#Chilean miners

[mcelquotes]

Like Chilean miners emerging from the depths...

Justin McElroy

[numbersbythebook]

The Number 38 & the 33 Miners Rescued

written by Will Schumacher

I did a post a while back on the number 38. There are three 38 year periods of time in the Bible that seem to be related.

The first 38 year period of time is the wandering of the Israelites after they brought the bad report to the time they entered the promised land.

Deuteronomy 2:14 And the space in which we came from Kadeshbarnea, until we were come over the brook Zered, was thirty and eight years; until all the generation of the men of war were wasted out from among the host, as the LORD sware unto them.

The second 38 year period of time is hidden.

Recall Sarah died at age 127:

Genesis 23:1 And Sarah was an hundred and seven and twenty years old: these were the years of the life of Sarah.

Abraham is 10 years older than Sarah so he is 137 at the death of Sarah. When Sarah dies Abraham buys a plot of land in Machpelah, later known as Hebron. This is where the three patriarchs and matriarchs are buried minus Rachel.

This purchase was extremely important because it is the first time that Abraham, or anyone of the promise, owned a piece of the Promised Land.

Genesis 23:17 And the field of Ephron, which was in Machpelah, which was before Mamre, the field, and the cave which was therein, and all the trees that were in the field, that were in all the borders round about, were made sure

Genesis 23:18 Unto Abraham for a possession in the presence of the children of Heth, before all that went in at the gate of his city.

Genesis 23:19 And after this, Abraham buried Sarah his wife in the cave of the field of Machpelah before Mamre: the same is Hebron in the land of Canaan.

So in my mind Abraham received a piece of the promise that God had made to him at age 137. He bought a parcel of the Promised Land. 38 years later at age 175 he died and was buried there. But for Abraham death should be viewed as an entrance into the promises of God, you could say into the “Promised Land”.

The third 38 year period of time is the lame man Jesus heals after 38 years:

John 5:5 And a certain man was there, which had an infirmity thirty and eight years.

John 5:9 And immediately the man was made whole, and took up his bed, and walked: and on the same day was the sabbath.

John 5:9 is verse 175 of the gospel of John. On the Sabbath he was made whole after 38 years. Abraham died at age 175, 38 years after purchasing a piece of the Promised Land.

There is a connection between the numbers 38 and 175. This healing happened at the sheep gate:

Joh 5:2 Now there is at Jerusalem by the sheep market a pool, which is called in the Hebrew tongue Bethesda, having five porches.

The sheep gate is used for the first time in this verse with a gematria of 4375.

Nehemiah 3:1 Then Eliashib the high priest rose up with his brethren the priests, and they builded the sheep gate; they sanctified it, and set up the doors of it; even unto the tower of Meah they sanctified it, unto the tower of Hananeel.

Strong’s H4375 = Machpelah. Again Machpelah is where Abraham bought the first piece of the Promised Land and 38 years later he was buried. Machpelah also has a Strong’s text value of 175, matching the age of Abraham’s life.

In all three stories of the number 38 there seems to be a time of weakness or affliction and then there is an inheritance or wholeness after the 38 years.

This brings me to the 33 Chilean miners who were miraculously rescued after 70 days trapped underground on October 13, 2010.

Their faith was a key part of their survival. Campus Crusade for Christ sent down the Jesus film and Christian T-shirts and a number of them were rescued wearing the Christian t-shirts.

The news repeatedly stated they were saved through a tunnel 2041 ft long or 622 meters.

Enoch was born after 622 years. 2041 = 13 x 157. Prime numbers 1 through 157 when added together = 2585. Strong’s H2585 = Enoch.

So their rescue was through numbers tied to Enoch who is a type of the Rapture.

They were saved on the 70th day which to me was a nod to the 70 weeks of Daniel 9.

The symbolism of the rescue also looks like a type of the Resurrection/Rapture. There was a rescuer who first descended down the tube and then they were raised through the tube. We are waiting for a descending of Christ and the resurrection of the dead “buried underground”. News articles even referred to this as a “resurrection”.

The number 2041 is tied to redemption twice. This verse about redemption has a gematria of 2041:

Leviticus 25:24 And in all the land of your possession ye shall grant a redemption for the land.

Strong’s G629 has an intext gematria of 2041 the first time with this verse:

Romans 8:23 And not only they, but ourselves also, which have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our body.

This is verse 2041 about the people preparing to meet God who is about to descend-a type of Jesus’ return.

Exodus 19:14 And Moses went down from the mount unto the people, and sanctified the people; and they washed their clothes.

I then stumbled onto something extremely interesting. Exactly 38 years before the 33 miners in Chile were saved there was a plane crash involving Chile where 33 people initially survived.

On October 13, 1972 the Old Christians Rugby club was flying to Chile and crashed in the Andes and 33 people survived. They were stuck in the mountains for 70+ days and of the 33 that initially survived, 16 miraculously were rescued.

Both events were considered miraculous. Both groups were weak and injured. Both groups had a Christian element to them. Both groups were tied to the number 33 and it was the exact same day both on our calendar and the Jewish calendar.

The events were exactly 38 years apart. The plane crash in 1972 was flight 571. It is a mirror of the number 175 which is tied to the number 38. The 38th prime is 157. 157 contains the same digits as 175 and 571 which is interesting. As I stated prior the number 157 is tied to Enoch.

I believe that this 38 year period of time to the 33 miners rescue is a picture of the three 38 year periods of time in the Bible discussed above and specifically to the healing in John 5.

The healing in John 5 was a man with an infirmity:

John 5:5 And a certain man was there, which had an infirmity thirty and eight years

Strong’s G769= infirmity.

The day count from 10-13-1972 to 10-13-2010 is 13879.

There is one verse with a gematria of 13879. It speaks of our infirmity. It is again Strong’s G769:

2 Corinthians 12:9 And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.

This is the verse I have always assumed was tied to the miners rescue. It is the first time Strong’s G629 =”redemption” has a gematria of 2041 matching the 2041 ft tube the miners were rescued through.

Roman 8:23 And not only they, but ourselves also, which have the firstfruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting for the adoption, to wit, the redemption of our body.

The tube was 622 meters (Enoch born after 622 years). If you add 622 verses to Romans 8:23 (verse 28140) you come to a verse (verse 28762) about our resurrection from our infirmities/ weakness. It is the same Strong’s number G769.

1 Corinthians 15:43 It is sown in dishonour; it is raised in glory: it is sown in weakness; it is raised in power:

1 Corinthians 15:43 is 2542 verses after John 5:9 where the man with an infirmity was healed.

The first verse in the Bible with a gematria of 2542 is about Abraham receiving the covenant promises. This would be a perfect match.

Genesis 17:6 And I will make thee exceeding fruitful, and I will make nations of thee, and kings shall come out of thee.

The third verse with a gematria of 2542 is also very interesting:

Isaiah 38:15 What shall I say? he hath both spoken unto me, and himself hath done it: I shall go softly all my years in the bitterness of my soul.

The above verse is about Hezekiah praising God for healing him from His sickness. It would be a typological match.

I think there is more to this though because the verse number is 18406. It was 18406 days from the great Chilean earthquake until the miners rescue of 10-13. The great Chilean earthquake is still the most powerful earthquake recorded to date. Jesus was resurrected with a great earthquake. Revelation 11:11-13 speaks of a great earthquake happening in conjunction with the resurrection/rapture.

The healing of John 5 happened on the Sabbath. There were 33 injured from the original plane crash and 33 miners rescued.

This is verse 33. God resting on the sabbath:

Genesis n 2:2 And on the seventh day God ended his work which he had made; and he rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made.

Jesus ended His work at age 33. I believe the number 33 has to do with the sabbath and rest. The healing of the lame man happened on the sabbath. Just as God created man in 6 days and rested on the 7th there is expected to be 6 days or 6000 years and a day of rest, the millennial reign of Christ. A day with the Lord is as a 1000 years.

Just as the lame man was healed on the 7th day or Sabbath we will be raised/raptured at the end of 6000 years or the 7th day or Sabbath day.

The lame man was also healed on a certain feast day. On what feast day will we be resurrected/raptured? Pentecost? Atonement? Tabernacles?

John 5:1 After this there was a feast of the Jews; and Jesus went up to Jerusalem.

The lame man was able to walk again. The first person to walk with God was Enoch.

Genesis 5:24 And Enoch walked with God: and he was not; for God took him

I believe the “38 year period of time” symbolizes a time of weakness and infirmity. We are saved and our salvation is secure in heaven but we still have these mortal weak bodies that still are in battle with our flesh. When Christ returns we will receive our promised inheritance and new bodies and walk in wholeness with Him. There will be no more sin or suffering or disease. Praise God.

[naomiknight-17]

This liminal not-Christmas but not-quite-New Year day seems to be a good time to curl up with a blanket and a new book and pretend I have a fireplace

[therealannabellee]

updating again 😈

[strange-destinations]

In which Travis freaks out, and the Doctor digs herself into a hole – although not strictly in that order.

[maxineholtzmann]

hello to tumblr idk if anyone is even still following here but i have reemerged onto the internet after uh years of dropping off the face of the planet because apparently burning myself out on school and then a demanding job to the point that i’m in an active health crisis is what has dragged my brain back into fandom spaces

we’re all in on strangers things now though besties like i am on the steddie train and i won’t be getting off so join me (or don’t, i’m not your dad)!

i felt weird having my name be nymphadoraholtzmann because i don’t want to be associated with jk rowling at all and also this is not a harry potter blog anymore idk so uh we kept the last name part to continue to honour my one true love jillian holtzmann from the all ladies ghostbusters movie and then added maxine because max from stranger things is MY GIRL - abrasive weirdos are my people idk

[humming-fly]

Just like Justin Mcelroy's callbacks to the chilean miners I have once again emerged to deliver this, More Team Greed Nonsense, this time featuring stupid questions ed asks to get out of work

ngl drawing this is the most clear headed I've felt in weeks if i go longer then seven days without drawing greedling I start going through withdrawl

to that end have a second bonus:

Team Greed Doodles Masterlist

[workingclasshistory]

On this day, 8 April 2013, former Conservative prime minister Margaret Thatcher died. Street parties broke out across the UK, particularly in working class areas and in former mining communities which were ravaged by her policies. Her legacy is best remembered for her destruction of the British workers' movement, after the defeat of the miners' strike of 1984-85. This enabled the drastic increase of economic inequality and unemployment in the 1980s. Her government also slashed social housing, helping to create the situation today where it is unavailable for most people, and private property prices are mostly unaffordable for the young. Thatcher also complained that children were "being cheated of a sound start in life" by being taught that "they have an inalienable right to be gay", so she introduced the vicious section 28 law prohibiting teaching of homosexuality as acceptable. Abroad, Thatcher was a powerful advocate for racism, advising the Australian foreign minister to beware of Asians, else his country would "end up like Fiji, where the Indian migrants have taken over". She hosted apartheid South Africa's head of state, while denouncing the African National Congress as a "typical terrorist organisation". Chilean dictator general Augusto Pinochet, responsible for the rape, murder and torture of tens of thousands of people, was a close personal friend. Back in Britain, she protected numerous politicians accused of paedophilia including Sir Peter Hayman, and MPs Peter Morrison and Cyril Smith. She also lobbied for her friend, serial child abuser Jimmy Savile, to be knighted despite being warned about his behaviour. Margaret Thatcher was eventually forced to step down after the defeat of her hated poll tax by a mass non-payment campaign. Pictured: Jimmy Savile welcoming Thatcher to hell, reportedly. Learn more about the great miners' strike of 1984-5 in our podcast series: https://workingclasshistory.com/tag/1984-5-miners-strike/ https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=605239344982618&set=a.602588028581083&type=3

[soapskneebrace]

gravity

Pairing: John Price x f!Reader Rating: General audiences Word Count: 3.9k Warnings: none Author's Notes: LIKE CHILEAN MINERS (iykyk). I want to express a tidal wave of thanks to everyone for waiting so, so patiently for this chapter. Life got hard and is remaining so, but the kindness I have received has been so incredibly comforting. Please enjoy the longest chapter of Neighbors I have written to date. Also a HUGE shoutout to Lev @yeyinde as ALWAYS for her advice, the pub is a direct result of her guidance. MASTERLIST Now on Ao3!

It’s a cold and windy morning that, as you hover just a little closer to his warmth, you ask him about decent places to eat nearby.

“Fancy pub food?” he asks in response, and it takes you a moment to process what he’s said. Today he’s in a thick, soft-looking knit sweater, which makes it infinitely difficult not to imagine huddling up against him.

You think he’d let you. You’re not sure how you know this. Maybe it’s the way he positions himself next to you, standing at an angle toward you just slight enough to be casual, but open enough to be purposeful. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you, like he’s trying to warm you up with his eyes alone—he asked you once why you always bundled up to be outside, and you told him you were just sensitive to the cold.

Since then, you’ve often caught him checking on you, surreptitiously. Simple once-overs that you think are searching for evidence of discomfort.

What would he do, you wonder, if he found any? Would he send you inside, as he had the first morning?

Part of you thinks that would be better. It would give you an out, open up a path diverting away from whatever this thing is that hangs in the air between you and John Price, this thing that you pass back and forth between the pages of borrowed books.

It’s a thing that breathes with the both of you into the early morning, and you don’t know how to look at it. You don’t understand its shape. It’s a thing you wish you wanted to walk away from.

“Who doesn’t?” you reply, sipping at the cold dregs in your cup.

“How ‘bout tonight, then?” John says, and you swallow a little too quickly.

“W-what about tonight?”

He smiles at you, as if he’s thrown you off on purpose. “Dinner, on me.”

You blink several times. “You—I—I mean—really?”

He shrugs, easy and casual as you wish you could be. “Could show you what’s best on the menu. And I wouldn’t mind having dinner with someone besides m’self.”

You hesitate, because your gut reaction is to say yes, John, I’d like nothing more, and that is not a reaction you want to satisfy. These past several mornings have been nice—nicer than you could have expected. You’ve stopped interrogating yourself as to why you keep bothering, because each time his smile greets you as you step outside is answer enough. The routine has been easy to settle into, even comforting.

You need to protect that comfort, you know, even from the allure of something more.

John does not press for an answer, seeming content to savor the last few inhales of his cigar. You wonder if he’s guessed at your inner conflict, wonder if the quiet he’s giving you is an intentional moment to sort yourself out.

He never presses for anything, ever.

“I suppose I could meet you after work,” you finally say.

The smile that breaks across his face nearly knocks you off your feet. You’re relieved when he says, “Sounds good to me,” because if he’d said it’s a date you think you might have dissolved on the spot.

John texts you the pub’s address, and it’s close enough to walk to. You arrive that evening, in your usual two coats plus a knitted hat, to find that the place exceeds a set of expectations you didn’t know you had. The patio seating is closed in with a white picket fence and hung with strings of fairy lights, and it flanks a red brick building with a large, friendly lantern hanging over the door.

You might have expected something a little grubbier, if you’d given the place any more thought beyond this is John’s pub and he’s having me for dinner here.

Warm air envelops you as you step inside, and your gaze is drawn as if by a magnet to a table further in—John has already seen you, and beckons you over with a wave.

He’s still in the knit sweater, and his fleece jacket is hanging on the back of the seat across from him. He stands as you approach, rounds the table, and pulls that chair out for you when you join him.

You don’t know why the chivalry makes you falter, makes you want to turn and sprint all the way back home. All you know, as you sit down, is that you can practically feel the aura of his presence behind you as he helps push your chair in, can feel it move as he leaves your side to return to his seat. You feel yourself gravitate into it, leaning a little over the table as if trying to keep it close.

“This place is tidy,” you say earnestly, trying for that morning normalcy, as you begin to shuck your layers.

“It’s alright,” he agrees. He’s smiling gently, the cool blue of his eyes vivid in the contrast of warm lamplight.

“Do you—” and then you can’t help but giggle, because it’s such a cliche question “—do you come here often?”

He grins, huffs that little laugh. “Too often,” he says as he sits back in his chair, putting a hand on his stomach. “It’ll start showing soon, probably.”

You look at the flat of his stomach, the broad paw of his hand. Remember the trim waist of that very first morning. “You know, somehow I doubt that.”

He meets you eyes, laughs again, and it warms you to the bone.

Seeing him like this, at night, is an unknown quantity. The John you know how to interact with exists on his front doorstep, painted in the cool palette of sunrise, cold air, cigar smoke. This tableau, composed upon the table between you, might as well turn him into another man entirely. Who is this John, awash in warm light, nearly twelve hours older than the man you spoke to this morning? Who are you, now, seeing him after work and before the end of the night?

You feel a little untethered. Your feet still itch for the door, for the measured, predictable floorboards of your own home.

Maybe John notices, because he takes a menu from the stack of two at the end of the table and offers it to you with a reassuring lift of his brows. “Hungry?”

That question, at least, has an easy answer. You smile a little. “Starving.”

His advice turns out to be necessary—everything looks good, and you both end up ordering too much food. Over a spread of fresh, hot chips, halloumi kebabs, and katsu chicken served liberally with curry sauce, John also has a bottle of scotch brought to the table.

“No, that’s too much!” you protest as the waitress sets the decanter down with two clean glasses. “John, really.”

He sets to pouring, his expression pleased, though you’re not sure what about. “Humor me, love. I don’t get to share very often.”

He hands you a glass, and lifts his own above the food. You acquiesce, and clink the rims.

“Do I take a shot or a sip?” you ask, bringing the glass up to your mouth.

“A sip,” says John, and his expression is genuinely distressed. “Please, don’t ever suggest shooting scotch again. That hurt to hear.”

You smirk, and take a slow drink. It hits your tongue with the prologue to a burn, rolling across your taste buds as the twinge fades and you close your eyes. The flavor opens like smoke exhaled into still air; you purse your lips a little and swirl it in your mouth; nutmeg, vanilla, and even a little apple expand across your palate. When it hits the back of your tongue, a short floral burst surprises you, and you swallow it down eagerly.

You find John watching you when you open your eyes.

“Where did you learn to drink like that?” he asks, and there is a new tone in his voice that you’ve never heard before.

It’s low. Resonant. Almost—purring. The look in his eyes, too, is different, the pale blue sharper somehow. Focused keenly, and with some unknown, honed intent, on you.

It pins you where you sit. John is looking at you. John is seeing you.

“Doesn’t everyone learn to drink at uni?” you reply, trying for airy and light. It doesn’t work. Your voice trembles, just a bit.

He’s still watching you, and you think he sees that. Recognizes, perhaps, a change in your expression, some telltale sign that he has shaken you. He looks away from you, takes a drink of his own scotch, and when his gaze returns the keen edge of it has softened. You breathe, and realize you hadn’t been.

You seek something comfortable, something you can measure and control. “How is Actium treating you, then?”

He smiles, and it’s a little rueful. “Octavian’s being a cunt.”

As talk of the most recent book he’s borrowed carries you into more comfortable territory, the two of you make your way through dinner, which is every bit as delicious as John had promised. The food is hearty, greasy in a way that isn’t too heavy, and pairs perfectly with John’s scotch, which you indulge in liberally.

When the alcohol has outpaced the food that is meant to offset it, you think back to what he’d said earlier, about not often getting to share.

“So am I the first person you’ve brought here?” you ask. “Or do you take every neighbor out to dinner?”

John lifts one dark brow, leans in with a tilt of his head. “Only the pretty ones.”

You give an unladylike snort and swirl a cut of chicken around in curry sauce. “You’re incorrigible, John, really.”

The smile he gives crinkles the laugh lines around his eyes, and you feel yourself want to melt at the sight. It is unfair how handsome he is, in that warm sweater, in that golden light, haloed softly in the haze of your verging intoxication.

“When will you believe me when I compliment you, hmm?” he asks, low and resonant in the depths of his chest.

You shoot the rest of your scotch in answer, stuff the chicken into your mouth, and proffer the empty glass.

John squints at your heresy, but obediently pours.

“I suppose your line of work isn’t really great for your social life, then,” you comment. “Always coming and going.”

“My calendar’s certainly empty,” John agrees. “Honestly, it’s been a while since I’ve sat down with someone like this. I suppose I’m out of practice.”

“You’re eating with a fork and knife and not your hands.” You grin. “I’d say that’s pretty good already.”

He smiles back. “Would that chase you off?”

You sip your scotch. “Not if you keep pouring.”

“And she complained when the bottle came out. What about you, then?”

“What ‘bout me?”

“How many blokes have you been to dinner with, lately?”

You scoff at that and wash your food down with a sip. “None. As if they’re throwin’ ‘emselves at me.”

John’s expression changes, and it’s slow grin that spreads across his face, a smile you have never seen on him before. It isn’t the sad smile he’s given you at times, melancholy and resigned; nor is it the one he gives when he sees you in the morning, warm and soft and friendly.

No, this one is—energized. Invigorated. As if someone has given him good news he hadn’t been expecting.

“They’ve got to be,” he says, and his tone is humorous. “You must have your pick of the lot. And none of them have struck your fancy?”

You press your hands to your too-warm face. “John, don’t tease me.”

“Seems I’ve got to count myself lucky tonight, then,” he continues, leaning his elbows on the table. “If you’re as choosy as all that.”

You give him a droll look, and swirl your drink around in your glass. “If you must know, I got out of a relationship not long ago.”

John’s brows lift, and you want to smack yourself for letting that little detail escape you. “Is that so?”

You drink. “That is so.”

“What kind of idiot would let you get away?”

“My head is already spinning, and you’re abusing that,” you protest.

“Sorry, love,” he says, clearly not sorry. “But now you’ve got me curious.”

You sit back in your chair, staring at your plate to avoid his gaze. “I’m afraid it’s not all that dramatic. It just…didn’t feel right. I guess he liked me more than I liked him. We would go out, and I would think, ‘I want to leave him and go home.’”

And you still felt guilty about it. You hadn’t liked him that much in the first place, when he’d asked you out—you’d just said yes, because it seemed like the right moment in your life for something like that to happen. When you’d ended it, your extended social network had scratched its collective head, because there truly hadn’t been any good reason.

You just weren’t happy.

“Suppose I didn’t give it enough of a chance,” you say, downing the last of your glass.

“Hey,” John says, soft and gentle. You look up to meet his eyes—the expression on his face is a mixture of sympathy and resolution. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Sure, John.”

“Love.” His brow creases, insistent. “You deserve something you want.”

You press your lips together tightly, and suddenly you’re struck again with that sensation from earlier, that feeling that John’s presence is a tangible aura, something that rolls and settles across your awareness like a physical touch. You realize you’ve been leaning into it again, drawn toward him like a comet into the snag of a planet’s gravity.

“I’m definitely drunk now,” you say, because the only other words that want to come out are an emphatic I want you.

John smiles. He doesn’t press the issue. “Will I be carrying you home, then?”

“Oh, John, really!” You give a scoff, surprised at the sudden humor. “You couldn’t carry me all that way.”

One dark brow lifts.

“No,” you say. “You’ll have to put me down. I’m not light.”

The smile remains.

You hold his gaze, suspicious, and finish the last of your glass. It does not take long to polish off the last of dinner, and when the two of you agree that the last chips have finally gotten too cold to eat, John pushes his seat back and stands.

“Done, then? I’ll settle the tab. Love, put that away.”

You sheepishly lower your half-lifted wallet back into your purse.

Accounts settled, you make it outside the pub, and then you have to lean against a wall as John watches you, amused. The world is swaying, its pendulum arcing near-horizontal at the amplitude of each swing.

“I just need a minute,” you whisper.

John does the worst thing he could possibly do—he gives you his back and kneels down, arms a little open. “Come on.”

“Come on? Come off it, John, really, you’ll drop me!” you exclaim.

He looks over his shoulder at you. “I won’t.”

You don’t know what convinces you to do it. Tomorrow, you’ll blame the many glasses of expensive scotch, but in the moment you know it’s the way the hanging lights limn his silhouette in gold. You know it’s the soft expression on his face that you are already too fond of. You know it’s the quiet confidence in his reassurance, and above all those things it’s the familiar comfort of his kind blue eyes.

“All right, John,” you say.

As you wrap your arms around his shoulders, John scoops your knees up into the bend of his arms, and you can add now the feeling of his strength to your mental registry of his body. He is broad against you, the width of him obliging your thighs to part farther than they have in a long, long time.

It brings a heat to your face that dwarfs the low simmer of your inebriation. When he lifts you, straightens up and hoists you a little on his back, like you weigh almost nothing, you are unable now to shove back and contain what he has inspired since that first morning.

“This feels nice,” you murmur, tucking your chin on his shoulder. The scotch has the reins of your tongue now. There is no stopping the words that come out. “I wondered if it would. This morning.”

John’s reply is low, humming in his throat as he begins the trek home. “This morning?”

You breathe. “You always look warm and soft. You’re so handsome every morning. Even the first. I wanted to touch you back then. I wanted you to hold me.”

He doesn’t say anything. Maybe he’s trying to focus on the walk back and not dropping you in the middle of it. He hoists you a little, cupping his hands beneath your knees, squeezing.

His silence prompts more of your honesty. “I don’t want to go to dinner with anyone else, John. Even if someone did ask. You’re the only one.”

“You’re drunk, love,” John says. You don’t recognize the tone of his voice, why it sounds…pleading.

Your face is very close to his, your chin pillowed in the fleece lining of his collar. You resolve fully to blame what you do next on the scotch, and touch the tips of your fingers to the coarse umber on his cheek.

His thumbs press into the divots beneath your kneecaps. John says your name, low and breathy. It must be the strain of carrying you that shows in his voice.

You lean in. You press your cheek against the bristles of his beard, inhale, take in the ever-present Maduro that saturates his skin. The friction is a million little pinpricks of sensation, and you think in that moment that if his beard doesn’t leave hot, welted scratches on your face, you might fall asleep crying.

“Oh,” you murmur, not recognizing the languorous, almost wanton sound of your own voice. “Feels good, John.”

“That’s,” he huffs, and audibly swallows. “That’s good. We’re—ah—we’re almost there.”

“Okay,” you say, sighing against him, settling fully into the expanse of his back.

You doze, unburdened now by what you’ve admitted. He does not waver once on the walk, makes no complaint of your weight as street lights pass and the night moves slowly by. He is as steady, when he makes it to your front door, as he was when he first picked you up.

“Where’s your key, love?” he asks.

“Oh,” you murmur blearily, “um. Let me down.”

Even after your feet are back on the ground, his steadying hand does not leave you, ballasting your elbow as you dig around in your purse. It seems like an embarrassingly long time before you find your keychain, and when you try to unlock your door you miss the slot twice.

John’s big hand wraps around yours then, engulfing it with long fingers and broad palm, and guides the key steadily into the lock. The slide of the deadbolt is loud in the quiet night. You have to lean against the door, suddenly devoid of the strength to turn the knob as you look up at John’s concerned face.

“Let me help you in, love,” he says, brow creased. “Please. I’m worried you’ll fall and hit your head.”

Your entire body feels like it’s sinking into a glass of champagne, his words caressing you like rising bubbles, little pearls of air tickling your face as they touch you. You openly stare at him, watch his throat work as he swallows again, rest your eyes along the broad tendon that flexes as he tilts his head.

“Sure,” you whisper, too out of breath to speak aloud. “If that’s what you want.”

So John turns the knob, loops your arm around his shoulders, and walks you inside.

It is very hard to focus now, as John sits you down on your couch. There isn’t much you can hold in your mind besides the moment his hands leave you, and you inexplicably want to cry at their loss. You don’t see where he goes, vision going dark and blurry around the edges—you think he might have left until he comes back with one of your glasses, filled with clear, cool water.

He kneels in front of you and proffers it, doesn’t let go of the glass until both your hands are wrapped around it. He watches you as you take a sip.

“Drink all of that, alright?” he says. “You had a lot.”

You hold the glass back out to him. “You did too.”

His brows lift, lips parting. Have you surprised him? He pulls the glass closer with a little tug, puts his lips to the rim and tilts it from the bottom as you hold it. His eyes do not leave yours as he drinks, as he takes only a little, and then he pulls away and gently pushes the glass back toward you. Your gaze falls from his eyes, down to the little droplets of water clinging to his mustache, down again to the steady line of his mouth.

You bring the glass back up and take a deep gulp.

“Good girl,” he says, low and rumbling, and heat floods your body.

You realize then that his other hand is on your knee, the weight of his palm heavy and broad, his thumb rubbing a comforting circle into the edge of the cap. You are washed in the blend of his warm comfort and the sudden, almost violent sear of your own desire.

When the glass is empty, he eases it from your hands and sets it aside on your coffee table. When he turns back to you, your hand comes up, unbidden, to curve itself along the angle of his jaw. Umber bristles are coarse beneath the sweep of your thumb.

“Not soft, is it?” John murmurs, and there is something stormy and intense in his gaze.

You take a deep breath. “Maybe I’m okay with that.”

His hand grips your knee suddenly, vicelike, and you know this is pushing too far. He does not lean in to you, makes no move toward you, but his entire body is a bank of energy that he is holding, holding, holding back. His chest rises and falls rapidly. His eyes pin you to the couch as he works the muscles in his jaw.

“You’re drunk, love,” he says. It is not the pleading assertion he’d given earlier. It is a conclusion—fond, but resigned.

The room has begun to gently spin, with John at its axis. “I’m drunk,” you agree, whispering and fragile.

It breaks whatever has been building since you’d left the pub. John draws back. Nods. Gives you a smile—that smile. The one that had taken hold of you the first time you saw it. Trying, with every scrap of willpower it had, to be happy, to be alright with what little it had. Failing to do so.

Unable to hide how much it wanted.

“You got a spare key?” he asks. “I can lock you in.”

“Key hook,” you say.

His hand drags down from your knee to stroke along your shin, and then he’s rocking back on his heels, standing to his full height. He looks at you for a moment longer.

“Get some sleep,” he says.

When you blink, he’s gone, and the deadbolt is sliding home.

Bonus A/N: Some housekeeping. First, if you see your username on this list and it's struck through, it means you did not come up when I tried to @ you. I will try one more time, but if it doesn't work I'm taking your name off the list. Get right with the tumblr gods if you can. Second, a few people have told me that they did not get the tag notification on the last update, so let me know if that's the case for you and I will see about trying a different format. And third, I've been editing the format for neighbors across all chapters, so sorry in advance if you get notified twice. Tumblr knows even less about coding a website than I do.

Taglist: @yeyinde @guyfieriiii @aduckingpain @jaimiespn @aconstructofamind @trashy-panda777 @lich1 @smoggyfogbottom @cielobgers @antigonusyuki @bubble-dream-inc @monsterhighsblog @so-scarlet–it-was-maroon @itsthetiredstudent @misshoneypaper @wasteland-babe @jxvipike @deadbranch @mildlyhopelesss @yes-music-is-my-religion @shuttlelauncher81 @xback1021 @zero-ice @hailstrum18 @ramadiiiisme @glassgulls @simonea27 @kitty-satan1 @tianotfound @solarslushee @mmmothballz @wiserebelpartypie @randomchick546 @stripeycatt @shurikan17 @staymetalmacie @capt-soaps-bbg @cold-blooded-girls @rdeville

The taglist is closed. Thank you everyone for your interest.

[gerardpilled]

Real inappropriate for mcr to be touring in August and September of 2010 as if those Chilean Miners weren’t still trapped underground 😒

[epersonae]

five fic friday

as they say at the beginning of a mcelroys liveshow, like chilean miners emerging from underground, I have returned -- I'm not even going to look up the last time I did this, because I don't want to know. (before I broke my leg, clearly; possibly before S2.)

five little fics and one slightly longer one, and this week we're all canon-era (yes, the AUs will return!)

and I feel sure that my wounds will heal by @werewolf-transgenderism (T, 1050) - "self-indulgent", but in the best way; I am enjoying this new genre of OFMD fic where Ed gets to do some healing and be cared for!

Dear Ed (sorry, wrong chat) by @chaotic-neutral-knitter (T, 3140) - FUCKING HILARIOUS story of the widows' club discovering some of Stede's letters

Arachnophobia by @notfromcold (NR, 2034, I would say T but obvs cw: spiders) - Ed's history with spiders and his spider tattoos, with a lovely post-S2 scene

Man on Fire by @celluloidbroomcloset (M, 729) - a gorgeous little fragment of Stede POV, between the wall kiss and the bed

Everything That Rises Must Converge by @piratecaptainscaptainpirates (M, 6147) - I've really been enjoying his work as a newer writer in the fandom, and this story of Ed being haunted by his own trauma pulls together some common themes in a way I enjoyed

[hapalopus]

Do you remember how the entire world held its breath during the Thai Cave Rescue? Do you remember the tears of joy we all cried when the Chilean miners were hauled out of what would have been their tomb? Do you remember the hope we felt when they were found alive, alive despite all odds, and the resources spent, and the thousands of people actively helping? And the strength they needed to survive until they could be rescued? Do you remember the compassion for strangers and the strength fostered by hope? Please, don't forget the power of compassion and hope.

[shotofstress]

U know what enrage me? That in Chile, being the country with the largest diaspora of Palestinians and their descendants in the world, say Palestinians are, a lot of them, christian conservatives, right wing, fascists. We haven't still kickout and close the israeli embassy and no one relevant have call for it yet. The world famous Palestinian FC? Is in the upper class neighbourhood in which the poor can't go bc is far af, u feel poorer and more brown when u go to the upper class area of the capital where the rich live behind walls bc they hate the poor. I can't buy the shirt of the football club coz is expensive af and was in fact easier and less expensive to bring a kufiya of Hebron 15 years ago. The Palestinian politicians are 99% of them seudo christian but full fascists and have supported the right wing governments since ever. Including the ones that supported the crimes of Piñera's dictatorship (torture, mutilation, rape, detentions, burning buildings like supermarkets, closing them in working class areas to control food and water, etc). Some palestinians here have huge companies and fabrics, being one of the migrant groups with more money in hands of some families which are the wealthiest of the country. And the representatives of Palestinians here, like club Palestine, have never say a thing. Never speak against the fascism, the crimes against queer people or the native nations of Chile which have been under colonisation and ethnic cleaning for centuries, the destruction of the land at hands of the upper class stealing water, food, killing ppl for lack of basic human resources, the killing of the land and our ppl at hands of the extraction of minerals, the constant political killings, the amount of nazis we had/have here and their descendants that are known for supporting every crime here. I can't stand that the faces of Palestine here are the upper class while the other Palestinians working class lives, works or study in middle class areas or the marginalised areas with other migrants.

Why Palestine here is represented by the blond pale upper class that speaks with the accent of the upper class and only interact with the upper class that hate the poor, the black, the brown, the natives, the left, the queers? Even a open supporter and known spy of pinochets dictatorship created the hymn of the Club and they honored him and shit at the club when the fascist piece of shit died some years ago? The ones that speak up in their ig account had our comments deleted. And that shit is every day when u point out how they betrayed the values that one is supposed to have if u call for Palestine liberation. Is not our obligation to be anti fascist, anti capitalist, anti imperialists if we belive in Palestine liberation?

In every single one of the protests and riots that occurred in Chile, the Palestinian flag is high in the sky like the chilean one, the Wallmapu, the Wiphala. Palestine flag is part of our daily life as well the histories of families and friends living, working, being friends with the working class palestinians back in the day. Even now Palestinians lifes are waved in our personal histories in one way or another. There is no place in which there is not palestinian food stores or restaurants, is impossible to not see al least 1 person with a kufiya or the flag in ur daily life, I growth up with a portrait of Yasir Arafat in my house, multiple Qurans in the house, multiple kufiyas and garments, books, art, even the food become part of my household. I ĥad school mates, neighbours of the area, one of the ppl I live with went to the beautiful mosque of the neighbourhood. In one of my school trips to other region of the country they took us to the mosque there in which ppl of all religions and faiths can pray together and was built with the idea of peace and living together, all the material are native to our land, and is one of the most beautiful buildings I have ever seen.

The little I know of my family history is that always, always, had relationship in some one or another with palestinians and other ppl from Middle East and the Arab world (heck anyone that was a migrante also). There is even a tradition to pass the same name from one generation to another, which i can only guess was bc a palestinian or other person of the region, but don't know if was bc a friend or even maybe someone in the past married or was in love with a palestinian. I don't know how many ppl back in the blood line carried the name, I know of at least 4 in different generations, but I carry it.

I remember being a kid and placing candles and drawings with the Palestinian flag in my balcony bc we always saw the news about Palestina. I wanted peace for them, and also wandered why no one send guerrillas to help them, like the armed resistance in Pinochets dictatorship, all the South American resistances fighting dictatorships, or all the people that went from all over the world to fight against the dictatorships of Hitler, Franco, Tito, etc. Why? Why no one went to help them? Years later, I thought the same but without the innocence of then, I asked out loud and also in my mind, why no one calls for an armed resistance from all over the globe. My couple said to me that make no sense the hippie upper class family friendly park activity in the rich neighbourhood made by the Club to raise money (which j don't know why considering that, as I said, that some of the upper classes families could take money of their own wallets comfortable without worrying of not been able to pay the bills the next months, they will not loss the money) when what Palestine needs is to fight, not thoughts and prayers. Certainly Palestina don't need the conservative right wing disguised as left descendents that feel more part of the chilean upper class that is terrible european-ish and gringo-ish as all upper classes of South America that want to distance themselves of the natives and the brown and black working class.

I saw an anarchist saying that they felt alone asking for the world to help with soldiers and guerrilleros. I said tons of times why when was the fascist Ukraine (that said brown and black ppl deserved war and blue eyes blonde ppl like them don't ) everyone was making graffiti of "freedom to the donbas" and literally bought military gear to use and tried to fly to Ukrain to fight the fascist Russia for days and weeks, calling to arms, even when tons of European countries decided to care bc geopolitics, but when was and is still Palestine??? Where are the people that are ready to fight? Where are they? The anarchist asked why ppl is being so indifferent. What I can tell them when not even the descendants are answering nor making that question here in the piece of crap country in which they live? I saw yesterday a video of Palestinians in other country singing for Palestine and calling for the arrive of freedom, independence, and socialism. Yes, socialism.

I just appreciate and feel empathy for Palestine. Is a problem that i feel this way? Idk I guess I am wrong af if I am more radical than the community here.

But can I say that it makes me cry and feel deep pain and wrath that my fellow humans are exterminate in a Final solution crime at hands of a european and USA check point disguised as a country? Yes, I can say that. I know that never ever an ethno state or any colonialist has stopped because u ask please. I also know, from the history of the world, that only fighting helps (and economical sanctions from everyone against the opressor which the world will not make bc they will call them anti semitic and all that zionist rhetoric and questions colonialism). Yes, fighting fake news helps, but helps more, u know, physically fight the oppressors, saying the truth. I'm tired of hearing diplomatic "middle ground" and "both sides" bullshit. I'm tired of the world behaving like they didn't allowed the comeback in full force of the extremist far right in every corner and Palestine in used as experiment to what can be done without consequences. I can expect this from the Canadian, French, German or Statetian that want to deport everyone bc what can u expect of imperialists countries? But that the descendants of the oppressed support Conservative shit behaviour even when the land of their families is under ethnic cleaning???

How can capitalism, imperialism, right wing politics and life style transform you in a disgrace? Why then the working class chileans and mostly all south Americans rise the Palestine flag? Shpuld we not? We have no right, is not our place to fight for palestinians, we can only fight with them when they call for us. I repeat; fight with them but not for them. I wonder how many south americans from different cultures and nations would take arms if palestinians from the diaspora call us. But then I remember that we don't even help the neighbours and only help white ppl. Is this what displacement do? We all were displaced of territories. So is this why no one cares beyond the pantomime of seudo leftists speech, thoughts and prayers, and sharing info in social media?

Why I am angry when it feels like I should forget how every territory that has been colonised get rid of the imperialists? Should I stick to just share news with mouth shut in social media that censors and shadowban the truth and deletes the accounts of palestinians? Is this how we see the world sinking in full nazi shit and a entire country disappear? Extermination, deporting ppl, europeans creating ethno states, zionism, christo fascism, Islamic ppl that don't help their own ppl in other country, south america living a second Operation Condor and under full invasion of USA with tons of military bases and supporting dictatorships and corrupting elections. All happening at the same time and I just can't stop to remember that while genocide was declared internationally and here was the anniversary of the dictatorship of Piñera (with zero justice for the crimes and the declaration of war he made to his own country helped with israeli weapons and torture techniques) and the year of the 50th anniversary of the Coup against Allende the palestinians organisations here didn't say a thing about this things (as always) and didn't had an bank account for help to Palestine until 4 days later, but first they announced that they would had to cancel the lunch they made every week for the memebers of the club (for wich u have to pay of course).

How can be posible that my source of true and reliable information and hope is people from all over the world, but not the literal fucking palestinian club in the country with the most number of palestinians??? They share some fake news and the comments is full of anti semitic conspiranoic rich ppl for fuck sake. All bs Christians of course, forget u will see more muslims there or palestinian theology of liberation. They even make a Christian mass but nothing in the mosques, announced nothing.

Why I can trust palestinians and all the people that is fighting out there but not the ones here?

Should I just give up? Lost hope? Think that is preferable no """violence""" (aka no resistance) and only care if was a direct family member like I just read a person say? I just read a human saying their grandmother was palestinian and had to fly to Chile bc the colonialist settlement, and that her grandmother died some years ago, and that they, the human writing, don't belive in violence, but they would probably feel angry if were their kids corpse in a plastic bag and then they would feel that violence is necessary.

I feel this country stain everything and everyone that lives here for too long. The fascism and the lack of empathy and understanding corrupts all.

There are better countries to live, it must be one, this one is terrible and the next constitution being written and will be voted stripes working class of all our human rights, and the next presidential candidate is a far right pinochetist son of a nazi that had slaves here, stole land from indigenous ppl and country folk in the south which is full of nazis.

This is why u probably haven't seen news about huge manifestations here in Chile beyond the one of the other day (that wasn't really big) and see mostly from any other part of the globe. Here have been no really hard protests nor anything. There was a call for a international strike the other day and here nothing happened really. Palestinians of the world need to call out the ones here for forgetting the anti colonialist and anti capitalist fight, the fight for life and freedom.

All the ppl living in Palestine deserves better than this behaviour, my pathetic angry post, 20 miserable trucks that can't pass, and this soulless heartless world.

In my disable body for moments lives the hope that someday they will have socialism and every imperialist in the world would die at hands of the ppl they oppressed. Survive Palestine, Free Palestine, Independent 1 state Palestine, Socialist Palestine from the river to the sea.

[meinkatz]

ALICANTO FLOOR LAMP BY FONTANA ARTE

Its name comes from Chilean mythology, Alicanto, a nocturnal bird that is said to live in the Atacama Desert and has the peculiarity of feeding exclusively on gold and silver. According to the fable, its feeding makes it unable to fly but makes its wings glow with golden reflections. The miners, seeing its light in the dark, would follow it and thus find gold. It was therefore the image of this bird capable of lighting up the night, about to take flight but firmly set on the ground, that suggested the inspiration when it came to finding a name for a new lamp characterized by a slight forward imbalance: its arched shape is all projected to carry the light, almost as if to «extend» it, as far as possible. An elegant and sophisticated fitting, Alicanto is a contemporary lamp, solid and light, with an innovative design that is capable of adapting to cutting edge furnishings without departing from the FontanaArte philosophy, in balance between art and industry, suspended between clarity and durability.

DOWNLOAD

[leftistfeminista]

On Paul Robeson's 126th birthday, I would like to celebrate one of his lesser known songs. His rendition of Beethoven's Ode to Joy with his own interpretive translation of the lyrics. It captures the humanistic spirit of the Enlightenment, French Revolutionary and Romanticist eras in which Beethoven worked. And the egalitarian ideas Robeson championed. Those who struggle are supported and those who might dominate are kept in check. It is the deepest level of solidarity and fraternity where none are allowed to fall. A powerful antidote to an age of unchecked individualism, competition, cruelty and glorification of strength for its own sake.

..Build the road of peace before us, Build it wide and deep and long Speed the slow and check the eager, Help the weak and curb the strong. None shall push aside another, None shall let another fall March beside me, oh, my brothers, 

ALL FOR ONE AND ONE FOR ALL

Paul Robeson Sings For The Underdog 

During his career, vocalist Paul Robeson usually avoided singing classical music, once stating that European traditions had “nothing in common with the history of my slave ancestors.” He almost exclusively devoted himself to spirituals, protest songs and folk ballads, championing the oppressed through music. That was certainly the case with his unlikely but devoted relationship with group of working-class miners in Wales, whom Robeson supported in their protests against low wages and unsafe working conditions.

On the occasion he did perform classical works, he reframed them as folk music. Robeson’s “Ode to Joy” replaces the orchestra with a single piano, and he opts to sing in English rather than German, driving home the message of brotherhood to his English-speaking audiences. Robeson’s leftist politics lead to his blacklisting during the McCarthy Era, leaving him unable to travel with a revoked passport. So when the Welsh miners invited him to perform at a festival 1957, his only choice was to sing across the sea via a transatlantic telephone line. He dedicated his version of “Ode to Joy” to the crowd of 5,000, supporting their struggle for what he called “a world where we can live abundant and dignified lives.”

Chilean Women Protest A Violent Dictator

In 1973, military dictator Augusto Pinochet assumed power in Chile and oversaw the imprisonment and torture of tens of thousands of people belonging to opposition groups. At the risk of their own lives, female protesters gathered outside torture prisons to sing the “Himno a la Alegria,” a hymn based on “Ode to Joy,” to bring hope to those being held inside. You can see a clip of the protest in the documentary Following the Ninth: 

Another of his lesser known performance is of Luther's famous hymn, which launched in the religious sphere the bourgeois democratic revolt against Medieval Feudalism.

While we are still a long, long ways away from the just society Robeson dreamed of, we have at least made some progress from the McCarthyist days in which he was blacklisted, to being officially recognized today in our nation's capital.