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#(trying to transition into calling them by name than by color)
zaephix · 27 days
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carry me to tomorrow / / xavier , zayne , & rafayel . . .
loving him can feel like a multitude of things
a/n: having severe brainrot over these men, smb save me. rlly random but i got a 96 on my physics test everybody clap!! (can you tell who my favorite is)
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loving XAVIER feels like waking up at dawn and watching the sun and moon up in the sky at the same time. with you looking at the view with heavy eyes as the shades of blue and black fade to warm tones of orange and yellow, exchanging greetings with the moon. you're reminded of the sun as you stare at his peaceful face, his grey-blonde hair messy, making his skin look even softer. with a content sigh, you crawl back into his embrace and he welcomes you with a hum.
loving XAVIER feels like staring at the clouds and getting carried away by your daydreams. even when the both of you are on missions, you can't seem to take your eyes off of him (whether it's for romantic reasons or skeptical reasons - your choice). just as the clouds hide the blue sky, it feels like he hides himself as well, choosing instead to appear as a dull blob. you've asked XAVIER about himself more times than you can count, and yet he still chooses to stay quiet. you've nothing but your imagination at this rate. however, both of you know that one day the clouds will fade, revealing the deep, rich, and true colors hidden away. time will tell.
finally, loving XAVIER feels like spring. like the fresh grass and the fresh rain, like the blooming flowers and the bright rays. spring is a new beginning, for the earth and people alike. with XAVIER, everything and nothing feels new. you feel like you've done this with him a thousand times before, and yet you're pleasantly surprised each time. as the song birds celebrate the arrival of spring, you and XAVIER lie in the grass. nothing is exchanged between the two of you - just your time. with each passing second, your eyes begin to close again. and just as your vision was fading, you heard soft snores and mumbles of your name.
loving ZAYNE feels like going home at dusk, wondering what he's up to. the day ends with orange and red hues up in the sky, the moon readying itself for nightfall. you know he has a tendency to get caught up in work too often than not. and you wonder if you're overstepping your boundaries once you're at the doorstep of his office. what you didn't know was that even through the long and boring days at the hospital, he debated with himself on whether or not to call you. loving ZAYNE feels like moments when the sun paints everything in orange, gold hues - short, but sweet moments worth remembering.
loving ZAYNE feels like trying to navigate through the fog. fog feels uncertain, the chill sending goosebumps down your arm. the mist feels as though it's coercing you to join it away from the safety of your car. and in times like these you're reminded of how ZAYNE's morning coffee fogs his reading glasses. the same way you chuckle before taking them off of him and wiping them. you don't notice, but the black haired man now looks at you fondly - the steam from his coffee now subsided.
finally, loving ZAYNE feels like the transition from autumn to winter. the days of colorful leaves and cool wind over with. the beginning of winter marks its arrival through the fragile and stiff trees, the wind blowing through them as though they miss the kisses they'd share with the leaves. the days are getting shorter and the nights are longer. although the beginning of winter signifies hibernation and hiding, you can't help but love it. nights with ZAYNE are spent in bed cuddled in blankets and pillows as you both read books together. you never really cared for the books but rather the man that is clinging to you in a fashion he would never reveal in public. you had no problem with it. you'd love him in private and in public, through the winter storm and the chilly mornings. and just as your vision was fading, you felt a sigh against your skin and hands tucking you in, getting you ready for your dreams.
loving RAFAYEL feels like midnight escapades, brought on by midnight phone calls. the night is pitch black, save for the few street lights on your way from your apartment to his studio and the glowing moon. it's a vulnerable hour, crickets chirping and the white noise of the few cars going down streets the only music of the night. but as soon as you're met with his cheeky smile, you seem to forget the eeriness. your dazed nods as he goes on to rant about his problem or his painting - whichever one it was. it was only when you yawned when he invited you to rest in his too-big-of-a-bed. you had no idea if that was his intention or not, but any intelligible thoughts were hushed as the lights dimmed and the mattress below you dipped from the added weight.
loving RAFAYEL feels like the dew that paints the grass in the late nights and early mornings. you observe from the cover of his patio as he sinks his feet into the grass, seemingly in deep thought about something. you supposed it was his creative process, however odd it may be. the sun is almost blinding as it rises again and tiny rainbows form as if to say hello. he was still rooted in place. you think he invites you over, however you were distracted. the moisture of the air reminds you of how with RAFAYEL moments are quiet, just like how the grass quietly embraces the oncoming dew - an old friend.
finally, loving RAFAYEL feels like summer. like the hot atmosphere and the ice-cream melting on your tongue and fingers. like the never ending sky and the vibrant butterflies flapping their wings. loving RAFAYEL feels like the vigor the waves have for the sand under the hot gaze of the sun. and yet, you can never get a second of peace with all of his exhibitions gaining popularity. loving RAFAYEL means that summer nights is all you can afford to yourselves, the rush of the day still struggling to fade away. sitting on the sand, the white noise of the waves crashing over the earth lull you in a trance. and just as your vision was fading you saw dusky purple hair and violet amber eyes come closer, the feeling of lips against your temple sending you off.
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jawz · 3 months
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i’ve been thinking a lot lately about the way my ethnicity affected the way i was gendered as a child, my drive to transition, and even my detransition…
as a hispanic growing up with my white mom and white stepdad and white brother and white extended family in scandinavian hell (minnesota), i always felt different, always felt wrong. (my parents divorced as a baby, and my dad and his family, cuban and italian, all live in florida.) my neighborhood wasn’t so bad; it was way more diverse than the metro area itself. growing up i had mixed friends, i had friends with curly hair… but us trailer park kids were only a fraction of the population of our schools and district. a sea of blonde hair. there were times in elementary school i would literally pray to god to make my hair straight, make my eyes blue. grown-ups touched my hair and always asked “is it naturally curly?”. my classmates urged me to straighten it and by age 13 it was part of my ridiculously time-consuming “feminizing” beauty rituals.
much earlier, by the age of 8 or 9, i already had thick, dark hair growing on my legs. other kids, boys and girls alike, called me “gorilla girl”, faked gagging when i wore shorts, insisted i was actually a boy. that one became more and more common as i came into my personality: bold, class clown, competitive with the boys. (always wanting to charm the girls, but i didn’t recognize that back then.)
my mustache was there by 8, as well. just a little peach fuzz above my lip but dark enough to notice. are you even a girl? my mom would spread wax over her own face and soon began waxing my stache as well. it hurt so badly. i put up with it because she said it would make the kids stop teasing me. of course i was a girl- she was a woman and she had peach fuzz too!… but i felt self-conscious at the fact that my body hair was so much more noticeable, even as a child. my mother’s hair is very thin, straight, lighter brown; her complexion is warmer than mine, pink where mine is olive, green and yellow. i worried you could see the strands about to burst through. i was worried that to be a girl- a woman- i must hide parts of myself every day. i must cover the shoots of grass, the weeds that reveal that i’m not fit for society, that whisper i’m wild and untamed.
it wasn’t actually until i was 18 at least that i actually started to consider myself latino. i had sometimes said ‘hispanic’ growing up, as that’s what my family in florida called themselves; they referred to themselves as “spanish”, which i found out was not quite true after compiling my family tree and discovering that those ancestors emigrated from havana. in their minds they were white: “descended from spanish royalty” (as if!!)… i had spent my youth constantly trying to claim solely whiteness, confused as to why everyone was asking me “are you mexican?” “are you jewish?” “are you middle eastern?” - even though inside i think i knew. i knew my family didn’t look like me. i resented my surname being changed to Lind when i was five, my stepdad’s name, in order to give me the same name as the rest of them. despite my apparent envy of swedes and norwegians i knew it wasn’t my name; i still stood out terribly. i glared at myself in the mirror every day, i never could move past how the kids at school said my eyes were the color of shit, that my hair looked like pubes, that i must have had a sex change without being told because that would explain the mustache, the aggression…
by the time i was fourteen i was entirely primed to accept an alternative explanation to what was “wrong” with me. my sexuality was becoming more and more apparent but before i could ever come out as lesbian or even bi, i had discovered what it meant to be trans. i was so immediately certain that this was the key, THIS was why everyone said i didn’t fit in, THIS was why my behavior wasn’t girly, THIS was why i wanted to date girls. it was 2011, still deep in the “brain sex” era of the trans community, and i was sure without a shadow of a doubt that i was physically female, mentally male. all that needed to be done was to “correct” my body and bring it in line with my brain. despite the fact that very few people knew what transition actually was back then, i genuinely assumed it would make sense to everyone else, too: they had told me i wasn’t ‘really’ a girl so many times i had no trouble believing it.
transition, of course, did not suddenly de-latinize me LOL. first i became a total Other, outside of both the minnesotan ethnic norms and the gender+sex norms; eventually, with hormones and surgery at a very young age, i was able to pass as a boy, but by the time i could grow actual full-on facial hair, i realized i was still the pan-latin american enigma to people around me. multiple times someone would call me “sanchez” as some sort of attempted insult or joke. police looked at me differently than they had before. shop owners followed me, accused me of shoplifting. and sometimes, the white girls i dated told me that i was way cooler than all the boring white boys they knew. one girl even called me “exotic” to my face. it was, apparently, a compliment.
when i was 21 i heard that my girlfriend had referred to me to others as “a POC who identifies as white”. it felt as though she didn’t even know me at all. i’d never claimed either of those things to her.
moving to the west coast (socal specifically, where being latino/a is not considered ‘abnormal’) illuminated a lot of the bizarre and unnatural racial expectations of my midwest upbringing; i think by this point i was beginning to realize what so many things from my childhood had meant. that they weren’t really saying i was a boy. they were saying we don’t like girls who look like you, and we’d rather not have you included in our category.
it took me another three years to fully reckon with this. by the time i decided to detransition i had a much better understanding of the circumstances of my life; conversations with close friends who are also latina and have walked similar paths to me, heard similar insults, similar “compliments”, opened my eyes to the fact that i was not alone. i no longer feel weird for thinking the race/ethnicity boxes on government forms are hopelessly reductive. i know who i am and who i am not.
(around this time, i happened upon some old pictures of my dad’s side of the family. beautiful and glamorous women: adela, my uncle’s mother, the piano player; melanie, my aunt, the wife, hostess, and addict; lauren and andrea, my cousins, the restauranteurs; stella, my dad’s mamma, the widow and matriarch. and on all their faces, thick dark eyebrows, and, yes, that ever-familiar peach fuzz. i swear it healed something in my soul. despite my lack of beauty and glamor, we are not so different after all.)
that’s not to say all things are easy now. i’ve spent three years living as a GNC woman and if that wasn’t enough to confirm most all of my hypotheses on people’s perceptions of me, i don’t know what is.
detrans spaces (like most trans spaces) are overwhelmingly white- or at least that’s who dominates conversation. i see SO much downplaying of the things that naturally hairy women go through societally. i see trans allies who purport to be “okay” with detransitioners, saying “what’s the big deal? if you took testosterone you can just go off it and get laser hair removal!! :)” as if laser isn’t expensive as hell, painful as hell, and also WAY more of a process for a woman with dark curly hair than it is for one with straight blonde hair lmfao!!! i see detrans women obsessed with removing all traces of hair from their bodies (even though most of them clearly don’t have a neverending five o’clock shadow like some of us do! my lower face has a constant blue-green disturbance under the surface which makes female spaces incredibly daunting) and insulting the rest of us for being ugly and hairy and making no effort to look like women or what the fuck ever. basically, a lot of people who claim to support us are just racists and essentialists and believe that sex is visual and not biological…🤨
anyway… i guess my main takeaways from all this are:
1. please stop acting like detransition is an entirely internal process and that it’s easy for all of us to be seen as our sex again (some of us like. actually transitioned and passed as the opposite sex), or that potential physical interventions aren’t incredibly invasive and difficult
2. stop assuming all transition and detransition journeys follow your own experience of lifelong whiteness and hairlessness
3. it is a distinct experience to be regularly de-gendered or denied your sex, PRIOR to ever thinking of yourself as literally trans. many trans/detrans people had this happen to us (we were once the vast majority of trans people). but many did not, and generally shock others when they begun breaking gender norms. i really think people from the second group often have trouble understanding that for the first group, changing gender expression is basically a bandaid over an abscess… we have lived entire lifetimes being denied our sex, being told our bodies are not “truly” ours, that there is someone else inside trying to break out. kicked out of the bathroom, the changing room, alienated from single-sex peer groups. transition just flips this experience and instead separates us from our preferred gender group, reinforcing the feeling that we have no place, anywhere.
race/ethnicity, being homosexual or bisexual, mental illness stigma, disability, and low economic class all play an additional role in this. stop perpetuating this and denying us our biological sex.
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innuendostudios · 2 years
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The first new Alt-Right Playbook since just after the pandemic began. This video was started two and a half years ago, and languished in various states of production through a severe back injury, an ADHD diagnosis, a case of COVID, and the general stress of living in ongoing crises of health and democracy. With the help of guest artist Micael Schuenker Alves and script consultant Isabelle Felix, The Cost of Doing Business is now, finally, public.
My Patreon has taken a hit in the last few years, so, if like this work and can spare some money to keep it coming, please back me on Patreon.
Transcript below the cut.
Say, for the sake of argument, there’s this… call him a “provocateur.” A conservative who makes his living off of being a public figure, saying scandalously evil things in public because controversy = attention and attention = brand recognition. He gets his writing gigs and interviews and guest spots sometimes because people agree with the awful things he says. More often, it’s because he gets views. His economy runs on engagement, and hate-clicks are still clicks.
One revenue stream is speaking engagements. The college campus circuit. Fans at, let’s say, UC Emeryville invite him as a guest lecturer. But UCE is, broadly, a progressive campus, which means his presence would likely provoke a lot of outrage, maybe even a protest.
And a protest would be pretty flippin’ sweet.
Protest means local news coverage. Maybe more than local. Hell, the conservative media machine loves taking stories like this and blowing them up to national importance. If he plays his cards right, he could get his words in front of millions of people instead of just the student body of UC Emeryville. Of course he’s gonna take that gig.
But the progressive students at UCE are wise to his tricks. They’ve seen him pull this stunt at other UC’s - Stockton, Bakersfield, Vacaville - so they make the decision, “We’re not gonna protest. We’re just gonna let him speak. Let the boy stamp his feet. And, in a month, no one will even remember he was here.”
As the date approaches, and the provocateur sees he’s not getting the response he wants, he starts hinting things on social media, trying to bait a reaction: “Psst, psst. Hey. I’m gonna make jokes about the Holocaust. I’m gonna say Americans treated their slaves well.” Nothing. So he ups the ante. Makes it personal. “I’m gonna put up pre-transition photos of your trans students. I’m gonna out the queer students I’ve seen on Grindr. I’m gonna name which of your students I think are illegal immigrants.”
Student body’s like, “Bro, do your worst. Nobody’s falling for it.” Until one student’s like, “Hold up… he’s gonna dox immigrants in front of his audience of white nationalist gun nuts… and we’re just gonna let him? You know some of his fans were in Charlottesville, right?”
What we’re seeing here is a game of chicken between one group of white conservative reactionaries and one group of - let’s be honest - mostly white liberals, for whom the stakes are who gets paid attention to. The provocateur doesn’t have the ammunition nor the optics to attack privileged liberals directly, so he pokes and prods at various social minorities whom privileged liberals are supposed to care about until he gets a reaction. Going after people of color is a pure Xanatos gambit for his fans - either they get a protest and a national audience hears their reactionary rhetoric, or there’s no protest and they get to fuck with some immigrants. And, because white liberals are largely ignorant to the threat posed to those immigrants, white liberals are not great at assessing the full scope of the danger. Often enough, this remains, to them, an argument about ideas and principles. To them, they are but words. (Until someone gets hit by a car or shot and then it’s “who could have predicted?”)
The provocateur’s animating force is not hatred of people of color, it’s hatred of white liberals, just as white liberals’ animating force is less advocacy for people of color than moral victory over conservatives. Neither side acknowledges people of color as entities in this fight; they’re viewed as tools for getting white people what they want, and their suffering is viewed as an “acceptable” byproduct. You’ve maybe heard the phrase, “In the game of patriarchy, women are not the opposing team, they are the ball.” Well, in the game of imperialist white supremacist capitalist patriarchy, minorities are not the opposing team, they are the cars, store windows, and newspaper kiosks that get wrecked when the home team loses. Or when the home team wins. It’s the Eagles Fan view of oppression.
And, make no mistake: weaponizing or disregarding students of color is still racism. But it’s racism of a kind most white people have trouble recognizing - or, to speak with a sharper edge, that white people often refuse to acknowledge. From the white provocateur who does not hate minorities directly but is willing to utilize the hatred of others to get what he wants from some white people - who says “I will hurt them a lot just to hurt you a little” - to the white liberal who does mental gymnastics to not come out and say “that is a Black and Brown sacrifice I’m willing to make,” racism is not always a passion. But it is tolerable. Usable. Easy to disregard.
In a white supremacist world, it is the cost of doing business.
Let me make it clear: nothing about this is okay.
Now, the weaponizing of minority suffering is employed against many minoritized groups - I could be making this video about transphobia or homophobia, and, while many details would differ… I wouldn't even have to change my intro. Samuel R. Delany (yeah, yeah, take a shot) argues that misogyny is the oldest bigotry, and, therefore, the model on which all other bigotries are based. I’m focusing on institutional racism as my chief example, first, because this is America and the cup runneth over; second, because, in the 2016 election, the greatest indicator a person was going to vote Republican, more strongly correlated than being registered as a Republican, was racist sentiments; and, third, because racism is a fundamental building block of fascism and a primary means of sowing discord on the Left, but we’ll get to that.
I am going to curb my reflex to try and make every Alt-Right Playbook some kind of definitive statement; I do not have the last word on American racism. If you want to hear about American racism from the people who experience it, here’s a book. Here’s five books. What I bring to the table is: I have, at this point, several decades’ experience being white. And, in trying to explicate white supremacy, it is sometimes worthwhile to look at it from the inside. So my focus will be: What does whiteness mean to white people?
American racial discourse has four principle (white) characters.
On the far right end, you’ve got the guy white people picture when they hear the word “racist”: your klansman, your neo-Nazi skinhead, your suit-and-tie ethnonationalist. This guy knows he’s a racist and he’s proud of it.
Next to the white supremacist, you’ve got the white collaborator; the politician, public figure, or businessman who does not agree with the white supremacist “on paper” but will seek out their votes, attention, or money.
Next to the collaborator, you’ve got the white moderate: people who ostensibly believe in racial justice as an end goal, and are somewhat committed to bringing it about, but only with the cooperation of the white collaborator. It wouldn’t be fair to do it without their consent, you see, and thus the white moderate spends a lot less time opposing collaborators than “appealing to their better natures.” They tend to operate on behalf of people of color rather than with them.
Plainly put, the “Cost of Doing Business” maneuver is this group [collaborators] using this group [racists] to attack this group [moderates] using people of color as their weapon of choice. It is white supremacy in the form of three groups of white people fighting amongst themselves.
Finally, on the far opposite end, you’ve got the honest-to-goodness anti-racist. Where the racist will support white supremacy, and the collaborator uphold white supremacy, and the moderate seek to reform white supremacy, only the anti-racist is trying to get rid of it. And even they are not free from racial bias! And, if you tell one of them “you are not free from racial bias,” it’s not guaranteed they will react well! It’s just, if you’re trying to fight white supremacy, they’re the white folks you have the best odds with.
Now, this little chorus line is not how white people typically frame the situation. We usually think of racism as binary: there are racists, and there are non-racists. In that framing, the provocateur is someone whose allegiance we get to debate. He willingly sacrifices people of color without personally hating them; does that count as #racism? This “debate” lasts approximately the rest of your goddamn life, which should be evidence enough that the frame is wanting.
In today’s framing, there are several shades of racism and there is anti-racism. There is no “non-.”
Now, before we map the choreography of how these four types interact, first a quick note on how most white people think about whiteness. Short answer: whenever possible, they prefer not to.
Whiteness in America: is it vanilla? No, it’s fior di latte. Nothing but milk and sugar. Where non-whites are flavors, we are the base. In the same way one does not hear one’s own accent; British people have accents, but we speak English "normal-like." If you haven’t built your whole identity around being white, you probably don’t think about your whiteness very often, and perhaps even feel uncomfortable when one points it out. For it is the white experience to passively, unconsciously conceive of oneself as a kind of raceless default.
This is privilege. Indeed, this is part of what makes privilege privilege: it’s the identity that’s treated as a norm. The one you don’t have to think about. A movie with an all-white cast is widely perceived as being no way about race. But that’s not true of one with an all-Black cast.
Identities being treated as defaults makes institutional racism difficult to understand, even for well-meaning white people. “How can I be racist if I don’t identify as a racist? How could I be part of a group I never opted into?” It sounds like racism without racists. But let us reflect a moment: would “a group one never opted into” not describe a minority? People don’t choose to be gay. And, while people also don’t choose to be straight, being straight is “normal.” People don’t “come out” as straight, or have complex codes for signalling heterosexuality (that they’ll admit to, at least); in lieu of other evidence, straightness is presumed. But if people clock you as gay - or even think they’ve clocked you as gay - then you stand out from the background. It makes you more visible, where the appearance of straightness makes you less so. Makes you “the everyman.”
Of the many identities one may have, at any given time on any given axis there is typically only one default, whose rules operate differently to the rest. The more of these “normal” identities one has, the more accustomed one is to being the default. The idea is foreign that people might group one not by how one thinks of oneself, but by how one is perceived and by how one impacts others. It gets hard to fathom that, any more than whether or not a light-skinned Mexican gets to be white is up to them, whether or not you fit the definition of racist isn’t up to you. The boundaries are not policed from the inside.
So! Okay. Going again from right to left: this is where we find the titular Alt-Right. What’s novel about the suit-and-tie ethnonationalist is how they break from the iconography of racism. Their goal, like that of many racist people, is to attack and oppress people of color, but in such a way that the white establishment will let them get away with it. The average white person’s shorthand for a racist is still primarily the klansman and the neo-Nazi; respectively, a rural, working-class white nationalism and an urban, working class white nationalism. The Alt-Right is the gentrification of white nationalism. Their pocket squares and MBAs and $90 haircuts short out the white moderate’s brain because they still associate white supremacy with white trash. Racism is worse than evil, it’s common. It’s why they insist reactionary conservatism is propped up by the white working class in flyover states despite all evidence to the contrary. The Alt-Right can’t be as bad as everyone says, because who ever heard of a racist going to Harvard? (Harvard.)
The Alt-Right bridges the gap between white nationalism and the rest of white culture, using class signifiers to gain access to the political and social capital of the more mainstream collaborator and getting the moderate to treat them not as someone to be ignored but someone to bargain with in good faith.
The collaborator finds value in this relationship because, regardless of one’s position on it, racism works. A police officer may not be personally racist, but, when it’s the end of the month and they need to hand out a few more tickets to make quota, it’s safest to do so in a low-income neighborhood where the average driver can’t make their life hell by hiring a lawyer, and, due to decades of racist redlining, most low-income neighborhoods are disproportionately Black and Latine, sooo… And a prison warden may not be personally racist, but racist white people are approved by jury selection more often than people who think the justice system is racist, so Black and Latine people are the easiest to jail and private prisons get more funding when they’re full, sooo… And a conservative politician may not be personally racist, but Black and Latine people predominantly vote Democrat, and, since they’re disproportionately imprisoned, if the politician denies convicts the right to vote, they are more likely to get reelected, sooo…
Now, these people frequently are self-identified, card-carrying racists. My point is, for this system of incentives and rewards to operate, they don’t have to be. Any of them may, but none of them must. Racism exists and it’s efficient. And, in a capitalist society, where cops are competing for promotions, private prisons are competing for contracts, and politicians are competing for votes, if an unethical behavior sees a higher return than the alternative… then ethics are a luxury. There are hundreds of examples of businesses that claim, in periods of prosperity, that they prefer to do what is right over what is profitable. But what tune do they play when prosperity ends? Every boom has a bust - since 1900, the US has spent one out of every four years in recession. And, in the lean season, not using this generations-old system built by white people to advantage their descendents is a liability. A values-based business typically goes one of three ways: compromising their values to stay competitive, getting bought by someone who compromised their values to stay competitive, or sticking to their guns and facing a higher risk of going out of business. Many choose to do the right thing, and some even survive. But that’s beating the odds. The market trends toward the optimal strategy.
No one ever went broke appealing to the ignorance of white people.
The collaborator treating nonwhite suffering as the cost of doing business also works rhetorically. The average conservative citizen doesn’t know anything about the Syrian Civil War, but they know the refugee crisis is something the Left seems to care about. So demonizing refugees is mutually beneficial for pundits and politicians who want to rally their base by spiting liberals and for white supremacists who want to mainstream racism against Arabs. The average conservative citizen doesn’t understand epidemiology, but they don’t want to blame their own party for letting a million die of COVID. So calling it “the Chinese virus” is mutually beneficial for pundits and politicians who want to deflect blame onto a foreign nation and for white supremacists who want to mainstream racism against Asians.
Yet, despite their blatancy in collaborating with white supremacists, and having eerily similar goals to white supremacists, the collaborator maintains that they are, themself, “non-racist.” Their decades of opposing affirmative action, right to assembly, police reform, fair voting efforts, redistricting, funding for public schools, prisoner’s rights, religious tolerance, shutting down Guantanamo, accessibility for non-English speakers, immigration, investment in low-income neighborhoods, decolonizing school curricula, Indigenous People’s Day, putting Harriet Tubman on the twenty, kneeling, ending the drug war, or withdrawing from the Middle East are framed as problems of implementation. “We agree with the aim of closing the racial wealth gap, just not like this. We agree with the aim of Latin-Americans entering the country, just not like this. We agree with the aim of peaceful protest, just not like this.”
And, if we on the Left are to ask, how exactly are we supposed to get this without this, oh, coming up with that solution? That’s our job. And, if it’s not getting done? It’s because we haven’t come up with a solution they like yet. And probably what they don’t like about our solutions is that we implied the problem was racism. “Yes, white people are over-represented in dozens of industries nationwide, but have you considered that it’s a fluke? Pitch me a solution for it being a fluke.” The Collaborator’s white supremacy exists in the negative space. They agree racism exists, they agree we should oppose it, but they disagree that any individual thing you’re talking about is an example of it. Getting a Republican to identify an actual incident of systemic racism is like trying to point at your shadow with a flashlight.
And it’s reasonable to ask, Jesus, how far can these guys push the envelope before the rest of the establishment calls them what they are? But, if you’re waiting for the moment a white moderate agrees mainstream conservatism has done something unacceptably and unequivocally racist, you’re underestimating how long white people can equivocate.
There’s a lot to say about the white moderate. And I’m about to be that lefty who expends as many words complaining about liberals as he does fascists, but, look: as much as this series is about the tactics of the Far Right, it is at least as much about how the Center Left is susceptible to them… and complicit.
So, okay. When Democrats lose an election, what happens with the white, liberal, pundit class? Well, there’s suddenly a lot of chatter about how to talk to your racist uncle over Thanksgiving, about how liberals in red states can contact their representatives, about the value of debate. “This is our fault,” they say. “We let this happen because we didn’t have enough conversations with white conservatives.” You hear a lot more of that than talk about how the gutting of the Voting Rights Act cost a lot of the Left the right to vote, and what could be done to guarantee their representation in the next election. In fact, you hear more about how that kind of talk is alienating to the white conservatives who supported gutting the Voting Rights Act, about how reaching across the aisle is gonna mean easing off race talk, at least for now. POC representation is quickly reframed as a critical long-term goal, but, in the present moment, while we are competing for elected office, guaranteeing the minority vote is a luxury.
What’s prioritized is that the people who suppressed the Black vote in order to win elections not be made to feel that they are racist.
Because, I mean, what if they genuinely believe the Voting Rights Act unfairly targets Southern states? Or even if - and I’m saying if here - they did do it to suppress votes, if hurting Black people isn’t their goal, and they’re just trying to win elections, is that really “racist?” 
Moderates are very cagey about breaking out the R-word for a fellow white person.
See, there’s this other definition of racism that most white people learn in grade school: racism is when you say mean things to other kids about skin color and it hurts their feelings; racism is about cruelty. And harm done by white people, therefore, isn't racism if isn’t cruel; it’s merely ignorant. Or apathetic. But ignorance and apathy can be reasoned with; you just gotta sit down and hash it out. As long as it takes. Real white supremacy is about emotional distress or interpersonal violence; it’s uncommon, it’s unpopular, and it’s a hearts and minds issue.
What this definition leaves out is any notion that white supremacy is about power. That white people who disavow racism still live longer, get paid better, get arrested less often, and are typically in position to negotiate with whomever’s in power. That this society was built for The Everyman, and being The Everyman confers power upon you.
When children of white moderates get older and first brush up against this definition, wherein white supremacy is not small but all-encompassing, where it can be cruel, but is at least as often indifferent, and where every white person in the country is bound up in it and privileged by it whether they want to be or not, and will never, ever experience it themselves - where it’s not about feelings but power - how often do they say, “oh, maybe the definition I grew up with was simplified for 9-year-olds”?; or, “oh, maybe the definition given to me by white grown-ups was less complete than the one a Black grown-up might’ve given”? And how often do they say, “you can’t just redefine racism?”
Right out the gate, the white moderate is possessive not just of their whiteness but of the very definition of racism.
In the definition they know, racism exists only over here. And the white collaborator is a compatriot who shares their ultimate vision for the future, but has simply gone off course somewhere. And they don’t see themselves as flawed individuals with a long way still to go; they’ve already arrived! They’re the destination everyone else needs to get to! Living proof that white supremacy can be easily and painlessly opted out of. They can’t see collaborators as opponents because there is no definition of white supremacy that includes collaborators and doesn’t also include them.
And this is critically important: they don’t want to start thinking of themselves as white. They don’t want the constant awareness of one’s race or how one’s race is perceived – you know, the things the rest of humanity deals with. And who would want that? I’ll tell you who wants that: Nazis and klansmen want that. They’re the only ones who like thinking about whiteness every day. So, white moderates cling to the other definition, the comfortable one. They may be more or less willing to collaborate with people of color, but mostly in ways that don’t foreground their whiteness. White-as-default is one concession that can never be made, in part because it’s the one that can’t be spoken.
Their ideal is a kind of Big-Tent Antiracism, where victory comes by winning over reactionary conservatives. This might strike you as odd, given that reactionary conservatives have seen many victories in the last twenty years, none of which came by winning over us. White supremacists bolster their numbers by finding little, disgruntled pockets of America that have not, heretofore, engaged much in politics and radicalizing them to the cause, and then pitching themselves to white collaborators as a demographic now large enough to sway a narrow election. If moderates wanted to counter this strategy, they might look at who out there is sympathetic to progressive causes but isn’t voting, maybe because they don’t feel liberal candidates represent them, or maybe because someone just happened to shut down all the polling locations in their neighborhood. And, you know, mathematically, there’s probably a lot more disenfranchised people of color who match that description than racist white people who aren’t already Republicans.
But that strategy would mean doubling down on anti-racist talking points instead of easing off of them. It would mean a willingness to alienate some white people. It’s… giving up on them. It’s admitting a significant percentage of American whiteness is not on the side of racial equity. It means there’s a definition of racism where it isn’t fringe, but common and pervasive, and where addressing it requires thinking about their place in it. It means asking why they feel more affinity for white people who oppose them than people of color they claim to agree with. Why the votes of the former have to be earned but the latter are expected. And, since all that seems intolerable, they fixate on the kinds of gestures that feel like moving in the right direction but run very little risk of arriving anywhere. “How about, instead of defunding the police, we give them more money than any Administration in years, but, also, Juneteenth is a national holiday now. Something for everyone!”
The Left has the numbers to leave behind white centrists who slow down anti-racist efforts, and it doesn’t because white moderates don’t want to. They and the white collaborators are supposed to be in this together, and they are… just not in the way they think.
The irony is that the Right feels no affinity for white moderates whatsoever. They hate - and I mean haaaaate - white moderates. Smug pricks always talking about unity whenever they win an election. “Reach across the aisle?” That's what you say when you’ve lost and you want the other guys to make concessions they don’t have to make—you don’t do it when you’re in power! Are they trying to humiliate us, or did we really lose to a bunch of clowns who don’t even know how to win right? Debasing themselves in front of minorities just to get their votes when they clearly aren’t going to do anything real for them. Christ, at least white supremacists are honest!
The Right will threaten POC sometimes just to call the white moderates’ bluff.
Racism must be understood as more than a set of individual beliefs and feelings, but as a tool for achieving political ends, first and foremost because claiming otherwise is both factually and morally wrong. But also, without this understanding, white culture can’t recognize the stakes.
Fascism exists in a state of permanent conflict. Things like declaring an indefinite state of martial law, suspending elections, or executing members of government, are justified on the grounds that the people are in danger and need to be protected and mobilized. This isn’t unique to fascism: between the Cold War, the War on Drugs, and the War on Terror, the US has been in some form of ongoing conflict for the last three generations, but: you’ll note the Cold War didn’t end on a battlefield, it ended when the Soviet Union collapsed in on itself. Communism, terrorism, and drug dealing are patterns of behavior, and they wax and wane, often for reasons outside our control. Geopolitics may someday shift such that terrorism becomes less prevalent, or that lowers the demand for drugs.
Communism can be fought with diplomacy and economic sanctions because communists can choose not to be communists anymore. And fascists have no use for soft power. To justify a military dictatorship, they need an opponent that won’t just go away on its own one day. It always come back to identity politics because Black people can’t stop being Black; theirs is a number that will not be reduced without the hard power of violence and displacement.
Fascism begins by stealing populist targets from the Left: they focus on elites, corrupt businessmen, weak-willed politicians, subtly shifting focus away from leftist critique of systems to types of people. But, sooner or later, they settle on something unchangeable: race, gender, ethnicity, religious background. The bigotry is localized to the region’s existing prejudices: in Nazi Germany, it was Jews, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Roma, Slavs, Black people, queer people, and people with disabilities; in fascist Italy, it was Slovenes until Mussolini invaded Libya and Ethiopia and so demonized their citizens as well; in the US, the Klan and the American Nazi Party targeted African-Americans, Jews, and Catholics, queer people, and immigrants; Spain under Franco tried to determine the exact racial makeup of the Spanish people so they could cast out those with the “wrong mixture of bloods.”
This is why the Far Right has gone all in on transphobia of late, by the way. It has joined Islamophobia on the outer rim of acceptable bigotries. On some level they know trans folks aren’t just cis people in disguise, that desistance is rare and conversion therapy doesn’t work, because it trans people could just stop being trans… they never would have picked them for an enemy.
This is where it starts. This is why you should have no patience for anyone saying “wokeness is dividing the Left, we should focus on class.” They’re not attacking us on class. They’re trying to sell themselves as better on class than we are. Where do you think that fairy tale about “blue-collar whites” comes from? They want you to believe that they, and not the socialists, are the path forward for the downtrodden. There’s a reason fascism started popping up all over Europe right after the Russian Revolution; Mussolini got his start beating up socialists in the Po Valley, on the grounds that he was defending not wealthy elites but struggling rural farmers who didn’t like the socialist takeover of their industry during the biennio rosso. The fascist goal is to harness and redirect class resentment towards a scapegoat. They come at us on identity. It always comes down to the shape of the human skull.
When a provocateur shows up on a college campus to talk about “ideas,” it’s not a debate. There’s no special sequence of words that will defeat them [expecto patronum gif]. This is a show of dominance. They are presenting themselves as white compatriots to be reasoned with rather than agents of white supremacy to be opposed. In that framing, the stakes are attention, the weapons are words, and people of color are not players but tokens on the game board. And they are checking whether you will submit to that structure.
They don’t care about ideas. They care about power.
And power is what beats them. They tell you four hundred people showing up in protest is just free news coverage. But when four thousand show up? They cancel. That’s power. And, in absolute numbers, most events they can’t rustle up four thousand supporters, but we can, provided cishet non-disabled white dude lefties (like myself) haven’t told all the Right’s biggest targets their struggles don’t matter. (And, it’s worth mentioning, cops fuck with protesters less when some of them are white.)
(It’s also worth mentioning racism affects 58% of the working poor, so there can be no class solidarity that doesn’t address it.)
This [white moderate] isn’t who needs to win. This [POC] is who needs to win, and, if you’re white, you need to be over here [antiracist]. I’ve collected as many resources as I can find by POC on what they need and want from white allies, and put them in the down-there part. There’s a plurality of opinions on this, so I recommend reading more than one. It may not always be a four-thousand-strong protest; every direct action is unique, and must be strategized in concert with the people most affected.
But what I can tell you is, when business gets done, white folks need to split the check. A movement cannot be antifascist if it isn’t antiracist.
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NOT REQUESTED
penelope garcia x stud!reader
primarily penelope and the reader. introduces the team at the end, only mentions hotch, derek and jj by name. brief mention of kevin.
Starting your first day at the BAU, you find yourself trapped in the elevator for hours with a beautiful woman that you can't stop yourself from being attracted to.
Pure Fluff.
Unspecified age gap, but reader is an adult. No use of Y/N.
2K WORDS.
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"Hold it!" You hear as you step into the elevator. You turn, your back facing the back wall of the elevator. You almost don't hold it, but then, she calls again, "Hold the elevator, please!" 
And, that's when your eyes zero in on her. She's a stand out, if you've ever seen one. Colorful and bright as ever, she reminds you of both a sunshine and a rainbow after a rainy day. You reach out, catching the elevator doors before they could close, willing them to react to you and open up. Her heels clack louder as she puts a pep in her step to catch up, thanking you her entire way there. You don't let go or step back until she makes it into the elevator. She thanks you once again, and you assure her thanks isn't necessary. She turns to you, really, turns to you. 
"I don't think I've ever seen you before," she says, outstretching her hand for you to shake, "Penelope Garcia. My friends call me Garcia. 
You shake her hand as you introduce yourself to her and smirk, "Are you saying you want to be my friend?" 
Garcia smiles and her entire face lights up when she does, "Well, I'm always open to making new friends." 
"Where are you headed to?" You ask. 
"I am going to the BAU." 
Well, this must be fate of sorts. Either that or it was the kindest of coincidences. You were happy for it, regardless. This was your first day training for the reopening of the liasion position. You had been hoping that you would meet someone kind to help you transition into the new job. Your smile overtakes you. 
"Same." 
Penelope looks at you again, like really. Your name bouncing between her ears as she tries to place you. If you were headed there, surely she must have at least heard of you. She knows about all the changes to the unit. Well, the ones that aren't impromtu, anyway. Sometimes, Hotch makes a quick decision that doesn't go all the way through proper channels until after the decision has been made. But, other than that, she knows about it. And, then, it dawns on her. 
"Oh, OH! You're our new liasion!" She puts together, and you nod. "Well, I guess I'm going to have to pay closer attention to BAU pres conferences, now." She says, eyes trailing you from head to toe. Not onces but twice. 
"Ms. Garcia," you say, turning fully to face her, leaning in just a little, "you coming onto me?" 
Her face goes beet red as she giggles, eyes twinkling under her glasses. She opens her mouth to respond, but before she can, the elevator does a psuedo drop before halting completely. It goes dark for a moment, and then the emergency lights come back on. When the lights come back on, the two of you see each other hugging your own corner of the elevator. You kind of fucking hate elavators. 
"Please, tell me this doesn't happen often," you say, breaking the ice. She just shakes her head as she tries to get a handle of her breathing. "It can't be like this for long, can it?" You ask, trying to soothe yourself. She ignores you, still trying to get her breathing under control so she can soothe herself. It takes a lot of mental strength for you to push yourself out of your corner and into hers. You wrap your arms around her, gently, when you cross over and ease the two of you down to the floor. You place her hand on your stomach and model slow deep breaths for her to mimick. It takes a moment for her brain to catch up to the moment, but it does. She follows your league until it works, and she's relaxed a bit. Relaxed enough so that her breathing isn't a source of worry. You give her a gentle smile, then, "No worries. I'm going to just call my new boss and tell him where we are." 
"Good idea, call Hotch." She says, watching as you retrieve your phone from your pocket. Your face drops and so does her heart. Frowning she asks, a little frantic, "What is it? What's wrong?" 
"I don't have service," you mutter, restarting your phone, hoping for it to not be the case. But it is, and you mutter again, "I don't have service." 
She retrieves her own phone from her purse, heart dropping further, "Neither do I." 
You takes a deep breath. You don't know Penelope that well, but you are fairly certain that if you lose your shit, she's going to lose hers. So, you can't. Even though, you want to cry a little. Even though, you are terrified that this metal coffin will become you guys' final resting place. You force yourself to be optimistic, though, for both of your sakes. 
"Okay, it's fine. They'll notice we aren't here, and the generators will start working, and we'll be out of hear in no time." 
No time, has turned into four hours, and it's killing you to not know just how long you're going to be stuck here. But, you guys have found a way to not just pass the time but to keep each other sane. The ultimate question game. Where you combine this or that, would you rather, one must go, where do you stand?, and fact or fiction with the general questions game. It was lighthearted, helped you get to know your coworker, who was becoming forbidden fruit as your attraction started to grow, and most importantly, it kept your mind off the whole being trapping in a floating metal coffin thing. 
"Wine or beer?" She asks. 
"Wine," you say without a second thought. "Would you rather walk a mile of hot coals or swim across a lake of razors and lemon juice?" 
She laughs through a scoff, jaw dropping just so, "What a sadistic question." You shrug, pleased with the dilemna you've created. "You answer," she insists. 
"You can't turn it back around on me," you remind her, "We agreed. It's against the rules." 
She huffs, "I really hate the mile of hot coals, but I am not the strongest swimmer. So, I don't really have a choice, do I?" You shake your head. She huffs, "So, what made you want to join the BAU?" 
"Well, I've always been intrigued by how much the media can sway and swing things. How it can speak to the public and change the way they think, how it can send messages to people, to reach people exactly the way it needed to be reach. So, I worked behind the season, helping to produce a national news show. We reported on a lot, from crime to celebrity scandal to politics. The works. But, some of the messages we were sending, how they were reaching people, it just," you shrugged, "I wasn't happy with what I was doing. I saw first hand how dangerous it could be when the intention wasn't solely to help, and I felt sleazy all the time. So, I changed careers. I wanted to better serve the public. Then, they reopened this position, and I had to apply." 
Penelope smirk, curiousity taking over her as she was geared up to break another rule. "What channel did you work for?" 
"No, it's my turn." You remind her, playfully swatting her thigh, "Stop breaking the rules." 
"You know, I was hoping the first time you spanked would be somewhere more private, but I'll take it." 
You play along, "I mean, can it get any more private that this?" 
There's this brief change in her eyes. Almost lustful, but it is so fleeting. You've seen it before, though. It's happened of the last few hours. She looks away, but you keep your eyes on her. 
"Ask your question." 
You don't know why you don't stop yourself from asking this but, "Do you date women?" 
"Are you asking for a friend?" She asks, looking back at you. 
"Nope, just me." 
She blushes, looking away again, trying to see if this moment is real or if maybe she hit her head when the elevator jumped. She does that a lot. Every time the temperature rises between the two of you, she looks away. It's probably the smart thing to do. Trying to break the fever in the air. She is forbidden fruit, after all. You hate to shit where you eat, but you can't remember the last time you were quite this tempted. Especially in a situation like this with absolutely no prying eyes. With little to nothing to remind you that interoffice romance was a bad idea. And, everything just fueling this attraction you feel towards her. You do something bold. A gentle pair of fingers on her chin, pulling her face back to yours. 
"Answer my question." You demand, softly, even though, you are fairly certain you know the answer. 
"I do, actually," she answers, and you smile like you've just won a prize. 
"Your turn." 
"Aren't you a little young to be asking about my dating preferences?" 
You snort out a chuckle, having been with your fair share of older women. If you were being perfectly honest, the youngest woman you had ever been with -- at all -- was seven years your senior. Beyond that, though, you were grown. 
"I'm old enough to be starting my second career, and be something of a veteran at my old one," is your answer. Though, to be fair, you went to college early. Finished early, too, and you were the youngest producer on your staff but a decent margin. Always ahead of the curve you were, but it didn't take away from the truth of your statement. Or, the implication. You were old enough to know what you liked. You were old enough to be her colleague. You were old enough to be her equal. 
"Your turn." She says, because touche. 
"Are you seeing someone right now?" 
"Nothing serious," she answers, "You?" 
You shake your head, "Nothing at all." 
She smiles, then. You, in her mind, were also something of forbidden fruit. She wasn't opposed to dating a techincal coworker. Obviously, Kevin, but someone in her unit? She couldn't let herself go there. She wouldn't. She didn't want to risk the fallout. Especially not with you. You were so new here; she didn't want to taint your experience with relationship drama. Even if you were the sexiest thing to walk into this building since Derek Morgan. Still, it made her happy to know that her future fantasies didn't have to contend with another. She was mildly selfish that way. 
She was about to respond when the regular lights came on, and the emergency lights when off. Not long after, the lights came back on, the doors opened, and the two of you come face to face with six concerned faces. You stand, hasitly, helping her to her feet the moment you were on yours. 
A blonde comes forward, wrapping her arms around Penelope, holding her for a moment. When she releases her, Penelope gives brief hugs to everyone else, until she reaches a bigger guy. Real buff and pretty, like a model. He hugs her as tight and as long as the blonde had. When he releases her, she merely smiles at the man you know to be Aaron Hotchner. 
"Are you okay?" 
"Yes! I am perfectly fine," She says, "Thanks to this lovely human," she says, reaching back for you, "I found our new liaison." She tells the group. You smile and wave, introducing yourself. They all introduce themselves to you. "If it wasn't for her, I would have lost my mind in there." 
Derek makes sure to shake your hand, "Thank you for taking care of her." 
Your eyes settle on her, and you try to contain your smile. Your eyes give you away, though, as you say, "Always," before Hotch connects you with JJ. You recongized her before she even introduced herself. You'd seen her conferences online before. Her older ones. Hotch informs you that she's going to be shadowing and training you for the next couple of weeks while you find your footing, and that your first case is today. You link up with JJ as the team and Penelope separate. When you turn to glance back at her, you find her looking back at you. You smile at each other, already missing the private bubble the two of you shared. 
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evolutionsvoid · 7 months
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The species is referred to as the "Longmen Dragonfish," with some just sticking with "Longmen" or "Longmen Fish." Indeed, many of the locals call it "Dragonfish," which always gets people wondering why the species isn't just called that. To further the point, the Longmen Dragonfish is only called its full name by researchers and outsiders who come and visit the region, so thus raises the question of why the locals don't get to name their own species. Well, the answer comes in a couple parts. First off, the locals did get to name the species, as that is where the name "Longmen" comes from. Second, species with long names very rarely ever get their full names said out loud by anyone else besides researchers and the occasional tourist, so just because someone shortens it doesn't mean that is how it should be. I mean, have you heard anyone else besides me say the name "Great Mottled Caecilian?" Because I sure haven't, but that is its name! And thirdly, do you have any idea how many "dragonfish" are out there in the world?! We can't just call this species "dragonfish" because it would confuse so many other people from different regions. Turns out, almost every region on this planet has its own dragonfish, which they just simply call dragonfish. So you see why we can't use that simplified name? And if any idiot out there thinks we should just pick one of the many and declare that the real deal dragonfish, I suggest they personally visit every culture that has one and try to tell them their beloved species is not a "real" dragonfish and that this other one on the other side of the world is the authentic one. Best of luck to you on that!
The Longmen Dragonfish is incredible species of fish that is found out east, spending most of their lives in saltwater. This may come to a shock to some folk, who only know this species from their legendary migrations up river. With all the images and stories of them in freshwater, people assume they are always in lakes and rivers. This is not true, but I can understand the confusion. While the Longmen spends most of its adult years in the deep sea, very few people actually ever see them there. That is because their feeding grounds are far off and rather deep, thus they are not often caught. It is only when they pack the rivers and waterways that we see them and decide to immortalize their journey in art and folklore. However, we can't get to that yet! Possibly another reason why people don't think of them much as saltwater fish is because even if someone did catch one far out in sea, they would never think to call it a "dragonfish." They aren't exactly something you would equate with the elegant and powerful nature of a dragon. Dull red scales, a thick pudgy body, nubby "horns" and a face more befitting a carp. Show most folk this fish, and they would think it nothing more than just another bottom feeder. This is what the majority of Longmen look like, swimming through the depths for small fish, critters and plankton to feed on. If this was their entire life, well, this wouldn't be much of an entry! Like I mentioned before, there is a time when they go to freshwater. Or more specifically, a time when they return to it.
When a Longmen Dragonfish reaches maturity, it will get the drive to head towards shore and seek out the freshwater rivers that dump into it. They know how to find these waterways because these freshwater streams are where they were born, and where they exited from when heading out to sea. Now they hear the call to return to their waters of birth, and the Longmen heed it. They arrive in force, rushing towards the rivers in the thousands. As they encounter the drop in salinity when they get close to where the rivers meet the sea, they undergo changes to survive the transition from saltwater to freshwater. Their bodies grow stronger to handle the coming journey and their scales brighten in color. When the Longmen come home, every being in the region knows it. The rivers are packed to the shores with their squirming, jumping bodies. Some folk claim there are so many of them that you could walk across a river on their backs. You could watch this journey and swear the river had turned from blue to red, as there seems to be more scales than actual water. This desire to return home and breed, however, is not an easy one. There are plenty of obstacles in the way, be it rocks, waterfalls or hungry predators. The rivers they travel are treacherous, fierce currents, roaring waterfalls and jagged stone. The Longmen care not about these things, as they simply swim as hard as they can and jump as high as they can whenever the situation calls for it. They will push against the strongest of currents and leap up powerful waterfalls without a single care, because all that matters is making it to the end. Each obstacle will claim a chunk of the swarm, but with such numbers, it hardly seems to matter. Even when every meat eating animal in the region comes rushing to these rivers for an easy meal, the Longmen swim on. While some species believe in "safety in numbers" the Longmen believe "better odds in numbers," as each individual hopes that there are enough others amongst them that the hungry hordes will take them instead.   
No matter the losses or the obstacles, the Longmen Dragonfish press on. Their journey goes on for miles on end, seeking to reach the innermost waters of the land. They want to make it there because the further inland lakes and rivers have less predators and competition, which makes for better odds for their young. So they seek to get as far as they can, no matter the cost. If you were to follow their journey and see the individuals as they get further along, you would swear that they are changing. The scales are brighter, that is for sure, but their bodies are different too. Their snouts appear to elongate, their chubby forms becoming more serpentine. Collect the dead ones from along the rivers and compare them to those further inland. You will see that this is true! Their bodies are still changing as they migrate and brave the hostile waters. This change makes them stronger and faster, which is good for avoiding toothy jaws, hungry claws and leaping over impossible rocks and falls. However, it comes with a cost. The Longmen work their bodies into overdrive, and sooner or later their flesh cannot continue. Their energy fades and their muscles give out, and many will not finish the journey. Where ever they fall, they release their eggs and sperm, hoping that at least something survives from this sacrifice. If they made it a good distance in, there is a chance some young may survive, but the real good odds are at the very end of this insane trek.
Of the millions of Longmen born with each run, only a meager percentage will make it to adulthood. And of those thousands who take the journey on their own run, a similarly low percentage of them make it to the spawning waters. They will reach their destination exhausted and dying, but it will all be worth it. Here they will spawn, releasing eggs and sperm. These waters that are barricaded off by waterfalls and fierce currents means that their young have less competition with other fish and creatures, and thus a higher chance for survival. Once this act is done, so are the Longmen. With their next generation secured, they finally let their bodies give out, and the whole lot of them perish. Rivers and lakes once filled with vigorous and eager life are now graveyards, with countless fish corpses drifting about. There is a bit of tragedy to this, to see so much death, but the local wildlife would scoff at our mourning. For them, this is the last feast of the season, and they happily partake and eat their fill. The life that was once born in these waters has returned, and here is the final resting place for them. 
But not for all...
For almost all Longmen Dragonfish, the lakes and rivers that sit at the foot of great mountains are the end goal of their entire lives. They prepared during their youth to gain the strength to make it here, and sacrificed everything to reach these shores. Well over ninety percent of them will die here content, with their young laid and ready to be born into the world. But there seems to be a rare few that don't stop here. While the others rest in these waters and begin to spawn, there is a small school of Longmen that will not pause in their journey. Instead, they seek a different haven for their young. But that is behind one last obstacle. In many of the spawning grounds of the Longmen, there is a great waterfall coming off the mountain that feeds into it. Towering in height and intimidating in its fierceness, it is an opponent no fish would ever dare challenge. And yet some do. We currently don't know what drives some of these Longmen to attempt this obstacle, if it has to do with health or energy, or if it is predestined amongst them. Perhaps something in their lineage calls for them to dare the impossible. These fish will throw themselves at these great falls, again and again as they seek to climb its roaring currents. It is no easy task, and many will fall. They will give up and return to the great spawning to spread their young there. But, against all odds, some will succeed and make it to the very top. They will climb and fight onward, leaving most of their brethren behind, and they will find a different kind of spawning ground at the end of it all. A tranquil lake awaits them, a sacred pool of water atop the mountain, where few others can reach them. Here is where they shall lay their eggs and spread their seed. Here is where they finally stop to rest. But even then, it isn't the end. Many Longmen die on this journey back home, but those who reach these sacred pools will not. They have a new purpose.
Though their bodies exhausted and energy depleted, something about these mountain lakes keep them alive. Perhaps the water quality, or the temperature or some factor we haven't figured out yet. Or maybe because they aren't alone here. Though they are weak, they are safe, as these waters are protected. Great serpentine forms swimming around them, warding off any predators that would try to finish the job. A current theory is that these great fish are what keep the newcomers alive, maybe releasing some kind of trigger to keep them going and to encourage their final transformation. Their size grows, their horns sharpen and their bodies turn long and powerful. Scales harden into armor and the snout of a carp becomes that of a great beast. Here, upon the mountain, the simple fish from the sea becomes a dragon.
What survives in these mountain pools is what people mean when they say "dragonfish." They very much look the part! Long serpentine bodies, with gorgeous scales, a fierce toothy snout and elegant whiskers! In these lakes, the Longmen feed and regain their strength, while also protecting their eggs and young from predators. While the others down below leave their young to chance once they perish, these ones stick around to guard them. Not only that, but they seek to protect all. Those that become these true Longmen Dragonfish will be in these waters during the whole run, swimming alongside their smaller brethren and protecting the hordes the best they can. Predators who swoop in for an easy meal may find themselves on the menu instead, when the frothing waters burst forth and a great fish lunges out and seizes them in its jaws. Okay, "protection" may seem like a strong word, as these dragon adults are actually preying on the animals that come to feed on Longmen, but the end result is still the same! They stalk the rivers and lakes during the run and feed on whatever is lured into the feast. And as the run comes to an end, they make for that tranquil mountain pool to await the new arrivals. Those that make it shall join the breeding stock, as both the transformed and non lay their eggs and seed. They then remain in this lake, watching over their young until they are ready to depart to the ocean. The Longmen Dragonfish will escort them down the river, once again feeding on anything that dares threaten their young. When the freshwater meets the salt, the adults break off and the young vanish into the deep. The guardians have done their job for this season, and return to their life in freshwater. 
For these special adults, the locals tend to call them "ascended." Not "adult Longmen" but "ascended Longmen." These ones spend the rest of their lives in freshwater, living a more predatory lifestyle, going after larger prey. Their jaws are long and powerful, perfect for snaring and crushing prey. Their scales are like metal armor, warding off claws and even blades! Along their bellies are special sacs that they can inflate with a gas they produce, which lightens their weight when they leap from the water. By swelling these up as they jump from the water with their powerful tails, you would swear they could fly! Such height! Such grace! They practically hang in the air and slowly come crashing back down to the surface. While it isn't true flight, it is perfect for leaping over waterfalls in a single bound or even jumping across land to reach new water bodies! It allows them to master what the smaller ones struggle to overcome, which makes them effective guardians when the run is underway. The run is not a challenge for them anymore, it is simply a part of their life now. They forever swim these waterways to devour those who would harm their kind and ensure their species continues on.  
First off, anything with the name "Dragonfish" is already guaranteed to make an impact with the local culture. Add to that this incredible migration and tale of perseverance? Why, the metaphors and legends write themselves! The Longmen Dragonfish is the star of many myths and stories, of the simple carp that became a dragon. Their ascended forms are seen with awe and gather great respect. The runs themselves are times of festivities and excited observation. Folk will line up along the river to watch the horde of them swim through! In many areas, the fishing and taking of live running Longmen is forbidden, as it is interfering with this sacred migration. Those that fall or perish naturally may be collected, and you will find many folk sifting through the countless dead. While mounds of dead fish sound like a free dinner, most folk don't eat them. Rather, the scales may be ground up for medicine or other purposes, while the flesh is turned to fertilizer. I feel there is something poetic there, of returning them to the earth, nourishing the environment they were born in! The fishing or harming of an ascended Longmen is strictly forbidden, which frustrates trophy fisherman to no end. Sadly, this does not mean that this species is perfectly safe. 
When you have something so big and legendary as an ascended Longmen Dragonfish, people are going to develop an interest. Many rich nobles and high class members of society see them as symbols of royalty and power, and thus want a part of these fish for themselves. Some have tried to keep them in massive aquariums, as incredible displays in their collection. However, most of these fare poorly in captivity, as they need a huge amount of space and a whole lot of food. Even those that survive and are given these things are noticeably smaller then their wild brethren. When legends say that a single scale of an ascended Longmen will bring you luck and protection, then a whole lot of folk will try to make armor and amulets from them, which means poaching. Killing of these fish for their valuable parts is not uncommon, nor is collecting their young to sell in the pet trade. It is not a pretty thing. Even worse still, the sacred mountain lakes they transform in once became the obsession to many, who thought these waters had healing properties or could bestow a number of blessings onto those who bathed in it. Suddenly, many of these sites became spas and highly fought over property, which dealt a devastating blow to the Longmen population. Thankfully, though, smarter minds prevailed and realized their beloved icon was going to perish because of this. These spas and opulent water front properties were seized and turned into shrines, and the waters were restored to nature. Efforts to help boost the Longmen populations back up were a success, and that old injury has almost completely faded! Now these pools are under protection, but you can still visit them and marvel at the great fish that swim in them. They do have some fountains and small pools that folks can dip their fingers into to get a bit of that blessed shrine water. Obviously, fish-filled water doesn't provide special healing and stuff like that. And obviously I still partook in some anyway! I mean, you still got to test your theories!      
Chlora Myron
Dryad Natural Historian
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"Longmen Dragonfish"
Back at it with the dragons! Except now fish!
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itabashi-division · 25 days
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°•❇•° 𝕀𝕥𝕒𝕓𝕒𝕤𝕙𝕚 𝔻𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕤𝕚𝕠𝕟°•❇•°
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-Picture of Mitsugi Park in Itabashi taken from Google-.
Dar-K-Barett is the Division representing Itabashi. The group consists of medical student Issey Ito, tattoo artist Raiden Koyama, and group leader Bernard Miyamoto who is a performing arts teacher.
The group's color is  «Anthracite Gray». While this color symbolizes transition, mixing, irony, and the swinging of things, it has a darker tint suggesting a fascination with shadows. It is the color that merges everything and nothingness. First, elegance, rebelliousness, and mystery blend in the beauty of this ethereal, dark, and theatrical aesthetic of the black color; with the sensation of purity, freedom, and renewal of the distance of emptiness and sacredness framed in the immaculate color of white. The color anthracite gray for Dar-K-Barett announces the unexpected. It is the color that unites the extremes, that allows a transformation in a misty way, that maintains the coexistence of contradictory and high expectations; it generates tension and loosens emotions...Something that the members of the group try to frame in their presentations leaving space for the question of "What will happen?" in an act where a loss is a victory depending on how you look at it.
Each member wears a chain attached to a pendant with a pendulum-like stone. Likewise, the three share matching rings and brooches.
The name of their group arose practically by chance and without them thinking much about it, just as it happened with their division which was born for ''hanging out'' reasons. Anyway, the name of their division is a direct reference to their favorite musical genre and a kind of honor to the band where they three met at the beginning.
They represent Itabashi, a place of magnificent green spaces that mix the traditional with the modern and urban. In the same way, they try to make a bold proposal by creating a contrast between their style and the peaceful environment of Itabashi. Playing with irony and satire about how the world works today, as well as expressing their unique perspective on life by bringing some drama and action to their streets.
They agreed to participate in the D.R.B. purely for leisure and as a way to try something new. They were not even a formal division at the beginning and only interacted with other divisions on a support basis or when they felt it was necessary or someone was in trouble; which is why many of the already formal divisions called them meddlers. However, because of their potential, they began to gain a little more recognition and did not just remain in the shadows. Upon being selected, they took a chance and proved how versatile they could be in the field. In the beginning, they participated without really having an incentive other than to experiment no matter how much they won or lost because they were not very interested in politics —despite their constant complaints about the current form of government in Japan and other parts of the world—. However, they started to see a little more sense and depth to the competition as they progressed in it, and some events unfolded giving a more personal punch in their way...
They tend to mix their style of rap with a dark cabaret and psychobilly style.
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The Bully Artstyle
Am I the only one who really appreciates the official Bully artstyle?
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Though, calling it one style is technically wrong, since the images are made out of one front image and the comic background, both of which are made by different artists.
If you are wondering, the guy who did the main illustrations is Anthony Macbain.
If you look around his website, you will not only see his Bully art, but also that he also did some work for the GTA series.
The person who did the background illustrations is Stephen Bliss, who... also did art for GTA, believe it or not. I guess Rockstar only has that many artists that focus on semi-realism.
Obviously, since GTA is like, the most famous thing ever, his website does not focus on Bully that much. But if you scroll all the way in the Rockstar Games portion of his website, you will find the art that was used for the backgrounds! And it seems like he designed the logo too!
Now that we know who did it, I'll try to to a bit of art analysis.
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Similar to the GTA style, the style of Bully is somewhat realistic. Kind of stiff looking, to be honest. But the background illustrations kind of make up for that.
The lines are mostly the same unchanging width (except for some smaller lines for details). They do not taper much. The lines are also colored - their color is more dulled out than the colors they are containing.
The colors are also kind of dull in general (though this may only be because of my monitor.) Probably because the art is going for that realistic look. Of course, we could also look at it a bit more artistically and say that the colors are dull to fit the miserable atmosphere of Bullworth. You might also notice that there are no real whites - the shirts are either tinted yellow, or whatever color is around it. I think this is pretty neat. White fabric often tends to reflect the colors around it in real life.
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The lineart is just a bit too chunky to convey true realism, so it is stylized in a cool kinda blocky way. The shadows are also quite blocky in general. They often tend to be interesting shapes by themselves. Look at those eyebags and the shadow under the mouth!
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Besides the hard shadows, the art also uses some airbrush-like effects. Look at how it conveys the shininess of Pinky's belt and the softer shadow on her thigh. It is also used in Gary's hair to show the soft color transition.
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The opposite of shadows, the hair highlights, are these cool zigzag shapes. I like it when artists make the hair highlight a bold shape like that. Speaking of the hair highlights, notice how they often have a similar color to the background. Like, look at this - these ones are actually a pretty bold purple, probably to mimic the way real hair can, just like fabric, reflect the color of its environment.
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Now, let's look at the blush. A lot of the characters in these illustrations have this strong blush on their cheeks and nose. This is probably used to make them look a bit more alive. I wanted to say every character, but then I looked at the art again and found out that was just not true.
Look at these two, for example. Edna sort of has the blush, but it is single colored and blocky, making her look kinda sick, rather than more alive. The boy next to her also doesn't have the blush, probably because the brighter pink wouldn't work as well on darker skin.
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Mr Burton here also does not have the blush, because... I don't know, to be honest. Random stylistic choice, I guess.
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Overall, I cannot quite name why I like the style of the main illustrations so much. It's just not the kind of thing that would usually appeal to me. I guess it's something about the realism combined with the cartoon stylisation and the slight blockiness of it all.
I have much less to say about the background illustrations. Don't get me wrong, I love them. It's just that they are only black and white, so we really cannot dissect the stylistic choices here. But also...
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God, I just love the style of these. Just look at them. The caricature-ish style done with some bold inks is so cool. These have so much character, shame we never got a real comic in this style. And since they are black and white, they are as contrasting as a picture can be. Which means they are perfect for the backgrounds. And since the style is so exaggerated, it looks good even when the pictures are pretty small.
I wonder, were these done digitally, or with real ink? Both are possible, I think.
And that's about it for this post. If you have any other observations about these styles, I would love to read it. I just really like these illustrations!
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unexpectedstormy · 5 months
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@akchimp75 you sent me an ask a week or two ago asking about my steampunk story and I saved it until I had plenty of time to write about it and tonight I wrote up this whole big post but when I saved it to my drafts, tumblr ate it instead. So here is the rewritten version of it. (Ehehehe I hope you're ready cuz it's infodump time.)
My eldritch steampunk story is called Tenth Generation. Once upon a time on a recently terraformed planet called Arona, there lived in a steampunk civilization, a diverse people of many different species (humans, pixies, cyborgs, anthropomorphs, human-animal chimeras, etc.) and many different genders and sexualities.
There are three main story arcs to the series (of books or graphic novels):
Arona fighting for independence from the organization responsible for terraforming, colonizing, and protecting the planet and exploiting it's resources to supply a distant space war
The main characters seeking the jobs they want
Everyone trying to solve the mystery of why there's a bunch of eldritch beasts running around the dark corners of the city when no eldritch beasts were brought over on the colony ships...
The main characters are:
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Tempest Shields: a 15 year old roguish genderfluid (defaults to girl) who is nonverbal autistic. She dreams of becoming an airship engineer or pilot but it isn't feasible at this time due to her disability.
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Timothy Shields: an 18 year old human-canary chimera who has a burning interest in religion and the occult. His desire is to become a cleric or an exorcist. He and Tempest grew up together on the streets and in an orphanage and adopted each other as siblings.
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Timber of the Skies: (age undecided) Tempest's biological sister. They were separated from each other when they were young and have led very different lives. Timber is an airship pirate and her goal is to become the Pirate Queen of the Skies. Timber isn't in the story in the beginning but comes in later; one of the main story arcs is about Timber and Tempest restoring their sibling relationship. She doesn't have autism but she does have some kind of behavioural issue.
Some side characters include:
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Detective Rory Poofypants (actual last name undecided). A fully transitioned transmasc detective in the city of Stormcairn. He is investigating the strange eldritch beast sightings and the bizarre stories of hysterical people who claim that they were temporarily transported to a dark realm, the home of the monsters. Rory also ends up frequently wrangling Tempest back to their home or tutor as they get into mischief around the city.
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Kestrel Wothen: the young adult enby who is fabulous and extra and loves all things shiny and colorful. They spend all their money to buy an old mansion which (once the gang puts the resident ghosts to rest) serves as the home base of the crew as they investigate the eldritch mystery of the city.
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Zakiyah Lee: a rich and beautiful aroace young adult. She's as sharp as a whip and fascinated by all things dark. By day, she's a student at the university, and by night, an amateur detective. Slowed only by her dysautonomia, she eventually leads the revolution against the Exploration World and (spoilers) eventually becomes Queen of the World. (Her cat's name is Bastet and there's more to her than it seems.)
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Unnamed Pixie girl (possibly not a girl) age 14. She is a street urchin and becomes good friends with Tempest and helps her get into mischief. She has alopecia and sometimes chooses to wear a headscarf and other times doesn't wear any sort of head covering. Her wings get stolen by an eldritch beast, but Timothy rescues the wings and returns them to her.
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Tempest's unhinged tutor. She lost her last tutoring gig because her pupil got eaten by a tiger (no fault of her own). She is middle aged and actually has red hair but the picrew didn't have a red hair option. Is mainly concerned (at least initially) with helping Tempest learn to communicate better through a combo of sign language and AAC.
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And last but not least, Dominic. He's a 12 or 13 year old boy and he's got magic hands. He's a child prodigy and the only known wielder of backwards magic AKA eldritch magic. A rich benefactor (not in this list) sponsors him and supplies his every need on the condition that he continues to practice and grow his magical ability so that it can be monetized. Dominic becomes good friends with Tempest and Pixie girl. His older brother is Kestrel's boyfriend.
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symbolic-rants · 1 year
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Breaking Bad Color Theory
The popular western TV show, Breaking Bad, is possibly one of the greatest shows of all time. The term "Shakespearian" has been used more than once to describe it (usually compared to Macbeth). Just watching the first season of the show, you immediately notice that it has strong and vibrant colors. Characters (for example, Marie) also have their "usual" colors. Try to imagine Walter wearing blue, you just can not, it is strange. So, what do these colors actually mean? That is what this post is about.
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BIG BREAKING BAD SPOILERS, MINOR BETTER CAUL SAUL SPOILERS AHEAD!
In the image above, you can see that characters have usual colors, or that their colors change with them throughout the story. Let's look at what each of these mean, and their characters.
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GREEN
Green represents pride and greed. Green is the color of money, signifying greed. Green is almost always worn by Walter White. Walter's greed destroys him by the end of the story. In season one, shortly after Walter tells his family he has stage 3A lung cancer, Skyler organizes a "family talk". Walter is wearing green in this scene, because his pride is making him choose to not get chemotherapy when it would benefit the family most, and it is important to Skyler.
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YELLOW
Yellow represents anything that has to do with meth. The Pollos Hermanos uniform is yellow, hazmat suits are yellow, and the Mexico flashbacks are yellow. Jesse and Gus are most commonly seen in yellow, although most characters are (Walter). For example, Walter noticed the yellow on the doctor's jacket, because he is focusing on the meth industry, not his health or family.
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BLUE
Blue represents loyalty and honesty. Skyler almost always wears blue at the beginning of the show, but her colors start turning more black (See the first image for reference). Skyler's eyes are blue, and her name is a reference to the blue sky.
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RED
Red represents danger, violence, and "bad guys" (as the opposite to blue). Red is the color of blood and danger. Out of the main cast, Jesse is seen to wear the most red. A character will most likely wear red when they are going to do something violent (see the Jesse gun scene). In the image for the final season of Better Call Saul-
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-Jimmy (AKA Saul) is seen putting a red coat on. This symbolizes what the show is about, Jimmy's transition from good to bad. There is no real reason for Jimmy to choose bad (the same applies to Walter) he solely chooses it because it is bad.
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PINK
Pink is the color of youth and immaturity in Breaking Bad. All the presents at Holly's baby shower are pink, Holly's room is pink, the teddy bear is pink, and Jesse's last name (Pinkman) is symbolism of his immaturity.
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PURPLE
Purple is one of the most obvious colors, with Marie's house being covered in it. In Breaking Bad, purple represents self-deception, luxury, and not having to do with the meth trade (purple is the polar opposite of yellow). Throughout history, purple has been the color of luxury and riches. Saul Goodman (Jimmy) and Marie are the two main characters who wear purple.
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BEIGE
Beige is a bland color, representing plain, basic, and, most importantly, not being a danger to our protagonists. Walter wears beige while teaching, and most notably, the beige party in season one. "Jesus, guess we didn't get the "beige" memo." Is said by Skyler when they first come to the party.
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BLACK
Black is the absence of color, representing death and emptiness in Breaking Bad. Walter White's old business partner's name is Elliott Schwartz, "Schwartz" is German for black. The black and white creates a contrast between our protagonist and Elliot.
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WHITE
White is the opposite of black, representing life and innocence (Strange for it to be Walter's last name, right? /j) White is the name of our protagonist's family, Walter strips down in to his white underwear in the first season, the symbolism being that Walter had a new beginning in the meth industry. White is usually seen on Skyler, but Marie wears it some.
CONCLUSION
Thank you for reading this post. Breaking Bad changed the way colors are done on TV, I can't watch anything without thinking, "Oh! Red!" anymore. /lh
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9: If I'm There
The day of my father's funeral was here, and I knew that this would be one of the most painful days of my life. I couldn't sleep last night, and it was very apparent with the dark circles under my eyes, paired with the puffiness of crying the whole night.
I wish I had seen him before he passed, even for just one minute, so he could've went on hearing me say that I loved him one more time. I wasn't able to visit him, or my mom for that matter, due to work and my own selfish choices, and I will never forgive myself for that. Especially now that I was undeniably following in his footsteps, and I didn't know what to do about it.
I know that if I confided in my mother about this, it would absolutely destroy her, and I couldn't do that to someone who has dealt with an alcoholic husband for 22 years. The only reason I admitted it to Noah and Vic was because he called me out on my bullshit. I couldn't just sit there, visibly unwell from withdrawal that morning, and lie to him and myself that I was fine.
Sighing, I gave up on trying to cover the bags under my eyes with makeup—there was no use in hiding it. I threw all my makeup back in its bag and left the bathroom after fluffing my unruly hair and straightening my dress out, which was fitting a lot looser than I remembered. "They get what they get," I mumble to myself, accepting the fact that I looked as terrible as I felt. With that being said, I filled a travel mug halfway with coffee and topped the rest off with Bailey's.
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I didn't realize how much I had missed my mother's embrace until she engulfed me in a bear hug. "God, Heather Olivia, I've missed you so much," she sniffles over my shoulder. I cringed at my full name coming out of her mouth, but her being my mother I let it slide. She pulls away from me and grabs my hands, giving them a firm squeeze as she takes in my appearance. I could see the grief in her expression transition into worry while her eyes trace over me. "Oh, honey," she whispers, fresh tears welling up in her eyes. "I'm so sorry you didn't get to see your father before he passed, but," her voice cracks as she tries to hold back her cries, "just know that he loved you so, so much." "I know," I respond, barely audible. "I've been so busy with work, I'm sorry I wasn't around." My lips tremble as the guilt begins to build inside me. "I know, baby, I know," she comforts me, tears rolling down her cheeks now. "Please don't ever apologize for taking care of your life."
I screw my eyes shut and shake my head, my own tears falling now as the shame consumed me. I wasn't taking care of my life, I was just existing at this point.
During the eulogy for my father, Victoria and my mother sat on either side of me, holding my hands in support. I could barely comprehend what was being said; the only thing consuming my mind was the relief I was going to feel when the next bit of alcohol entered my bloodstream. I just wanted to forget everything about this day so that I didn't have to think about it later in life, and the best way to do that was by numbing myself with booze.
I was on autopilot as the train of people came through and gave me and my mother their condolences. I didn't hear a single word that was said to me, I just shook their hands, said 'thank you', and planted a fake appreciative smile on my face. The only thing that pulled me from that fog was when Noah appeared in front of me, and I didn't even realize it was him at first. He wore a black turtleneck and dress slacks and his hair was pulled up, neatly clipped to the back of his head. I only realized it was him when I shook his hand and saw the splash of color on his tattooed hand.
He brandished a soft smile, the corners of his lips curling up. I couldn't contain myself and threw myself at him, clinging onto him. It was a surprise to have him show up today, and it filled me with such gratification that tears of joy sprung to my eyes. "I can't believe you came," I mumbled into him. He squeezes me back with the same intensity, and I felt a chuckle buzz through his chest, "Of course, why wouldn't I?" "I don't know," I huff out a small laugh. He rubs a hand up and down my back, "I promised that I would help you get through this, remember?" I pulled back and looked up at him, "That was before he died, though." He scoffs, "Don't be stupid. You think that I'd just stop caring because he died? If I'm there for you, I'm. There. For. You," he enunciates, shaking me lightly by the shoulders with each word, a playful smirk on his face. My heart swells as I chuckled apologetically, "Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me."
After the funeral, Noah had convinced me and Vic to join him and the rest of the band for dinner; the guys had been pretty adamant about getting together tonight. For what reason I didn't know, but I really didn't feel like socializing at all. My social battery had been completely drained from the events earlier today, and all I wanted to do was curl up and try to catch up on the sleep I had lost.
"So, we've got some pretty cool news," Noah announces after he swallows an enormous bite of his burger. "We're gonna be going out on a small tour in a few weeks!" I would normally find the cheer and excitement on his face to be contagious, but that statement made me damn near choke on my food. I realized that I was the only one who wasn't smiling while everyone else whooped and hollered, congratulating them on the upcoming tour. I tacked on a fake smile when the boys turned their attention to me, hoping that it seemed genuine enough. Don't get me wrong, I am excited for them to go on and get their name out there, but I was selfishly dreading the absence of Noah.
Vic had noticed my depleted mood and elbows me lightly in the side as I pushed my pasta around on my plate aimlessly with my fork. I looked over at her as she leaned in close to me. "You doing okay?" she whispers. I nod, "Just tired. I didn't sleep last night." She purses her lips and gives my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. "We can get going if you'd like," she offers. I shrugged. It didn't matter to me what we did; I was still going to feel hollow on the inside. It was just a matter of how long I could keep up with the façade that I was alright.
Noah
"Dude, no, what you've got going here is good shit," Nick Ruffilo hypes me up as he takes a swig of his beer and nods at my notebook. I sat there with my elbow on the bar, propping my head up while tapping the paper with my pen. I shrug, "You think so?" "It's real, and I can tell exactly where it's coming from," he tells me with a smirk on his lips. "It's about Liv, isn't it?" I felt my cheeks heat up with embarrassment that he called me right out. Then again, I should've known; he knows me better than anyone else. "Yeah," I sigh while rubbing my eyes with my thumb and index finger. "I'm just really worried about her, dude. You know how she was before her dad died... I'm so afraid that it's going to get worse." He nods, understanding. "I get it, but she's got Vic. She works here at the bar, she definitely knows how to handle drunk people." "Yeah," I chuckled sarcastically. "But that's not the point. The point is I don't want her to be drunk all the time and have Vic babysit her, you know what I mean? Like, that's not healthy."
After some time, my intrusive thoughts about Olivia started to dwindle, being replaced with excitement of what was to come in a few short days. Nick and I had changed the subject to our upcoming tour—what we expected, what our goals were, what places we wanted to possibly visit if given enough time to do so. It wasn't going to be a very long tour, with shows mostly on the east coast, but it was still thrilling to get on the road.
And just like that, those worrisome thoughts came flooding back when I saw Liv walk—stumble, really—into the bar. Part of me was happy to see her, but I could feel my heart sink when I noticed how fucked up she was. Of course, it was Victoria's day off, so Liv was not going to get cut off from the start. "Dude," Nick mumbles and shoots me an uneasy look, portraying exactly how I felt on the inside. "I know," I hiss through clenched teeth. I shook my head and turned my attention to the Corona I had sitting in front of me, unable to bear seeing her like this.
I tried my absolute best to pay no mind to it, but it was like my mind was hard-wired to her. I couldn't hear anything but her laugh and her slurred words as she ordered shot after shot of Sambuca, whining that 'Victoria would've chilled them for me'. My stomach was churning just thinking about how much alcohol she must've consumed to get to this point. I pushed the Corona away from me, completely turned off from any sort of booze.
I looked down at the lyrics I had been writing, feeling my throat get tight as I tried my best to keep it together.
There are scars that'll never ever show themselves You get when you're left alone too long in Hell They tried to keep in the secrets that you wouldn't tell But they just stripped you for parts you had to sell
Well, if I'm there to catch you when you fall You'll have a friend down in Hell after all And if you're there to catch me when I fall Then maybe Hell ain't so bad after all
Groaning, I flipped my notebook shut and aggressively wiped the tear that escaped my eye. "Noah—" Nick starts. I cut him off by throwing a hand up, "Just... Don't. Please." "No, dude, look," he pulls on my shirt to get my attention, and points behind me. The amount of anger I felt boiling in my veins when I realized what he was trying to show me was unmeasurable. I ground my teeth together, clenching my hands into tight fists as my arms trembled with rage. There was Olivia at the opposite end of the bar, disoriented and slumped against the counter as a man was blatantly assaulting her, groping her with his mouth on her neck.
With adrenaline manipulating my actions, I crossed the bar in two strides, yanking on the hood of the man who was taking advantage of Olivia. She was dead weight in his arms, practically a rag doll as he began to drag her to the exit of the bar. She was clearly not consenting to this.
"Get your hands the fuck off her," I growled as I pulled him towards me, choking him with the collar of his hoodie. He lets go of Olivia, having her stumble into a table nearby with patrons helping her stay on her feet. "What's your problem, huh?" Dickhead exclaims as he tries to size me up and shoves me back. I don't know what came over me, but I suddenly had this asshole pushed up against the wall, digging my elbow into his neck. "Were you raised by animals? You don't touch women like that. Ever!" "Is that your girl?" "'My girl'—she's not property that's to be owned," I laid more pressure into his throat, enraged that he would objectify her. "Fuck...you," he struggles to say, yet somehow he still managed to spit in my face. Disgusted, I let go of him to wipe my face off. He starts to laugh, until I wound my arm back and socked him in the nose, dropping him.
I stood there panting, fists still clenched as Nick comes up behind me and wraps an arm around me to calm me down. I shook him off and make my way over to Olivia who was now alert, but still not all there. She was visibly shaken, tears streaming down her cheeks, and it broke my heart knowing that it was probably due to my actions. I huffed and shook my head, disappointed in myself, "I'm sorry you had to see that, Liv—" I'm cut off when she suddenly had me in a vise grip, squeezing me as tight as she could while crying into my chest. I wrapped myself around her, one hand massaging the back of her head. "I'm so sorry this happened to you," I whisper to her. She picks her head up and locks eyes with me, "Thank you for saving me."
In that moment, I felt my heart begin to pound in my chest as I understood why I told her that I thought blue was my favorite color that day. I could see now, clear as day that Olivia's eyes were blue, and it took me until today to realize that I am in love with her.
And that scared the ever-living shit out of me.
|Chapter 10|
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optiwashere · 5 months
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WIP Wednesday
Tagged by @amorficzna last week to share whatever I'm working on. I'll tag... @siyurikspakvariisis and @grousebrood if y'all have anything you're willing to share! Anyone that sees this and feels like doing it can consider themselves tagged by me.
I don't have a WIP I can share prose-wise, so instead here's a wall of Asheera character notes! My love and light, my weirdo who likes objectively bad poetry.
This is basically written to be notes for me, so it's like a behind the scenes more than anything. Also, the second chunk of this relates to a post I made last week, so CW: Character death.
Asheera's age as of BG3: 32 (33? She was 35 in old notes last I checked, but that was 14th century DR and for a 3.5e game so her age is kinda up in the air at this point)
Height: 6'7" (~201cm)
Weight: around 260lbs. (~118kg)
Eye color: Brown (described as ruddy brown, like darker red clay)
Hair color: Black with faint blue streaks (not dyed, a fun lil extra happenstance from her Gondian transition)
Dialogue snippets from Asheera when talking to others about Shadowheart:
To Zevlor. "Do you remember what it was like to take your oath? How you felt suddenly right, and whole, and everything made sense? Don't get all puppy eyes at me about it, but yeah... it's like that with her." (author's note: from Zevlor's perspective, Asheera is explaining a relationship in a way that finally makes sense to him. She should be speaking slowly, as if to savor the words.)
To Aylin. "Oh, she's stolen her fair share of things, perhaps killed a person or two in the name of her former Dark Lady, but aren't we all monsters in our own way? A little redemption never hurt." (author's note: Asheera is an Oath of Redemption paladin in canon but in-game I couldn't pick it; she is explaining to Aylin how their relationship ever started. Asheera is trying to joke, badly, and it doesn't really work on Aylin. Probably followed by Aylin trying to rationalize all her evil deeds as necessary to find Selûne.)
To Isobel. "Is she devout? Eh, that's a question for her. I know she keeps little trinkets of the Moonmaiden around. I've made some for her, too. But if you're expecting her to join you in prayer or something, I'd temper that." (author's note: Isobel is excited to hear about Shadowheart's Selûnite worship. She is decidedly less excited after this conversation. Asheera finds this hilarious, and Isobel probably chides her for it.)
To Rolan. "No, listen. She didn't steal your books. Why would she want them? It's all magic gobbledygook anyways, what use would she have for them?" [back and forth] "And? I love her, but I wouldn't just lie to your face about her. I've an oath to uphold." (author's note: someone stole books from Sorcerous Sundries, and Rolan is somehow convinced it was Shadowheart. He trusts Asheera, but still thinks she's lying.)
To Gale. "I can't believe you haven't had Shadowheart over for dinner yet, especially since I was already coming." [Gale explains he has, but Tara was unhappy afterwards and it's been a whole thing.] "Oh? Didn't Tara like her? And why didn't she tell me she was here?" [Gale, after rambling for a long while on the meal he cooked for them all, explains that Shadowheart called Tara a cat. Not once, but twice. The second was accidental.] "Oh. Oh, I see. Yeah, no. That makes sense. Gods, I can't wait to ask her about tressyms when I get home." (author's note: Asheera should be just about bouncing on her seat with this information. Razzing a supposed once-master Sharran spy for social faux pas is way too much fun.)
To Astarion. "I wish she'd join us for these chats. I know she misses you terribly, even if she won't admit it." [Astarion makes a snide remark about how he doesn't miss Shadowheart.] "Whatever you say, but I'll remember that next time you ask how she's doing." (author's note: apparently Astarion and Asheera hang out often? Again, Asheera is an Oath of Redemption paladin, so redeeming a vampire spawn is like crack for her.)
To Karlach, should they ever meet again. "OK, OK. You're crushing me." [Karlach finally lets go of Asheera after a bone-breaking hug.] "She's coming, the whole ritual exhausted her and she needed a rest while you two came back." [Karlach razzes Asheera hardcore about her "tiring out" Shadowheart.] "I did learn that magic circles require all sorts of interesting components..." (author's note: this would be whatever the fuck would lead to Karlach and Wyll being pulled back from the Hells to have a normal, happy existence on the Material Plane.)
To Wyll, same as Karlach. "I wouldn't worry about Shadowheart." [Wyll says something to the tune of stinking like the Hells because of all the time he's spent fighting alongside Karlach.] "Seriously, I don't think Selûne is going to demand she pester you about it. She's not Isobel Thorm. Let's go celebrate, you've nothing to fret over! Seriously." (author's note: essentially, Wyll is even more worried about losing himself similarly to how he talks about not feeling like he can be the heroic figure he wants to be as in-game. If it's from his POV, he doesn't believe Asheera. He goes with her to celebrate with Karlach and Shadowheart, but he should be distant and withdrawn.)
To Lae'zel, same as the last two. N/A (author's note: they wouldn't talk about Shadowheart. Asheera & Lae'zel are on respectful terms, not friendly ones. Pretty much they'd only talk about how beating Vlaakith's ass is going. Fuck the Lich-Queen.)
Age of death: 94; extended lifespan due to the way Gond "rebuilt" her for her divine transition/gender affirmation. (I headcanon Shadowheart as early fifties, so she would be early 110s when this happens)
Dialogue snippets from Shadowheart after Asheera passes. A lot of this is melodramatic because I love melodrama:
“I lived fifty years without her before, I can manage it again.” (author’s note: she is lying poorly to whoever she’s speaking to with this line. Anyone remotely insightful should see this.)
“Sixty good years. Sixty-one and eleven months we had, when some have a fraction of that or never find it whatsoever. If ever there was a woman that could make those years feel effortless, it was her. But now it’s only the road and the care of strangers and their pets and livestock for me. It’s a quiet life, and I like it.” (author’s note: Shadowheart seems to lose herself, fall into herself when she’s talking about how long they were together. Logical brain trying to hide her broken heart. Whoever is hearing this should realize that Shadowheart has those years practically memorized. Memories are so important to someone who didn't use to have them before. When she speaks about her current life, she does seem content if cold. It’s different, and she is alone, but she’s happy with doing good, simple work. Pressing the matter of loneliness will just make her annoyed/angry/generally upset.)
“It was the thirteenth day of Eleint, 1554 by... by Dale Reckoning when she left me. No, that’s wrong. She didn’t leave me. That was the day she was taken from me. I couldn’t move her until the nineteenth, and I slept almost not at all. She’s buried near the sea, by where we lived together. I thought she'd want to be by her parents, but no. She wanted what she wanted, and I couldn't deny her anything. Ever. I visit whenever I pass by. I'm due for a visit with her youngest brother.” (author’s note: Shadowheart is clearly broken by this, but she must soldier on regardless. Wistful. Listener/reader gets the sense that Shadowheart always "just so happens to" pass by. Whoever is hearing this dialogue cannot comfort her at all about this, and trying to do so will make her very angry. She's been through this for decades by this point, she can't go through it again.)
If I were to tag this like a fic, it would have the "Angst with Happy Ending" tag. Interpret that however you wish until I make a fic about this.
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caffeineandsociety · 7 months
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Sexism is genuinely fascinating in how uniquely reversible it is.
Yes, broadly speaking, under a patriarchal system, when all other things are equal, women get the shorter end of the stick. We know this. This shouldn't be controversial or disputable. A white man will be treated by society as Better than a white woman. A man of color will be treated as higher on the hierarchy than a woman of the same race and ethnicity. Between a man and a woman with the same disability, making the same complaints, the man is likely to be taken more seriously - partially because, thanks to "man up" standards, one might assume (correctly or otherwise) that he waited longer to complain, because that often IS the case, but mostly because sexism says that women just love to complain for no reason all the time.
But when all other things are NOT equal?
What if you have an abled woman and a disabled man? Well, then it's a complete toss-up as to which factor "wins" - maybe the misogyny wins, because, psh, come on, women are SUPPOSED to serve men, quit complaining and hop to it, he NEEDS you to completely give up your entire life to bring him things on demand, how ableist can you be to say that maybe he should have a support system that's more than just you if he needs more than one person can reasonably provide, or maybe even actually do the physical therapy his doctor recommended so he can get back to being able to do something for himself once in a while, as his condition SHOULD allow? Other times, the ableism will win out - and when it does, it has its own sexist bent to it. He needs to Man Up and stop whining all the time. He's failing the million dollars test because his lung disease turned rhinovirus or RSV into pneumonia? Oh, waaah, waaah, cry harder about your Man Cold. It often uses feminism as an excuse - no, he's not asking for his actual disability-related needs to be accommodated, he's just being an entitled dude who thinks women exist to bend over backwards for him, because that's ALL men do, right?
This is why we see so much bullshit infighting in queer spaces over Who Has It Worse based on gender, when ultimately, when you stop trying to play the oppression olympics, what we have here is an illustration of how thoroughly arbitrary it is. Gay men are treated as more of a threat, because a huge aspect of homophobia is straight men being afraid gay men will treat them the way they treat women - but lesbians are treated as thieves, yanking away something straight men are entitled to. Why does it matter which is "worse" when it gets both groups killed, with significant frequency? Queer spaces have a problem with treating women as a lesser "support class" to men, and it's worth addressing, but not at the cost of downplaying how queer masculinity and maleness is, in fact, treated as some kind of horrible threat, and that constitutes a major chunk of the grounds on which queer people are oppressed. Never mind when trans people come into the picture - society doesn't know what to do with us! Regardless of what direction we're transitioning in, society just treats us as whichever binary gender is more convenient to demonize us at any given moment! In fact, so do exclusionists within the community! And as it turns out - sometimes, it's more convenient to demonize us as men.
But the real proof of where all of this comes from, the most reliable place for the dynamic to be reversed, is when it can be invoked for racism. Show me a white woman butting heads with a man of color, and - while I must disclaim that this is not a 100% hard and fast rule, I might be surprised, because extrapolating society-wide dynamics to EVERY individual interaction is part of how you end up with terf logic - I will almost certainly expect her to pull something in line with a power structure that oppresses him on gendered lines. This is what Karenism was about, before the internet bastardized it into being just a generic name you call any woman who stands up for herself - a Karen is someone who will, simultaneously, pull a "don't you know who I am!?" and "how dare you, you horrible brute, trying to take advantage of a poor defenseless woman like this!?".
A Karen is the kind of person who will call the cops on a Black or brown man minding his own business and say he threatened her.
Note that yes, she will absolutely do this kind of thing to a Black or brown woman, but the dynamic will often be different. I do not mean to erase that. But for the purpose of this post - discussing specific dynamics that reverse the typical "men are higher on the ladder than women" rule - we're specifically examining what happens when, say, a white woman claims a Black man whistled or "leered" at her. What happens then? Maybe he gets shot by the cops. Maybe he gets lynched - sure, that happens less often than it used to now, but anything is only illegal if you get caught. Maybe his life just gets ruined by a whisper campaign. Maybe nothing happens to him, but her story is used to continue the idea that Black and brown men are "bad hombres" who need to be chased out of this country or at least heavily policed to keep them in line. Regardless, there is a very strongly gendered aspect to this - accusations of sexual violence are believed without a second thought when it's a white woman making them against a Black or brown man, and this has a massive body count. We know that false accusations of sexual assault are very few and far between compared to unreported sexual assaults - but we often fail to acknowledge just how many of those false accusations are made up for racist reasons.
Not only that, but I must also briefly call out that I've seen white girls on this very supposedly progressive website claiming that Asian men are "basically women", when they're not calling out all men of Japan for being violent repressive pedophilic perverts.
That's because ultimately, the patriarchal standards that we have are a tool of white supremacy. That's it. That's all there is to it. What they mean and who they apply to can be twisted around at a moment's notice to uphold some other aspect of the system. The "natural strength" that it superficially insists that men innately have can be twisted to become a threat, if it threatens the rest of the system. The supposed "inherent weakness" of women can be twisted around to become a cudgel - upholding the dominance of the Great Male Head of the Household is, under this system, nearly the only thing that wins out over "protecting white women".
It's all white supremacy all the way down.
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Tumblr media
Texture used for Majima's jacket
Okay. This painting is pretty epic (In my opinion anyway).
I was trying something a little more ambitious with this piece and that's probably because Death is my favorite tarot card! It was a lot of fun to play with value and color theory with this one.
I'll write a little more about that on the Patreon post if you'd like to look at it. It's free to view and also has a high-res download available!
I also found a website that broke down the symbolism of the cards in a really comprehensive way and that was super helpful to understanding the meaning of the card. Here's the page with all of that info.
Interpretations are below the cut:
Death as a tarot card is not literally about death (not technically anyway). When it shows up in a reading, it's more likely indicating a spiritual or personal death-- an end of an era or period of your life as well as a transition to a new state of being.
Death is unavoidable regardless of whether you're ultra-rich, in deep poverty, or somewhere in between. It's so unavoidable that we refer to it as 'the circle of life'. People are born, they grow up, they pass away, and new people are born in their place.
The inevitability of death is usually scary to people who aren't quite ready to die yet. This is natural, as the idea of no longer existing in the way you were used to is a change that takes time to process.
The Death tarot card encourages you to embrace the change and view it as a rebirth, a second chance.
When it appears upright in a reading, Death usually signals that you're in a period of massive change. You might be shedding the parts of yourself that aren't beneficial anymore. You might have a new opportunity that completely changes the course of your life.
Regardless of the circumstances, the message of this card is that you're not going to be the same person you used to be. Rather than being scared and resistant to change, consider approaching the whole situation with curiosity. What parts of yourself do you feel no longer fit who you are (or who you believe yourself to be)? What opportunities have entered your life and what changes do they bring?
Reversed, we see someone who's resistant to the change that's so inevitable. Whenever I pull a reversed Death card, it always felt as if I was a zombie. Not capable of doing much more than shuffling around, stagnant and rotting and so clearly somewhere I didn't belong.
Never changing is unnatural and oftentimes brings more emotional distress than the circumstances you're scared of ever could. The inevitability of death as a concept drives home that the changes you're resisting are coming whether you want them to or not. Becoming receptive to them will oftentimes make the transition period smoother and quicker. Yes, discomfort might occur (in fact, discomfort is probable), but this discomfort is likely necessary to your development as a person.
In regards to Majima's arc in 0/ the rest of the games, my main idea was inspired by the 'Mad Dog' transformation.
While I was initially hesitant to include actively violent imagery (namely Mad Dog Majima seemingly trying to kill his Y0 self) since the original card has none, I ultimately chose to keep it since the original imagery in the Rider-Waite-Smith card is so initially terrifying.
Death is an unsettling card to look at and I believe that's the point. We're quick to view death as evil and malevolent when, upon closer inspection, you notice that the grim reaper-like figure has no weapons. He's simply carrying a flag with a Tudor rose on it (considered a symbol of peace after the prolonged War of the Roses).
I wanted to create imagery that was a similar level of unsettling, while still showing that there's not any malicious intent. After all, can you really call something murder when someone's just taking a part of their personality and hiding it away?
The Mad Dog persona is simply that: a mask. We see throughout the series that the Majima from Yakuza 0 is still there, he's just hidden behind a flamboyant, violent, shirtless persona who few are able to accurately read.
Majima's core personality is always there, but he isn't able to return to the person he was in Yakuza 0. He can't return to who he was before the '85 assassination, either.
The old Majima can't come to the phone right now. Why?
'Cause he's dead.
One of the main themes of Death's original card is the juxtaposition between those who resist death, and those who accept its inevitability. Compare the Bishop, who welcomes death with open arms to the king lies who dead in the mud, his crown having fallen. There's the impression that the king did not die peacefully, and likely was trying to evade his mortality. As such, he's not only stripped of his power and glory, but also of his ability to have a dignified death.
He chose to use his final moments on Earth to try and escape his fate, rather than making the most of his time alive and as such, he loses more than the Bishop once Death rides into town.
In my interpretation, I focused on Y0 Majima's inability to kill. While it's a good thing that he didn't kill an innocent woman, Majima created a situation where someone had to die.
Yet, he refused to decide who. This is an unfair thing to ask of anyone, especially when innocent lives are on the line, but Majima barrelled into this situation before completely thinking out what it meant to murder someone. He agreed to trade someone else's life for a spot back in the Tojo Clan.
And because of this, Lee and a woman who never asked to be involved end up being murdered in Makoto's place.
Majima doesn't have the ability to kill, but he isn't able to manufacture a situation where no one has to die, either. He's attempting to circumvent the consequences of his actions and in the end, he loses not only the lives of innocent people, but also his ability to remain himself.
Majima's Mad Dog persona, however, is able to keep the people he cares about safe (to some degree). His enemies are very, very rarely able to understand his actual motives and what he actually cares about and as such, attack targets that Majima is okay with losing: money, his own freedom, even his life at one point.
I wanted to include some of the human figures from the original card in mine as well. It's hard to tell in the actual painting, but the hand near the bottom left corner is Lee's and the figure hanging in the upper right corner is Saejima who's been executed for the '85 assassination.
Both Lee and Saejima represent the guilt Majima feels for his inadequacies. Who he was as a person wasn't enough to keep them from receiving all of the punishment for his actions (Majima didn't *necessarily* do anything wrong in either of these situations, but I'm talking more about his own feelings rather than reality). In a way, the Mad Dog persona is an attempt to atone-- a commitment to making sure what happened in the 80s doesn't happen again.
But for that to be possible, Majima has to kill his previous self and become something entirely new.
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lumalilies · 25 days
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eulogy for a lost home
our landlord gave us 30 days notice today. it could be far, far, worse and we're privileged that right now, it's not a danger scenario. we have what we need to make it and more, and i am very grateful for that. (fuck landlords, though)
but losing a home is hard. our mind dips into derealization and depersonalization a lot. the sights and sounds that stay constant around us help us ground ourselves. our nest is important to us, we like to keep the twigs we know nearby. they help us make a home out of the world we live in now.
i have to say goodbye to this place. and it's public cause that's just kinda how we are.
to the very first home we had away from the shadow we had for so long to live beneath: it was on this couch that we first learned to comfort each other when we woke up from nightmares. we learned to say "i'm right here. you're safe now. don't you worry babydoll i got you. it's gonna be okay." we learned to clutch our stuffies and put up them to our face to feel something softer than our memories had left us with. it was in this place that so many artists of ours came out to sing. we read our first stories out loud to each other at that coffee table. so many beautiful pieces that we hang from the walls. we decorated the light fixtures above us so our babes could have something colorful and calming to look at in scary times. so much creativity and color and beauty resting in their precious hearts and minds. a safe room for us to dance around in.
it was in this place we transitioned. something so many of us wanted to try. we called it "going the way of the flowers" - for those of us who imagined us differently to try on new clothes, makeup, glances in the mirror. it was always a comprise that we had a hard time navigating, it's still something we're figuring out, but it changed our life forever. in this place, for the first time, we were free to try.
it was in that room that we were there for each other in the hardest times when it was all unfamiliar and new. acting out funerals and scenes of grief for the time and love we had lost. when we lit our candle every night and held each others' hands in quiet darkness. when we punched our pillows and billowed out our anger. crawling around on the carpet like tigers and kitties and wolf monsters snarling our fury and howling our sorrows and cozying up against the bed to rest their weary bones. when our rabbit hopped around and giggled with glee. our dwellers and deepest friends and family bringing their lifetimes and memories and the beautiful, unique way they saw the world to our eyes and our muscles and our heart for the very, very first time. it was here we learned to say "i love you" to each other. to hold each others' hands. to sit side by side. to kiss each others' paws and foreheads. to let our hearts out to each other (in a gay way) < thank you
it was in this place that we first saw each other. that we chose our name lumalilies, to commemorate the community of hearts and lights that had kept us safe and cared for for so so long out of sight. trivia bonus - it used to be "stardrops" (which was pretty damn rad if I do say so myself)
spoilers for i'm in love with the villainess (book 3). when may and aleah have to leave their home, they cry and cry into the comfort of their mommas' arms (much as we have been today). rae and claire let them act out a promise to help them process the grief of losing everything familiar. as they leave the house, they all turn back and wave together, shouting "be back soon!" as their home left on its own journey into the horizon.
i can't do that with my babes. we won't be back here soon. that really tears me up to be honest. these kind of changes are very very hard on us. i haven't found what i'd like to say yet. we need some time to think about it. maybe just. "to the home we'll find again." "to the past we left behind, that it will always stay in the past." "to where we go next."
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quins-whump-stuff · 1 year
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982 | Chapter 1: Pet 982
Contents: (institutional) pet whump, noncon body modification (implied, piercing), confinement, sedation/drugging, dehumanization, 1st person pov (whumpee's pov), ablism (referenced), lady whump (whumpee)
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It surprised me to be told I had been adopted. My whole life, I had thought, no, known, it was impossible. I thought I would forever live without a name, without an owner. As long as I can remember, I have known that I am defective. "982 is a lost cause," they would say as they gave tours to the sponsors who came to view the facility, while I huddled into the back corner of my kennel, "982 is defective."
When I was young, it made me sad. I still went through all the same training as the other pets, even though the trainers knew, the other pets knew, I knew there was no point. But as I got older, the sadness was slowly replaced with emptiness, and just a little bit of something I would almost call anticipation. Because when my expiration date finally came, I would at least get to be useful.
I would go and work instead of wasting away here. The trainers told us often how terrible it was to be sent to work, to scare the others into behaving, but it would be better there than waiting here forever, surrounded by cold concrete floors and the metal bars of kennels, wouldn't it?
But it doesn't matter now. Now, I will have an owner. Someone to give me a name and a home. Someone whom I can serve. Lyle was the one who told me, and they even permitted me to give them a hug. They had always been one of the nicest trainers, never hurting me for the things they knew were out of my control. "I hope my owner is as nice as Lyle," I think, before shoving the thought away. I shouldn't expect anything of my owner. They don't owe me anything. I owe them everything.
As Lyle walks me down the hall to a room I've never been in before, I am shaking with excitement. The ring of my collar is clinking against the clip of the leash, drawing their attention. Before opening the door, they ask "Are you alright, 982? Are you scared? You can speak."
"No, I'm sorry, mx. I am excited. Excited and happy," I say, doing my best to avoid squealing, instead using the calm, even tone we were taught to use when speaking.
"Ok. Try not to shake when you meet your owner, 982," they tell me kindly, but firmly. I nod obediently, but I am unsure whether I will be able to stop it. I mean, someone actually wants me! As Lyle leads me into the room, they tell me "Your owner is Ms. Ainsley Turner. She lives far away, so you will have to be mailed there." I nod again.
They have me sit on a table covered in crinkly paper. The tag in my ear is removed, and I get a glimpse of the dark, metal thing which has brought me so much pain. It is quickly replaced with a new tag, much smaller and lighter than the old one. My dark hair is pulled back into two long braids, to keep it from tangling during transit. The trainer's hands pull at my hair painfully, but I don't even flinch. I change into a soft, blue T-shirt and matching shorts. The trainers always have me wear blue: they say it looks the best on me. "Will my owner will dress me in purple?" I wonder. It's my favorite color. They take the glasses off of my face and place them in a small case. "Don't worry," Lyle reassures me, "we're mailing these too. We just don't want them to break and hurt you." I nod.
They don't give me any food or water. It will be about 24 hours until I arrive at my new home, and there won't be any way for me to use the restroom. Finally, they have me lie down in a plastic box. As I climb in, I bump my hand against the wall, and a hollow, empty thud echoes through my bones. It's padded at the bottom, but small. The only way for me to fit is to curl my knees up to my chest, so I do. "You will be sedated for most of the trip," I'm told, "but you will wake up several hours before you arrive. Behave well, 982." Then there is a prick in my arm, and I can hear the scraping sound of the lid being closed. A few specks of light still make their way through, but soon, my eyes grow heavy with artificial exhaustion, and darkness envelopes me.
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fandomstars · 6 months
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Fairly Odd Pokemon
Warning: Mentions of neglect/child endangerment. Also, this is a long headcanon thing fyi.
* = Shiny Pokémon
M = Male F = Female G= Genderless
*Insert move* -> *insert move* = Can use both (Like a power level dynamic. Example, using water gun in small fires, and can transition to hydro pump for big fires. Can alternate between both no problem (well more energy needed for hydro pump in comparison but still). Counts as one move though.)
Also, this is an AU where Timmy is the protagonist instead of Ash. Also, all of Ash's travel companions are replaced by FOP characters. And this takes place in Unova (since it's close to the US, right?), with Dimmsdale just on the outside border of the region. Also, yes other region Pokémon appear, all but Galar and Alola. Why? Maybe some magic got involved long ago to make it happen. ;)
Plus, Poof is the older of him and Timmy in this AU.
And yes, the evil Pixies team is named after LOR dragon Smaug. Reason is Pixies are money makers, and I figured what better name for their evil team than of a treasure/gold hoarding dragon? Meanwhile Team Mishap is the Anti-Fairies, whom unlike Pixies, don't hide them being the bad guys at all.
A Summary (if possible/needed): In the small town of Dimmsdale, 10-year-old Timmy can finally become an official Pokémon trainer. Though throughout his journey, he will have to face the evil Team Mishap (Anti-Fairies) and Team Smaug (Disgusted as the business corporation Pixie Inc.). Making friends, making enemies, all while trying to become the very best and make a name for himself? The world really isn't going to make it easy is it.
Characters:
Timmy
Gary
AJ
Chester
Tad
Chad
Trixie
Veronica
Tootie
Elmer
Sanjay
Poof
Foop
More possibly to be added...depends on if you guys want more (request in inbox of possible oneshots/headcanons for this and all characters! Pokemon included!)
———-
Bios:
Name: Timmy Turner Fairywinkle-Cosma
Age: 10
Occupation: Pokémon trainer / Gym challenger / Coordinator
Hair color / Style: Light Brown and spiky
Eye color: Blue
Outfits:
Regular - Pink t-shirt, blue jeans, and matching blue sneakers
Contest - Light blue tuxedo with matching tie, blue mask, black dress shoes, and fingerless white gloves
Training - White kung-fu outfit with pink, green, and purple striped belt
Facial features: Buck two front teeth
Other: Has a small facial scar on the bottom of his chin
Backstory: It happened when he and Gary were four, their mother and father just happened leave them at the camping site and drove off home. Lost and scared, the two mistakenly took a hallow tree as a resting place, when it was a Beedrill nest (luckily said mons were sleepy still, and simply dazed out. But that didn't stop some, as those Beedrill had the move Sleep Talk and or Snore.). They ran off screaming, but before they ran into a Pokémon ranger, they fell into a ravine where they got said scar. Getting said scar, Gary with a mere identical one on his chin too, were brought to a nearby hospital where local police came to investigate. So, the CPS later is called, and the twins are dropped off at Wanda and Cosmo's for the night, to later being adopted and living permanently there once the forms were done and their 'parents' were imprisoning for child abandonment and other crimes.
Personality: He's overall a very caring individual, at least those closest to him. Around strangers he's a bit cold, due to lack of trust of many people compared to Pokémon, especially adults. He only at first, was kindhearted and open to his godparents, twin and godbrothers. Then later A.J. and Chester. Sometimes he can get a little into his head and turn selfish in case of popularity. Thankfully, Gary is the one who is able to pull him back and get his head straight. He's very protective though of those he cares for, especially Pokémon.
Hometown: Dimmsdale
Starter: Totodile (Nicknamed Chomps) (Professor Juniper got a switch up with new starters that year, and so the twins got different starters of different regions)
Family:
Mrs. Turner (Estranged)
Mr. Turner (Estranged)
Wanda Fairywinkle-Cosma (Godmother / Adopted Mom)
Cosmo Fairywinkle-Cosma (Godfather / Adopted Dad)
Poof Fairywinkle-Cosma (Godbrother / Adopted Older Brother / Older twin of Foop)
Foop Anthony Fairywinkle-Cosma (Godbrother / Adopted Older Brother / Younger twin of Poof)
Gary Fairywinkle-Cosma (but just goes by Gary cause the last name doesn't sound "cool") (Twin brother) (Older by 1 minute)
Best Friends: A.J. and Chester (Also traveling with)
Acquittances: Sanjay and Elmer
Rivals: Tad, Chad, Remy, Tootie, Trixie (not to her acknowledgement), and Francis
Enemies: Teams Mishap (Anti-fairies), Team Smaug (Pixies), and Vicky
Possible Love Interest: Trixie / Remy (not till way later, and not until he gets over his crush on Trixie..so awhile)
Pokémon Team:
Nickname -> Pokemon -> Ability -> Moves
Chomps | Totodile -> Croconaw -> Feraligatr | Torret | Agility, Bite -> Crunch, Dragon Claw, Rain Dance, Aerial Ace, Water Gun -> Hydro Pump, Metal Claw, and Shadow claw
Ace | Weedle -> Kakuna -> Beedrill | Swarm | Pin Missle, Poison Jab, Agility, Brick Break, Aerial Ace, Swords Dance, Sleep Talk, and Double Team
Hevy | Phanpy -> Donphan | Sturdy | Rollout, Earthquake, Slam, Hidden Power, Stone Edge, Fire fang, Ice Shard, and Iron Defense
Thorn* | Egg -> Eevee -> Leafeon | Chlorophyll | Razor Leaf -> Magical Leaf, Bite -> Crunch, Swords Dance, Quick Attack, Facade, Energy Ball, Iron Tail, and Shadow Ball
Cleft | Pikachu -> Raichu (Alola) | Lightning Rod | Agility -> Quick Attack -> Double Team, Thunderbolt -> Thunder, Mega kick -> Mega Punch, Psychic, Dig, Iron Tail, and Grass Knot
Ally | Slyveon (twin of Gary’s) | Pixilate |
———-
Name: Gary Turner Fairywinkle-Cosma (Goes by just Gary since it sounds 'mysterious/cool' without any last name. Only uses it for documents, tournament sign ups, and with family.)
Age: 10
Occupation: Pokémon trainer / Gym challenger
Hair color / Style: Black and grease style
Eye color: Blue
Outfits:
Regular - Red coat, white t-shirt, blue navy pants and blue sneakers, also wears a pair of black shades
Training - White tank top and matching pants, with a green and pink belt with purple highlights
Facial features: Buck two front teeth
Other: Small scar on the bottom of his chin
Personality: He tries very hard to look and be cool wherever he goes, but it's really a shell of whom he really is, and only Timmy and his Pokémon know for a long while. Not that he doesn't get cocky or arrogant sometimes, but he's more mellow more than anything. Despite being the same age, he's very protective of Timmy, and such events to trigger this can actually break the arrogant shell he holds. He's been like such since the Beedrill incident. He's also secretly a nerd but hides his high intelligence with sass (or with sass if needed). But in private, likes to geek out with Timmy of their favorite Pokémon and trainers in the world.
Hometown: Dimmsdale
Starter: Chimchar (Nicknamed Jazz)
Family:
Mrs. Turner (Estranged)
Mr. Turner (Estranged)
Wanda Fairywinkle-Cosma (Godmother / Adopted Mom)
Cosmo Fairywinkle-Cosma (Godfather / Adopted Dad)
Poof Fairywinkle-Cosma (Godbrother / Adopted Older Brother / Older twin of Foop)
Foop Anthony Fairywinkle-Cosma (Godbrother / Adopted Older Brother / Younger twin of Poof)
Timmy Fairywinkle-Cosma (or 'Tim Tim') (Twin brother) (Younger by 1 minute)
Best Friend (s): Timmy, Foop, A.J., and Chester (latter two redundant to admit)
Acquittances: Remy and Trixie
Rivals: Tad, Chad, Remy, and Francis
Enemies: Teams Mishap, Team Smaug, Francis, Vicky, and anyone who hurts his family
Possible Love Interest (s): Kinda flirts with anyone, but secretly has a crush on either Chad, A.J., or Trixie (he kinda flirts so much, that he has no idea what is genuine till later on.) 
Pokémon Team:
Nickname -> Pokemon -> Ability -> Moves
Jazz | Chimchar -> Monferno -> Infernape | Blaze | Mach Punch -> Close Combat, Ember -> Fire Spin -> Fire Blast, Flame Wheel -> Flame Charge -> Flare Blitz, Iron Tail, Dual Chop, Shadow Claw, Stone Edge, Acrobatics, and Attract
*Maximus | Weedle -> Kakuna -> Beedrill | Sniper | Pin Missile
Gladiator | Scraggy -> Scrafty | Moxie |
Titan | Krokorok -> Krookodile | Intimidate |
Ivy | Mienfoo -> Mienshao | Inner Focus |
Luna | Egg -> Eevee -> Umbreon | Synchronize |
In Rotation:
*Crystal | Sylveon | Cute Charm | Charm, Quick Attack, Swift, Moonblast, Detect, Dig, Psyshock, and Shadow Ball
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