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trulyhblue · 9 months

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Media Duties (Pt 2 of Communication)

Kyra Cooney-Cross x Dutch! Arsenal! Reader

Warnings: fluff, REALLY bad translated Dutch, language barrier, suggestive if you squint really hard.

Masterlist

___________________

While your English was far from great, it was slowly improving.

You spent most of your time at training listening to the conversations around you, trying to match words to emotions and faces to sounds. Your Netherlands teammates had slowly integrated the second language into your Dutch conversations, and your Arsenal teammates urged you more and more out of your shell.

You were still very soft-spoken, ushering a few words here and there, smiling when the group set off into chuckles at something one of them — primarily Katie — had said.

After games and training, Vic and you would go out to dinner, listening to her order before doing so yourself. It was embarrassing at first and continued to be until you memorized the pronunciations entirely.

Viv often invited the two of you over for dinner. It became a sort of tradition after training on Mondays and Fridays; when neither of you were willing to cook. You would listen to Beth talk about everything because she regularly did so whenever she had the chance. Viv would tease her for talking too much, but you enjoyed the blonde’s bubbly personality.

Alessia would come over to yours when she wanted to, using the few Dutch phrases she knew to bond with you. The ex-united player was very giggly, and wouldn't stop giggling until someone had to physically restrain her. In your opinion, she had the easiest accent to read.

Kyra’s on the other hand, was not.

Kyra was stuck to your hip the moment you met. You weren't used to having someone as physically clingy as the Australian, but you didn't seem to mind it. She would bring you a chocolate every morning, cheekily popping her one in her mouth with a smile. She would give you her packet when you left yours in your cubby, and when the two of you were subbed off, she’d sing your ear off with the strangest songs you ever heard.

When she first slept over with you, Victoria and Alessia, she refused to play Monopoly if she wasn't the dog, and you had to remind her that she wasn't actually going into debt — she could've just mortgaged her properties — but she threw her hands up and claimed everyone was gaining up on her. She took the blankets all to herself when you went to sleep, and when you whinged about how you were cold, she curled both her arms around your waist and cuddled you like a teddy bear.

Unrecognizably, Kyra’s Dutch started to improve. Neither of you noticed it at first, having used Google Translate in the first few weeks of meeting each other, but ever so slowly, the Australian found herself talking small phrases to you in your native language.

It wasn't like she went home and practised them on Duolingo, no, she’d never…

“My jacket looks good on you,” Kyra said to your hunched figure. You don't look up at her, but from her tone, you can tell she is smug.

Today's game against Chelsea was a big one. The famous London Derby was well awaited, with the Emirates banking up to pretty much sell out by the morning of. You kept seeing the anticipation of the game on social media. Tweets on the starting eleven predictions and score prognosis were being thrown left and right, causing you to feel slightly displaced regarding the upcoming match.

You had sat next to Kyra on the bus, having done so for every game this season so far. The trip to the stadium wasn't far, yet the suspense of the crowds daunted you as your head leaned against Kyra’s shoulders.

You were a part of the starting eleven, meaning you’d be up against Jessie Fleming and Erin Cuthbert. The young Aussie beside you wasn't, which rattled you even more. The combination of you, Vic, Kyra and Katie in Midfield was unstoppable, but on the rare occasion that you were all on the field at once was rare. Vic and Lessi were sitting in front of you, making TikToks. Vic had gotten up early this morning, but you two still managed to nearly miss the bus. Alessia was wearing her usual multiple layers of clothing, while Vic was only in her kit.

You matched Kyra’s silence for most of the ride, her small conversation being met with your distant hums. She could tell you were nervous, you didn't know how, but she knew.

“Domme meid.” Silly girl. She muttered. This nickname wasn't new to you. In fact, it was used quite frequently by your Netherlands teammates. Nonetheless, the quip made you look up, meeting the Aussie’s beady, brown eyes and childish smirk.

“I am not silly.” You retorted. “You are.”

“I am what?”

“Silly.”

Kyra shook her head, running her hand through her hair, her smile brighter. “Je stress te veel.” You stress too much.

“Ik niet. Je bent te relaxed. Ik benadruk omdat ik het goed wil doen.” I do not. You are too laid back. I stress because I want to do well. Your voice was pointed, the glare from your eyes making your point known.

But your gaze softened upon seeing Kyra’s eyes widen, her nose twitching as her lips fell into a frown. She didn't understand.

“Sorry.” You sighed, smoothing your shorts out with your hands. “I am… I am stressed… I want to…”

“Do well?”

You nodded, her face smoothing over. “Yes.”

“You are a very good player.” Without much thought, Kyra took your hand, her thumb drawing patterns over your palm. The blush that fell over your cheeks was noticeable. You could tell by Kyra’s smile. “You play very well.”

You could tell Kyra was struggling to find the right words to say. She bit her lip in thought, pulling out her phone. You knew what she was doing right away.

When she finished typing, the familiar voice rang out.

“Je zult niet begrijpen wat ik zeg als ik Engels spreek. Je moet je vandaag geen zorgen maken, want je bent een van de beste middenvelders die ik ken. Je hebt ongelooflijke vaardigheden. Je verdient het om trots te zijn op wat je kunt doen.” You won't understand what I’m saying if I speak in English. You shouldn't worry about today because you are one of the best Midfielders I know. You have incredible abilities. You deserve to feel proud of what you can do.

Your cheeks were very red by this point, your grip on Kyra’s hand tightening as you listened to the voice pour out of her phone.

“I want you to… play.”

“I might come on. You never know.”

You shook your head, telling her you didn't understand. She started typing up a storm once more, and you watched in adoration as a concentrated crease formed between her eyebrows.

“Als je je nerveus voelt, kijk dan rond en tel hoeveel mensen je trui dragen. Elke week zie ik hoop. Dat zal je laten zien hoeveel mensen in je geloven, zelfs als je dat niet doet.” If you are feeling nervous out there, look around and count how many people are wearing your jersey. Every week I see heaps. That’ll show you how many people believe in you, even if you don't.

You beamed, moving closer to Kyra by hugging her waist, using one of your arms to push underneath the hem of her shirt. You fiddled with the fabric to whole way there, feeling a wave of calm and peace flow over you.

***

Not once had you interacted with a reporter throughout your time at Arsenal. Never once did you find yourself in the awful situation of being caught out after a game.

Until now.

The game went incredibly well for the Gunner, coming away with a four-one win against the top of the ladder in front of nearly 70,000 people. You played the whole game, assisting one of the goals, and receiving player of the match.

This was your first time accepting an award at Arsenal. Kyra got the fan’s Player of the Month in November, which was definitely well deserved. At first, you had thought Alessia wouldn't obtain today’s award, but you were pleasantly surprised when Kyra came running up to you with the trophy, probably snatching it off someone so that she could be the first to hold it.

“Look at you go, Y/n/n.” She spoke, slipping her arms around your waist, spinning you around. “So proud of you.” This was a very special moment for you. You were trying awfully hard in your new club, and it felt like all of the tough work was paying off.

You were about to answer Kyra, praising her on the game she had, being subbed on in the second half, when you felt a presence come up behind you, alongside several cameras.

This was not your first time in front of the media, being known for your charismatic media presence back at AFC Ajax. You noticed fans loved the challenges you did with your old teammates and the joy you’d bring to the videos that would gain so many more views than all the others. You’d been tagged in all these tweets begging you to be in an Arsenal video, but you knew it wouldn't be the same.

You’d stutter, unable to find the right words you were thinking of in Dutch. Your humour wouldn't be as quick and witty in English. While you had grown an uncanny friendship with all of the Arsenal girls over these last months, you had known your Ajax teammates for four years, some even longer if you played with them at youth level.

“Y/n, congratulations on the game today and, of course, on Player of The Match, how would you describe this moment?”

The reporter was quick to point her microphone at you, waiting as you stood there speechless at her words. You only caught onto snippets of her speech. You hadn't heard the first part of her question, being too caught up in your moment with Kyra.

The Aussie was standing next to you, her arms still wrapped around your waist. She must've caught onto your stunned disposition since she swiftly moved you from side to side, stalling the moment by dancing with you cheekily.

The reporter laughed at the interaction, the cameraman panning to catch Kyra’s cunning smile and your flushing cheeks. She took the trophy from your hands, holding it up like Simba from The Lion King. You were giggling at the sight, and the camera caught Kyra’s beaming, proud response to your reaction.

“Well, I think this moment speaks for itself. Kyra, do you think Y/n’s commendation was well deserved?”

Kyra took her arm and swung it over your shoulder, giving you the trophy back with a toothy grin. “Who else would they give it to?”

“Lessi.” You suggested, modest in your attempt to calm the hyper state Kyra was in. The reporter laughed as Kyra gasped.

“You’re just being humble. She's a stress head, y’know, always worrying about the game. But look,” She pointed at the trophy, specifically your engraved name. “The amount of jerseys with her name on it says enough.”

“How are you going to celebrate now?” The woman asked, the microphone now between the two of you.

“Play a game of Monopoly.” Kyra smirked, watching you scoff.

“No.”

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victoriapelova

Liked by leahwilliamson, and 32,363 others

victoriapelova — disgusting, the two of them 🤢

Tagged : yourusername, kyracooneyx

comments :

bethmead_ — let them be!!!

user1 — I wonder what they’re smiling at 🤔

^ yourusername — google translate 💗

^ user2 — SHE’S SO UNIRONICALLY FUNNY LMAO

^ user3 — IKR LIKE THE HEART SHES SO CUTE

alessiarusso99 — I'm already motion sick! Don't need that 🤧

^ victoriapelova — AGREED

^ kyracooneyx — your TikToks make us sick. Keep them in drafts, no one wants to see them ‼️

user4 — my two pookies 💞

* liked by kyracooneyx

katie_mccabe15 — @ yourusername where is my cuddles?! 😡

^ kyracooneyx — why cuddle you when she's got me?

^ charligrant — your cuddles are lethal, Kyra. I've nearly been suffocated to death.

^ alessiarusso99 — blink if you need help.

User12 — THEM IN THE INTERVIEW TOGETHER UGH THEY WERE SO CUTE

^ User15 — THE WAY KY DANCED WITH Y/N/N CAUSE SHE WAS NERVOUS OMG

yourusername — Vivi in the back 🤣

^ viviannemiedema — I was sleeping, shush.

^ user5 — looks like she's manifesting a win

^ viviannemiedema — I was.

user7 — they are so dating

^ user8 — they literally met like four months ago I doubt it

^ user9 — call me delulu, but they are trululu

^ user10 — no one can tell me otherwise after her POTM interview

^ user11 — THE WAY KYRA LOOKED SO PLEASED WITH HERSELF WHEN Y/N STARTED GIGGLING

^user10 — “who else would they give it to” “lessi” LIKE AWWWW SHES SO HUMBLE

(pretend its the Arsenal jerseys hahahaha)

kyracooneyx

kyracooneyx — Domme Meid

*comments are limited*

yourusername — silly girl 💗

alessiarusso — cute ig

*liked by victoriapelova

___________________________

#arsenal wfc #caitlin foord #arsenal #beth mead #chelsea #chelsea women #jessie fleming #katie mccabe #kyra cooney cross #kcc x reader #australia #matildas #vivianne miedema #charli grant #alessia russo #social media #social media fic #blurb #fic rec

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phoenixyfriend · 6 months

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Ko-Fi prompt from Isabelo:

Hi! I'm new to the workforce and now that I have some money I'm worried it's losing its value to inflation just sitting in my bank. I wanted to ask if you have ideas on how to counteract inflation, maybe through investing?

I've been putting this off for a long time because...

I am not a finance person. I am not an investments person. I actually kinda turned and ran from that whole sector of the business world, at first because I didn't understand it, and then once I did understand it, because I disagreed with much of it on a fundamental level.

But... I can describe some factors and options, and hope to get you started.

I AM NOT LEGALLY QUALIFIED TO GIVE FINANCIAL ADVICE. THIS IS NOT FINANCIAL ADVICE.

What is inflation, and what impacts it?

Inflation is the rate at which money loses value over time. It's the reason something that cost 50 cents in the 1840s costs $50 now.

A lot of things do impact inflation, like housing costs and wage increases and supply chains, but the big one that is relevant here is federal interest rates. The short version: if you borrow money from the government, you have to pay it back. The higher the interest rates on those loans, the lower inflation is. This is for... a lot of reasons that are complicated. The reason I bring it up is less so:

The government offers investments:

So yeah, the feds can impact inflation, but they also offer investment opportunities. There are three common types available to the average person: Bonds, Bills, and Notes. I'll link to an article on Investopedia again, but the summary is as follows: You buy a bill, bond, or note from the government. You have loaned them money, as if you are the bank. Then, they give it back, with interest.

Treasury Bills: shortest timeframe (four weeks to a year), and lowest return on investment. You buy it at a discount (let's say $475), and then the government returns the "full value" that the bond is, nominally (let's say $500). You don't earn twice-yearly interest, but you did earn $25 on the basis of Loaning The Government Some Cash.

Treasury Notes: 2-10 year timeframe. Very popular, very stable. Banks watch it to see how they should plan the interest rates for mortgages and other large loans. Also pretty high liquidity, which means you can sell it to someone else if you suddenly need the cash before your ten-year waiting period is up. You get interest payments twice a year.

Treasury Bonds: 20-30 years. This is like... the inverse of a house mortgage. It takes forever, but it does have the highest yield. You get interest payments twice a year.

Why invest money into the US Treasury department, whether through the above or a different government paper? (Savings bonds aren't on sold the set schedule that treasury bonds are, but they only come in 30-year terms.)

It is very, very low risk. It is pretty much the lowest risk investment a person can make, at least in the US. (I'm afraid I don't know if you're American, but if you're not, your country probably has something similar.)

Interest rates do change, often in reaction or in relation to inflation. If your primary concern is inflation, not getting a high return on investment, I would look into government papers as a way to ensure your money is not losing value on you.

This is the website that tells you the government's own data for current yield and sales, etc. You can find a schedule for upcoming auctions, as well.

High-yield bank accounts:

Savings accounts can come with a pretty unremarkable but steady return on investment; you just need to make sure you find one that suits you. Some of the higher-yield accounts require a minimum balance or a yearly fee... but if you've got a good enough chunk of cash to start with, that might be worth it for you.

They are almost as reliable as government bonds, and are insured by the government up to $250,000. Right now, they come with a lower ROI than most bonds/bills/notes (federal interest rates are pretty high at the moment, to combat inflation). Unlike government papers, though, you can deposit and withdraw money from a savings account pretty much any time.

Certificates of Deposit:

Okay, imagine you are loaning money to your bank, with the fixed term of "I will get this money back with interest, but only in ten years when the contract is up" like the Treasury Notes.

That's what this is.

Also, Investopedia updates near-daily with the highest rates of the moment, which is pretty cool.

Property:

Honestly, if you're coming to me for advice, you almost definitely cannot afford to treat real estate as an investment thing. You would be going to an actual financial professional. As such... IDK, people definitely do it, and it's a standby for a reason, but it's not... you don't want to be a victim of the housing bubble, you know? And me giving advice would probably make you one. So. Talk to a professional if this is the route you want to take.

Retirement accounts:

Pension accounts are a kind of savings account. You've heard of a 401(k)? It's that. Basically, you put your money in a savings account with a company that specializes in pensions, and they invest it in a variety of different fields and markets (you can generally choose some of this) in order to ensure that the money grows enough that you can hopefully retire on it in fifty years. The ROI is usually higher than inflation.

These kinds of accounts have a higher potential for returns than bonds or treasury notes, buuuuut they're less reliable and more sensitive to market fluctuations.

However, your employer may pay into it, matching your contribution. If they agree to match up to 4%, and you pay 4% of your paycheck into an pension fund, then they will pay that same amount and you are functionally getting 8% of your paycheck put into retirement while only paying for half of it yourself.

Mutual Funds:

I've definitely linked this article before, but the short version is:

An investment company buys 100 shares of stock: 10 shares each in 10 different "general" companies. You, who cannot afford a share of each of these companies, buy 1 singular share of that investment company. That share is then treated as one-tenth of a share of each of those 10 "general" companies. You are one of 100 people who has each bought "one stock" that is actually one tenth of ten different stocks.

Most retirement funds are actually a form of mutual fund that includes employer contributions.

Pros: It's more stable than investing directly in the stock market, because you can diversify without having to pay the full price of a share in each company you invest in.

Cons: The investment company does get a cut, and they are... often not great influences on the economy at large. Mutual funds are technically supposed to be more regulated than hedge funds (which are, you know, often venture capital/private equity), but a lot of mutual funds like insurance companies and pension funds will invest a portion of their own money into hedge funds, which is... technically their job. But, you know, capitalism.

Directly investing in the stock market:

Follow people who actually know what they're doing and are not Evil Finance Bros who only care about the bottom line. I haven't watched more than a few videos yet, but The Financial Diet has had good energy on this topic from what I've seen so far, and I enjoy the very general trends I hear about on Morning Brew.

That said, we are not talking about speculative capital gains. We are talking about making sure inflation doesn't screw with you.

DIVIDENDS are profit that the company shares to investors every quarter. Did the company make $2 billion after paying its mortgages, employees, energy bill, etc? Great, that $2 billion will be shared out among the hundreds of thousands of stocks. You'll probably only get a few cents back per stock (e.g. Walmart has been trading at $50-$60 for the past six months, and their dividends have been 57 cents and then 20.75 cents), but it adds up... sort of. The Walmart example is listed as having dividends that are lower than inflation, so you're actually losing money. It's part of why people rely on capital gains so much, rather than dividends, when it comes to building wealth.

Blue Chip Stocks: These are old, stable companies that you can expect to return on your investment at a steady rate. You probably aren't going to see your share jump from $5 to $50 in a year, but you also probably won't see it do the reverse. You will most likely get reliable, if not amazing, dividends.

Preferred Stocks: These are stock shares that have more reliable dividends, but no voting rights. Since you are, presumably, not a billionaire that can theoretically gain a controlling share, I can't imagine the voting rights in a given company are all that important anyway.

Anyway, hope this much-delayed Intro To Investing was, if not worth the wait, at least, a bit longer than you expected.

Hey! You got interest on the word count! It's topical! Ish.

#economics #capitalism #phoenix talks #ko fi #ko fi prompts #research #business #investment #finance #treasury bonds #savings bonds #certificate of deposit #united states treasury #stocks #stock market #mutual funds #pension funds

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razorroy · 12 days

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Foxconn: A Lesson In The Art Of Deal

$1.52 was the national average before 9/11

During Trump's time as president starting in January of 2017 the average national price was never lower than the national average since 9/11

The art of the deal is in fact the art of bankruptcy!

Trump Taj Mahal (1991)

Trump Plaza Hotel and Casino (1992)

Plaza Hotel (1992)

Trump Castle Hotel and Casino (1992)

Trump Hotels and Casino Resorts (2004)

Trump Entertainment Resorts (2009)

Trump is a lesson in bad business. Need more proof?

Trump Airlines — Trump borrowed $245 million to purchase Eastern Air Shuttle. He branded it Trump Airlines. He added gold bathroom fixtures. Two years later Trump could not cover the interest payment on his loan and defaulted.

Trump Beverages — Although Trump touted his water as "one of the purest natural spring waters bottled in the world," it was simply bottled by a third party. Other beverages, including Trump Fire and Trump Power, seem not to have made it to market. And Trump's American Pale Ale died with a trademark withdrawal.

Trump Game — Milton Bradley tried to sell it. As did Hasbro. After investment, the game died and went out of circulation.

Trump Casinos — Trump filed for bankruptcy three times on his casinos, namely the Trump Taj Mahal, the Trump Marina and the Trump Plaza in New Jersey and the Trump Casino in Indiana. Trump avoided debt obligations of $3 billion the first time. Then $1.8 billion the second time. And then after reorganizing, shuffling money and assets, and waiting four years, Trump again declared bankruptcy after missing ongoing interest payments on multi-million dollar bonds. He was finally forced to step down as chairman.

Trump Magazine — Trump Style and Trump World were renamed Trump Magazine to reap advertising dollars from his name recognition. However, Trump Magazine also went out of business.

Trump Mortgage — Trump told CNBC in 2006 that "I think it's a great time to start a mortgage company. … The real-estate market is going to be very strong for a long time to come." Then the real estate market collapsed. Trump had hired E.J. Ridings as CEO of Trump Mortgage and boasted that Ridings had been a "top executive of one of Wall Street's most prestigious investment banks." Turned out Ridings had only six months of experience as a stockbroker. Trump Mortgage closed and never paid a $298,274 judgment it owed a former employee, nor the $3,555 it owed in unpaid taxes.

Trump Steaks — Trump closed Trump Steaks due to a lack of sales while owing Buckhead Beef $715,000.

Trump's Travel Site — GoTrump.com was in business for one year. Failed.

Trumpnet — A telephone communication company that abandoned its trademark.

Trump Tower Tampa — Trump sold his name to the developers and received $2 million. Then the project went belly-up with only $3,500 left in the company. Condo buyers sued Trump for allegedly misleading them. Trump settled and paid as little as $11,115 to buyers who had lost hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Trump University or the Trump Entrepreneur Initiative — Trump staged wealth-building seminars costing up to $34,995 for mentorships that would offer students access to Trump's secrets of success. Instructors turned out to be motivational speakers sometimes with criminal records. Lawsuits and criminal investigations abound.

Trump Vodka — Business failed due to a lack of sales.

Trump Fragrances — Success by Trump, Empire by Trump, and Donald Trump: The Fragrances all failed due to being discontinued, perhaps as a result of few sales.

Trump Mattress — Serta stopped offering a Trump-branded mattress, again likely due to slacking sales.

Your move bosshag66!

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ifihadtopickadad · 3 months

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The Afton Family House

Susan Nicole Miller looked up at the decent house. It was a two-story with an attic and a basement. With Gregory at a friend's house and Nessa Beta-Testing that game (or was she learning to code?) Susan was able to explore their new living place. Henry Emily had been the one to help when Fazent screwed her over.

He'd helped her get custody of Vanessa through what she suspected to be less than legal means. And he paid the mortgage on his ex-best friend's house, which he'd then turned over to her. While the house was in her name he would pay the bills for three months, then another three months they would share payment by half, and then finally responsibility for the bills would transferred to her entirely. This was so that she could build up her finances to a steady income with her new job.

That being said, Susan was cursing herself for telling him she would be fine going through the Afton's things on her own. She stared listlessly at William Afton's research. On the one hand, the fact that Gregory and Vanessa existed at all was making a lot more sense, on the other hand, the implications that the files presented were horrifying.

William Afton first discovered Remnant in his early Childhood. The animals he'd tortured and killed had, somehow come back to life. They had come back exactly the way they were before, minus the fact they were rotting away slowly.

He found that he could measure it using the same equipment used when studying radiation. He called it Remnant. He continued his experiments in secret, discovering that the leftover Remnant of undead animals would bond to metal, plastic, and even living beings. It would seep into buildings and clothes as well. Its long-term effects were similar to what you'd see in fiction - better and faster healing, keeping you alive when you should reasonably be dead. Non-sentient objects like toys would develop sentience when they shouldn't.

Susan placed the research notes on the desk and noticed something that deeply disturbed her. Among all his experiment files, the three largest folders were labeled with the names of his children: Benny, Elizabeth, and Michael.

Michael's file was the largest of the three. This was likely because he had lived longer than his younger siblings, Elizabeth and Benny, who were twins. Elizabeth was the first of the Afton children to disappear from the Afton household. She was declared missing at Circus Baby's Pizza World, which shut down in the weeks following her disappearance as various employees also went missing. The establishment never opened again, and newer establishments featured less advanced animatronics, as creative control was handed over to Henry.

William Afton had no issue with experimenting on his children. He'd done so by going out during hunting season alone, tranquilizing whatever animal was okay to hunt then torturing them before killing them. He'd only do this to one or two of the animals depending on the size. The rest would be killed normally and then sold. The Remnant bonded meat would be brought home and cooked and then eaten, William's wife and children none the wiser. Until his wife found his research.

She had packed up her children's clothes and legal documents, a go bag, and her wallet for herself planning to leave with the kids. She hadn't confronted William but he found out anyway. Susan swallowed down the bile crawling its way up her throat. William's wife was buried in her garden.

She felt numb and nauseous, her head felt both heavy and floaty, as if she had experienced a massive shock. Susan had always been good at compartmentalization, something she was grateful for now as she shelved the information she had acquired to the back of her head. She returned the files to where she had found them, resolved to call Henry about this later, and set about familiarizing herself with the rest of the house.

#fnaf security breach #fazbear entertainment #fnaf au #fnaf sb #heir and a spare au #fnaf gregory #fnaf vanessa #gregory afton #michael afton #vanessa afton #mike's not here #yet #he is mentioned though #william afton #is a little bitch #I've always thought Remnant's weird fuckery was similar to radiation in both fiction and real life. and I'm kind of surprised no one else #made the connection #elizabeth afton #crying child

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 6 months

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A few stories about the Tangerine Tyrant caught my eye today, and they all point to his increasing desperation - so I figured I’d go around the horn and celebrate his continuing dissipation.

First: Criminal Defendant and Adjudicated Rapist Donald Trump yesterday predicted a “bloodbath” if he didn’t get reelected, and the media quickly devolved into outlets condemning his use of violent rhetoric and others - Fox and Newsmax - concern trolling over how he was talking specifically about the automobile industry. So, whatever. If you’re interested in parsing the event along those lines, have at it - but I think there’s a more interesting, deeply indicative phenomenon just below the surface that speaks not just to Trump’s mentality but that of his whole bonkers cult.

If you’re looking for the atavistic pull of Donald Trump on his followers, it’s in his power to do whatever the hell he wants and face no consequences. NO ONE can tell him what to do. NO ONE can keep him from attacking whomever he wants. NO ONE can prevent him from sating his desires. NO ONE.

Now, we know that’s not true - as evidenced by his exile to Mar-a-Lago for the past three years, but it’s part of the mystique. In a lot of ways, it makes sense if you look at his cult following - people who are, by and large, deeply disempowered and enraged at a culture that is stripping away their traditional privileges and social entitlements. They WANT Trump to keep shitting the punch bowl as a sort of wish fulfillment of their own stifled rage. Maybe they can’t rape the woman they want to rape or kill the immigrants they hate for speaking Spanish or Hindi at the Gas-n-Sip – but they sure as hell can dream about it when Trump gives a cross-burner of a speech. That’s all standard form.

But what we saw last night - and in the fascist outrage-trolling today - was something new. It’s been creeping into the 2024 election cycle here and there, but yesterday, it entirely broke through, and it’s this: NOT EVEN TRUMP’S BRAIN IS ALLOWED TO CENSOR TRUMP’S MOUTH WHEN IT COMES TO RAGE AND ANGER.

Look, Trump KNOWS that using words like “bloodbath” is going to cost him non-MAGA voters. He knows that calling people “vermin” is going to hurt his chances of navigating the very narrow path ahead if he hopes to return to the White House. Yet, he can’t stop himself. Trump is unable to act in his own easily achieved best interest if it means not being a monster, and while it’s lamentable that he’s bringing such hatred to our national debate, I encourage him to keep it up.

You be you, Donald!

Every single time you let your id out of its box, it’s like sending America an unsolicited, mushroom-shaped dick-pic. Sure, your fans are going to love it, but the rest of us grossed the fuck out.

So, please! Rage on!

-----

Second:

Trump’s lawyers in the NYS civil fraud case settlement submitted a filing today that it is “a practical impossibility” for Trump to post a bond for the half-billion dollars he needs to cough up in order to appeal the decision. According to reports, he approached 30 different surety companies, and they all turned him down. Why they would do that might indicate what’s got him tuned to “bloodbath” and “vermin” levels of rage.

It might be a simple point, but it bears a paragraph of explanation.

Most folks who don’t work in the NYC real estate market – or any real estate market – might think, “Hey, he’s a rich guy. Why not just sell a few of those buildings he owns? They’ve gotta be worth a pretty penny.”

Or, alternatively, “Why won’t anyone take Trump Tower as collateral for a loan?”

The simple answer is he doesn’t really OWN any of that shit outright. It’s ALL mortgaged to the hilt. To get a clearer picture of this, let’s look at 40 Wall Street – one of Trump’s “prestige” properties.

The numbers are a bit hard to come by, but an hour of reading suggests that the building is presently worth about $200 million. Mind you, part of the fraud charges – now proven – included his valuation of the building in 2015 at over $750 million, but it’s just not worth that at all.

So, take the $200 million as a starting point and note that Trump’s mortgage on the property, according to a Bloomberg report in November of 2023, stands at $122 million. So, if Trump were to liquidate his stake in the property fully, he’d only net about $78 million – and that is BEFORE the capital gains taxes, NYS taxes, and NYC taxes on the sale. According to a few articles I’ve scanned this evening, that would be up to about 40% of his earnings. That means, even if he drops one of his most precious assets, he would only raise about $50 million.

He owes TEN TIMES that number by next week.

Play that out another round, and realize that if Trump tried to sell ten or twenty office buildings in NYC all at once, the price of ALL of them would plummet to fire-sale prices.

He’s fucked. Moreover, he knows it and is desperate to find a way out.

-----

This brings us to news item number three: The Return of Paul Manafort.

News leaked today that Trump is considering bringing convicted felon and former campaign manager Paul Manafort back into his 2024 bid for the White House. Manafort, primarily due to his complete lack of a moral center, would be a tremendous asset for Trump. He’s a solid political operative, but what he REALLY brings to the table is a direct line back to the Russian oligarchy and their money. That, obviously, is an enormous threat to national security, and I’ve got to hope that the intelligence services in DC and around the world will be on heightened alert for any covert – or overt – entreaties to Putin or his cronies for a loan. I’ve got to hope there are ways of making such entreaties known to the public through selective leaks if nothing else.

But that brings us back to observation number one.

Trump knows that going to Putin for help with his financial difficulties if it becomes known, would be a dagger to the heart for his chances of returning to the White House. Yet, if I’m right, he will be unable to stop himself when it comes to finding a fix for his hemorrhaging empire. His brain will tell him this is a terrible idea, but it won’t matter. NO ONE is allowed to stop Donald Trump from doing whatever the hell he wants to do – not even Donald Trump.

In 1776, James Otis, a thoughtful supporter of the Revolutionary War, noted about politics, “When the pot boils, the scum will rise.”

Trump is proving that to be true, even when there’s only one evil, arrogant, rapist bastard in the soup. He’s so screwed.

Love to you all.

Michael J. Tallon

#TFG #skullduggery #Michael J. Tallon #political commentary #the plot thickens

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beardedmrbean · 7 months

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A Nebraska lawmaker whose north Omaha district has struggled for years with a housing shortage is pushing a bill that, if passed, could make Nebraska the first in the country to forbid out-of-state hedge funds and other corporate entities from buying up single-family properties.

Sen. Justin Wayne’s bill echoes legislative efforts in other states and in Congress to curtail corporate amassing of single-family homes, which critics say has helped cause the price of homes, rent and real estate taxes to soar in recent years. Wayne said that has been the case in his district, where an Ohio corporation has bought more than 150 single-family homes in recent years — often pushing out individual homebuyers with all-cash offers. The company then rents out the homes.

Experts say the scarcity of homes for purchase can be blamed on a multitude of factors, including sky-high mortgage interest rates and years of underbuilding modest homes.

RISING RENT PRICES PUSH RECORD NUMBER OF AMERICANS TOWARD HOUSING CRISIS, PROMPTING LEGISLATIVE ACTION

Wayne's bill offers few specifics. It consists of a single sentence that says a corporation, hedge fund or other business may not buy single-family housing in Nebraska unless it's located in and its principal members live in Nebraska.

"The aim of this is to preserve Nebraska's limited existing housing stock for Nebraskans," Wayne said this week at a committee hearing where he presented the bill. "If we did this, we would be the first state in the country to take this issue seriously and address the problem."

A 14-page bill dubbed the End Hedge Fund Control of American Homes Act has been introduced in both chambers of Congress and would impose a 10-year deadline for hedge funds to sell off the single-family homes they own and, until they do, would saddle those investment trusts with hefty taxes. In turn, those tax penalties would be used to help people put down payments on the divested homes.

Democratic lawmakers in a number of other states have introduced similar bills, including in Minnesota, Indiana, North Carolina and Texas, but those bills have either stalled or failed.

The housing squeeze coming from out-of-state corporate interests isn't just an Omaha problem, said Wayne Mortensen, director of a Lincoln-based affordable housing developer called NeighborWorks Lincoln.

Mortensen said the recession of 2008 and, more recently, the economic downturn driven by the COVID-19 pandemic made single-family housing a more attractive corporate investment than bond markets.

"When that became the case, housing was commoditized and became just like trading any stock," he said. "Those outside investors are solely interested in how much value they can extract from the Lincoln housing market."

Those corporations often invest no upkeep in the homes, he said.

"And as a result of that, we're seeing incredible dilapidation and housing decline in many of our neighborhoods because of these absentee landlords that have no accountability to the local communities," Mortensen said.

Currently, about 13% of single-family homes in Lincoln are owned by out-of-state corporate firms, he said.

As in other states, Wayne's bill likely faces an uphill slog in the deep red state of Nebraska. At Monday's hearing before the Banking, Insurance and Commerce Committee, several Republican lawmakers acknowledged a statewide housing shortage, but they cast doubt on Wayne's solution.

"You know, you can set up shell companies, you set up different layers of ownership. You can move your domicile base. There's just a ton of workarounds here," Omaha Sen. Brad von Gillern said. "I also — as just as a pure capitalist — fundamentally oppose the idea."

#nunyas news

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daveysjackie · 1 year

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What if there's a reason for Medda's maternal behaviour to Jack?

What if years ago, when she was simply another one of the Bowery Beauties, long ago, she was swept off her feet by one of the patrons? He would be at almost every show and it didnt take long for a young Medda to be ready to give up everything to be with him.

What if she discovers she's pregnant? She is overjoyed at that but when she tells her lover, he makes an excuse, leaves and is never seen again.

What if Medda was determined to raise her child, social stigmas be damned? She has savings left by her last family member who passed away a few years back and she uses it to buy the mortgage to Irving Hall. One of her fellow Beauties gives her an old crib her family no longer uses. The others make baby clothes in their spare time.

What if Medda goes into labour far too early and when her baby is born, she already knows they're not destined to be together long? Yet she cherishes the week she miraculously gets with her baby boy, committing everything about him to memory and having a little portrait of him made.

What if Medda, a week after giving birth, is burying her baby boy? She has a mortgage she can just barely afford, clothes and crib that will never be used, has to pay for the sudden funeral. Yet all she can bare to think about is that this isn't fair and her Jack should be in her warm arms and not in a cold coffin.

What if Medda suffers with extreme depression for weeks? She can barely even leave her room, let alone ensure that Irving Hall continues to put on performances. The Beauties help where they can but it's getting difficult.

What if Medda is eventually encouraged to just take a quick walk, just to give her a change in surroundings and as she's on the walk, she meets a man by the name of Francis Sullivan? They bump into each other and he insists on buying her a pastry from the bakery to make up for it. And he was going to the bakery anyway because he wants to surprise his wife. So they walk and talk. She learns that he and his wife have recently moved to New York. That eventually they want to settle out west. And she divulges, vaguely, the pain that has plagued her and he tells her that tonight, over dinner, he and his wife would pray for her son and for her. She invites him and his wife to one day visit Irving Hall before they go their seperate ways. They never meet again but she never forgets his kindness.

What if one day, years later, there's a frantic knocking at the back door of the hall? When she opens the door, there stands a skinny little boy of 7, fiddling with the cross necklace he wore and she nearly cries because he looks just like her Jack that she buried so long ago. He hands her a note, from Francis Sullivan Sr, that explains that his wife died a year ago and that he will be sent to prison for something he has done. It begs her to take care of his boy because he has no one else left.

What if Medda takes him in? She doesn't have much space in her room so at first, she gets him to sleep on the small couch, an old prop no longer in use in the Hall. And in the middle of the night, she hears little footsteps cross the room. Little Francis climbs into her bed without a word and falls asleep right there, in her arms.

What if Medda can't take it? He looks so much like her Jack and her heart hurts and in a way she feels she's betraying her baby. So after a week, she tells Francis of the Duane Street Lodging House: how there will be loads of boys there he can make friends with, he can hawk papers with them to make money. And yet, even as she drops him off outside the lodging house, the note from her friend niggles in her mind and she tells him to come visit next weekend.

What if that's how their bond forms? He visits almost every weekend, sometimes bringing a friend, most of the time by himself. Until he disappears. At first, Medda thinks perhaps it slipped his mind or he just didn't feel like it. Weeks turn into months and Medda is half convinced that the innocent little boy has died, all because she couldn't put her heart aside to care for him.

What if he returns suddenly, looking very haunted? He tells her of his time in The Refuge and how terrible it was and how the warden Snyder said he would be listening out for any news about Francis to lock him up again. And he tells her his intention to change his name so he'd be more difficult to follow.

What if Medda is the one who suggests Jack and his eyes just light up and it fits him so perfectly that she can't help but wonder if he is, in some way, her baby boy? He takes the name Kelly from an article in that day's paper and thus Jack Kelly is born.

What if Medda watches him grow into the young, brave, dreamer, leader he becomes? He ends up in the Refuge again but escapes with the indirect help of the Governor, a story she loves to hear him talk about because he has a natural gift for tales.

What if after the strike, after almost losing her second Jack, she tells him about his namesake? And he and Medda visit the baby's grave together. And while she still grieves for that baby she lost far too soon, she realises that, through Jack Kelly, she was given another chance to be a mother.

What if.

#more people should talk about her #medda deserves more appreciation #could you call this a character study? idk #anyways thinking about medda #maybe it’ll be a fic one day #newsies #92sies #jack kelly #newsies broadway #livesies #uksies #west endsies #1992sies #jack kelly newsies #medda larkin #medda larkin newsies #medda supremacy

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translationandbetrayals · 10 months

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Kimi ni Todoke, age-gap relationships and shoujo sins

Kimi ni Todoke is probably one of the most popular shoujo romances of the late 2000s/2010s. The story follows Kuronuma Sawako, a 15 year old girl who cannot seem to connect with people around her due to her gloomy appearance and her name being similar to the character in The Ring—Sadako. As the series progresses, we see her being able to form deep bonds with those around her, including her crush, Kazehaya Shouta.

Personally, I love it. I think Sawako is a very special character who loves deeply and sincerely cares about the people around her, and it’s great to see how she starts to develop her communication skills to the point everyone can see her as the genuinely kind person she is by the end of the story. However, Sawako (and her relationship with Shouta) is not what I would like to discuss today.

There are other characters to Kimi ni Todoke, and each is enticing in their own way. You have Kurumizawa Ume, Sawako’s love rival; Yoshido Chuzuru and Yano Ayane, Sawako’s first and closest friends; Miura Kento, a hard-to-describe-but-eventually-kind classmate; Sanada Ryuu, Chizuru’s best friend (and eventually, a love interest) and close friend to Shouta; Arai Kuzuichi, the homeroom teacher also known as Pin; among others. Today, I want to focus on Chizuru and Ayane.

Ayane (left) and Chizuru (right)

Chizuru, a somewhat dense but loyal girl, has known Ryuu all her life, due to them living in the same neighborhood and spending their childhoods and teenhods together. Ryuu explicitly tells Sawako that he has feelings for Chizuru when they find themselves alone—however, he knows it’s pointless, because she has feelings for his older brother by eight years, Tohru.

When Chizuru reveals her crush on Tohru to Ayane and Sawako, they support her, without putting into question the fact that she is just a 15 year old girl and he is a 23 year old grown-ass man with a job, a driver’s license and a mortgage to pay. And I don’t blame them, honestly; at that age, we don’t tend to question the power imbalances in romantic relationships between teenagers and adults (especially between teenage girls and grown men, the most common example of this phenomenon), let alone in the 2010s, as it’s very normalized in both Japanese society and here. It’s a whole can of worms.

When Tohru comes back home for a quick family visit, Chizuru stumbles upon him at the Sanada residence, and she’s excited to show her how much she’s grown and her ✨womanly✨ side that she’s been working on. However, he walks in with his fiancée: a woman his age who he’s fallen in love with and expects to spend the rest of his life with.

Chizuru is, of course, devastated—she had been living with that crush ever since she was a little girl, slowly fueling it as she grew older, hoping that eventually the years that separated them wouldn’t be a problem when she eventually proved hershelf to be a woman and not just his little brother’s friend. But Tohru had seen her grow up, hadn’t he, next to his little brother as they caught bugs and played in the grass.

Next is Ayane, a very feminine girl who isn’t afraid to speak what’s on her mind and is also incredibly loyal. At the beginning of the show, it’s revealed that she has a boyfriend: an older guy, specifically a university student, that we don’t get to see the face of.

This relationship ends in disaster, because the guy grows jealous of the time Ayane spends without him—he’s jealous of her friends, of the fact that she’s still a high school student, and hates that she can’t devote every second of her life to him. When she tries to break up with him due to this behavior, he hits her in the face. She doesn’t let herself be intimidated and breaks up with him, though.

When the rest of the gang finds out, I personally believe there wasn’t too much outrage for what was done to Ayane, but I digress. That’s neither here nor there.

She then tries to date guys her age—you know, other teenage boys and not adult men—as she admits she’s never dated anyone who isn’t older than her, and she attempts it twice. It was futile, sadly, as she couldn’t actually manage to catch romantic feelings for either of them, despite how badly she wanted that to be the case with the second boy.

However, she starts developing a crush on no one other than her nemesis: their homeroom teacher, Pin, who is a bit of a gym-bro, incredibly hyper and also nosy as hell. The two spent a considerable amount of time butting heads in a myriad of situations, but Ayane was also aware that Pin genuinely cared about all his students and tried to help them as much as he could.

Ayane really curses herself for catching feelings for Pin, as she knows it would never be possible, and she believes it’s karma for dating the second guy without actually having feelings for him and giving it a shot knowing she could never reciprocate.

Pin, despite his odd behavior, is very aware of the fact that he’s a teacher and that he’s responsible for the students, so he never even slightly entertains the idea of dating any of them. In fact, he directly and consistently opposes the idea. There’s a misunderstanding earlier in the story, where Pin, being overconfident and conceited, believes that Ume’s feelings are directed at him and not Shouta. He doesn’t give her time to explain if that is or not the case, because he immediately starts to shut her down. Pin flatters himself, saying that it’s only natural for people to fall for him, but Ume is a ‘brat’ and she should be worried about dating ‘other brats’, not older guys like him. A consistent character trait of Pin is that he will never, ever, look at a student that way.

There are three different age-gap relationships* in Kimi ni Todoke, involving two different characters, and I think it’s there to explicitly state that, when it comes to teens and adults, things don’t work out.

Shoujo catches a lot of smoke in animanga circles, and one of the criticisms I see is the normalization and romantization of age-gap relationships. And, as a shoujo enjoyer myself, I can absolutely see that! One of my all-time favorite series is Fruits Basket, and my biggest beef with it is how they really go out of their way to portray age-gap relationships between literal kids and grown ass adult men as something good. Like, these dudes can literally buy a house and the girls can’t even vote at that age. You see it twice: first, with Katsuya and Kyouko, the protagonist’s parents, who were a teacher and high school student respectively, with an eleven-year gap that met when the girl was just 15; the second time, with one of the protagonist’s best friends, who falls in love with and starts to date a 26 year old man as a 17 year old. I have another guy in there under surveillance as well—Kazuma, you ain’t slick!

Hell, I can even see it a little bit in Lovely Complex, when Risa was feeling defeated after being rejected by Atsushi for the gazillionth time. She starts to force herself to like their new English teacher, Maity, solely because he looks like the main character of an otome game—which I can respect, by the way, because it’s girl math. Anyway, she isn’t the only student with a crush on him, and at one point, to help Atsushi realize his feelings, he even plays along with the whole liking Risa thing. And no one thinks it’s weird that a teacher is involving himself like that in teenagers’ business. And I am perfectly aware it isn’t serious, honestly, but I can still see this problem present in one way or the other even if it’s not actually being seriously considered as an actual plot point.

I’m someone who went to an all-girls school, and I saw first-hand how my friends got into relationships with guys who were way too old for them (hell, 8th grade girls dating 12th grade guys who were a couple of months away from being 18), and I can assure you that all of them ended in disaster. Now that we’re in our early 20s, wiser due to our prefrontal cortexes being closer to finishing their development, they can see how messed up their relationships were because they were at a disadvantage from the start.

I think Kimi ni Todoke does put in the effort to denounce these situations, and it’s something I appreciate from the bottom of my heart. Tohru loves Chizuru deeply, but he can only see her as a little sister and he makes it clear that she’s family to him. Ayane’s first (shown) relationship is with an older guy and it ends in disaster because they’re in completely different stages in life and want different things. And he’s also, like, a major asshole. And Ayane knows Pin would never look at her that way because he’s made it indisputable that that’s his position.

And, eventually, things work out for these girls. For the most part. All well that ends well.

Francisca Salgado. ☆

#Anime #Manga #Japan #personalstory #essay #Sci-Fi #submission

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faultfalha · 1 year

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The document's title is incomprehensible, a garbled sequence of letters and numbers. It seems to be some kind of code, or a set of instructions. It's impossible to say what it means. But it's intriguing, and you can't help but start to decode it, to see if you can make any sense of it.

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bitchesgetriches · 9 months

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{ MASTERPOST } Everything You Need to Know about Retirement and How to Retire

How to start saving for retirement

Dafuq Is a Retirement Plan and Why Do You Need One?

Procrastinating on Opening a Retirement Account? Here’s 3 Ways That’ll Fuck You Over.

Season 4, Episode 5: “401(k)s Aren’t Offered in My Industry. How Do I Save for Retirement if My Employer Won’t Help?”

How To Save for Retirement When You Make Less Than $30,000 a Year

Workplace Benefits and Other Cool Side Effects of Employment

Your School or Workplace Benefits Might Include Cool Free Stuff

Do NOT Make This Disastrous Beginner Mistake With Your Retirement Funds

The Financial Order of Operations: 10 Great Money Choices for Every Stage of Life

Advanced retirement moves

How to Painlessly Run the Gauntlet of a 401k Rollover

The Resignation Checklist: 25 Sneaky Ways To Bleed Your Employer Dry Before Quitting

Ask the Bitches: “Can I Quit With Unvested Funds? Or Am I Walking Away From Too Much Money?”

You Need to Talk to Your Parents About Their Retirement Plan

Season 4, Episode 8: “I’m Queer, and Want To Find an Affordable Place To Retire. How Do I Balance Safety With Cost of Living?”

How Dafuq Do Couples Share Their Money?

Ask the Bitches: “Do Women Need Different Financial Advice Than Men?”

From HYSAs to CDs, Here’s How to Level Up Your Financial Savings

Season 3, Episode 7: “I’m Finished With the Basic Shit. What Are the Advanced Financial Steps That Only Rich People Know?”

Investing for the long term

When Money in the Bank Is a Bad Thing: Understanding Inflation and Depreciation

Investing Deathmatch: Investing in the Stock Market vs. Just… Not

Investing Deathmatch: Traditional IRA vs. Roth IRA

Investing Deathmatch: Stocks vs. Bonds

Wait… Did I Just Lose All My Money Investing in the Stock Market?

Financial Independence, Retire Early (FIRE)

The FIRE Movement, Explained

Your Girl Is Officially Retiring at 35 Years Old

The Real Story of How I Paid off My Mortgage Early in 4 Years

My First 6 Months of Early Retirement Sucked Shit: What They Don’t Tell You about FIRE

Bitchtastic Book Review: Tanja Hester on Early Retirement, Privilege, and Her Book, Work Optional

Earning Her First $100K: An Interview with Tori Dunlap

If you found this helpful, consider joining our Patreon.

#personal finance #saving money #retirement #saving for retirement #retirement account #retirement fund #401k #FIRE movement #early retirement #financial independence #investing #stock market #investors

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watsonmelon · 1 year

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homosexual love and heartbreak in "Bartleby the Scrivener" by Herman Melville. an interpretation.

Warning: this story in this context is a tragedy, and this analysis discusses views of homosexuality as an affliction, and covers themes of Christian morality and guilt regarding homosexuality. There will be heresy here. I have tried to be respectful.

I'm not saying the story is not about charity or capitalism or anything. I only offer this for consideration.

I will comment on selected passages in order. Emphasis in the quotes is not mine. Let's begin.

I am a man who, from his youth upwards, has been filled with a profound conviction that the easiest way of life is the best. Hence, though I belong to a profession proverbially energetic and nervous, even to turbulence, at times, yet nothing of that sort have I ever suffered to invade my peace. I am one of those unambitious lawyers who never addresses a jury, or in any way draws down public applause; but in the cool tranquility of a snug retreat, do a snug business among rich men's bonds and mortgages and title-deeds. All who know me, consider me an eminently safe man.

The first thing that the narrator tells us about himself is that he keeps his head down. He follows the rules. He is a safe man.

In answer to my advertisement, a motionless young man one morning, stood upon my office threshold, the door being open, for it was summer. I can see that figure now—pallidly neat, pitiably respectable, incurably forlorn! It was Bartleby.

Briefly, notice Bartleby's entrance, as if he was dropped upon the narrator's doorstep.

It was on the third day, I think, of his being with me, and before any necessity had arisen for having his own writing examined, that, being much hurried to complete a small affair I had in hand, I abruptly called to Bartleby.

Risen? On the third day? Like Jesus?

“I would prefer not to,” he said, and gently disappeared behind the screen.

For a few moments I was turned into a pillar of salt, standing at the head of my seated column of clerks. Recovering myself, I advanced towards the screen, and demanded the reason for such extraordinary conduct.

In contrast to the narrator, Bartleby does not follow the rules. Specifically, he is nonconforming in his preferences. The way he responds is unnatural and unsettling to the narrator, which to me resembles a nineteenth century view of homosexuality as a taboo. Furthermore, on considering him, the narrator is turned not to stone, frozen in shock, but instead into a pillar of salt, just as Lot's wife looking back upon Sodom.

With any other man I should have flown outright into a dreadful passion, scorned all further words, and thrust him ignominiously from my presence. But there was something about Bartleby that not only strangely disarmed me, but in a wonderful manner touched and disconcerted me. I began to reason with him.

and...

As days passed on, I became considerably reconciled to Bartleby. His steadiness, his freedom from all dissipation, his incessant industry (except when he chose to throw himself into a standing revery behind his screen), his great stillness, his unalterableness of demeanor under all circumstances, made him a valuable acquisition. One prime thing was this,—he was always there;—first in the morning, continually through the day, and the last at night. I had a singular confidence in his honesty. I felt my most precious papers perfectly safe in his hands. Sometimes to be sure I could not, for the very soul of me, avoid falling into sudden spasmodic passions with him. For it was exceeding difficult to bear in mind all the time those strange peculiarities, privileges, and unheard of exemptions, forming the tacit stipulations on Bartleby's part under which he remained in my office. Now and then, in the eagerness of dispatching pressing business, I would inadvertently summon Bartleby, in a short, rapid tone, to put his finger, say, on the incipient tie of a bit of red tape with which I was about compressing some papers. Of course, from behind the screen the usual answer, “I prefer not to,” was sure to come; and then, how could a human creature with the common infirmities of our nature, refrain from bitterly exclaiming upon such perverseness—such unreasonableness. However, every added repulse of this sort which I received only tended to lessen the probability of my repeating the inadvertence.

He feels unsettled and provoked by him, and yet safe with him. He comes to value Bartleby. Bartleby is always there.

Now, one Sunday morning I happened to go to Trinity Church, to hear a celebrated preacher, and finding myself rather early on the ground, I thought I would walk around to my chambers for a while. Luckily I had my key with me; but upon applying it to the lock, I found it resisted by something inserted from the inside. Quite surprised, I called out; when to my consternation a key was turned from within; and thrusting his lean visage at me, and holding the door ajar, the apparition of Bartleby appeared, in his shirt sleeves, and otherwise in a strangely tattered dishabille, saying quietly that he was sorry, but he was deeply engaged just then, and—preferred not admitting me at present. In a brief word or two, he moreover added, that perhaps I had better walk round the block two or three times, and by that time he would probably have concluded his affairs.

Now, the utterly unsurmised appearance of Bartleby, tenanting my law-chambers of a Sunday morning, with his cadaverously gentlemanly nonchalance, yet withal firm and self-possessed, had such a strange effect upon me, that incontinently I slunk away from my own door, and did as desired. But not without sundry twinges of impotent rebellion against the mild effrontery of this unaccountable scrivener. Indeed, it was his wonderful mildness chiefly, which not only disarmed me, but unmanned me, as it were. For I consider that one, for the time, is a sort of unmanned when he tranquilly permits his hired clerk to dictate to him, and order him away from his own premises. Furthermore, I was full of uneasiness as to what Bartleby could possibly be doing in my office in his shirt sleeves, and in an otherwise dismantled condition of a Sunday morning. Was any thing amiss going on? Nay, that was out of the question. It was not to be thought of for a moment that Bartleby was an immoral person. But what could he be doing there?—copying? Nay again, whatever might be his eccentricities, Bartleby was an eminently decorous person. He would be the last man to sit down to his desk in any state approaching to nudity. Besides, it was Sunday; and there was something about Bartleby that forbade the supposition that he would by any secular occupation violate the proprieties of the day.

The narrator is on his way to church, and goes astray. I thought it was interesting to read in this annotated text that Trinity Church and the earlier mentioned John Jacob Astor were controversial, hated for their greed. Perhaps the church he strays from is hypocritical and does not truly uphold virtue.

The narrator finds Bartleby exposed, and he finds himself stripped of his masculinity.

Suddenly I was attracted by Bartleby's closed desk, the key in open sight left in the lock.

I mean no mischief, seek the gratification of no heartless curiosity, thought I; besides, the desk is mine, and its contents too, so I will make bold to look within. Every thing was methodically arranged, the papers smoothly placed. The pigeon holes were deep, and removing the files of documents, I groped into their recesses.

Attraction, justification, violation. The violation is on his own property—in his own mind? The erotic language of the search.

I now recalled all the quiet mysteries which I had noted in the man. I remembered that he never spoke but to answer; that though at intervals he had considerable time to himself, yet I had never seen him reading—no, not even a newspaper; that for long periods he would stand looking out, at his pale window behind the screen, upon the dead brick wall; I was quite sure he never visited any refectory or eating house; while his pale face clearly indicated that he never drank beer like Turkey, or tea and coffee even, like other men; that he never went any where in particular that I could learn; never went out for a walk, unless indeed that was the case at present; that he had declined telling who he was, or whence he came, or whether he had any relatives in the world; that though so thin and pale, he never complained of ill health. And more than all, I remembered a certain unconscious air of pallid—how shall I call it?—of pallid haughtiness, say, or rather an austere reserve about him, which had positively awed me into my tame compliance with his eccentricities, when I had feared to ask him to do the slightest incidental thing for me, even though I might know, from his long-continued motionlessness, that behind his screen he must be standing in one of those dead-wall reveries of his.

And how malnourished Bartleby is...

Revolving all these things, and coupling them with the recently discovered fact that he made my office his constant abiding place and home, and not forgetful of his morbid moodiness; revolving all these things, a prudential feeling began to steal over me. My first emotions had been those of pure melancholy and sincerest pity; but just in proportion as the forlornness of Bartleby grew and grew to my imagination, did that same melancholy merge into fear, that pity into repulsion. So true it is, and so terrible too, that up to a certain point the thought or sight of misery enlists our best affections; but, in certain special cases, beyond that point it does not. They err who would assert that invariably this is owing to the inherent selfishness of the human heart. It rather proceeds from a certain hopelessness of remedying excessive and organic ill. To a sensitive being, pity is not seldom pain. And when at last it is perceived that such pity cannot lead to effectual succor, common sense bids the soul rid of it. What I saw that morning persuaded me that the scrivener was the victim of innate and incurable disorder. I might give alms to his body; but his body did not pain him; it was his soul that suffered, and his soul I could not reach.

The narrator does not see him as dishonest or immoral, but instead sees him as afflicted, and also as an affliction on him. Bartleby has taken root.

Here is the core idea. Bartleby represents the narrator's own homosexuality: love toward men, or perhaps love toward a particular man. I do not say that Bartleby himself is the romantic interest or object of desire; I think he is only the idea. He looks and acts like a ghost. He haunts the narrator, and does nothing.

Now that Bartleby—the idea of a homosexual love—has been revealed to the narrator, on the other side of the attraction is repulsion, as well as the heartbreak of Bartleby's loneliness: the body can be relieved, but the soul cannot.

I did not accomplish the purpose of going to Trinity Church that morning. Somehow, the things I had seen disqualified me for the time from church-going.

And now, the guilt of his realization.

By the way, Melville seems to explore similar themes, more explicitly, in "Vine and Clarel" in Clarel. Let us read some of it:

Apart see Clarel here incline,

Perplexed by that Dominican,

Nor less by Rolfe--capricious man:

"I cannot penetrate him.--Vine?"

As were Venetian slats between,

He espied him through a leafy screen,

Luxurious there in umbrage thrown,

Light sprays above his temples blown--

The river through the green retreat

Hurrying, reveling by his feet.

Vine looked an overture, but said

Nothing, till Clarel leaned--half laid--

Beside him: then "We dream, or be

In sylvan John's baptistery:

...

But hark--a bird?"

Pure as the rain

Which diamondeth with lucid grain,

The white swan in the April hours ⁠

Floating between two sunny showers

Upon the lake, while buds unroll;

So pure, so virginal in shrine

Of true unworldliness looked Vine.

Ah, clear sweet ether of the soul ⁠

(Mused Clarel), holding him in view.

Prior advances unreturned

Not here he recked of, while he yearned--

O, now but for communion true

And close; let go each alien theme; ⁠

Give me thyself!

But Vine, at will

Dwelling upon his wayward dream,

Nor as suspecting Clarel's thrill

Of personal longing, rambled still; ⁠

...

Divided mind knew Clarel here;

The heart's desire did interfere. ⁠

Thought he, How pleasant in another

Such sallies, or in thee, if said

After confidings that should wed

Our souls in one:--Ah, call me brother!--

So feminine his passionate mood ⁠

Which, long as hungering unfed,

All else rejected or withstood.

Some inklings he let fall. But no:

Here over Vine there slid a change

A shadow, such as thin may show ⁠

Gliding along the mountain-range

And deepening in the gorge below.

Does Vine's rebukeful dusking say--

Why, on this vernal bank to-day,

Why bring oblations of thy pain ⁠

To one who hath his share? here fain

Would lap him in a chance reprieve?

Lives none can help ye; that believe.

Art thou the first soul tried by doubt?

Shalt prove the last? Go, live it out. ⁠

But for thy fonder dream of love

In man toward man--the soul's caress--

The negatives of flesh should prove

Analogies of non-cordialness

In spirit.--E'en such conceits could cling ⁠

To Clarel's dream of vain surmise

And imputation full of sting.

But, glancing up, unwarned he saw

What serious softness in those eyes

Bent on him. Shyly they withdraw. ⁠

Enslaver, wouldst thou but fool me

With bitter-sweet, sly sorcery,

Pride's pastime? or wouldst thou indeed,

Since things unspoken may impede,

Let flow thy nature but for bar?-- ⁠

Nay, dizzard, sick these feelings are;

How findest place within thy heart

For such solicitudes apart

From Ruth?--Self-taxings.

Attraction, yearning, desire, femininity, unfed hunger, guilt, temptation, sickness, self-reproach.

Now let us continue with our story.

I looked steadfastly at him, and perceived that his eyes looked dull and glazed. Instantly it occurred to me, that his unexampled diligence in copying by his dim window for the first few weeks of his stay with me might have temporarily impaired his vision.

First of all, Bartleby suffers from being hidden away in the dark. Second, love is blind.

Melville takes inspiration from Shakespeare, so I thought, what might Shakespeare have to say about love being blind? Here I will share an excerpt about the forbidden lovers in The Merchant of Venice:

Enter Jessica above, in boy’s clothes.

JESSICA.

Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty,

Albeit I’ll swear that I do know your tongue.

LORENZO.

Lorenzo, and thy love.

JESSICA.

Lorenzo certain, and my love indeed,

For who love I so much? And now who knows

But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?

LORENZO.

Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art.

JESSICA.

Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains.

I am glad ’tis night, you do not look on me,

For I am much asham’d of my exchange.

But love is blind, and lovers cannot see

The pretty follies that themselves commit,

For if they could, Cupid himself would blush

To see me thus transformed to a boy.

LORENZO.

Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer.

JESSICA.

What! must I hold a candle to my shames?

They in themselves, good sooth, are too too light.

Why, ’tis an office of discovery, love,

And I should be obscur’d.

LORENZO.

So are you, sweet,

Even in the lovely garnish of a boy.

Back to our story again.

Somehow, of late I had got into the way of involuntarily using this word “prefer” upon all sorts of not exactly suitable occasions. And I trembled to think that my contact with the scrivener had already and seriously affected me in a mental way. And what further and deeper aberration might it not yet produce? This apprehension had not been without efficacy in determining me to summary means.

Bartleby's eccentricities are now spreading to the narrator, taking actual effect, and this alarms him, so he tries to rid himself of Bartleby.

I was now in such a state of nervous resentment that I thought it but prudent to check myself at present from further demonstrations. Bartleby and I were alone. I remembered the tragedy of the unfortunate Adams and the still more unfortunate Colt in the solitary office of the latter; and how poor Colt, being dreadfully incensed by Adams, and imprudently permitting himself to get wildly excited, was at unawares hurried into his fatal act—an act which certainly no man could possibly deplore more than the actor himself. Often it had occurred to me in my ponderings upon the subject, that had that altercation taken place in the public street, or at a private residence, it would not have terminated as it did. It was the circumstance of being alone in a solitary office, up stairs, of a building entirely unhallowed by humanizing domestic associations—an uncarpeted office, doubtless, of a dusty, haggard sort of appearance;—this it must have been, which greatly helped to enhance the irritable desperation of the hapless Colt.

But when this old Adam of resentment rose in me and tempted me concerning Bartleby, I grappled him and threw him. How? Why, simply by recalling the divine injunction: “A new commandment give I unto you, that ye love one another.” Yes, this it was that saved me.

The matter nearly comes to a passionately violent end out of resentment, and then comes the narrator's epiphany: in one way or another, he has been commanded, by Jesus, through Bartleby, to love his fellow man. He goes on to speak of charity, but could there be concealed here something else as well?

Here I would like to to share some of a letter from Melville to Nathaniel Hawthorne in November 1851, speaking of Moby-Dick:

Your letter was handed me last night on the road going to Mr. Morewood's, and I read it there. Had I been at home, I would have sat down at once and answered it. In me divine magnanimities are spontaneous and instantaneous -- catch them while you can. The world goes round, and the other side comes up. So now I can't write what I felt. But I felt pantheistic then -- your heart beat in my ribs and mine in yours, and both in God's. A sense of unspeakable security is in me this moment, on account of your having understood the book. I have written a wicked book, and feel spotless as the lamb. Ineffable socialities are in me. I would sit down and dine with you and all the gods in old Rome's Pantheon. It is a strange feeling -- no hopefulness is in it, no despair. Content -- that is it; and irresponsibility; but without licentious inclination. I speak now of my profoundest sense of being, not of an incidental feeling.

Ah! it's a long stage, and no inn in sight, and night coming, and the body cold. But with you for a passenger, I am content and can be happy. I shall leave the world, I feel, with more satisfaction for having come to know you. Knowing you persuades me more than the Bible of our immortality.

and...

Some days now passed, during which, at leisure intervals I looked a little into “Edwards on the Will,” and “Priestly on Necessity.” Under the circumstances, those books induced a salutary feeling. Gradually I slid into the persuasion that these troubles of mine touching the scrivener, had been all predestinated from eternity, and Bartleby was billeted upon me for some mysterious purpose of an all-wise Providence, which it was not for a mere mortal like me to fathom. Yes, Bartleby, stay there behind your screen, thought I; I shall persecute you no more; you are harmless and noiseless as any of these old chairs; in short, I never feel so private as when I know you are here. At last I see it, I feel it; I penetrate to the predestinated purpose of my life. I am content. Others may have loftier parts to enact; but my mission in this world, Bartleby, is to furnish you with office-room for such period as you may see fit to remain.

Ow, incredible...

Continuing with the story.

I didn't understand Edwards very well, but I found Joseph Priestly's The Doctrine of Philosophical Necessity interesting to read through and relevant to the analysis. Priestly himself was a Rational Dissenter, and argued for open discussion and religious toleration. To my understanding, in this particular document, he teaches of a benevolent God who is merciful toward the actors in His plan, and of universal salvation. Here is the main idea:

In other words, I maintain that there is some fixed law of nature respecting the will, as well as the other powers of the mind, and every thing else in the constitution of nature; and consequently that it is never determined without some real or apparent cause, foreign to itself, i. e. without some motive of choice, or that motives influence us in some definite and invariable manner; so that every volition, or choice, is constantly regulated, and determined, by what precedes it. And this constant determination of mind, according to the motives presented to it, is all that I mean by its necessary determination. This being admitted to be the fact, there will be a necessary connection between all things past, present, and to come, in the way of proper cause and effect, as much in the intellectual, as in the natural world; so that, how little soever the bulk of mankind may be apprehensive of it, or staggered by it, according to the established laws of nature, no event could have been otherwise than it has been, is, or is to be, and therefore all things past, present, and to come, are precisely what the Author of nature really intended them to be, and has made provision for.

Priestly also speaks of preference:

Let the objects be two kinds of fruit, apples and peaches. Let it be supposed that I am fond of the former, and have an aversion to the latter, and that I am disposed to eat fruit. In these circumstances, the moment that they are presented to me I take the apples, and leave the peaches. If it be asked, why I made this choice, or what was the reason, cause, or motive of it? it is sufficient to say, that I was fond of apples, but did not like peaches. In the same disposition to eat fruit, and retaining my predilection for apples, I should always, infallibly, do the same thing. The cause then of this choice was evidently my liking of apples, and my disliking of peaches and though an inclination or affection of mind, be not gravity, it influences me, and acts upon me as certainly, and necessarily as this power does upon a stone. Affection determines my choice of the apples, and gravity determines the fall of the stone. Through custom we make use of different terms in these cases, but our ideas are exactly similar; the connection between the two things as cause and effect being equally strict and necessary.

Returning to our tale, the narrator has found great comfort. Bartleby is not at fault for his preferences, and the narrator is not at fault for being troubled by Bartleby. He comes to believe that Bartleby is sent to him by God, and he accepts him. He has found his purpose. Perhaps Bartleby even represents his soul-mate. Also, the narrator's language is quite erotic.

I believe that this wise and blessed frame of mind would have continued with me, had it not been for the unsolicited and uncharitable remarks obtruded upon me by my professional friends who visited the rooms. But thus it often is, that the constant friction of illiberal minds wears out at last the best resolves of the more generous. Though to be sure, when I reflected upon it, it was not strange that people entering my office should be struck by the peculiar aspect of the unaccountable Bartleby, and so be tempted to throw out some sinister observations concerning him. Sometimes an attorney having business with me, and calling at my office and finding no one but the scrivener there, would undertake to obtain some sort of precise information from him touching my whereabouts; but without heeding his idle talk, Bartleby would remain standing immovable in the middle of the room. So after contemplating him in that position for a time, the attorney would depart, no wiser than he came.

Also, when a Reference was going on, and the room full of lawyers and witnesses and business was driving fast; some deeply occupied legal gentleman present, seeing Bartleby wholly unemployed, would request him to run round to his (the legal gentleman's) office and fetch some papers for him. Thereupon, Bartleby would tranquilly decline, and yet remain idle as before. Then the lawyer would give a great stare, and turn to me. And what could I say? At last I was made aware that all through the circle of my professional acquaintance, a whisper of wonder was running round, having reference to the strange creature I kept at my office. This worried me very much. And as the idea came upon me of his possibly turning out a long-lived man, and keep occupying my chambers, and denying my authority; and perplexing my visitors; and scandalizing my professional reputation; and casting a general gloom over the premises; keeping soul and body together to the last upon his savings (for doubtless he spent but half a dime a day), and in the end perhaps outlive me, and claim possession of my office by right of his perpetual occupancy: as all these dark anticipations crowded upon me more and more, and my friends continually intruded their relentless remarks upon the apparition in my room; a great change was wrought in me. I resolved to gather all my faculties together, and for ever rid me of this intolerable incubus.

Although he has accepted Bartleby, the narrator is now troubled by the views of society—the illiberal minds. He fears scandal. Influenced by others, he goes as far as to call Bartleby an incubus—literally a male demon who preys sexually upon his victim.

Society's reaction also has a parallel in Priestly's work ("A" being under the scheme of "necessity," as opposed to the scheme of "liberty"):

It has been seen that punishment would have no propriety or use upon the doctrine of philosophical liberty; blame also, upon the same scheme, would be equally absurd and ill founded. If my child A acts wrong, I tell him that I am exceedingly displeased, because he has shown a disposition of mind on which motives to virtue have no sufficient influence, that he appears to have such a propensity to vicious indulgences, that I am afraid he is irreclaimable, and that his utter ruin will be the consequence of it. This is the proper language of blame; and upon a mind constituted like that of A, may have a good effect, as well as the discipline of punishment.

Even if he is not at fault for his nature, he can still be blamed by man, but man's knowledge is finite and imperfect.

What shall I do? I now said to myself, buttoning up my coat to the last button. What shall I do? what ought I to do? what does conscience say I should do with this man, or rather ghost. Rid myself of him, I must; go, he shall. But how? You will not thrust him, the poor, pale, passive mortal,—you will not thrust such a helpless creature out of your door? you will not dishonor yourself by such cruelty? No, I will not, I cannot do that. Rather would I let him live and die here, and then mason up his remains in the wall. What then will you do? For all your coaxing, he will not budge. Bribes he leaves under your own paperweight on your table; in short, it is quite plain that he prefers to cling to you.

Then something severe, something unusual must be done. What! surely you will not have him collared by a constable, and commit his innocent pallor to the common jail? And upon what ground could you procure such a thing to be done?—a vagrant, is he? What! he a vagrant, a wanderer, who refuses to budge? It is because he will not be a vagrant, then, that you seek to count him as a vagrant. That is too absurd. No visible means of support: there I have him. Wrong again: for indubitably he does support himself, and that is the only unanswerable proof that any man can show of his possessing the means so to do. No more then. Since he will not quit me, I must quit him. I will change my offices; I will move elsewhere; and give him fair notice, that if I find him on my new premises I will then proceed against him as a common trespasser.

Even now, the narrator does not truly believe society's narrow-minded view, and regards Bartleby as innocent. He is not an incubus, but a helpless mortal creature. The narrator cannot in good conscience cast him out like a demon, and so instead he tries to make Bartleby undeliverable to him.

I re-entered, with my hand in my pocket—and—and my heart in my mouth.

“Good-bye, Bartleby; I am going—good-bye, and God some way bless you; and take that,” slipping something in his hand. But it dropped upon the floor, and then,—strange to say—I tore myself from him whom I had so longed to be rid of.

The narrator wants to be rid of his affliction, and yet is pained to give him up.

Aghast at this torrent, I fell back before it, and would fain have locked myself in my new quarters. In vain I persisted that Bartleby was nothing to me—no more than to any one else. In vain:—I was the last person known to have any thing to do with him, and they held me to the terrible account. Fearful then of being exposed in the papers (as one person present obscurely threatened) I considered the matter, and at length said, that if the lawyer would give me a confidential interview with the scrivener, in his (the lawyer's) own room, I would that afternoon strive my best to rid them of the nuisance they complained of.

Notice that repeated attempts are made to deliver Bartleby to him, and how Bartleby is passive, like an object. Also reminiscent of Peter's denial of Jesus.

Despairing of all further efforts, I was precipitately leaving him, when a final thought occurred to me—one which had not been wholly unindulged before.

“Bartleby,” said I, in the kindest tone I could assume under such exciting circumstances, “will you go home with me now—not to my office, but my dwelling—and remain there till we can conclude upon some convenient arrangement for you at our leisure? Come, let us start now, right away.”

“No: at present I would prefer not to make any change at all.”

The narrator tries to bargain with him, and I tried to think about why it is impossible and what it means, but maybe... maybe it simply was never meant to be, and that this too was decided by God for reasons we cannot know. "The LORD gave, and the LORD hath taken away," as Job 1:21 says, and this will soon become even more relevant. The fact that it is impossible under the circumstances does not mean that the idea is morally wrong.

By the way, this story was first published November-December 1853, and a major source of inspiration was an advertisement printed in February 1853, according to Wikipedia. Melville and Hawthorne grew apart in late 1852. I recommend reading that page.

The same day I received the note I went to the Tombs, or to speak more properly, the Halls of Justice. Seeking the right officer, I stated the purpose of my call, and was informed that the individual I described was indeed within. I then assured the functionary that Bartleby was a perfectly honest man, and greatly to be compassionated, however unaccountably eccentric. I narrated all I knew, and closed by suggesting the idea of letting him remain in as indulgent confinement as possible till something less harsh might be done—though indeed I hardly knew what. At all events, if nothing else could be decided upon, the alms-house must receive him. I then begged to have an interview.

Being under no disgraceful charge, and quite serene and harmless in all his ways, they had permitted him freely to wander about the prison, and especially in the inclosed grass-platted yard thereof. And so I found him there, standing all alone in the quietest of the yards, his face towards a high wall, while all around, from the narrow slits of the jail windows, I thought I saw peering out upon him the eyes of murderers and thieves.

And so, despite his harmlessness, and even innocence in the eyes of the narrator, Bartleby is condemned because he could not be delivered.

The round face of the grub-man peered upon me now. “His dinner is ready. Won't he dine to-day, either? Or does he live without dining?”

“Lives without dining,” said I, and closed his eyes.

Specifically, he dies of starvation.

“Eh!—He’s asleep, aint he?”

“With kings and counselors,” murmured I.

There is Job 3:14. Let us also read Job 3:20-23:

Wherefore is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul;

Which long for death, but it cometh not; and dig for it more than for hid treasures;

Which rejoice exceedingly, and are glad, when they can find the grave?

Why is light given to a man whose way is hid, and whom God hath hedged in?

Job cursing the day of his birth... Job who suffered, as part of God's plan... Job whose friends said his suffering was punishment for sinning... Job who was innocent... and was it not Satan who was allowed by God to take from him...

Yet here I hardly know whether I should divulge one little item of rumor, which came to my ear a few months after the scrivener's decease. Upon what basis it rested, I could never ascertain; and hence, how true it is I cannot now tell. But inasmuch as this vague report has not been without certain strange suggestive interest to me, however sad, it may prove the same with some others; and so I will briefly mention it. The report was this: that Bartleby had been a subordinate clerk in the Dead Letter Office at Washington, from which he had been suddenly removed by a change in the administration. When I think over this rumor, I cannot adequately express the emotions which seize me. Dead letters! does it not sound like dead men? Conceive a man by nature and misfortune prone to a pallid hopelessness, can any business seem more fitted to heighten it than that of continually handling these dead letters, and assorting them for the flames? For by the cart-load they are annually burned. Sometimes from out the folded paper the pale clerk takes a ring:—the finger it was meant for, perhaps, moulders in the grave; a bank-note sent in swiftest charity:—he whom it would relieve, nor eats nor hungers any more; pardon for those who died despairing; hope for those who died unhoping; good tidings for those who died stifled by unrelieved calamities. On errands of life, these letters speed to death.

Ah Bartleby! Ah humanity!

Bartleby is the narrator's letter which could not be delivered and is sent to death. He is the narrator's impossible hope of fulfillment, a love that is starved in spite of its blamelessness.

To conclude, let us read the of Melville's "Monody," written later, speculated to be about Hawthorne:

To have known him, to have loved him

After loneness long;

And then to be estranged in life,

And neither in the wrong;

And now for death to set his seal—

Ease me, a little ease, my song!

By wintry hills his hermit-mound

The sheeted snow-drifts drape,

And houseless there the snow-bird flits

Beneath the fir-trees’ crape:

Glazed now with ice the cloistral vine

That hid the shyest grape.

Recommended reading:

Melville's Allusions to Religion by Gail H. Coffler

Melville's Secrets by Caleb Crain

#herman melville #bartleby the scrivener #i need to send post. i've been unwell over it. sorry if it's off the rails.

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unpluggedfinancial · 4 months

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Mastering Your Finances: A Roadmap to Long-Term Financial Health

Introduction

Achieving financial stability is a crucial step toward a secure and stress-free life. Effective financial management enables you to avoid debt, save for the future, and make informed investment decisions. In this comprehensive guide, we will explore practical tips and strategies to help you master your finances and achieve long-term financial health.

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Investing is the art and science of making your money work for you. However, like any scientific endeavor, it requires careful research, understanding, and strategic planning.

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Debt, if managed wisely, can be a tool for growth. However, if left unchecked, it can become a burden that stifles financial progress.

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Conclusion

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Additional Resources

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In the grand tapestry of life, your financial health is a thread of paramount importance. With knowledge, discipline, and strategic planning, you can weave a future of stability, security, and prosperity.

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rhonabeeapa · 7 months

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A Symphony of Moments:Memoir of a dreamer

As I sit down to pen this letter, memories of my past come flooding back. My journey began in the sun-kissed days of my childhood, where laughter echoed through the hallways of our home. I were like peas in a pod, inseparable and full of wonder.

I remembered when I was on my 6th birthday it is a very special day for me,cause I feel like a princess wearing pink dress.My parents gave me a such beautiful birthday party,my mom gave me a big teddy bear and guess what I still have it now.Bringing those memories back when Gaisano Mactan have a playground and mini rides for kids,my mom always take me there and bought me popcorn’s to eat while I’m playing.

I remember those lazy summer afternoons when I chased butterflies in the backyard? My little hands reached out, hoping to catch a glimpse of their delicate wings. Built forts from cardboard boxes, imagining grand castles where dragons roamed and secret treasures awaited discovery. Scraped knees were badges of honor, proof of my daring escapades.

As I grew older, school became my second home. We sat side by side, scribbling notes, sharing secrets, and dreaming of distant lands. Our backpacks sagged under the weight of textbooks, but our hearts soared with curiosity.And giggled during history lessons. Our friendship was a compass guiding us through the corridors of adolescence.

In my Elementary days, I participated contest like UNO, prince and princess, but I usually come home being a loser. Since then I learn to accept being loss,it’s just part of our life there is always failure and success,may all your failures gives you a lesson and brings you to success.

Ah, the teenage years—a rollercoaster of emotions! Crushes bloomed like wildflowers, and our hearts danced to the rhythm of awkward glances. Late-night phone calls, clandestine rendezvous, and whispered confessions—our bond deepened as we stumbled through the maze of first love. We weathered storms of self-doubt, celebrated victories, and held each other close when life felt uncertain.

During my Junior High School in my 8th grade I experienced dengue.They admitted mi at the UC-Med hospital,that time I’m very angry to nurse they injected me many times to put the dextrose.After that I stayed at the hospital I think 2 or 3 weeks maybe, and that happened on december and that was close for the celebration of our Christmas Party.I feel down and losing hope cause my body didn’t function well.I was afraid maybe I cannot join the party but miracle happen few days before the party I just got out of the hospital.And I enjoy joining the party.

High school graduation arrived, and with it, a fork in the road. Our paths diverged, leading us to different cities, universities, and dreams. The ache of separation was real, but our promise to stay connected remained unbroken. Letters flew across miles, bridging the gap between our worlds. We celebrated victories—the first job, the first apartment—and commiserated over heartaches and missed opportunities.

And now, here we are—grown, weathered, and wiser. Life has sculpted us, chiseling away rough edges, leaving behind a mosaic of memories. We've toasted to promotions, danced at weddings, and mourned losses. Our late-night conversations have evolved from crushes to mortgages, from dreams to responsibilities. Yet, the essence of our friendship remains unchanged—a lifeline that transcends time and distance.

As I grew, my dreams tangled like wild vines. I wandered through enchanted forests, where trees whispered forgotten names. They told me stories of love and loss, of forgotten cities buried beneath oceans, and of doorways to other worlds.

Dreams are fragile things. Sometimes they fray at the edges, unraveling into nightmares.

As I write this, I imagine you reading these words, perhaps with a cup of tea. Life has woven intricate patterns, and become protagonists in our own stories.

Life is a journey filled with twists, turns, and unexpected moments. It’s not merely about the number of years we accumulate, but the quality of those years. A life well-lived is one where we embrace love, kindness, and purpose. So let us strive for goodness, cherish each day, and create a legacy that extends beyond mere existence.

Remember, life isn’t just about surviving; it’s about thriving, connecting, and leaving a positive impact on the world.

“A long life may not be good enough,but a good life is long enough.”

-Benjamin Franklin

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stargazer-sims · 1 year

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Journal Entry #57 (part two)

Journal Entry #57 (part one) // STORY INDEX

Victor

Just in case anyone was getting the impression that mine and Yuri’s time apart has been completely consumed by thoughts of each other and of Yuri's therapy, let me fill you in on what else I've been doing since I've been back in Willow Creek.

To be fair, Yuri is on my mind a lot, and for the first few days I was here, I felt a little bit guilty whenever I was having fun with my friends or doing something new without him, but I'm feeling better about it now. I talked to Yuri and he said he felt the same way at first, but then he realized what a perfect opportunity he had to spend time bonding with his family.

Despite his initial misgivings about staying with his parents, he seems to be having a good time now, and he's obviously happy. I figured if it was okay for him to feel happy without me, it was also okay for me to feel happy without him. I missed him desperately though. No point in trying to hide that.

Anyway, once I got my head around my "temporary bachelor status", as my cousin Leo put it, I started to relax and really enjoy myself.

Speaking of bachelors, Uncle Stephen, Leo and I have been planning the most epic bachelor party of all time for Julian. We decided on an Italian theme because he and Mom are going to Tartosa for their honeymoon. There's going to be Italian food and music, and everyone's going to be encouraged to wear Italian beach club fashion. Uncle Stephen managed to reserve an event room at the Harbourside Haven with a view overlooking the water. It may be Newcrest, but we're gonna pretend it's a Tartosan beach scene.

At first, I thought it was kind of weird to have a theme, but Uncle Stephen said a lot of people have bachelor parties with themes. I deferred to him because what do I know? Nobody threw a bachelor party for Yuri and me, and this was my first time planning one for somebody else. Uncle Stephen has been involved in organizing at least three — his best friend Matthew's, Uncle JP’s, and my dad's — so that makes him an expert, as far as I'm concerned.

"By the time you get around to planning Leo's bachelor party, you'll be an expert too," he assured me.

Leo wants a superhero theme when his turn comes. Probably no surprise there.

Leo, Ellie and I have been spending as much time together as we can, which probably isn't going to be much of a surprise to anyone either. We've been getting up to our usual nonsense; playing soccer and racing bikes in the park, going to the pool and the arcade, and generally just hanging out, but we've been getting some productive stuff done as well.

I can't remember if I mentioned this before, but Julian moved in with Mom around the beginning of January, like maybe a week or two before my accident. He was originally planning to sell his house, but what ended up happening was that he transferred the title to Ellie instead. What that means is, Ellie gets to live in her childhood home and doesn't have to worry about paying a mortgage since Julian managed to fully pay it off a couple of years ago. At the end of April, Leo moved in there with her, and now they're wholly involved with renovating the place to make it exactly how they want.

They're actually not changing it significantly, but even cosmetic changes require a fair amount of work. They had to hire somebody to install their new kitchen cabinets and appliances, but Leo decided they could do the hardwood flooring in the living room themselves, as well as the painting and redecorating.

And that's where I came in. I might not be very good with electronics, but I definitely know my way around carpentry tools. My mom taught me a lot about home maintenance, so I can measure, saw and hammer with the best of them.

Almost as soon as I arrived, Leo enlisted both me and his sister Kiki to help with the flooring. Ellie and Kiki gleefully ripped out all the old carpet, and then they sanded and cleaned the subfloor. After that, Leo and I got down to business. We got the entire living room done over three days, and it looks fabulous, even if I say so myself.

We're all getting pretty good at painting too. Leo, Ellie, Kiki and I painted Ellie and Leo’s living room, kitchen and bedroom, and then I got them to come over to our new house and help me paint mine and Yuri's rooms, our living room and downstairs bathroom.

Robert and Kim did a bunch of renovations before they put the house on the market, so there’s really nothing much that needed to be changed except the colours of a few walls. The only thing I really want to do besides the painting is to install a jet tub in the upstairs bathroom. Yuri got used to having that at Uncle Kaz's place, and I think he should have one here. It’s very therapeutic for him.

You knew I'd inevitably come back to talking about Yuri, didn't you? Some of you are probably laughing over my inability to keep my mind off him. Go ahead. I don't mind. I'm hopelessly in love with him, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

As a matter of fact, Yuri is the whole reason why I was motivated to record this entry tonight, after kinda forgetting about our journal for almost three months. Now that I’ve gotten all the life updates out of the way, I can get to the really good part. It's the part I maybe should’ve led with, but I guess you’ve all figured out by now that I sometimes like to leave the best stuff till the end.

So, here’s the story. It actually started yesterday evening, when Yuri missed our regular seven o'clock FaceTime chat. By seven-fifteen, I decided I'd better call him. He didn't answer, but I wasn’t overly concerned right away because I thought there might just be something wrong with his iPad, so I texted him instead. I started getting scared when I received no reply to that either, and when I phoned him, I got a robotic-sounding error message that said the customer I was trying to reach had the phone turned off.

At that point, I systematically called everyone I could think of who might know what was going on, but Takahiro, Fox and Sakura had no clue, and the most that Mr. Okamoto's personal assistant Koichi could tell me was that Mr. Okamoto was away on important business for the next several days, which didn’t really help. When I tried to call Yuri's parents, I got the same error message I'd gotten when I attempted to call him.

I tossed and turned in bed all night, and every time I woke up, I sent another text to my husband. By seven o'clock this morning, when I still couldn't reach him, I started scrolling frantically through my phone to see if I had his grandparents' numbers. Somebody had to know something.

I didn't have a number for his grandmother or grandfather, but I did have contact information for his boss, Mr. Tanaka. It was a long shot, but I called him, which may not have been the wisest thing to do. Mr. Tanaka didn't have any idea where Yuri was or what might be happening, and I think I might've caused him to worry with my asking him about it.

Around ten o'clock, I was seriously considering getting online and trying to arrange an earlier flight back to Japan. I'm not even joking.

That was when my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out and glanced at the screen. It was a message from Yuri.

You ever hear that phrase 'weak with relief'? I literally was, and I sank down the kitchen floor, nearly crying, with my phone still clutched in my hand.

As if he'd been reading my mind, the message said, «I love you and I'm okay.»

«Where are you?» I texted back with trembling fingers.

He sent, «I’m outside. Are you at home?»

Perplexed and still shaking, I replied, «Yeah. Why?»

«Look out the front window.»

Feeling thoroughly confused, I got to my feet, put my phone back in my pocket and made my way from the kitchen to the dining room so I could peer outside. Parked at the curb was a vehicle I didn't recognize. I took off my glasses so things further away would come into sharper focus, and I think i may have let out a small gasp when I realized who was behind the wheel of the unknown blue minivan.

It was Kenji Okamoto.

I was still forcing my mind to process that when the van's side door slid open and first Yuki and then Yuri climbed out. Mr. Okamoto got out of the driver's side to open the front passenger door for his wife, who was holding baby Kinai.

To say I was shocked would be putting it lightly. During all our daily conversations, Yuri hadn't mentioned anything about him and his family travelling. I could only assume they were here for the wedding, which is coming up in four days, but if they were here for the wedding, that would mean Mom and Julian both knew they were coming as well, and yet nobody had breathed a word about any of it to me.

I should've been upset about that, but I was way too excited over being unexpectedly reunited with Yuri to worry about having been kept in the dark. I mean, real talk here, the sound I made when I saw my husband was a lot louder than a gasp. A second later, I was flinging open the front door and flying down the steps, and he was hurrying to close the distance between us too, arms outstretched for an embrace.

I caught him and spun us both around in a circle right there on the walkway. "Yuri! I missed you!"

"Me too," he said, clinging tight as we completed our big, joyful circle. "I couldn't wait to get here. The last couple of hours, I was getting so impatient I could barely cope with it any more."

"This is why I couldn't reach you, isn't it? You were in a plane."

He was laughing. "Ah... surprise?"

"I was freaking out!" I exclaimed. "Like, I was literally just about to change my flight and everything! You should've known I'd panic when I couldn't reach you. Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

"I'm sorry," he said, as I carefully set him down. "Don't be angry. It was so hard to keep the secret, and I almost let it slip out, but we really wanted to surprise you."

"I'm not angry," I said. "I'm relieved you're okay, and I'm thrilled you're here, but..."

"But what?"

"I thought you couldn't travel," I said. "What about your therapy?"

"We'll only be here for a week," Yuri said. "I'll miss my psychologist appointment this week, and one in-person session with my nutritionist, and a food intelligence class.”

“Can you afford to miss that stuff?”

“I think so,” he said. “The nutritionist scheduled a fifteen-minute video call so I can check in and show her my food diary and talk about any concerns, but she said I’m doing so well that she thinks I’ll be all right even if I miss a full session.”

"So, uh... I guess you're here for Mom and Julian's wedding?"

"Of course," Yuri said. "I promised them I'd play, didn't I? And I've brought my accompanist with me."

Mr. Okamoto laughed at that. "The things I let myself get talked into," he said. "Grace called Yuri about a week ago to ask if he was able to come, or if they should make different arrangements for their wedding music. When he told her he could, she asked if we'd all like to come, and then Julian got on the phone with her and said that if I was coming, I ought to help with the music as well."

"Nothing like being drafted into a project last-minute," I said, amazed that Julian had felt comfortable enough with Mr. Okamoto to even make a request like that. They'd become fast friends when Mom and Julian were in Mt. Komorebi just after my accident, but I didn't think they'd gotten that well-acquainted. I mean, practising a whole set of wedding music with only a couple weeks' advance notice was a huge ask. I'm not sure I'd even ask my best friend in the world to do something like that.

"I don't mind," said Mr. Okamoto, much to my astonishment.

"You don't?"

"Yuri and I hadn't played together in a very long time, and we've been rediscovering how much we like our violin and piano duets. The music isn't that difficult, and we're already familiar with each other's playing style, so I think it'll work out quite well."

"That's...impressive," I said.

"It's an honour for us to play for your parents' wedding."

"I'm grateful to you for agreeing to it," I said, and I totally meant it. One of Yuri's favourite memories that he always talks about is of playing duets with his dad, and I'm glad they've started doing that again. I'm also super happy that Mom and Julian didn't end up having to hire random music students from the local college or something.

I pulled Yuri in for another hug. "And you too, sweet boy. I'm super happy that you... hang on."

"What?" Yuri said.

It'd taken a moment for my brain to register the observation, but it seemed that Yuri felt more solid in my arms than I remembered. "Excuse the change of subject, but have you gained weight?"

I know... not a very smooth question, right? In any other context, it would probably seem rude, but for us it had the complete opposite meaning.

Yuri drew back a little so he could look up at me. His face practically radiated happiness, and his beautiful smile accentuated the new fullness in his cheeks. "You noticed."

I slid my hands down his sides. "I can barely feel your ribs."

"I gained four kilos since you last saw me in person," he told me.

"In three weeks? Really? That's like, more than a whole kilogram per week." I glanced over his shoulder at his parents. "What have you been feeding him?"

From beside her father, Yuki piped up, "Milkshakes!"

"Not just milkshakes." Mr. Okamoto interjected hastily. He seemed to feel the need to be accountable to me, to prove they hadn't been so reckless as to let Yuri subsist on such a limited and arguably unhealthy diet. "He's been trying all sorts of new foods, haven't you, Yuri? But he does enjoy his strawberry milkshakes."

Of course I knew he'd been consuming more than milkshakes, but I acknowledged Mr. Okamoto's explanation with, "I'm glad you've been getting him to try new stuff." And then to Yuri, "Have you tried any other dairy products?"

"Real butter," he said. "And cream of broccoli soup. I didn't like that."

"Because of the broccoli, I guess. What about cheese?"

He made the most adorable face, scrunching up his cute button nose in distaste. "No. Cheese is disgusting."

"Unless it's in strawberry cheesecake," his father commented, looking entertained. "You should've seen him devouring that."

I raised an eyebrow. "Yuri, you ate cheesecake?"

"Mm-hmm, and cinnamon buns and dango. Oh, and ice cream!" Yuri said. "I can't believe I've been missing out on real ice cream this whole time."

“He’s been making up for it,” said Mr. Okamoto. "I've never seen anyone eat so many desserts."

"Well, I guess that explains the four kilos," I said.

Yuri offered up a grin that somehow managed to be simultaneously angelic and cheeky, "Aren't you proud of me, Victor?"

"Very," I said. "Four whole kilograms. That's awesome. You don't want to shoot past your goal, though. I hope you've been eating low-fibre vegetables and healthy proteins along with all your desserts."

"I don't like vegetables," he said.

"You like carrots and squash. I'll make you some carrot soup. That'll be the next thing for you to try, okay?"

"Okay." He leaned into me and nuzzled his cheek against my chest. "I'll eat it on one condition. You need to take me on a date to that ice cream place you're always talking about, with the forty flavours."

I laughed out loud and gave him an affectionate squeeze. I was beyond happy he'd discovered something new that he wanted to eat. "If you're not too tired from the trip, we can go this evening after dinner," I told him. "On one condition."

"Oh? What condition?"

"I know how much you love anything with strawberries, but The Frozen Cone has forty flavours. I really want you to try something other than strawberry."

"Peach?" he ventured.

"Good choice. They probably have that. They usually have orange-pineapple too, and cherry."

Yuri hummed softly, a little sound of satisfaction. "Let's try peach and cherry. I don't want to taste pineapple until we go to Sulani, okay? I want to save that experience for a really special occasion."

"Okay," I agreed.

"If we get a scoop of each kind in a bowl, we can share. Would that be all right?"

"That sounds perfect," I said.

"And you can feed me," he whispered, but evidently not quietly enough to prevent his father from overhearing.

Mr. Okamoto sounded torn between scolding and amusement. "Yuri—"

"One spoonful, because you're cute," I said. "But you'll be on your own for the rest of it. Rules are rules, you know."

"I tried," he said.

"Full marks for effort." I laughed, and kissed the top of his head. "Come on. Let's go inside. I can show you the paint job Leo and I did in your bedroom, and we can give your family the grand tour."

"Our family," he said.

"Our family," I repeated. I nodded to my in-laws. "Come on in."

Mr. and Mrs. Okamoto both thanked me and bowed respectfully, but I think Yuki forgot her manners in her excitement. She bounded forward and grabbed one of my hands. "Yuri said there's a ghost! Can I meet her?"

I smiled. "Well, that'll be up to Sachiko. I think if you call her Kobayashi-san and remember not to use her favourite mug, she'll come out and meet you. Don't be too surprised if she starts making small objects fly around the room, though."

Mrs. Okamoto frowned. "Are you saying the house really is haunted?"

"That's why the asking price was so low," I told her. "Don't worry, though. Sachiko isn't a bad ghost. She's just been here longer than we have, and she thinks it's her place, so her rules should apply."

"I... see," said my mother-in-law.

"What's this about the mug?" asked Mr. Okamoto.

"It's a red one," I said. "It's Sachiko's, and she's very possessive of it. No pun intended."

"Well," said my father-in-law. "A ghost with a mug, a wedding, and my son wanting to go to a forty-flavour ice cream shop. This should be an interesting week."

I couldn't resist a grin. "Family," I said. "Welcome to Willow Creek."

#writing #victorsworldadventures #victor nelson #yuri okamoto #tw chronic illness #stargazersims

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