#I immediately made several friends the moment I got to intermediate so?? not sure what that was all about

[neon-angels-system]

in primary school I used to pick cicada shells off of trees n put them on my shirt. cause the lil legs were good at sticking onto things + my shirts usually had pretty good grip. one time I collected a whole bunch n stored them behind a tree. but then I forgot where the tree was. sad

[loveamongthesailors]

Well, Pathologic 2, you’re One years old! It’s as good a moment as any to reflect upon and shatter the time-lines you’ve drawn out for us. OR; Reading His-Story Against the Grain

i saw this post about pathologics incongruous timeline stuff the other day and i ended up Getting Into It.. this piece draws on stuff from patho classic but its focused on patho 2, especially on a comparison ov the Diurnal and Nocturnal “endings,” and contains spoilers for both games, probably, i guess, on varying levels ov abstraction and explicitness. i/m going to attempt to stand on a street corner and point towards Pathologic’s overall construction/presentation ov “time” as the Now-time, Exploded time, Messianic Time.

from dear daniil dankovsky, on Angels; “An angel is a nightmare. Their purpose is to instill primal, oppressive horror. I think if angels existed, they’d resemble a divine pillar of light---from the heavens to the earth. Devoid of anything remotely human.” We commend this Puppet for his drama but would like to take a slightly different approach. Even awful dreams are good dreams, if you’re doing it right.

 IX

         “A Klee painting named ‘Angelus Novus’ shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing in from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such a violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress.“            

         on the content ov patho and in a real Life context, im also going to be discussing genocide ov Indigenous people, colonial Violence, police brutality, and anti-Black violence in this piece. i’ll also be contextualizing some views on History through the writing ov Walter Benjamin, a German born Jew living in the early 20th century, and friend ov Bertolt Brecht, who you may be familiar with if yr into patho. In 1940, shortly after writing On the Concept of History (referenced here),while fleeing persecution for neutral grounds, he was trapped in catalonia by a franco government cancellation ov travel vistas and,under threat ov repatriation to nazis by the spanish police, commited suicide on the night ov september 26. His theses were passed on by surviving members ov his group who were granted “safe” passage after his suicide, being later taken under the care ov Hannah Arendt and Theodor W. Adorno. His Grave reads -in German and in Catalan, reproduced here in english-

"There is no document of culture which is not at the same time a document of barbarism"

(from section 7 ov On the Concept of History)

    i will also be using sections from baedan, which has been dear to me over the years, on Benjamin’s Concepts. some songs will be dispersed throughout (featuring Laurie Anderson, Owen Pallett, and some good ol tmg), with relevant links beneath. you’ve heard that old Brecht aphorism about dark times, singing, whatever? i’m nearly sick to death ov it. these stories, in addition, will be based on a few things i know Myself. follow the threads as you see fit <3

Because History is Stories...That we half-remember... And most of them never even get written down. And so when they say things like "We're gonna do this by the book," You have to ask "What book?," Because it would make a big difference if it was Dostoyevsky or just, You know... Ivanhoe.

xxx

“Read what was never written,” runs a line in Hofmannsthal. The reader one should think of here is the true historian. ~ Walter Benjamin, omitted notes to the theses on history  

//// //// //// ////

Isidor Burakh: All I wanted was for you to understand, not to follow any particular fate.

...

Isidor Burakh: The Town needs to move forward, but it doesn’t insist. Facing the Future is the the way of Love. Facing the Past is the way of Love. But the two are incompatible, and it broke my heart. //// //// //// ////

      so,,, depending on who you ask within Pathologics narrative, the history ov the Town-on-Gorkhon stretches back to Time Immemorial, constitutes a few hundred years ov settlement, or only goes back about as far as You have been playing the game. You’ll hear conflicting narratives around just about everything in this Town. Simon Kain, hundred something years old, mystic, spiritual founder ov a several hundred year old settlement. an executed general’s vengeful daughter, Artemy and Rubins foggy backstories ov military service, what military?, what war? Who sent in the Military and Inquisition, how can We get at the Powers that Be? looking outside ov the narrative and towards history for these sorts ov questions will give us All and None ov the answers. 

       The Termitary (internment/interment/intermediate/immediate/intermittent)  looms over the Home ov Isidor Burakh, Menkhu and sole Medical Practitioner ov the town(excepting disciples. consider the spread ov knowledge, what different Knowledges are at hand and how they perpetuate...we can see how Isidor himself looms from his grave Quite well!), colleague ov radical intellectuals from the Capital and serving with Simon in tandem with the Mistresses to hold the Town together by force. Everything is Happening at Once.

        Look at What/Who is Moving this Story Forward. Different ruling families will give you again, different Numbers, different Stories. One can’t trust the Numbers, we say! and One can hardly trust the Stories either, mind you. This engenders an approach based on following Patterns, exploring Roots, pulling back the curtain to ascertain the shape ov things, reading the lines so to speak. one Bull or Several bulls? silly question. again, we’re trying to looking beyond the Numbers. consider Time as a Multiplicity. consider Rhythmic and Linear time, Time Stratified, Unending Time, Plague Time and Empty Time, Lived Time and Time un-Lived, if one pleases!

XVII                                                    

           “Historicism rightly culminates in universal history. Materialistic historiography differs from it as to method more clearly than from any other kind. Universal history has no theoretical armature. Its method is additive; it musters a mass of data to fill the homogoneous, empty time. Materialistic historiography, on the other hand, is based on a constructive principle. Thinking involves not only the flow of thoughts, but their arrest as well. Where thinking suddenly stops in a configuration pregnant with tensions, it gives that configuration a shock, by which it crystallizes into a monad. A historical materialist approaches a historical subject only where he encounters it as a monad. In this structure he recognizes the sign of a Messianic cessation of happening, or, put differently, a revolutionary chance in the fight for the oppressed past. He takes cognizance of it in order to blast a specific era out of the homogenous course of history—blasting a specific life out of the era or a specific work out of the lifework. As a result of this method the lifework is preserved in this work and at the same time canceled*; in the lifework, the era; and in the era, the entire course of history. The nourishing fruit of the historically understood contains time as a precious but tasteless seed.”                                                   

*The Hegelian term aufheben in its threefold meaning: to preserve, to elevate, to cancel.

          Everything is happening at once, already, and, for the purposes ov Our story, A plague is on. (why is there a plague on?  in this Specific Case, read: Specimen, there is a plague on because infection serves as a very useful allegorical device. haha. see also dominant theories ov infectivity in russian imperial medicine, policy, and social science) Crisis as Inflammation. Violence and Control intensified along multiple vectors. Mobs, Witch Burnings, The Quarantine, districts carved up and kept under surveillance, the Town Police, Arsonists, government or Otherwise, the Military, the Inquisition, Hangings in the square, tallies ov the Dead in the Termitary... Was any ov this new? did it Crystallize from thin air? here’s an aphorism: There’s Nothing New Under the Sun. what can we find beyond the Sun’s reaches? what has the Sun given us, and what has Earth? shall we keep them apart? whose bodies are restricted in their movement over the earth, and how severely are they restricted? who is targeted? who enforces the control? is this what Crisis looks like? when did the Crisis start?

VI                       

           “To articulate the past historically does not mean to recognize it ‘the way it really was’ (Ranke). It means to seize hold of a memory as it flashes up at a moment of danger. Historical materialism wishes to retain that image of the past which unexpectedly appears to man singled out by history at a moment of danger. The danger effects both the content of the tradition and its receivers. The same threat hangs over both: that of becoming a tool of the ruling classes. In every era the attempt must be made anew to wrest tradition away from a conformism that is about to overpower it. The Messiah comes not only as the redeemer, he comes as the subduer of Antichrist. Only that historian will have the gift of fanning the spark of hope in the past who is firmly convinced that even the dead will not be safe from the enemy if he wins. And this enemy has not ceased to be victorious.”

//// //// //// //// 

But do not be scared Surely some disaster will descend and equalize us A crisis Will unify the godless and the fearless and the righteous

...

In a certain slant of light the feeling will hit me Like a man against the waves and a violent wind Waking up in a bloody morning With the warmth of his forgiveness around me The shared dream left me shaking The memory is threatening to capsize every ship upon the sea

xxx //// //// //// ////

      Pathologic, having mapped out these lines, and being a concatenation ov narrative fiction that could not have existed without the precondition ov colonial expansion and the Extermination and Assimilation ov Indigenous populations and Life ways, can be can be unwound through a conventional historical approach by investigating various moments, epidemics, and movements in The Steppe (and all Land and Living Beings subsumed by Russia’s internal colonization) and looking for similarities, sources, influences, reflections, distortions... You’ll never find quite an exact parallel to the events ov pathologic, and you will find that the Trick that the devisers have given you in fact resides in laying out what can be gleaned from the Tangled view.

“…they make the work a process of learning or experimentation, but also something total every time, where the whole of chance is affirmed in each case, renewable every time,”

         — Gilles Deleuze, Difference&Repetition

//// //// //// ////

“For Benjamin, the conclusion of the movement of history through time is not some inevitable utopia—capitalist, communist, or otherwise. Rather than viewing the progression of civilization as an accumulation of gains and reforms toward freedom and justice, history can be seen as the continuous defeat of the exploited by their oppressors; the intensifying alienation of beings and their re-construction into capital. History not only serves to justify today’s rulers, but also to encode our memory with a narrative that reads historical events as a necessary chain of events along the path toward some future revolution or techno-utopia. He describes this as “a view of history that puts its faith in the infinite extent of time and thus concerns itself only with the speed, or lack of it, with which people and epochs advance along the path of progress.”

//// //// //// ////

     In your Twelve Days in the town as a Healer, what did you see? piles ov wreckage, debris, bodies stacked under streetlamps flickering in the night? a town spreading across a steppe? a Utopia growing through the Earth? do you think you saved any lives, and was any-body's life yours to save in the first place? a Plague moving through living organisms? a Plague moving through non-living organisms? did you observe any Organisms, living or otherwise, over the course ov the play? do you have Mirrors in your house? have you seen a still, clear, body ov water recently? what are the waterways where you live called, and have they been called anything else in the Past or Present? did you become the Haruspex, and following what paths does becoming-haruspex entail? are you winning, son?

When the hunger turns in on itself, it begins to devour its host Who do you turn to for help? Who do you love the most? When the word comes down the wire that they're looking To make an example of you Skin and bones around a campfire beneath the stars No good end in view I dance with the ones that brought me I dance with the ones that brought me here

xxx

         did you observe a Fever? can you feel a Fever? can you Imagine a great crack ov lightning striking across the Steppe, illuminating in raw detail the beauty and horror ov all that you have experienced? how would it smell afterwards? can you smell the Twyre on the air? is Twyre even a real thing? what may influence your imaginary ov its scent? Feel small, dirty hands reaching out for beetles, marbles, raisins, souls within nuts and names without people. Living on pemmican, Living on military rations. razors, fish-hooks, scalpels and syringes passing through the hands ov children as well. noticing the flows present in everything, spots where they are arrested, and the intensities they assume. we could run through the Game and Count up the Number ov Clocks present, and we could also look at how many hours we have Clocked in our Playtime, and the date ov this Play’s Production. did the Kains succeed in their mission to Produce Time? was this the Kain’s mission Alone? how is your mental Clock? We got the Body Count at the end of the day, and commentary too. cant beat that courtesy, *hem hem* but again, looking beyond the Numbers. how many Bulls did you see? when is a question also a trap? 

XVIII                                                  

       “‘In relation to the history of organic life on earth,’ writes a modern biologist, ‘the paltry fifty millennia of homo sapiens constitute something like two seconds at the close of a twenty-four-hour day. On this scale, the history of civilized mankind would fill one-fifth of the last second of the last hour.’ The present, which, as a model of Messianic time, comprises the entire history of mankind in an enormous abridgment, coincides exactly with the stature which the history of mankind has in the universe.”

what are the Consequences ov inserting Living Beings into a Linear Framework? where did Architecture come from? how was this Story constructed? What do you remember about the Town? 

We can take the Diurnal “ending” as a fairly straightforward allegorical Byway for the Forces ov Progress. Boundaries are set, You are not the Town, the Town is your Soul-and-a-half.( wikihow to not be a cartesian dualist, consider also Spinoza if laying bare the path ov immanence was ov interest to you) What lays beneath the Sunlight? what still lays beneath the Earth? What time is it? things are weirdly cozy, in some ways. mimesis, echoes, ghosts. Are their voices still heard? grace tallies up the bodies. are You ready to Leave Artemy here? is this a comfortable future for you to imagine? how are you with uncertainty? Does the costume itch? do you ache at the seams, or are your joints sore from all the strings pulling at them? got arthritis? i’ve used stinging nettle. can a Story devour a human being? why would something with that power stop at One?  

What Do You Think Will Happen Now?

One can also make the Choice to step into the Darkness. One with many names has returned to the Earth,(”One” ov many False Deaths and Smart Tricks too. love ya girl <3)... taya as mistress-ov-bulls, grace as mistress-ov-dead, changeling as mistress-ov-absolutley-whatever. Mistresses, Mist, Tresses, Bulls, Brides, Worms, Plague...the Theme/s to note here is/are Multiplicity. Is there a difference between imagining the future and the past? Where are you? Where did You come from? the Nocturnal ending already asks enough questions to make me quite happy. sitting next to the Girls now, looking out at the New Sky. same as the old sky, Full ov Magic. if we take Death ov the Author into account, we could say that the Polyhedron belongs to the Dead in more ways than one. We can see your house from here! i wouldn’t say we’ve even gotten to the Prophet yet. When did our Hero leave us? did We have any use for Heroism? the Steppe is in the Stone Yard now. The World is returning to Life. what does it mean for me?

how many angels can dance on the head ov a pin?

how many worm brides can dance in the cathedral?

   ....“The way in which the dead are present is as the “caress” of a “breath of… air,” as an “echo,” or as a sister who one no longer recognizes. In other words, the past is present and everywhere, touching us every moment and “in the voices we hear,” but only suggestively, in and in spite of our own inability to recognize it. But the possibility for redemption, the weak messianic power, lies in the chance that we might.

In the intimate, ever-present opportunity he describes there is a tremendous deal at stake. For, he writes in the fourth thesis, the “refined and spiritual things” that live in the class struggle “as confidence, courage, humor, cunning, and fortitude, and have effects that reach far back into the past… constantly call into question every victory, past and present, of the rulers.”

Later, turning to the historians he criticizes as tools of the ruling classes, Benjamin makes it clear in his seventh thesis that their resurrection of the past is an entirely different kind. The nature of the sadness—rooted in an indolence of heart—that Flaubert described feeling in his historical study of Carthage is clearer, Benjamin says, when we remember that the historian’s empathy is always with the victor, and thus with the present rulers. It is the kind of sadness, then, that gathers to the loyal servant or minion in knowing that it is being used for its ruler’s purposes”

         “Figured another way, the task of interruption requires us to locate the clocktower that we could fire upon to stop the day. Homogenous time no longer flows through the monolithic machines in the city centers. Now, a range of technological advancements have diffused and integrated the machinery of time into our very thoughts and rhythms. Everywhere we go, we are surrounded by and permeated with devices which serve to manage the regime of time. Where once a singular apparatus mediated our relationship to time, its dictatorship is now imposed by an innumerable array. A desire for interruption must now reckon with the countless apparatuses that segment our memory and integrate our very being into capitalist time. But rather than waste time lashing out against all these clocks one after another, let us cut through to what underlies them.

           History’s servants promise us a shining future. Whether by means of technological innovation, hard work and sacrifice, or the Revolution, we are assured of a heaven-on-earth of light and crystal. But all of these glimmering apparatuses can only serve to adorn the monumental pile of wreckage in which we live. All around us, the carnage and corpses of our ancestors form the architecture of our daily existence. Not only the walls and freeways and shopping centers, but the smart phones, pornography, surveillance and entertainment systems—all monuments to the same enemy that has never ceased to be victorious. Capital, Leviathan, civilization, society: so many names for the process which turns life into an assemblage of death, which would integrate us as machines into a grander machinery. Futurity is the logic that drives this regime of subjection and assimilation, but is also the science which desecrates our memory of those who also struggled; the treachery which turns their struggles into so many more ideological cadavers. Where living beings once struggled to be free from futurity’s domination of their lives, we are told that they dutifully sacrificed themselves for society’s future. We too are called upon to procreate and raise up children who might one day live better lives than we. But just as we were born into the halls of the dead, so too would our children be the stillborn janitors of these halls, breathing circuits embedded in a massive cybernetic cadaver. Ghosts call out to us: they ask that we tear apart the sutures of this Frankenstein’s monster which they’ve come to constitute. They call on us to cremate their remains and bury the ashes, to end the reign of the dead over the living.”

//// //// //// ////

"I am not afraid," ze said "Of the non-believer within me Nor delight at the pain of my enemies Nor tears for any friends I have lost" ...

I’ll never have any children I’d bear them and eat them, my children

I’m gonna change my body In the light and the shadow of suspicion I am no longer afraid The truth doesn’t terrify us, terrify us My salvation is found in discipline, in discipline

xxxx

//// //// //// ////

“It is apparent from the foregoing that all accumulation is cruel; all renunciation of the present for the sake of the future is cruel.”

— Georges Bataille, The Accursed Share, Volume III

//// //// //// ////

“The Haruspex is blood and organs... ...The Haruspex’s overarching idea is the interconnectedness of everything and restoring the connections... ...The Haruspex hears (rhythms)... ...The Haruspex: water + forward vector. „ — [from the game’s design documents]

“ The Haruspex, a butcher, a killer, one could even say a murderous psychopath, gets the warmest character arc. It’s about love. „ — [from the game’s design documents] 

//// //// //// ////

Infinity Mirrored Room—All the Eternal Love I Have for the Pumpkins -

Yayoi Kusama, 2016

//// //// //// ////

       A long “personal” anecdote: there’s music on the air and i hear a familiar buzzing. it isn’t twyre growing, nor it is the hum ov flies. we Keep bees here, to get honey.  I should try to remember to bring some to my wife tomorrow, though making the journey on its own is a bit daunting these days. 1 hive, 2 hives, the bees build and swarm and our Keeper rearranges the frames, adds in new boxes, tries to give them enough space that they'll stay within our domain. I think about the complex roles being fulfilled within the hive, and how any egg can grow into a so called “Queen” if need be. These Hives haven’t always held the same populations, sometimes a swarm will depart and won’t be Recovered. Look around the neighborhood, find the buzzing tree, you may be able to get them back yet but... have you tried getting a swarm ov bees into a box before? good luck finding the queen! (hoping i don’t have to do this but a bit excited by the prospect at the same time.)

        Our honey bees didn't originate from this region, i see them in the “yard” alongside native bees (one tries to plant for Everybody) but obviously, Our Hives are here so i’ll always see more ov the honeybees as long as they’re occupying them. Native bees to our Bioregion are leading very different lifestyles. Different threats, dynamics, and places in the ecosystem as well. Bumblebees are the most Beloved. Native Bees here- vital pollinators, ground and stem burrowers, more solitary souls than most, but are any ov us really alone? what are their favorite flowers?

          I think about Bees a lot now. I’m standing here thinking about Bees, and where I’m standing is in between the entrance ov the Hive and their favorite Ceanothus (see also soap brush, red root, buckbrush, see medicinal uses...). Very precious grounds to these Bees, not somewhere where I’m welcome. I Haven’t always known as much about bees. I get stung right inbetween my pinky and index fingers, on the palm ov my hand. yeowch! Bad luck, but i could still use a shovel the next day. This was an anecdote about Paying Attention to Your Surroundings.

       The Ceanothus isn’t flowering anymore, and hasn't been for a few “weeks” (i think?) The Bees have other concerns now. In fact, it was heavily damaged in a snow storm a couple years back, and half ov its branches collapsed under the weight ov the ice. Its a bit ov a twisted thing now, what remains still flowers but what remains is not so much. At some point in the future upon yr reading ov this, it will have been cut down and possibly dug out ov the earth. I wouldn't be surprised if a few more, smaller, iterations made their way to this space in remembrance/ tribute. The branches lost in it’s first wounding are still stacked up nearby, all sorts ov creatures love that stuff. Dead trees in the back that Birds still frequent stay for the birds. We never get that many plums because we’re not smart or quick enough, or as willing to take one great bite ov a fruit and let the rest fall to the soil. I didn’t really get stung by a Bee in a situation exactly like what i described up there, it’s drawing on a few different times that sort ov thing happened. I hope you’ll forgive me for my obscurantist tendencies.

       Looking past the Hives and onto the Streets, I am a White Settler(family fled the reach ov the Soviet Union to integrate into America, family fled family to a different part ov land under the Reaches ov said “America”,cave fled family but stuck with the Land, recurring patterns, what would my views be if i had grown up in Czechoslovakia? geography, chronology, trick questions) living in a segment ov Town that, until 1968, was a legally a Sundown Town, see Racial Restrictive Covenants. I still don’t see than many Black ppl around my neighborhood. I do see grocery store parking lots swarming with cop cars, more cops than i can Count, at least two k9 units, all to pursue One Black Body through the rainy night, My own Body lets me move through the world without these Forces being brought upon me in this intensity, lets me Watch.

          Certain alignments ov directions ov Struggle have brought me into the position ov the Other at the end ov the cudgel, a body in a crowd under the looming eye and long barrel ov the sniper, the surveillance camera. Visibility is a Trap. Any ability i have to Get Off The Hook is based not on Luck or Fate, but due to the way the color ov my skin is reflected in the eyes ov Those in Power. what can i do from inside This Skin, and what can i do with the veil ov a mask obliterating my “selfhood”? How are we to heal? If you didnt read this into my Musical choices already- im a bit ov a flaming/smoldering queer. sitting in the planned parenthood lobby, one among many, gripped by recollections ov the devastating history ov HIV/AIDS and a cluster ov other Crises, memories ov beloved souls lost to policies and hegemony ov extermination and neglect. blood in vials, piss in jars. how does the time spent waiting for results feel?(how long? weeks months?)

           I have more free condoms on hand than i’ll ever get through. A veritable theoretical eternity ov Safer Sex. There are Reasons why Queer Institutions give access to free condoms. But i’ve gotten them from some delightful Quakers as well. on another squeamish, libidinal subject, administering self injections isnt so daunting when you’ve seen it done a Million times before. It’s like watching somebody sneeze, or pinching yourself. HRT as potions, mechanical intrusion to will a slow transformation. getting into the fat is easy, some other avenues less so. “This requires the Gentle Hand of a Surgeon, step aside!” i know a lot about what Doctors Don’t Know. (veins and arteries as streets- easy. nerves as streets - you hear this a bit less. streets as eyes, the opening ov your mouth with a railroad track running down it, eyes as streets, whose streets? fuck streets! tear up the concrete)

          The aforementioned streets are closed to Traffic due to the Quarantine, and i hear folks and families from the neighborhood walking/hoverboarding/skateboarding/biking down the street,(mostly the new work from home yuppie class and their spawn respectively, but there's some real ones around here too. all ages. have yet to live anywhere that people don't ask me for cigarettes) chattering away, masks or no masks. If i take a long walk down past the cemetery, I’ll find myself passing by a Native American Youth Home, created to provide support for a population that is currently disproportionately represented in this Town’s already Massive Homeless population. (their covid19 resources and donation info) Even with the Plague on, New Condos are built and Old Condos stay empty. Who do the bones in the soil beneath my feet belong to? When did all ov this Start, and how Long will it go on? why does the Map look the way it does? I would rather listen carefully than dig. This Story is not the only Story, nor should any be.

      do i remember how the damp asphalt smells Here after Lightning Strikes? do i remember the feeling ov my body thrown to the concrete and the chaos and disorientation ov Crowds mobbing over me, slick with rain and sweat? who saw, and how many hands reached out to lift me up, who saved who? is that my blood trickling down the sidewalk? Flashbangs and Flashes ov Lightning, take yr pick. you can get similar experiential learning in the moshpit. this is an anecdote about Paying Attention to Your Surroundings.

i’ll try to bring us nearer to the point with baedan’s conclusion, a reflection on the First thesis from On the Concept of History. I will leave it up to You to investigate the original text if you are so Inclined.

//// //// //// ////

           “For every pretty theory that presents itself, study it only in the way that a cat studies its prey: for the enjoyment of the hunt, to be sure, but also so as to seize upon whatever unique revolutionary chance may appear as in a flash of lightning. So that when that narrow gate opens, you pounce without a moment’s hesitation. In the meantime, by all means, enjoy the diversion of the theory’s lines and moves, but if you are to avoid becoming its tool you must ever have in mind to shatter the system of mirrors and confront the dwarf that has been pulling the strings all along. Faced with this ugly little creature behind all the lines of play you’ve enjoyed and suffered, able at last to read the lines of its face and the dark of its eyes, as time stands still and the entirety of the past falls to you, you will have to make a deeply ethical decision that nothing in all the games before could prepare you for. The only decision that truly matters.”

//// //// //// ////

Artemy Burakh: Any Choice is Right as long as it’s Willed.

//// //// /// ////

Hansel and Gretel are alive and well And they're living in Berlin She is a cocktail waitress He had a part in a Fassbinder film And they sit around at night now Drinking schnapps and gin And she says: Hansel, you're really bringing me down And he says: Gretel, you can really be a bitch He says: I've wasted my life on our stupid legend When my one and only love Was the wicked witch

She said: what is history? And he said: history is an angel being blown backwards into the future He said: history is a pile of debris And the angel wants to go back and fix things To repair the things that have been broken But there is a storm blowing from paradise And the storm keeps blowing the angel backwards into the future And this storm, this storm is called progress

xxx

TLDR; pathologics shitty timeline is cool because it fosters a metagame where the imperative is to make history explode in real life.

specific thanx to: every1 included above, my local subversive lit dealers, Whoever gave the talk last ABF about Queer Wanderings in the anti-nazi Underworld, have not stopped carrying those stories with me since. thanks to the Dear Listener, thanks 2 my wife for pragmatic and personal encouragements <3

a personal acknowledgement to the lives and legacies ov the dxʷdəwʔabš (Duwamish) people, past and present, First People ov the Land i currently Occupy, alongside the entire City ov so-called “Seattle.”

[ctl-yuejie]

HP!TayNew

part 3: Day 1 (Part 2)

(2.1 k)

thanks again to @sluttynewwiee, @earthpodd , @bl-phillip @ziq-panda + @somewhatavidreader for the sweetest tags

read on ao3 (part 1 2 3.1 3.3 4 5 6)

Tay got a pleasant surprise the next day. Thursday mornings meant transfiguration class with Professor McGonagall. Thursday mornings usually meant Newwiee excelling at another subject. But this Thursday morning Newwiee failed to execute the charm they had been studying for the past week. Newwiee’s voice had been low and steady. A shiver head run down Tay’s back. Newwiee’s movements had been swift and confident. But the color of his uniform never changed.

When he tried it for the first time Tay didn’t realize that Newwiee had failed. It just never happened.  He just assumed that he had targeted something that was so small that he just couldn’t see the color change. But Newwiee tried again after having a quick look around.  Professor McGonagall was occupied with containing the mess one student had made out of his hair, her look quite severe. “Colovaria”, Newwiee said pointing at his own uniform. Nothing happened.

Tay had stopped practicing and his head propped onto his hand he alternated between watching Newwiee’s efforts and Professor McGonagall slowly making her way to them.

She was known for having no tolerance for silliness and dismissed any students who dared to fool around. Tay didn’t know whether changing the color of one’s uniform fell more into the silly or foolish category with her. But Newwiee was in for some big trouble if he didn’t stop immediately. He looked back at Newwiee going for his fourth attempt, clearly not aware of how close Professor McGonagall was. Tay didn’t try to warn him, looking forward to the drama that was about to unfold.

“Mr. Thitipoom”, her voice cut through the background noise of the classroom. “What exactly are you trying to accomplish there?” She definitely knew what he was doing, Tay rejoiced. “Changing the color, Professor.” “Do not try to be cheeky with me”, she said sternly.  To Tay’s disappointment she left it at that and moved on to the next table. The perks of being an outstanding student he guessed. But professor McGonagall halted in her step and turned around, eyes piercing Newwiee who still stood rooted to his spot. Tay held his breath.  “But do say, what color were you trying to turn your uniform into?” Tay gripped tightly onto his copy of Intermediate Transformation in excitement.  “Green, Professor.” Tay could feel the pages scrunch up under his fingers. Another book that would hate him he guessed. Professor McGonagall actually seemed at a loss for words.  She raised one eyebrow and then declared:  “One point from Gryffindor.” Tay was full on squeezing his book now, looking up at Newwiee and waiting for a reaction. “And one point from Hufflepuff.”  Tay jumped in his seat and sat up straight. But too late. “For mucking about and not stopping a foolish friend.”  Shock was written all over Tay’s face, while Newwiee sat down next to him patting his shoulder sympathetically.

Things turned out to not go any smoother for the rest of the day. Having to carry two books to class was always a nuisance but Newt Scamander’s Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them was particularly heavy. Tay was even more annoyed by the fact that Professor Rakepick never made use of it. He somehow managed to push open the classroom door with his shoulder but before he could put down his books he collided with his desk and they fell down with a clunk. Scamander’s book had landed wide open and he could hear the spine crack. Newwiee sighed as he went to pick up the book form him. But has as soon as he had lifted it he dropped it with a shudder. Now the book laid down on its other side and Tay could see that it had opened right on the introductory page of skrewts. Their eyes met. “Gary!”, Newwiee mouthed at Tay and they snickered.

Professor Rakepick was an excellent curse-breaker and well respected in the wizarding community. At the same time, she had the habit to tease her students and pick the most ungrateful spells to end her class with. Today she had them go through the movements for the hex-breaker. It was a left-handed spell that required six steps and finished with the caster doing a handstand and saying the spell while holding the wand with their feet. While looking absolutely ridiculous Newwiee made it through the steps, pushing himself up into a handstand without difficulties. Tay’s eyes were fixed on his arms again. They didn’t even seem to feel the weight of the body they had to support. When it was Tay’s turn he stumbled quite a bit around before even reaching the final step, much to the amusement of Professor Rakepick. Pushing himself up in a headstand proved to be even more difficult. In the end Newwiee went down on his knees, arms reaching around Tay’s waist to hold him steady. Just as he was about to cast the spell he suddenly felt Newwiee’s right hand moving upwards touching his butt. All strength left his arms and giggling he fell right onto him. Newwiee was shaking with laughter. The blood had been drained from Tay’s head by standing up-side-down for so long that he felt extremely light-headed when he attempted to stand up again.

The whole way from the classroom to the library Newwiee kept an arm around his shoulder just to be sure he wouldn’t feel dizzy and fall.

Gun was already waiting for them, having fought everyone who attempted to sit next to him in order to keep the table empty. He watched them curiously as they walked in arm in arm, still cackling about the disaster their hex-spell had turned into.

Brooding over their assignments they decided to compare notes from time to time. Which pretty soon turned into them arguing about every little detail. Pointing at some of Newwiee’s scribbles Tay complained that they were unreadable while the other poked his finger at Tay’s face arguing that he must still be high from standing up-side-down for too long. Tay took mock-offense and threatened to poke Newwiee until he’d recognize his seniority.

Gun held his head between his hands and occasionally looked up to sigh as they draped themselves more and more over each other while arguing. Their fight was completely off topic by now and he rejoiced when Off stepped into their part of the library. Luckily there still was an Astronomy class at midnight and Tay and New had to excuse themselves to get something to eat.

In that moment Madam Pince turned the corner to throw them out. 

After dinner Tay returned to the Hufflepuff basement to take a quick shower. Taking his time to wind down he realized that this was the happiest he has been at Hogwarts so far. And it all had started with a small exploration of the selkies. He smiled thinking about how panicked Newwiee had looked that day, standing wandless in the water. How he would distort his face in mock disgust when Tay teased him about it later on. And Newwiee’s hands on his. On his waist.

Tay’s mind wandered to today’s incident and he was about to touch where Newwiee had put his hand earlier before he stopped himself. The water was cascading down on his head as he leaned against the tiles, cheeks hurting from not being able to control his smile.

After changing into a thicker sweater, he all but ran up the stairs to the astronomy tower.

High above the walls of the school it pushed into the sky. Circular levels overlapped and formed a protruding observation platform in the middle, roofed by a pointy spire and open to the sides. Flanked by two smaller towers a balustrade encompassed the open space, giving it the illusion of a stone pavilion.

Last week he had sat here with his telescope looking at the constellations in the sky, feeling small and forlorn. Tay felt a pang in his heart just at the memory of that night.

Some of his classmates had already settled into their spots along the balustrade, using hot-air charms to keep warm.   Professor Sinistra stepped through the archway and distributed blank star charts. Later they would be used to determine the adequate time to plant or harvest certain magical plants and the potency of certain potions depending on the position of moon. There were still some minutes left before the bells would strike midnight, but Tay already got anxious about Newwiee skipping class so he collected one extra chart from the professor. Some students set to work early, but he decided to wait for a little longer.

Tay was getting irritated. He pointed his wand at his reference books and used the depulso charm to throw them around. While not suffering any real damage, Tay was relentless in his attack, slapping them repeatedly against the balustrade. Newwiee just had to fix the pages ones he got here, served him right.  

“I didn’t know you wanted people to take you as even a bigger weirdo than you already are”, Newwiee chimed up behind them. Putting the cushion he had carried under his arm next to Tay he assembled his equipment with a swipe of his wand. Tay forgot all about using the books to punish him and looked up. Newwiee thought that Tay looked funny like that, brows still knitted together in silent fury while his grin already touched his ears.

He propped himself up on the plushy cushion, stretching his legs. The bells in the bell towers chimed 12 times. “I thought you might have gone down to the lake to swim again.” Newwiee shuddered at the thought. “I don’t think I will go back there alone any time soon.” Tay looked displeased at his posture. “Give me half of the cushion”, he threatened holding up the star charts, well-knowingly that Newwiee could just ask Professor Sinistra for another one. Newwiee just raised his eyebrow and pouted before he moved a little bit to the side. With a smirk Tay threw his head onto the pillow, pulling up his telescope so he could observe the stars while lying on his back.

Scribbling the stars of Aquila and Cygnus on his chart it took Newwiee some time to notice that Tay wasn’t working on his. “What are you looking at?” “Hm?” “I said what are you looking at?” Tay grabbed his neck and pulled him towards him so that he could see through his telescope. “The fireworks galaxy.” Newwiee took a look at the colorful spots and turned to face Tay. “So, you are a geek about astronomy as well?” “No, I just happened to see it…” Tay playfully slapped Newwiee’s stomach. “If you’re not working, you might clear the space between us so I could lie down more comfortably.” “Am working. And this”, he gestured at his left hand holding the quill “only works like this”, and he turned on his side to note down some stars, starting to work seriously. But after the third dot he started giggling and Newwiee realized that he had been spouting bullshit. Looking up at him waggishly Tay started to move his papers behind his back before his eyes caught something. Newwiee was only wearing the school’s thin buttoned shirt.

“Aren’t you cold?” “I’m always warm”, Newwiee shrugged. Tay’s hand landed on his chest, taking in the temperature. “You are”, he said in surprise. “Annoying.” Tay turned around to get back to work.

After finishing their star maps most students cleared the tower to head to their beds. Newwiee still had some constellations to dot down while Tay was lying on his back, head more on Newwiee’s shoulder than his cushion. He couldn’t tell whether Tay was distracting him intentionally or not. The air was getting colder around them, most of the hot-air charms surrounding them were wearing out slowly. But with Newwiee nestled next to him it was still comfortable enough for him to just lie on his back and gaze at the stars. In the distance scratchy, bark-like calls could be heard. Tay perked up. It sounded just like the call of the short-eared owl his family used for their correspondence. His chest felt a little bit tighter. He missed his grandmother.

A finger on his chin pulled him out of his thoughts. “Did you forget to shave?” It seemed that Newwiee had finished the assignment. He turned Tay’s chin from side to side and inspected the stubble grazing it with his fingertips. “Broke my razor…” Newwiee looked amused. “Don’t laugh. I can’t trust myself with any spells so I have to go around like this. Off wouldn’t help, he thinks I should go for a beard.” “Try the spell. You might end up bald.” Tay couldn’t even force himself to look annoyed.   “Do it for me?” Professor Sinistra cleared her throat behind them.

They jumped apart immediately. Newwiee collected their belongings while Tay handed over their assignments, apologizing profusely to the professor, stumbling over his words.

to be continued

part 3.3

[vex-bittys]

Mind if I request a Drabble of a chain attempting to court the owner but the owner does not get it at first but slowly starts to understand when the chain brings them 'food' that they caught.

Fast Food Chain

(Note: This drabble got away from me and is under the cut for length)

Some Chains spent a lifetime searching for the perfect owner, but this Chain lucked out early on in his life. As a very young adult, he’d spotted them in the shop, looking for a Chain to adopt. Other Chains told stories of how SOULs sang to them, but until that moment, he’d never understood just what it meant to find someone whose SOUL called out to your own. They’d taken him home that day, and he couldn’t have been happier.

He adored his owner as much as any Chain could. They were smart, kind, funny, everything he could ever want in… well… a bondmate. He was sure the crush wasn’t one-sided. His owner loved physical affection, and the first time he tentatively wrapped his tail around their ankle when they were snuggled in front of the TV, his owner had looked from his tail to his face and smiled their oh-so-beautiful smile at him. He hoped they didn’t notice the bright orange blush on his cheekbones.

All Chains have a habit of presenting their owner with pretty baubles and polished stones as a sign of their deep SOUL connection, but the Chain wanted to court his owner properly. Proper courtship required an intermediate step between tail-wrapping and impractical, sentimental gifts. A lamia had to show their potential bondmate that they were capable of providing for them. The Chain needed to hunt and bring his owner some suitable prey to show off his prowess.

The Chain spent the morning in the garden, stalking prey. He wanted to bring back something to dazzle his owner, something that would be difficult for them to catch for themselves. The big lamia had his sights set on a plump wild turkey. He watched the flock carefully, waiting for his moment to strike. He dispatched a large specimen quickly and cleanly and dragged it through the doggy door his owner had installed to allow him access to the outdoors.

They congratulated him on his hunting skills, admiring the size of the turkey and it’s lovely patterned feathers, but they hadn’t eaten it. They’d given it back to him. The rejection stung, but the Chain didn’t give up. Maybe his owner didn’t like poultry? Maybe the feathers were too much. Maybe they wanted something smaller and easier to swallow. The next morning he headed back out to the garden to find a more suitable meal.

After some consideration of the various small mammals that liked to scurry by and nibble the plants his owner so carefully cultivated, he decided that a nice plump rabbit would make an excellent meal. The rabbit was smaller than the turkey with a nice soft pelt and not a single spiky feather to be seen. Once again, he slithered through the doggy door, edible offering in hand.

He didn’t expect his owner to clutch the still-warm body and cry. They told him he did a great job catching the rabbit, but everything about their body language screamed sadness as they petted the rabbit’s fur before handing it back to him. Another rejection. Maybe the rabbit was too small?

The next morning, the Chain basked morosely on his favorite spot in the garden, trying to puzzle out what he’d done wrong. The only large animals in the immediate area were neighborhood dogs, and his owner had informed that dogs were not for eating on his first day home. He wondered if he could find a nice stream or river to fish in. Or insects, did humans eat insects? All of his owner’s meals came out of boxes or cans, so he had no idea what kind of animals they were.

A friendly chirp startled him out of his musings. The Honey Bo who lived next door slithered over to join him on the warm rock. They often soaked up the warmth together on sunny days, and the Honey Bo knew his friend well enough to sense that something was wrong today despite the bright gold sunlight. The Chain confided in his friend about his recent struggles with finding the perfect prey to woo his owner. The Honey Bo offered to show him where his owner preferred to get food from.

The Chain had reservations about going out of sight of the house, but the Honey Bo reassured him: “Not far. Be home soon,” and the duo set off down the street.

It didn’t take the two lamias long to reach their destination: a fast food chain restaurant. The Honey Bo pointed to the menu proudly, as if he’d designed it himself, but the Chain regarded it skeptically. He narrowed his sockets as he read the food descriptions next to the pictures. Was any of this even meat? He wouldn’t have believed humans ate such weird food if not for the crowd of people lined up in front of the counter.

Well, he couldn’t do worse than making his owner cry with a rabbit, so he and the Honey got into the line, patiently slithering forward as each person ordered and received their food. They progressed to the front of the line quickly, but once they were at the counter, the Chain was at a loss for what to order. Which menu item would win his owner’s heart? What were these food items anyway? A French fry? Wasn’t that a cooking method? Were the customers eating other humans from France?

The Honey Bo noticed his friend’s confusion, so he placed the order. “Number sssseven,” he hissed, pointing to the menu with his tail in case the employee had trouble understanding his raspy words.

“That’ll be $8.02,” the woman at the register informed them cheerfully. The Honey Bo turned expectantly to the Chain. The Chain patted his pockets. He knew he didn’t have any cash; his owner always took care of purchasing things. He did have a lovely raw amethyst though. He removed the translucent purple stone from his pocket and set it on the counter.

The woman gave the big lamia a sweet, sad smile. “That’s a really pretty amethyst you have there, but unfortunately, we can’t accept those as payment.” She appeared to honestly regret her words. The Chain sagged in defeat as he stuffed the stone back into his pocket. He’d never find the perfect gift for his owner now. The Honey Bo threw a comforting arm around his friend’s shoulders and led him towards the exit, but a person behind them called out for them to wait.

“Were you buying your owner fast food as a courtship gesture?” the person asked them. The dejected Chain nodded, not understanding this strange human’s excitement. The Honey Bo hissed, worried that this person might be harassing or mocking the Chain, but the human took out their phone, tapped it a few times, and held it out to them.

There on the screen was a photo of the human and another full-sized Chain smiling as they took a selfie together. “My Chain brought me a turtle as a bonding gift,” the person explained, swiping to a new picture of the Chain proudly holding up a turtle. “The shell was too hard for him to bite through, so he gave it to me still alive. The turtle lives in our pond now, and we call him Sheldon.” More swiping, this time to photos of Sheldon the turtle.

The Chain viewed each picture with growing sadness. He’d never share such experiences with his owner. He’d failed to find anything even remotely as good as Sheldon. He sighed, snapping the human out of their happy memories.

“I’m not trying to make you feel worse. I actually wanted to help you out. I’d be more than happy to pay for whatever you want to order for your future bondmate.” The pall of defeat lifted from the Chain at those words, and he swept the human up into a tight hug.

The Honey Bo slithered back up to the counter and ordered once more, and the helpful human paid the cashier with a warm smile on their face. The woman at the cash register and several other fast food patrons cheered when another employee handed the bag of food to the Chain. The Chain wanted to cry, to thank everyone, to hug the kind human again, but he had acquired his gift. He wanted to deliver it to his owner hot and fresh. Only the best for them.

The Chain burst through the door, body wiggling in excitement, the neighbor’s Honey Bo tagging along behind to watch the scene unfold. The two lamias’ owners were sitting in the living room, conversing in low serious tones when their lamias showed up.

The Chain’s owner leapt from their seat, tackling him in a hug and crushing the bag of fast food he’d been holding out to them. Oh no!

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you were giving me bonding gifts. I’m sorry I made you feel bad. Of course I accept your gifts. They’re perfect,” they babbled as the Chain gently enfolded them in the coils of his body for a comforting hug and soothing back rub.

Who cared if the food he’d worked so hard for got ruined? This, just holding his owner in his arms like this, this is what mattered.

More Drabbles | INDEX | Read on AO3

[actionfigurebullshit]

Time?

It’s not a new idea.

FIN

...

Sorry, I just thought that’d make a nice, neat post. I’ll move on. What I mean to say is that I’ve had this... feeling, of late, that it might be time to make an attempt to continue “Chaos Corridor”. It’s not the first time in the past couple of years that I’ve felt this way, so I’m not sure there’s that much difference. I was using unused phones from friends to do those last animations, but a little over a year ago, I joined the 21st century and got a smartphone of my own. I’ve done a few animations on it, since. A couple posts back is something cryptic about “P. Carr”. I had an idea to do an AFB-ish take on Star Trek Picard. I had the Farmer Picard action figure... What if Pappy Gabel was from a maternal line, and that his last name was actually Carr?

Anyway, not much came of that, though the animation appeared in two TC videos, the most recent one being “4000 Posts-B”, which also had A Very Extra Special Cameo by the AFB gang. It wasn’t just special because it was that set of action figures, but because it was also the realization of something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time, and that was do my own stop motion animation from those ABC Saturday morning bumpers.

The P. Carr animation was mildly disappointing, but there wasn’t much thought put into it, and while there wasn’t much put into the “Bumper” stuff, I did plan it out like I did in AFB- at least, as far as I can remember doing it. Because the bumper clip had audio, and things connected with the audio, I was able to look at each second of that audio clip and think how I can spread out that action across 10 frames. A reminder- it’s called Action Figure Bullshit for a reason, so 10 is pretty good for me. AFB was supposed to be the spiritual successor to an older project I did on VHS which had a setting on it allowing me to do some awesome four frames a second animation. WOO! It was actually awesome because it meant that it was a guaranteed shot. I had another camcorder before this one- probably better in many respects, but you had to do the animation by clicking the record button twice. A little record animation would appear and you could use that to time the shots. Overall, my animation fps was superior, but the shots were inconsistent. Sometimes shots were too long, or didn’t make it in because there wasn’t enough time between pressing the record button. If I suddenly found myself in 2002 again, and forced to remake this stuff, I’d be tempted to animate things a little more carefully between quarter second and then fast forward the video tape in a way that wouldn’t garble the screen, and record THAT VCR fast forwarding through the video and add your audio. For analog stuff, that’d be a nightmare and would require an impossible amount of perfect timing... at least, for what I had- aging home entertainment system components for lower class rural America in the year 2002...

I still think about making videos that way, though, all the different things I could do with it today if I dared.

Anyway, AFB was never meant to be more than just a tiny bit better than those animations. My old 2007 digital camcorder could take low resolution pictures. It seemed the easiest way to take images- it has a remote, it goes on my tripod just fine, and I have oodles of ways to import and fashion those pictures into animations. As I continued to work on it, the animation got... SLIGHTLY BETTER!

So, being out of AFB action for so long, I thought aiming for 10 was a bit lofty, but it was just the easiest thing to do. How long does it take for the characters in the ABC claymation to turn around when the music starts? A second? Okay, how can I have Moxie, Greta, and... Douglas? Mimic that in 10 frames. It was a good way to get into it.

I was a little unsure with the rest, and I wasn’t going to worry about making the animation too complicated, so Trent merely spins around with the “drumsticks” rather than, you know, hitting it like a fucking drum like he should. Then it devolves into silliness, which is a hallmark of my animation- go back and watch AFB. When a scene goes on for a while, it will end with something bizarre and silly. Case in point, in some of the earliest animations in the TV room before Moxie and Newton arrive, Greta starts laughing, and then flies away, and it’s quite obvious Douglas and Trent are confused by what just took place. That was one of the first animations done during that “film bonanza” of October 2015. That date in Back to the Future, Part II? On that date, I was filming this stuff, though I think I was several days past that scene...

All that filming actually became my much needed exercise. It’s very physically demanding to film all that stuff. The lowest weight I’ve been in six years came from those days. Naturally, filming those 40 frames was extremely taxing on my neglected body. I was shaking towards the end...

But I was so glad I did it. I put aside doubt and rumination and just went for it, one and done, we’ll see what happens. 20 minutes later, I had my frames, and when I got to my last cut, I ended up with 10fps, even though I made 40 frames for 5 seconds. Somehow, it works. That’s the nice thing about not having to be too precise with these animations. It’s a lot like pairing music and visuals- there are so many different ways the pairing can pop. I found something that worked.

I’m in between creative projects, and fearful of falling into a depression since I just finished a project a few days ago- all those pages from Purp4e that actually got TC to 4,000 posts. I’ve thought about a lot of intermediate things I could do before trying to make an attempt at Chaos Corridor Continues, but what if all that just ends up being hoops to jump through, stumbling blocks? Why not seize this moment and just go right into it?

For sure, there’s prep work, but really, we’re talking a few minutes, and then when it’s film time, it’s like Vamos Pest Management- it’s completely set up, used, and then broken down. That will have to be a condition of doing this- there will be a strict time limit, and in order to meet it, clean up time has to be considered. This is kind of discouraging to me because I like having those moments to really space out and think about what I’m going to do before I go do it. Perhaps there’s no need to do that with Chaos Corridor since, like the ABC bumper commercial, it’s all put together already- the audio part, anyway. I may recruit the Trent actor to do some sweet audio mixing with me when the time comes, but I think the placement of the audio is going to be the same, and if it isn’t, refer to what I said earlier about how the animation has many ways it can fit in with the audio. It’ll work, no matter what happens... or... maybe I just bomb at it. I’ve had a few failed attempts- the animation just doesn’t come together, or despite some supposed production, it doesn’t feel right, it doesn’t feel like it’s time to go to the next scene. For whatever reason, it just doesn’t work, and sometimes that’s all there is to it. If it keeps breaking down, then I know now is not the time and I can move on.

Oh, but if it works... like I said, it’s all set up. There’s quite a bit that takes place in this scene. This will keep me busy for a long time, another reason I want to get to it now, rather than later. I don’t want this to be something I’m still thinking about in the future. Do I want to make other AFB videos? You bet. This one. Please, no.

...

Here’s an idea:

PREP WORK

I’ll get the box. I’ll get the other box. I’ll clear the cheap Wal-Mart coffee table off. I will figure out a way to store the big box down here. I will track down the AFB notebook, I will...

What else do I need to do to get filming immediately?

Let’s see how far away from “ready” I am by this time tomorrow.

[maren-as-an-adult]

I Severely Underestimated the Lack of Time and Energy This Job Would Allow Me

So my plan of posting a weekly-ish update about this job severely backfired on me, because HOLY SHIT DO THEY KEEP US BUSY! This is legitimately a full-time job, we should all get a raise, but because the Man hates the Arts we probably won’t ever at all and counselors are people who do the most but get the least, goddammit. SO! The week started off where I was a scared beanpole of a girl super intimidated by all of the nearly 300 children that would be staying with us for the next 3 weeks. I had no idea how I would run my classes, I had no idea what I’d be doing for my show, I had no idea if I would make friends, and I had no idea if I’d be able to handle the six girls I’d be in charge of on my floor. 

Three weeks later, I was so emotionally compromised when they left and I realized I wouldn’t see them for another year... unless I don’t come back next year in which case I’ll probably never see them again. WHICH IS NOT WHAT I WANT TO HAVE HAPPEN!

Basically, here’s the breakdown:

CLASSES

I taught three dance classes: beginner jazz, intermediate ballet, and advanced modern. I only had four in my modern class, and I grew to love each of them so much. They were so receptive and willing to perform their best, and they all said they really admired me. Modern also was set to perform in the class showcase, and they were able to beautifully perform the choreography I gave them.... although I didn’t actually get to see their performance, the class showcase was on my day off, and on that day I went into the city for a date with The Boyfriend. That was a fun day, but back to camp for now. 

THE SHOW

The show I worked on was Stephen Sondheim’s Follies. And WOW was our director intense. We were flying through the show which was to be expected because we only had two and a half weeks to have it blocked, cued, choreographed, and memorized and even though I’m good at picking up and learning choreography, I was struggling myself to keep up. 

This was especially nerve wracking for me, as the cast would frequently come up to me and ask me for clarification on what we just learned. Because it’s not considered professional to say, “Sorry, dude, I know about as much as you do right now, so I guess you’re fucked,” I struggled to help them as best I could. 

I’d feel so useless, incompetent, and foolish when I couldn’t help them, and there were days I was definitely overwhelmed. I was also super lost on several of the group dances, because I’d been gone for a weekend up in Albany for my grandfather’s funeral which was a fucking blast there was a rainbow and everything. 

There was this one girl in my cast who was, in a bit of a word, super high-strung about everything. She wanted to be perfect in the show for all the wrong reasons (I won’t get into it much, but basically she felt she needed to be perfect to prove to other people outside of this particular production that she deserved better treatment from them) and was constantly oscillating between doubting herself (because even though she’s clearly talented, that knowledge isn’t enough when another cast member gets applause after her numbers in rehearsal and she doesn’t) and taking it upon herself to correct others and give them notes. She wasn’t a nightmare to work with, but I’m glad she’s not in the production I’m working on for Session 2 (she was one of the few stay-over kids we had who stay for two sessions instead of just one)

There were some great and memorable times during rehearsals, though. One of our leading men during dress rehearsal got a costume ring stuck on his finger and had to be taken to urgent care to get it cut off. Before that, though, I took him over to our nurses to see if we could get it off there. When lotion, an old ring cutter, an ice pack, and dental floss did not work, that’s when we put his fate into the hands of the professionals. 

There was also the time a rumor may have started that the director and I were sleeping together, which is hilarious because he and I both have boyfriends. 

THE GIRLS

So last session I was assigned a room of six girls to look after: wake them up, make sure they’re on the floor by curfew, make sure they’re in their rooms at 10:30, take away their phones for the night, and make sure their lights are out by 11pm. If they’re having problems or want to talk to someone, they should come to me. They were all between the ages of 14 and 16, which in my experience can make for some fairly catty attitudes. 

I did not realize how sad I would be when most of them left (one of my girls is a stay-over, yay!)

They all gave me huge hugs before they left, and asked if I would come back again next summer. I told them that unless Stagedoor decided not to re-hire me, there was no way I wasn’t coming back. 

They would open up to me, confide in me, and told me how much they loved me. 

I’m 99.99% certain it was all genuine and not just flattery so I’d be lenient with them. 

But I do miss them, and I hope I get to see them again. 

PRODUCTION WEEKEND

During this week, my birthday happened and I turned 24. My roommates decorated our door, I got a cake at lunch, was sung to twice, and received over a hundred “Happy Birthday” messages in various electronic form: Facebook, text, voicemail, Snapchat, etc. But the top three moments of the day were:

- A voicemail from The Boyfriend, officially being the first person to wish me a Happy Birthday

- A card from one of the director-choreographers, and head of the dance department (who has worked at Stagedoor for 25 years and everyone loves)

- A card from my family with a very generous gift cart to purchase show tickets (which I now have thanks to The Boyfriend!!!!)

But apart from that there was nothing particularly special about the day. My girls kept wishing me a Happy Birthday each time they saw me, though, so that was nice. 

One good thing about production week is you get real good at pin curling and iron curling hair. I had so many flashbacks to my high school theatre days when the crowds formed around a handful of curling irons all plugged into one communal power strip and a box of approximately 8,000 hairpins was constantly floating around. But at my high school, it was just one show with about 40 kids getting ready. Imagine almost 200 girls needing their hair pin-curled for wigs by counselors (because apparently none of them knew how to do it?) on a super strict schedule that didn’t give them much time, coupled with the fact that everyone needed to get makeup done and costumes on an hour before the shows opened. 

And on top of all this, there was some weird plague going around. Campers and counselors alike were dropping like flies and succumbing to this illness, and if it wasn’t that illness it was strep throat. The hectic and stressful environment coupled with the fact that parents were coming to visit had staff near the breaking point, and the only thing we wanted was 24 hours of quiet solitude. 

That was a little more than a pipe dream, though. 

I myself almost caught this mysterious flu-like death virus going around. Our music director for Follies caught it, and was struggling to stay alert and conscious during our dress rehearsal, our stage manager caught it and was promptly sent to bed to try and sleep it off. That night I remember a rather large headache and a weird pre-nausea feeling in my stomach, along with a general full-body ache, and I just remember thinking, “Please God don’t let me have this.” I made sure to go right to bed that night after our end-of-the-day meeting, and woke up feeling fine. I’d already gone through some pretty shitty allergy sickness at the start of the session, and I didn’t want to start and end session 1 sick. 

Thankfully, though, our music director and stage manager were back in action the next day for opening show, and the shows were flawless. I’ve never been so proud of a group before, because they did one of the most challenging things I could have imagined. 

But the day had to come where they packed up their stuff and drove home with their families. It was sad to see them go, especially after bonding so strongly with some of them. And there was no time to feel sad, really. As soon as a room was empty, counselors and cleaning staff would immediately start cleaning the rooms and prepping them for the next batch of kids to come in. 

And now they’re here. I have two rooms this session, and on night one of session two my first room (which has my stay-over girl in it) managed to break a bulb on a string of lights and get glass over the floor. My group leader had forewarned me that they could be rowdy and quite a handful, but I was hoping they’d give it a few days before breaking something. So I knew I had to do something to prevent excessive rowdiness ASAP. 

That night, after cleaning up the shards of glass/plastic, I gave them a quick speech about how busy it was for counselors: not only did we look after a room full of girls (and in my and other counselors’ cases, sometimes multiple rooms), but we also had classes to prep for and teach, and shows to either manage or choreograph. I asked them to help make the counselors’ jobs a little bit easier by being smart, conscientious, and mature. That seemed to get through to them, because thus far I haven’t had any trouble from them. 

And it’s now been a few days into session 2. I’m teaching intermediate tap, intermediate modern, and musical theatre. The class structures could not be more different for me this time. Musical theatre thus far doesn’t have a set class structure, what I’ve kind of cobbled together as a lesson plan has been: work on one piece for the showcase, and throw potential audition combinations at them to train them to pick up choreography quickly. Tap is basically a warm-up of basic moves, and then the rest of the class is spend working on moves they want to learn. Modern still holds some semblance of structure, though, but it’s my largest class and the students take up all the floor space, so it’s harder to really see everyone and make sure they’re getting the combinations I give them. 

I was super excited when I heard about the shows for this session, but the two that I really wanted to work on were choreographer shows, and didn’t require an assistant choreographer (A.C.’s only work on shows with director-choreographers). They were Evil Dead - The High School Version and Guys and Dolls. But I’m still excited about the show I’m working on: Me and My Girl. It’s kind of like My Fair Lady and Half A Sixpence. My director-choreographer is this really great lady who is super organized with everything, so with the way she has things planned and mapped out, we should have the show ready for full runs in less than two weeks. 

Today was my first day off for this session, and it was pretty amazing. I slept in, treated myself to some nice makeup, went out for pizza with my friend Anna, and got some counselor work done. Next week I get to see two of my favorite people in the world and a Broadway show (I’m seeing Kinky Boots starring Brendon Urie with The Boyfriend). I still need to figure how I’m getting to the bus station but that’s a problem for tomorrow or the next day. 

So, weekly updates won’t be a thing, but I can try to do session recaps. That’s what I’m aiming for at this point. 

And now, on to session 2!

[dincasillan-blog]

My Autobiography as a Reader

An EDR 221 TUE requirement

I do not have early memories of reading as a baby – I do not remember being read to, or which specific storybooks I read. All I remember is that books are ever-present around our house. My dad is a certified bookworm; he brought a pocketbook with him wherever he went. We had an encyclopedia set displayed, as well as a collection of children’s story books on shelves. I think that the availability of these books, plus the example that my father set, were the ingredients to creating the reader in me.  

As a young child, I grew to love reading. Looking back now, I remember the Disney picture books, fairy tales, and Bible story books at home that I have read over and over again. When I entered a big school, I discovered the wonder of a library. I went there after departure time everyday to borrow books, even winning an award in Grade 3 for being one of the students who borrowed the most. At one point, I became interested in a particular book collection about painters and their life stories. I don’t actually remember the titles or the author anymore, but I remember how I reveled at the pictures of their paintings. It might have been one of the moments that helped me appreciate art more.

It was also in that big school that I encountered annual book fairs. Knowing that there were a lot of new books that could be read and seeing people flock to it during break times helped make visiting the fair a pastime for me; it was fun to share the same interest in books with my school mates. One of the big hits then was the Geronimo Stilton book collection, but I didn’t really get into it after I bought one.

A book collection that got me hooked was the Nancy Drew hardbound series by Carolyn Keene, which I learned to love when I was around 10 years old. It’s funny actually how we go way back: the first Nancy Drew book I owned was The Mystery of the 99 Steps, which was handed down to me by my mother. When I was younger, I used to just color in the few pictures in the book. As I grew up,  I had attempted reading it but it didn’t entice me immediately. I don’t remember when it was exactly or what had changed, but I finally finished reading the book and loved it enough for me to buy the other 63 books in the series - I went on buying 2 books at a time whenever we had the chance to visit a bookstore. This fascination with Nancy Drew continued until my intermediate school years, and I’m thankful that my parents supported my mission of completing the series.

It was in the intermediate years that reading novels began to be required in class and during the summer. I distinctly remember A Wrinkle In Time by Madeleine L’Engle since I also continued reading the other books in the series; other novels such as Number The Stars and Diary of Anne Frank were also eye-opening reads that left me thinking more about social situations.

The award-winning novels were actually wonderful, but making them required in class somehow made reading quite a burden. I felt this more when I got into high school, as there were more things that took up my time as well - I became active in serving as an officer, my newfound passion in dancing made me join more practice sessions and performances, and academics became more demanding as well. It did not help that the required books by Shakespeare and old Filipino classics such as Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo used some deep words in their respective languages, making reading more tiring. The once leisure-laden pastime became an analysis-driven task to fulfill requirements and acquire good grades.

It was around this time, my teen years, that I became interested in reading magazines for girls and women such as Candy Magazine. Aside from being easy reads, they covered relevant issues for me as an adolescent: beauty, fashion, relationships, and self-esteem issues. Since it was just a compilation of articles, it was relatively easier to fit into my schedule. I also found a new way of destressing by watching Korean dramas, and I read fanfiction about the onscreen couples I can’t get enough of. The voracious book reader in me suddenly became satisfied with reading just a bit of writing every now and then, and in the digital format.

As I entered college, that “busy” schedule continued. I focused on my academics and dancing, letting it take up most of my time. I was usually swamped with photocopied readings for my classes, and right after class hours I went to training with the dance organization I joined; I never thought of inserting a book or two into my normal routine. The only time I was able to read a novel again was because of a requirement in my Filipino 40 class, and now I can’t even readily remember its title.

I think I was around 19 years old, halfway through college, when I found time to catch my breath. After months full of academics, dance competitions, and concerts, I suddenly had time in my hands. I usually use social media and connect with my friends to pass the days, but somehow even that grew tiring. It was then that I randomly decided to pick up a book again, and I rediscovered how wonderful it was to read for pleasure. After browsing through my brother’s book collection, I chose the first installment of the Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling. I was daunted by how many books there were and how thick the last ones were, but that concern did not last long since I immediately got hooked. The way I read through those books was reminiscent of my Nancy Drew fixation - I carried it wherever I went, ate my meals fast so I can go back to reading, and stayed up until dawn to finish as much chapters as I can. I also became interested in the Percy Jackson series; again, with much gusto, I read through all books within a short span of time. I finally understood why these series were all the hype.

Then the next school year came, and reading novels was again forgotten. I became preoccupied with my other priorities and focused on graduating with honors.

Upon accomplishing my college undergraduate goals and entering the unemployed life in 2016, I found time for myself again. I got to sleep in more and spend more time with my family. I got to eat more of my favorite food without thinking of the diet set for the dance competition team. And after months of finding happiness in just these little things, I again found myself coming back to books.

Just recently, I randomly chose to reread Gathering Blue and The Messenger, books by Lois Lowry that I got in my teen years - books that now reminded me that it was okay to be different and that each person had his or her own special role in society, books that somehow served as enlightenment for me when I didn’t even realize I needed some. Now, I am reading a book about introversion entitled Quiet by Susan Cain to understand myself better. I’m not yet hooked and I’m still trying to find the time for it, but I’m sure I’ll read it to the end.

It is fascinating how my relationship with and passion for books are on and off. One moment I am on fire and reading through several chapters per sitting, the next, I’m far away from even touching a book. The circumstances and priorities I had at different times of my life greatly affected this, I am quite sure. But it is comforting to know that whatever happens, books are a constant that I can easily turn to whenever I can and wherever I am in life.