#But without the constraints of capitalism

[silasthecreature]

One day I'll crawl out

From the system that I was planted into the very day I was born

Made to grow into, roots digging deeper

Until I pull out every fiber of my being

One day I'll move far away from there

From everything I've ever known

I'll settle down in the woods in an old house

With herding dogs and houseplants

Drinking tea on my porch in the morning

One day I'll let myself be exhausted

From the mud i trudge through every day

I'll curl up on the floor like an old dog

Rest my head on my paws

And let sleep consume me like a black hole

[wolfythewitch]

What is religions place in moral and ethics arguments in your opinion? I saw one of your posts and i was curious :))

It was smth about how you can't really be reliant on religion as a defense on its own because you'll never really be able to properly hold a discussion. Any argument wherein one party's only defense is "god says it's wrong" or "the bible says it's wrong" is a copout and already kind of doomed to fail from the start. And how it's also frustrating to go up against someone who uses that as their only counterargument (i.e. my dad) because there's really no way to argue against it without offending them. It can't be the end all be all argument because God is only real to the people who believe in him, and this stance will ultimately be worthless on people with any differing belief. I spent an Hour talking with my dad about capital punishment and it was because his only reason for why the death penalty is morally okay is because the government authorized it and God says that we should respect the authority.

You can't really use God in a moral argument until you can definitively prove to the opposing party that God exists and is fully omnipotent and omniscient and omnipresent. You will not be able to tell an atheist woman that abortion is bad because God says so, that would not work and would only antagonize her further. Something something what is god to a nonbeliever. Religion isn't like fully exempt from arguments or whatever, it has its own place in them, especially with how influential it is in every culture, but if man is born with free will then let him think without the constraints of a theoretical god's law

[maxknightley]

on the one hand I do understand where people are coming from when they respond to The White American Desire For Authentic Culture by going "you already have a culture" and pointing out that this desire often has reactionary undertones

that being said, I think it's largely sidestepping the actual issue, which is that American culture fucking blows chunks. American culture is strip malls and military worship and the elevation of mass-market pablum to Bold Artistic Statements.

and subculture is only partially an escape from this, because most subcultures exist within the same constraints of American culture as a whole; they are captured and redefined by capital on such a frequent basis that it often feels impossible to hold onto them in any meaningful way.

moreover, even the parts of American culture that aren't complete garbage are more or less inextricable from the colonial, imperialist, and racially-stratified history of the country. like, I think of that post that went around a while ago talking about "America sucks but has some good parts," and one of the things it listed was national parks, and people (rightfully!) pointed out that the national park system is fundamentally flawed and tends to shit on indigenous nations by design.

the only thing I can think of that's even sort of an exception is pop culture - jazz and rock music, superhero comics, Hollywood. and all of those are, again, captured and defined by capital, and in one way or another have historically been built on screwing over the artist.

so we come to a position, one way or another, where a lot of people say something like: "I'm alienated. I'm surrounded by traditions and institutions I think are shit; I have no way to meaningfully undermine them, and I can't escape them without effectively destroying my life. the culture I was born into is a gravestone on top of another gravestone, lifeless and miserable, and people are constantly shouting that I should be grateful because it's The Greatest Country In The World."

at that point, one seeks an escape, and I think there are three major routes here.

one is to become a weird lib obsessed with the Real Soul Of America. America is really about the good parts, not the bad parts which outnumber them and which they are built upon.

another is to fixate on the Exotic, for lack of a better word. cultures which you do not have an obvious "connection" to, but which fascinate you or appeal to you. obviously this can be pretty fucking fraught, though I would argue that taking an interest in other cultures is a good thing if you aren't shitty about it. (That's its own conversation.)

the third is to fixate on the culture(s) you feel you "ought to have" had, that which was sacrificed on the altar of whiteness by grandparents or great-grandparents who, frankly, had different concerns. to look at a culture that may still be defined in many ways by cruelty and stratification - the way I would argue most human civilization has been - but that seems to have had something else going on, at least. a culture that may not have been recognizable 500 years ago, but at least it existed.

again, none of these impulses is beyond criticism, and I think it would be naive to say that the last one can't have reactionary undertones. I also doubt these impulses are unique to the USA! alienation is extremely common in today's world, and it's not as though the USA is the only settler state in existence.

what I am saying is more that I think the conditions that lead to these fixations are worth paying attention to, and that dismissing them with "you already have a culture" kind of misses the point in favor of getting in a zinger. people wouldn't want a different culture if they were happy with the one they had. like so many other things, people want one that Doesn't Completely Suck. failing that, they'd probably like to not be defined by any culture at all - but that, tragically, is just as impossible.

[txttletale]

What are your criticisms of Chavismo and Maduro just out of curiosity?

now i'd like to preface this with a disclaimer that any opposition ghoul would do nothing but sell the country out to the USA and UK every which way in a heartbeat--maduro is better than any alternative, whether that's guaidó or whichever neoliberal puppet they prop up to replace him.

anyway, there were two key problems with chavismo. firstly, it's fundamentally a national-bourgeois led social democratic movement. obviously in an imperialized country like venezuela this made it profoundly progressive, and the achievments of the bolivarian revolution were incredible--chávez cut malnutrition in half, cut unemployment in half, sent millions of children to school and gave millions of elderly people pensions. however, this project of wealth distribution ultimately had to accomodate the national bourgeoisie. which of course on one hand you can argue was completely necessary, but on the other hand allowed the parasitic classes to entrench themselves firmly within elements of the state apparatus and made chavismo as a project entirely incapable of confronting the national bourgeoisie or corruption.

these of course are the realities of 'democratic socialism', of sweeping a socialist into office in a bourgeoise democracy. through some extremely clever political structures, such as the new constitution, communes, and bolicarian circles--he was able to move much more radically than most in his position. but ultimately, he could not escape the fundamental limits of the source and constraints of his power.

the second is that--and this is a very tawdry and obvious piece of analysis--while it is of course admirable and correct that he seized the nation's oil wealth and enriched the country with it--the way he did it was obviously shortsighted. without a sovereign wealth fund, worker's democratic control of the oil industry, or a solid and far-ranging investment plan, he laid the groundwork for some of the current crisis on the assumption that oil prices would stay high forever.

maduro inherited these faults and added far more of his own. during the crisis that began in earnest in 2016, the other shoe dropped wrt oil prices at the same time as the US tightened their murderous sanctions regime. faced with economic crisis, maduro has broadly chosen to move from chávez' strategy of accomodation with the national bourgeoisie to a full on alliance. social programs have been slashed, pensions cut, wages have plummeted, and worst of all, maduro has sold off countless state enterprises in the hope that oft-prayed to benevolent deity, "foreign capital" would miraculously heal the economy. in the course of this he made an enemy of many early chavistas, as well as the leftmost wing of chávez' coalition -- he has mobilized the full force of the bourgeois state against the country's communist party and other genuinely revolutionary movements, most gallingly the marxist-leninist movimiento tupamaro.

so, tldr: chavismo was genuinely radical compared to even your average third-world social democracy--however it remained fundamentally constrained in what it could accomplish by the lack of an actual proletarian state, was unable to rid itself of reliance on the national bourgeoisie for that same reason, and made some very avoidable mistakes in the handling of the nation's oil wealth--maduro inherited those flaws but has been much more accomodating to both national and international capitalists to the detriment of the people of venezuela.

[my-autism-adhd-blog]

Accessibility is more than a ramp

Noise levels

Camel case (the practice of writing phrases without spaces or punctuation and with capitalized words).

Flexible time constraints

Sign interpreter

Lighting levels

Closed captioning

Subtitles

Hearing loop

Font choices

Image description + alt text

Braille

The Autistic Teacher

[myfriendpokey]

tunnel notes

i wrote some extra little notes and thoughts for the bonus tunnels in anthology of the killer, and then removed them before release; i didn't like the prescriptive feeling of leaving that stuff in the "final package" as if it was something people should feel obligated to engage with. but as of today it's been 30 days since the loader came out, so i figured i'd dump some of them online, for the benefit of whoever is interested in these things.

History: HISTORY IS A NIGHTMARE FROM WHICH I AM TRYING TO AWAKE is one of many famous zingers given to Stephen in Ulysses and I’ve always wondered if it’s especially Irish as a sentiment, Ireland sort of feeling like the “Oops! All Peasants�� edition of European history as a whole – same misery, exploitation and death minus the occasional episodes of feudal colour or triumphant empire-building that seem to make the past tolerable for other people, and give them their own sense of demarcated time. But then I’ve never been much good on Irish history, which has always just felt like an interminable, indistinguishable series of massacres and betrayals and missed shots. Was I not paying attention or was this how it was taught in school? Well, it would have fit the style at the time – I was born in 1989, smack at the start of the famous end of history era. The 90s in Ireland meant the peace process and infusion of American capital to our backwards shores, all the more reason to cosign the idea of an abrupt and permanent break with a history notably lacking in the non-depressing or picturesque. All our history textbooks seemed to trail off at the point we’d joined the EEA. And even as this new modernity just started seeming like the monstrous antiquity dressed up in different clothes – hooded prisoners transported to torture sites through Shannon airport, our patchy social infrastructure dismantled by burghers, ghost estates and half-completed monuments scattered around like the ruin theory of value with more leprechaun imagery – there was still a sense that any change was off the table. You didn’t want to drag us back into history, did you? History seemed to have “ended” in the same sense Freddy Krueger did – done away with in ways that none of the grown-ups ever wanted to talk about, and now officially a non-presence, even if all the kids in town were mysteriously disappearing.

--

Art: One reason I wanted to do an episodic series is just to see what would turn up, if any recurring interests would build despite a minimum of planning. One of the themes turned out to be, “art” – or specifically modernist art – and I am curious about why that would be. A recurring tendency in modernism was the idea that only by destroying the world as it currently existed could we clear space for anything better to emerge. Under the cobblestones, the beach! But this was always attended by a kind of fear: that clearing away the old structures would just allow something even worse to emerge, unmasked. Under the cobblestones, more corpses! And that the bleakest tendencies of the period would now run free without even the emptiest symbolic constraints to chafe against. Max Ernst’s painting of the fascist victory in Spain, of a huge, grinning oaf rampaging over the landscape like a kaiju while a miserable birdlike figure remains haplessly grafted to its leg – is titled both “The Angel Of Hearth And Home” and “The Triumph Of Surrealism”. As if to suggest that these are each the same thing, as though a cause of creative liberation worth devoting your life to and an empty cliché of domestic repression had so little light between them as to not even be worth the effort of distinguishing.

Part of the reason works like that make their way into the games in little ways is because I just like them, and go back to thinking about them. But the status of modernism in the 21st century is an odd one; the most tentative and inventive parts got dropped, while the brashest and stupidest aspects curdled into a kind of official state ideology – the idea of “creative destruction”, which just seems to mean a vague sense that it’s punk rock to create ridesharing apps. The monkey’s paw curled and the emptiest version of the modernist credo became something we all have to live with.. and yet I still can’t help but be moved by the source works and the goofy, ridiculous temerity of that wish to transfigure the world. sometimes it feels like only way to keep faith with those ideas is to travesty them, to try returning to them some of that sense of fear and doubt without which they just sound like so many web design agency manifestos. Kept alive in the breast of so many grimacing waxworks, underground.

Another reason to put this stuff in a horror game: to try getting at that feeling in a dream of looking in the eyes of people you know, people you love, and seeing nothing there anymore, seeing them look right past you. An earlier horror game idea I used to think about would have ended with the protagonist being dismembered and eaten by Gertrude Stein.

--

The moral: I’ve seen people express a sense, now, that merely working in the negative is not enough; to just outline what’s bad without also trying to give a vision of the good, some glimpsed utopia to shoot for. For the benefit of these people here is an epilogue. Imagine it’s the future and the long nightmare of prehistory is over; history proper unfolds as the full expression of human powers unhindered by material subjugation. Some students are given an assignment by a professor to investigate the meaning of a term that no longer exists, the meaning of horror. Well, the students do their best: they watch lots of old movies, put on rubber masks, comb through old fragments of the world that was. They’re enjoying themselves and that enjoyment warps the process, they keep drifting into pleasure, unsure what’s meant to be funny and what’s not. They get lost, get confused, lose the thread, famous faces appear under the wrong names, espousing things that are the opposite of whatever they believed. In the end they all have to admit defeat: they hand in their assignment with a note saying that in the new world, we can’t even imagine what horror may have been. The professor reads their findings, nods, and gives them all an F. No moral.

[image source: James Ensor, "The Intrigue"]

[thedisabilitybookarchive]

Disability in Non-Fiction #1: Plain Text Edition

A plain text version of this post. Here you will find detailed image descriptions and easier-to-read versions of each book summary. If you think that any image descriptions/summaries need to be updated, please let me know!

================================================

‘How to Live Free in a Dangerous World’- Lawson, Shayla

[ID: A book cover. The background is a pale orange colour. In the centre, a large photograph of a person with brown skin standing in front a desert under a blue sky. They have short braided brown hair swept over their left eye, and have their arms crossed over their chest, with one hand resting on the side of their face. The title “How to Live Free in a Dangerous World” is around them in large orange writing that covers the length of the photo. The subtitle “A Decolonial Memoir” is to the right their head in very small white writing. The author’s name “Shayla Lawson” is below the title, at the bottom of the photograph, in smaller yellow writing. Black text at the bottom of the cover reads, under the author’s name, reads “author of ‘this is major’, a national book critics circle award finalist”. /end]

Summary:

Poet and journalist Shayla Lawson follows their National Book Critics Circle finalist This Is Major with these daring and exquisitely crafted essays, where Lawson journeys across the globe, finds beauty in tumultuous times, and powerfully disrupts the constraints of race, gender, and disability.

With their signature prose, at turns bold, muscular, and luminous, Shayla Lawson travels the world to explore deeper meanings held within love, time, and the self.

Through encounters with a gorgeous gondolier in Venice, an ex-husband in the Netherlands, and a lost love on New Year’s Eve in Mexico City, Lawson’s travels bring unexpected wisdom about life in and out of love. They learn the strength of friendships and the dangers of beauty during a narrow escape in Egypt. They examine Blackness in post-dictatorship Zimbabwe, then take us on a secretive tour of Black freedom movements in Portugal.

Through a deeply insightful journey, Lawson leads readers from a castle in France to a hula hoop competition in Jamaica to a traditional theater in Tokyo to a Prince concert in Minnesota and, finally, to finding liberation on a beach in Bermuda, exploring each location—and their deepest emotions—to the fullest. In the end, they discover how the trials of marriage, grief, and missed connections can lead to self-transformation and unimagined new freedoms.

‘Being Seen’- Sjunneson, Elsa

[ID: A book cover. It is a dark black with faint, grey, writing over it. The writing, from top to bottom, reads: “Elsa Sjunneson” “Being Seen” “One Deafblind Woman’s Fight to End Ableism” All in capitals. The “I” in “Being Seen” is designed to look like an opening of sorts, with a ray of light coming through. /end]

Summary:

A deafblind writer and professor explores how the misrepresentation of disability in books, movies, and TV harms both the disabled community and everyone else.

As a deafblind woman with partial vision in one eye and bilateral hearing aids, Elsa Sjunneson lives at the crossroads of blindness and sight, hearing and deafness—much to the confusion of the world around her. While she cannot see well enough to operate without a guide dog or cane, she can see enough to know when someone is reacting to the visible signs of her blindness and can hear when they’re whispering behind her back. And she certainly knows how wrong our one-size-fits-all definitions of disability can be.

As a media studies professor, she’s also seen the full range of blind and deaf portrayals on film, and here she deconstructs their impact, following common tropes through horror, romance, and everything in between. Part memoir, part cultural criticism, part history of the deafblind experience, Being Seen explores how our cultural concept of disability is more myth than fact, and the damage it does to us all.

‘Disability Pride’- Mattlin, Ben

[ID: A book cover. The background is made of simple, colourful red, cream, white, yellow and teal shapes. Large text reads, from top to bottom: “Disability Pride” in large, black capitals, “Dispatches from a Post-ADA World”in smaller, black capitals, “Ben Mattlin”, in slightly bigger red capitals. /end]

Summary:

An eye-opening portrait of the diverse disability community as it is today and how attitudes, activism, and representation have evolved since the passage of the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA).

In Disability Pride, disabled journalist Ben Mattlin weaves together interviews and reportage to introduce a cavalcade of individuals, ideas, and events in engaging, fast-paced prose. He traces the generation that came of age after the ADA reshaped America, and how it is influencing the future. He documents how autistic self-advocacy and the neurodiversity movement upended views of those whose brains work differently. He lifts the veil on a thriving disability culture—from social media to high fashion, Hollywood to Broadway—showing how the politics of beauty for those with marginalized body types and facial features is sparking widespread change.

He also explores the movement’s shortcomings, particularly the erasure of nonwhite and LGBTQIA+ people that helped give rise to Disability Justice. He delves into systemic ableism in health care, the right-to-die movement, institutionalization, and the scourge of subminimum-wage labor that some call legalized slavery. And he finds glimmers of hope in how disabled people never give up their fight for parity and fair play.

Beautifully written, without anger or pity, Disability Pride is a revealing account of an often misunderstood movement and identity, an inclusive reexamination of society’s treatment of those it deems different.

‘Crip Kinship’- Kafai, Shayda

[ID: A book cover. The background is light blue, with colourful pictures of butterflies, flowers and a house setting featured in the centre. Lower right centre of the image, a black figure in a long sleeved, billowing dress, holding a curved black walking stick in their right hand. Behind them, a drawing of a room with a table, chair, pink wall with a window, and a blank wall with an orange picture. Text on the book cover, from top to bottom, reads: The title “Crip Kinship” in large black font at the top of the image, The subtitle “The Disability Justice & Art Activism of Sins Invalid” in smaller black capitals, in the upper right corner of the image, The authors name “Shayda Kafai” in medium black capitals in the lower right of the image, partially overlapping the figure in the dress. /end]

Summary:

The remarkable story of Sins Invalid, a performance project that centres queer disability justice.

In recent years, disability activism has come into its own as a vital and necessary means to acknowledge the power and resilience of the disabled community, and to call out ableist culture wherever it appears.

Crip Kinship explores the art activism of Sins Invalid, a San Francisco Bay Area-based performance project, and its radical imaginings of what disabled, queer, trans, and gender-nonconforming bodyminds of colour can do: how they can rewrite oppression, and how they can gift us with transformational lessons for our collective survival.

Grounded in the disability justice framework, Crip Kinship investigates the revolutionary survival teachings that disabled, queer of colour community offers to all our bodyminds. From their focus on crip beauty and sexuality to manifesting digital kinship networks and crip-centric liberated zones, Sins Invalid empowers and moves us toward generating our collective liberation from our bodyminds outward.

‘Sounds Like Home’- Wright, Mary Herring

[ID: A book cover. The background is yellow. A black and white photograph in the centre shows two young black children and a dog in front of a car. The title “Sounds Like Home” is at the tope in large, curvy black writing. The subtitle “Growing Up Black and Deaf in the South” is written in small orange writing, on three black bars on the right side of the cover. The author’s name “Mary Herring Wright” is written in curvy black writing, slightly smaller than the title, at the bottom of the cover. /end]

Summary:

Mary Herring Wright’s memoir adds an important dimension to the current literature in that it is a story by and about an African American deaf child. The author recounts her experiences growing up as a deaf person in Iron Mine, North Carolina, from the 1920s through the 1940s. Her story is unique and historically significant because it provides valuable descriptive information about the faculty and staff of the North Carolina school for Black deaf and blind students from the perspective of a student as well as a student teacher. In addition, this engrossing narrative contains details about the curriculum, which included a week-long Black History celebration where students learned about important Blacks such as Madame Walker, Paul Laurence Dunbar, and George Washington Carver. It also describes the physical facilities as well as the changes in those facilities over the years. In addition, Sounds Like Home occurs over a period of time that covers two major events in American history, the Depression and World War II.

Wright’s account is one of enduring faith, perseverance, and optimism. Her keen observations will serve as a source of inspiration for others who are challenged in their own ways by life’s obstacles.

‘The Right to Maim’- Puar, Jasbir K.

[ID: A book cover. The background is white. A painting stretches from the bottom of the cover to bottom of top quarter. In the upper quarter of the cover, text reads: The author’s name “Jasbir K. Puar” is at the top in black writing. The title “The Right to Maim” is immediately below this in red caps. The subtitle “Debility, Capacity, Disability” is immediately below this in smaller, yellow caps. The painting is immediately below this. The background is a dark cream. It appears to show a humanoid figure climbing a mound. Two other figures appear to be falling off the mound. There are splashes of red paint around the mound and the figure on it. /end]

Summary:

In The Right to Maim Jasbir K. Puar brings her pathbreaking work on the liberal state, sexuality, and biopolitics to bear on our understanding of disability. Drawing on a stunning array of theoretical and methodological frameworks, Puar uses the concept of “debility”—bodily injury and social exclusion brought on by economic and political factors—to disrupt the category of disability. She shows how debility, disability, and capacity together constitute an assemblage that states use to control populations. Puar’s analysis culminates in an interrogation of Israel’s policies toward Palestine, in which she outlines how Israel brings Palestinians into biopolitical being by designating them available for injury. Supplementing its right to kill with what Puar calls the right to maim, the Israeli state relies on liberal frameworks of disability to obscure and enable the mass debilitation of Palestinian bodies. Tracing disability’s interaction with debility and capacity, Puar offers a brilliant rethinking of Foucauldian biopolitics while showing how disability functions at the intersection of imperialism and racialized capital.

‘Uncomfortable Labels’- Dale, Laura Kate

[ID: A book cover. The background is a close photograph of some kind of knitted garment, and its label. The garment is blue. The label is in the centre. Text on the label reads: The title “Uncomfortable Labels” in large black caps The subtitle “My Life as a Gay Autistic Trans Woman” in smaller black caps, lower left of this The author’s name “Laura Kate Dale” at the bottom of the label in black writing. A smaller label attached to the bottom has a single, black capitalised “M” written on it. /end]

Summary:

“So while the assumption when I was born was that I was or would grow up to be a neurotypical heterosexual boy, that whole idea didn’t really pan out long term.”

In this candid, first-of-its-kind memoir, Laura Kate Dale recounts what life is like growing up as a gay trans woman on the autism spectrum. From struggling with sensory processing, managing socially demanding situations and learning social cues and feminine presentation, through to coming out as trans during an autistic meltdown, Laura draws on her personal experiences from life prior to transition and diagnosis, and moving on to the years of self-discovery, to give a unique insight into the nuances of sexuality, gender and autism, and how they intersect.

Charting the ups and downs of being autistic and on the LGBT spectrum with searing honesty and humour, this is an empowering, life-affirming read for anyone who’s felt they don’t fit in.

'Brilliant Imperfections'- Clare, Eli

[ID: A book cover. A photograph of stones can be seen. Over it, a dark box stretching from left to right at the top of the image. Text in the box reads: “Brilliant Imperfection”, in large caps. “Brilliant” is in green, “Imperfection is in white. “Grappling With Cure”, in small, green caps. “Eli Clare”, in white caps. /end]

Summary:

In Brilliant Imperfection Eli Clare uses memoir, history, and critical analysis to explore cure—the deeply held belief that body-minds considered broken need to be fixed.

Cure serves many purposes. It saves lives, manipulates lives, and prioritizes some lives over others. It provides comfort, makes profits, justifies violence, and promises resolution to body-mind loss. Clare grapples with this knot of contradictions, maintaining that neither an anti-cure politics nor a pro-cure worldview can account for the messy, complex relationships we have with our body-minds.

The stories he tells range widely, stretching from disability stereotypes to weight loss surgery, gender transition to skin lightening creams. At each turn, Clare weaves race, disability, sexuality, class, and gender together, insisting on the nonnegotiable value of body-mind difference. Into this mix, he adds environmental politics, thinking about ecosystem loss and restoration as a way of delving more deeply into cure.

Ultimately Brilliant Imperfection reveals cure to be an ideology grounded in the twin notions of normal and natural, slippery and powerful, necessary and damaging all at the same time.

================================================

A short list of 8 non-fiction books featuring and/or discussing disability!

I don't highlight the non-fiction section of the archive enough, so I think this is a perfect opportunity.

A plain text version of this post exists here, featuring more detailed image descriptions of each book cover and easier-to-read versions of every summary.

Books on this list:

‘How to Live Free in a Dangerous World’- Lawson, Shayla

‘Being Seen’- Sjunneson, Elsa

‘Disability Pride’- Mattlin, Ben

‘Crip Kinship’- Kafai, Shayda

‘Sounds Like Home’- Wright, Mary Herring

‘The Right to Maim’- Puar, Jasbir K.

‘Uncomfortable Labels’- Dale, Laura Kate

'Brilliant Imperfections'- Clare, Eli

All of these books and more can be found on the Disability Book Archive.

Happy Disability Pride Month!

[azybug]

Holy shit guys am I not allowed to believe that society should eventually evolve enough to not need police and that police are just equivalents of putting bandaids on the social failures in this country due to capitalism and that we’d be better off with multiple types of response teams for different kinds of social concerns but that no one should go to jail because jail is legal slavory and laws are only there because of money and without money there wouldn’t be many laws and honestly many murders with the amount that society has evolved and is capable of producing enough for everyone because scarcity mindset is a made up thing handed to poor people when they are kids by billionaires. *gasp* BUT ALSO THAT POLICE HAVE EXISTED FOR A VERY LONG TIME AND MANY PEOPLE HAVE BEEN BORN INTO FAMILIES OR CIRCUMSTANCES WHERE NOT BECOMING A PART OF A SYSTEM THEY DID NOT CREATE DIDNT SEEM LIKE AN OPTION TO THEM BUT I WOULDNT BE DISGUSTED BECAUSE I HAVE THE ABILITY TO CONTAIN MULTITUDES AND CRITICAL THINKING ALLOWS ME TO UNDERSTAND INDIVIDUAL PEOPLE LET ALONE CHARACTERS FACED WITH LIVES OF INDOCTRINATION DESERVE UNDERSTANDING AND EMPATHY IN ORDER TO GROW AND I BELIEVE ALL OF THIS BUT ALSO STILL LOVE MY LESBIANS VI AND CAIT DESPITE THEIR SITUATIONS THEY WERE FORCED INTO BY THE SYSTEM THEY DID NOT CREATE. AND YES I CAN CRITIQUE THEIR CHARACTER ASSASSINATION BECAUSE NEITHER OF THEM RECEIVED PROPER HANDLING TO MAKE MOST OF THEIR ACTIONS MAKE SENSE DUE TO TIME CONSTRAINTS THE WRITERS GAVE THEMSELVES OR THE TEAMS GENEREAL DISINTEREST IN FLESHING OUT THEIR ARCS, BUT THAT DOESN’T MEAN I CANT LOVE THEM STILL.

Thank you for coming to my tedtalk.

Fuck

[queer-ragnelle]

Why do you say "fan fics" (never liked the term) aren't books?

So regarding this post, OP said fanfiction are to books what 5lbs of gummy worms are to meals. Fanfiction is storytelling, candy is edible, but it doesn't make them as robust as their counterparts. Readability doesn't make something a book anymore than edibility makes something food.

Fanfiction are stories that exist within, and are intrinsically linked to, fandom spawning from something else (movie, show, game, book, etc). Books are stories which can become the inception of fandom in their own right. The stories in books can exist without fanfiction but fanfiction stories require an overarching narrative from which it derives meaning.

Fanfiction exists under capitalism as a means for creatives to engage freely with works protected by copyright laws they would otherwise be barred from reproducing or depicting in any way. A book can be written and published without toeing lines. There's a gray area when someone is hired to create a story under contract for an ongoing franchise, but I would categorize that as licensed participation in a literary tradition. Something like comic books or light novels based on video games. Fanfiction is more free to explore than that as a hobbyist writer isn't beholden to constraints regarding "canon" or "tradition." There's almost no expectation with fanfiction, but not no expectation, as then it wouldn't resemble the inspirational material. A book is a self contained story which provides the reader with 100% of the information required to understand it.

Fanfiction requires fandom to maintain its meaning. Books generate their own meaning. Fanfiction cannot be reproduced outside its context or it infringes on the rights of the original creator. Books suffer no such limitations. A collection of fanfiction tied to a source material remains within the circle of that original material. Each book or series is a brand new material the reader must engage with fresh mind to understand. It's good for the brain to explore and that's something a book does to a greater degree than fanfiction. Fanfiction can seem free at first but will eventually reach the boundaries where only books can go.

I hope that helps clear things up a bit.

[heartofbusan]

TLDR: re-entry into the bangtan gravitational field at your own pace in 2025. Guilt free!

2024 was such a re-set year for me when it comes to engaging with bangtan. Can I be fully honest and say that their enlistment has been relaxing for me? Sure, we had a shit tonne of content to wade through, but without the members themselves being present for any of it, it meant a less direct engagement with the work during their 2024 releases. For me, that meant fewer feelings of guilt towards 'being present' with them. Does that make sense? It's like I got room to engage at my own pace and on my own terms. Or I might just be getting older, lol. Not discounting that possibility.

The music we got still had great impact on me. It felt sensual to engage with it as if it was a new discovery and less of an obligation. Time constraints sometimes meant it took me weeks to watch an mv, or listen to an album without distractions. Quite a different way of being army than I was before.

I became an army during the pandemic, right at the very start of our first lockdown. I allowed myself to delve into something that had only existed in my periphery. With their amazing music, which was second only to their interactions and personalities, came a whole boatload of content to wade through. All the while, Dynamite was being launched as my first official comeback. Growing up with that juggernaut meant feeling deeply invested and also responsible for their success. The results were very much a shared success. The perfect fertilizer for the parasocial relationship I'm currently involved in with seven Korean men I've never even met.

It took me away from my own life. Kept me in that state of detached social contact that was created thanks to the pandemic. Yet, I felt sated, my joy became engaging with these men, their art. What need did my surroundings fulfill that couldn't be met by army as friends and by bts as my sole purveyor of art?

Fleeing the horrors of Twitter and learning to navigate this platform also meant a deeper focus into one aspect of army that I never felt fully comfortable doing there. Jikook.

What can I say? They have my full attention. I lost some, what at the time I thought were some very good friends in this process. I barely gained any new ones. Yet, in this year, I did discover the power of a restful thought written into sharp observation. And nothing compelled me to write as much as jikook does.

But, all good things must evolve in order to be sustainable in the long run. I don't want that period to sour, to become just a hyper fixation. BTS' enlistment period meant I could take a step back and re-evaluate what it all meant to me and how I could keep it for the long run. As we roll into the sanctified year of 2025, the year that means the end of bangtan's mandatory enlistment period, we'll being sucked back into that vortex. I want to do it on my own terms.

My personal goals for 2025.

More: engaging with new content in my own time. Less: obsessive streaming and the feelings of guilt others put upon behavior that might be detrimental to your peace. Sorry, but this behavior is not sustainable in my life as it once was.

Less: buying dopamine. More: buying with intention, whether it be music or merchandise. Those tickets will not come free of charge, i hope you have been saving up ☺️

Less: engaging with content as it drops. Yes, even lives! Argh. As much as it pains me to feel like I'm ignoring someone. More: Being present in my real life.

No one gets to dictate who is army and who isn't. These are arbitrary rules set upon by some who are willing and able to direct a lot of time and money to a singular goal. I know as I write this that I'm making excuses for myself. Yet, I need it to be true. I want to carve a place for bangtan into my life, not the other way around. Let's not let a corporation dictate our genuine feelings for the sake of capitalism.

Most of all, I hope health and general well-being are what carry us all into 2025. Nothing is certain, but love is a very powerful feeling. One which can move mountains. Sometimes to great personal cost. Yet, it is worth it in the long run. Wouldn't you agree?

I hope you have a very calm and enjoyable end of year. Be safe and tell your loved ones how they make you feel. It's important to hold on to the things you have control over and to let go, nay, expell the things that are beyond your reach.

[sailingfireshipz]

I don't understand budget cuts. You will still need to bring 2 new people in. They better have given Ritter and Carver a goodbye. I hope its not something they did after they shot the finale.

Also, who makes these decisions? the writers? the producers? cause no way they gave Carver all these storylines just for him to end it now?

The reasoning is that even if they have to hire two new actors, IF those actors are not well known, then theoretically, they can pay them less than what they were paying Daniel or Jake.

My issue here is that when Eamonn left, they could have brought in someone lesser tenured or known in the industry, but they didn't. They brought in Dermot, who is a great actor, but I'm sure not CHEAP.

SO it's hard to say things like I'm getting rid of two actors, one who is well tenured on the show and another who you all just made a series regular THIS season due to budget constraints when your previous actions do not align with said budget constraints.

Also S12 we lost 3 series regulars. Two of which were WELL tenured so if that didn't free up quite a bit of capital from those 3 losses then again one would start to think that it's time to start making a tougher decision on how long this show can be sustainable.

I don't know too many shows that can lose the number of key players Chicago Fire has in such a short period of time and continue to be successful. It's unprecedented.

I think regarding who makes the decisions, there are a lot of factors that go into it. A showrunner can write a character out pretty much at will if it fits their "vision" for the show/storyline and the actors' contract. I'm sure the production company & network also influence such decisions from a cost perspective & they probably lean on the creatives to come up with ways to "shake things up" so that they can cut cost.

I guess my question then becomes at what cost? I want this show to run for 20+ years because it has the foundation to do so however if they keep chipping away at the core element that made this show a hit i rather they prepare us for a final season & go out on top. Rather than dragging this out and making it damn near unbearable to digest! Are we seriously going to rotate through a bunch of floaters on 81 for the first half of the season, especially if they don't bring Kylie back?

I understand people come & go but this feels like so much change within a short period of time. It feels like whiplash. What's the point of getting comfortable with a character when they could be gone after one season or worse gone without any notice at the end of a season.

That news article caught EVERYONE off guard, and honestly, it sort of feels like it caught the damn actors off guard to that their contracts wouldn't be renewed.

[ripplestitchskein]

Some of you assholes are about to make me do an entire essay on writing structure, serialized fiction and like, fucking, the basic iterative creative process as it relates to HB.

Broad strokes though:

Pilot. 👏 Episodes 👏 Are 👏 Just 👏 Concepts 👏

Concepts are the INITIAL stage of the creative process. You may start with a character looking and behaving a certain way but by the time you get a final product they are completely fucking different. Or a story starts out in one direction in your early drafts but once you’ve really sat down and fleshed it out you realize you need to change it completely. This is why we have sketches, why we do drafts, why we do concept art. Every creative endeavor involves these steps. It’s rough -> refine -> refine -> refine -> finished product (or as finished as you can get with time/money/resource constraints).

That’s how every creative endeavor goes plus or minus some refinement steps. Things like money, time, and the number of people working on a project and tools available can change this math a bit but it’s ALWAYS the same basic principle. You start with a concept, you refine it over and over until it’s as close to done as you can make it. This can take a few days, this can take a few decades, but it still happens every time. Whether you SEE it or not.

Most of the time you don’t see the pilots of television shows. In major corporate productions all the behind the scenes growing pains happen before you lay your eyes on it. Examples we do have of true pilots often differ vastly from the end product and are usually released as special bonus material. Sometimes a show will call an episode the Pilot but there were versions of that pilot that got left on the cutting room floor. Before that there were character sketches, draft scripts, set designs, story breaking sessions etc that no one but the main creators see.

Independent productions, however, like Helluva Boss, like indie games, like web comics often don’t have the resources to go through that process without some transparency, they need to generate interest and capital. So they release concept art, pilots, Alpha versions and other pre-production materials to the public to get people to buy in and help them fund the project. That’s how they get it made.

The problem is some of you can’t seem to see past that rough draft.

Helluva Boss gave audiences the basic idea of the show with the Pilot. After they had secured interest and resources they could actually afford to flesh it out. And guess what? Like all creative cycles, shit changed. Characters changed. Designs changed. Stories changed. Then they released the first episodes, the final product, and those episodes said “Hey, this is what we landed on in terms of direction and this is the story we decided to tell. Here are the setups for what you’ll see going forward. Those set ups are:

“IMP is a business is hell specializing in the assasination of humans at the request of people already in Hell. There are four employees, Millie, Moxxie, Loona and the boss Blitzø. They accomplish this through the use of a grimoire that the title character (the boss) Blitzø is in possession of. He got this book from another character Stolas, they make a consensual sexual deal for use of the book. We have some indications of personality and characterization, financial struggles, but we’ll find out more in subsequent episodes.”

That’s episode 1. The first goddamn episode for the series.

Episode 2 is “Here is what we’ll actually be exploring through the course of this show beyond the broad premise you saw in episode 1: Blitzo’s relationship with Stolas. Stolas’s relationship with his family specifically his daughter and his failing marriage. Blitzo’s relationship with Millie and Moxxie. Blitzo’s relationship with his daughter. Blitzo’s issue with the Fizzarolli bot. Moxxie and Millie’s relationship dynamic.” All these things are setup and that is what the show is about. It’s what the show remains about, it’s what we’ve slowly been revealing and exploring.

So this whole “the show BECAME about Stolitz and Stolas is all sad owl now” is only an argument if all you saw and internalized was the rough draft. Because the actual FIRST. TWO. EPISODES. OF. THE. FINAL. PRODUCT. Very Explicitly layout what the show is going to be about and THATS WHAT ITS ABOUT. Blitzo’s relationships, including and very importantly his relationship with Stolas, Stolas’s relationships, and very importantly his relationship with Blitzø. Moxxie, Millie, Loona, Octavia and Stella are part of that. IMP is part of that but the central core of the show, as setup in the first two episodes are IMP, Blitzø, Stolas and the relationships that spiral off from those core things. And they have not changed, they have been expanded upon and revealed because….its a story, and that’s what happens in stories.

[pavartijanuswrites]

Characters: Jake, Josh, Sam, and Danny

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings/tags: sleepovers, cabin in the woods, drug and alcohol consumption, explicit language, flashbacks, brief depictions of brotherly arguments and violence

Chapter Two:

*

Something snaps like a weakened thread pulled taut, cleaving the Dark Thing from the light of consciousness. A crack appears in the smothering wall of darkness.

Jake awakens all at once, breath chasing through his lungs like he’s been starved of it. He bolts upright, aware of light and shapes and of the chill of disorientation, but his eyes are blind. He blinks and rubs the sleep away like it’s a tangible curtain.

And then he can see the rough outlines of furniture emerge from the pre-dawn shadows. It’s early. Very early.

Jake collapses back onto the mattress and lets his breaths slow back into a steady rhythm. He pulls his blanket closer around his shoulders and vacates his mind in an attempt to sink back into slumber, but whatever icy hand had yanked him from sleep refuses to let him go. So he stares, numb and weary, taking in the low wooden slats that loom above him.

Jake frowns. The ceiling doesn’t swim before him anymore. The ceiling he’d fallen asleep under had been distorted and strange, but there had been a fan and dangling metal cords, glass fixtures and warm yellow bulbs. But these horizontal rungs hang so low and pale in the ghostly blue light, it’s like he’s lying in a box. In fact, he may have just narrowly avoided giving himself a concussion, as there’s barely enough room to sit up without slamming his skull into the wood. Much had changed as he’d slept.

He explores the slats above, his mind reaching back to the night before as he struggles to recall when he’d ended up in a bunk bed. Had he crawled here in his inebriated state? Had Danny and the others hauled him from his blackout on the floor and lovingly tucked him in? The memories stubbornly stop short with the image of a swimming ceiling.

But as his eyes slowly adjust to the blue-gray light, his gaze draws into focus on a set of words. There, etched into one of the wooden slats, is the crooked scrawl of a blue ballpoint pen: Jake was here.

“What the hell?” Jake frowns deeper and reads it again, then reaches up to skim a fingertip over the impressions. He doesn’t remember writing anything in the cabin—frankly, he doesn’t remember anything after the shroom trip—but this is distinctly his own handwriting. His own bold capital ‘J,’ small, delicate ‘a,’ and startling capital ‘K,’ finished with a lazy lowercase ‘e.’

Jake scratches his eyebrow, then his jawline—one of his fidgety habits when his mind is otherwise occupied. He does it without thinking, without even registering the scrape of his nails on his skin. This movement is so habitual that it escapes his consciousness altogether. Then he runs a hand through the loose hairs that tickle at his forehead, pushing back the smooth locks from his face and following the curve of his skull.

Jake jolts in surprise, tugged from his thoughts as his fingers drag through the soft waves, catching on sleep-mussed snarls, and then… nothing. His fingers drop through the locks into emptiness when they should continue down the strands until they cascade over his shoulder. He tries again, but is only met with the same sensation of emptiness, feeling the slip into nothing when he reaches the blunt ends.

No. No fucking way.

Jake’s stomach drops in shock and horror. First, his mind inserts another potential reality, fitting it in like a puzzle piece in the darkness of his blotted-out memories. Perhaps the others had indeed carried him to bed. And then, perhaps their own inebriation had influenced their logic, and they’d executed a cruel and senseless prank. Perhaps they’d taken advantage of Jake’s vulnerability and shorn off all his long chestnut waves.

Bile warms his throat. He feels utterly betrayed. Violated. Enraged.

He kicks off his blankets and hauls himself out of the constraints of the bunk bed, stands, and blindly finds a light switch. He squints as the domed overhead fixture pulls the smudgy blue shadows into stark focus.

There, nestled in the top bunk of the bed, lies a slump of blankets concealing the small sleeping shape that must be his twin. Jake takes aim and channels all of his rage into his fist as he strikes the mound squarely in the center.

“Ow! What the fuck!” The voice within the blankets is muffled, but sounds sufficiently pained.

Jake had found his target, then. And from the sound of it, he’d inflicted a small amount of revenge.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” His voice cracks in betrayal. His blood feels like it’s boiling. He’d thought there’d been an unspoken rule between them. A mutual respect and an understanding that they were never to prank one another in permanent ways, since their appearances matter so much in the public eye. It had taken years to grow his hair that long, and now the trademark mane that had used to meet the middle of his back now settles bluntly at his shoulders.

And then his eyes tick up. He notices the wall above Josh’s shape, takes in the mosaic of photographs and posters taped in a haphazard patchwork. These are all strikingly familiar, a museum of another time.

Then Josh looks up blearily, his head a ratty halo of curls. Very loose, long curls. They appear to have grown several inches overnight.

Jake freezes in place and chokes on his surprise as he resisters his twin’s face.

Josh blinks and rubs his eyes. He looks thinner, his face a chiseled sculpture of cheekbones and jawline, and his facial hair is now shaved down to the skin. Now, he looks boyishly smooth. He sleepily pushes his shoulder-length mess of chocolate, bouncy frizz off his forehead and squints in his direction.

“Holy fuck,” Jake mutters in disbelief, “Holy fuck.”

Then Josh meets his eye contact and his own brow furrows in confusion, “Uh, Jake? Your hair…”

“What the hell?” He whispers in wonderment and shock, taking in this younger, long-lost version of his twin. It’s as though he is looking at a photograph, having stepped through the Polaroid to a time before Josh had grown a goatee. Before they’d left the bunk beds and sticker-studded room.

Then he snaps back into focus, finds the full length mirror on the closet door, and stares in awe at the reflection of himself.

So his hair hadn’t been cut, because it had never grown long to begin with. Because the man before him is only a boy. A gangly, narrow frame in a saggy Jimi Hendrix tee shirt, his scraped, knobby knees showing beneath plaid boxers.

Fine brown hair falls to softly touch his shoulders and frame his face with light layers. His skin is youthful, smooth, broken only by the ropey, newly healed pink furrows where his surgery scars brand him. In time, those lines would appear as only ghostly white stripes along the delicate bones of his forearm, but now the freshly sealed skin cements the reality—that this is a different time. A different body, looking back at him from the glass.

He shakes his gaze loose from his own reflection’s black-brown eyes before he can become lost in the sheer shock of it. Because maybe he’s imagining this whole thing. Having a hallucination.

Yes, that must be it: this is only a continuation of his bender. He’ll close his eyes and smack the back of his head like his brain is an antique TV and the picture will right itself with a little persuasion.

But a firm thump to the temple yields nothing at all.

Jake turns and scans his teenage room. The posters are long forgotten artifacts, but seeing them again brings the memories racing back. That’s his childhood bunk, now plastered with his adolescent collection of newspaper clippings and posters, with a few Fender stickers and Gibson logos scattered on the wooden banisters. Two twin desks stand facing one another, piled high with books and half-done homework assignments. Black wires from various Marshall amplifiers snake and wind across the floor to tangle with lost socks and tee shirts.

And there… A surge of sweet nostalgia blends with the tangle of emotions in his chest. “No…” Jake gasps as his eyes settle on a familiar guitar case under the bed, protruding slightly from a mess of discarded laundry.

Jake falls to his knees and drags it loose, fingers deftly punching in the combination and prying the lid open. And there she is. His beauty. The cherry red finish is greased with fingerprints and dust has begun to collect between the pickups, but she’s just as beautiful as ever: his Gibson SG. His childhood treasure, which would later be lost on the road—a regret that would forever chase phim.

“Hello, old friend,” He grins.

“What the fuck is going on?” Josh says, voice rising in trepidation as he emerges from his bunk.

“No clue.” Jake murmurs, barely registering his twin’s words as he gingerly runs his fingers over his lost guitar’s strings. The mahogany body almost hums with life as he carefully plucks at the steel, the resulting plunk vibrating hollowly into the air. He sighs tearfully. The last time he’d touched this instrument he’d been touring the very first album he’d ever made.

Somewhere in his peripherals Josh is appraising himself in the mirror, gawking and blinking in disbelief. He touches his face in awe, flashes his teeth, lets his hands roam down his bony body.

“Jesus, this is what I used to look like,” He marvels, “But then that means I’m having an insanely realistic dream right now.”

“I don’t think so,” Jake absently changes the dial settings on the guitar at his knees, “Because we’re both here, experiencing the same thing. I mean—unless we’re both having the exact same dream at the same time.”

“Right,” Josh turns and examines his body from a different angle, his hand cupping the pert curve of his ass—now more humble than the one he’d grown in adulthood, “Not unheard of. We already share brain cells.”

Jake shrugs, “But look. Haven’t seen this beauty in years.”

Josh curiously pads closer, “Is that—?”

He nods.

“The one that got stolen from the trailer?”

“The very same,” He reluctantly shuts the guitar case and pushes it back under the bed, “I’d recognize it anywhere. So unless we’re both tandem dreaming, I think…”

“We’ve gone back in time?” Josh fills in his silence.

Jake only swallows and scratches at his chin again. Same brain cells, indeed.

“Hmm.” Josh turns back to the mirror. He twists his hands in anxious motion, wringing them together like he’s afraid they’ll fall off, “Do you think we should go downstairs?”

“What? No,” Jake stands, his frown deepening as the possibility occurs to him too: whatever strange spell they could be under might extend past this room. He casts a glance at the door, then meets Josh’s eyes again, uncertain, “Do you think mom and dad are out there?”

“Maybe,” He shrugs, “If this is really the past…probably.”

“And if they are? What the hell do we say? ‘Hi, Mom and Dad, it’s your sons from the future?’ They’ll freak out.”

“This is insane. This is insane!” Josh paces the length of the room, hands lost in his bouncy hair as he combs it back in his distress.

“Let’s not say anything then,” Jake says, more to himself than to his twin, because Josh begins to mutter unintelligible phrases under his breath, “Because what if it’s like the movies, and everything we do now could have an effect on the future?”

Josh shakes his head, then nods his agreement, “Yeah, because then we’re fucked! Absolutely fucked!”

A firm knock meets the wood of their bedroom door.

The twins yelp and abruptly back away from the sound, their shoulders clashing together as they go on the defensive in unison. There’s a beat of heavy silence. Then the door creaks open and a scrawny beanpole of a boy slides quietly through the gap.

He is shockingly young, his cheeks soft with baby fat and his face as hairless as a wet dolphin. Dark chocolate hair falls in short, shaggy bangs across his eyes. He is awkwardly in between prepubescence and teenagedom, but that face is still starkly recognizable.

“Sammy?” Jake gasps.

They both relax their guard as the boy closes the door behind him and shuffles closer, “You too?” They say simultaneously.

“Guys, what the fuck is happening?” Sam’s voice wavers, its pitch set a little higher in his throat than usual.

“Uh, what’s happened is,” Josh laughs with uncertainty, “I might have made an error in judgment when I made that potion.”

*

Welcome, and thank you for reading! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist.

@i-choose-the-road @josh-iamyour-mama @l219tj-or-elle @nicoten1014 @sacredsparrow @gvfstuddedmajesty @jazzyfigz @joshylanefleet @dazeebean @girlattheseaside @cheersdannyx2 @fleetingjake @eefsbrokenbellz

[crazy-pages]

The new Rings of Power season still sucks. Let's talk about why.

The thing is, there's enough decent ideas and good acting and definitely enough budget to make excellent television. The problem isn't any one part of the process, the problem is systemic logistical issues.

Streaming services' continued attempts to alter their tv model to undercut legacy profit sharing agreements with unions is causing them logistical issues they can't overcome by throwing more money at the problem. Even if they spend more money than they save undercutting worker profits, it doesn't help because what makes good television is adequate funding of good collaborative project structures, not overfunding bad structures. You can't just pawn a blacksmith's anvil and then pay them twice the worth of the anvil to do good metal working if they don't have any way to get a new anvil!

Like, the new format of shorter seasons with longer episodes lets them streaming services pay talent less for residuals ... but television was structured that way for a reason. It makes it harder to do good pacing.

Cutting staff in the writing room, reducing turnaround time, and taking writers off of the set so they can't do last minute adjustments saves a bunch of money sure. But it also makes it worse writing. Duh. And you can't just pay more prestigious writers or pay writers more to fix this, because the lack of ancillary staff and the shorter timelines are not skill issues.

Tightening control over worker flexibility, local authority, budgetary decisions, and ability to tell their bosses no, along with cycling through different contractor companies over the course of a project, makes it much more difficult for workers to unionize and allows for more precise budgetary promises to upper management.

But it's how you get stuff like the plastic looking armor in the first season on a budget absolutely dwarfing what Lord of the Rings used to make the most impressive chainmail props to ever exist. Because it's just not possible anymore to hire one specific team for almost a decade of project time, hire them before the project is fully committed to give them extra lead time, and give them broad budgetary control and even influence over what battle sizes are going to look like to accommodate for production uncertainties. If you can't say no to your boss if your boss suddenly demands double the armor for a battle next month, or to change a lead character design next week, you can't make it look good, full stop. It doesn't matter the size of the budget you're given because a larger budget doesn't fix the other constraints. You just have to do it out of plastic and foam because there's no alternative which keeps you under budget and reliable and capable of accommodating absurd director whims.

Shareholder capitalism is obsessed with the idea that of you make ever increasing monetary returns the only incentive structure, companies will just figure out how to make it work and deliver on that. There's not any thought given to knock-on effects like instability, or harms like worsened quality of life for workers.

And this glorification of profit as the only thing relevant to a business also means that company executives have forgotten that it takes more than money to make quality. It's not just that more outcomes matter than money, it's that more means matter than money. Throwing money at something is not a panacea, you need logistical structures which are more complicated than their input money values and their output money values! And if you strip mine those structures to make the output money value of a particular business subsection go up, and put constraints on them to make the input money value go down, you can end up with a business thats total is less than the sum of its parts.

So yes, as the old adage goes, you need to spend money to make money. But executives also need to let other folk down the chain spend company money in ways they don't perfectly control without freaking out over it.

Otherwise you can spend a record-breaking amounts of money and create nothing but mediocrity.

[intothefairiesland]

Chapter X ― the lake(s)

I want auroras and sad prose I want to watch wisteria grow right over my bare feet 'Cause I haven't moved in years And I want you right here A red rose grew up out of ice frozen ground

Masterlist

Previous Chapter — Next Chapter 🗻

I'm also on Ao3: "Stop all the world now"

Warning: 18+ and explicit sexual content.

—౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —

The incessant clatter of the wheels on the road echoed in her skull. After two days of travel, Emma was little more than a pale silhouette, consumed by a migraine. She hated the journey, regardless of whether the sky was bright with sun, swept by winds, or weighed down with rain—the forced immobility and privation of her usual habits drove her to the brink of madness. The constant jolts of the coach prevented her from making even the slightest sketch, and though her companions were pleasant enough, she counted the hours until she would finally be freed from this ordeal.

The sun, treacherous and relentless, had slightly scorched her skin, despite being carefully shielded under layers of fabric. An old hat, pulled low over her brow, clumsily protected her from the heat, and her hands were hidden in a pair of gloves too small for her, but they would suffice until they reached their destination. Each passing minute was a battle against discomfort and weariness, and Emma longed to return to Kent.

Since childhood, she had made it a habit to visit several times a year. Her favourite season was winter, when the snow draped the old manor in a silent veil, transforming the gardens into an immaculate kingdom. To her, this place—though not hers—felt like a suspended little paradise, a jewel outside of the world, where no worry seemed capable of reaching her.

Here, she savoured a rare, almost insolent freedom, far from the stifling constraints of London, its frantic balls, and the family’s social obligations. She could stroll arm-in-arm with Louise among the meticulously trimmed rose-lined paths without fear of a disapproving gaze. The surrounding landscapes were a delight to her eyes: soft hills draped in morning mist, wild hedgerows bursting with brambles and red berries, groves sheltering a few wild deer. When she wasn’t wandering the gardens, Emma spent hours painting, the canvas stretched across her knees, capturing the bluish hues of the English sky in summer, or the veiled silhouette of Southborough village, nestled in the hollow of the hills. Sometimes, she walked to the village, treading the paths lined with ancient oaks, breathing in the pure air with abandon. The house, too, seemed to breathe differently, far from the frenzy of the capital. The family members, more relaxed, went about their tasks in harmony, allowing each person the sweetness of forgetting their rank for a while. Edward’s servants, efficient and discreet, took care of everything, allowing Emma to give herself up without a second thought to the simple pleasures of life.

Before she could indulge in the quiet balance between enjoyment and duty, Emma, along with the rest of the party accompanying the family, had to tackle a much more mundane task: unpacking the heavy crates containing the household belongings. It was a laborious, tedious task, and Emma gave it only a feigned enthusiasm.

Two days later, everything had been put back in its place, and Edward's management—already almost militarily precise—had assigned each person their role within a meticulously planned schedule. Miss Brown, the housekeeper, ruled the household with an iron fist. Her meticulous precision, piercing eyes, and complete lack of a smile made the entire household tremble.

That morning, it was eleven o'clock. The large kitchen, the beating heart of the servants' quarters, hummed with a quiet energy: the family had just finished their breakfast, and the servants were taking advantage of the interval before the bustle of the midday meal. Miss Brown, as impassive as a general inspecting her troops, had assigned Emma and William a simple task: to store the freshly purchased provisions in the pantry. They carried out the task in a heavy silence. Emma, focused on the job, passed jars, sacks of flour, and bottles to William, who carefully arranged them on the shelves. They made a conscious effort to avoid looking at each other, like two strangers forced to share the same space. Since their argument, Emma had not spoken a word to William. She felt a certain shame for her outburst... but no regret for her anger. She struggled to understand his reaction—or rather, she understood it all too well: she too would probably have tried to warn him if it was him is this situation. But with William, there was something else, something darker, something cruel, as if he deliberately sought to hurt her, as if he couldn't bear to see her happy. Finally, they finished. William shut the pantry doors with a sharp motion. Emma, without a word, took a few coins from her pocket—the money she owed him from their trip to the museum with Benedict—and extended them toward him. William stared at her hand, his brow furrowing.

“I don't want it, thank you,” he said in a low but firm voice.

Emma rolled her eyes in exasperation. Why did he always have to complicate things?

“Take the money, please,” she said, her voice tight.

But he remained still, his arms crossed, his face impassive. Exasperated, she placed the coins on the table, the metallic clink echoing in the silent room. She turned to leave, but William's deep voice stopped her, sharp in the still air: “I would prefer if you apologized.”

Emma stopped dead in her tracks, turning slowly. A bitter smile appeared on her lips.

“And I would prefer if you stopped meddling in my life,” she retorted with a spark of irony, “but we can't always get what we want, can we?”

Without giving him the chance to respond, she left the room, leaving behind the abandoned clink of the coins on the worn wood. She walked swiftly down the hallway, her heart clenched by a pain far deeper than the mere quarrel. No, she thought bitterly, one could not always have what one desired. Otherwise, at this very moment, she would be with Benedict, without fear, without restraint, savouring his presence as a blessing. But life, capricious and cruel, was not there to grant her dreams. It offered only a few crumbs—fleeting glimpses of happiness—that Emma, with a humble and resigned heart, contented herself to cherish. The first days in Kent were far more taxing than Emma had imagined. It took an eternity for her to find her rhythm, to tame the familiar surroundings she had known for years. Her parents, who had stayed in London to oversee the Braybrooke home—even though it was empty—missed her more than she wanted to admit. It still felt strange to live away from them, even at her age. Louise and Esmée, carefree, spent their days running through the meadows, inventing a thousand games in the open air. Lord and Lady Braybrooke, meanwhile, busied themselves reconnecting with the neighbouring families and inspecting every corner of their estate, often accompanied by Edward and his wife, who seemed to thrive with disarming ease in the gentle tranquillity of the countryside. One morning, while breakfast was served much earlier than in London, Emma, still sluggish with sleep, poked at her scrambled eggs with her fork when a letter was handed to her. It wasn’t the receipt of the letter that surprised her, but rather the delicate handwriting on the envelope: it was neither from her father nor her mother, but from Benedict. Her heart skipped a beat. Without a word, she quickly slid the letter into the pocket of her dress, under the intrigued gaze of Emily, seated across from her. It was only after she had completed her morning duties—attending to Louise, airing out and tidying the rooms, emptying the baskets, and replacing the coal buckets—that Emma finally found a moment of respite. She sought refuge in the privacy of her small room, where, alone, she dared to unfold the letter. Emma loved painting, loved letting her brush run across the canvas; but she had never been fond of letters, nor of writing. Reading was a laborious task for her, perhaps because, despite the education the Braybrooke’s had given her, she lacked practice. She read slowly, occasionally stumbling over words, struggling to grasp their full meaning. She had already become aware of this difficulty, particularly during those bohemian poetry recitals when she accompanied Benedict. While he seemed literally entranced by the flow of verses, his face alive with the rhythm of the words, she often remained in the background, lost in phrases she didn’t always understand. She enjoyed watching him, fascinated by the way poetry seemed to speak to his soul in a language she herself could never quite decipher.

The letter was brief, yet each word seemed to carry a weight of formidable importance. No signature was present, but Emma understood immediately that Benedict, like her, knew the risks involved. Even though the few lines written were dangerous enough on their own, their forbidden connection was just as perilous. He proposed that she meet him at his cottage, just a few miles away, if her schedule allowed it. As a farewell, at the bottom of the page, he had sketched, with a swift yet infinitely tender stroke, two intertwined hands. Emma carefully folded the letter and slipped it between the pages of one of her sketchbooks, knowing that there, no one would think to look. For a long moment, she remained still, her hands buried in her face, struggling against the burning emotion rising within her. Then, slowly, she resumed her daily tasks, even though her mind remained entirely absorbed by Benedict's proposal. She had promised to go—and, to be honest, there was nothing in the world she desired more. Yet now that she was in Kent, she understood the difficulty of the task more clearly. To reach the cottage, she would have to walk for quite some time… and, most importantly, return in time without raising any suspicion. Since that fateful night at the Academy, they had not seen each other. Shortly after, she had to leave for Kent. But from that night, she didn’t just have a memory; she had a sweet, lingering burn that filled every one of her days, every night, every minute, every second of her existence. This silent obsession was poignant, too—how her entire world could be reduced to just one man. She had never experienced what she had known that night, in Benedict’s arms. Few men had crossed her life, and none had sparked such a storm in her. Yet, she felt no shame for what they had shared—a feeling that, just months before, would have seemed unthinkable. She had not been ashamed to find herself half-naked against him, nor of the ardent pleasure she had taken, nor of the muffled moans he had coaxed from her with both tenderness and violence. Benedict was one of those men whose single embrace was enough to mark you forever, awakening a nearly feverish desire to return again and again, to know by heart every contour of his body, every shiver of his skin, to make it a memory etched deeply within herself.

She decided to confide in Louise, the one person she trusted blindly. She had never revealed all the details of her growing relationship with Benedict, but Louise, sharp as she was, had long since suspected what was happening in the shadows. That very afternoon, the two young women went for a walk in the estate’s gardens. As the shaded paths stretched beneath their feet, Emma, in a hesitant voice, eventually asked for advice. Louise, ever true to herself, immediately stopped, theatrically, between the blooming rosebushes and wild geraniums. She waved her hands in front of her, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Ahhh… I love this kind of mission!” she exclaimed with a little hop, before continuing their walk with a brisk step : “Let me briefly summarize what has been discussed”, she said, raising a finger like a schoolteacher. “He sends you a letter, asking you to come to his cottage.”

She squinted, calculating. “A few miles from here, you say? By foot, it would take a whole day… Unthinkable!”

She paused for dramatic effect, placed a hand on her chin as though in deep thought… before exclaiming, beaming: “But of course! My parents’ carriage! You’ll be there in barely two hours!”

Emma couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. Louise had this unique gift of becoming passionate about other people’s affairs with such a pure and generous heart. She was sometimes capricious, often impulsive, but when she loved, she loved wholeheartedly and did everything to help those around her.

“No, I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Emma replied, gently shaking her head. “What excuse could I give? I don’t want to involve your family in this.

Louise, a bit disappointed, pouted but quickly regained her composure: “Alright then. In that case, walk to the village and take a stagecoach. It’ll shorten the journey. I’ll give you the money, you can’t refuse.”

Emma blushed slightly. The truth was, she didn’t have enough money for such a trip, and she knew it well. She sighed, already defeated by her friend’s determination. “Okay, very well...” she murmured, giving in.

Louise, delighted, happily hooked her arm through Emma’s and continued with enthusiasm: “Now we just need to find a good excuse for Miss Brown and my mother.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, to be honest, my mother isn’t the hardest to convince. She’s so busy she won’t even notice your absence.”

Gently squeezing Emma’s arm, as if to soften the harshness of her words, she added with a conspiratorial smile: “Don’t take it the wrong way, she really adores you.”

Emma gave a small, discreet smile— the less she was noticed, the better. Unfazed, Louise went on: “You can’t be gone for more than three days, obviously. But... we’ll say you’re visiting a friend in the area. I’ll talk to my sister-in-law. She’ll cover for you, and Miss Brown won’t dare oppose her, trust me.”

Louise finished her speech with a light, bubbly laugh and overflowing excitement.

“Leave it to me. By tonight, everything will be arranged... and tomorrow morning, you’ll leave.”

Emma felt her heart leap with hope at the prospect, while the sweet scent of roses enveloped them gently in the summer light. She thanked Louise, and the two friends continued their walk. In the evening, after dinner, while Emma helped Louise get ready for bed, finishing her day, Louise informed her that everything was set: she would leave the next morning, very early, head for the village, where she would take a stagecoach to Benedict’s cottage. She would return two days later, following the same route. As she made her way downstairs to the servants’ quarters, Emma was stopped by Miss Brown, who gave her a basket of stockings to mend before her departure— a departure she hadn’t yet announced to anyone. In the large room, William, sitting in a chair with a book in hand, looked up at her, intrigued. His sharp gaze seemed to instinctively sense what she was about to do. Emma averted her eyes and sat down near a candle at the other end of the room to begin her work. By the time she finished mending the stockings, it was already late, and when she finally returned to her room, the house seemed asleep, immersed in an almost surreal silence. In London, Emma had the luxury of a small room of her own, a tiny cocoon that was entirely hers. Here, she shared her space with Emily, which didn’t bother her at all. Emily had arrived two years ago, and the two girls had quickly become close— mostly because of their shared age, but also because Emily was one of those people you simply couldn’t dislike. Discreet, polite, and with a quiet wisdom— everything Emma wasn’t— she had effortlessly earned her affection. Emily was already asleep when Emma softly entered the room. Quietly, she slipped into her bed, determined to fall asleep quickly, as tomorrow promised to be a long day. She would barely have time to prepare her things and get ready with the modest means at her disposal. Emma didn’t dream of silks or luxurious adornments like the ones Louise or Esmée wore, both of them coquettish to the tips of their fingers. Of course, they often kindly offered their outdated dresses to the servants, but those clothes, imbued with an ostentatious refinement, rarely suited Emma’s laborious lifestyle. She much preferred simple, practical dresses. In fact, she often traded Louise’s hand-me-downs for a few more comfortable pieces in the outdoor secondhand shops of Shoreditch, sometimes finding pretty dresses in soft, discreet tones. Lying in her bed, Emma couldn’t seem to fall asleep. A wave of shame suddenly washed over her. Her wardrobe—so poor, so modest. Benedict had never said a word about it—perhaps he hadn’t even noticed—but how could he not? In his world, everything was defined by beauty, elegance, and grandeur. And she, with her simple dresses and worn hems, could never quite belong to that world without feeling the sting of inadequacy. His sisters, so gracefully adorned, seemed to embody that world she would never truly belong to. Her mended dresses, calloused hands, and always tangled hair... Lost in her somber thoughts, Emma was jolted from her reverie by Emily’s soft voice, who, evidently, hadn’t yet fallen asleep:

“Where are you going tomorrow morning?”

Emily had that natural sweetness, that quiet politeness Emma admired so much, but she also knew how to be surprisingly direct when it came to drawing out confessions. She didn’t like staying on the sidelines of secrets. Emma sighed softly, searching for her words in the dim light of the room. She answered simply, in a detached tone:

“To a friend’s.”

She knew, however, that this excuse would not fool Emily. A silence followed, then the young girl spoke again, her voice more lively:

“We've been to Kent several times, and you've never mentioned this mysterious friend...”

Emma turned on her mattress to face Emily's silhouette in the bed next to hers. Through the darkness, she could only make out the blurred shape of Emily's body buried under the light sheets.

“Am I not allowed to make new friends?” she replied gently.

A light, crystal-clear laugh responded, as light as a feather:

“No. You have me!”

Emma smiled in the dark, a tender and silent smile that warmed her heavy heart. “You are, without a doubt, my dearest friend. That should comfort you.”

Emily shifted under the sheets and, in a more coaxing voice, insisted:

“Then tell me where you're really going. Who is it?”

Emma hesitated for a moment, lightly brushing the rough folds of her sheet with her fingertips. Then, resolutely, she murmured: “No... I can't.”

A stubborn silence settled before Emily, with a theatrical sigh, declared: “Very well. I'll wait patiently until you spill the beans.”

Emma let out a light, genuine laugh. “Do that.”

And in the soothing silence that followed, each gave way to her thoughts. One, perhaps dreaming of adventures and shared secrets; the other, nurturing a quiet anxiety at the thought of the journey she would undertake at dawn.

—౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —

Kent had always had something surreal in Emma’s eyes, for she had never ventured beyond its borders. Her only annual getaway was to Herne Bay, where, every late August, before returning to London, the servants had two days by the sea. She adored these short stays: she, who hated the stifling weight of summer, found simple joy in swimming in the cold, salty water, the iodine wind whipping her face. The rest of the county seemed just as enchanting, with its vast green fields and thick forests, far from the growing darkness of London. Even though she was fortunate enough to live in a preserved part of the city, she could still see, from the height of her window, the thick, dark plumes of industrial chimneys encroaching on the city's outskirts. It was said that in the north of the country, every village was drowned in black fog, the factories raising their tall chimneys like ghosts on the hills. How fortunate she was to escape this tide of soot, to find again the clear light and pure air of Kent. She had been fortunate enough to find a carriage as soon as she arrived in Southborough village, and immediately set off towards the address Benedict had given her. The journey was enchanting. The road wound under immense centuries-old oaks, their branches forming a cool vault above the narrow, winding path. The air was soft, scented with a light fragrance of wildflowers, and Emma, her heart racing, savored every moment. She felt she was nearing her destination when the roads grew narrower and steeper, lined with wild grasses and bushes bursting with color. Curious, she leaned slightly out of the window, and what she saw left her speechless: before her stood not a simple cottage, but a real stone manor, covered in ivy, majestic and imposing. A doubt crossed her mind. Was it a mistake? Had she gone to the wrong address? Her heart pounding, Emma disembarked from the carriage, grabbed her modest bag and work satchel, and timidly approached the heavy wooden door. How was one supposed to present oneself in front of people of high society? She had no idea. Always, when accompanying the family, she entered through the door reserved for servants, discreetly, following the customs without asking questions. The door opened almost immediately, revealing an old man with a dignified yet affable bearing, dressed in a formal, unostentatious outfit. His wrinkled face brightened with a slight smile, as if he had been expecting her.

“You must be Miss Watts,” he said in a deep yet gentle voice. “Mr. Bridgerton has gone for a walk, but he should not be long.”

Without waiting, he took her bag and satchel with practiced movements. Emma, too absorbed by the discovery of the place, followed him almost automatically with her eyes. “My Cottage,” she thought, amused, observing the interior. It was just like Benedict: an organized chaos, overflowing with creativity. Paintings were hung haphazardly on the walls, piles of books covered the coffee tables, sketchbooks, scribbled sheets, and incongruous objects cluttered the old furniture. The butler — who introduced himself as Mr. Crabtree — guided her to the main living room and left her alone. Emma remained still for a few moments, absorbed by the unique atmosphere of the room. The large stone fireplace was topped by an imposing portrait. She immediately recognized Lady Bridgerton, still young, with a man who could only have been her late husband, Benedict’s father. He looked so much like him. She was still gazing at the imposing portrait above the fireplace when a familiar voice, low and tinged with mischief, made her start.

“You've finally met my father.”

Emma turned quickly.

In the doorway stood Benedict, smiling. He wore an open white shirt, revealing his sun-kissed skin, and simple beige trousers that gave him a relaxed air. His hair, slightly tousled, seemed to have been combed by the wind; fine droplets of sweat still dotted his temples and forehead. He had probably just come down from his horse — and in this soft light filtered through the curtains, he seemed to belong to this rustic, magnificent setting. Emma felt her heart tighten. Could one ever get used to such a sight? He was so beautiful that it almost became painful. She briefly turned her eyes back to the portrait on the wall and responded in a soft, almost teasing voice:

“I see now where those piercing blue eyes come from.”A light laugh escaped Benedict’s lips, breaking the tension:

“Like father, like son.”

They stood like that for a few moments, gazing at each other from afar, a vibrant space between them, laden with everything they still dared not say. Then, as if an invisible bond were about to break, Emma rushed towards him, carried by an irresistible impulse. Benedict opened his arms wide to welcome her, a tender smile illuminating his face. She threw herself into his arms, nestling against his chest. His strong arms immediately closed around her, enveloping her entirely, protecting her from the rest of the world. She inhaled deeply, savoring his clean scent mixed with the sharper smell of sweat and crushed grass, a raw, wild fragrance that made her dizzy. He gently buried his face in her hair, breathed deeply, as if to etch her scent into his memory. His voice, rough and almost trembling, brushed Emma’s ear:

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

Emma gently disengaged from his embrace, enough to look up at him. Benedict, as if guided by a tender reflex, raised his hands and framed her face with infinite gentleness, his thumbs barely caressing her cheekbones. Emma offered him a sincere, radiant smile, tinged with a playful mischievousness of her own:

“And miss the chance to see this place? Never!”

With lightness, she slipped away from his hands and spun around, her dress's skirt twirling softly around her, to better admire the room. Her bright eyes went from the ceiling to the walls covered in artworks, from the large windows to the grand fireplace.

“Benedict... this is not a cottage,” she said, laughing. “It's a real manor!”

Benedict followed her gaze and, for the first time in a long while, saw My Cottage through Emma’s amazed eyes. He rediscovered its simple beauty, the charming disarray, the undefinable warmth of this place he called his own.

“Alright... fine,” he conceded with a soft laugh, “it may not be exactly a cottage.”

Emma turned back to him, her crystal-clear laugh still lingering in the air. She raised an eyebrow, mock disapproving:

“And that name... seriously... what were you thinking, calling it My Cottage?”

A lazy smile stretched across Benedict’s lips.

“I was too lazy to come up with a real name,” he admitted with a shrug. “And... I didn’t feel like digging through the estate’s old papers to find its original title. So I went with the simplest.” Emma burst into laughter, a genuine laugh that filled the room with light.

She walked toward him, slowly, and placed both hands flat on his chest, still warm from his escapade. Her eyes searched his, and in the tender warmth of that gaze, she whispered:

“It doesn't matter what it's called... thank you for welcoming me here.”

Her fingers lightly glided over the fabric of his shirt, brushing the warmth of his skin just beneath, and a subtle shiver ran through Benedict at her touch. He placed his hand on her face and gently traced her cheek with his fingertips, drawing an invisible line to her lips. She shivered at the simple contact, and it was she, this time, who closed the distance, rising on tiptoe to plant a light kiss at the corner of his lips. A breath, a caress, barely a brush — but it sparked a tenderness in Benedict so intense that he had to close his eyes to keep from being overwhelmed. He then wrapped Emma in his arms, held her close, and this time, it was a truer, deeper kiss that bound them together. How good it was to be in his arms, Emma thought, closing her eyes under the rush of emotions. At that very moment, she knew she was exactly where she was meant to be: in the right place, at the right time, with the right person. A precious feeling she had never known before.

Benedict broke their kiss, brushing his nose against hers as if he dared not sever the bond between them completely. He smiled playfully as he said:

“Well, Miss Watts... would you accept a tour of the estate?”

Emma lifted her chin with mischievous grace and simply replied, “With pleasure, Mr. Bridgerton.”

Benedict offered her his arm with exaggerated gallantry, and Emma, still smiling, took it without hesitation. Side by side, they ventured through My Cottage, ready to discover every corner of this place.

They spent the entire afternoon together, Emma following Benedict from room to room like an awestruck explorer discovering a new kingdom. Some rooms were carefully furnished, others seemed abandoned to the whims of time and dust, as though they were patiently awaiting someone to breathe life back into them. Emma was utterly captivated by the studio — a vast, light-filled space where tall windows opened onto the sprawling green estate. The room was cluttered with easels, half-finished canvases, jars of brushes, and scattered colors. Emma paused for a long while at the center of the room, her eyes shining with admiration. They wandered next into the orangery. The place must once have been splendid, though it now bore the gentle signs of neglect. A few brave flowers still clung to life, thanks to the patient care of Mrs. Crabtree, the housekeeper’s wife, for Benedict, by his own admission, possessed little talent for botany.

They continued their promenade through the gardens, arm in arm, walking at an unhurried pace, as if afraid that time might too soon reclaim its hold. Emma listened to Benedict with a tender smile as he recounted, with heartfelt fervour, the history of every path, every ancient tree, every fountain. And when he was not regaling her with a thousand anecdotes about the estate, he turned to her, his gaze bright with curiosity, and asked her the most unexpected, whimsical questions. What was her favourite colour? Her most cherished moment of the day? The object she could never part with ? Her most treasured memory here, in Kent?Emma answered sometimes seriously, sometimes with laughter, and each reply seemed to delight him even more, as if he were uncovering a hidden treasure with every word she spoke. And when neither stories nor questions filled the space between them, they teased each other playfully, exchanging light-hearted jests and mock arguments.

Emma, who had always been so wary, so careful with her heart, found herself marvelling at how free, how utterly happy she felt in that wild garden, on Benedict’s arm. Everything about him — his earnest eagerness, his clumsy desire to please — moved her more deeply than she could say. She thought back to their first walk together at the museum, and now she saw so many things she had failed to notice then. There was his mouth. Of course, she had noticed it before — how could she not? — but now... now that she had tasted the softness of his lips, she found herself helpless to look away. Every time he spoke, she wavered between two irresistible urges: to silence him with another kiss, or to beg him to continue, just to hear again that refined, aristocratic lilt that made her heart melt. She smiled inwardly, overwhelmed by a happiness so simple and pure that she could hardly put it into words.

To end the day, Benedict suggested they make the most of the last hours of daylight by sharing a picnic by the lake, the one visible through the branches of the old oaks from the cottage’s back terrace. Emma agreed with barely concealed enthusiasm: the lingering warmth of this August day made her crave shade, a breeze, and above all, the chance to dip her feet into the cool water. Mrs. Crabtree, whom Emma had yet to meet, had thoughtfully prepared a generously filled basket, as elegant as it was delicious. They settled under the shade of a willow, its long branches brushing the shimmering surface of the water. While Emma took off her shoes to dip her feet into the lake, Benedict spread a blanket on the grass, opened the basket, and revealed a myriad of little delights: fruit tarts, fresh bread, delicate cheeses, and a bottle of homemade lemonade. Between bites, they began a game Emma playfully suggested: exquisite corpse. Taking turns, they each added an element to a drawing without seeing what the other had drawn before. Everything was done blindfolded, with only charcoal and a few sheets of fine paper Benedict had brought. Their creations were absurd, strange, and wonderful. They gave birth to improbable creatures—half-fox, half-peacock, to ladies with teapot heads, to gentlemen with tree trunks for legs. One of the drawings made them laugh so much that Emma spilled her lemonade: a dragon, outrageously elegant, wearing a top hat, holding a cane, but with a fish’s tail and two enormous butterfly wings.

“I think we’ve found our first shared masterpiece,” Benedict said with mock seriousness, his eyes still twinkling with laughter.

“Maybe you should submit to the Salon,” Emma replied with a mischievous smile, tilting her head knowingly.

The game occupied them until dusk. The fading light painted the sky in shades of pink and gold, and a warm breeze rose, carrying the sweet scent of herbs warmed by the sun. Emma, her cheeks flushed from laughter, turned her gaze to the lake and asked innocently,

“Is it deep?”

Benedict, sitting close enough that she could feel the warmth of his arm against hers, answered with mock teasing,

“Deep enough for a proper dive. What are you planning?” And he punctuated his sentence with a light kiss on her cheek, almost a brush.

Emma stared at him for a few seconds, then, without answering, gracefully stood up. With a calm gesture, she began to untie the front of her corset. Benedict watched, initially surprised, then fascinated, unable to look away. She slid off her dress, leaving only a light white linen shirt, almost translucent in the evening light. Her stockings, she had long discarded, as soon as she arrived at the lake.

“So it turns out you’re the more scandalous one between us,” Benedict murmured, a smile in his voice, his eyes gleaming with amused tenderness.

Emma didn’t answer. She stepped cautiously toward the water, her feet slipping on the mossy pebbles. She slowly entered the lake, wincing as the cold water touched her legs, then her belly, until the wave brushed her chest. The water was calm and clear, but she remained upright, tense, almost frozen. Benedict watched her attentively, understanding immediately. A few moments later, she heard footsteps behind her, then the gentle splash of water. A hand reached for hers, warm and sure. He had slipped into the water and was now standing in front of her, his features softened by the twilight.

“Come,” he said gently.

“I... I can’t swim,” she murmured, her voice more fragile than she intended.

“I know,” he replied simply, without surprise, as though he had always known.

Emma felt a warmth settle in her chest. He didn’t judge her. He didn’t mock her. He was simply there, ready to accompany her. She had always been this way—impulsive and daring, only to be seized by fear when it came time to cross the threshold. She would rush into the unknown with passion, only to want to flee in the opposite direction. But Benedict… with him, everything was different. He made her want to dare, to surpass herself, to become the boldest version of herself. He awakened a courage she hadn’t known she had, a tender desire to live bigger, freer, truer. She squeezed his hand a little tighter and took a step toward him. Benedict bent his legs slightly in the water, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Wrap your legs around my waist,” he murmured.

Emma didn’t hesitate. Of course, she wanted to hold on to him, but she also began to panic slightly. She wrapped her slim legs around his waist and hooked her arms around his neck, clinging to him like a mussel to its rock. The contrast between the warmth of his chest and the biting cold of the lake made her shiver slightly. Benedict gently closed his large hands around her hips, supporting her effortlessly, then moved slowly through the water until it reached their chests.

“Do you want to try letting go for a few seconds? I’ll hold you,” he whispered.

Emma hesitated for a moment, her gaze lost in the shimmering water, but deep down, she knew she could trust him entirely. She had no real intention of learning to swim today day—perhaps not ever. And yet, the idea of no longer feeling the ground beneath her feet, of floating in the unknown, stirred something thrilling within her, something close to exhilaration.

“Very well,” she whispered at last.

In silent understanding, Benedict waded deeper into the lake until he, too, could no longer touch the bottom. Supporting Emma with ease, he floated effortlessly, the steady motion of his arms and legs keeping them both above water. She, who so often laughed at herself and at life’s absurdities, wore now a solemn expression, tense and focused.

“Let your legs go first,” he murmured.

She obeyed, cautiously, sensing the rhythm of Benedict’s movements beside her, like a quiet underwater melody guiding her.

“Now mimic me. Kick your legs gently—not too fast, or you’ll tire yourself out.”

Emma nodded, her lips parting in a soft breath as she began to move, awkwardly at first, then with a growing confidence. Her eyes were fixed on the dark water beneath her, as if trying to glimpse their suspended bodies.

“You’re doing wonderfully,” Benedict said with a bright, cheerful tone. “Now give me your hands.”

Still clinging to his neck, Emma let her arms slide down over his shoulders, across his damp, muscular arms, until her fingers found his. Benedict slowly backed away, and at once, she felt herself sink ever so slightly, just enough for the water to close in around her with a gentle thrill. She focused harder, kicking her legs with more care. It was a strange feeling—foreign, weightless. There was no ground, no anchor. Only water. Only him. This, she thought, must be what fledgling birds feel the first time they take flight—a dizzying blend of fear and joy. A foolish smile curved her lips, born more of pride than amusement, and when she lifted her eyes to him, she saw that Benedict, too, was smiling. That same wide, boyish grin lit his face.

Perhaps he thought her ridiculous, discovering the sensation of floating at her age. But if he did, he gave no sign of it. He held her with such tenderness, such quiet strength, encouraging her every step of the way.

She wasn’t ready to let go of him just yet. He understood—he always did. And then he said, in a voice low and steady: “I’ve got you. Always.”

Those four words went straight to her heart. He wasn’t speaking only of this moment, here in the water. He meant something more. Something deeper. The thought made her falter; her legs stilled, and her body dipped, just slightly, beneath the surface. But Benedict’s arms were there instantly, gathering her close with practiced ease.

“I think that’s enough for today’s lesson,” he said with a quiet laugh.

Emma rested her head on his shoulder, returning to her place against him, her arms looped around his neck, her legs wrapped lightly at his waist. The world could spin all it wanted—in the water, in the sky—so long as he held her like this, she had nothing left to fear.

Perhaps that was what it meant to be with Benedict: venturing into deep waters without ever having learned to swim. It was allowing herself to drift into an unknown world — confusing, at times frightening — but always with her hands clasped tightly in his. Never letting go, no matter the fear, the dizziness, or the cost.

He held her tighter, swaying gently to the rhythm of the rippling water, ensuring he never lost his footing now. They stayed like that for a long time, rocked by the water and the soft evening, as if they were the only two people in the world. A slight shiver ran through Emma’s body, betraying the subtle sting of the cold. Benedict felt it immediately, and a soft, light laugh rose in his throat. Curious, Emma looked up at him, still holding onto his neck, refusing to let go.

“What’s making you laugh?” she asked, her smile pretending to be cross.

“You’re cold,” he answered tenderly.

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go back,” he said, sliding a caressing hand down her back.

“No, please... I’m quite comfortable here,” Emma whispered, her eyes shining with an indescribable emotion.

Benedict lowered his head, his lips almost brushing hers.

“Let me, at least, warm you up,” he murmured in a deep voice.

Emma understood, in the instant the words left his lips, what he was offering. She didn’t wait for him to ask again. In a determined motion, she lifted herself slightly against him and sealed her mouth to his, kissing him with a feverish tenderness. At first, their kiss was soft as if each was savouring the simple wonder of being so close. But soon, tenderness gave way to something more passionate, more urgent. Emma felt Benedict’s hand slip down her back, pulling her closer, and she instinctively tightened her arms around his neck. The contact of their bodies, made sensitive by the cold water, finished igniting their senses. Emma felt Benedict’s body tense, as if he were taking every precaution not to break, and she felt hisundeniable desire between her thighs.

When their lips finally parted, it was slow, almost regretful. Emma kept her eyes closed for a moment, her hands still gripping his neck, her forehead resting against his. She heard her own breath, panting, mingling with Benedict’s. Night had fallen around them, wrapping the lake in a deep blue veil. The stars were starting to pierce the sky, and only the moon illuminated them enough to see the contours of their bodies in the night. Benedict slid his hands along Emma’s curves, and placed both palms on her hips, then lower, capturing the roundness of her bottom. Emma let out a slight cry of surprise, quickly stifled by a burst of laughter, so taken aback was she by the tender boldness of his gesture. Taking advantage of her charming confusion, Benedict, in one swift, ardent motion, lifted her in his arms as if she weighed nothing. Emma, surprised, clung to his shoulders, laughing softly against his neck. With steady steps, despite the water weighing down their clothes, he carried her to the sheet they had laid earlier on the soft grass by the lake. There, with infinite tenderness, he laid her down on her back, as if placing a precious treasure in the very earth. Emma looked up at him, her wet hair spread like a dark halo around her face, illuminated by the nascent glow of the stars. Benedict lingered for a moment above her, gazing at her as if he couldn’t believe this vibrant, living moment was truly his. Then, slowly, as if to engrave every second into his memory, he lay down a bit, their breaths already mingling. His hands, caressing the wet silk of her shirt, moved slowly up to her trembling shoulders, then to the curve of her jaw. He leaned down to kiss her neck, the mere touch of his breath sending shivers through Emma’s entire body.

“I dream of you, Emma,” he murmured, his voice rough, trembling with emotion. “Even when I’m awake”.

At these words, Emma took Benedict’s face in her hands and, without thinking, kissed him with a passion that surprised even her. Their hands wandered, brushing every inch of the other. Breathless, Benedict pulled away slightly, and she locked her gaze with his—eyes full of tenderness mixed with burning desire. A shiver of audacity ran down her spine. Perhaps it was the effect of the lake, the starry sky, the newfound freedom she tasted at his side… or perhaps simply the irresistible desire to give him back some of the pleasure he had given her. Without a word, a mischievous smile on her lips, she straightened slightly, letting her fingers slide down Benedict’s wet chest. He frowned gently, intrigued by her silence, then she commanded,

“Lie on your back.”

“Emma...” he murmured, his voice rough, betraying both surprise and anticipation. He complied without another word, and Emma straddled the top of his legs. Slowly, almost solemnly, she slid her hands downward and gently lifted his shirt. Benedict raised himself slightly on his elbows, his breath suspended.

“You don’t have to...” he said, his voice hesitant, almost pleading with a last bit of honour, but already broken by the very idea of what she was about to do.

“I know,” she replied in a breath, her fingers trembling slightly, betraying the emotion overwhelming her, “but I want to give you as much as you’ve given me”. She had now pulled his shirt up. She could feel him beneath her, burning with a heat no water could ever extinguish. In silence, she gazed at his chest, bathed in the pale glow of the moon. Beads of water slid slowly down his skin, tracing the lines of his muscles with hypnotic grace. Her fingers brushed his collarbones, hesitant at first, then slowly trailed down the length of his torso, captivated by the sculptural beauty of his form.

“Just… tell me if I’m doing anything wrong,” she added, her voice laced with hesitation.

Benedict didn’t know how to respond verbally, and in answer, he kissed her, as if giving her full consent over his body. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, her gaze burning, a silent challenge in the gleam of her eyes. She placed her hand on his chest to force him to lie back and shifted her thighs to move further down his body, never taking her eyes off his.

She would have been lying to herself if she claimed to be entirely sure of her movements. What she was about to do wasn’t wholly unfamiliar to her, and yet... in one single evening, she had come to understand — with newfound clarity — that physical love was not merely a selfish pursuit of pleasure. It was an offering, an exchange, a surrender; where one’s delight melted into the other’s.

She felt Benedict inhale more deeply as she she wrapped her hand gently around him, exploring, uncertain, and asked in a quiet voice, “Is this… is this right?”

Benedict didn’t answer at once. His head had tilted back, eyes half-closed, as though she had summoned a storm inside him. When he finally met her gaze, his eyes were lit with heat, wonder — and something tender enough to make her breath catch.

“Yes,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s perfect…”

He guided her hand with his, showing her a rhythm — steady, attentive, reverent. “A little firmer,” he whispered, and she obeyed without any hesitation.

Her boldness grew with the way he breathed her name, with the tension she felt tremble through his frame. She let herself be guided by him at first, but soon, it was her who led — discovering, with each delicate gesture, how much joy could come from giving. She decided to take it to the next level and wrapped her tongue around the top of his length, then engulfed him completely with her mouth. Benedict let out a heavy breath, a murmur of pleasure interspersed with sighs. ‘Dear God, Emma..’ He closed his eyes, his head thrown back by the intensity of what she was giving him. The gentleness of her gestures, the fervour of her love, it overwhelmed him. She could see in the tension in his body the struggle he was waging not to lose himself completely in this wave of desire. She continued deeper, driven by the depth of what she read in his eyes, by the way his name escaped his lips between erratic breaths, like a man clinging to his last prayer. His gestures became bolder, following the signs of his body, following the heat that rose between them.

His hands slid over the top of her head to encourage her to continue, moans escaped his mouth - low, hoarse, uncontrolled - and Emma knew she had found a rhythm, a way to please him. She was doing it for him, but also for herself. In this offering, there was a particular joy, the joy of seeing him one lose her footing, by her will alone. Emma realized that this was a game, and she was determined to play it to win, curious to see just how far she could push him. She alternated her movements, her licks, her sucks and being more relaxed, physically and mentally, she ventured deeper into him. Everything was pleasurable, his taste, his touch on her skull and his veins she could feel with every strokes.  When he whispered her name in a broken breath, she looked up at him. Seeing him like that—overcome, his throat constricted with emotion and desire—stirred such profound happiness in Emma that for a fleeting moment, she believed there could never be a more intense moment between them.

She felt Benedict struggle under the assault of her mouth and the gentle movements of his hips against her lips. Emma stopped for a few moments and continued her work with her hand, then took him back into her mouth even deeper to feel him all the way down her throat.

It only took a few seconds for Benedict to react, and as he moved his hand to Emma’s cheek, he whispered, “Emma... you have to stop… I’ll…”.

Emma had no intention of stopping, just as he had given her no respite. She took his hand before intertwining her fingers with his, just as she had done once before, when her own desire teetered on the edge of ecstasy and just said : “Do it.”

That was madness, her own body was also hot, ready to overflow and explode. It only took a few well-calculated strokes for her to feel Benedict contract beneath her. She heard only a moan of pleasure, her name slipping into the warm summer air—a trembling breath, carried by the heat of the season and the fire of their bodies. He clamped down on her, convulsing and she felt his release flowing down her throat, warm and salty, which she swallowed. After dancing her tongue along his manhood a few more seconds, she stood up and wiped her mouth. She felt the warmth of her cheeks flush with emotion, a slight dizziness overtaking her. Benedict's legs trembled beneath her, and when their gazes met, she felt a perfect harmony with what she had just experienced and the deep pleasure she had found in it, a sensation intensified by the flame of desire burning in Benedict’s eyes, now fixed on her. A radiant smile bloomed on her lips, and as she leaned in toward him, he rose to meet her halfway. Benedict’s hand instinctively slipped behind her skull, pulling her irresistibly closer, while the other pressed her firmly against him. Their mouths collided with feverish violence, a clash of pure ardor. Their bodies found each other, entwined, and everything around them seemed to dissolve into a fragile bubble where only their breaths, their caresses, and the intensity of this suspended moment existed.

When their lips finally parted, she noticed Benedict's breath was still uneven. He pulled her gently with him, guiding her to lie across his bare body. She rested her head over his heart, listening the uneven rhythm of his heartbeat, each pulse echoing against her skin. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to his and whispered softly,

“Please, don’t die here. I wouldn’t have the strength to carry you back to the cottage.”

Benedict, his hand trailing gently along her cheek with infinite care, replied in a breath, an amused smile playing on his lips, “At least I’d have died happy.”

How could she ever live normally after a day like this? If she, too, were to die right now, she would die happy.

—౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —౨ৎ — ౨ৎ —

[ceilingfan5]

Time loop rules, tools, and considerations

What makes a time loop tick? What makes a time loop a prison? What makes a time loop a mystery that can be solved? 

Does this puzzle inherently have a solution? Is there an element of doom, or optimism? 

What is the time frame, time limit, time constraint, time allowance? 

Is there always an end? What will trigger that conclusion? 

How do we escape the time loop? 

Is it possible to escape the time loop unscathed? 

How powerful is the risk? What are the hard limits?

What changes things? What changes things with any sense of permanence?

Change + resistance + passion + logic are needed. 

Passion in the form of love will make a difference, but not alone. 

Alone we will not escape the time loop.  

Objecting to social rule vs following the rules to the letter–"the rules" are not the rules as written, or necessarily vice versa.

Acting force + passive rules + change + motive– what is gained and what is lost? 

Alone you will not escape the time loop.

Others have skills we cannot see. Others have loves and tragedies we cannot see.

Time passes. But it also loops. How? Why? Nothing is without cost. Being stuck changes things. There is a price. Forces are mysterious but not without the potential to be understood…and misunderstood.

The familiar is not reliable.

The familiar is comforting but not progressive.

Comfort is unreliable, even untrustworthy. This does not mean it is without power or safety. 

That which is accepted as understood should be challenged.

Outside observers can see shortcuts we cannot. Shortcuts are not always safe or helpful, but should be accounted for. 

Accepting things as written or stated does not necessarily progress things.

Some things cannot be changed.

Some things cannot be changed easily. 

People will participate in things even if they are not directly “Motivated” to. Internal motivations are more complicated than they seem. External motivators are powerful but not reliable. Fun is not a write-off.  Neither is tragedy or impatience.

Habit is powerful. 

Accepting things as they are and following the rules is habit.  

Habit should be questioned especially when it does not serve us.

Loneliness is a habit.

Alone we will not escape the time loop. 

What if something changed the game? 

How powerfully can something change the game?

We are all cast in roles. By whom, by what? To what end? What can we affect from our position? How can we see our role without observing from the outside?

What do we see vs not see?

What corruption has occured? 

Who is watching? Why? To what extent? What must be obscured to preserve the audience? 

What weighs on our challengers whether seen or unseen? 

Clues must be gathered–active participants will escape the time loop. Passive participants ARE the timeloop. 

Alone we will not escape the time loop. 

Changing things is not without cost.

Humor is not without effect.

That which imprisons us is not necessarily unfamiliar.

Capitalism is a time loop. Work is a time loop. Struggle is a time loop. Time without passion and the means to apply it is a time loop. We must be the arbiters of our own time and make a difference to see that things have progressed.

Change is not without cost. Cost is not inherently negative. 

Change is not without an element of gamble, risk.

But risk without any potential of change is wasteful. 

Control is an illusion; how we manifest control should be weighed against how it affects others and ourselves. 

The comedy of our predicament is not known or unknown but rather measured out to achieve the desired effect. 

Even our most uncomfortable moments are dealt by and with powers beyond our own. 

The framing is invisible, and must be considered. 

We are never unobserved. 

We are part of something larger with or without our consent and participation. We can make a difference or not make a difference. Our choices are powerful. How are they used?

Why?

The status quo preserves itself. Its temptation is powerful. The familiar is comforting but not progressive. We must move forward.

Alone, we will not escape the time loop.