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purkinje-effect · 2 years

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The Anatomy of Melancholy, 91: Formica

Table of Contents Third Instar, Chapter 22. Go to previous. Go to next. KITCHEN SINK DDW CHAPTER AHOY. CWs for insects, heavy chem use, faked romantic embroilment, NSFW, graphic eroticized self-harm, forfeit bodily autonomy, memory and reality fuckery, mental break, and ego death. If you want to skip this chapter, the takeaways are included as the very last footnote.

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Data integrity recovery... 75%... Please do not power off your system.

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November 1, 2287

‘Choly toils over his plentiful notes salvaged upon vacating Lease 37. The ancient paper crinkles and warps from fresh water damage, and the ink is not entirely indelible. He appreciates that it follows to expect he would pen formulas and sketches to paper, but just like their memories of it, even these notes have gaps. Surely, the bungled holotape which he has yet to eject from his Pip-Boy sequesters even deeper detail. Missing pages might account for some diagrams and annotations lacking their antecedents, but only the existence of text files on the holotape can explain such extensive, consistent, glaring omissions. In essence, without the work he expects hides within holotape, he possesses only the appendix.

A smile quivers at the corner of his lips.

Did we glimpse what was never meant to be seen again, or did we awaken it? If we were meant to see it again, then why have us so soon and so completely forget? Everything about the mall was put there for a reason. …I just haven't any clue what reason that could be.

If the omissions aren't on the holotape, they're lost for good. For his sanity, its contents must complete the picture. How he gets on Berries can nettle even him, but the sheer earnesty of whatever he was on about in these footnotes nauseates him. The chain reaction of the storm and whatever chems he took during it convoked notions and imagery which churn his heart in an abyss. The handwriting is unmistakably his, down to an idiosyncratic reliance on Cyrillic in places. It’s unsettling enough allegedly to have witnessed such things, but he's desolate to know them only secondhand through what amounts to letters to himself. Reading what survived the lease flood jogs uncomfortable fragments of thoughts he struggles to piece together, like driftwood lapping against an uneasy brume-choked shore.

He wishes that there weren’t any parsible sense within these individual scraps of understanding, that they couldn’t possibly interrelate to anything more grandiose. The juxtaposition of thermodynamics substantiating the supernatural… Awe and dread wrestle for his grief. No matter how much of his notes he may ever restore, not even a polymath like General Francis would believe what these annotations threaten to insinuate. Even without Berries, he can tell the math itself details something very real, but sound math without evidence will always be on paper mere theory. Perhaps it’s best if most take it for an overwrought fabrication.

It tickles him a bit that he's somehow penned something that psychologically strangles even him. It's almost a shame that it reads like nonfiction. Almost.

Yet, when he wrote these pages, he understood the conditions that came to damage Angel and the Pip-Boys. They are his key to undoing that damage. There are several units in the onboarding manual about gaussian repair. If he can deconstruct the nor'easter's magnetic properties, he can study the patterns it cut in their collective data media. Without this insight, he won't stand a chance otherwise.

Fuck it all, magnetic fields. It’s no wonder no one can remember fully. How anyone in the Hinter can inure themselves to such insidious inclement weather is unfathomable in any measure. The drugged MREs aren’t what makes Lockreed feel so secure. Something far more sophisticated has to be at play here, for the prewar building's interior to remain even more pristine than Deenwood despite apparent abandonment.

Something grazes loose hairs of his wadded up chignon. He smooths the hair down, and doesn't pay it much mind until it happens again, too absorbed in the notes. He feels behind himself. The RadRoach chirps a warning at him.

"I know this is your house," he tells it in Russian, not turning or moving, "but for now this one room is my home. I wish you and your cousins understood it."

He eases forward to set down his papers on the desk. His ears are trained on his unappreciative host behind him. He whips around in the chair to grab the insect. He grabs its antennae. It flails and chirps angrily, and it flicks its wings in an attempt to dislodge his blinding grip. For how flexible even an enormous roach is, and for how barely he has a grip on it, he cannot get a grip on any other portion of its anatomy without the risk of getting bitten. As he rises and walks to the office door, he thinks to beg for it to stop squirming. He flings it as hard as he can down the hall and shuts the door. He eases himself back into the chair, and rolls his eyes.

To tell an insect not to squirm… They breathe through abdominal contractions–isn't squirming then their way to hyperventilate? At least this one didn't get a bite.

He leans to pick up his notes again. His faint, shaking fingers trace the crude sketches he hopes are–and he wishes aren't–life drawings. A smirk twitches.

"Pèlerins. She called them… Pèlerins, didn't she?"

Do my sketches do their likeness any justice?

Why am I never certain my nightmares are nightmares?

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January 9, 2288

Sticks adjusts the scarf around the lower half of his face and snaps the flaps of his ushanka back over it, then continues whittling with his multitool. In the lingering four feet of snow, he shields himself from the occasional bite of wind by crouching behind a stand of rocks. His Pip-Boy's Geiger counter clicks lazily, and he half wishes he could simply turn it off rather than tune it out. A variety of wood lay in his lap and around him along with a handful of various wires he’s scavved from inside Lockreed. He might not know much of any intended use for them, but he's found that braided wire makes a damn fine snare, so he supposes that means it’s good for something. He shakes his head and eyeballs the piece of pine branch he’s notching.

You’ve lost your marbles for good this time, River Sticks. You finally got out of this damn place, and you’re still puttering around here.

It's not so bad, that he hadn't known a need to procure foothold traps before leaving Ant. Pelt traps are easy enough to lay. Provided reliable wood and sufficient cordage, the hard part is always patience. He spent most of yesterday looking for a gap in the ice where he could cast the seine he usually wears for a shawl, but he only netted two small bass and a load of garbage from upriver. He’s surprised the snow and ice have persisted this late into the season. But, he’s been overjoyed he gets to eat something this week besides RadRoach, for the first time since they got themselves stuck inside Lockreed. It’s something of a frustrating inversion, for him to crave things to eat alongside the meat, but two months with not even so much as a tato or carrot has him a bit deranged.

He has a lot of reasons to be a lot of kinds of deranged.

His shallow, sharp breaths don’t condensate around his face. His thin cracked lips peel back in a grimace. He works at notching another piece of pine. His hand isn't acting up so much today. Occasional vague guttural snaps punctuate his strokes.

Even though they got one of the F.C. generators back online two weeks ago, ‘Choly still forbids any of them to go anywhere without extensive scrutiny beforehand–not to another floor, and certainly not outside. The little rat bastard thinks the place is haunted by the General or something, Sticks guesses. He was on about something, after they found that body in the basement. All Sticks followed was, give me a few days. The new project got him to leave Sticks alone for a bit longer than usual, anyway.

Open sesame.

The building security system calls ‘Choly Colonel Carey. Thanks to ‘Choly’s tinkering, it now thinks Sticks is some dame named Maria. He’s not sure what ‘Choly did, but now he can come and go as he pleases.

I’m free. I can cut all my losses and run like I wanted. Guy’s hyper-focused on so much history malarkey and a crap ton of computer projects. He’s constantly junked up. He wouldn’t notice for days. Maybe even months.

Sticks tucks his multitool back in his left hand, then stands and gathers his whittled components, and treks off to locate good trees for setting snares.

So why doesn’t Sticks just leave? It’s been so easy to string the guy along with bluffs of infatuation. It bugs him somehow that ‘Choly’s so readily respected his demand for space. Has the lovestruck worn off? If he did notice Sticks left, would he even care? Sticks can’t have lost his hook in him somewhere between here and Ant. And surely, 'Choly hasn’t been faking being into him, too. It would be too much for the ghoul, if he’d been getting played by his mark.

What exactly is 'Choly's angle with all this, anyway?

He finds a sturdy slim forked tree, and begins running some wire between its two trunks and through a branch through which he’s bored a hole. He sets to winding up the load.

Those disgusting Blue Flu smoothies. He could become contagious again without those. I can handle him cutting me every few weeks… Don’t lose sight of your grand prize, you fool. The bastard hasn’t made good on his promise yet to cook me Deenwood treats. He doesn’t just represent everything Deenwood has to offer–he has the whole damn cookbook and knows how to read it. And he won't even need that place to make the stuff!

He catches himself overwinding, and eases back the load a few turns before setting a safety branch. With a sigh, he kneels down to unpack a two-foot wide patch of snow. When the ground is too frozen to clear out a ditch, he replaces the snow as loosely as he can. Then to either side, he tamps down twin stakes with the butt of his machete, and ties a snare loop. He pulls out a cut open Vim can, into which he's stuffed the diced up second fish he didn’t eat the day before, and taps out a portion of it atop his makeshift camouflaged pit.

I can’t let go when I’m this close to my hard work finally paying off.

That’s all it is.

He mutters to himself, as though he’s forgotten what he’s been after for over fifty years.

"Whole damn cookbook…”

He’s got his rifle. He decides to track a Radstag once he’s done laying his snares throughout the nearby area. It will be difficult to dress larger game with a multitool and machete, but he’s overdue for a solid physical challenge, and damn, if he couldn’t go for some ribs.

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January 13, 2288 [2288.01.13-0,1]

A declarative chirp concludes the algorithmic gaussian repair scan. ‘Choly glances up at the terminal screen from the lease papers. He unglues himself at some point and reaches to eject the holotape from the Pip-Boy tape deck. His eyes trace the key-prong cord tethering the device to the terminal. Every time he remembers that there exists a model of Pip-Boy with two tape decks, he wishes he had one. In order to write from one holotape to another, or run any script on one and apply it to another, he must plug into a terminal to use its hardware. Neither jealousy nor anxiety seizes him so much as anticipation. Success signifies far more than a reading opportunity, but in the moment it’s exactly that: he can finally deglaze one background anxiety that’s caked his brain for months.

He couldn't risk the data on the nor'easter holotape with his script experiments. He had to be fully certain the script works, as he's ruined several dozen formatted JBD cartridges ironing out viable gaussian repair script. Applying his script to a formatted holotape has only served repeatedly to damage it beyond restoration. If it weren't so ironic to have caused permanent physical lacunae in the holotapes, in his attempts to test a tool intended to repair them, it would madden him to suspect that jogging his own memories of Division Day could bake in or even accrue further brain damage.

He's had his Pip-Boy back online for several days now, for his efforts, at least. He clutches the holotape a little too long, and a little too firmly. A broken sigh falls from a broken smile. He disconnects the Pip-Boy and clips it back on his right arm, and allows it to synchronize with his Vault Suit before reinserting the holotape and clicking the deck shut. He takes it with him to the break room, for reading material over lunch.

He notices that he's already hard programmed to walk as lightly as possible, and that he carries his cane sooner than bear weight on it. Though he can't term it fear in his condition, he remains cautious not to draw Sticks's attention, in the chance the ghoul has come back inside already.

Only once in the break room, choosing his boxed meal, does he chuckle softly to himself: Olivia salad.[2288.01.13-2]

He prepares a goulash and grazes on it. All this time, he’s expected to retrieve a single document for his efforts, but it surprises him to find that his transcript of the events of the Division Day Nor’easter span multiple entries. Between the holotape and the physical annotations, his transcript tallies upwards of fifty pages, all for an eighteen hour time frame. Speculation sublimates amid bewilderment, that even more may have been lost when they relinquished Lease 37. Not even his “Fly-Blown” session, with its strangely organic comixture of narrative and hard pharmacological fabrications, had been so prolific.

His arms feel so much heavier. A soporific grin pulls the corners of his mouth abreast. He checks the medical diagnostics tab of his Pip-Boy to confirm that he once again enjoys the benefits of these two hundred year old Meals Ready to Eat. He couldn't dream of having ready access to this quantity of DayTripper anywhere else. He’s grateful for his companions, but these gifts the General has left behind are his truest undeniable grace here.

One of the earliest entries details what he had endeared a Foucauldian cocktail. He chuckles at the neuroplastic engineering that explicates his capacity to have penned such a volume of information in such a short span. Enduring attention, enhanced cognition, lasting satiety, and suppressed fatigue. He wonders whether he moved even once the entire storm. He plans to hash out some future means to compound the cocktail into a single chem dose, with the intent to market it to the Commonwealth’s aspiring authors.

Continuing through the holotape, he encounters one instance too many where the entries reference his notes, and can stand it no longer. He shovels the remainder of his meal and returns to plant himself at the desk. Before he proceeds another second, he copies the Nor’easter holotape to a formatted JBD cartridge. He calls for Angel, to store the original, safe inside it. While in its storage, he puts his hands on the twin armillary baubles from Burlington Glassworks. He can’t imagine how they survived the lease liquidation. He plucks them from inside his Mister Handy, thanks it, and turns it loose to resume patrolling their empty building.

He eyes the baubles with an indistinct unease. Inside the storage compartment, they had cast their impossible color in lieu of light, but under the fluorescent office lights, their observable chroma is limited to their effect on reflected light, as though that peculiar green-red gold were only visible in shadows and images. He sets them on the desk and tucks a sublingual Mentat. He then inserts another JBD into his Pip-Boy tape deck, intent on stenographic exegetics as he jumps between reading on the terminal and reading on the written page.[2288.01.13-3]

It's a heavy read, and a dense one, but he persists. He can't remember any of the details transcribed in the lease notes or holotape, yet it is manifest that he penned it from a firsthand account. His account must then substitute his memory of it. An otherworldly choreography had played out that day, to the tune of a lethean blizzard's imperceptible cacophony. What had compelled the pretemporal images; the Satellites, Children, and Laners; the ants; Sticks or even himself? They all had followed a path, seemingly incomprehensibly exact in its byzantine dimensions, yet at once just as rudimentary in the sense by which its actors had connected with it. History forever repeats itself in echoes and distortions, a fractal formula of design.

Something brushes at the back of his mind like a loose hair, or silvering cobweb. He twitches, and wipes at it as though physical action can liberate him of it.[2288.01.13-4] It isn't a RadRoach. He checks to be sure.

Something deeper than chem reliance robs him of the grief, guilt, and terror he rightfully expects every time he gains fresh postwar information. He half suspects that he's simply so far past the threshold of these emotions that he can no longer register them meaningfully: in the same way human nerves have a limit to the amount of pain they can measure, the human mind must have a limit to the amount of fear or remorse it can process. He delights to have stumbled upon one of the oldest nepenthes known to humanity, left with no other choice but to forget, because remembering takes too much. He wonders if his cryogenesis monopolizes a similar stranglehold on his experience and recollection, or if some more profound trauma explicates his displacement.

But is biology to blame for this general anesthesia, both acute and chronic? He sneers and smears at his face to loosen tightness building between his temples. He chews up the Mentat and continues to knead the sides of his head with the heels of his palms. It feels uniquely myopic to suspect nothing greater is at play. The mathematics he implemented in this transcript are beyond him without Berries, but tenuous fringes of insight still hover around the formulas, diagrams, and statistics. The philosophy of intelligent design doesn't quite ring, but the deliberateness of it all still unfurls a certain welcome resignation.[2288.01.13-5]

Attempting to alter the trajectory set in motion by the events which bound the Pèlerins to the granite feels like trying to steer an explosion after the fact. He won't need to consult Mama Murphy on the tenets of free will: she alone is evidence that knowing the temporal terrain only reinforces the path it's blazed. She saw Jared's chem-warped, monstrous visage through 'Choly's Jet bleary eyes, easily a decade before 'Choly hallucinated it. Rhyme or echo, time cascades ever onward.

He can't control any meaningful aspect tangent to his existence, any more than he could have controlled whether Jared became a monster in Lexington, or whether the General melted together everyone in Lowell. He feels so small… like an ant.

The sensation of the stray thread laps at him again.

Ants follow the signals of a pheromone trail to dictate their path and behavior. Something just as ingrained must dictate how humanity moves and behaves.

He relinquishes the notion of free will. He accepts a lack of agency, and accepts the role of agent.

I was only following orders.

Something inside him cracks. He writhes in a hollow eroticism. He's always thought he seeks control in sex encounters, but perhaps even deeper he endeavors simply for things to transpire as intended. If that responsibility can be relegated to someone or something else, he can focus more completely on achieving results.

A resigned smile doubles down on his inability to feel terror, despite any logic that he well ought to.

"These silvered cobwebs. Nemiza plays cat's cradle all around me."[2288.01.13-6]

He reclines on the loveseat, and imagines an undetectable force willing him to undo himself. He flicks the stenographic capture lever which he's missed so dearly, and lets the Tryasovitsy work him apart with a calligraphic fever. He knows full well that Sticks is not sixpence to the good on any transaction to ferry him safe to the Afterlife.[2288.01.13-7] He can’t expect Sticks to do all the work for him, machete or not. For all he is and all he's done, as a ghost he can only expect to drown in a river of nepenthe. Neither this world nor the next has room for him.

You caress the insides of your thighs. And you tremble.

Your fingertips drag the contours of your pudenda through fabric. And you shiver.

You unlatch the busks and buckles of your Surgical Leathers, to intimate the ecdysial rapture of an insect capable of ripping off its own husk. And you rasp.

The zipper glides apart and even your garments peel off your form. And you burn.

The fingers of one hand tangle in your hair, to pin your neck over the armrest and bare your neck. And you’re bent and broken apart.

You’re laid bare, indelicate, and structureless. Your outgrown nails scrape bright lines on your skin. And isolation peals between your ears.

You're denied climax–imago and imagination. You can't come, or become. Not now, and perhaps not ever. Your only purpose now is to need, and continue to ever need. It always has been. And rotting, ineffectual aches bloat you.

Your nails graze your bare crotch, to appreciate the keratinous bite of the insect you fancy that you are. And you convulse.

You rake them down your thighs, and you rake them to fill them with skin and blood. And your own throat gags you.

Your feeble fingers can’t dig deep enough. You reach for the Komár, and unsheath it. You place its tip above the knee and drag it up the thigh, just to compare its bright red strokes to those you can leave yourself. No, precision and swiftness are unbefitting of you. Again you wrack your throat by the hair, and you press the blade beneath your jaw. And jaundice waxes you.

You'll claw yourself to sloughed viscera like this, reduce yourself to crystallized pheromonal commands made manifest. You'll sweat and writhe ad infinitum, forced to modulate your sex just to keep from slashing your own throat. And you’re paralyzed ever-waking, ever-watching yourself edged to oblivion.

Who has placed the knife to your throat? Who holds it there? As it should be. Your form only serves to hover perpetually a razor’s edge from expiration.[2288.01.13-8]

Again and again his skin stings and crawls. Even once he lets himself put up the Komár and return to the use of his fingertips, he can't wipe or scrape thoroughly enough. Raw and unsatisfied, he sprawls deflated, unable to decrypt exactly what his mind is on about. All the while, in a detached commitment, he continues gently grazing and caressing his red-streaked ragged body.

He decides he's not the ant, but rather the surface they traverse, the surface which their tireless path erodes underfoot.[2288.01.13-9] To humanity, granite is timeless. Even if humans manage to destroy it, its history-haunted sand will still blanket the beaches and oceans with granitic specters. His mind wanders to chemistry, and formic acid's varied uses. Originally identified from compounds isolated from ants, the substance was once a prime reagent in both pharmacology and resin synthesis. Too, it is the less egregious cousin to formaldehyde, the prodigal embalmer. Formica may not be granite, but they both posit crystalized dimensionality. The Lane's ants symbolize its granite's eternity, and its frozen granules of undiluted time.

But, he’s not granite: in this analogy, he’s more like formica, a substitute, a resin. He thinks again to Sutter Grove’s diorama, and how much like a diorama the Concourse itself resembled during the nor’easter. So much concern of surveillance saturates the nor’easter holotape transcript. Was he not the surface on which the actors play out their roles, but rather the surface by which an outside observer might perceive the play itself? A lens is a surface, he guesses, but a viewer-jailer dynamic only holds when the players are aware they might be watched. He speculates that the nor’easter’s mass lacuna was a consequence of environmental circumstances eroding a veil between the diorama and the audience which was meant to hold fast.

We witnessed the scurrying behind the curtain.

It would be impossible for him to guess what the author of such a performance would want to achieve through such a work. The ants were the flymen that fucked up, tugged strings they ought not have, at a time they ought not have, and sent the curtains tumbling down.

He wrestles to differentiate his fantasy from his understanding of the events of the nor’easter. If he’s the surface which suspends the audience’s disbelief, perhaps the collapse of such a curtain signals the erosion of the fourth wall. To what consequence, did the ants’ actions pull him down? And most importantly of all, did destroying their audience’s immersion mean the actors' performance was fictitious?

Suddenly, he can’t succinctly define fiction.

The nadir of an existential ego death throttles the last of his physical strength. He lies there with exhausted relish, beached with a raw unparalleled systemic throbbing. He'll clean up the mess he's made of himself… eventually.

He's exposed, and knows he's exposed, but doesn't seem to care. He stares up into the ceiling, legs sprawled across the back and arm of the couch, and fixates on what little he can see without glasses. He resents that he can perceive this fourth wall but cannot seem to alter it himself. He resents Sticks’s near-perfect Charisma. He resents the General’s ludicrously high Intelligence. He’s not Strong enough or Intelligent enough or Enduring enough or Charismatic or…

"Happy New Ye– Oh my stars, Sir!" Aghast, Angel shifts from entering to rushing to 'Choly's side. "No time to tell me what's happened to you. We haven't any Stimpaks. Oh, this won't do! I'll fetch the iodine."

'Choly bolts upright on the couch. Abjection gnarls his features.

"NOT MY IODINE–!"

It hesitates, caught between imperative concern for its owner and the need to abide by him.

"At least allow me to prepare a wash bin for you. Try not to move too much. I won't tarry!"

As the Mister Handy rushes off to the bathroom to wet a hand towel, he reclines again and his mental track persists. He thinks to just lock the robot out, but doing so would require that he get up. He wants to ask it to fetch him his next Melancholia dose five days early, but he also knows he would have to explain himself to Sticks if he were to need to replenish his medication a week ahead of their schedule.

What use is it, to be Melancholy? he demands of himself.

In his state, he hasn’t even the faculty to snivel over it.

Maybe, Melancholy has forgot how to be Melancholy all this time.

Maybe, he just needs a nudge to recall his nature.

And maybe, like the holotapes, and their Pip-Boys, and eventually Angel, he too can move past seeing dimly in a mirror of his own imago.[2288.01.13-10]

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[0] Formica. Both the ant genus and the resin.

[2288.01.13-0] Tagline for Carpenter's Prince of Darkness.

[2288.01.13-1] January 13, the Mara Winter. Considered the unLuckiest day of the Pagan Slavic calendar, during which the Tryasovitsy, cruel spirit agents of the winter deity Mara, are at their strongest. It's also Russian New Year's Eve: due to date shifts when changing calendar formats, Russia celebrates New Year's twice.

[2288.01.13-2] Olivia salad. Olivier salad is a traditional Russian celebratory mayo salad dish.

[2288.01.13-3] Exegesis. Critical objective explanation of a text.

[2288.01.13-4] Silvering cobweb. Серебряная паутина. Nods to the Strugatskys’ Roadside Picnic, and the threads that no one else seems to notice except the protagonist. ‘Choly is something of a pastiche of several characters, one of them being Kirill Panov. This fic was originally titled A Cure for My Me, after “a cure for his melancholy.” (The title did still work its way into being a chapter title in First Instar.)

[2288.01.13-5] Intelligent design. The pseudoscientific belief that the intricacy and inexplicability of certain aspects of the universe are proof that a supernatural entity played a role in its creation.

[2288.01.13-6] Nemiza. The Slavic pagan deity of death. He/She measures the thread of life and cuts it to the appropriate length, before sending it off to the Afterlife.

[2288.01.13-7] Sixpence, ferryman. Blended reference. A. In Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis uses the metaphor of a father giving a child allowance, and the child then using that allowance to buy him a gift, to suppose that all humanity can give God is already His. B. Sticks's nickname is chiefly for being a ghoul trafficker who lives by the river, after the River Styx in the Underworld of Greek mythos. C. There are some similarities between Greek mythos and Slavic pagan beliefs. A comparison can be made between the River Lethe and the River Smorodina, in that souls must be ferried or risk forgetting everything and dissolving into the river. D. In many accounts, it's agreed that one must pay the ferryman his due or he may refuse or betray the request for a trip across. E. Here 'Choly feels like anything he could provide Sticks is already something Sticks can get for himself, that he brings nothing to the equation. Because he hasn't provided Deenwood chems as agreed upon, he's convinced Sticks has no reason to stay faithful to their arrangement.

[2288.01.13-8] The structure of the second-person narrative follows a mental track of what ailment each of the Tryasovitsy excels at inducing. Figuratively, rent asunder by mental demons.

[2288.01.13-9] I once heard the explanation that Formica got its name by being a surface which only ants’ tireless path could erode. I’ve since learned that it’s a substitute ‘for mica.’ I like my high school teacher’s story better.

[2288.01.13-10] Being Melancholy: he's had this vein of "art imitating life imitating art" navel gazing in the past, most notably in Chapter 10, "Fly-Blown." He adopted his nom a clef Melancholy, with the nuance that he felt contrived and fictitious, a fictional character at risk of knowing he's exactly that. He questions whether he commands self agency, in inventing himself or in how he might define himself. His skepticism of what it means to be Melancholy is, at its core, the very spirit of Anatomy.

[X] Sticks has gotten outside and wants to run off, but he is catching complicated feelings about conning 'Choly by faking being into him. Meanwhile 'Choly successfully restores the Division Day holotape, and he engineers some really fucked solace where he could otherwise find none after documentation of that eldritch mess is the only way he genuinely knows about it: in essence, history reads as fiction but is no less his reality.

#fallout 4 #fallout #fallout fanfic #sole survivor #fo4 fanfic #the anatomy of melancholy #melancholy #sticks #angel #sacredflamingart

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Glossary of Terms: from A to Z in the Boralverse

The full list of Boralverse jargon may be found under the cut.

adamant | titanium

aeronaut | airship

air-steeple | telegraphy post on a balloon

alchemick | chemical, relating to chemistry

alchemist | chemist

alchemy | chemistry

aldreman | mayor, municipal leader

alluning | moon landing

aphlox | carbon dioxide, also carbonic acid as a liquid

aquifex | hydrogen

arithmat | computing

astrapic | electric, electromagnetic

aumond | almond

autonome | autonomous, unauthorised

autune | sparkling wine, esp. from the Autun region

bdella | virus

billrod | cochineal, a crimson dye produced from the shell of an insect and imported from Lower Mendeva

bit-sheet | tabloid, cheap newspaper

blacklair | horror, media intent to scare

blankpine | white pine, Weymouth pine

bookhouse | library

brimstone | sulfur

caddar | to distil, purify, extract

calamine | zinc oxide

case | cell

casting | publishing

chain substance | polymer

chimer | chimera, hybrid

christmas pie | savoury pie eating on Revillon across Northern Europe but especially in Borland

circular function | trigonometric function

clavier | keyboard, piano

cmm disk | vinyl record

cmm | "chain muriac mitigor", polyvinyl chloride, PVC

codnere | kidney

collocker | interviewer, investigator

collock | chat, dialogue, interview, conversation

collusion | collaboration, confederation

concord | treaty, agreement

concrescence | instantiation, model, prototype

concurrence history | history of a particular time period

conjure | to conspire, to collude

connit | disguise, inconspicuousness, secretiveness; hiding place

connock | ice skating

console | leader of merchant republic, esp. Genoa

convoker | representive, PR person

convoy | troop, division, band of soldier

copperplate | right-wing

coppers | cheap seats, nose-bleeds, lowest-quality product

copysheet | study notes

coronal | helium

corporal quillsam | periodic table, set of chemical elements

coshow | rubber, esp. natural rubber, latex

costumery | clothing catalogue

coswer | cousin

counter-zoic | antimicrobial

covring | (maths) surjection, surjective map

dackin | indigo

daily gyre | circadian rhythm, body clock

daplight | LED

davarn | grand hotel, resort

deficient | positively charged

deixism | approach to research focused on collecting primary sources and references

deixist | researcher, archivist

detaxion | synthesis, combining, esp. in chemistry

dominium | region of control, domain, demesne

druckdue | the silver screen, cinema

drypepper | peppercorns, black peppercorns

edition | publishing, publication

ersteigung | apex, crest, sforzando, peak, climax

excourse | competition, tournament, quiz, game

extent | field (physics)

fecundation | fertilisation

fendle | fennel

filmic | cinematic

geoscopic | exploratory, cartographic, intending to see the world

giftale | media set in or taking aesthetic inspiration from Italy

grade | separate, sort in categories

green snowfall | first snowfall of the new year (after the first of March)

guild | corporation, company

gum | rubber, esp. synthetic rubber

gyre | orbit, cycle; to orbit, to ring around-

herdtale | agricultural stories and songs of mid-19C Gulf Mendeva

heredian acid | DNA (also shortened to heredian)

hereditarian | genetic

hereditature | genome, DNA

heredity | genetics

heverrath | bicycle, velocipede

hever | lever, pedal, also the verb

hourchain | rosary, armilla

hydromotor light | microwave radiation

iamb 5' | iambic pentameter

icon | photo, photgraph

igniac | oxide

ignifex | oxygen

indreck | nonprofit, charity

in peripatetico | abroad, on an exchange, on a sabbatical

in tesquo | in the wild, in practice, in real life

Iscovalian variation | evolution by natural selection

jalick | tuxedo, high formalwear

jast | zinc

kenonaut | spaceship

kernel | cell nucleus

kester | beggar, panhandle

lacker | veneer, false surface

laic | secular, irreligious, oecumenical

lampfire | naked flame used as a light source

leavingstore | gift shop, shop for trinkets

lencorve | line of credit, tab

limmon | lemon

lineball | team ballgame, resembling (soccer) football or rugby

lithing | account, list, enumeration

lodginghouse | waystop, inn, traveller's rest

longform light | radio waves

lorrer leaf | bay leaf

lovetale | romance writing

luetic pox | syphilis

lux | radiation, elementary particle

machinal | automatic, by rote

machovine | strontium

manner | property, nature

mapbook | atlas

masquira | genre of stories typically featuring vigilante characters and plots driven by hidden identities, high society and complicated schemes. It has some overlap with the later spycraft genre, especially in modern works.

matching | (maths) bijection, bijective map

mechanics | dynamics, physics of motion and collision

mecon | metre (length of pendulum with halfperiod 1 second

melee | high society, the gentry (old-fashioned), the ton, the activities of the gentry

meshforum | online community

mesh | network

methodics | computer science, programming

ministry | department, ministry, bureau

mitigor | ethene, ethylene, C2H4

modest | socially conservative, with respect to family, children and gender relations

moneypurse | wallet, purse

mozardisto | member of a populist faction involved in the Second German War primarily made up of Andalusian Christians but expanding in scope, especially towards the end of the war.

mozard | populist, antiestablishment

muriac | chloride

muria | chlorine

myton | type of merchant ship in wide use during the late fifteenth century

namecard | ID, nametag

narjill | coconut

natron | sodium

normal nawat | Classical Nahuatl

normal speed | lightspeed, œ

nucalic acid | DNA (see heredian acid)

odyssey | cinema, movie theatre

oeculux | electromagnetic radiation

oecumen | landscape, outlook, overview, universe

one-case | single-celled

one-zeffre | binary, one-bit, digital

onyx lace | shell pasta, conchiglie

ostracon | lottery, sortition

parachthon | speculative, science fiction and fantasy (of stories)

penetrating light | X-ray radiation

petersly | parsley

plenty | electric charge

poise | currency of Britain as of 1950 N

prase | administrative head of ancient and modern Borlish government

propagant | wave-like

prosequent | descendant, progeny, something proceeding from a source, accompaniment

pseudogum | synthetic rubber

quanga | butler, esp in East Asian context; secretary, PA

quasipolitic guild | multinational megacorporation

quasipolitic | resembling a nation or polity

quaterno | textbook, handbook, primer

quill | source, spring, basis, foundation, (maths) domain

quire | reference book, textbook

quister | phone, telephone

quist | to call, to phone

raincatcher | gazebo, free-standing roofed structure without walls

rath | bike

reckoning | arithmetic, counting

redirection bank | switchboard

refettorio | refectory, cafeteria, mess hall

replacement code | substitution cipher

revillon | christmas eve

romance | story, tale, fiction

sam | set, group of things, (maths) set

sandrine | vitamin C, ascorbic acid

scattering light | ionising radiation

scattering | ionising

scitation | examination, test, exam

scole | school, college

scratcher | (colloq.) journalist, reporter, writer

sevring | (maths) injection, injective map

shadome | tomato

shortform light | gamma radiation

signum | macron, long diacritic

sithing | (in mathematics) function, assignment

slate | display, screen

sodality | group, club, association

sodal | member, element

solarium | sunroom, seaside resort

songcraft | music, composition, music theory

sorty | party, get-together, do

spycraft | espionage, spywork; also a genre of fiction

staddomain | trade colony, colony for the purposes of resource production, esp. those colonies of the Stadbund in Cappatia and Africa

starce | coin used in mediæval Borland

stauron retainer | intra-uterine device

steeplecard | telegram

steeplemesh | telegraph network

steeplepost | telegraphy

steeplescript | analogous to Morse Code, with four symbols

steward | deputy, second-in-command

sticket | label, tag

subcase construct | organelle

subrussic light | infrared light

sufficient | negatively charged

surblavic light | UV light

switcher | one working at a redirection bank

tachslate | touchscreen device

tachygraph | typewriter

tallath | province, region (esp. of Britain)

tapestry | big screen, billboard, film screen

tapper | telegraph operator

tartoffer | potato

technic | technical, scientific

Tellard book | atlas (archaic)

tender | barman, bartender

tenyear | decade

the hex hours | the small hours, the middle of the night

threepoint method | triangulation

threshold force | nuclear fission power

threshold mill | nuclear power plant

timehold | marine chronometer

tinplate | left-wing

Tiong loom | Jacquard loom

toriot | large wind instrument with roughly the range of the bassoon

totalism | absolute monarchy

totalist | absolute, authoritarian

tovarick | homosexual

tovarism | homosexuality

trevold | novel, story

trone | currency of Provence as of 1950 N

ubiquity | cultural supremacy, totalist ideology

veck | bus

vectory | bus, omnibus

veldsvindung | global economic recession, depression

viker | steward, affairs manager, right-hand man

vittles | diet, food intake

voidtale | story set in space

void | outer spaceship

walkway | pedestrian footpath, esp in urban context

wares | ingredients, apparatus

wayport | supply point along the coast for long naval voyages

weekly | a weekly newspaper

well-mint | well-off, prosperous, wealthy

whitefish | white fish

workshop manufacture | industrial production

xanthal | neon

xenic | alien, extraterrestrial

xenozone | alien, extraterrestrial being

yacht | cult, secret society

yatherpot | casserole, one-pot dish

yearturning | the New Year

zest | vibe, morsel, speculation, suspicion

zetter | note, memo

zoia | microorganism

#conlang #conlanging #conworld #boralverse #alternate history

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sudaca-swag · 4 years

Text

Hey Latines don't let the fear for COVID-19 make you forget these things that were happening/were about to happen before the emergency:

This is not an "omg conspiracy theory~" shit, and of course we should take care of ourselves and others, but the media and politicians can twist reality sometimes in order to achieve their means (sometimes they're just coincidences but we all know them) so just to remind ourselves of those big things that were at play...

Hong Kong, Irani, Indonesian, Algerian and Lebanese massive protests against their governments

Chilean plebiscite to change the Constitution was going to happen in April

Bolivian elections to choose a democratically elected government to change Añez opposition one in April too (plus the whole Morales scandal, the OEA vs Washington Post and statistics businesses, etc about the minor "coup/not coup" issue you know)

Haiti, Chilean and Colombian protests against the ruling class, the elites and economic system that privatized areas of life

Blank checks for most of latin american police and serious brutality cases against civilians

USA elections!!!, and their almost war with Iran

Uruguay's newly elected government rises taxes over the line and dollar prices skyrocket bc of the liberation of the dollar prices (this means benefits for the rich, fucking over 90% of the people), plus, the voting in the senate of an important law consisting of 500 articles which already managed to convoke a massive education strike

Bolsonaro and Piñera holding abysmally low approval rates from their citizens (Bolsonaro was the worst president in their first year of government and Piñera has less than 10% I think)

Ecuador indigenous protests earlier last year (with Ecuadorians winning against the presidency)

Bolsonaro calling to march against the parliament, the murder of a senator by a Police officer regarding the murder of senator and activist Marielle Franco, and Bolsonaro's son threatening with a coup if Brasil followed the Chilean protests

Nicaragua and Venezuela governments violating human rights, and how USA wants to intervene in the region (is actually going to, Uruguay recently brought them their support)

Puerto Rico, Peru, Dominican Republic and Honduras massive marches and protests

#latinoamerica

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fuckyeahmarxismleninism · 4 years

Link

Reverence and mobilization - as tributes to great leaders of the historical struggles for social justice should always be - was Cuban workers' commemoration of the 150th anniversary of the birth of universal proletarian leader Vladimir Ilich Lenin, in whose honor this year’s May Day mobilization was called.

On Havana's Lenin Hill, a small group of trade union leaders, headed by Ulises Guilarte de Nacimiento, Party Political Bureau member and general secretary of the Cuban Workers Federation (CTC), dedicated a floral tribute to the legendary Bolshevik, who played a key role in the Russian Revolution, the greatest lesson in the annals of history of what the emancipated working class can achieve in unity of thought and action, guided by socialist principles.

Consistent with the date and the legacy of Lenin, the CTC, in the voice of its Secretary General, reported the decision to celebrate International Workers' Day within Cuban homes, adhering to health measures adopted to combat the dangerous COVID-19 pandemic.

Guilarte de Nacimiento described as a crucial battle this confrontation with a virus that is devastating the world, and highlighted the important role of the working class in this struggle; both on the front line of the fight and "in the decisive trench" that staying at home represents today.

Under the banner of “For Cuba, United we will win,” May Day celebrations will not include the traditional marches and demonstrations throughout the country, but will take place inside homes, "So that, in the company of our families, we can incorporate all the potential that social media and information technologies offer today, and celebrate the date as it deserves," Guilarte stated.

He recalled that this May 1st will mark the 20th anniversary of Comandante en Jefe Fidel Castro’s historic speech on the concept of Revolution, as valid now as ever, as we confront the pandemic "with a sense of the historic moment, with audacity, intelligence and realism in the face of obstacles,” determined, as he taught us, to confront and overcome these obstacles, no matter how challenging they appear.

Guilarte emphasized our solidarity with the workers around the world suffering the impact of the crisis of the capitalist health system, and thanked trade unions and progressive forces everywhere for their support of our demand to end the genocidal U.S. blockade of Cuba.

The CTC Secretary General insisted that responsible social isolation will not prevent the creativity of Cubans from flowering to commemorate International Workers Day in homes and workplaces where essential operations continue.

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ticklikeabomb · 5 years

Text

The Language of Limbo - Part 9 (Finale)

Pairing : Chris Evans x Plus Size Reader ; Marvel Cast x Plus Size Reader

Warnings : Language ; mention of violence (Please Don’t read it if it might be triggering for you)

Word Count : 2.5k

A/N : Hiii :) Managed to finish it earlier :)

Mason left you sleeping on the bed while he went out to get both of you some breakfast. On his course, a figure stopped in his tracks. Mason's eyes frowned and he said, "What do you want?" The person in front of him replied, "I need to talk to you." He looked at the intruder from head to toe, and carefully followed them to a small corner, out of anyone's eyes. "Be quick, someone is waiting for me and I want to be there before she wakes up." A small smile crossed the other person's features and they handed Mason a phone. Skeptically, the stunt man grabbed it and noticed that the device was open in the video app. He pressed play and what he saw made his eyes grow wide. His shocked expressing turned to the one in front of him and the person nodded. "Why are you showing me this?", he asked. "I made a mistake and want to make it right. You know what to do !", the person exclaimed before leaving him. He watched the video a second time and felt his fingers tighten around the phone, in anger. He put it in one of his pockets for safekeeping and made his way to his trailer and to you.

When you saw Mason come back, you sighed in relief. He smiled brightly at you. "Hey, you're awake. I brought breakfast." You smiled back, wincing at the pain when you moved your hands and from the huge migraine. "Here take this", he handed you a painkiller. "Thanks", you said while swallowing it down with fresh water. You spend the morning talking about what you would do next in life. Mason told you he was hired to coach Tom Cruise for the upcoming Mission Impossible movie and you congratulated him. "That's amazing", you told him. "Yeah, it's pretty cool", he said with a light blush crossing his cheeks. You squeezed his hand and said that he deserved it and so much more. He dropped a chaste kiss on your fingers and asked your plans. "Probably taking a few months for myself, go back to rehab and all", you commented slightly ashamed. "Hey, I'll come visit you every time a have a chance. I have your back, remember?" You nodded and thanked him again for being there for you.

It was that moment that someone knocked heavily on his door, making both of you jump. "The fuck", mumbled Mason while standing up and get the door. "Hey May, have you seen Y/…", his coworker began but didn't finish when he saw you sitting on Mason's bed. At his colleague worried expression, he frowned, suddenly not at ease. "What is it? Why are you looking for Y/N?" "Ehm something happened and everyone is looking for her", he said and when his gaze landed on your hands he became pale. "Why are they looking for her?", asked Mason upset. His index pointed at your hands and he turned to Mason with a worried expression. He didn't need to say anything anymore that Mason figured it out. "Y/N, we need to go", he turned to you and you gulped harshly. You reached him and he took your hand in his in a protective way. "What's going on?", you whispered. "I need you to be strong, don't forget I'm beside you." You frowned in confusion not understanding why he was telling you that and it freaked you out. You arrived at the core of the set and saw half of the cast looking for you and once they saw you, their expressions turned dark. The one that scarred you the most by far, was Evans.

He marched to you, Mason pulling you behind him and trowing him a dark look. Seeing Mason shield you, he slowed down and said through greeted teeth, "What the hell is wrong with you? Why did you do that?" You shook your head, "What are you talking about?" "Don't play dumb, you know damn right what I'm talking about." You began to get annoyed and stepped beside Mason. "If I knew I wouldn't have asked you." Chris was panting heavily, trying to control some sort of rage. His eyes landed on your hands and he took them. "This is what I'm talking about !" You winced at his grip. Mason pushed him away, "Don't touch her !" Hemsworth, Mackie and Jeremy jogged to the altercation, keeping the two men apart. "What the fuck is going on here? What the hell are you talking about?", you shouted. You saw a silhouette that you unfortunately knew to well and saw her march, head bowed down to Chris. She looked up and that's when you saw her black eye and bruised face. You gasped loudly and covered your mouth with your bruised hands. It was in that moment that you connected the dots and let out a loud sob. You turned to Chris and begged. "I don't know what she told you but I swear to everything that I cherish, it wasn't me. I'm begging you, please believe me", you said while tears slid down your face. "You don't get to cry and play victim. I should be the one crying, you beat me up", exclaimed Rebecca full of hatred.

You turned to the other cast members, "I swear it wasn't me. Please believe me. She's lying again. I was with Mason the whole night." "Of course you would include him, your little complice", she spat. You saw in their eyes that whatever you would say there was too much evidence against you : your hands, the fact your character got killed instead of hers, your hatred towards each other. You plunged your head in your hands, crying out loud not believing she would go that far. It was the last straw for you. "You win. I'm done. You told me you would make my life a living hell and you succeeded. I can't anymore. I quit", you said out of force and saw her eyes glowing. You left the place and Mason stood there looking furious. He turned to Rebecca pointing at her, "This is not over. Mark my words, you will go down !" Rebecca, faking, grabbed Chris arm and looked at him with glossy eyes. "He's threatening me", she whispered. "I'm not threatening you, just giving you a heads-up", and with that he left, disengaging himself from Jeremy's and Mackie's hold.

You packed your things the best you could and the fattest you could. "Y/N", you heard Mason say. You stopped dead in your tracks and turned around. He came at you and crashed his arms tightly around your thick waist, his cheek resting on your head, leaving kisses. No words were exchanged, it wasn't needed. You understood each other with a look and he helped you pack your things. He charged your things in his car and you got inside not looking up, knowing that the cast was lined up seeing you leave. Mason gave their direction a look and his eyes met the ones of the person who gave him the phone that morning. He started the car and you left. RDJ was the first to go back to his trailer, shaking his head, sure you weren't the responsible.

You stayed the next weeks and months at a rehab center to deal with your drinking problem. Mason got in contact with Aaron and told him everything that happened since he visited you. They both visited you frequently, when the occasion presented itself but most of the time you were alone. You didn't mind, you needed it to find yourself, to feel at peace. It didn't take long for the media to find out about your addiction and cover their magazines or shows talking about it. What surprised you was the support that RDJ and other celebrities gave you on social media, telling that addictions are the worst and that instead putting people down with stupid articles, they should support people into their recovery. It was also a surprise when you got the visit of RDJ and Scarlet in the center. "What are you guys doing here?", you asked blankly. "We missed you", was all they said. It was awkward having them in the room next to you, especially since the last time you saw them.

Scarlet cut the weird vibe by exclaiming that she and Robert believed you. You chuckled darkly not able to hold your tears back. She squeezed your hand in comfort. "Mark and Tom send their regards. They're shooting and couldn't make it", said Robert with a smile. "You don't have to come, you know. I'm fine, at least trying to. I don't need any pity visit." "You think it's a pity visit? It's not, we care about you", he stated. You turned your head and locked outside. Your eyes locked with the ones of someone you thought you would never see again - Chris Evans. There he stood, his hands awkwardly in his pockets and his blue eyes fixing you. He was clearly hesitating to enter the facility. You made the choice for him, stood up, looked him once again in the eyes and closed the door slowly until he was out of sight. "Chris came with us but he didn't know if he was ready to face you or not", mumbled Scarlet. "He made his choice that day", you replied. "Yeah about that, we have news", exclaimed happily Robert. His joyful state made you frown. "What now?", you mumbled. The two actors smirked and began telling you what happened three weeks after you left.

Three weeks after you left the set

The cast was convoked to the Marvel Studios. All of them had to be present, apart from your of course. They took place and saw Rebecca kiss an older man on the cheek. They found it weird and when she took place beside Chris, he asked her who it was. "It's my dad", she simply and happily answered. For some reason, the mention of her father being present on an official meeting made it click inside Evans' brain. Elizabeth got bet red when she heard the mention of Rebecca's father and Scarlet noticed, squeezing her hand in reassurance. Kevin Feige was the last person to enter the room and greeted everyone, just like the first time the whole cast and important members of the production were called in for a meeting. "If we're here today is to present you some of the people without whom the movies couldn't exist." He pointed to the line of executive producers and introduced them. The cast got to know that one of them was Rebecca's father.

"We're also here because we have the pleasure to inform that the movie has been edited and that the release date is fixed", Feige continued. There were applauses in the room, mainly directed to the Russo Brothers for their vison and work. "For that matter, we would like to reward you and show you a small teaser of it", finished the Marvel Studios president. The cast and the executive producers made themselves at ease to see the exclusive trailer, when suddenly the first images were blurred and private recordings started to roll. In the screen, everyone could see Rebecca fat-shaming and bullying you. The next video in the montage was Rebecca pushing Lizzie against the wall and making sure her career would be ruined if she didn't follow her lead. The cast looked at Elizabeth with a shocked expression, while tears slid down her face. They next looked at Rebecca with an angry look, upset for being tricked by her. She clearly was uncomfortable. The last video in the montage showed Lizzie's face and her turning the camera to Rebecca who was looking at you and Mason in the gym. For some reason, Lizzie followed Rebecca and saw her enter her trailer. Since her window was open, thanks to the mirror, Elizabeth caught on tape how Rebecca began punching herself in the face. The video ended and Mason stepped out of the shadows. "Now you all know that Y/N didn't do anything and didn't hit her. Thanks to Elizabeth's help and recording, you all know now !", and with that he turned to Rebecca with a smirk and glowing eyes. "I told you, you would go down", he said before quickly looking at Evans who was angrily looking at Rebecca, and left.

Loud whispers and gossiping echoched through the room. Rebecca stood up, caught like a deer but still tried to defend herself, "No it's a lie. They photoshopped me in the videos. I…". She was cut off by her father's firm and cold voice, "Rebecca, that's enough !!!", who stood up and was holding himself on the table. He sighed loudly and exclaimed, "You promised me you wouldn't do that anymore. You promised." She looked at him with a hatred look and began blaming him for everything. How he was never at home while growing up, his job being to important for his family, how she felt like he never cared about her and how she had to do everything in her power to get his attention. He shook his head, pained to see the situation his daughter put herself into. No one in the room said anything and witnessed the broken woman and her absent father snap at each other. "ENOUGH", he said for the last time and she stayed quiet. He sighed and exclaimed, "If you'll excuse me but I'll have to cut short to this meeting. Rebecca come on let's go". She followed him with a furious and at the same time, a sad expression.

"That's how we all know now", finished Scarlet. You looked at her dumbfounded, not believing what they just told you. "Mason did what?", you whispered. "Yep, he got recordings. One of the camera operators is his best friend so he asked him to let a camera on set roll day and night", explained Robert. "That's crazy and…illegal no?", you wondered. "Kevin Feige called him and since the case was already bad he told him that he wouldn't persecute him to court but he won't be able to work for Marvel ever again." You widened your eyes because you didn't know about that and shook your head. "How's Lizzie?", you asked. "She's ok I think. She gave Mason the ultime prouve against Rebecca, trying to rewrite her wrongs." You nodded and said that you should probably talk to her and thank her. Now you understood her behavior. "That's why Chris is outside? He feels bad?", you asked not really needing a response to know. They nodded. "He will have to do more than just stand outside the facility to get me to apologize."

You took a gulp of your water and couldn't stop the small smile cross your lips. "I can't believe Mason did that", you commented. Robert chuckled and replied, "I'm not surprised. The guy is head over heels for you and we all noticed since the beginning of shooting." "You've got yourself a good man there", mentioned Scarlet. You nodded and whispered, "Yeah, the best one."

* gifs not mine, credit to owner*

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theconvoke-blog · 3 years

Video

The Convoke is a Digital Marketing Company. We are experts in Social media marketing, Content marketing, Website development, E-commerce marketing, google ads, etc. website https://www.theconvoke.com/

#digital marketing #googleads #seo services #social media

0 notes

joelhar · 6 years

Text

US State Dept. Convoked Russia’s Charge d’Affaires Over Moscow Alleged Meddling

con·voke kənˈvōk/ verb formal past tense: convoked; past participle: convoked

1. call together or summon (an assembly or meeting).

The minister-counselor of the Russian Embassy in Washington was called on the carpet by US Assistant Secretary Wess Mitchell about Russia’s ongoing social media and other online means to “foment division” in the United States.

This Sputnik article says

Moscow…

View On WordPress

#information operations #information warfare #Russia

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pope-francis-quotes · 6 years

Photo

17th March >> (@zenitenglish) Pope Francis Address to Faithful in Pietrelcina (Full Text). Pastoral Visit of the Holy Father Francis to Pietrelcina and to San Giovanni Rotondo, on the occasion of the centenary of the apparition of the permanent stigmata and the 50th anniversary of the death of Saint Pio of Pietrelcina (Photo ~ Pope Francis ~ © Vatican Media) Holy Father Francis left early on March 17, 2018, by helicopter from the Vatican heliport destined for Pietrelcina, in the diocese of Benevento, and to San Giovanni Rotondo, in the diocese of Manfredonia-Vieste-San Giovanni Rotondo, on the centenary of the apparition of the permanent stigmata and the fiftieth anniversary of the death of Saint Pio of Pietrelcina. Upon arrival, at around 8.00, in the square adjacent to the Liturgical Hall of Piana Romana, the Pope was received by the archbishop of Benevento, H.E. Msgr. Felice Accrocca, and by the mayor of Pietrelcina, Mr. Domenico Masone. The Holy Father paused briefly in prayer in the Saint Francis Chapel before the elm of the stigmata. Then, at 8.15, in the square in front of the Liturgical Hall, the Pope met with the faithful. After greetings from the archbishop, Pope Francis gave his address. At the end, the Holy Father greeted the Capuchin Community and a representation of faithful. Then, at around 9.00, he left from Piana Romana to transfer to San Giovanni Rotondo. The following is the Pope’s address to the faithful: Address of the Holy Father Dear brothers and sisters, good morning! I am glad to be in this town, where Francesco Forgione was born and began his long and fruitful human and spiritual life. In this community he tempered his humanity, he learned to pray and to recognize in the poor the flesh of the Lord, so that he grew in following Christ and requested to be admitted to the Friars Minor Capuchin, becoming in this way Brother Pio of Pietrelcina. Here he began to experience the maternity of the Church, to whom he was always a devoted son. He loved the Church, he loved the Church with all her problems, with all her difficulties, with all her sins. Because we are all sinners, we are ashamed, but the Spirit of God has convoked us in this Church which is holy. And he loved the holy Church and her sons, sinners, all of them. This was Saint Pio. Here he meditated with intensity on the mystery of God Who loved us to the extent of giving Himself for us (cf. Gal 2: 20). Recollecting with esteem and affection this holy disciple of Saint Francis, I cordially greet all of you, his countrymen; your parish priest; and the mayor, along with the Pastor of the diocese, Msgr. Felice Accrocca, the Capuchin community and all those of you who wished to be present. We find ourselves today on the same land where Father Pio dwelt in September 1911, to “breath a little healthier air”. At that time there were no antibiotics and diseases were treated by returning to one’s hometown, to one’s mother, to eat things that are good for you, to breathe the air well and to pray. This is what he did, like any other man, like a peasant. This was his nobility. He never denied his hometown, he never denied his origins, he never denied is family. Indeed, in that time he resided in the town of his birth for health reasons. That was not, for him, an easy time: he was greatly tormented inwardly and feared to fall prey to sin, feeling he was under assault by the devil. And this did not give him peace because he was restless. But do you believe that the devil exists? … You are not so convinced? … I will tell the bishop to do some catechesis … Does the devil exist or not? [they answer: “Yes!”]. And he goes, he goes everywhere, he gets inside us, he moves us, he torments us, he deceives us. And he [Father Pio] was afraid that the devil would assail him, would drive him to sin. He spoke with few people, either by letter or in the town: only to the Archpriest Don Salvatore Pannullo did he manifest “almost all” his “intent to have some enlightenment” (Letter 57, in Epistolary I, p.250), because he did not understand, he wanted to clarify what was happening in his soul. He was a good boy! In those terrible moments, Father Pio drew vital lymph from the continuous prayer and the trust he was able to place in the Lord: “All the ugly ghosts – so he said – that the devil is introducing into my mind disappear when I trustfully abandon myself to the arms of Jesus”. Here there is all theology! You have a problem, you are sad, you are sick: abandon yourself to the arms of Jesus. And this is what he did. He loved Jesus and he trusted in Him. Thus he wrote to the provincial minister, asserting that his heartfelt “attracted by a superior force before joining Him in the morning in the Sacrament”. “And this hunger and thirst, instead of remaining satisfied”, after receiving it, “grows [more] more and more” (Letter 31, in Epistolary I, p. 217). Father Pio immersed himself in prayer to adhere ever better to the divine plans. Through the celebration of Holy Mass, which constituted the heart of his day and the fullness of his spirituality, he reached a high level of union with the Lord. During this period, he received special mystical gifts from above, which preceded the manifestation in his flesh of the signs of the Passion of Christ. Dear brothers and sisters of Pietrelcina and of the diocese of Benevento, you include Saint Pio among the most beautiful and luminous figures of your people. This humble Capuchin friar amazed the world with his life devoted to prayer and patient listening to his brothers, on whose sufferings he poured out the love of Christ as a balm. Imitating his heroic example and his virtues, may you also become instruments of God’s love, of Jesus’ love for the weakest. At the same time, considering his unconditional loyalty to the Church, you will bear witness to communion, because only communion – that is, always being united, in peace among us, the communion between us – edifies and constructs. A town that quarrels every does not grow, does not build itself up; it scares people. Instead, a town where one seeks peace, where everyone cares for each other – more or less, but they care for each other – they do not wish evil upon each other, this town, even if it is small, grows, grows, grows, it expands and becomes strong. Please, do not waste time, strength, quarreling between yourselves. This does not serve any purpose. It does not make you grow! It does not make you walk onwards. Let us think of a child who cries, cries, cries and does not want to move from his crib, and cries, cries. And when his mother puts him on the floor so that he can start to crawl, he cries, cries … and returns to the crib. I ask you: will that child be able to walk? No, because he is always in the crib! If village quarrels, quarrels, quarrels, will it be able to grow? No. Because all the time, all its strength goes towards quarreling. Please: peace between you, communion between you. And if one of you feels like gossiping about another, bite your tongue. It will do good to your soul, because the tongue will swell up but it will do good, also to the town. Give this witness of communion. I hope that this territory will be able to draw new life from the teachings of the life of Father Pio in a difficult time like the present, as the population gradually decreases and ages because many young people are forced to go elsewhere to look for work. The internal migration of the young, a problem. Pray to Our Lady to give you the grace that the young may find work here, among you, near to the family, and that they are not compelled to go away and look elsewhere, so that the town declines. The population ages, but this is a treasure, the elderly are a treasure! Please, do not marginalize the elderly. The elderly must not be marginalized, no. The elderly are wisdom. And may the elderly learn to speak with the young and the young learn to speak with the elderly. They have the wisdom of a village, the elderly. When I arrived I had the pleasure of greeting a man of 99 years, and a youngster of 97. Beautiful! These are your wisdom! Speak with them. May they be the protagonists of the growth of this town. May the intercession of your Saint and fellow citizen support the intention of joining forces, so as to offer to the young generations in particular concrete perspectives for a future of hope. Do not miss be lacking in caring attention, full of tenderness, as I said, for the elderly, who are the heritage of our communities. I would like it if the Nobel prize could be awarded once to the elderly who give memory to humanity. I encourage this land to preserve as a precious treasure the Christian and priestly testimony of Saint Pio of Pietrelcina: it is for each one of you an incentive to live your life in fullness, in the style of the Beatitudes and with the works of mercy. May the Virgin Mary, whom you venerate with the title of Madonna della Libera, help you to walk with joy on the path of holiness. And please, pray for me, because I am in need. Thank you! © Libreria Editrice Vatican

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