#(absolutely ignoring the fact that he's not even cognizant of the real world or knows that Jaiden is dead)

[cosien]

Can't bear the sunset anymore

[bethorz]

There are people on the Foo Fighters subreddit who hate Chris on the absolutely unhinged premise that basically every song he’s ever written has been criticizing Dave and Taylor over their fake love affair that apparently has been non-stop since the moment they met. Imagine thinking a whole ass human with his own life experiences, and lyrics that are obviously so personal and honest, is actually just been dunking on his bandmates (who he has never had anything but good things to say about) because he’s an ungrateful homophobe or something? That this dude who fully broke down in an interview when he just broached the subject of the day Taylor died, has used his solo music to take more swipes at Taylor even after he died. All this based on complete batshit logic that certain extremely common words or phrases or themes MUST be about their specific fanfic narrative.

Stuff like suggesting a song like Overboard obviously a sweet “middle aged” love song for his wife (and he has described it as such), is somehow sinister or calling someone out because it mentions “hiding”. Sounds maybe a little compelling if you say it like that. Except the full line “we can pull the blinds/leave the world behind/i know you like to hide from the daylight” paints such a sweet picture with the rest of the context of song, which is pretty damn clear. Obviously they have never once listened to Chris talk about his songwriting process and make wild assumptions because they don’t actually give a shit about him, he’s just a tool in their narrative. Just like Dave and Taylor really, they don’t care about their actual lived experiences they’ve talked about, their families, their real life relationship with other people or each other… just their own narrative that ignores any inconvenient facts.

They hijack every damn thread about interviews, songwriting or live performances with this stuff, while being condescending to anyone who has a different take because “only they understand”

Like we all have head canons, but have some cognizance of the fact you don’t actually know these people. Keep it to AO3, and when you start giving real people the Skyler White treatment (ie unfair villainization) based on pure speculation maybe go touch some grass

[heauxplesslydevoted]

Survivor’s Remorse (Ethan x f!MC)

Summary: Set after the events of chapter 11, Naomi isn’t handling things as well as she thought she would.

Tags: @takemyopenheart @aylamreads @fanmantrashcan @whatchique @kaavyaethanramsey @ao719 @x-kyne-x @colourmeshy @paulfwesley @writinghereandthere @ramseyandrys @perriewinklenerdie @aworldoffandoms @thatcatlady0716 @drakewalker04 @canknot @hatescapsicum @lapisreviewsstuff @senseofduties @badchoicesposts @ethandaddyramsey @chasingrobbie @zodiacsign1 @choices-lurker @trappedinfandoms @my-heart-beats-for-ya @adrian-motherfucking-raines @riverrune @edith-eggs1 @thatysn @bellcat2010 @theeccentricbibliophile @cecilecontrera @junehiratas @choices-love-affair @openheart12 @caseyvalentineramsey @desmaranj @nazario-sayeed @aestheticartsx @ruinedbypixels @mvalentine @nooruleman @rookie-ramsey

~v~

Naomi getting discharged into Ethan’s care seemed like a natural next step for them. After their nighttime confessions while quarantined, it sort of went without saying that they’re together. If it was up to Ethan, she’d simply move in with him as well, but for now, he is content with cohabitating until she’s recovered fully and cleared to go back to work.

To say the past few days have been exhausting is the understatement of the year. Most of the time, Naomi has a hard time believing it was even real, as it still feels like she’s sleepwalking through it all.

She’s been home for approximately 3 hours and she still doesn’t know how to feel. Ethan’s apartment is quiet, especially since he’s not even here, having run off to the grocery store. Between working 16 hour days in a hospital, living with 4 other people, and being a patient for the past 3 days, getting poked and prodded around the clock, Naomi is no longer used to quiet. It makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

So to soothe the impending anxiety, Naomi has been in Ethan’s living room, his speakers blasting some upbeat pop song that’s currently on a Top 40 chart. She can’t place it, but it doesn’t matter. She just needs background noise.

The music is up loud enough that Naomi doesn’t even hear the front door open. It isn’t until she feels another presence in the room does she look up and see Ethan standing in his mini mud area, dropping off his keys and coat.

“Hey!” Naomi instantly grabs her phone and turns down the music, her cheeks flushing as if she’s been caught. “Sorry I had it up so loud.”

“It’s fine, it wasn’t that loud,” Ethan assures her. “I just expected you to be resting. I thought you were tired.”

She is tired, but she feels restless. “I’m off of work indefinitely, I’ll have plenty of time to sleep.”

Ethan drops off his reusable grocery bag in the kitchen and quickly washes his hands before heading to the living room. He drops a chaste kiss onto Naomi’s forehead. “How are you feeling?”

Naomi shrugs, unsure of how to answer such a loaded question. “Same old, same old.”

Ethan raises an eyebrow at the non-answer, but he doesn’t push it any further. “Well, are you at least hungry?”

“Starving.” Between the gross hospital food and the crippling nausea, food was the last thing on Naomi’s mind. But now that she’s feeling a bit better, she’ll welcome anything Ethan gives her. 

“I’ll get started on dinner. How does French onion chicken and rice sound?”

“Amazing. Do you need any help?”

“None at all,” Ethan says. He doesn’t want Naomi lifting a finger while she’s under his care. “Just sit back and relax.”

“I’m going to take a shower,” Naomi announces, standing up. “Is it okay if I use yours?”

“Of course. There are spare towels in the hall closet. But uh, fair warning, I didn’t know what type of bath products you enjoy, so I went overboard.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes, I think I bought everything I could get my hands on. It’s all in the guest bathroom .”

True to his word, Naomi finds an incredibly large gift basket sitting on the counter of the guest bathroom. It’s filled to the brim with shower gels, bath salts, shampoo, conditioner, lotions, loofahs, and other goodies that will take months for her to go through, all in her favorite scents: coconut, jasmine, and raspberry. It’s very over the top and the products are clearly more luxe than what she’d buy at the Target downtown, but her chest warms at the obvious effort he’s put into it.

Ethan’s en-suite is the same as she remembers from all of those months ago, the first time they slept together. Extremely minimalist with only a few of his grooming products. Naomi is almost certain he doesn’t appreciate the freestanding claw foot bathtub nor the large waterfall shower as much as he should.

Once she gets the water started, gathers all of her products and she’s fully in the shower, Naomi doesn’t do anything except stand directly under the shower head, taking a moment to collect her bearings. She closes her eyes, but instantly regrets it.

As soon as she’s plunged into the darkness, she’s back in the Senator’s hospital room. The hissing sound of the canister rattles around in her brain, the sense of panic in her voice, the ice cold rage in Travis Perry’s voice, the retching sounds of everyone vomiting relentlessly all play through her mind on a torturous loop.

Her eyes fly open, as does a hand to her chest, and in her peripheral, she notices it. The slimy, black oil they were all assaulted with. Naomi looks down, and it’s all she can see, as thick as it was all the days ago, coating from head to toe.

A gasp catches in her throat and she stumbles back, knocking over a few bottles in the process, but she doesn’t care. There’s only one thing on her mind: getting clean.

She turns the water up as hot as possible. She doesn’t bother with any shower gel, she simply grabs her loofah, and scrubs. The spongy material is coarse against her skin, and it’s perfect in this moment because that’s what she needs, and she digs it in as roughly as she can. 

Scrub.

Naomi can still feel the poison. It’s on her skin, in her hair, lingering on her skin. Bobby’s face flashes across her vision once more, absolutely drenched as he took the worst hit, and it only fuels her further.

Scrub.

Her throat tightens, due to the extremely scalding temperature of the water, but instead of turning the water down, Naomi thinks about the tightening sensation she felt when she thought she might asphyxiate in the hospital.

Scrub.

“Dammit!” She doesn’t even realize she’s said the expletive aloud, so caught up in what she’s doing. “Just come off already!”

The concept of time has been lost completely, and Naomi doesn’t know how long she’s been standing in this same spot, methodically scrubbing and rinsing, rinsing and scrubbing. But it’s no use. No matter how much she tries, all she can see is the fucking poison. It’s past surface level, she can feel it in her blood, thrumming as it courses through her veins.

Scrub.

“Naomi?” It’s a different voice, Ethan’s. He heard the bottles fall off the shelves and ignored it, but he can’t ignore the fact that Naomi is yelling at someone or something. “Are you okay in there?”

He raps his knuckles against the door a few times, and when he doesn’t receive a response, his hand goes to the doorknob, twisting it slightly to see if she locked the door. She didn’t. Being courteous, Ethan knocks once more and when Naomi still doesn’t say anything to him, he opens the door to the en-suite and walks in.

Ethan doesn’t know what he expected to see on the other side of the door, but Naomi scrubbing her skin nearly raw under a stream of hot water was not it.

He throws the shower door open, ignoring the steam that billows out, and turns off the water. “Naomi! What on earth are you doing?”

“It won’t come off,” she cries.

“What won’t come off?”

“This damn maitotoxin! It won’t come off, no matter how much scrubbing I do. I want it off! I want it gone!”

Ethan watches as she throws down her loofah and just starts clawing at any piece of flesh she can get her hands on: her face, her chest, her arms, her neck.

Deciding enough is enough, Ethan grabs a large bath towel and wraps it around Naomi’s petite frame, holding down her arms so she can’t mutilate herself further.

“No,” Naomi argues, shaking her head, and she struggles against him.

“Rookie, breathe,” Ethan commands. He loosens his grip slightly and uses one hand to tilt her chin up so they can look at each other. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused. “Look at me. Keep your eyes on me. Listen to my voice.”

“You’re not in the hospital anymore,” he continues, struggling to keep his voice even and his emotions in check. “You’re with me, you’re in my shower. The toxin is gone, it’s not on your skin, it’s not in your system. You’re clean and you’re safe. I promise you’re safe.”

He repeats the last sentence over and over and over again, until it’s a chant. Eventually Naomi’s body loosens up and she allows him to support some of her body weight. Eventually, they sink to the floor, and Ethan cradles her close to his chest.

Naomi doesn’t know how long they’ve been in this position, but the world is finally coming back into focus. Her senses are her own again, no longer controlled by pervasive memories, and the first thing she smells is Ethan’s cologne, and she feels his fingers tracing nonsensical patterns on her back.

The silence they’ve been plunged back into is deafening, and now she’s faced with the crushing weight of her reality.

“I almost died the other day,” Naomi says, her voice barely above a whisper. It’s a fact she’s always been cognizant of, but even more so now that the adrenaline has worn off. Holy shit, she really could’ve been dead, cold and in a grave right now.

“But you didn’t.”

“Yeah, but...I was so c-close.” Fat tears roll down her cheeks, and she doesn’t have the energy to do anything about them.

“But you didn’t,” Ethan repeats, his voice coming gruffer than usual. He doesn’t want her dwelling.

“But Bobby did. And he leaves behind an entire family that loves him.” She can still see his lifeless body on the cold hospital floor, convulsing and gasping for air. “And Danny did. He was one of my first friends at Edenbrook. He was the only nurse who had my back after Landry spread lies about me. He and Sienna were…” her voice trails off as she’s unable to finish her sentence. “Sienna probably hates me.”

“Trust me, Sienna could never hate you. I’ve never seen a more steadfast and loyal friend.”

Naomi flashes back to all of her not-so-subtle matchmaking attempts to get Sienna and Danny together. After all of Sienna’s troubles with Wayne, she wanted nothing more than her best friend to be happy, and now Naomi has ruined it for her.

Another sob bubbles up in her throat and she can’t push it away. “She doesn’t h-hate me n-now, but wait until the shock wears off and the resentment starts s-setting in. This is all my f-fault.”

“Naomi, this is not your fault,” Ethan argues.

“I should’ve never poached Ed from Mass Kenmore. I s-shouldn’t have gone running guns blazing into his suite. I should’ve called more security other than Bobby to help-p, I should’ve w-waited for y-you. I should’ve called the police. I should’ve have b-been able to talk Travis down.”

Ethan clears his throat before speaking, trying to keep himself in check. If Naomi is going to be okay, he can’t let his own emotions selfishly take over. “Travis had it in his head that Ed needed to pay for what happened to his brother. No one on this earth could have stopped him from doing what he did. It’s not your fault, and you’re no less of a person for not being able to stop a psychopath. No matter how strong and formidable you are, you are just one person, and I am refusing to let you carry the weight of that burden by yourself.”

Of course deep, deep, deep down, the logical part of Naomi’s brain knows it wasn’t directly her fault, but the illogical part still feels incredibly responsible for the events that played out at Edenbrook.

Naomi sniffles, the heat of the shower now gone and a shiver racks her body. Ethan notices it instantly, and in a show of strength, he scoops her out of the shower, carrying her back into his bedroom.

He finds the warmest clothes he can get his hands on, a worn Johns Hopkins sweatshirt and a pair of flannel pajama bottoms that are entirely too big on her. He ushers her into bed, pulling the soft duvet over her.

“You’re not getting in too?” Naomi asks, and Ethan picks up on the slight panic in her voice.

“Yeah, I just need to change out of my clothes, and I’ll be right back.”

She watches as Ethan quickly discards his work clothes and he slides into bed next to her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close. Naomi huddles closer to him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. 

“My hair is going to be a disaster once it dries,” she mumbles against his skin. Her curly hair demands a very strict routine.

“I’ll help you.”

For the first time in the past 72 hours, Naomi manages to laugh. The image of Ethan trying to detangle and properly moisturize her hair is hilarious, and now she has to see it. “I’d like to see you try.”

“I should get back into the kitchen. I know you’re really hungry and dinner isn’t going to cook itself.”

Silently protesting, Naomi’s fingers dig into his arm, willing him to not leave. She doesn’t want to be left alone, especially not for something as trivial as dinner. She pulls away so she can look him in the eyes.“Can we just lay here for a little while longer?”

“I’ll stay here for as long as you want me to.”

“You promise?”

Ethan nods and places a soft kiss on her lips–they’ve made a pact to be as tactile with each other as possible, both in public and in private. After the events of the last few days, what’s the use in hiding how they feel about each other? “I promise.”

[transsexualhamlet]

so about norman’s ethics

The thing that a lot of people don’t understand about Norman is that he doesn’t believe in the like, political sentiments that he acts on in the slightest. Yeah, this doesn’t make it ok that he did a bunch of shitty stuff, but it’s a misconception to say norman like, genuinely believes fucking eugenics are a good thing.

And yet, he decides to act on the idea to degenerate and genocide the demons and seems not to understand why Emma wouldn’t agree with him. People’s explanations of this seem to be pretty much one of two minds, either:

His morals are corrupt: Norman wants all the demons dead because what they did makes him think they’re all bad and don’t deserve the respect humans get, which is understandable but still wrong, or

His morals are intact but he ignores them: Norman feels bad that he’s doing a bad thing and does it anyway because he can’t find a better way out, which honestly makes what he did worse, though Tragic.

The second one is more accurate, but still doesn’t completely explain his ideas.The truth is that, in my opinion, he just barely understands the concept of morals in general, and what’s ‘messed up’ is simply his priorities. That sounds like I’m saying he’s a twisted cycle path but I swear I’m not, it’s just like him having low empathy. This is another, autism thing, and it’s another thing that I have, so I’ll try to explain it as best as I can?

Personally, I understand and try to follow sociatal expectations for moral things like, you know, do not kill people and what not. Because it’s bad or... whatever. And although I can cognitively understand the reasons why people think so, I don’t value it in the same way. Obviously I wouldn’t kill a person, there’s no need for me to in a world like this, and it would be inconvenient and probably make me feel bad despite not understanding why it is bad. But I’ve known from a very young age if I had the power and reason to kill someone, I absolutely would, no questions asked. Not even the necessity, just a logical reason. Most of the time this means nothing and isn’t applicable in the real world, because most of the people around me would be negatively affected by it. But it means nothing to me personally, and if prompted I could change at the slightest reason.

This is what I think we’re dealing with in Norman’s situation. 

Norman, in grace field, has no reason to violate any intagible laws of right and wrong, in most cases, until the escape arc happens. Yeah, I do believe Norman probably lied significantly more than the average child, because he didn’t see any reason not to, but I doubt it hurt anyone bad, they lived in, well, basically a neverland. He’s just a slightly off white little man. But when he is faced with a risky and dangerous situation, he might look Correct on the outside but the closer you look the more you realize his actions are directly impacted by the situation around him, completely independent of any internal moral compass. 

Ray wants to only escape with those three, because although he feels extreme guilt for being the way he is and completely understands it’s a selfish and terrible thing to do, he’s too cynical to accept any other options. Norman initially agrees with him, because Ray explains the risks. Emma then insinuates she wants to bring the other kids, giving ideas as to how. Norman then switches to Emma’s plan because he believes it can be achieved and he wants Emma to be happy, not because it would be wrong to do otherwise. At the same time, he later ships himself out, without much consideration to the others’ wishes against it, because now that it’s gotten impossible to have both, Emma’s and Ray’s safety is more important now than their happiness. Though he can understand that they’d not like that, it’s not that important to him in the long run. He will choose the path that offers them the greatest chance, if the one his friends want isn’t good enough.

When he was shipped out and taken to lambda, what happened is he was put in a situation where the stakes become much higher. There’s a different kind of situation, and the idea of simply running away from the demons is obviously not an option. When he escapes, and basically adopts the lambda kids- now he’s surrounded by people with the opposite morals and ideas as Emma. These kids want revenge, they would be happy to kill the demons, their ideal situation involves that and trying to reach any compromise would be unsatisfactory. The overwhelming majority of the kids agree with killing the demons, and that idea makes him seem stronger and gives him more certainty and control over the situation, even if it’s difficult and hurts him personally, making him a “Bad Person” to Emma. 

Norman harbors no personal hatred towards the demons, nor any specific desire to kill them. He just doesn’t see any viable reason not to, and killing them provides both him and the people he cares about with a more beneficial situation. Emma is now the minority, and even though she provides an idea that could work, Norman, after seeing so much pain and suffering, is no longer willing to take the risk for her, like he was in grace field. He is incapable of understanding why she values a sense of right and wrong more than the actual statistics of how well one or the other could work- yes, they had different experiences, but she lost other people because she decided to take risks, and she still believes in it? It simply doesn’t fucking compute.

An important aspect to consider is that it still does make him feel bad not to follow a more traditionally accepted route. He might have low empathy but he’s not an emotionless robot. Not understanding morals doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a concience, though it’s much more ambiguous and generally equates to any other thing, such as the actual convenience, details, or certainty of a plan. It’s not of any more importance, and he is in a situation now where it’s inconvenient to pay attention to, more so than in grace field. So not following a Nicer route does take a toll on his Feelings TM, same as it takes a toll on his literal body, but that’s a sacrifice he’s fine with, it’s a sacrifice that’s significantly smaller than the chance that someone he cares for could die.

Generally, most Lukewarm Takes on Norman can be disproven with this idea (pretty much anything that insinuates he would see the demons as less or like, he’s doing it because they did awful things to him, understandable but hey this isn’t tokyo ghoul and he’s not that kind of character), though everyone is obviously free to have their own takes and I doubt Shirai took his autistic coding into consideration, so it’s obviously my own idea.

Although Norman’s actions have correlation with Ray’s before, Norman isn’t disregarding his physical needs and trying to sacrifice himself out of any idea that it would make up for what he did, he’s doing it because it gives him more control over his own situation, he values his own well being less than his family’s, and he doesn’t understand why it would be Bad to do so. If we’re really digging deep, it’s likely he doesn’t want to have to experience any real consequences for his actions. He understands that they’re Bad, but this isn’t important to him, more than anything else. He doesn’t want to see Emma’s disappointment because it would complicate things.

After Emma and Ray, well, complicate things, ie face him and force him to see there are real consequences to his actions past Ambiguous Moral Obligations (ex. “you’re Taking Advantage the lambda kids” means nothing until he sees that it’s stopped them from being able to grow as people and forgive, “you’re neglecting yourself” means nothing until there’s an idea brought up that could fix him, “you’re trying to kill so many fucking people” means nothing until he sees that it’s hurting the human kids.) and that there’s a valid flaw in his personality past that- that it’s not a strong but a cowardly move, he can move forward and attempt to change things, possibly give himself a fucking break. 

In that situation, with other solutions that Emma and Ray have opened up actually seeming to work, he no longer finds it necessary to Be Terrible and hurt himself. This makes him feel better, because he doesn’t want to be Incorrect, it’s just a difficult thing for him to understand, when most other things come to him naturally. I think in the future he can be more cognizant of the fact that he’s more suceptible to doing generally, unacceptable things, and vows to lean more on Emma and Ray so he doesn’t end up going down the wrong path again, because to him they all look the same color.

Yes, this is my long ass way of telling Shirai why the fuck did you let Norman be a CEO. That’s a terrible fucking idea, he’ll become capitalism, guys?! Don’t let him do that. He needs to be in a job where like, he can use his skills without having to make Ethical Decisions like... an engineer or something. Computer scientist. IDK. Just not a fucking CEO, not in a management position for anything.

Honestly, it’s difficult for me to even use the alignment chart because I don’t understand morals enoughto put anyone in the Evil category because the idea of ‘evil’ doesn’t exist for me. So yeah, I’m projecting, but in conclusion I just have a bone to pick with anyone who wouldn’t call norman lawful neutral. 

[ana-benn]

I had a request for Jamie in a long distance relationship, so here you go.

I'm sorry it's so angsty.

A World Away

Warnings: I put a lot of my own separation anxiety issues in this, so it gets angsty as fuck. Still a happy ending, but it's a journey.

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

You sighed again as you waited for Jamie's face time to come through. It was bad enough you had to work in the morning, more like five hours now, and you'd stayed up to see the game. You'd hoped to congratulate him on the win before heading to bed, but it looked like that wasn't going to happen.

A quick apology via text, was all you were going to be able to manage tonight.

When you'd met Jamie it all seemed so easy. A quick fling while you were studying abroad, before coming home and settling into real life. It sounded like a grand adventure honestly. Yet now three years in, two of which centered around long distance phone calls and a few weeks here and there to connect in person? This wasn't a way to live, and you knew in your heart Jamie agreed. It was one of those things neither of you mentioned though, not wanting to taint the time you had together.

So you just dealt with the anxiety and fear of what would come each time the other called. Both of you knowing your should end it, but neither of you wanting to call the parting shot. So you settled for video calls and text messages, each waiting for a hole in you schedule that would accommodate the other.

He'd stay up late on Fridays wanting to hear about your work week, and you'd stay up late on game days to watch him play. It was a trade off, but it slowly began feeling like not enough the longer things continued. It wasn't fair for either of you, and it felt so hopeless.

Your breaking point as already fast approaching when you went out for a group dinner with your friends. They all had significant others, and again you were alone. It didn't matter that you technically had a boyfriend, if he wasn't here to do life with what was the point?

So when your monthly Skype date night came around you knew you had to make the call, "Jamie..." You began. "I can't do this anymore."

His usual smile fell from his lips, "What do you mean?"

"This, us..." You replied. "It's so hard, and you and I both know it's not supposed to be."

Tears were threatening to fall, and you couldn't let him see you cry, "I'm so sorry Jamie." Was all you could manage before you shut the laptop and let the tears fall freely.

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

It had been a few weeks since you'd ended things with Jamie, and you were finally feeling good enough to go out. Or more accurately, your friends hd decided it had been long enough and you needed to get out. Since you'd cut Jamie off you still found yourself in the same routines.

You stayed up and watched the games, and when the Stars lost you had to fight the urge to call him. You knew how much Jamie beat himself up about losses, and you wanted to reach out to him, but you knew now your called wouldn't be appreciated. If you were honest with yourself he was probably calling someone else by now.

On your regular date nights you sat alone in your apartment and drank red wine while you cried and watch romantic comedies. It was all so painful you wanted to get lost in the illusion of a happily ever after for a couple hours. The bittersweet wine matching your feelings perfectly, as you let the tannins dull your tongue. You only wished they'd work that same magic in your heart.

Some might think this should be the easier form of breakups. You didn't have to worry about Jamie showing up in your local grocery store, and you definitely didn't have to worry about seeing him out on a date with someone new. Still the lonliness that lead to your breakup felt more raw and clawing than ever. You wanted nothing more than to feel the heat of his body near yours, or take in the deep smell of his skin mixed with sweat, sandalwood, and something wholely unidentifiable. Jamie smelled and felt like home, and you longed for that sense of belonging.

Still you knew the long distance was slowly killing both of you, so you'd made it your mission to let your friends help you move on. So you sat in your bathroom making sure you put all the same effort in you would have if this had been your idea. Full make-up, hair done, and an outfit that made you feel both classy and sexy. You didn't really plan on going home with anyone, but it was your first night out as a single woman in a long time and you wanted to feel good. Of course as you got ready you couldn't help but think about when you did all this the night you'd met Jamie, you quickly pushed those thoughts aside. The ghost of his hands on your body was too much for tonight. You needed to let him go and start moving on.

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

As soon as you got into the club with your friends you felt the infectious atmosphere sink into your body. You smiled, laughed and danced like you hadn't in so long, and it felt good. There wasn't a time crunch to get home so you wouldn't miss Jamie's call, or a need to keep guys at arms length. You just allowed yourself to have fun.

Which found you on the dance floor a little past midnight, with a handsome guy wrapping his arms around your hips. He was a little too sure in his movements, and his smile was a little too bright for a stranger, but you knew this bar and you felt safe. So you allowed him to keep you out for dance after dance, just enjoying the sensation. His overpowering cologne kept you cognizant of the fact that this man dancing with you wasn't the one you wanted, but you tried to keep those thoughts at bay.

"What do you say we find somewhere a little bit quieter?" He asked.

His lips kissed your lips gently, a mixture of sweet wine and cigarettes. It was too stark of a difference, and you couldn't help but compare the difference in the cool feeling of Jamie's beer mixed with some kind of citrus. There was a moment where you wanted to let him take you home, just to try the slice of difference, but in the end you couldn't do that. You couldn't be with someone else when you still loved Jamie, and you wanted to hate him for it.

You knew regardless of how you felt though you had no choice but to just keep going. So you stayed out, just keeping closer to your friends. They seemed to understand you were trying and didn't push too hard, even over the next few weeks. You went out with them, and so long as you didn't mope they didn't try and force you to try and date. They even understood your heartbreak when hockey season ended. It was a tear at your tentative stitches on your heart. That meant two things, one you'd have absolutely no way to see Jamie until the season picked back up. Two, Jamie should have been flying out to see you.

Which is why you'd forgone your Friday night girls night, and where at home in a ratty shirt and leggings. You'd chosen a dessert wine and chinese takeout, paired with the American version of the Office. You had decided to watch the third season so you and Pam could feel heartbroken together, and you wouldn't judge yourself too hard for crying.

You had hunkered down, and had started mildly contemplating getting a cat while the show played in the background when you thought you heard something outside your door. When no one knocked you assumed it was a neighbor heading home, and poured a new glass of wine. You kept hearing rustling sounds, and it was starting to freak you out. You considered ignoring it, but you knew you wouldn't be able to get it out of your mind if you did. So with a heavy sigh you got up, armed with a glass of wine, and went to see if one of your neighbors had locked themselves out.

What you saw on the other side of your door shocked you. Jamie was sitting next to your door, head in his hands and looking completely conflicted.

"Jamie?" You questioned, keeping your voice soft so that you wouldn't startle him.

His head popped up at his name, "Y-y/n, I'm sorry. I just..... The season is over and I'd already bought my ticket..." He trailed off then.

You looked at his sad eyes, considering your options, before holding the door open wider, "Come on, I have enough food to feed five people," you paused for a moment. "Or just you and I."

He got up, and followed you into your apartment. As you gathered a glass and extra utensils for him you took in his figure. His beard was longer, and his eyes seemed hollow. There was a weariness to him that you didn't remember ever seeing before. You'd wanted to see him, desperately, but not like this.

[carmenxjulia]

You Never Did Get My Name Ch9

Title: You Never Did Get My Name, Chapter 9

Description: The morning goes more and more awry.

[Read on AO3]

The light creak of hinges followed by the clicking of a closing door roused Carmen from her sleep. She slowly opened her eyes, expecting to see Julia's form next to her own, but the spot on the bed she had occupied the night before was empty.

Instantly she was awake, throwing back the covers. The next second, she had bolted out of the bedroom into the hallway, heart pounding as she prepared to pursue an adversary. Her mind was going a mile a minute, but the most prevalent thought was V.I.L.E. got her. They had been able to find and track Chase Devineaux; no doubt they traced his connection to Julia Argent as well. Or perhaps Carmen herself had been too bold in making an appearance at her abode. V.I.L.E. could have spies anywhere, and she realized too late just how careless she'd been in coming here, even in plainclothes.

She rounded the corner, expecting the apartment to be empty, and came almost face to face with Julia as she was turning away from locking the front door. Almost, because there was still space between them; unfortunately, it was not enough for Carmen to stop in time. She tripped over herself in an effort to slow her momentum, her palms slamming into the door on either side of Julia's head, which prevented her from crashing full-force into the other woman.

Julia yelped, flinching as she braced for impact, clutching the bag in her arms. She certainly had not been expecting her guest to come barreling towards her as soon as she entered her home. Several moments of tense silence passed before she dared open her eyes.

The red-head stared at her, breathing slightly labored, arms stinging from the impact. Adrenaline coursed through the scarlet outlaw, as she struggled to process the fact that Julia was here, and safe, and not in the clutches of V.I.L.E. Every action, every plan her mind had thought up in the span of a few seconds, crumbled away as reality set in.

"Good morning?" Julia ventured.

Carmen shook her head, feeling like she was coming out of a daze. She pushed off from the door, stepping back and momentarily stumbling over her own feet. She cleared her throat, "Good morning," tangling her hands together behind her back as she rocked on her heels.

"Did you have another nightmare?"

"No I- I'm just glad you're safe."

"Okay," Julia gave her one last concerned glance before making her way into the kitchen. She set down the bundle in her arms, before addressing Carmen again. "There are towels in the hall closet if you need, and you can feel to use anything in the bathroom to freshen up. I'm going to get started on breakfast."

Carmen turned on her heels without a word, grateful for a reason to excuse herself from this awkward situation. She'd only taken a step when Julia's voice caused her to pause.

"Oh, and-" she held out something long and plastic looking, which Carmen took with hardly a thought, quickly discovering that it was a packaged toothbrush, "-since I was out I thought you might need this."

Carmen smiled, mumbling a "thank you", before scampering off to get ready.

It dawned her, once a towel had been acquired and she'd stepped into the shower, that Julia had been thinking of her while she was out. A toothbrush was such a small gesture, hardly worth dwelling on, and yet, Carmen found herself doing exactly that.

The significance of gifts was usually lost on Carmen. She understood, to some extent, others want for material items or objects of affection. The only thing she'd ever really owned, besides some dresses as a child and her uniform when she was older, was her set of matryoshka dolls. Even then, she'd left them behind when she'd fled the isle, so her attachment to them was debatable. At the end of the day, presents weren't really her thing - giving or receiving.

But a basic necessity wasn't a present, per se. Not in the typical sense, anyway. It wasn't exactly unique or overly personal. Today wasn't any kind of special holiday that would involve the giving of gifts. On the other hand, did the fact that it was unexpected designate it as such? She couldn't be sure. Did it really matter?

Any time she needed something, Player was there to assist. Helping her find a place to call "home" while she settled into life in the real world outside of V.I.L.E.. Bridging the communication gap between herself and Ivy and Zack. Providing her with necessary clothing, tools, identification, and other basic essentials. She'd relied on him, from the moment she left V.I.L.E. Isle, even until today.

His persistent worrying was comforting, in its own way. It was nice to have someone looking out for her, here on the outside. Someone to talk to when she was lonely. He'd known her before she'd met the twins, and before all of this Julia business.

Julia…

She briefly reflected on the night before, but what was really on her mind was how her host had somehow managed to slip away this morning. She was normally overly alert, prone to startling awake at the slightest noise outside her room. And yet, lying in Julia's bed, she slept more soundly than she ever thought was possible, for her. She'd felt safe and calm, here in the heart of Poitiers, wrapped in the agent's arms. So relaxed and cozy that not even Julia's subtle movements as she left the bed could wake her. How surprising, she mused, pushing the curious event out of her mind for now.

Clean, dry, and with hair and teeth brushed, Carmen reached for her earpiece. It was about time she checked in with her youngest comrade.

"How's it going, Player?"

"Well, well. It's about time, Red."

"Good morning to you too."

"I suppose 3am counts as morning even if I haven't gone to bed yet."

"Your sleep habits still haven't changed, I see."

"Haven't had a consistent sleep schedule since I met you, Red. Gotta keep up with all those foreign timezones."

"As if it was any better before you met me, White Hat," Carmen chuckled.

"So, how was your evening? Anything interesting happen?" he quipped.

"Nothing of note. We had dinner and then talked for awhile after."

"And?"

"And nothing Player."

"Nothing except being in her house all night."

"It's an apartment."

"Ah, so it is true. You know Red, just because your communicator is off doesn't mean I don't have a bead on your location at all times."

Carmen knew that. She'd always known it. It might have slipped her mind in the midst of everything, but it wasn't like him being constantly aware of her local was anything knew. And Player was absolutely right; constantly having a feed of her every movement helped ensure her safety. Still, it wasn't something she'd considered when she'd thought about making a friend outside of "work" or having actual personal time. But in this case, it didn't really matter.

"It's not like that," she wasn't even exactly sure what Player was implying, but, whatever it was wasn't the reality. She was telling the truth about "nothing of note" having happened.

"Whatever you say, Red. Don't get into this too deep. You're really flirting with the enemy here."

"Player," she hissed. "We did not- we are not- It was just dinner!"

"So where are you now?"

Carmen stared at herself in the mirror, her silence speaking volumes. So they'd had dinner, so what? So she'd slept over, so what? So Julia was a part of A.C.M.E. and technically her adversary, so what? None of it mattered, in the long run. After today, they'd probably go their separate ways. Maybe never speak again. Her stoic expression faltered. They had just begun to get to know each other and their budding relationship was already about to be over. The past couple of weeks, Carmen had been ignoring that reality, but now, it was too close not to face.

"In her bathroom," she gathered herself, "Getting ready to have breakfast."

"After having a sleepover."

"Okay, there is nothing going on between us!"

"Does she know that?"

Silence, again. Because that was a factor Carmen hadn't considered. She'd been so absorbed in her feelings about the entire thing that she hadn't stopped to think about what Julia might be thinking. Where Julia thought this was heading. Carmen knew where they stood. She knew where they had to stand, and continue standing. Due to their opposing professions, there was a clear line of familiarity that they could not cross. At least, Carmen hoped Julia was cognizant of that as well.

But was this invitation to dinner, this staying over and breakfast and everything, all some kind of "move?" Actions Julia had initiated that indicated her desire for something beyond friendship? Suddenly, Carmen found herself doubting their silent understanding of just how far into intimacy this relationship could tread.

"She cooked," was all Carmen could come up with to keep Player from waiting any longer.

He whistled. "Sounds a little romantic."

"Come on, Player. You know I don't have time for that sort of thing. We're just friends." At least, she hoped that's all they were.

"So you don't want me to tell Zack and Ivy about your date?"

"Best to keep this low key for now," she decided not to correct the word he'd used to describe her and Julia's meeting.

"Sure thing, Carmen. But if this becomes a regular occurrence, you'll have to tell them eventually."

"Don't worry. It won't be," she felt something clench in her stomach at the assurance, but fought it back. It wouldn't be. It couldn't be. "I've got to go."

"Keep me posted, Red. I still worry about you."

"I know, Player. Thanks."

Support this and other stories! https://ko-fi.com/pizzahorse

[writing-and-uhh-stuff]

Call out my name (a Tsurune songfic)

On ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23737015

Summary: A Tsurune songfic for the song "Call out my name" by the Weeknd. The lyrics, obviously, belong to the Weeknd.

This is a very heavily Seiya-centered fic about the progress of his and Minato's relationship through the years.

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences (because of two brief scenes)

Pairing: Takehaya Seiya x Narumya Minato

AN: Heya, dead fandoms, it me, ya enby, bringing you this songfic born out of me procrastinating on my other project, too much video games and anime (and anime video games) and my recent obsession with the Weeknd's music.

Huge disclaimer: this is my first songfic, so I hope it turned out fine. I did my best to time it correctly to the song (except for the last part). If you are listening to the song whilst reading, you should probably skip the lyrics to the outro and read the last part since it is quite lengthy and it will last even after the song has finished. I left the outro lyrics there mostly for the better visual arrangement.

Slightly less important disclaimer: I have watched both the anime and the OVA and only recently have begun to read the light novels. So this is canon-compliant only to the anime.

🏹💚🍃💙🏹

‘We are going to Kirisaki to do archery together! No matter what!’

Seiya didn’t mean to shout, especially not in a hospital and at his childhood friend. Nonetheless, Minato was going to give up the thing he loved most in the world. His resignation had gotten onto Seiya’s nerves – how could he throw his dreams away with such ease? How could Seiya allow him to throw out their dreams like they meant nothing…

The answer was he couldn’t. And he was determined to help Minato realize that.

We found each other

I helped you out of a broken place

You gave me comfort

But falling for you was my mistake

‘It’s okay, Minato.’

That was all Seiya could think of to say while Minato was mere seconds from breaking down in tears at the back of the hikae of the kyudojo. In all fairness, was there any way he could bear his pain fully as his own? Were there any words that could soothe Minato’s anxiety that weren’t absolute lies?

He missed. There was no getting around that. No matter how much he wanted to do it, Seiya could not rewrite this reality.

If there was a God somewhere, anywhere, they were Seiya’s witness to how much he wanted to help. But he couldn’t.

His heart ached with the realization that he was utterly helpless to do anything for his friend who, as of recently, Seiya loved more that the whole world.

So call out my name (call out my name)

Call out my name when I kiss you so gently

I want you to stay (I want you to stay)

I want you to stay, even though you don't want me

The blue-haired boy tossed and turned in his sleep.

‘Minato…’ he whispered in the darkness of his bedroom, sweat dripping down his forehead, his hand gripping the bedsheets tightly.

It wasn’t the first time he was having a wet dream about his green-eyed crush, nor it would be the last. He couldn’t really help it – keeping calm and quiet about his attraction to Minato all the time was bound to have its consequences. Those usually came at night, the time reserved to allow himself to be at his most vulnerable. Seiya’s pent up frustration took the form of his best friend in his subconscious, leaning over him, or maybe laying under him, kissing him or touching him, calling out his name or moaning in delight – honestly, it didn’t matter since it didn’t take much for the young archer to shoot his shot inbetween his cognizant and sleepy state.

Something for which his guilty consciousness would punish him the next morning.

I said I didn't feel nothing baby, but I lied

I almost cut a piece of myself for your life

Guess I was just another pit stop

'Til you made up your mind

You just wasted my time

‘I hate you, Takigawa-san.’

Seiya poured all his vitriol towards their kyudo coach in the sentence, hoping he would feel at least part of the pain that was currently busy mangling the young boy’s heart. And it seemed that his words had the desired effect on the older archer who, perhaps in shame, perhaps in regret, turned away and covered his face. Normally Seiya would think twice, or even thrice before committing such a cruel act upon anybody’s psyche and self-esteem. However, today he couldn’t care less; ever since practise had started his hands had been shaking, not from fear, but from anger – he was furious with Shuu, who didn’t give two shits about Minato as a person, only as an archer; at Takigawa-san for accidently doing something Seiya had failed at despite his continuous efforts; at himself, for ever thinking Minato would even consider him as something more than a friend.

So call out my name (call out my name, baby)

So call out my name when I kiss you so gently

So gently, I want you to stay (I want you to stay)

I want you to stay even though you don't want me

‘Seiya?’

‘Let me just rest for a minute.’

‘Sure.’

Even though his head felt like it was in a clamp, resting it on Minato’s shoulder seemed to alleviate some of the pain. The scene of the incident was replaying nonstop in the blue-eyed boy’s head; he wasn’t fully present in the moment. Everything felt surreal – he could still see the car crashing, Minato’s mother being flung over the windshield, broken glass flying everywhere, his best friend lying unconscious on the ground with a gaping, bleeding wound across his middle. The only anchor Seiya had to keep him in the present was this scarce physical contact, Minato’s natural scent and the calming rhythm of his breathing.

The lingering thought of whether Minato could ever understand the full extent of his feelings didn’t want to leave him alone.

I'll be on my

On my way, all the way

On my way, all the way, ooh

On my way, on my way, on my way

On my way, on my way, on my way

‘When you fall in love, there’s no rhyme or reason to it. All you have is a sense of having fallen.’

Takigawa-san’s words had left a permanent mark on Seiya’s soul, the individual syllables ringing in his ears as the boys were on their way home. Their team had won and Minato had managed to produce the tsurune in the most glorious way possible. But what had Seiya achieved?

Nothing. In fact, he was always so careful not to do something.

‘Seiya?’

Before he could notice, they had already arrived at their street. Minato had most likely attempted to say goodbye as they parted their way and went home. His friend had, of course, spaced out and completely ignored him.

‘Minato?’

‘Mm?’

‘I think Takigawa-san was very right to say that… that kyudo has a lot in common with love.’ He adjusted his glasses. Reflecting the light from the setting sun, the lenses managed to hide how he dropped his gaze to the ground. ‘I understood what he was trying to say because… because I know what it’s like.’

‘You… do? Are you in love?’ Minato’s expression was one of grave seriousness.

‘Mhm.’ The blue-haired boy muttered. Pinkish colour, reminiscent of sakura petals, had spread across his cheeks and nose, from one ear to the other.

‘I get why the others tease us about whether we are real best friends.’ His friend and fellow archer sighed. As Minato once again closed the distance between them, Seiya felt his heart drop to his stomach. ‘How come you had never told me?’

‘I… couldn’t find the right words…’

‘Who is it?’ the dreaded question arrived. Seiya opened his mouth to answer but nothing came out. The only thing he was able to do was give Minato an allusive look, afterwards he again stared at his feet.

It took Minato a fair few seconds to get the meaning of Seiya’s previous actions.

‘You like… me?! Like that?!’

The other boy just nodded. Upon witnessing Seiya’s confirmation, the brunette’s whole face flushed bright red.

‘Really? For how…’

‘For a long time.’

Minato came even closer. The other boy was about to take a step back – even though he was technically taller, he got the feeling that his green-eyed crush was towering over him. Either that, or the thing leering over was the immediate rejection and judgement.

Or so he thought, until a slightly calloused hand found its way to his. He looked up and locked his sky blue eyes with Minato’s emerald ones, and he didn’t need to hear an audible confirmation of his friend’s feelings; the affection and excitement could very easily be read by his expression. That, and the fact Minato was now just few inches from his face, waiting for him to fully close the gap between their lips. And Seiya couldn’t imagine disappointing his best friend.

[honeyandfiregame]

Day's pov when he finds out mc is being abused while he's in love with them could be interesting? :o

Put under the cut for violence, mentions of abuse of course, no happy ending, and for length (3.5k words. Also I did not edit this in the slightest and there’s definitely mistakes.)

In this line of work, whatever way you try to live, life provides you an aesthetic. It doesn’t care who you try to be, it knows who you are. A style that bleeds into the cracks and solidifies, marking you like a second skin. An identifier of your being. Who are you. How lonely you are.

You can wear your longcoat, your hat, the boots sturdy enough to stomp someone’s skull in. You can wear the scowl on your face and the tightness in your muscles. You can put up your fronts, but the truth is always the devil in the details.

They’ll see the whole picture, but they won’t see the tears in the seams of your coat repaired again and again, the bloodstains too dark to be seen in the black fabric of your hat. They won’t see the shine behind your glare, the emotions kept in check, or the fact the tightness in your muscles has had you incapable of unclenching your jaw for almost 20 years. Or all the years of running and fighting that dulled the leather and weathered the sturdy heels of those boots.

And how those weathered heels are now grinding into the cheek of someone who deserves a little more than a skull-stomping.

Day’s eyes are cold, nearly completely dull and dead. His mouth and ears shut to the world, his heart unbeating in his chest; he hasn’t the energy to spare for worthless scum.

The man cries out against the pressure, one hand wrapped around Day’s ankle, the other trying to find purchase further up his leg, trying and failing to remove the weight that’s now shifted to his throat. A frown finds its way to Day’s face at the feeling.

“You don’t have permission to touch me, swine,” he growls. Memories swirl in his mind, half blown out of his head with the force of his bloodied rage.

But it’s not the usual memories, no, for the past hour he’s actually been trying to force those memories back into his head. For once. If only because the fear-induced dissociation would keep his anger in check from the actual memories taken hold of him for the time being.

Memories of you. The tears you thought he didn’t notice, the excuses you gave. To him. Your best friend. That’s not a title he’s given willingly before. And now you’re lying to him, lying with bruises on your skin and all because of…

Day’s head slowly tilts, the red of his eyes nearly vanished in the black as he stares with dilated pupils down at the gallows walker pinned under his boot.

Him.

He did this. He made you hurt, he made you cry, he made you feel like you need to lie to your friends.

Day’s heart would twist if it didn’t already feel like it’s leapt halfway up his throat.

“I never liked humans much.” His mouth is disconnected from his cognizance, no command given for the words that are falling out. Though, that’s not out of the ordinary for him. “But I work with a few of them. Good people… so I always felt bad for thinking that.”

His foot finally removes itself from the throat of the man, who begins to choke and gasp with the gratefulness of someone who doesn’t know what’s coming. Day jerks back a step, raising a hand to wipe some of the blood from his chin. It might be his, but it’s probably not. Although his claws have no doubt shredded up his palms by this point. He swallows down the tremor in his throat that threatens to shake his hard tone. Why does everything that has to do with you do that to him?

“But you… people like you.” A woman’s face, with the deepest of red hair and the sharpest of shark’s smiles, appears in his mind for just a brief moment and he’s safe. There’s no tremble in his dead tone. “People like you serve to remind me why I never fucking liked humans, just certain people.”

He can’t help the way his frown deepens, eyebrows drawing together, like he’s staring at something disgusting. It’s because he is. And every second facing the man who not only stole your heart but shattered it feels like Day’s own heart is dying. If he could be certain he had one anymore.

But then again… perhaps it’s you who proved there’s still something beating in his chest. Weakly, ever since he watched you choose another man, but still there.

Day shakes the thought away. Not the time to get soft now. He focuses his eyes and mind on the bleeding mess of a human crumbled on the ground at his feet.

“I’m wondering if I ought to keep beating you into the ground or…”

He doesn’t even get to finish his sentence when the sorry excuse chokes, spluttering words between spatters of blood.

“W-wait! Please, I’ll-I’ll stay away from them! I promise!” His begging just makes Day’s throbbing headache worse. “We’ll break up, if that’s what you want! Just… just let me go…”

Wait…

Day tilts his head like a curious dog. His eyes are as cold as ever.

“Do you… think you’re getting out of this alive?” The words come with a tint of confusion, a furrow in his brow, a genuine realization that he hadn’t yet killed the hope within this man.

“Oh, no, no…” he breathes, crouching down. He reaches out and, with the gentlest of touches, drags his finger through the blood smeared across the bastard’s face. “I don’t think you realize just what you’ve done. You see, I won’t… I don’t let people like you live.”

He leans closer, ever so gently, perhaps even with the impression of someone loving, cupping a bruised cheek. He’ll pretend a primal, sadistic part deep inside of him doesn’t shiver with pleasure at the way the man’s eyes widen, fear blooming in huge pupils.

“Never have, never will. And I can’t lie and say this isn’t about them.” He taps black claws against a vulnerable temple. “But I also know what people like you deserve and since there doesn’t seem to be anyone else who’ll give it to you, I’ll be the one to do it.”

He drags a claw sharpened to a point across the man’s throat, watches the way it moves with a nervous swallow, watches the absolute terror that sprawls his features. Like a person seeing a real, true monster.

The thought makes Day smile.

Because that’s what he is.

“Because I’m a bad person. Not unlike you.”

***

The silence is suffocating and that’s not a feeling Day usually has. Typically the silence is a soothing balm on a bruised, dissociated mind. Now it’s just a reminder of what’s to come.

And what’s to come has him nervously shaking his leg, digging his nails into his upper arms.

Consequences trail actions; how many times is he going to learn that? Eventually, he’s going to have to start thinking before he acts.

…

Yeah, no, he’ll burn in all seven Hells before he does that.

Besides, he holds no regret. He did that for you. And for him. And for every man, woman, and child that’s suffered at the hands of another.

Hells, when did he get so righteous…

But more importantly than that, he did it for you. For an angel like you, you deserve only the best the world has to offer. Which wasn’t that guy… which might not be him either.

Just as a sigh escapes him, a hand comes down on his shoulder. He jolts, a rush of adrenaline having his fingers aching with the urge to lengthen his nails to claws.

“Settle yourself.” The familiar deep voice has Day relaxing before the sentence is finished. “This isn’t going to get easier anytime soon.” But that doesn’t.

Zenos moves around the desk to basically fall into his chair, leaning back with a sigh. Day watches him with a careful, scrutinizing eye.

“You look tired,” he says without a further thought.

Zenos smiles, which only serves to highlight the exhausted evidence on his features of the all nighter he pulled. “I wonder who caused that,” he replies levelly, idle smile stuck in place.

Day at least has the sense to not reply.

He watches as Zenos leans forward to shuffle about some papers on his desk. It’s hard not to notice the way his eyes are being avoided.

“You’re angry at me,” he states and tries to ignore the way saying that aloud makes his stomach twist.

“As a matter of fact”—Day jumps at the slam of a book on the desk—“I am beyond angry at you.”

Zenos stands, like there’s so much energy in his rant he can’t sit any longer. “I am so thoroughly pissed at you for what you’ve done, I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Zenos slams his hands on the desk and Day presses himself back into his chair. His default stoic expression suddenly becomes an effort to maintain as Zenos leans forward, eyes narrowed into a glare. “I don’t know what to do with you. This is one of the worst things you’ve ever done.”

“I’ve done worse.” That sounded weak even to him. And not at all helpful.

“No, Day, you haven’t. You’ve done a lot, all of it really bad, and I forgave you. I didn’t give up on you, I still put up with you. But this is…”

Day sets his jaw, hardening his stare as well as his heart for what he knows is coming.

“Look, I understand.” And that definitely wasn’t it. Day clears his throat, awkwardly shifting in his seat as he finds himself now unsure what to do with the new wall he built for what he expected to be a lot more painful.

Zenos continues, ignoring Day’s sudden discomfort, “You’re not the only one who noticed what was going on. I saw it too, and I wanted to…”

He sighs, coming around the desk to lean on it in front of Day. His voice has dropped to a soft tone that has Day shifting again. “I care about them too. I don’t want to see them hurt. I know why you did it, but Day… there are other ways to handle things.”

Except when you don’t know any other way, because pain and violence is the only way you were taught. To give and to receive, until tears and blood is all you know, until it turns fatal.

Day’s teeth feel like they’re going to crack, his jaw clenched so damned tight.

“I have to punish you for this, you know? But this is so far over the line I haven’t figured out what I’m going to do.”

“You can’t do this again, Day.” Zenos’ eyes are too sincere as he speaks. “And I say that because I know you and I know you would do it again in a heartbeat.”

That’s true. Day’s already thinking back on it, the satisfaction of crushing that bastard’s life in his hands. He would do it again and again to keep you safe, he always will.

A silence falls, Day neither having the words nor the energy to respond. It’s uncomfortable for many reasons, but if Day were to hazard a guess, Zenos might be the most uncomfortable dealing with this situation when his oldest friend is involved. He wants to get angry at him for breaking their promise. But Day knows Zenos enough to know the naive, incredibly sweet dumbass really thought it would never come to this, not to mention the circumstances that lead to this…

He doesn’t know what to do or how to feel and he probably just wishes the whole situation never happened so he never has to deal with it. Being a responsible adult sucks. It’s another bruise beneath the surface of Zenos’ skin.

A sigh breaks him out of his thoughts and he looks up as Zenos pushes himself off the desk.

“You are suspended for now and you will need to go home while I think of just what can make up for what you’ve done… I hope you realize how incredibly lucky you are that no one suspects you and I can keep the Guard off your back.” Day gives a short nod, swallowing down his gratitude as a rock forms in his stomach. He has a bad feeling about what’s going to happen next. And he was right to feel like that, because the hardened mask of a leader has melted and now there’s nothing but pity on Zenos’ face.

“There’s someone else who needs to speak with you before you leave. I will leave you two to sort this out alone.”

Yeah, there it is. That gut-wrenching feeling that has Day wanting to scratch scars into his wrist again.

“No…” He finally speaks, but it’s a broken whisper, nearly inaudible, and Zenos doesn’t hear it. There’s no salvation he can offer even if he had, anyway.

And then the door shuts and then Day is alone. In silence. In the calm before the storm. With discomfort layering an itch on the surface of his skin, making him shift again. Uncomfortable. Nerves. Hard to breathe.

Is this what the verge of a panic attack feels like? Has he had one of those before? Probably… He prefers the dissociation, which is unfortunately not gracing his mental health today. Gods damn it all.

He doesn’t have time to ponder it further. The slam of the door behind him nearly causes him to break the arm of the chair off. A chill shoots up his spine.

“I cannot believe you.”

He doesn’t know the word to describe the emotion in your voice, but it’s not good. It’s not good.

Okay, calm down. Breathe in, do not breathe out. Straighten up; shoulders back, spine stiff. Kill your emotions, end them, make them cry for Mommy. Now breathe out. Slow. Unnoticeable.

The mask slips on too easily.

“This is the worst thing you’ve ever done.”

People really seem keen on calling him out for that today. Shoving the shadowy remnants of his feelings back into the closet, Day rises to his feet and brushes down his pants.

“Is it?” If he bothered to feel anything, he might even pride himself on the dark, steady tone his deep voice settles into with ease. But that all crumbles away as he turns to face you. His eyes widen just a fraction before he catches himself.

It’s not the massive bruise peeking out from the collar of your shirt, he already knew about that, he already got angry about that. It’s that that’s… not an expression he’s ever seen on your face before. He can’t name that emotion either, but it’s not… it’s really not good. You look… more than broken. Your eyes are the same as the pair he sees in the mirror.

The mask slips with the slight tremble of his jaw but he firmly shoves it back in place with a smear of blood.

You step closer and his mettle further bends as he gets a look at the shine of tears in your eyes. “I can’t believe you did this.”

“You already said that,” he rasps.

“Day.” Your tone makes him clamp his mouth shut.

He shuffles back a couple of steps, trying to escape the bubble of tension created around you two. It doesn’t work.

“I thought you were my friend.” The words are nothing more than the whisper of someone trying to hold back tears. Day’s gaze flicks down towards the floor.

“I am your friend…” That, too, sounded weak even to him. And maybe it’s only true on his side, he realizes.

“You…” And there’s the incredulous look. “You think you’re still my friend after you ruined everything like this? Day, I can never forgive you.” And now it’s anger. “You are so beyond fucked I can’t believe I ever trusted you in the first place. You know, I used to think you actually had some decency in you, buried deep inside. Deep, deep inside. Buried under all that broody bullshit!” And that anger has born a vicious glare. “I guess I was wrong.”

Okay, that’s enough.

Day closes the gap in one long stride. You jump as his hand moves so fast you can’t stop him, yanking open your shirt enough to expose the ugly, colorful bruises all across your collarbone.

“I did it because I care,” he hisses. “Deeply. Because he put these bruises there and that’s so fucking wrong, of course I did something about it. You deserve so much better.”

You stare at him, shellshocked, swallowing in disbelief or from maybe his sudden proximity. It only lasts a moment before you bat away his hand and try to recompose yourself. “Who are you to say what I-”

“Because I’m your best friend,” he cuts you off, placing both hands on your shoulders as if that’ll show you how serious he is right now. “I know what you deserve because I’ve been watching you. I watched you pull yourself out of the rubble, only to have some bastard who has no clue about what you’ve been through come and just fucking pile it back on top!”

His mettle breaks. The mask slips off and shatters to the ground and he knows all you can see is every emotion he thought he’d buried under the floorboards, exposed, completely naked and raw on his face.

“I know you deserve the best,” he continues. His voice cracks, so little range to deal with the influx of emotion he never allowed before. “That’s all I wanted for you. I wasn’t going to do anything if you were happy, because that’s all I wanted for you. I wanted to see you smile, in the arms of someone who loves you like I-”

The words slam to a halt in his throat as his brain finally plays catch up. Fuck… this is why he needs to work on his impulse control. He gets it now. Fuck.

Day yanks his hands back, stumbling a step back and straightening himself up. The way you’re looking at him… no, no, he never wanted to see that.

Fuck.

Fuck…

Fuck it.

“Who loves you like I do,” he finishes and finally breaks his own heart. Bandage off. Knife in his throat. It’s better to end it now.

He doesn’t meet your wide-eyed stare, but he does flinch when you whisper his name. It’s too late, isn’t it?

“I just… wanted to protect you,” he says, barely above a whisper. “So you can pick yourself back up. There’s no one out willing to protect people like us, so we have to…”

It’s like you don’t even hear him, you’re so focused on staring at him. Slowly, you reach out. You don’t make contact, like he’s a fragile glass ornament holding your fascination, at least that’s what he thinks he sees in your face.

“Day, are you…”

His hand flies to his face and he feels the wetness of his cheeks at his fingertips. Gods damn it all. He takes a breath to steady himself, as if he can get back any of his stoicism now.

“I’m sorry. All I can do is offer you an apology because I can’t take back what I did… And I wouldn’t if I could, anyway.” There’s too much finality in his words and he can see you thinking the same. It’s too late. “I am sorry. For being in love with you. And for ruining you.”

His jaw trembles again.

“I’m not a good person. I don’t know gentleness or loving. I think I only know hurt and I think I heard once you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” The wry smirk feels as broken as it probably looks. “So, I will stop crossing the line. I will let you handle your life the way you want to and I will leave you alone. For good.”

He brushes past you, you’re left so frozen in place, processing what he’s already said. He stops, hand on the doorknob, when your voice drifts from behind him.

“Day… What are you trying to say?”

He doesn’t look back, he just twists the doorknob with more aggression than he should.

“I’m leaving Amveros.”

He doesn’t hear what your response, he doesn’t listen. He keeps walking.

In this line of work, whatever way you try to live, life provides you an aesthetic. Life gives you the tears in your clothes, the weathered look of your shoes, the dead look in your eyes, the bruises and scars on your skin.

Life does that. Life puts the bruises and scars on your skin. People aren’t supposed to do that. That’s what he always thought. And that’s what he’ll continue to think.

This is another scar for you. You still have enough space on your skin for them. But he just closed the door on his final scar.

[theculturedmarxist]

Ludwig Feuerbach and the End of Classical German Philosophy

Frederick Engels

Part 2: Materialism

The great basic question of all philosophy, especially of more recent philosophy, is that concerning the relation of thinking and being. From the very early times when men, still completely ignorant of the structure of their own bodies, under the stimulus of dream apparitions (1) came to believe that their thinking and sensation were not activities of their bodies, but of a distinct soul which inhabits the body and leaves it at death — from this time men have been driven to reflect about the relation between this soul and the outside world. If, upon death, it took leave of the body and lived on, there was no occassion to invent yet another distinct death for it. Thus arose the idea of immortality, which at that stage of development appeared not at all as a consolation but as a fate against which it was no use fighting, and often enough, as among the Greeks, as a positive misfortune. The quandry arising from the common universal ignorance of what to do with this soul, once its existence had been accepted, after the death of the body, and not religious desire for consolation, led in a general way to the tedious notion of personal immortality. In an exactly similar manner, the first gods arose through the personification of natural forces. And these gods in the further development of religions assumed more and more extramundane form, until finally by a process of abstraction, I might almost say of distillation, occurring naturally in the course of man’s intellectual development, out of the many more or less limited and mutually limiting gods there arose in the minds of men the idea of the one exclusive God of the monotheistic religions.

Thus the question of the relation of thinking to being, the relation of the spirit to nature — the paramount question of the whole of philosophy — has, no less than all religion, its roots in the narrow-minded and ignorant notions of savagery. But this question could for the first time be put forward in its whole acuteness, could achieve its full significance, only after humanity in Europe had awakened from the long hibernation of the Christian Middle Ages. The question of the position of thinking in relation to being, a question which, by the way, had played a great part also in the scholasticism of the Middle Ages, the question: which is primary, spirit or nature — that question, in relation to the church, was sharpened into this: Did God create the world or has the world been in existence eternally?

The answers which the philosophers gave to this question split them into two great camps. Those who asserted the primacy of spirit to nature and, therefore, in the last instance, assumed world creation in some form or other — and among the philosophers, Hegel, for example, this creation often becomes still more intricate and impossible than in Christianity — comprised the camp of idealism. The others, who regarded nature as primary, belong to the various schools of materialism.

These two expressions, idealism and materialism, originally signify nothing else but this; and here too they are not used in any other sense. What confusion arises when some other meaning is put to them will be seen below.

But the question of the relation of thinking and being had yet another side: in what relation do our thoughts about the world surrounding us stand to this world itself? Is our thinking capable of the cognition of the real world? Are we able in our ideas and notions of the real world to produce a correct reflection of reality? In philosophical language this question is called the question of identity of thinking and being, and the overwhelming majority of philosophers give an affirmative answer to this question. With Hegel, for example, its affirmation is self-evident; for what we cognize in the real world is precisely its thought-content — that which makes the world a gradual realization of the absolute idea, which absolute idea has existed somewhere from eternity, independent of the world and before the world. But it is manifest without further proof that thought can know a content which is from the outset a thought-content. It is equally manifest that what is to be proved here is already tacitly contained in the premises. But that in no way prevents Hegel from drawing the further conclusion from his proof of the identity of thinking and being that his philosophy, because it is correct for his thinking, is therefore the only correct one, and that the identity of thinking and being must prove its validity by mankind immediately translating his philosophy from theory into practice and transforming the whole world according to Hegelian principles. This is an illusion which he shares with well-nigh all philosophers.

In addition, there is yet a set of different philosophers — those who question the possibility of any cognition, or at least of an exhaustive cognition, of the world. To them, among the more modern ones, belong Hume and Kant, and they played a very important role in philosophical development. What is decisive in the refutation of this view has already been said by Hegel, in so far as this was possible from an idealist standpoint. The materialistic additions made by Feuerbach are more ingenious than profound. The most telling refutation of this as of all other philosophical crotchets is practice — namely, experiment and industry. If we are able to prove the correctness of our conception of a natural process by making it ourselves, bringing it into being out of its conditions and making it serve our own purposes into the bargain, then there is an end to the Kantian ungraspable “thing-in-itself”. The chemical substances produced in the bodies of plants and animals remained just such “things-in-themselves” until organic chemistry began to produce them one after another, whereupon the “thing-in-itself” became a thing for us — as, for instance, alizarin, the coloring matter of the madder, which we no longer trouble to grow in the madder roots in the field, but produce much more cheaply and simply from coal tar. For 300 years, the Copernican solar system was a hypothesis with 100, 1,000, 10,000 to 1 chances in its favor, but still always a hypothesis. But then Leverrier, by means of the data provided by this system, not only deduced the necessity of the existence of an unknown planet, but also calculated the position in the heavens which this planet must necessarily occupy, and when [Johann] Galle really found this planet [Neptune, discovered 1846, at Berlin Observatory], the Copernican system was proved. If, nevertheless, the neo-Kantians are attempting to resurrect the Kantian conception in Germany, and the agnostics that of Hume in England (where in fact it never became extinct), this is, in view of their theoretical and practical refutation accomplished long ago, scientifically a regression and practically merely a shamefaced way of surreptitiously accepting materialism, while denying it before the world.

But during this long period from Descartes to Hegel and from Hobbes to Feuerbach, these philosophers were by no means impelled, as they thought they were, solely by the force of pure reason. On the contrary, what really pushed them forward most was the powerful and ever more rapidly onrushing progress of natural science and industry. Among the materialists this was plain on the surface, but the idealist systems also filled themselves more and more with a materialist content and attempted pantheistically to reconcile the antithesis between mind and matter. Thus, ultimately, the Hegelian system represents merely a materialism idealistically turned upside down in method and content.

It is, therefore, comprehensible that Starcke in his characterization of Feuerbach first of all investigates the latter’s position in regard to this fundamental question of the relation of thinking and being. After a short introduction, in which the views of the preceding philosophers, particularly since Kant, are described in unnecessarily ponderous philosophical language, and in which Hegel, by an all too formalistic adherence to certain passages of his works, gets far less his due, there follows a detailed description of the course of development of Feuerbach’s “metaphysics” itself, as this course was successively reflected in those writings of this philosopher which have a bearing here. This description is industriously and lucidly elaborated; only, like the whole book, it is loaded with a ballast of philosophical phraseology by no means everywhere unavoidable, which is the more disturbing in its effect the less the author keeps to the manner of expression of one and the same school, or even of Feuerbach himself, and the more he interjects expressions of very different tendencies, especially of the tendencies now rampant and calling themselves philosophical.

The course of evolution of Feuerbach is that of a Hegelian — a never quite orthodox Hegelian, it is true — into a materialist; an evolution which at a definite stage necessitates a complete rupture with the idealist system of his predecessor. With irresistible force, Feuerbach is finally driven to the realization that the Hegelian premundane existence of the “absolute idea”, the “pre-existence of the logical categories” before the world existed, is nothing more than the fantastic survival of the belief in the existence of an extra-mundane creator; that the material, sensuously perceptible world to which we ourselves belong is the only reality; and that our consciousness and thinking, however supra-sensuous they may seem, are the product of a material, bodily organ, the brain. Matter is not a product of mind, but mind itself is merely the highest product of matter. This is, of course, pure materialism. But, having got so far, Feuerbach stops short. He cannot overcome the customary philosophical prejudice, prejudice not against the thing but against the name materialism. He says:

“To me materialism is the foundation of the edifice of human essence and knowledge; but to me it is not what it is to the physiologist, to the natural scientists in the narrower sense, for example, to Moleschott, and necessarily is from their standpoint and profession, namely, the edifice itself. Backwards I fully agree with the materialists; but not forwards.” 

Here, Feuerbach lumps together the materialism that is a general world outlook resting upon a definite conception of the relation between matter and mind, and the special form in which this world outlook was expressed at a definite historical stage — namely, in the 18th century. More than that, he lumps it with the shallow, vulgarized form in which the materialism of the 18th century continues to exist today in the heads of naturalists and physicians, the form which was preached on their tours in the fifties by Buchner, Vogt, and Moleschott. But just as idealism underwent a series of stages of development, so also did materialism. With each epoch-making discovery even in the sphere of natural science, it has to change its form; and after history was also subjected to materialistic treatment, a new avenue of development has opened here, too.

The materialism of the last century was predominantly mechanical, because at that time, of all natural sciences, only mechanics, and indeed only the mechanics of solid bodies — celestial and terrestrial — in short, the mechanics of gravity, had come to any definite close. Chemistry at that time existed only in its infantile, phlogistic form [A]. Biology still lay in swaddling clothes; vegetable and animal organisms had been only roughly examined and were explained by purely mechanical causes. What the animal was to Descartes, man was to the materialists of the 18th century — a machine. This exclusive application of the standards of mechanics to processes of a chemical and organic nature — in which processes the laws of mechanics are, indeed, also valid, but are pushed into the backgrounds by other, higher laws — constitutes the first specific but at that time inevitable limitations of classical French materialism.

The second specific limitation of this materialism lay in its inability to comprehend the universe as a process, as matter undergoing uninterrupted historical development. This was in accordance with the level of the natural science of that time, and with the metaphysical, that is, anti-dialectical manner of philosophizing connected with it. Nature, so much was known, was in eternal motion. But according to the ideas of that time, this motion turned, also eternally, in a circle and therefore never moved from the spot; it produced the same results over and over again. This conception was at that time inevitable. The Kantian theory of the origin of the Solar System [that the Sun and planets originated from incandescent rotating nebulous masses] had been put forward but recently and was still regarded merely as a curiosity. The history of the development of the Earth, geology, was still totally unknown, and the conception that the animate natural beings of today are the result of a long sequence of development from the simple to the complex could not at that time scientifically be put forward at all. The unhistorical view of nature was therefore inevitable. We have the less reason to reproach the philosophers of the 18th century on this account since the same thing is found in Hegel. According to him, nature, as a mere “alienation” of the idea, is incapable of development in time — capable only of extending its manifoldness in space, so that it displays simultaneously and alongside of one another all the stages of development comprised in it, and is condemned to an eternal repetition of the same processes. This absurdity of a development in space, but outside of time — the fundamental condition of all development — Hegel imposes upon nature just at the very time when geology, embryology, the physiology of plants and animals, and organic chemistry were being built up, and when everywhere on the basis of these new sciences brilliant foreshadowings of the later theory of evolution were appearing (for instance, Goethe and Lamarck). But the system demanded it; hence the method, for the sake of the system, had to become untrue to itself.

This same unhistorical conception prevailed also in the domain of history. Here the struggle against the remnants of the Middle Ages blurred the view. The Middle Ages were regarded as a mere interruption of history by a thousand years of universal barbarism. The great progress made in the Middle Ages — the extension of the area of European culture, the viable great nations taking form there next to each other, and finally the enormous technical progress of the 14th and 15th centuries — all this was not seen. Thus a rational insight into the great historical interconnectedness was made impossible, and history served at best as a collection of examples and illustrations for the use of philosophers.

The vulgarizing pedlars, who in Germany in the fifties dabbled in materialism, by no means overcame this limitation of their teachers. All the advances of natural science which had been made in the meantime served them only as new proofs against the existence of a creator of the world; and, indeed, they did not in the least make it their business to develop the theory any further. Though idealism was at the end of its tether and was dealt a death-blow by the Revolution of 1848, it had the satisfaction of seeing that materialism had for the moment fallen lower still. Feuerbach was unquestionably right when he refused to take responsibility for this materialism; only he should not have confounded the doctrines of these itinerant preachers with materialism in general.

Here, however, there are two things to be pointed out. First, even during Feuerbach’s lifetime, natural science was still in that process of violent fermentation which only during the last 15 years had reached a clarifying, relative conclusion. New scientific data were acquired to a hitherto unheard-of extent, but the establishing of interrelations, and thereby the bringing of order into this chaos of discoveries following closely upon each other’s heels, has only quite recently become possible. It is true that Feuerbach had lived to see all three of the decisive discoveries — that of the cell, the transformation of energy, and the theory of evolution named after Darwin. But how could the lonely philosopher, living in rural solitude, be able sufficiently to follow scientific developments in order to appreciate at their full value discoveries which natural scientists themselves at that time either still contested or did not know how to make adequate use of? The blame for this falls solely upon the wretched conditions in Germany, in consequence of which cobweb-spinning eclectic flea-crackers had taken possession of the chairs of philosophy, while Feuerbach, who towered above them all, had to rusticate and grow sour in a little village. It is therefore not Feuerbach’s fault that this historical conception of nature, which had now become possible and which removed all the one-sidedness of French materialism, remained inaccessible to him.

Secondly, Feuerbach is quite correct in asserting that exclusively natural-scientific materialism is indeed “the foundation of the edifice of human knowledge, but not the edifice itself”. For we live not only in nature but also in human society, and this also no less than nature has its history of development and its science. It was therefore a question of bringing the science of society, that is, the sum total of the so-called historical and philosophical sciences, into harmony with the materialist foundation, and of reconstructing it thereupon. But it did not fall to Feuerbach’s lot to do this. In spite of the “foundation”, he remained here bound by the traditional idealist fetters, a fact which he recognizes in these words: “Backwards I agree with the materialists, but not forwards!”

But it was Feuerbach himself who did not go “forwards” here; in the social domain, who did not get beyond his standpoint of 1840 or 1844. And this was again chiefly due to this reclusion which compelled him, who, of all philosophers, was the most inclined to social intercourse, to produce thoughts out of his solitary head instead of in amicable and hostile encounters with other men of his calibre. Later, we shall see in detail how much he remained an idealist in this sphere.

It need only be added here that Starcke looks for Feuerbach’s idealism in the wrong place.

“Feuerbach is an idealist; he believes in the progress of mankind.” (p.19)

“The foundation, the substructure of the whole, remains nevertheless idealism. Realism for us is nothing more than a protection again aberrations, while we follow our ideal trends. Are not compassion, love, and enthusiasm for truth and justice ideal forces?” (p.VIII)

In the first place, idealism here means nothing, but the pursuit of ideal aims. But these necessarily have to do at the most with Kantian idealism and its “categorical imperative”; however, Kant himself called his philosophy “transcendental idealism” by no means because he dealt therein also with ethical ideals, but for quite other reasons, as Starcke will remember. The superstitition that philosophical idealism is pivoted round a belief in ethical, that is, social, ideals, arose outside philosophy, among the German philistines, who learned by heart from Schiller’s poems the few morsels of philosophical culture they needed. No one has criticized more severely the impotent “categorical imperative” of Kant — impotent because it demands the impossible, and therefore never attains to any reality — no one has more cruelly derided the philistine sentimental enthusiasm for unrealizable ideals purveyed by Schiller than precisely the complete idealist Hegel (see, for example, his Phenomenology).

In the second place, we simply cannot get away from the fact that everything that sets men acting must find its way through their brains — even eating and drinking, which begins as a consequence of the sensation of hunger or thirst transmitted through the brain, and ends as a result of the sensation of satisfaction likewise transmitted through the brain. The influences of the external world upon man express themselves in his brain, are reflected therein as feelings, impulses, volitions — in short, as “ideal tendencies”, and in this form become “ideal powers”. If, then, a man is to be deemed an idealist because he follows “ideal tendencies” and admits that “ideal powers” have an influence over him, then every person who is at all normally developed is a born idealist and how, in that case, can there still be any materialists?

In the third place, the conviction that humanity, at least at the present moment, moves on the whole in a progressive direction has absolutely nothing to do with the antagonism between materialism and idealism. The French materialists no less than the deists Voltaire and Rousseau held this conviction to an almost fanatical degree, and often enough made the greatest personal sacrifices for it. If ever anybody dedicated his whole life to the “enthusiasm for truth and justice” — using this phrase in the good sense — it was Diderot, for instance. If, therefore, Starcke declares all this to be idealism, this merely proves that the word materialism, and the whole antagonism between the two trends, has lost all meaning for him here.

The fact is that Starcke, although perhaps unconsciously, in this makes an unpardonable concession to the traditional philistine prejudice against the word materialism resulting from its long-continued defamation by the priests. By the word materialism, the philistine understands gluttony, drunkenness, lust of the eye, lust of the flesh, arrogance, cupidity, avarice, covetousness, profit-hunting, and stock-exchange swindling — in short, all the filthy vices in which he himself indulges in private. By the word idealism he understands the belief in virtue, universal philanthropy, and in a general way a “better world”, of which he boasts before others but in which he himself at the utmost believes only so long as he is having the blues or is going through the bankruptcy consequent upon his customary “materialist” excesses. It is then that he sings his favorite song, What is man? — Half beast, half angel.

For the rest, Starcke takes great pains to defend Feuerbach against the attacks and doctrines of the vociferous assistant professors who today go by the name of philosophers in Germany. For people who are interested in this afterbirth of classical German philosophy this is, of course, a matter of importance; for Starcke himself it may have appeared necessary. We, however, will spare the reader this.

[horrible-monstrosity]

Those last three episodes of Steven Universe: a mini-essay

JUST FUCK ME UP

kevin party, donner party, what's the differenfe

hey guys, remember when lion disappeared? i legitimatedly don't. he ran off with connie or something and even though lars is probably in mortal peril and lion's the only way to get to him... naw don't need him. even though now steven's all worried bout lion he didn't give a shit enough earlier to search for him just for lion's own sake. nothing matters.

the party sadie and co fucked off to in the last episode and the tit-ular kevin party are not one and the same. why not? because none of this matters. nothing fucking matters. just... some stuff happens and none of it ever fucking lines up or amounts to fucking anything. why is this show still airing?

Kevin thinking Steven's name is Clarence is the best if not only joke this show has produced in the last like twenty episodes. Or thirty. How long has this season been going for? How many episodes does this show have?...

kevin is allergic to dog but lion is still here ok. the joke is he think lion it dog but the fact he hasn't like broke out in hives should maybe tell him something?.......

So the crux of this episode is, Kevin gives Steven this patriarchal man male romantic advice which basically amounts to "have a good time and don't be a sniveling soyball" and is entirely reasonable. But since this is Steven fucking Universe, it's clearly absolutely fucking terrible. I mean, maybe it's not the perfect solution for *this* particular situation, but why the fuck would he know that? Is he supposed to read Steven and Connie's fucking minds? Why does the feminist solution to problems so commonly require the male reading peoples' fucking minds? It's a perfectly fucking reasonable piece of general advice, and Kevin even seems to be at least the littlest bit actually concerned about Steven's love life issues beyond getting the cool quantum-tranny Stevonnie at his party... but no, he's gotta be wrong, because he's the designated small-time patriarchal oppressor and 84opposition to the gender revolution.

connie assumes that steven doesn't want to talk to her not because she's been bitching at him and been doing shit like accusing him of being friends with kevin leaving him to wonder what he's done wrong... but because he's friends with kevin, obviously. female accountability and logic at 0%

kevin doesn't know how to friends. are we supposed to hate him or feel sorry for him? ... never mind, both of those options are equally depressing with the way the show treats him.

connie likes steven's maximum soy pink polo shirt, because the way to get grils is to treat yourself like a defective woman who needs re-estrogenizing and soy yourself up. just fucking go cry at her and wear the soy clothes she bought you and drip snot upon her. bitches love snot and then even though steven said kevin had his heart broken and it looks like they have some sympathy for him connie goes "lol ofc he did" and he falls in the pool and they shit on him. fuck this gay earth the rebellion was a mistake homeworld did nothing wrong

So... what the fuck was the conflict here again? Seems like the only thing keeping Steven and Connie from making up was bad timing and mutual awkwardness. Did anyone learn anything from this, aside from Steven discovering he needs to get even more soyful if he wants to inject his gem cummies into a strong big-nosed short-haired minority female someday? Did any of this fucking matter?

Also, I've no idea if this is just fan conjecture or what, but apparently the "Sabina" (because yeah that's a name normal people hsve) who fucked Kevin up is actually the le mysterious pink-haired person mute lesbo who hit it off with Pearl forever ago and probably showed up again at some point in the last X episodes but I don't fucking remember it. You... you... how did you manage to make this even worse? So not only is Kevin terrible and wrong and evil for existing, and for hitting on hot five-gendered quasi-minority manchicks at parties, and for giving reasonable advice... he hit on a thicc pink turbo-lesbo and we're supposed to hate him for that, too. Just... how the fuck do I put this? It's like... stupid fucking cis straight normal fucking a white male, thinking this world is full of other normal people like yourself- the real Earth's population is 99% minority queer demigender faggosexuals, how dare you think you can get into a normal heterosexual relationship with a female of the species? He tried some normal human courtship instead of feminist-approved all-gendered-yet-female-oriented interactions fit only for mentally-deficient degenerate aliens, so he deserved to have his heart trampled on. She's a stryng fymyle fat womyn person, you fucking piece of shit, not some thing for you to treat like (an object/your property/an animal/whatever) by treating her like a normal human being. You're shit, normies are shit, and treating a transcendant gender-goddyss as equal to yourself is oppressive. Or... some fucking shit like that. fuck i don't know whatever

-

c'mon plot it's time to go the fuck back into space already!!! It occurs to me that Connie (probably, I don't fucking know) knew all this time Lars was trapped in spacedanger and Lion was the only thing Steven or anyone else on Earth could use to rescue him, but she decided to fuck off with him anyway. Because why? Because her selfish little emotional snit over Steven valuing her life is more important than Lars' own fucking life? Remind me, why are we supposed to like Connie again? Also why did Lion stay with her this entire time anyway? Usually he just fucks off and does whatever he wants. He never wandered back to Steven?

Connie immediately shows her ignorance and downplays the situation as a fun and funny adventure, steven and connie in space o ho ho! an attitude which hey you know might be conducive to PEOPLE THINKING YOU'RE NOT FUCKING FIT TO HANDLE YOURSELF IN SPACE AND THEY SHOULD LEAVE WITHOUT YOU TO PROTECT YOU... Pretty fucking retarded thing to say after all that bitching about... no, wait a minute, Connie never said anything about being treated like Steven's equal or being coddled, did she? I mean, she barely said anything about anything because this was an underdeveloped aborted fetus of an arc, but the entire crux of this disagreement really was just... #

god fluorite still creeps me the fuck out. She's basically some magna-tranny that's gone through eight different transitions of like three genders each and gained a new fat roll for each one. Is this supposed to make me like "diverse" people? Because it's not working. Every single second of her vocal drone grating across my eardrums makes me want ever more to perpetuate a holocaust against the legbutt people. Eugh. two children are all we need to save lars, don't bother bringing garnet or any of those other fucking main characters we have lying around or anything naw fuckit

On some level I almost enjoy how few fucks Lars has come to give, even doing shit like spouting the aesop he was just given as a kewl one-liner as he (kind of) trounces the bad guy... but still, it's all off-screen development that raises a lot of questions. Maybe it's just the change in environment and the lack of anyone to try and impress (the shitgems sure as hell aren't the cool kids) that's brought this out of him- that almost makes sense, but there's nothing indicating that's the case... or anything's the case, really. Maybe it's just some kind of tangential stockholm syndrome where I'm happy to see something actually fucking happening, I don't fucking know.

also how did they steal the ship? they """explain""" but... they really don't. They're just that good because take our word for it lars is really happy for those clean pants. how much did he shit himself over the past couple weeks

And then shit gets terrible again. Lars is more triggered over sadie than his own parents... because of fucking course he is. No, she wasn't worried sick, she was faffing around whining about having to do your work for you or having to work at all and then fucking quitting her job to go become a marxist rock guitarist. Hey, remember the purple cake incident? Lars was legitimately fucked up over his social anxiety and his inability to hang with the cool kids despite wanting so badly to do so, so Sadie just fucking around with them like it's nothing because she really is barely worried about his wellbeing... yeah, I think that shit's gonna fuck him up a little bit.

But no, Steven basically just... tells him to get the fuck over it. Because, like, he's not there so she can do whatever the fuck she wants, immediately. Fuck is this shit? Like all of five minutes into the episode Steven just starts fucking explaining this shitty twisted aesop to both Lars and the audience. Yeah man, you go die in space, your gf can immediately go do everything you ever angsted over with ease and I'll come rub it in your face and you should just fucking get over it because u totes love her that much, lol. *You* aren't entitled to your own emotions.

Oh and then Steven compares Sadie's faffing to Lars's fucking comandeering a space ship in order to keep himself alive. Because the woman's feelsies are equivalent to the man's fucking life. Guys, what the fuck am I watching?...

I think this is one of those... things... this show does, where it at first vaguely approaches something that would pass for a normal human cognitive outputting, but then turns, farts in your face like that sexy alien from Star Wars and flits off like Tinkerbell leaving you confused and asmellied. Where in an attempt to create an unthought new aesop never before cognizized by mankind it ends up with a bizarre twisted mess.

At the very least Steven maybe shoulda thought twice before bringing some of those photos. "Oh, look how well your abusive not-gf has been doing without you! Befriending everyone you ever wanted to befriend but couldn't because you need a fucking therapist! Yeah that'll make him feel better". Hey, remember when Steven was empathic, you guise? I mean that being thrown the fuck out was part of what defines this arc, but come on...

It also severely hurts the thing that it's played out so fast. Lars is #triggered by the photos, okay, but then Steven immediately gets on his case and REEEEEs at him for... trying to destroy Sadie's something or other, because I don;t fucking know feminism is the radical idea that a man's emotional freedom is so disgusting it'll destroy a pure beautiful deserving woman from a distance of a thousand light-years in a fucking instant- Calm your fucking tits, Steven Sugar, we're in the middle of fucking space, Lars has no way of destroying Sadie's whatever the fuck it was he was supposed to be destroying. Let him have his knee-jerk reaction. Also, all of a week or a month away from your best friend slash romantic interest is enough you should expect she's moved on from you completely. Okay.

... Hey, wait a minute, I thought Kevin Praty taught us that sniveling was the way to get all the pretty wymyn? What might have changed between then and now, a difference of one entire episode? ... No, really, I have no fucking clue. This time, the contradiction is so fucking incoherent I can't even turn it into "because Sugar and feminists like her place female emotions above all else". The only way I can see it is if shitting on certain types of males is equal to or higher than muh womans, as the Kevin Party incident was twisted specifically to work at Kevin's expense. ... It's funny how this runs completely opposite what I'd think most people would find healthy. If the person you're hurt over is nowhere fucking near you then get it out of your system, but don't go dumping all your emotional baggage on them at a fucking party. This show wants us to bottle up our emotions when there's no fucking reason to at all but mainline emotional diarrhea in the most inappropriate of situations. what is this shit?

lol the crew are made so fucking useless just by a single fucking photo phone just take it from him One of the shitgems calls Stevvie "friends"... plural. they aren't a singular "they". SOC JUS FAUX PAS

man i can;t believe stevonnie;s fucking dead to bad the show ended here guys i guess homeworld can just go take over the world now. it's better this way

-

This was apparently some sort of special event called "Stranded", but the stranding only lasts one episode. Oooooookay.

This one is entirely just a nitpick, but I find it so strangely interesting from a writing perspective that I just can't leave it out... The "everything is broken" joke is like three lines long and two lines two long. Stevonnie is like, man what's broken and we're shown the readout from the ship showing everything flashing red, okay... and then she's like, ohhh man wow look almost everything it broken?? who expect that ha ha. And then she says, at least the screen works... and that immediately gets broken. Ha haaaaa. I dunno bout you, but I woulda laughed more if they'd just cut it short- have Stevonnie see the screen and go "oh, everything" or even just "oh", in that high-pitched, slightly breathy tone of voice that says "well, shit". Then crash. Boom, short sweet and to the point and gives you like ten more seconds this episode to spend on the plot of the epi- oh wait

Stevonnie is stranded on spaceplanet because no communications, but... xei have magic. Just... shoot some magic fireworks or start a magic fire for smoke signals. Or a normal fire, even. If the problem is that random new green gem will also find you if you do this... actually mention that. Steven and Connie don't even seem to consider sending a physical signal of any kind, even though it should be an obvious idea.

And then Stevenconnie just... finds a random alien species? And casually eats it? This... this just raises so many questions... Throughout the entire run of this show up until this date, the only alien species we've seen has been the gems. The center of the entire show, something that's been continually developed (if not consistently, coherently or well)- there's a decent amount of thought put into how these lifeforms that're completely unlike anything on Earth function, both in biology and society, with some degree of interplay between the two. The show was kept focused on the effects of Rose's rebellion and events related to it, and we avoided all the extra thought, logic and possible scientific plot holes that would be brought into existence by trying to create and balance multiple forms if alien life from multiple different origins. But now they just... dumped this stuff on in there? Because why

This is at once the first new alien species we've seen since the very beginning of the show, the first organic species, the first animalistic/non-sentient species, and the first found in it's alien habitat... and not only are a fucking bunch of them all introduced at once, they're thrown in casually and Stevonnie fucking eats most of them. What the fuck? There's no thought put into these things either, they're just a bunch of wacky squacky animals mainly comprised of random Earth animal parts. There's no logic to how they work, why they exist, how they evolved like this, they're just... wacky funny animals for no reason. Fuck you. After the series up until this point has focused on developing one species with an entirely different biology, history and culture from humans, with all of those things to at least some degree influencing or connected to each other, seeing these critters introduced just at random with no logic or context is incredibly jarring. This was such a fucking bad idea...

Also Stevonne eats the fucking fruits and animals and drinks the water because all planets just have human-compatible food species and good old motherfucking H2O I guess

stevonnie has more stubble than steven ever did because i hate life and i hate everything. this is disgusting. It's even distributed weirdly; instead of being on ziouir's chin it spreads up either side of zoidrgh's face and actually on to the cheeks. And we just have to see it's fugly little cheekstubble for the entire fucking rest of the episode. gagh

And then we get to this... really weird dream sequence where some really weird writing decisions are made. It starts off in Connie's house with Connie's mom... uh, rising up out of the carpeting, but Stevonnie identifies them as "my house" and "my mom". Stevonnie is both Steven and Connie, but given we're used to Steven being the main character and usual viewpoint throughout the entire series this comes off as though it's Steven saying this is "his house/mom". But, you know, they're not. And for any fan who's not devoted enough to commit to memory which character's household interior this is, it's misleading until Connie's mom shows up and then confusing after that. Why the fuck did the writers decide to write the scene like this? Why not have Stevonnie go "my, uh, your, uh, Connie's house" or some shit? Or just remove this part entirely because it gets really weird when the mom starts talking about EXTERMINATING ORGANIC LIFE and setvonnie notices nothing. Then the mom turns into this... weird brownwashed minority fusion version of YD with a big ol' jellyglob of Conmom's hair slapped onto the back of her head. What is this shit? if you're going to make it a meaningful dream you can't just do random shit like that. stop mixing messages. Just... stop. why did they choose to do this, and with Conmom specifically? If it's supposed to imply PD and YD's relationship is like Connie and her mom's... well first of all, that doesn;t fucking work because PD is nothing like Connie at all. But ignoring that, if it's supposed to imply YD is some sort of a parental figure to PD... why Connie's mom? She's not particularly important, and we don;t know her all that well. If it's not a comparison to her specifically and it's just that she parent... why Connie;s mom? Of all the parental figures in the show, because... I don't know, this is dumb fuck this

Though once that shit stops I actually almost like this dream sequence. Having our main character taking the place of PD in the dream, reliving her memories, it not being clear we "are" PD and that Stevonnie is acting out this memory rather than acting under xfer own will until we get to the mirror scene, where Stevonnie punches the reflection of PD while their own appearance remains the same... that's pretty fucking nice. This might also be a manifestation of that Stockholm syndrome I mentioned earlier, though. PD wants things and is frustrated with her current situation. She tries to get what she wants by bitching at someone else to give it to her, sure, but the way she storms off on her own and punches the mirror implies she wants to change things, there's just something holding her back. She has a trajectory. Apparently the fnadom hates her for being a brat, but I almost like her. ..... bets are open on how long it takes for the writers to completely fuck this up.

and then steven and connie just go home and who fucking cares nothing mattersfuck this show

... It seems the fandom has latched on to PD being an off-color because she's small (because height is a color what the fuck is that term why is it that). Like the rich family that hides their embarrassing retarded offspring in the basement, I guess. (i still crackship lars with kevin by the way)

[pornosophical]

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by theory, well-fed complacent leather-coated, dragging themselves through the Caucasian campuses at dawn looking for an angry signifier.   The voices dissolved into the warm pre-dawn darkness as I watched vomit drip between the ferns and fallen leaves. Muttering consolations, my friend held my elbow. Only moments before we had been making impassioned if sloshy love in my single bed, while my 21st birthday party raged outside. Now I was hurling what seemed like a infinite fount of bile into the bushes behind my little room.   As my friend led me to bed, I thought: You really are 21 now. You got horribly drunk, dragged a guy to bed, and then got sick. Just like a made-for-TV movie. These thoughts were accompanied by an odd, abstracted rapture I have come to take for granted. For want of a better term, I'll call it the rapture of irony.   Halfway to my bed, I must have laughed out loud, because my friend asked, "What are you thinking about?"   "The narrative," was all I could manage. I wanted him to know that even in this humiliated, impaired state, I was fully cognizant of the mind boggling paradox of the situation. I may have been a walking cliché but at least I was self-conscious.

Carol Lloyd, I Was Michel Foucault’s Love Slave

As I drifted off into a tangle of dehydrated nightmares, I comforted myself with the thought that Theory had suffused my life so thoroughly that I couldn't get laid, get drunk and get sick without paying homage to Roland Barthes' notion of the "artifice of realism" or Baudrillard's "simulacra." Though now I live a practical life, with more actions and fewer theories, I still struggle with the convoluted mind-set of my higher education. Even after years of trying to acclimate myself to a more concrete world, this odd theology lives in me so much so that it is only recently that I have recognized it for what it is: a religious doctrine.

I am a child of Theory. I avoided this truth because I didn't want to confront the deep, strange river of pretentiousness that courses in my veins. But lately I've begun to think my predicament is less reflective of a private eccentricity than of a weird historical moment. The moment when the most arcane, elitist mental gymnastics Theory in all its hybrid forms was reborn as sexy, politically radical action. The moment when well-meaning liberal intellectuals who a decade before had dedicated themselves to activism, volunteerism and building social programs turned inward, tending to their private experiential gardens with obsessive diligence. Theory offered intellectuals the same escape from the public world that self-help and therapy offered the masses. But unlike self-help and therapy, which never claimed to be anything but psycho-spiritual Darwinism, Theory draped itself in revolutionary verbiage and pretended to be a political movement. For those of us who got liberal educations in the wake of this shift, being radical meant little more than voting when it was convenient, reading the newspaper and thinking about doing charity work. The only thing that separated us from the ignorant masses was our intellectual opinions, which we shrouded in baroque revolutionary rhetoric. The "tyranny of grammar," the "subversion of sexual mores in extinct Native American tribes," and the "colonialism of the novel" these were our mantles of honor.   Though I always believed that my upbringing was free of ideological trappings, I now see that the seed was planted long before I reached college. My eldest brother was a political activist in his teens, but with the onslaught of the '80s he threw away his ideals and pursued the good life: drinking from the corporate tit as an organizational consultant. After two years in Africa as Peace Corps volunteers, my parents shed their activist habits, moving to a resort town with the intention of getting rich building houses for retired millionaires. Aside from the little holes punched in their secret ballots and token checks made out to various nonprofit organizations, politically my family acted no differently than our blue-blood, conservative neighbors. They pursued the free market with a vengeance, bought as many nice things as possible and hobnobbed at the tennis club. But they still talked like the lefties they once had been. And how they talked.   At dinner we served up steaming topical cauldrons of death, child rearing, art and gender, then skewered them whole. We asked unanswerable questions and then imperiously proceeded to invent the answers. We had no interest in facts. Facts were just things you made up to win arguments. Once I brought home a boyfriend whose old-fashioned education and conservative family had taught him none of the liberal preference for ideas over facts. When the dinner conversation turned toward his hobby of California history and he began to speak in facts, my family paused to stare at him like he was sporting antennae. My mother hemmed; my father hawed; my brothers began to babble invented statistics. Through my family I learned to love ideas "for their own sake," which made me a kind of idiot savant (with emphasis on the idiot) and a prime victim for the God of Theory.   In 1978 my high school history teacher, a Harvard-educated, Jewish-turned-Catholic New Yorker, promised to give "extra credit" to anyone who read and did a book report on Paul de Man's "Blindness and Insight." (Though later exposed as a Nazi sympathizer, at that moment de Man still carried the mantle of "subversive" in the hippest sense.) Dutifully, I read every page understanding it the way a little boy understands the gurgles of his toad. I had no idea what it meant but the densely knotted language of ideas made my head implode and my body sing. For the rest of my high school years I would only have to read a paragraph or two of deconstruction's steamy prose to have a literary orgasm.   In his recent disavowal of literary criticism in Lingua Franca, Frank Lentricchia confesses that his "silent encounters with literature are ravishingly pleasurable, like erotic transport." My experiences with Theory were equally exalted delivering me into a paroxysm of overdetermined signs. In the blurry vertigo of those pages so full of incomprehensible printed matter I felt myself in the presence of a God: the God of complex questions, the God of language's mysteries, the God of meaning severed from the painful and demanding particularity of experience. In abstractions, I found absolution from a world in which I was utterly unprepared for any real responsibility or sacrifice. By surrendering myself to Theory, "reality" became a blank screen upon which I projected my political fantasies. My feelings of responsibility to a world that I had once recognized as both unjust and astoundingly concrete, slowly and painlessly seeped out of me until all that remained was the "consciousness" of the "complexity" of any "serious issue." I didn't need to fix anything, utterance was all, and all I needed were the words long and tentacled enough to entrap meaning for a slippery, textual moment.   Like any religion, Theory provided perks to the pious. In my freshman year, I took an upper-division class on the 17th century English novel. The books were long and difficult but I secured my standing in the class when I responded to the teacher's mention of deconstructive theory. "Yes, each idea undermines itself," I parroted, channeling the memory of my sophomore extra credit report. "Paul de Man says..." With that bit of arcane spittle, I hit pay dirt. The teacher gave me such a hyperbolic recommendation, I was able to transfer to a better school. Once there, I evaded undergraduate classes with their demanding finals and multiple writing assignments and insinuated myself into graduate theory seminars of all departments: anthropology, literature, political science, theater, history. With a host of other would-be intellectuals, I honed the fine art of thinking about thinking about ... What we were thinking about was always pretty irrelevant. I developed minor expertise in the representation of the hermaphrodite in psychiatric literature, the uncanny relationship between classical ballet and the absolutist state of Louis XIV and the woman as landscape in Robbe-Grillet's "Jealousy." Now I was just warming up, I told myself. Someday I would find an important issue worthy of all my well-exercised mental muscles and then watch out hegemony!   While I was being treated to the many joys of a great liberal education, I was also learning some rather insidious lessons. I discovered I didn't have to read the entire assigned book. After all, the "ideas" were what was important. Better to read the criticism about the book. Better yet, read the criticism of the criticism and my teachers would not only be impressed but a little intimidated. By extension, I learned not only a way of reading but a way of living. The more removed I was from a primary act, the more valuable it was. Why scoop soup at the homeless shelter when you could say something interesting about how naive it was to think that feeding people really helped them when really what was needed was structural change.   My friends now fall into two categories: ex-Theory nerds (like me) making a living off their late-learned pragmatism, and those who still live and breathe by Theory's fragrant vapors political theorists, literary critics, historians, eternal graduate students. I love talking to them and often I covet the little thrones their ideas get to perch on. Yet when I come away from a conversation that has swooped from the racist implications of early French embalming techniques to the "revolutionary interventions" in the margins of "Tristram Shandy" and ended with the appalling hypocrisy of the right wing, I often feel a strange discomfort. Because these are some of the smartest, kindest and most energetic people I know, I cannot resist the question: Is this the best way for them to spend their lives? If they acknowledged that they were largely engaged in the amoral endeavor of pure intellectual play, that would be one thing, but each of these people considers their work deeply, emphatically political.   Is this theory-heavy, fact-free education teaching people to preach one way and live another? Are we learning that political opinion, however finely crafted, is a legitimate substitute for action? Sometimes it seems that the increased political emphasis on language the controversies over "chairpersons," "people of color" and "youth-at-risk" did more than create a friendly linguistic landscape, it gave liberals something to do, to argue about, to write about, while the right wing took over the country, precinct by precinct. After all, in a world where each lousy word can stir up a raging debate, why worry about the hard, dull work of food distribution or waste management?   I know how high and mighty this sounds, and the side of me that appreciates subtlety and disdains brow-beating is wincing. Political moralism has fallen from fashion, leaving us to cobble together myopic philosophies from warmed-over New Age thinkers like Deepak Chopra or archaic scriptures like the Bible. If it's any consolation, I include myself in the most offending group of educated progressives who squandered their political power over white wine and words like "instantiation." Moreover, I'm not saying we're all a bunch of awful, selfish people. We learned to read, we learned to think critically and at least pay lip service to certain values of justice, egalitarianism and questioning authority. But I do wonder if we're handicapped, publicly impaired somehow.   Like most of my siblings of Theory, from time to time I have tried to get off my duff and do something concrete: protest, precinct walk, do volunteer work whatever but I always get impatient. I wasn't meant to chant annoying rhymes. I am trained to relish complexity, to never simplify a thought. I am trained to appreciate "difference" (between skin tones and truths), but I don't know how to organize a political meeting, create a strategy or make a long-term commitment to a social organization. As Wallace Shawn wrote in "The Fever," "The incredible history of my feelings and my thoughts could fill up a dozen leather-bound books. But the story of my life my behavior, my actions that's a slim volume and I've never read it."   Lentricchia argues that by politicizing the experience of reading, we ended up degrading its beauty and pleasure. In the same fell swoop, we also robbed concrete political action of its meaning. The progressive pragmatists studied political theory; the progressive idealists studied literary theory; and the eccentric radicals became conceptual artists and sold their work to millionaires. In any case, everyone bought the idea that they were engaged in political work. Having a radical opinion was tantamount to revolution.   Back in college, I remember going to a party at the home of one of my professors, who was a famous Marxist. The split-level house was decorated with rare antiques from all over the world, exclusive labels filled the wine cellar, the banquet table overflowed with delicacies. Like an anointed inner circle of acolytes, we students sat around as our professors argued that Saddam Hussein's invasion of Kuwait was justified from the perspective of the underpaid Palestinian servants who worked in Kuwaiti homes. The following month, while I was house-sitting at the professor's house, his black gardener came to the door wanting to be paid. I discovered that my professor was paying the man minimum wage for less than a half day of self-employed work. That night as I plundered the refrigerator for the best cheeses that money could buy, I chided myself for not having doubled the man's wages. But that might have embarrassed him, no? It definitely would have embarrassed me. It would have been acting on a belief, and action makes me uncomfortable.   Recently I went to a conference on "Women's Art and Activism." I found precious little of either. Instead I found a lot of Theory garbed in its many costumes. There was a lesbian conceptual artist talking about her work, triangular boxes that "undermined the patriarchy of shapes"; a "revolutionary" poet lecturing on her experience of biculturalism; and an "anarchist" performance artist discussing "strategies for subversion." And what fabulous haircuts! The keynote speaker was Orlon, a French performance artist whose work consists of having her entire face rebuilt by plastic surgery. After a very French explanation as to why she needed a third face lift, she answered questions from the packed house. "I think you're just incredible," said one woman. "You say your aim is to reconquer your body as signifier. How do you feel about letting a doctor touch your signifier? And how do you see your revolutionary techniques emancipating women from the prisons of their bodies as sign?"   Had I stumbled into a satanic ritual, I couldn't have felt a more chilling sensation of alienation. Once I would have smiled at these liturgies and savored their impenetrable truths. Now I only wanted to run away and do what? Dig a ditch? Perform open heart surgery? Administrate a charity? Even after all these years, I was still expecting Theory to visit me like the Virgin Mary and give me more than a sign.