cheek as one shoe slips off. “ I'm not allowed to look?”

The other one comes off, and he hisses when he spots a little cut where the strap dug into your ankle. He can't help it, rolling it gently in his hands, trying to ease the pain with a massage.

“You wear glasses.” You say it softly, more to yourself than to anyone else. Giggling now, you cradle his face and he sits up. “I didn't know that.”

“ That's not – I've always worn glasses. You're just not paying attention.” He shrugs lazily, but he's smiling.

“Not true , Mig. I would've noticed.”

“You're drunk–”

“When it's you, I always pay attention.” Absent-mindedly, your hand curls into his hair. He keens . “Like… your hair's getting longer.”

Gently, he shakes out of your grip, getting up. “I know, I know. I need a haircut.”

“I like it.” Starry-eyed, you look up at him. “You're so pretty, Mig.”

It makes him heave. Still tipsy, your legs spread ever so slightly, hand taking his and pulling him closer. Placing his hand on your thigh, you let it trace up, up, up, catching at the hem of your short dress.

He practically caves in, collapsing next to you on the couch. 

“You should–” His eyes are glassy as you ease yourself onto his lap. “ F-Fuck . You should go to bed, sweetheart.”

Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, you roll your hips, watching as he groans wantonly. 

“But I'm not tired.” His hand ends up on your waist, applying just the right amount of pressure. Underneath, you can feel him stir, increasingly hard under loose sweats. “And you haven't touched me in weeks. ”

You're exaggerating, but it goes to his head anyway. He buries his head into the crook of your shoulder, whispering into the bare skin.

“I know, I know…”

“Just the tip, Miguel.” You're grinding your clit onto him, pussy barely covered by a thin thong. Whispered into the shell of his ear, you're a siren, honeyed words dangerously close to breaking him down. “Just the tip, and I promise , I'll let it go. Please , baby.”

Your dress rides up, and his hands come down to palm at your ass.

“ Please…” You're pleading, lips on his neck as he squeezes, forcing you down to hump directly over his cock.

“Oh, shit.” His hips jump once, twice; and then he stills, hands at your hips and ass to stop you.

Desperate, you whine, trying to fight against it. He doesn't let up, hand cradling your chin so you can look him in the eye.

“ Bed .” He says, shakily. “Not like this.”

He slips you off, noticeably adjusting his pants. Legs spread wide, head tipped back as he sighs; he looks delicious , and you're fighting off the urge to let him take you right there and then. 

You stumble through the little hallway, pushing past some doors. Something clatters into your thigh, and you hear a dull thud as another thing falls to the floor. Frustrated, you strip down to your underwear, something light and lacy and it leaves very little to the imagination. 

There's a bed, and you collapse on it; swimming in the silky sheets. It smells like him - musky and oaky and gentle - and you think you must be dreaming already. And then, you sit up, realising too late - this isn't your room. 

Miguel wasn't too far off, hearing the thumping and clattering; hesitant as he opens the door. You're wrapped up like a present, spilling out of lingerie on his bed. He swallows, turning away to dig into his wardrobe, intending to pull out a baggy shirt for you.

“ Miguel .” You croak, but he ignores the want in your voice, so heavy it goes straight to his cock. “Miguel, please. ”

All his shirts blend together. He can't concentrate.

“Do you think I don't want it? Because I do, fuck, I need it. So bad, baby, please.” Your body heaves with a half sob. 

Heart splintering, he turns. Finally, you meet his eye. You spread your legs.

“ Here. Right here .” You tap your clothed cunt with shaky fingers, pulling your thong to the side. His eyes drink it up, the way you glisten when your cunt eats up the fabric. You know he's watching, and you take advantage of it, circling your clit with the pads of two fingers. “Like this . When I touch myself, I think of you… d-did you know that?”

Swallowing roughly, he can't take his eyes off of you.

“What… What else?” He croaks.

“I think of your tongue, a-at my pussy. And your fingers… God. ” You slip a finger in, and he watches as your cunt clenches around it; gushing and sloppy. “Your l-lips. Meant it, before. When I said you were pretty. Want to sit on that pretty face and watch you melt– oh-h- fuck- ”

He wants to lick it up, all that slick that sluices from your hole. His mouth waters, just thinking about it. 

“Put another one in, for me.” He says it low, sinking to his knees to watch you fuck yourself. 

Nodding, you oblige. 

“Does it feel good?”

“ Yes. ” You don't hesitate. 

“Can you fit another one? Want to see how good she looks when she comes, sweetheart.”

Three fingers in, now, and he slides your thong a little further aside; reaching up to press his thumb to your clit. Light streams in from blinds cracked open and highlights your thighs perfectly. Nevertheless, he adjusts his glasses to make sure he doesn't miss anything.

The twitch of your leg, the way your hand cramps up, the way your lips curl into a delicious O - he sees it all, commits it to memory.

“ Faster , please.”

“ Doesn't –” You're frustrated, clearly chasing something that refuses to surface. “Not the same. Can't fucking reach. ”

He titters, nipping at your thighs and soothing the bites with the flat of his tongue.

“Poor baby. Will you let me help?”

Fervently, you nod, slipping out your fingers as he takes off his glasses. They're discarded, too foggy to be useful right now.

“Did I tell you to take them out?” He sighs and gestures for your hand. Wrapping his lips around them he sucks them clean, humming lightly. He pats your clit with a wet slap, content. “Put two fingers in, sweetheart.”

Doing as he says, your head feels full - cotton wool and bubble wrap, only able to focus on the pleasure building behind your clit. And when he slots two fingers in next to yours , it rips out a gravelly moan. 

“ Here? ” He says dragging himself deeper, curling his fingers up. “Or is it… here? ”

You groan, limp against his hand as you feel impossibly full. It reminds you of the stretch of his cock; creaming around the base of his two fingers and yours. That wonderful curl as he pumps himself in and out, cupping your hand in the process to make sure you match his pace. He can feel your walls spasm around him, impossibly soft and velveteen. 

“Can't say no to you,” His eyes are low, grunting as he palms himself roughly. “Even though… fuck … even though I should.”

It's wet, the slap slap slap of skin against skin echoing in his room. Miguel sits up, pressing his lips to your neck, and you take the opportunity to slip your other hand into his sweats. You start pumping, in time with his ministrations, eyes blown as you swipe your thumb over his weeping slit.

You know he likes it rough, and you jerk him into your palm; fast and hard and you watch as he matches your pace. Even now, you're competing, trying to catch the him up; to see who can make the other cum first. 

You push back on his fingers, hips slotting against his, whispering nonsense into his neck. You're too fucked out to care; confessions you never thought would see the light of day. All the little things you like about him, things he says, things he does; and you don't even register the ochred flush smattered along the ridge of cheekbone.

He spills into your hand, and you're quick to follow; cumming around him as his fingers stutter in and out. It feels good , dangerously so, and has you pressing shaky kisses around his mouth, and nipping at his bottom lip.

He stills, but you're greedy, aching for more. You want him in you; seating his thick cock deep inside, painting your walls with hot cum, and pushing it back in with deft fingers. Every part of you is on fire, barely satiated by your heated foray.

You tip back onto the bed, and he joins you; caging you in with thick forearms, looking at you like you've stolen all the stars in the sky. That feeling , again, slams into your chest like a bullet. Messy hair, ruddy cheeks, hand gently tracing your jaw; he looks gone, and oh so soft. You want to kiss him ; and it's a thought that sticks, embedding itself somewhere you can't reach to dig it out.

“ Miguel .” You whisper, enough alcohol at the edges of your mind to stop thinking and spill your guts to him, unfiltered. “Are you sleeping with someone else?”

His eyes flit over your face before answering and he shakes his head. 

“No. No. Just you. Only you.” 

“ Don't believe you .” But you want to. So, so desperately. “Promise me?”

“I promise, sweetheart.” He swallows. “Are you?”

“No. Don't think I could if I tried.” It comes out watery, stuck at the back of your throat.

He just looks, for a moment, cradling the back of your head. 

“I want to kiss you.” It spills out from your lips.

“I know.” 

“Then why won't you kiss me?”

“Not a good idea.” He strains, kissing your forehead, and then each cheek. Hesitating, he places a gentle peck to your chin. “Ask me tomorrow.”

He says it simply, too easily; and it makes you want to sob. When Miguel slips away, and you hear the sound of a light turned on in the bathroom, you can't move. Catatonic; you blink, and he's cleaned you up, and slipped a shirt over your shoulders. Laying back in his bed, you watch as he lingers by the doorway, shrouded in shadow. 

Goodnight. Y ou think you say it out loud, but it echoes in your head. 

He says back, but not really. Instead, he leaves that goodnight hanging by the doorway like an old coat, and you wrap it over your shoulders. 

It keeps you a little warmer through the night.

_

_

_

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[serpentface]

@mouseymagus

(Oma refers to the major territorial divisions of the contemporary Burri Republic, each with their own citizen-elected provincial government)

The other two omas are Titenegal and Bur proper.

Titenegal is the smallest oma but the most urbanized and densely populated. This was formerly the capital of the 2nd Burri empire, and retains much of its infrastructure. In the contemporary, it's still the center of government as well as the primary trade hub, with both critical inner-seaway access and occupying the far western end of a long inland trade route.

The vast majority of its population is in the city, and this urban population is too large to be supported by the surrounding farmlands and is instead mostly sustained by grain exported from other omas. It's very wealthy and has notably outsized sway on the Burri Republic's government. This is also the oma that is most buddy-buddy with Imperial Wardin (the entire republic's government considers it a trade ally and has cautiously friendly relations, but Titenegal's provincial government has VERY close connections).

About 10% of the city Titenegal's population is of Wardi ethnicity and/or recent ancestry, and almost half of its population practices the Faith of the Seven Faced God (though significantly less practices it Exclusively). This religious division across the Burri sphere (in which the Faith has been adopted by a small but sizeable minority) has been a major source of cultural conflict in recent history, with many people migrating to the fairly Wardi Faith-friendly oma of Titenegal to gain citizen rights and escape localized conflict and persecution (as well as outright migrating across the sea to Imperial Wardin outright).

[[TANGENT: The Burri Republic's overall stance on foreign religions/internal religious minorities can be Loosely described as tolerant, with no explicit expectations for conversion or explicitly codified second-class status for minorities. HOWEVER the institution of Burri citizenship is heavily conceptualized around civic duties towards the gods via orthopraxic participation in public rites, and thus religious minorities effectively Must convert (at least Partially) in order to become citizens. Citizenship also involves swearing an oath to the gods, which is very serious business- most people believe that oaths are metaphysically binding with material consequences for lying or breaking an oath. Being a non-citizen deprives a person of significant protections and privileges and any form of direct representation in government, and as such most religious minorities tend to occupy vulnerable and disenfranchised roles.

Titenegal is the one oma that has loosened its requirements for citizenship in very recent history, reframing civic duties to the gods as civic duties to Titenegal, and requiring oaths sworn Only to that name. This is sneaky, because 'Titenegal' is both the name of the city and an epithet of its patron goddess Vazhirum, who is herself venerated as an agricultural epithet of the Face Mitlamache in the Burri sect of the Faith. Thus, both strict followers of the Burri pantheon and the Burri sect of the Faith are not forced to swear oaths against their respective practices in order to attain Titen citizenship.]]

---

Bur is the second largest oma, occupying the fertile lowlands around and between the Yamage and Hsuke rivers. This is the breadbasket of the region and feeds most of the Burri Republic's populace, producing the vast bulk of its grain/legumes (the staples here are maize, barley, chickpeas and mung beans). Most of its population is agricultural laborers.

The eponymous city of Bur is the second most populous city in the region, and ostensibly the oldest (and one of the oldest human settlements in the world In General). It has not actually been continually inhabited however, as the original 'Old Bur' was entirely abandoned to flooding by 600 years BP. The contemporary city of Bur developed out of flood refugee settlements (which themselves had to be slowly moved inland over the next century until sea levels stabilized) and is a dim shadow of its predecessor, which once had a population of around 700,000 people in its peak (a number that has not been hit by any single human settlement since). It's regained some status as a major urban center in the present day, being heavily involved with the southwestern White Sea trade system and having very lucrative fisheries.

---

The entire region partially overlaps with the latitudes of southern Imperial Wardin, but has a pretty drastically different climate (due to its position relative to the sea and lacking a rainshadow effect). Its seasonal rainfall patterns are similar in that they peak in the winter/spring months, but the summers are significantly less dry. It also benefits from two MAJOR river systems draining from the plateau/mountains (the Yamage and Hsuke rivers). These factors make very large portions of its interior suitable for settled and fairly intensive agricultural practices.

Its intact ecosystems consist of coastal prairies, conifer and mixed broadleaf forests, a few pockets of inland grassland, salt marshes, freshwater lakes and wetlands, and alpine grassland/steppe in its highlands+plateau.

With the collapse of Imperial Bur, the region was gradually cut off from its colonial grain extraction that had supported its vast population. At the time of the coup that formed the Burri Republic, much of its populace was starving. The new government turned inwards with intensive agricultural development projects to feed its people. This tremendously benefited the stability of this new regime, but resulted in significant swaths of its original biomes being heavily degraded or entirely lost (particularly parts of its wetlands and lowland broadleaf forests).

---

Here's an VERY rough go of a map attempting to translate what's in my head into a feasible layout. This is extremely subject to change (especially the outlines of the northern and southern 'borders')

(the actual City of Titenegal rests at the northern side of the Yamage river (the north one). The city of Bur proper rests at the south end of the Hsuke river (the south one), and has basically just been Moved Over A Bit from the flooded remains of Old Bur. Kosov is the only of the three regions that didn't start as a city-state. The bulk of it is the last remnants of colonial holdings from the former two Burri Empires, though it has its own elected government (not without considerable systemic inequality, especially in the northeast where most of the population is nomadic ethnic minorities).)

[aimeedaisies]

The Princess Royal’s Official Engagements in October 2024

01/10 As Court Member of the Fishmongers’ Company, visited a Food Technology Class at Bingley Grammar School. 🐟🏫

As President of the UK Fashion and Textile Association, visited SIL Group’s Fibre Processing Mill at Ladywell Mills in Bradford. 🧵🧣

Visited Viking Arms Limited in Harrogate. ⚔️🏹🗡️

02/10 Visited Blackburn Meadows Bio-Mass Power Plant in Tinsley, Sheffield. 🍃🔋

Visited Sheffield Forgemasters. 🔥⚒️

Visited Loadhog at the Hog Works. 🚛🚚

Opened the University of Sheffield’s Gene Therapy Innovation and Manufacturing Centre. 🧬

03/10 As President of Carers Trust, attended the Short Breaks Wales Conference at Sophia Gardens Cricket Ground in Cardiff. 🦽🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿

As Colonel of The Blues and Royals (Royal Horse Guards and 1st Dragoons), attended the Annual Dinner at the Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park Hotel in Knightsbridge, London. 💂🍽️

04/10 As Vice Patron of the British Horse Society attended the Changing Lives Through Horses Forum at Saddlers' Hall in London. 🐎

08/10 As President of the Royal Yachting Association, opened Warsash Sailing Club’s renovated Clubhouse. ⛵️🍾

As Patron of Catch22, visited the Orion Centre in Havant, Hampshire. 🫂

Sir Tim represented Princess Anne at the Memorial Service for Mrs Julia Rausing (Philanthropist) which was held in St James’s Church in London. ⛪️

09/10 Attended the Annual National Service for Seafarers in St. Paul's Cathedral. ⛪️⚓️

10/10 As Patron of the Royal College of Emergency Medicine, attended the Annual Scientific Conference at the Glasshouse International Centre for Music in Gateshead. 💊

As Patron of the Butler Trust, visited North Tyneside Youth Justice System in North Shields. 🔗

Opened a renovated manufacturing facility in North Shields. 🏢

11/10 As Admiral of the Sea Cadet Corps, Marine Society and Sea Cadets, opened Midlands Boat Station in Birmingham. 🫡⛵️

As Chancellor of Harper Adams University, opened the Digital Learning Hub at the Quad in Telford. 🖥️💻🎮

As Patron of YSS Limited, visited the Criminal Justice Service at the Shropshire Golf Centre in Telford. 👩‍⚖️

14/10 As Guardian of Give Them A Sporting Chance and the Chaffinch Trust, held Management Board and Team Meetings at Gatcombe Park. 💼

15/10 With Sir Tim as Royal Patron of the Motor Neurone Disease Association, attended the “Countdown to Cure” Reception at the Royal College of Nursing in London. 💊

With Sir Tim As Patron of the Remembrance Trust, attended a Dinner at the Beefsteak Club in London. 🌹

16/10 As Royal Patron of the Security Institute, attended the Annual Conference at the Royal Society of Medicine. 🚨🔒

As Master of the Corporation of Trinity House, attended a Civic Luncheon at Trinity House. 🍽️

As Royal Patron of WISE, attended the Annual Conference at IET London: Savoy Place. 🧩

17/10 As Patron of the Cathedral Church of Saint German Peel Development Appeal attended a Thanksgiving Service in St German’s Cathedral, Peel, Isle of Man. 🇮🇲⛪️

Visited the Manx National Heritage “All at Sea” Exhibition at the House of Manannan in Peel, Isle of Man. 🇮🇲 🌊

As Grand Master of the Royal Victorian Order, attended Evensong and a Reception at The King’s Chapel of the Savoy in London. ⛪️🍾

As President of the Royal Society for the encouragement of Arts, Manufactures and Commerce, attended a Reception to mark the 250th Anniversary of RSA House. 🎂

Unofficial Sir Tim, as Chair of the Board of Trustees of the Science Museum Group, attended the launch of the Manchester Science Festival at the Science and Industry Museum in Manchester. 🧪🧬🔭

18/10 On behalf of The King, held an Investiture at Buckingham Palace. 🎖️

Attended a performance by the Spanish Riding School of Vienna at OVO Arena in Wembley. 🇦🇹🇪🇸🐎

19/10 With Sir Tim Attended British Champions Day at Ascot Racecourse. 🏆🐎

22/10 As Master of the Corporation of Trinity House, chaired the Quarterly Meeting of the Court and attended a Luncheon at Trinity House. 💼

As Patron of UK Coaching, held a Reception at Buckingham Palace to celebrate Olympic and Paralympic Coaching. 🇬🇧🏅

23/10 Attended a Bicentenary Commemorative Service to recognise the Scottish Fire and Rescue Service in St Giles’ Cathedral, Edinburgh. 🚒🧯👨‍🚒

As Royal Patron of Leuchie Forever Fund, held a Benefactors’ Dinner at the Palace of Holyroodhouse. 🍽️

24/10 Re-opened the Rowan Glen Factory at Palnure, near Newton Stewart. 🍶

As Patron of the Royal College of Occupational Therapists, opened the new wing at West Cumberland Hospital in Whitehaven. 🏥

With Sir Tim As Patron of the Royal Navy and Royal Marines Charity, attended the Trafalgar Night Dinner at the Old Royal Naval College in Greenwich. ⚓️🫡🍽️

25/10 Opened the British Standards Institution International Electrotechnical Commission Annual Meeting at the Edinburgh International Conference Centre. 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🔋

28/10 Attended the Prison Advice and Care Trust’s 125th Anniversary National Volunteer Awards at St John’s Church in London. 🏆

29/10 On behalf of The King, held morning and afternoon investitures at Windsor Castle.🎖️

31/10 Visited the Robotic Surgery Unit at Musgrove Park Hospital in Taunton. 🤖🏥

Attended a Reception for the Pride of Somerset Youth Awards winners at Bridgwater and Taunton College. 🏆

Was installed as Chancellor of Health Sciences University before launching the University in Bournemouth. 🎓

As Patron of Save the Children UK, attended the Autumn in the City Dinner at the Savoy in London. 🍽️

Total official engagements for Anne in September: 58

2024 total so far: 371

Total official engagements accompanied/represented by Tim in September: 5

2024 total so far: 91

FYl - due to certain royal family members being off ill/in recovery I won't be posting everyone's engagement counts out of respect, I am continuing to count them and release the totals at the end of the year.

[hkthatgffan]

Here's something to think about: Phineas and Ferb originally ended a few days before Trump announced his 2016 presidential run. Now, the Phineas and Ferb revival premiered the same day that Trump and Elon broke up.

OMG you're right. Phineas and Ferb originally ended on June 12, 2015 and Trump announced his run on June 16, 2015. Phineas and Ferb was what was keeping America intact and the second it ended, it began to go to shit. Now that it back, all hell is breaking loose with the Donald. Phineas and Ferb is now officially both a possible recession indicator and quite literally the cure to America's insane political nightmare (JK).

No but FR, that's kinda crazy how close all that happened. I mean, in June 2015 I was mourning P&F's end and barely gave a AF about Trump. Oh, how I miss the days when we all thought him running for president was a huge joke and he'd drop out before the primaries. I think the bigger surprise was how easily so many fell for him and gave him the vote. Really makes you realize that just cause someone is voting age, doesn't mean they really know wtf they're about to vote for or who for. I mean, I saw a post about Tim Walz saying that his son told him people he knew voted for Trump for the entertainment factor instead of knowing what he'd do. If that's who is voting, then we all are quite literally fucked. Everyone jokes but when the time comes to actually cast your vote and pick the person who quite frankly will be given the power to change not only your life but everyone else's for better or worse, you would hope you and everyone else did your homework and is voting based on actual policy and fact, rather than cause some fuckhead streamer on Kick said vote for Trump cause it would be funny.

Civics lessons should be a mandatory thing at this point to pass to be eligible to vote alongside being old enough. Even here in Canada we got idiots like this who think Canadian politics work like US politics and get surprised when they see something that they would know if they passed grade 10 civics. TBH, I quite literally cannot wait till 2028 when he finally is not able to run for another term and I never have to hear his name again. F in the chat for all future kids who will have to learn about all this in history class though.

Side note, while on the subject of cartoons having dates that are close to events related to Trump, can we also talk about how close we came to Gravity Falls being cursed by him? Think about it; Donald Trump was born on June 14th and Gravity Falls began on June 15th.

Had GF aired one day earlier, or Trump was born one day later, then one of the greatest cartoons to ever air would share birthdays with the worst president America has ever had.

We quite literally avoided the unthinkable by mere hours!

I love June. It's my favourite month of the year. I was born in this month and so was one of my favourite shows, as well as another returning. It just sucks it was also HIS birth month too, lmao.

And you know...also the month Hudson's Bay shut down after being ruined by the Americans.

Moral of the story, Americans ruin everything, lol (JK, I love America...just not the US government like pretty much all of us do. Call me in 2028 when he's out so I can travel safely there again cause I wanna visit Confusion Hill, bro!).

[alex51324]

Here's another good article from Vox, explaining the nomination process and how it goes from here.

The key thing is that the Democrats are, actually, managing to act in a decisive and unified fashion!

The Democratic nominee for President will need the votes of at least 1,986 delegates* to the National Convention. According to this tracker by the Associated Press, as of 10 PM on Monday, 7/22, Kamala Harris has 2,268. There are also 54 delegates who have put their names down for "undecided," and the rest the AP hasn't heard back from yet. In other words, no one has broken ranks by floating another name.

Harris has also been endorsed by the Party chairs of all 50 states, as well as by leaders at the national level, and a substantial chunk of the people who might otherwise have tossed their hats into the ring, if all this had happened in, say, February, instead of 29 days before the Convention.

(*If you need a refresher from Civics class, the delegates are the people that we technically picked in the primary--although we probably didn't pay much attention to anything other than which candidate they had pledged to vote for. Biden dropping out of the race does away with their pledges; now they're on their honor to “in all good conscience reflect the sentiments of those who elected them.” Their role is usually a formality--although it can be a fairly prestigious one.

Now, the Democratic National Committee is meeting Wednesday to decide on the specifics of the process--and, to be clear, they get to do that.

The nomination of the Democratic Party's candidate for President is, strictly speaking, an internal Party matter. No matter how desperately Donald Trump would like to make it somehow his business, he does not get a say in how the Democrats nominate his opponent.)

[vinylespassion]

Ralph Marterie, 1961

Ralph Marterie était un chef d'orchestre de big band et trompettiste italo-américain, né le 24 décembre 1914 à Acerra, en Italie, et décédé le 10 octobre 1978 à Dayton, Ohio, aux États-Unis.

Emigré aux États-Unis pendant son enfance, Marterie s'installe à Chicago, où son père joue dans l'orchestre de l'Opéra Civic. Il commence à jouer de la trompette à l'adolescence et, dès l'âge de 14 ans, se produit professionnellement. ​

Dans les années 1940, il joue pour divers orchestres et, pendant la Seconde Guerre mondiale, dirige un orchestre de la marine américaine. Après la guerre, il est engagé par le réseau ABC Radio, ce qui le conduit à signer un contrat d'enregistrement avec Mercury Records en 1949. Marterie connaît plusieurs succès dans les années 1950, notamment avec ses reprises instrumentales de "Caravan" et "Pretend", qui atteignent le Top 10 des charts américains. En 1954, sa version de "Skokiaan" se classe troisième aux États-Unis. Il est également l'un des premiers chefs d'orchestre à adapter des titres de rock 'n' roll, avec sa reprise de "Crazy, Man, Crazy" de Bill Haley en 1953, qui atteint la 13e place du classement Billboard. Son style musical, bien que principalement orienté vers la pop orchestrale, intègre des éléments de swing et de jazz. Malgré l'évolution des goûts musicaux vers le rock 'n' roll, Marterie parvient à maintenir une certaine popularité grâce à son adaptabilité et à la diversité de son répertoire. ​

Ralph Marterie continue de se produire et d'enregistrer tout au long des années 1960 et 1970. Il décède d'une crise cardiaque le 10 octobre 1978, alors qu'il est en tournée à Dayton, Ohio.

[hirocimacruiser]

Honda Civic brochure pages.

CIVIC

The Super Civic was a new trend car with economy and dynamic performance suited to the 1980s.

1300 S

1500 SC

It perfectly combines the best fuel economy in the 1500cc class with powerful driving performance.

Resource and energy conservation are common themes around the world. The new CIVIC is available with a new engine system that takes advantage of the excellent combustion efficiency of the lean burn method, which is the greatest advantage of the CVCC engine. It offers not only excellent fuel economy, but also low maintenance costs and a low price.

10 mode driving, Ministry of Transport inspection value

1500CE model E-SR 18 km/l

60km/h constant speed test value

28km/l 1500CE, GF (5 door) Model E/SR, Model E-ST

And yet, it still has the powerful driving feel of a sports car. It's truly a Super Civic.

For example, the new cliff-cut panel in front of the passenger seat provides enough space that there is no need to push the seat back.

An aerodynamic body that provides a smooth ride.

The styling minimizes air resistance and is focused on practical aerodynamics. It is agile in urban areas and stable and smooth on the highway. The new suspension grips the road firmly.

The springs of the front and rear suspensions have been offset to provide a more comfortable ride. The rear also uses a new Honda-style strut system, a world first, to ensure sufficient compliance. The suspension is much tighter.

1300・5-door LX

A new instrument panel.

The functions necessary for driving are concentrated around the driver. The centralized target meter () that places the speedometer and tachometer in one view, as well as the newly designed rotary channel radio, are also standard equipment. The design is easy to see and use.

A large, international-sized interior designed for the world.

Compared to conventional 5-door vehicles, the interior length is 25 mm longer and the interior width is 35 mm wider. Furthermore, the clever use of each space has resulted in an amazingly efficient interior.

All models are fully open hatchbacks.

It is a big opening that opens to the full width of the body from a low position, that is, just above the bumper. Moreover, the interior floor is low and flat. Large and wide objects can be easily loaded. The three-stage variable rear seat is extremely practical. It is a design that prioritizes ease of use.

1500 3door CX

Wild ride. CX

1500 3door CE

CIVIC

1500 5door CF

1300・3-door SE Model E-SL Engine model EJ ●CVCC・1,335cm2・Water-cooled inline 4-cylinder horizontally mounted OHC-68 horsepower ●Fuel economy 22km/ℓ(60km/h・flat road test value)●Front-wheel drive●Overall length 3,760mmOverall width 1,580mm ●Strut-type four-wheel independent suspension●Front-wheel disc brakes ●4-speed

1500, 3-door CE, Model E-SR, Engine model EM CVCC-1.488cm2, water-cooled in-line 4-cylinder, horizontally mounted, OHC-80 horsepower, Fuel economy 28km/ℓ (60km/h, constant speed test value), 18km/ℓ (10 mode running, Ministry of Transport review value), Front-wheel drive, Overall length 3,760mm, Overall width 1,580mm, Strut-type four-wheel independent suspension, Front wheels, Disc brakes with servo, 5-row

*1500-3 door SE is made to order.

If you're looking for a Civic, visit your local Honda dealer.

CIVIC VAN

Gentle on luggage and gentle on people. The capable Civic Van is born.

The luggage compartment is 1,520mm long (with two occupants), 1,270mm wide at its widest point, and 805mm high, making it spacious and easy to handle. Highly refined quality. Powerful and robust dynamic performance. Extremely quiet and safe, this is the birth of a reliable business car that pursues a high level of harmony between passengers and business.

1300-5 door SV, LV model J-VC Engine model EN 1,335cm * Water-cooled inline 4-cylinder horizontal OHC, 70 horsepower ● Fuel economy 18.5km/(60km/h, constant speed test value) ● Front wheel drive ● Overall length 3,995mm, overall width 1,580m, overall height 1,385mm ● Front wheel servo disc brakes ● 4-speed

[piosplayhouse]

please rate this horse I spent $30 on the special edition for these post cards

It's alright. The horse equivalent of a used Honda Civic- serviceable but not particularly remarkable or symbolic in any way. The horse itself is pretty good, if pretty anachronistically large (period accurate horses would be the size of modern day ponies, especially in China where there would be a strong bloodline from Mongolian horses which are notably small). They should really not be riding double because they'd definitely exceed the weight limit on that horse but when I said that on twitter a bunch of people got mad at me and said it's just because one of the guys was dying or something so I guess it gets a pass for the emergency. Tack is incredibly disappointing but I also heard that's due to the emergency situation, still would've liked to see some nice tassels or metal parts on the bridle if the characters are supposed to be upper class (I have not read this book sorry) (is this the one where they have sex on a horse I forgot). Rating is probably 5/10, 3/10 if they're the guys that have sex on the horse. The rest of the picture is really pretty though so I think it was worth it

[patscorner]

what classes do u have? i can try to help if ive taken the class love

civics, algebra 2, English 10, Spanish 1, robotics, pltw intro to engineering, chemistry, and team sports

[jtl-fics]

Happy Wednesday my love!!! Could I please have some New Kings this week?

7/10/24 WIP Wednesday (Closed) | New Kings AU

Neil’s happy to sit in the back at the arraignment, he’s been there all day stating that he’s there for a civics class. He watches as Drake’s public defender insists that his client is not a flight risk, that he has ties to the community, that his parents were pillars of the community.

He hides a giggle when Drake’s legs shake as his bail is set at $250,000.00.

Drake looks as terrible in orange as Neil always knew he would and it is a shame that he wouldn’t be able to wear it for long. 

[p5x-theories]

Other Notable NPCs

(last updated 4/10/25!)

This post will be a quick rundown of all the other relevant NPCs introduced in the main storyline of the game so far. Note that Palace Rulers have been moved to their own post here!

School-Related

Mr. Hakozaki (left) is class 2C's science teacher. He's somewhat jumpy, and admits he doesn't spend a lot of time around other people, even idolizing a historical scientist who never shared the results of his research with anyone. Still, he seems extremely passionate about the science he teaches, even if he's anxious about actually teaching it to a group of students.

Mr. Shimonuma (right) is class 2C's civics teacher. He doesn't seem to have much faith in his students, and primarily enjoys when they don't know an answer, so he can correct them. He's stern in a slightly sadistic way, though he hasn't yet been seen to go so far as throwing chalk at his students (like Ushimaru does to Joker); it's all verbal.

Mr. Endo (left) is class 2C's English teacher. He's somewhat casual, with a slightly disinterested vibe, but he evidently know his subject, and doesn't seem to be slacking on teaching it. Still, he complains about the strangeness of English sometimes, and once mentions that he wishes the whole world spoke Esperanto.

Ms. Taniyama (right) is class 2C's world history teacher. She's friendly, and seems gentle with her students, while of course displaying a knowledge of and interest in her subject. She seems to have some interest in various forms of divination, though it only comes up offhandedly.

Mr. Nagara (left) is class 2C's literature teacher. He's very passionate and enthusiastic about his subject, and seems to generally feel emotions deeply. At the same time, he seems somewhat prone to tangents. He's the type to laugh at his own jokes, and is overall very reactive.

Kokatsu's Dean of Student Affairs is a man named Yamanashi (right). Yamanashi has a level of authority at the school, but he's still quick to become nervous if questioned or called out in any way, even if he stubbornly puts his foot down about whatever is under question. He tends to push any work he can off to Riko Tanemura (and then brag about how capable she is), and is quick to follow Akashi's new policies when they sound like they're in line with what the school wants, without much critical thinking.

His Shadow later appears in the third Palace, as Akashi's victim after Katayama, though his desires aren't strong or distorted enough to provide much power. Still, the Phantom Thieves manage to inspire a change of heart in him without stealing his Treasure, and the real-world Akashi resigns at the end of Chapter 3.

Other

Merope is Wonder's Velvet Room attendant. Though she has a very calm, collected, and straightforward demeanor, she is very dedicated to helping him however she can, including coming up with the idea of (and creating) the Phantom Idols that help him in combat.

She is also a Confidant of his, and it revolves around her "special project" to help improve his skills further. However, she is very interested in idols and idol culture- apparently believing them to be similar to the role Wonder plays- and much of her "special project" focuses on teaching Wonder more about idols, and how to be more like one. She is not only focused on being a good idol mentor towards Wonder, but also on herself being a proper idol fan, and refers to having done extensive research on the subject, though in practice she's evidently missing a bit of practical knowledge.

Merope seems to have a fondness for Wonder that may edge into romantic territory, though she's not romanceable. She casually refers to them doing things similar to what a couple might do- such as when they ride a ferris wheel together- and asks Wonder about it. However, as she tends to keep a very matter-of-fact tone, it's difficult to say whether she's actually flirting, or simply gauging his own reaction to understand him better.

More information about Merope's Confidant can be found here.

Marthym is a humanoid shadow that mainly dwells in Mementos. She is a self-described businesswoman, and notably runs the in-game store that takes actual money, as well as allowing players to buy gacha pulls.

Marthym's main story role seems to be her loose function as a guide to Mementos. She explains to the Phantom Thieves how to open up areas using tickets collected on that floor, and mentions that this benefits her as well as them, though she doesn't clarify how.

She also introduces the player to Paradise, which is an area where the player can see their guild, and includes special rotating boss fights that give extra rewards. Again, this seems to be explained as part of her business.

Yamagoshi is the owner of the restaurants Toraiken and Ashouken, and has been running them for a long time, though his wife passed away at some point after their opening but prior to an elementary-school-aged Shun visiting. Miyazawa particularly harasses Yamagoshi, as he wants to be given ownership of Ashouken, especially after Yamagoshi fell ill.

Shun sees him as a surrogate father, and Yamagoshi evidently cares a lot about him as well, as he set aside an heirloom to be given to Shun when he turned 18. [In Wonder's vision, when Shun loses the competition and is declared a phantom, Yamagoshi dies of a heart attack.]

Yamagoshi seems to believe in teaching others, as he opened Ashouken specifically with the intention of it being a place for his employees to learn. He also believes in authentic flavor for his food, and is very proud of the restaurants' ramen's signature taste.

Masa is the person currently running the ramen restaurant Ashouken, though Yamagoshi actually owns it.

Masa is an apprentice of Yamagoshi's, and believes strongly in the same principles as he does. It's mentioned his dream is to open his own restaurant. He's familiar with Shun, and seems fond of him. Prior to the start of the game, however, Masa began to give into Miyazawa's demands for ingredient changes and bribes, even as it ruined Ashouken's food, because he didn't want Yamagoshi's restaurant to die completely.

After trying Shun's ramen in the competition Miyazawa challenged him to, he seems to have come to his senses, and becomes much more willing to stand up to Miyazawa, even if it risks his job. Masa is also the one to inform Shun when Miyazawa formally apologizes.

Masa later reveals that he and Katayama were friends in high school, and delinquents at the time. They seem to still keep in touch, as when Miyazawa got Shun fired from Ashouken, Katayama came to Masa to ask what happened.