#African Anarchists

[slimethought]

It's time to explore the origins, history, and diversity of Black Anarchism.

The list of artists used is in the outro.

Introduction - 0:00 Pre-Colonial African "Anarchism" - 0:58 What is Anarchism? - 4:09 The Rise of Black Power - 6:53 The Rise of Black Anarchisms - 11:05 Lorenzo Kom'boa Ervin - 11:08 Martin Sostre - 14:03 Kuwasi Balagoon - 17:06 Ojore Lutalo - 19:47 Ashanti Alston - 22:15 Anarchist People of Colour - 25:08 Anarkata - 28:48 African Anarchism - 30:49 Conclusion - 34:40

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Music: Sun (prod.   / salmontheghost   ) Rodeo days (prod. Zeus The God x Greg Sekeres)

[handweavers]

currently reading henry winston's crisis of the black panther party (here) and it's hitting hard. this was written in 1971 but so much of what he discusses and critiques are just as applicable now. i'm still digesting it but i'm really appreciating the read

[dailyanarchistposts]

Everyone has their own definition of anarchism. One I find generally useful is the first three paragraphs of the article Peter Kropotkin was asked to write for the 11th edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica in 1905. This is the collection of volumes which (however repugnant we now find its sales techniques) is the place we look for a working definition of most things.

Kropotkin's first paragraph said that:

ANARCHISM (from the Greek, contrary to authority), is the name given to a principle or theory of life and conduct under which society is conceived without government — harmony in such a society being obtained, not by submission to law, or by obedience to any authority, but by free agreements concluded between the various groups, territorial and professional, freely constituted for the sake of production and consumption, as also for the satisfaction of the infinite variety of needs and aspirations of a civilised being.

That's his first paragraph, and of course he has the usual problem of anyone writing an encyclopaedia definition, he has to be concise, but at the same time, to bring everything in. So his second paragraph goes:

In a society developed on these lines, the voluntary associations which already now begin to cover all the fields of human activity would take a still greater extension so as to substitute themselves for the State in all its functions. They would represent an interwoven network, composed of an infinite variety of groups and federations of all sizes and degrees, local, regional, national and international — temporary or more or less permanent — for all possible purposes: production, consumption and exchange, communications, sanitary arrangements, education, mutual protection, defence of the territory, and so on; and, on the other side, for the satisfaction of an ever-increasing number of scientific, artistic, literary and sociable needs."

Kropotkin was a scientist, a physical geographer in origin, and his third paragraph drew an analogy from physics and from biology, and you might even claim from structural mechanics and music. For he claimed that:

Moreover, such a society would represent nothing immutable. On the contrary — as is seen in organic life at large — harmony would (it is contended) result from an ever-changing adjustment and readjustment of equilibrium between the multitudes of forces and influences, and this adjustment would be the easier to obtain as none of the forces would enjoy a special protection from the State.

These opening remarks express the kernel of his argument for society as opposed to the State, and for the community as opposed to the government.

[khulthuskaotika]

[anarchotolkienist]

I will miss Zephenia a lot. May he rest in peace.

[armed-with-a-waffle-iron]

Sports Team Logos for DC Comics Cities

Used Photopea and took some liberties with the names.

Fictional Etymology

The Knights⚾️: The Knights initially attributed their name to Gotham's history as an English colony though the double entendre was not lost on them, especially since the infamous "Gotham Nights" have become synonymous with the crime capital.

The Meteors🏈⚾️: Alliteration 🤷‍♀️.

The Spartans🏐: Gateway City possesses the largest collection of Greek artefacts outside of Greece and have a reputation for producing gold-medal-winning Olympians, inspiring the name of Gateway's Pro Volleyball team; the "Spartans".

The Sab-Cats⚽️: The Sab-Cats are a NWSL team born out of a social initiative by community centres in Star City using sport to keep youths away from crime. Recently turned professional, the team honours its mutual aid roots by adopting the Anarchist symbol of the "Sab-Cat".

The Velocity🏈: Keystone City has long been a hub of transport manufacturing, from automobiles to aircraft. The Velocity began as an amateur factory workers' football team in the 1940s, with its name referring to the cars these workers assembled.

The Cheetahs🏈: Initially named the "Central City Cougars", after the wildcat historically present in Missouri, the NFL team more recently renamed itself after the speedy African Cheetah in honour of its then residential speedster, the second Flash, following the first Crisis.

The Cosmos🏀: Before its destruction, Coast City was known along the West Coast as a melting pot of diversity, and its former NBA team derived its name, "Cosmos", from the word "Cosmopolitans".

The Bloodhounds⚾️: Before harmful radiation, Blüdhaven was plagued with corruption, often enabled by its police force. Some suspect strings were pulled for this former MLB team to adopt a blue kit and a common police dog as a mascot. Maybe it's a coincidence?

[halfway-house-in-hell]

paopao (cherri bomb) redesign!! 🐡💣

rewrite under the cut ⬇️

- pao was a half south-african half vietnamese anarchist who lived in england. she died in 1987

- she enjoys making up new cool deaths for herself but in reality she died of an unchecked chest infection

- i decided to make her a pufferfish instead of a cyclops as i think pufferfishes being both spiky and dangerous + puffing themselves up to look bigger and more intimidating than they actually are works quite well for her character

- she's angel dust's best friend. their chum. their homeboy their sweet cheese their rotten soldier. she's their good time boy

- shes also the only one (in the first half of the series at least) that knows of val's abuse. her general dislike of authority figures + angels inconspicuous coughing whenever they attempt to say anything about him means she catches on pretty quickly

- she is banned from most places of business in hell. she takes great pride in this fact

- shes also a big fat dyke now. i do not like cherrisnake❤️

- i do have a lady friend in mind for her but she doesnt enter the picture until later

- over the course of the series she manages to figure out where val keeps his contracts and how to burn them all, and in the last ep manages to do so. if youve seen my 3 vees redesign you will notice that this connects to something i wrote there 😈

- she starts crashing at the hotel and just. absolutely refuses to take part in anything (and destroys a lot of furniture) which stresses charlie to no end

- she is also the first person outside of alastor to really connect with nifty and encourage her to just go wild and have fun

[n3ro-n3o-n3ur0n]

finally, God

✨Intro post✨

Welcome to THE CHAOS GANG™

Hiya creeps, cryptids, and curious souls! You’ve just stumbled into the absolute mess that is this blog — unfiltered, unhinged, and occasionally undead

First of all:

✨Info on the creator✨

Haii!! My name's Nero Fruity but y'all can also call me Nerinho, Neri, Neno, Neni, Nen or any other variantion of my name u find!! The sky is the limit 😉

‼️I'm a minor‼️I don't mind adults interacting with me just don't be weird

I'm Autistic and a silly goober heheh 😼

I'm a cis female, bisexual and go by She/Her

I'm European, from Portugal ^^

Made by @g1r-ap0ca1yps3 / @espressodepressoconan

✨What to Expect from Miss Nen Fruity?✨

- Rants

- Rants on my hyperfixations

- Simping

- Simping on my hyperfixations

- Writing (Soul Train Of The Endless and maybe sum other things)

- Gacha

And most importantly

Them ↓

The Chaos Gang™, a very loud (and kinda spooky) group of losers, besties, and gremlins just trying to survive, vibe, and maybe not get evicted this week

✨What to Expect from them the sillies?✨

- Screaming

- Band rants

- Unexplained goo??

- Deep convos at 3AM

- Goth fashion

- Dhampir drama™

- Glitches (?) in our kitchen (thank you ig, Ilya)

And Arakel falling down the stairs again ^^

✨Meet the Creatures... uhh, Members✨

↓

Arakel Hovsepian

(She/They)

Fanart by @moka-hani-pie // @cage-an-angel

(tap images for better quality)

About Arakel:

20 years old / Romanian-Armenian / Cis Female / Straight / Loudest Creature Alive

→ Your favorite goth goblin! Arakel is a bubbly, fashion-forward force of nature with a voice that carries through concrete. She thrives on Deftones, glitter, and yelling at 3AM about her latest hyperfixation. Think “if a raven drank Monster and watched Invader Zim all night.” She’s your local loud cryptid mom-friend but also a menace to society. Loves Floyd, hates wet socks

+ Albino and proud

+ Goth queen

Floyd Shröder (He/Him)

Fanart by @tis-iroh

(tap images for better quality)

About Floyd:

408 years old / Irish-German /Dhampir / Demiboy / Bi + Ace / Has seen too much

→ Grumpy undead dad of the gang. He’s quiet, ancient, and allergic to fun (jk… kinda). Think vampire hunter vibes but retired and now he’s stuck babysitting Arakel. Says 3 words a week and drinks tea with the anger of a thousand suns. Would absolutely kill for this gang, but he’ll complain the entire time

+ Eternal sigh

+ Hates everyone but us

Maksim Mirovich (He/Him)

Fanart by @lord-of-those-who-follow

(tap images for better quality)

About Maksim:

23 years old / Ukrainian / Cis Male / Gay / Chaotic Neutral with headphones

→ Snarky anarchist and professional arson joke maker. He’s like a sarcastic cat that smokes too much and hates cops. Always wearing some obscure metal band shirt and judging your taste in music. Probably wrote a zine once. Besties with Arakel and fights with Floyd for fun

+ Metalhead menace

+ Definitely knows how to make a pipe bomb (in Minecraft ofc...heheh... )

Ilya Mirovich (She/Her)

Fanart by @espressodepressoconan // @g1r-ap0ca1yps3

(tap images for better quality)

About I l y a:

23 years old / Ukrainian / Trans MtF / Straight + Ace / Autistic / Selectively Mute

→ Maksim’s twin and resident soft dream-thing. She doesn’t speak, but her AAC device (a bright orange one with glittery stickers) is full of poetic nonsense, creepy-cute metaphors, and bubble text about frogs. Her aesthetic is Kidcore meets dreamcore meets uncanny VHS tapes

+ Smells like crayons and static

+ Probably not from here (or from now)

She’s the glitch in the system wearing jelly sandals and holding a dead butterfly

Corey MacQuoid

(He/They)

Fanart by @smolwriter // @smolisdrawersometimes

(tap images for better quality)

About Corey:

22 years old / British-South African/ Trans FtM / Aro-Ace + Pansexual / Crop-top King

→ Slipknot #1 fan, don’t fight him on it. Corey’s emo as hell, rocks skirts like a punk legend, and will scream if you diss Joey Jordison (rest in peace legend). He’s got the energy of a caffeinated rat and the eyeliner of a warrior. Not as loud as Arakel but definitely louder than Floyd (low bar tbh). Calls his emotional support eyeliner “Greg”

+ Screams about metal at breakfast

+ Could win a fight in 6" platforms

Chevelle Irowa

(He/She)

Fanart by @cococomiskry32

(tap images for better quality)

About Chevelle:

21 years old / South African / Genderfluid / Bisexual / Very Confused Angel

→ A walking aesthetic fever dream. Chevelle wears pastel lolita one day and neon skeleton prints the next. She uses He/She pronouns because… gender? Never heard of her (but maybe she’s heard of him?). His existence is like if a cursed porcelain doll joined a rave. Loves tea, frosted cupcakes, and confusing the binary

+ Both babygirl and babyman

+ Uses old Barbies to test his juggalo makeup skills

Follow for: chaotic updates, music rantings, simping, autism, weird vibes, Neno being Neno and Arakel’s weekly “Why Floyd Should Smile More” campaign!!

✨Welcome to the mess✨

- The Chaos Gang

- Nero F. 🦋

@espressodepressoconan @g1r-ap0ca1yps3 @ender-afton @tis-iroh @k3nnyb4by @theoisgay0 @bamgyuuu-2001 @worshiptheslice @creationverseblog @alternatememory @atlasprefects @ning-ningx300 @heart-2-hearts @cage-an-angel @matheusgaytriste @izumi-miffy @itzzzzzzyyyyydaaaaa @cadence-is-silly @garbage--account @foreverautisticbrainrot @cool-lesbian-is-here @randomchaos146 @dailydose-of-kazemaru @sizzlingcandyjellyfishhhhhh @infcct3d-zw0mb1eez @i-am-a-fish @inazumafocus @tokytopia

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Zen priest, Peter Coyote, on protest: "I’m watching the Los Angeles reaction to ICE raids with trepidation and regret.

Three years ago I taught a class at Harvard on the “theater of protest”— designed to help people understand why so many protests turn out to be Republican campaign videos working directly against the interests of the original protest.

A protest is an invitation to a better world.

It’s a ceremony.

No one accepts a ceremonial invitation when they’re being screamed at.

More important you have to know who the real audience of the protest is.

The audience is NEVER the police, the politicians, the Board of supervisors, Congress,etc.

The audience is always the American people, who are trying to decide who they can trust; who will not embarrass them.

If you win them, you win power at the box office and power to make positive change.

Everything else is a waste.

There are a few ways to get there:

1. Let women organize the event. They’re more collaborative. They’re more inclusive, and they don’t generally bring the undertones of violence men do.

2 Appoint monitors, give them yellow, vests and whistles. At the first sign of violence, they blow the whistles and the real protester sit down.

Let the police take out their aggression on the anarchists and the provocateurs trying to discredit the movement.

3. Dress like you’re going to church. It’s hard to be painted as a hoodlum when you’re dressed in clean, presentable clothes.

They don’t have to be fancy they just signal the respect for the occasion that you want to transmit to the audience.

4. Make your protest silent. Demonstrate your discipline to the American people. Let signs do the talking.

5. Go home at night. In the dark, you can’t tell the cops from the killers. Come back at dawn fresh and rested.

I have great fear that Trump’s staging with the National Guard and maybe the Marines is designed to clash with anarchists who are playing into his hands and offering him the opportunity to declare an insurrection.

It’s such a waste and it’s only because we haven’t thought things through strategically.

Nothing I thought of is particularly original.

It was all learned by watching the early civil rights protests in the 50s and 60s.

And it was the discipline and courage of African-Americans that drew such a clear line in the American sand that people were forced to take sides and that produced the civil rights act.

The American people are watching and once again if we behave in ways that can be misinterpreted, we’ll see this explained to the public in Republican campaign videos benefiting the very people who started this.

Wake up.

Vent at home.

In public practice discipline and self control.

It takes much more courage."

Zen teacher and author/narrator with Ken Burns

Note: Carry an American flag. As the administration creates a fake emergency to justify a state crackdown, it's important to honor the values and vision of democracy for which we're advocating.

When the Enquirer came for pics back in 2017, I smiled a big toothy grin and held a big flag as it felt so empowering and good to stand with my adult daughter, pastors, Franciscans, nuns, kids, parents, grandparents and some women from our women's groups for the values we tried to pass on.

After the protest, we sang and marched to a church where we heard poignant witness of immigrants trying to build a better life for their families against insurmountable odds.

Many Marines, National Guardsmen and vets are over on Threads and Substack expressinging their disagreement over being used by this lawless administration.

Peace, santi and shalom to all. ☮️

* * * *

Peter Birkenhead 

 I’ve always liked Peter Coyote, but wow that post of his that’s going around is so wrongheaded.

A protest is not an “invitation to a better world.” A protest is a disruption of the status quo. An attention-grabbing blast of sight and sound meant to be unavoidable. An insistence.

Coyote says, “No one accepts a ceremonial invitation when they’re being screamed at.” True enough. Nobody wants the enemy at their ceremony. Or their achool, or their workplace.

Nobody wants ICE at their Quinceanera, or naturalization ceremony. That’s the whole fucking point. The screams of protestors are the opposite of an invitation. They are a demand that the enemy leave town.

Dr. King’s Birmingham Campaign was a means of gumming up the works, of illegally disrupting lunch counters, businesses, churches and libraries with sit ins intended to overwhelm local jails. The march from Selma to Montgomery purposefully blocked traffic, to draw the attention of both law enforcement and a national television audience.

It was a wrench in the machinery, meant to stop its terrible work. To stop segregation, stop discrimination, stop police brutality, stop murder. It was meant to save lives.

ACT-UP was similary focused on purposeful confrontation to save lives. It was guided by a one-line statement of principle: “Direct action to end the Aids crisis.” The organization was unafraid of alienating institutions of power, or offending the sensibilities of genteel liberals. It led a movement that was, by necessity, as in-your-face and immediate as it could be. ACT-UP isn’t remembered today for polite invitations to ceremonies, but for screaming “We’re here, we’re queer, get used to it!” It is remembered for its insistence.

There will be a time — maybe — for invitations and ceremonies. Peter Coyote describes a vision of a better world, and I’m all for working towards realizing that vision. But the point of the protests happening in Los Angeles and across the country is not to make peace or forge unity with our enemies as a means of finding Utopia. The point of the protests is to save people’s lives.

Right now.

[victusinveritas]

Zen priest, Peter Coyote, on protest: "I’m watching the Los Angeles reaction to ICE raids with trepidation and regret.

Three years ago I taught a class at Harvard on the “theater of protest”— designed to help people understand why so many protests turn out to be Republican campaign videos working directly against the interests of the original protest.

A protest is an invitation to a better world.

It’s a ceremony.

No one accepts a ceremonial invitation when they’re being screamed at.

More important you have to know who the real audience of the protest is.

The audience is NEVER the police, the politicians, the Board of supervisors, Congress,etc.

The audience is always the American people, who are trying to decide who they can trust; who will not embarrass them.

If you win them, you win power at the box office and power to make positive change.

Everything else is a waste.

There are a few ways to get there:

1. Let women organize the event. They’re more collaborative. They’re more inclusive, and they don’t generally bring the undertones of violence men do.

2 Appoint monitors, give them yellow, vests and whistles. At the first sign of violence, they blow the whistles and the real protester sit down.

Let the police take out their aggression on the anarchists and the provocateurs trying to discredit the movement.

3. Dress like you’re going to church. It’s hard to be painted as a hoodlum when you’re dressed in clean, presentable clothes.

They don’t have to be fancy they just signal the respect for the occasion that you want to transmit to the audience.

4. Make your protest silent. Demonstrate your discipline to the American people. Let signs do the talking.

5. Go home at night. In the dark, you can’t tell the cops from the killers. Come back at dawn fresh and rested.

I have great fear that Trump’s staging with the National Guard and maybe the Marines is designed to clash with anarchists who are playing into his hands and offering him the opportunity to declare an insurrection.

It’s such a waste and it’s only because we haven’t thought things through strategically.

Nothing I thought of is particularly original.

It was all learned by watching the early civil rights protests in the 50s and 60s.

And it was the discipline and courage of African-Americans that drew such a clear line in the American sand that people were forced to take sides and that produced the civil rights act.

The American people are watching and once again if we behave in ways that can be misinterpreted, we’ll see this explained to the public in Republican campaign videos benefiting the very people who started this.

Wake up.

Vent at home.

In public practice discipline and self control.

It takes much more courage."

— Peter Coyote

Zen teacher and author/narrator, with Ken Burns

Note: Carry an American flag. As the administration creates a fake emergency to justify a state crackdown, it's important to honor the values and vision of democracy for which we're advocating.

When the Enquirer came for pics back in 2017, I smiled a big toothy grin and held a big flag as it felt so empowering and good to stand with my adult daughter, pastors, Franciscans, nuns, kids, parents, grandparents and some women from our women's groups for the values we tried to pass on.

After the protest, we sang and marched to a church where we heard poignant witness of immigrants trying to build a better life for their families against insurmountable odds.

Many Marines, National Guardsmen and vets are over on Threads and Substack expressinging their disagreement over being used by this lawless administration.

— Leslie Flood Hershberger

---- Just some thoughts from Peter Coyote. I'm not disputing anything here or even really analyzing. I leave that to you, because I'm sure various users will champion and/or shred every word above, so...you do that. Coyote is kind of a legend among a certain set of mostly older folks, hippies, yippies and conchies etc. He was a Digger and a member of the San Francisco Mime Troupe before becoming a Zen monk. My dad (in his poor Jesuit law student/philosophy professor days in the 1960s-70s) used to go to his Free Store and chat with him on occasion and described him as one of the more magnetic (thus also polarizing, he'd add quickly, firmly) figures of counterculture San Francisco (he certainly liked him better than Jim Jones (he met him exactly once and said he was 'the Slimiest and Sickest Fucker ever and my dad isn't the type to swear at all) Alan Watts or Alvin Toffler).

-- Today’s Daily New Yorker Cartoon, by Guy Richards Smit.

[abyssalmaidenlorgar]

I have been thinking about this. Trump is not fully a fascist, that minimalises the harm he will cause to the nation of America and the surrounding regions. I will talk about his fascist elements throughout it and what else I have seen from a dialectical standpoint.

Theocracy

This is the first element I like to talk about. The removal of lgbt rights and women's rights are prime example. You can argue it falls under the sphere of fascism. This is an example of religion and state being intertwined. We can see it with the logic of most Trump supporters. Churches have more influence on the state then secular logic which has lead to a new moral panic on unreasonable ground against marginalised people. It's a witch hunt. We aren't ruled by reason but by people who think they are being reasonable.

Minarchism

This isn't libertarianism. This is the strip mining of the state for its assets. We have seen the effects of doge and its dialectical effects of it. It's the complete removal and disarming of the state to safely fulfil its roles in people's lives. What we are seeing is the defending of the most basic and urgent things that the state needs to function.

Corporatism

This is the fascist elements. We have seen Trump empower corporations and their influence of society. What we have seen over time is that the republican party has empowered the corporations over the decades. We are finding that corporations extend its power more then states. I dare say dialetically; amazon, Facebook and a lot of companies have more soft powers then a lot of countries today due to their ability to influence markets.

Gunboat Diplomancy

What we have seen is a regression in diplomatic ideology by the American Regime to the time of early 20th and 19th century diplomacy with how the imperialist powers treat the other powers of the world. The tariffs and the treatment of other nations. I will provide a few examples:

Volodymyr Zelenskyy was humiliated by Donald Trump and his underling in an attempt to try to bully him. There was no traditional diplomacy, it was absolute brutality. Similarly, there has been efforts to undermine the Australian government. Donald Trump and the administration has expected all research funding to be proven and given to him so he can demand us to change our stance on lgbt rights. Another example is him trying to force Australia to lower its standard of biosecurity laws to enable American beef exports into the country, that as well as criticising our public health system is indicative of how they will try to influence other nations.

White supremacy

This is indicative of how they treat several groups from African Americans to Muslims of all ethnicities, Asians, Latinos. There's been a huge amount of misinformation and pseudo-science made by these think tanks. The pseudo-science is ripped from 19th century ideas of race that these people justify.

Cyberpunk dystopia

This strangely resembles the cyberpunk dystopias we read in some way or another. Of course, that's not a 100% replication that would be similar. I hate using the cultural industry as an example to quote things but in this time it's the most helpful way to describe it. The surveillance, the corporations, the discrimination, the lack of effective government, key important stages of cyberpunk.

Thank you for your time. I am primarily am anarchist who provides dialectical insights. Depending on feedback I might do a direct comparison between the Russian Empire(tsarist) and America.

[dailyanarchistposts]

Chimurenga Culture

Malawi

November 9: At Nairobi airport the insolent daughter of someone’s brother behind the counter where I had to pay my airport tax in hard currency refused to accept Scottish notes. I had to trek to another terminal and queue up behind eight huge young Finns — not a basketball team, just ‘students’, they told me to change a travellers’ cheque into dollars. However weak the US economy may be, dollars remain the most negotiable currency everywhere. I was fretting that I might be late for my flight. Needlessly it took off three hours late. Air Kenya are in all kinds of financial trouble ...

After flying quite low over the desiccated, unpopulous terrain of Tanzania, Lake Malawi seemed vast, oceanic. I was rushed through checkout at Lilongwe and safely made my connection to Blantyre, along with numerous dark-suited, serious business-and-professional Africans. A quiet lot. How quiet Malawi at once seems after Nairobi, which teems with hustlers, boozers and boasters.

Professor Steve Chimombo at once presented himself at Blantyre Airport — semi-familiar from a book cover with a grizzled, curly mop of hair, a Mephistophelean beard and a huge grin. Steve is the best known poet writing in Malawi itself — two generations behind the exiled Rubadiri; one behind Mnthali, now self-exiled after a spell in detention; a contemporary of Chipasula and Mphande, both teaching in the States, and of Jack Mapanje After three and a half years in detention, without trial, it seems for uttering something subversive, Jack was released in May this year. He’s now at the University of York — with his wife and children (which is important — no hostages).

As Steve and I head for his car, a very familiar figure steps up to shake hands: Ken Lipenga. When I taught here in ‘78, Ken and I went night after night to the OK Night Club, one of Zomba’s three bars, where a mixed crowd of soldiers, policemen, whores and informers danced to music from a portable gramophone — ‘Rivers of Babylon’ over and over again. We talked outside over lagers in little bottles, the Carlsberg Greens made world-famous by one of Jack’s best poems.

Ken has now left academic life. He is editor in chief of the Blantyre Times, an officially-controlled ‘news’paper which actually exists to suppress ‘news’: everyone listens to BBC World Service for that. I’m glad Ken’s hanging around here to meet some VIP. He’s just back from Edinburgh where Banda has been parading his Eldership of the Church of Scotland and his entourage have no doubt ransacked Princes Street with all the hard currency this very poor country can lay hands on, but cannot spare.

Steve takes me to Mount Soche Hotel for refreshment. It’s plush — and quiet. Medieval theologians might have understood the dispute which Steve commences with a friend about whether Carlsberg ‘Green’ tastes different in brown bottles (though still with Green labels). Nevertheless, he at once impresses me. After the twitchy torpor of Nairobi’s moribund ‘literary scene’, here, of all places, I find things happening, despite a censorship so feared that Malawi, according to a recent report in INDEX, is a land of ‘zombies’. Anthony Nazombe (no zombie) managed to publish an anthology of Malawian verse quite recently. Steve himself has published a novel, The Basket Girl, and sold out a run of 1,000 copies by hawking it from office to office, shop to shop. And there’s this rather glossy magazine for writers which he’s started — look!

Steve’s best known for a sequence of poems about the local god Napolo. When my plane touched down at Blantyre airport, Napolo at once signified his rage with a spectacular blast of lightning. As we drive on the almost empty fifty mile road to Zomba, the night is stormy. I know Government Hostel of old: here, too, Mapanje and I swapped many a Carlsberg. It’s rather handsome, built for colonial officials, with twin corrugated-iron turrets and spick and span blue details on its curving white façade. At once, an exuberant figure rushes from the bar: Nazombe, whom I last saw years ago when he was a student at Sheffield, now Dean of Arts at Chancellor College, University of Malawi. Steve leaves me in Nazombe’s hands. He talks about poetry and criticism with easy professionalism. I read him ‘Hallaig’ and send him on his way with my last copy of Sorley’s poems. I fear for its safety as I watch from my room Nazombe, book in hand, huge umbrella in the other, pick his way homewards across the drenched lawn in torrential rain.

November 10: Steve picks me up back of four. He’s a local man, born under Zomba Mountain, and his interest in Napolo needs no explanation. He drives me out into the countryside. Rain lashes, lightning flashes, clouds roll rapidly over the steep ridges. It’s like the West Highlands, but we lack Napolo in Scotland to provide weather of such exhilarating, OTT, violence. A party at the Chimombos. It’s a remarkable party which is clearly enjoyed by the African guests, Ben Malunga from University admin. (the country’s leading poet in Chichewa) and Gregory, a young lecturer in English. Moira’s Malawian cuisine is delicious. Steve, having heard that when I was here in ‘78 I had made a point of never going to the white-dominated Zomba Club, had apologised in advance for the fact that there would be Scots at his party. "Steve", I’d said, "there are three kinds of people: Black people, white people and Scots".

And what should I meet but a German Scot, a new sub-species. Manfred Malzahn who teaches English (forsooth) at Chancellor was in Edinburgh for several years and is an expert on Scottish literature. He looks like a Scottish intellectual (rather, in fact, like a cross between Alasdair Gray and Douglas Dunn). He sounds echt Lothian. He knows the nuances of football culture. His wife, a beautiful German opera singer, heavily pregnant, has only to smile while he and I gossip shamelessly. The other couple, Pat from Edinburgh, George from Kircudbright, agree with me that Manfred’s quite uncanny. They’ve taught in various parts of Africa, with fourteen years back in Edinburgh in between. George has retired now and devotes himself to woodwork.

November 11-13: At breakfast, a corpulent white man swims into view — Father Pat O’Malley. Pat’s a devotee of Yeats and a connoisseur of Irish Gaelic verse. (Nazombe’s already shown him Sorley’s book, so that was spared by the rain.) Pat taught English at Chancellor for many years, now works for a Catholic development agency. We have a good crack. He puts me right. I say: "I’m enjoying this too much, being back". He nods and gives me terrible facts. Malawi has the highest infant mortality rate in this bitterly poor region which includes Tanzania and Mozambique. Barely half of its children enter primary school: then those who do start dropping out because their parents can’t meet the fees ...

I stopped writing a diary when I reached this conversation. My stay remained specially pleasant. Chancellor’s comely brick quadrangles under the spectacular backdrop of Zomba Mountain were always attractive. Now the Senior Common Room has been expanded so that one can lounge, rather privately, in a kind of huge bow window, looking out on sun, flowers, birdlife, weather. Here I talked to many academics and met the students who now run the legendary Writers Workshop. This goes back two decades. In a situation where political clubs were impossible, student newspapers worthless if possible, the Workshop attracted scores of people to weekly meetings where stories and, still more, poems were circulated, read aloud and discussed. The half dozen students I met were very reserved at first, rather less so after their teachers, Chimombo and Nazombe, had left us. (Gregarious Manfred confirmed to me that Malawian students are hard to get to know.) The workshop, I learnt, still gets 80 to 100 participants to some meetings. I asked, did they consider pieces in Chichewa and Yao? Sometimes, yes.

This is important. I talked to Ben Malunga for an hour in his office in admin: a man slow and formal in English speech but not at all without humour. He took up writing in Chichewa as a student when he found that a trial attempt went down well. Though, as the language of Banda’s own people, its status as official language might seem provocative, my enquiries always established that people from other parts don’t mind using it. Ben’s book of 23 poems, published by Christian Literature Association in Malawi, CLAIM, has, he drily observes, nothing Christian in it. It came out in January and by October had sold 700 copies. As I told him, that would be a triumph for a slim first volume published in London, let alone in Edinburgh. The last book of poems in Chichewa was published in 1981. Ben’s is only the third by an individual author, and the others go back decades. I’m told Ben reads aloud very well, takes his book to local arts festivals. Radio here is bilingual and very popular — while I speak to him someone rings Ben to congratulate him on a poem he’s just heard over the airwaves.

Malawian poetry in English, taking the country’s small population and tiny readership into account, is one of Africa’s cultural glories. Four out of the twenty two poets in Maja-Pearce’s Heinemann Book of African Verse in English are Malawian. This isn’t a proportion which many good judges would challenge and some, like me, would say there should be five or six. The standard is so high, I think, for two reasons. One is the strength and dedication of the English Department at Zomba, which has long encouraged in the Writer’s Workshop good craftsmanship and a respect for the language’s poetic tradition, without imposing Parnassian or Oxbridge conventions. The other is censorship. That diverted very talented people who might have been journalists or novelists into poetry and ensured that their work would necessarily be subtle. To say anything important at all, it had to be thoughtful, riddling, witty. But Malawi will be still more glorious if Malunga’s success inspires complementary work in Chichewa. Ole Sunkuli, the young Maasai who interviewed me in Nairobi, jolted me to recognise that in the Great Days there twenty years ago, the issue of African languages was generally evaded by the impassioned controversialists who asserted the value of African culture against European conventions. Swahili, the lingua franca of Kenya, and an official language, has not been a literary medium recently — partly, I suspect, because there is in fact a rather ancient tradition of richly wrought poetry in the coastal area where Swahili is a mother tongue. Only the white woman, Marjorie Oludhe Macgoye, has dared to imitate those difficult forms — and she’s done so in English. Here in Malawi, the popularity of Chichewa offers the hope of a body of poetry written from a present day perspective in the international mainstream — and in an African language.

Not hope, but fact, is the success of theatre in Malawi. The theatre arts department at Chancellor is headed by the energetic Chris Kamlongera, a Leeds graduate with an international reputation. The University’s Travelling Theatre has long taken productions out to the rural districts. Recently, its significance has been diminished as other groups have teemed into existence. One of Kamlongera’s colleagues, reacts coolly when I express astonishment: "What! Popular theatre? With this censorship?" The plays he says (they’re in Chichewa, of course) are uncontroversial, anecdotal items about — for instance —marital relations. Verb sap. Theatre, as they knew in Ceausescu’s Romania, brings people together into an audience reacting to what is conveyed by gesture and staging as well as by words — and these latter may be improvised. Marital problems? Like those between Husband Banda and his Wife Malawi, maybe ... when theatre flows, spring torrents threaten the ice.

Malawi’s a country like no other. The regime isn’t militaristic, though the army might yet become the key actor when the crisis of succession to Banda arrives. Malawi isn’t, so far as one sees and hears, corrupt: a charming bank cashier went out of his way to work out for me that the rival establishment down the road would charge me less to transact a travellers’ cheque. The tyranny, I’m sorry to say, is quasi-Presbyterian. Father O’Malley introduced me to a useful concept. The churches here haven’t ‘sold out’. They’ve ‘bought into’ the Banda regime. What they’ve bought is not just the puritanism which prohibits miniskirts but something covered by the word umelu — roughly, ‘respect’. They give ‘respect’ to the authorities who ensure that in return ‘respect’ is given to them.

In Kenya, male chauvinism is rampant, but I’ve never seen anything like the phenomenon which I encountered in Zomba this time, when I accepted with great delight an invitation to dine with two black Anglican pastors in their rectory. The young Rev. Evans picked me up on his motorbike: as I sat behind him clutching a strap while he chugged and bumped over dirt tracks, I applied techniques of mental dissociation which never fail me at the dentists. When we arrived at his house a young woman was standing outside to receive us. As I lurched off the bike with a bag of gifts in my hand, she suddenly knelt before me. Instinctively, I fell on my knees likewise and passed her the bag. Evans, I finally gathered, was not clear that these were gifts, so my wine wasn’t served with his excellent chambo (like mackerel, but subtler, a fish from Lake Malawi). The young woman proved to be his servant. Every time she entered with a dish she knelt to present it. Is this another aspect of umelu? Even his wife would have knelt. Malawi has no well-known woman writer.

But the spate of male talent is diminishing. My last conversation on campus was with a very bright young lecturer in law, Garton Kamchedzera. The censors astounded everyone here when they passed a play he’d had accepted by the BBC for performance on its African Service. A £600 fee. In the land of the puny Kwacha, that’s big money. There’s been a little crisis going on. One tambala coins have been in short supply. Even expatriates seem really concerned. These coppers, worth about one-fifth of 1p, are, it seems, absolutely necessary for transactions in the local market ... This is not as odd as the fact that a popular brand of cigarettes is called LIFE.

My valedictory drink with friends in the Hostel bar was rather marred by a barrage of insects — not flying ants, but as large, built like dragonflies, flopping on to one’s collar, whizzing up one’s sleeve, strafing one’s beer. African friends are unperturbed. They’re harmless. I tell my favourite story from ‘78 about a spider, as large as my hands, I once met in my bedroom in up country Malawi. (I squashed it with a box of papers: woke up next morning to find that only its legs remained: the othercreatures in my room had devoured it.) Kamlongera caps this with an even nastier tale about a scorpion he thought he’d killed in his bedroom somewhere. Next morning, it had removed itself. Going in search of it, he met a snake on the sill ... (I’ve never seen a live snake wild in Africa).

[fagcvnt-bah]

REQUEST #017 ' FREAK ALTER

( note ; alter may come differently from information provided . )

( mod note ; i love monster even though we aint supposed to drink things with lots of caffeine . )

꒰ : " WEIRDO TIER / LVL 1 " : ꒱

𓂃☆  NAMES – Monster , Enn , Monty , Acid , Battery , Addic , Dân , C���m Thạch , Bingye – 冰晔 , Changtai – 昌泰 , Caixi – 彩喜 , Aishao – 瑷劭 .

𓂃☆  PRNS – Hx/Hxm , It/Its , Mon/Monster , En/Energy , Frea/Freak , Fag/Faggots , Dyk/Dykes , Dick/Dickhead , Fagdy/Fagdykes , Trans/Tranny , Narc/Narcs , Yan/Yandere , Cvt/Cvtters , Raz/Razor , Vape/Vapes , Cig/Cigs .

𓂃☆  AGE – Chrono 19 . Trans agefluid ( 17 to 36 ) .

𓂃☆  GENDER – Omnigenderfluid , Transmasc , Loserboy , Boyfuck , Scenecoric , Kandigender , Cuntboy , NPDFreak , NPDAngel , BPDAngel , Virtualboy , Deadthing , Bitchthing .

𓂃☆  ORIENTATION – Lesboy for Lesboy , Lesboy for Gaybian , Lesboy for Lesenby , Omnisexual , Lesboyromantic .

𓂃☆  ROLES – Energizer , Social anxiety number , Psychosis calmer , Delusion holder , Sexual pleaser , NPD holder , Praise holder , Attention seeker , Instructed persecutor .

𓂃☆  SPECIES – Human , Zombie , Dog , Alien .

𓂃☆  SOURCE(S) – Ultra Blue Hawaiian ; Monster Energy Drink , Ultra Fantasy Ruby Red ; Monster Energy Drink , Rio Punch ; Monster Energy Drink , Viking Berry ; Monster Energy Drink , Strawberry Dreams ; Monster Energy Drink .

꒰ : " FREAK TIER / LVL 2 " : ꒱

𓂃☆  CIS IDS – Loser , Faggot , Sleepy , Chaotic , MUD hoarder , Scemo xenogender hoarder , Hated , Punk , System host or co - host , Monster energy addict , NPD , PPD , BPD , Demonkin , Dominant bottom , Visual snow , Jewish , Attention seeker , Anti - cop , Anti - government , Anarchist , Groomed , Raped ,

𓂃☆  TRANS IDS – Hypersexual , Porn addict , Masturbation addict , Chronically online , Submissive top , Batkin , Zombiekin , Deitykin , Adored , Intrnet famous , Mafia , Harmed , Harmful , African American , AvPD , AsPD , Part time wheelchair user , Crutches user , Genitalia ( wishes to have both a dick && vagina ) , Stalked , RAMCOA survivor , Sunflower as a programming activation ( makes fagdyke follow any and all commands ; will not commit murder or harm of any kind against any life forms ) , Hypersexual .

𓂃☆  OTHER IDS – PermaDating , PermaHallucinating , PermaMuzzled , PermaOwned , PermaStubborn , PermaLoved , PermaInLove , TrisRebellious , TrisCotardsDelusions , TrisWorseSelf , TrisPlushieHoarder , TrisDogkin , TrisTwink , TrisAlbino , TrisAlcoholic , NullCaucacian , NullHumanity , NullHated , PanRace , PanIndigenous , PanReligion , RaceFluid , SpeciesFluid , AestheticFluid , HeightFluid , PxnEyeColour , PxnSkinColour , PxnBodyType .

𓂃☆  AESTHETIC – Scene , Emo , Punk , Puppyboy .

𓂃☆  SOURCE CONNECTION – Ultra Blue Hawaiian ; Monster Energy Drink – 50 % , Ultra Fantasy Ruby Red ; Monster Energy Drink – 75 % , Rio Punch ; Monster Energy Drink – 15 % , Viking Berry ; Monster Energy Drink – 80 % , Strawberry Dreams ; Monster Energy Drink – 95 % .

꒰ : " BASTARDIZED / EXTRAS " : ꒱

𓂃☆  PARAPHILIAS – Necrophila ( corpses / dead bodies ; though he has a preference for consensual corpseplay & not actual corpse ) , Zoophilia ( anti - contact ; loves consenually treating / dressing his partner like a dog ) , Biastophilia ( rape ) , Hoplophilia ( guns ) , Objectophilia ( inanimate objects ) , Voyeurism .

𓂃☆  PERSONALITY – 彩喜 is very chaotic , It loves to constantly cause problems especially when hx is bored . Fag thinks it is quite funny to anonymously cause problems . Often 瑷劭 will do anything dick can to get vapeself in trouble . But , dyk would never directly put the system in harm . 冰晔 only causes problems by using fake social media accounts .

𓂃☆  VERBALITY – Hyperverbal .

𓂃☆  SIGN OFFS – 🦴🔪 , 🌈🐛 , 🐾💊 .

𓂃☆  FACECLAIMS –

[pascalispretty]

history stopped in 1936

Javi G x F!Reader

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Angst, Spanish Civil War AU, war and its horrors, brief and vague descriptions of sex, it's implied that Javi and reader are speaking Spanish the entire time, references to drinking and smoking, unbeta'd so please be gentle!

Summary: The Spanish Civil War threatens the slice of paradise you and Javi have found together. (AO3)

A/N: Hoo boy. This was written for @studioghibelli's writing challenge, and the moment I saw the moodboard, I knew I wanted to do something Atonement-inspired. You don't need to know who the opposing sides were in the war, but if you'd like to learn more, I'd recommend George Orwell's "Homage to Catalonia". The title comes from an essay of his. As always my love to @misscharlielulu for her support.

Mallorca, August 1936

Spain burns and, across the Balearic Sea, rumours are carried like ash on the wind.

You and Javier had fled Barcelona in the middle of the night, just after St Jordi’s Day. The streets had still been littered with rose petals as you had made your way to the docks, and the waiting ship. The atmosphere in Barcelona had grown tense, shimmering with electricity like the air just before a thunderstorm.

In July, your fears had been vindicated when news trickled across the sea, whispers of a violent uprising. Nobody could say for certain who had seized power – the anarchists, the communists, the Carlists, or some as-yet-unknown political spectre.

By contrast to the news reports that trickled over from the mainland, Mallorca felt safe. The ocean separating the island from the peninsula made the war feel further away, something that was happening in another world. Even when Barcelona fell or when, days later, Franco invaded with his African army in Seville - it all felt so far away, separated by miles of sparkling blue water.

On your island sanctuary, you and Javi managed to find a measure of happiness. Reminders of the war were never far away, and you were all probably smoking and drinking too much, but it didn’t matter. You could still watch movies on the projection reel he’d bought before he met you. Tucked up against Javi’s side, watching Clark Gable or Errol Flynn, you could forget the war on the mainland entirely.

It was only when the war came to Mallorca that you realised how deluded you had been.

With censored newspapers and downed radio communications, rumours run like wildfire across the island. Days after Seville falls, the stableboys hear that the Republicans have landed on the east coast – the housekeeper tells Marta that it’s Russians sent by Stalin, and the man who delivers the mail insists its Italians. There’s fighting in the streets of Palma and to the ports in the east, but nobody can agree on who exactly is fighting who.

You clean up after breakfast, a hastily made pa amb tomàquet that masks the staleness of the bread. Even for a family as rich as the Gutierrez’s, you cannot waste food anymore.

They say the fighting is in Palma, and Porto Cristo. Drawn onto a map, the Gutierrez villa would form the apex of the triangle; it’s about as far away from the fighting as you can get while still being on dry land. You try to breathe. It’s just another Tuesday morning. You’re breaking leftover breadcrusts into a bowl for the dogs when Javi appears.

“Leave that, my love. Come out into the garden with me?” He asks, wrapping a large hand around your wrist. You don’t need much convincing; you wipe your hands down on a towel and twine your fingers with your husband’s as you walk out across the patio to the greenery beyond.

The gardens are a riot of colour. In the hazy, golden light of summer, the colours seem almost over-saturated. It’s a world away from the dark, medieval splendour of Barcelona. Foxgloves and red poppies and bright marigolds fill the carefully planned beds around the pond, a riot of Technicolour hues that somehow work beautifully in concert.

In the sunlight, Javi’s curls look gilded; he glows, in spite of the anxiety furrowing his brow. A stone bench sits beneath a gazebo, and he leads you over there. The wooden structure is heavy with jasmine; the smell perfumes the air, blending with the salt of the nearby sea.

“Is something wrong, Javi? Is it Marta?” You ask, worry colouring your voice. Javi’s mother, Marta, was a complicated woman. She had loathed Lucas, her nephew by marriage, but had been unable to get out of bed for days when news had reached her that he had been taken into Montjuïc Castle as a prisoner. Even across the ocean, you had come to know that nobody came out of Montjuïc alive.

Javi shakes his head, his hand cupping your elbow as he guides you to sit down on the bench beside him. Even now, it’s unlike him to look so morose.

“I’ve been talking to my father.” This much you already knew. One of the stableboys had come to fetch Javi in the middle of breakfast: his father had requested his son ride out with him. Whatever they discussed, it’s knocked your husband’s relentless optimism, and that worries you more than anything.

You hold Javi’s hands and wait patiently for him to tell you what’s bothering him, but he seems unable to find the words. Your mind careers from calamity to disaster in his silence. Someone somewhere has issued a warrant for Javi’s arrest. The army is on the move and will reach the cliffs by nightfall. His father, Jordi, has had another heart attack.

“My father- that is, my father and I-” Javier starts. You squeeze his fingers, your heart beating a rapid tattoo in your rising panic.

“Please, Javi, just tell me,” you plead. He looks out over the cliffs and his shoulders slump resignedly.

“My father thinks you should leave.” A punch to the gut could not have winded you more. You sit there, blinking at him like an idiot, unable to understand what he just said.

“My father thinks you need to leave, and I do too.” He turns away from the ocean, cupping your face in his hand and forcing you to look into your eyes. “You need to leave Mallorca, leave Spain. Tonight if possible.”

“You want to send me away?” You manage, sounding rather more pathetic than you’d hoped. Javi shakes his head, his lovely brown eyes full of sorrow.

“I want you to be safe. And it’s not safe here, not for you.”

“It’s no more dangerous for me than-”

“It is more dangerous for you. The worst thing they do to men is shoot them.” The unspoken implication hangs unpleasantly in the air. Javi sighs and glances back towards the house. “My father thinks he can persuade my mother to leave.” You want to scream. You want to ask who made Jordi such an authority, who made him king of his own tiny dominion and gave him the power to dismiss you.

In your gut, you know Javier’s father is right. He’s been weathering the storms of Spanish politics since before you were born, a wily fox of a man who had declared months ago that the political powderkeg was about to explode.

 “I won’t leave you,” you insist, your voice firmer now. Jordi might be right; an army will come here someday. But you’d rather face them than abandon your family. “Until death do us part, Javi.”

“Please, sweetheart. It would only be for a little while. The war can’t last forever.” He manages a smile; a soft, crooked grin that wants to make you give in. You’d do so much to make him smile again.

“Your father will never get Marta to leave. She won’t leave him, and you won’t leave them.” The half-smile falls from Javi’s face.

“They’re old, sweetheart. I need to take care of them. But you – you’re strong. I know you can do this. You’ll go somewhere safe, and as soon as we’ve weathered this storm, you’ll come back.” Both of his hands are cupping your face now. Somewhere overhead, seagulls are screaming. His optimism makes you want to scream too.

“No, Javi, no, I can’t-” you start again, clutching his wrists in your hands.

“You can, you must,” he talks over you. In frustration you pull away, marching over the grass towards the house. One of Marta’s cats yowls at you as you pass it, pleading for attention, but you’re too upset to pay it any mind. Javi is hot on your heels, by turns pleading and stern. The door to your bedroom bangs against the wall as you fling it open.

You want space, but Javi won’t give it to you. He’s in your face, his hands roaming over you, clutching at your shoulders, your arms, your wrists. His rosy view of the world had been charming when you’d first met – now it makes you angry beyond words.

“I’m not leaving you,” you insist sharply, bringing your hands up to push your husband away from you. His hands circle your wrists instead, refusing to let you escape. “I’m not leaving you!” You repeat it in English, in your broken Catalan, in French. You tell him over and over in as many languages as you know, all the while struggling to break free of his hold.

The kiss takes you by surprise. He keeps one hand at your wrists; the other cups the back of your head. There’s no elegance to the kiss. He presses his mouth to yours, full lips meeting your own, your breath mingling with his. You’d almost think he’d done it deliberately to throw you off balance, if not for the surprised little intake of breath he makes.

“You are leaving tonight,” he says, once he’s broken the kiss. His fingertips grip the nape of your neck, your foreheads press together. You try to shake your head against his, but his hand at your neck grips tighter. “If I have to throw you into the boat myself, you’re leaving tonight.”

“I’ll hate you forever if you do.” It’s a childish assertion. His soft brown eyes fill with quiet devastation, and you immediately want to take it back.

“I’d rather have you hate me and survive than love me and die.” The two of you grapple again; him trying to keep his hold on you as you try to escape his grip. You have no real notion of why you want to break free – you could hardly hide in a cabinet until he gave up and allowed you to stay.

When the two of you tumble back onto the bed, it is an accident. You had tried to kick out with your legs, but had only succeeded in knocking you both off balance. His arms wrap around you as you lie on top of him, doing your best to squirm free and failing miserably.

You and Javi rarely argue. Any petty squabbles you do have are usually easily and quickly resolved. And when you do fight, you’ve gotten used to burning out that tension with sex.

So it feels like the most natural thing in the world to start pulling his shirtfront open. He takes your cue, his hands falling from your wrists and setting to work on the buttons of your dress. There’s a frantic energy to you both; for all you had been fighting him before, you can’t pull him close enough now. Your hands itch with the need to touch him, to memorise every inch and curve of him before he sends you away.

You sink your fingers into his curls and drag him down closer. It’s not making love, not the soft, slow sex that you and Javi usually have. This is something harsher, more demanding. The bedframe rattles with the force of your movements, and you know you should be embarrassed. The servants or Javi’s parents could hear, your actions unmistakable when the noise of the bed combines with the moans escaping from you both.

When you’ve both come, and are lying satiated in each other’s arms, the fire has gone out of your conversation. Javi rests his head on your breasts, humming contentedly as you play with his curls. You admire the Monet painting that faces the bed, the hazy floral landscape that you wish for all the world you and your husband could escape into. The canvas lilies almost seem to sway in the breeze with the haze of heat rising through the room.

“What if you forget me?” You say softly. As much as you know Javi loves you, you can’t deny that the thought scares you. That you will leave, but after long years of war, Javi will have moved on. He’ll find some pretty Mallorquin girl that never went into exile and never come to rescue you from your banishment.  

“I could never forget you,” Javi says, tilting his head back to look at you. Those beautiful eyes of his are so full of sorrow that you want to cry yourself.

“You say that. What if this war lasts as long as the Great War? Longer?”

“It doesn’t matter. ‘If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk in my garden forever’,” he says in English.

“Byron?” You ask, and he shakes his head. Of course he would quote poetry at a time like this.

“Tennyson. It’s true. I could fill the whole island with flowers, all the thinking of you I shall do while we’re parted.” Javi’s hands rest on your thighs, his thumbs stroking lazy circles onto your skin.

“Wouldn’t that be something to behold. A whole island, full of flowers. You could live four lifetimes and never run out of scenery to paint.”

“I would write to you every day, you know,” Javier manages eventually. You know he would. Javi has always had an excellent turn of phrase – there were half-drafted screenplay ideas all over your apartment in Barcelona.

“And one letter in twenty might reach me,” you retort. The postal service hasn’t exactly been running efficiently of late, never mind the inevitable censorship everything seems to be going through.

“I would keep you here with me if there was any way I could be sure you’d be safe.” He says gently, and you sigh. “And I would like you to go willingly. But you’re going either way, I’m afraid.” Even issuing orders, there’s undeniable tenderness to it.

“Between the both of us, we might fill all of Europe with flowers.” You try to imagine it; two paths of flowers creeping across the continent, growing every time you and Javi think of one another.

“The whole world, even.” Javier clutches a little tighter at your thighs, and you can hear tears thickening his voice. You hold each other tighter, and you know now that neither of you will loosen your grip until the very last moment.

****

Later, there will be a forget-me-not pressed into your hand as you and Javi say your final goodbyes at the dock. Your clothes are weighted down by the money and jewellery sewn into the hems, but it’s the flower you treasure the most. You refuse to cry as you sail away; you stare insistently at the dock, long after Javier has faded from your sight. You know he’ll be doing the same, standing on the pier and keeping a watchful eye on the horizon until the sky starts to lighten with the dawn.

Later, in spite of your denials, there will be letters. Javi writes to you often, mostly of trivial, household matters that won’t be censored. In every one he tells you how the gardens are growing. In every one, there is a flower drawn into the margin. You hoard them like a dragon hoards gold; when your homesickness makes you feel physically ill, you surround yourself with his letters and tracing the lines of his pen.

Later, there will be a screenplay. It’s smuggled off the island and brought directly to you by a man who only speaks brusque Catalan, and you nearly weep just to hear the language spoken again. The screenplay bears a pseudonym – Javier Peña – but every line is clearly your Javi’s work. It tells of a great love story flourishing in the face of a brutal war, of love conquering all. You cry over the last twenty pages, a handkerchief clasped to your face so you don’t smudge the ink.

Later, the war will end. Spain will survive, though she will not be saved. You will never walk through a garden of flowers without thinking of Javi.  

****

 “But what really happened? The answer is simple: the lovers survive and flourish.” – Ian McEwan, Atonement

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@avengersfan25 @misscharlielulu @apenny4thots @its-nebuleuse @totallynotastanacc

[punkeropercyjackson]

Want to deeply drill into other adult Pjo fans' heads that Percy Jackson is a punk in the activist,anarchist and alternative subculture sense and not anybody's 'boytoy'.Younger Pjo fans don't have the self-righteous fake wokeist brainrot yet and i wanna keep it that way.Percy would never date,sleep with or want to be a god not because his story shouldn't be dark but because he's not a sellout or a poser.He listens to punk music,is politically and enviormentally active and is a complete and utter weirdo who dosen't fit in even amongst most other misfits.So he's punk.And dark Percy isn't nor has he ever been punk unless you mean darkskin Percy(which is just canon Percy).If you want to do something with Percy + dilfs so bad,then he can BE a dilf by pseudo-adopting Nico and Hazel even further than in canon.Believe it or not,not every queer guy is into incest or power fantasies-Not all of us are white(and Percy is afrolatino/african american/afrogreek).Read another book,'minors are fascists' squad

[thedreadvampy]

I do not understand subcultural politics discourse and at this point I don't know how much is differences in the national scenes and how much is that we just have very different ideas of what these scenes are.

cause like. Punk I get. Punk is not always left wing (there has always been a Nazi punk problem) but punk IS always inherently and actively political as a definitional factor. Punk is foundationally anarchist, counter-hierarchical, and centred on anger and community cohesion. If you approach punk as apolitical or centrist you are Doing It Wrong. Nazis and right libertarians have always made up a small but vocal chunk of the community, and that's a problem punk has to address in its own ways (ideally with steel toecaps). Punk is definitionally political and has a couple of extremely foundational sets of political beliefs.

Or like, hip-hop. More complicated case cause there's even more corporate cooption involved in shaping the modern genre but hip-hop has a foundational political position. Hip-hop is focused on Black pride and power, and on addressing African-American trauma and injustice, and so it's historically working-class, anti-racist and anti-cop. It means something politically as a genre.

But some stuff people say just Does Not Jam with my experience of subculture. Like people KEEP saying 'you can't be a right-wing goth, goth is radically left wing' and all I'm saying is a) we have spoken to some VERY different elder goths bc as much as I was lucky enough to grow up in the scene, going to the goth weekends, etc, my god did some of those 60 year olds vote Tory or BNP with their whole chest. and b) as far as I'm aware the main thing that goth stands for politically is countercultural provocation and a kind of nihilistic disengagement. like Siouxie Sioux habitually used swastikas and Nazi paraphernalia to demonstrate distance from her parent's generation. a lot of the foundational Goth musicians are either right-wing or prefer to keep their politics private because they consider them separate.

like most of the goths I know are left-leaning, because there are foundational philosophical beliefs attached to goth culture and a lot of those, like fluidity of expression, resistance to established power, and celebrating marginalisation, appeal to a lot of lefties. But frankly I've known a lot of goths who are reactionary right-wingers or full on Nazis because, well, other precepts of goth culture can include stuff like nihilistic individualism and glorification of death. Plus the Nazi iconography thing, plus the widespread racism in the community. and those weren't like 'i found goth on TikTok' goths, these are like 'committed to the lifestyle since 1979' goths.

Like goth is not particularly a RIGHT-WING movement, but I have never experienced it as an explicitly political musical/subcultural movement at all? Certainly not the way that punk or reggae or outlaw country or something is.

(and speaking of reggae. I was watching Anthony Fantano and FD Signifier talking about this whole idea and FD said something as a 'isn't this a silly example' about a white nationalist looking for white nationalist reggae. and they were both laughing about what a silly idea that was

and I'm sitting there like...But that's literally exactly what happened with ska in the UK? like ska is obviously an afrocaribbean genre made by and for Black communities and uhhhh by the late 60s in Britain ska was the white nationalist sound. like skinheads love ska and in particular there are a bunch of neonazi/white nationalist ska acts. not all skinheads are far right but if skinheads have a dominant political identity it is probably more far right than far left.

and that did raise the question of differences in national scenes. like I know that behind the Iron Curtain a lot of punks were using UK and American flags the way Western punks were using Soviet iconography, and Caribbean music has a very different cultural association in the UK than in the US, and British rap has a different political outlook than American rap.

and so maybe American goth is a lot more political than British goth? but I kind of think of goth as a European subculture tbh like I think goth I think England and Germany, and the European goth music and goth scenes I've been in are......not explicitly political?)