#and crying cause even when the cultural disconnect hits

[ghostampede]

just discovered “queering the map” is a site that exists and it is one of my favourite things ever. queer people can drop pins on locations and talk about their gay experiences there. they range from “kissed a girl here for the first time” to the most devastating beautiful paragraphs about unrequited loves. ive heard more stories about queer people in the last hour than i have in my whole life. someone discovering their ace after experiencing minor pda with their partner and feeling much more Wrong than when they just hold them. someone seeing a pretty girl dancing at a high school house party and instantly falling in love. someone getting intimate with a man for the first time in city alleyways with the legs half deep into snow. someone coming out courage and the aftermaths. someone living in a friend’s houses for a week after telling their parents went very wrong. someone hopping gay bars with new queer and accepting friends. they just keep coming and there’s at least one in every spot in the world. it’s beautiful it’s touching and it makes my heart feel whole. Fuck.

[the-ineffable-cross]

Shadow 3-07 Thoughts! :D

So I'm about to lore dump. Buckle in for the ride if you're gonna read this.

General Information

3-07's real name is Alex Griffith, born in Australia. Their family is of Welsh origin, but they are quite disconnected from the culture as it is far back in the family tree.

They are roughly 5'9" and have (very obviously dyed) red hair. They have hazel eyes and slightly tan skin but are still pretty pale.

LORE

Just little things I've had about them in my notes app

1.

They have had several crappy relationships. They would have given the world for those people but they never got treated right. Their were no affection in the relationships. Alex was just for the props of having a 'girlfriend'. They have trust issues because of this, afraid the next time them date someone, they'll leave them because they aren't 'cool' anymore.

2.

They really like building and inventing things. They made this cool type of harmless fire that they use to cauterise wounds when they work.

3.

They always like having heart to heart talks with the people they trust. Even then, it's hard to be honest, so they just work and work until it spills out eventually

4.

The place they had their first kiss was an airport after their first mission with Shadow Company. They got so excited to see their childhood best friend that they kissed them out of impulse. They dated for a little while but eneded it on good terms and are still friends.

5.

Alex smokes. They don't do it very often because of lung health and stuff, but if they need time away, they go to the roof of the base and have a cigarette. Sometimes, someone joins them. Once Graves even joined them.

6.

They adore thunderstorms. Whenever they hear the pitter patter of rain starting, they race up to the roof and get soaked before trudging back down and having a hot shower. It refreshing.

7.

Their callsign is Reaper. The Shadows nicknamed them this because they're a medic and are 'in close relations with the Grim Reaper'... and definitely not because they are absolutely feral when fighting.

8.

The Shadows have made (Don't Fear) The Reaper by Blue Öyster Cult Alex's theme song.

9.

They know French. Not because they need to or anything. They just find it funny to break out randomly into angry French.

10.

They have a wall in their room just covered in about $200 worth of polaroids of the Shadows and them.

11.

During the time Shadow Comapny worked with Ghost & Soap, them and Soap hit it off and started babbling to each other about stupid things at, like, the speed of light cause... ADHD. They mainly talked about sketching and journaling.

12.

They weren't there when the massacre at Las Almas/Alone mission happened. They only know that something happened and they can't talk to Soap or Ghost anymore because they're enemies.

13.

They've broken so many bones omg. Leg, arm, collarbone, fingers. SO MANY

14.

IM ENÐING IT HERE BECAUSE GOD KNOWS ID GO ON A RANT FOR, LIKE, 1000 WORDS ABOUT ALEX.

Their parents weren't very... present. They took care of their 2 siblings from a young age and almost cry if anyone jokingly calls them a mama's boy when they talk about the (few) fond memories they have of their mother.

15.

They have been struck by lighting. I will not elaborate.

[quillify-tries-to-talk]

I think I figured out the problems in Roshani Chokshi and Sandhya Menon's books (as much as I love them, their Indian rep doesn't resonate with me as much as I'd hoped).

DISCLAIMER: not hating. There are valid issues that PoC face in foreign countries and I'm not trying to invalidate them. This is just an opinion

A little background first. Contrary to what you're shown in Hollywood movies, south asian countries are not a wasteland of forests and slums, but the situation isn't great, either.

Majority of the population is somewhere in the middle class rungs that often comes with a plethora of issues starting from academic pressure to feelings of guilt and anxiety over spending money on yourself. And that is just the tip of the iceberg. (Colonial trauma is a bitchy, vicious cycle).

It is a privilege to leave the country, to have enough money to live an entire ocean away. Not all of us will ever be able to do that so we'll have to deal with whatever shit is thrown in our faces by the society and government (the CAA/NRC act, privatization of govt institutions, the farmer bills that aren't actually pro-farmer, covering up atrocities in the most outlandish ways, controlling media houses so actual news never reaches common people, catering to billionaires, mismanaging the pandemic and opening your eyes only when you see the ashes).

Not to mention a lot of Non-Resident Indians (NRIs) are wealthy, upper caste people, absolutely cloistered from the atrocities that occur everyday against marginalized communities.

So when I read books by Indian-American authors, my feelings are mixed. If they're set in historical times my anger is through the roof. Let's take an example.

Laila from The Gilded Wolves by Roshani Chokshi gave me immense joy at first for being beautiful, bold brown girl. But as I read further, my feelings started to grow more negative.

It's because of the way Chokshi did zero research on South Asian colonization of the British while waxing poetic about the tragic fates of her male characters. Laila is from Pondicherry, and the French colonized that place (we only get mentions of forests and magicians because apparently that's all there was in the 1800s, huh :))). We have no idea how she ended up in Paris, or how as an 18 year old brown girl she took up a job as a courtesan/sex worker (I don't have a problem with sex work, but I would like to know how she got that job and I would like to see her childhood and trauma explored. Okay, Severin gets pages of backstories about his fathers but his love interest doesn't?). She didn't have a surname first while everyone else did. And now, in the second book we move with the fact that we have zero ideas for her real name too. For a book that's about colonization, desi history gets ignored by the author, and instead Laila is sexualized af. I'd like to ask what's her role in the story beyond causing Severin angst, baking, reading objects for him, and being a generally sweet person? Chokshi keeps *telling* me that she isn't there for Severin and is her own person, but where's the proof? She has no backstory, no name, and no role beyond romance and smexy courtesan.

Like Wikipedia has a whole ass page. Wouldn't have taken much to just Google it all. And for an author of south asian ethnicity to ignore this, the way white historians do? Reeks of privilege.

Her MG series, The Pandava Quartet, is also set in America. A story.... about Hindu mythological legends... in America.... it was jarring to read, honestly. For once in my life I'd like to see something *not* being set in America. America is not the center of the world for crying out loud.

Same with Sandhya Menon's books. We'll leave out her twisted idea of feminism: gurls ruleeesss!! Boys droolzz. It was very obvious in When Dimple Met Rishi, with the way Dimple kept hitting and punching Rishi, and it was deemed as badass. All her boys have the same archetype: Love Interest Cameras.

Y'know, romance works with *two* characters, right? Two of them, each bringing something to the table for a healthy, balanced relationship that progresses slowly through various stages (because real life often isn't a Bollywood movie). Boys need to have good role models and a role beyond "hot, sexy love interest." Y'all have become the very thing you swore to destroy.

Wait, I derailed. Sorry.

Ahem. Back to the topic.

I shouldn't have been shocked, but I truly was while reading Menon's books. It just made me realize the privilege a lot of NRIs have and they don't even realize it.

Case in point: most of Menon's characters are all wealthy and loaded af, and that makes them extremely hard to relate to. They are disconnected from their culture, they don't speak any of the native languages, not even a little bit. The little mentions we got were so inaccurate, they made me grit my teeth and make a whole post about it. It feels as though she just slapped a south asian name on a white—I'm not even gonna call them characters—they're basically puppets for her romances (who tf kisses right into 3-4 chapters of a book, c'mon!).

I'd have expected such disconnect from a white author *side-eyes Cassandra Clare*, but not from someone of my own ethnicity. It was heartbreaking. I'm sorry if you don't agree but I had to get this off my chest

Again, BIPOC in foreign countries have issues that need to be examined, but we keep forgetting that most of them aren't in America. We're living in our countries, and there are a host of marginalized communities whose stories need to be heard, now more than ever.

[leovaldezaskblog]

Leo Valdez Hates Himself

2this is going to be an OOC post but i was thinking last week after a really tough therapy session about how much i relate to leo. 

its made pretty clear in the series that leo really doesnt like himself for a few reasons and covers it up with jokes and a sarcastic smile but i started really looking into some reasons that were talked about and it just hit me. this kid fucking hates himself so much. 

one of the reasons that was touched on quite a bit when we were getting to know him was that Tia Callida noticed his powers early on and tested him by placing him in the fire where (i recall correctly) he fell asleep or was otherwise comfortable. now let me just say that i wasnt really raised in a very traditional household but my extended family, my tias and abuelas are/were very religious, crosses over doorways and beds, portraits of jesus on the walls, a very worn bible on the bedside table, church every sunday, the whole deal. let me tell you, if i ever told my family that i practice some forms of witchcraft, they would loose their minds. imagine how people around leo wouldve reacted if they saw that he could SUMMON FIRE FROM HIS HANDS. he would immediately be feared by anyone who practiced religion seriously. 

now that were talking about the fact that he can conjure fire, id like to bring up how he blamed himself for the fire that killed his mother. that in itself would fuck a kid up. loosing a parent that young will really affect a kids head. but add the fact that he can summon flames at will and his mother died in a huge fire. obviously hes going to blame himself for killing one of the only people who really showed their love for him in a meaningful way. the trauma of loosing his mom is enough but blaming himself is a different story. in my situation, it was different because i was put up for adoption by my mother who said she wanted to be part of my life. when i turned 2 and began to know her voice on the phone, she stopped calling, the aunt she was living with always said she wasnt around and eventually the phone line was disconnected. i always had this awful feeling that i caused that. even though rationally that doesnt make total sense but growing up knowing your mom didnt want you then changed her mind about wanting to speak to you on the phone once every 6 months really hurts. 

lets move on to his ADHD now, shall we? this is the one that had me begin to relate to him in the first place. i was diagnosed with ADHD when i was 7 because if someone dropped a paper clip on the floor and i saw, i had to go grab it. i was up and down from my seat, squirming, talking out of turn, sitting in my seat backward, not paying attention, had trouble with friends, the whole shebang. there was hardly a week that went by that i wasnt called annoying, too loud, too squirmy, too much. let me tell you that my ADHD is the root of a lot of my depression. i cant stop myself from talking even when i have the thought of “i need to be quiet”, i cant stop moving, my focus is everywhere, my speech is disorganized and then to hear that im annoying was just the worst. my peers said it as if i didnt already know. as if i dont live with it every day. that fucking hurts. im sure this was the same in the series. as much as you laugh and shrug it off, it hurts. knowing that you are fundamentally irritating to everyone around you, hurts and it makes your existence feel like a chore. you learn how to be the funny one so people will tolerate you and you bounce from group to group, never settling because if you do, they will get sick of you. we obviously see that constantly in leo where hes the funny guy who is helpful by fixing things.

ADHD to this day makes me feel stupid. i cant have a normal conversation about school or classes without crying or ending up suicidal, because i know that no matter what, how hard i try, i WILL fail my classes. i never had any clue until i was 17 that i had an above average IQ at 120 which is a point away from a Superior IQ. i thought i was fucking stupid because i couldnt get anything over a C at best and on average got a D. its so discouraging to want to learn when you know that you can put all your effort in and want to learn and then find out that you learned it wrong or just cant get the hang of it. its cannon that leo was solving college level math problems at 7 years old, he is cannonically a genius and you cant tell me he didnt deal with that hatred of himself for having trouble paying attention in his classes. 

im going to move on to a headcannon that i have but i wanted to throw it out there. i cant see leo as anything other than a repressed gay (maybe bisexual) kid. how hard he tried to be normal and get a girlfriend, how much stock he put into having a girlfriend, how much he felt left out for not having a partner. in mexican culture, being gay is one of the worst things you can be. of course its getting better but gay men still come up missing or wind up dead after coming out or being outed. the idea that hes gay would be unfathomable to him so he covered it up by flirting with every girl he saw and being so aggressively out there when speaking with girls he didnt know. he just couldnt handle the idea that he could be a man attracted to other men so he covered it up. maybe i just like this idea because i ship leo and jason but i cant help but feel like he repressed it so hard because he was terrified. 

i really think leo was terrified of himself. and that he really fucking hated himself.

[endless-whump]

The Mistake

This universe belongs to the wonderful @wildfaewhump , who has let me create an oc within the world. There aren’t enough words to describe how thankful and excited I am to write within this universe, and I hope I can do justice to this amazing setting. <3

-----

Soft brown feathers ruffle in the breeze as Kefi sat, looking down at the village.  He was weary from the journey, ready to get some supplies and maybe even a place to stay.

He was sitting amongst a cluster of flowers, legs and wings tired as he stretched them out, feeling the soft grass below him.  It was early summer, the forest filled with greenery that made Kefi’s heart soar with delight.  It made the journey so much more pleasant, the warmth and lush woodland much preferred to the wind and snow he dreaded flying in.

Kefi stood, stretching his wings contently as he made his way down the hill, soft grass and moss underneath his feet as he walked.  He pushed his dark hair out of his face, the shoulder length just enough to get in the way sometimes for the young fae.  

He passed modest houses as he walked into town, looking around with curiosity as the setting become more inhabited with people and he grew closer to the center.  He wondered if they had many inns here, and made note to ask for directions to one.

He walked softly, barefoot through the marketplace, looking around in amazement at all the booths and noting the wonderful smells filling the air.  He didn't notice the dark stares he got, people muttering to each other, the way people either moved away from him or intentionally shoved past him, giddy with curiosity as he looked at a table with herbs.  The old woman there was relatively friendly if not nervous looking, opting to let him look but simply not speak to him.

As he picked up a bundle of lavender he noticed a little girl who couldn't have been more than eight, staring at him with curiosity and a hint of fear.  She was peeking at him with wide, green eyes from around a crate, skirts billowing softly from the light breeze.

He smiled, reaching into the satchel he carried and digging around in it for a moment before bringing out one of the lillies he’d picked at the edge of town.  She continued watching him as he turned to her, trying to look friendly.

“Hello little one,”

Kefi knelt down, smiling and offering the flower to the child.  She looked at him curiously, hesitantly taking the flower.  

The gesture turned more than a few heads, and Kefi barely noticed as some people in the crown pointed at him, muttering to each other before disappearing.

“Are you a bird?” She asked, continually glancing at his wings.  He laughed, slowly bringing his wing forward so the child could see the brown and tan dappled feathers better.

“No, small one.  I am a star child like you, just different.”

The little girl reached out and touched his wing with glistening eyes, curiosity taking over any sort of hesitance she previously had.  She ran her fingers along the vanes of his feathers, face blooming into a wondrous smile at how soft they were.

“You look like an owl,” The girl chuckled, petting his wing.  

“Do I?” Kefi mused.  “I fly like one.”

The girl looked up in amazement, but before she could say anything there was a shout.

“Get the hell away from her!” A woman came and scooped up the child, and before Kefi could register what was happening there was a man in his face, forcing him back.

“You think you can just come in here and thrall a child?” The man spat.  “That flower you gave her, what sort of contract did you put her under?”

Kefi didn’t know what to say, staring, stunned, at the man.  The entire environment had shifted, the marketplace that was once relatively busy now quiet, eyes turning their attention to the screaming parent.

“Answer me demon, before I make you pay more than I already plan.” He shoved Kefi, who stumbled and fell against the rough cobblestone.  

“I, I didn't-” he was cut off when a boot met his side, a cry of pain escaping him.  At this point there were others who seemed to get a grasp on what was going on, the air seeming to shift dangerously.  

Kefi didn't understand why these people were yelling, why they were starting to grab him.  Nobody stopped the growing group of men from dragging Kefi backwards, harsh hands pulling at him arms and tearing at his wings.  It felt like there a a mob surrounding him, shoving him down as the kicking started. 

Kefi tried to protect his head from the blows, strangled cries tearing from him as they relentlessly beat him.  A boot to his side, then smashing down on his wing, then coming down on the back of his head.  He didn't dare use his voice, there were nice people,,the old lady,,the little girl,,he couldn't.

He was left defenseless as he heard a hollow crunch, wailing as white, hot agony washed over him.  

“N,No, please! Pl-” He screamed desperately, but this just seemed to anger the mob more.  His wings were pinned awkwardly underneath him as he was dragged across the cobblestone, and his vision swam with colors and shapes and leering faces.  

He tried clawing at one of the arms holding him but froze when he felt cold, burning metal of a knife pressed to his neck.

“Don’t move, or else we’ll let you bleed our right here instead of kicking you out. You should be grateful, you should-“

A desperate kick, a yell,

“I said to hold him, Gabriel,” the man hissed, gripping a handful of Kefi’s hair and yanking his head back. Kefi yelped, eyes widening when he saw another knife brought brought behind him and out of his sight, heart sinking when they sawed the knife through the hair they gripped tightly.

No,nonono, why, why were they doing this?  Kefi couldn't understand, mind blank with terror and pain as he mindlessly tried to get away.

“This will teach you not to mess with our towns. You can’t expect us to let you work your demon magic on innocent people and get away with it.”

His vision was blurred with tears as they shoved him to the ground, his cut hair laying on the ground beside him. Through his tears he could see the crumpled lilly dropped in front of him, the heel of a boot stomping on it and twisting it into the ground.

He could smell his blood, taste it even.  Even the smallest movement sent pain spiking through his wing, and he knew something was wrong.  Something had to be wrong with how it dragged on the ground, feathers torn and bone twisted, wet with blood. 

 He tried to drag himself away, shaking like a leaf as he weakly pushed himself up, trying to get his arms underneath him and some form of balance.  His vision kept fading in and out, and he registered that he was outside town, grass and rocks underneath him instead of the paved streets from before.

He could still hear the voices of the men, but the grabbing, pulling hands were gone, and the voices were soon fading.

Kefi choked on a sob, his whole body feeling like it was on fire as he tried to drag himself forward.  His previously soft, brown wings were dragging limply behind him, twisted awkwardly and caked with silver blood.  He collapsed, trying desperately to breathe as it felt like his chest was being crushed, the painful pressure too much to handle.

It was chilly now, the wind no longer soft and pleasant but biting and harsh.  All Kefi could feel was dark and cold and pain and fear, and most of all confusion.  He couldn't understand why they were so,,so mad.  Did he hurt the girl?  Was there some sort of cultural line he crossed?

He looked miserably at the crushed flower on the ground, arms giving out on him.  He weakly lifted his head to try and look at the stars, the night feeling blank and harsh and dangerous, lacking its usual beauty and comfort and strength Kefi could usually draw from it.

His thoughts were disconnected, clouded by pain and grief as he drifted, head falling back to the grass as breathing became harder, mind blurred by the aching pain spiking through his body.  His eyes fluttered shut as he fought to stay awake, vaguely registering a soft hand on his shoulder, a concerned voice sounding beside him as everything drifted to black.

----

Kefi could smell lavender and wood and a hint of something musty, the aroma calming.  Everything felt fuzzy, and he could feel warm blankets wrapped around him and his wings tucked close.  He burrowed further into the covers, the sharp, agonizing pain from before now just a dull ache.  He felt safe, a welcome contract to,,to,,

Kefi sat up abruptly, eyes wide as he looked around at his surroundings.  He looked around wildly, finding himself in a small, homey looking cottage.  He was laying on a large bed, blankets and pillows piled around him and bandages wrapped around his torso and part of his wing.

Herbs were hanging along the ceiling, morning sunlight pouring in through the windows and illuminating the home.  Endless bottles and books were sitting on shelves lining the walls, chairs and a fireplace arranged by one wall and a small kitchen tucked against another.

It was then that Kefi noticed the human woman standing in the kitchen, her back to the fae.  He jumped, scrambling backwards with a whimper despite the pain it caused.  The woman turned, surprised.  She was tall and muscular, with tan skin and dark hair.  Kefi noted the prominent freckles on her face and shoulders, trying to determine if she looked friendly.

“Oh-” She put her hands up.  “I didn’t know you were awake.  Please don’t freak out, you're safe, I promise.”

Kefi stayed still, watching her warily for a moment before obeying.  He tucked his wings around himself protectively, shaking and glancing from her to the oak door on the other side of the wall.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise.  I found you pretty messed up outside town, brought you to my house,” She explained, voice soothing.  The pain was becoming more sharp now that Kefi was awake, and he stifled a whimper of pain at any movement.  

“You took some pretty bad hits,,, I need you to stop moving around, ok?”  She approached cautiously, hands still up to show him she didn’t mean any harm.  Her movements were smooth and controlled, and she had a gentle, trustworthy air about her.  

Kefi nodded, obeying and adjusting one of the blankets wrapped around him.  He reached up to fidget with a strand of his hair when he froze.  Where the long hair usually hung around his shoulders there was,,nothing.  He reached further up to run his hands through it, finding it sloppily cropped short.  Tears formed in his eyes at the realization, and the woman seemed to notice his distress.

“Hey, you ok?  It’ll grow back-” He shook his head, the tears falling down his face.  It would, but it was gone, and it would take so long,,,

“Was it important to you?” She asked carefully, face falling when he nodded.  “I’m,,I’m so sorry.  I didn’t know.”  She sat down next to him, giving a reassuring, if not nervous smile.

He dropped his hand, tears falling down his face.  It was hard to breathe, ribs feeling tight and head dizzy and everything was just so wrong.

“Hey, hey, it's ok,” the woman tried to reassure, looking anxious as she tried to comfort the distraught fae.  Kefi tried to relax, curling in on himself slightly to try and feel grounded, to feel safe.

She handed him a mug of tea from the table beside them which he took with shaky hands, wanting to apologize when he got anxious from even that simple proximity.

“I’m Metilia,” she said kindly, leaning back in her chair.  She tilted her head, as if she expected an answer, but wasn't demanding one.

“I,,I’m Kefi,” The fae replied nervously.  “Thank you,”

“What did those guys want?” She asked, and Kefi tensed slightly, the pads of his fingers tapping silently against the rim of the mug.  She seemed to notice this, raising her hand as if to wave off the question.  “You don't have to tell me, I probably shouldn't be asking questions when you should be resting anyways.”

“There,,,there was a child,” he answered anyways, refusing to meet the woman’s eyes. “People got mad,,I swear I wasn’t thralling her, I,,I wasn’t trying to do anything,”

Metilia frowned, looking at him with,,pity? She didn’t look angry or hostile like Kefi expected her to. Everything was so confusing now, he hated this feeling, expecting aggression from somebody he barely knew.

“I believe you,” she said softly, tilting her head. “I promise your safe here, there aren’t many hunters in these parts, and we’re pretty secluded in this patch of the forest.”

She shifted closer, holding her hands out.

“Can I look at your wing? It got banged up pretty bad, and there was a break somewhere in the joint.”

Kefi nodded, gingerly bringing the bandaged wing foreword to let her inspect it. They weren’t coated in blood anymore, feathers once again soft, if not a little ruffled and unorderly. There were a few torn that Kefi winced at the sight of, but he couldn’t help but be relieved they didn’t do much damage, the loss of his hair already a crushing damage of fae symbolization.

He whimpered in pain as she touched the injured spot, forcing himself to stay still as Metilia looked at it gently, concern written in the lines of her face.

“It’ll heal,” she said softly, running her fingers through the feathers comfortingly. “It’ll take time, but it will heal, I promise you that.”

Kefi tried to keep himself from getting anxious. He didn’t like the idea of being grounded, forced to stay away from the sky and the stars that were so important to them. He was already lonely, having been traveling without seeing almost any fae for what felt like forever.

The woman seemed confident that it wouldn’t be an issue and that he would heal soon though, and her demeanor soothed his anxieties. The fear from before had dissolved, and Kefi started to relax as she inspected his other injuries, even leaning into the touch.

“I’m gonna go get a few things from town, will you be ok here?” She asked gently. “I’m hesitant to leave you by yourself, but I need some more salve for your wing.”

Kefi nodded. “I’ll,,I’ll be ok.” He reassured. She smiled, taking his empty mug and setting it aside.

“Get some rest, ok? You're gonna be ok, but it was still a nasty beating those guys gave you.” Metilia stood, grabbing her bag and heading for the door. “It’s nice to meet you, Kefi.”  She smiled warmly at him before stepping out, closing the door and leaving Kefi alone.

He kept observing his surroundings carefully, relaxing back on the bed and hugging the soft blanket he was given tighter. Every breath sent a small spike of pain through his chest, bruises covering his torso and an uncomfortable fogginess to his head.

He was in pain, and still on edge, but he recognized that this stranger was friendly, and meant no harm.

For now, he could relax

For now, he was safe.

[russiancrimes]

The Beilis Trial- A Story of Antisemitism

  On March 20th 1911 the body  of a 12-year-old boy was discovered in a small cave in the Lukyanovskaya suburb of Kiev. The body had 47 stab wounds made by a stitching awl, a special tool used for making holes in thick materials, such as leather. 

  The boy’s name was Andrei Yushchinsky, and what should have been a thorough criminal investigation uncovering local gang activities, turned into a shameful prosecution of Menahem Mendel Beilis, an innocent Jewish man, fueled by the antisemitic movement and political instability of the Russian Empire at the time.

  Let us set the stage for this story, by diving into some important historical events, which facilitated the social unrest in the nation. 

  Firstly, “Krepostnoe Pravo” was the ownership or serfdom of peasants, which existed in the Empire since 14 hundreds, the times of Kievan Rus`. Unlike slavery in the West, serfdom meant that the people were attached to a certain piece of land, and could only be sold along with that land. Attempts to abolish it began in 1790s, but it took a lot of efforts and enlightenment to finally get rid of the inhumane rule in 1861 by Tsar Alexander II.

(Tsar Alexander Nikolaevich II. Years of reign 1855-1881)

  While it is fair to mention, that a lot of nobility were supportive of the reform, we cannot ignore the resistance from others, far less enthusiastic dwellers of the wealthy social layers. 

  Another important factor in the game were the religious and cultural differences with the Jewish people, whose population increased tremendously after Russian Empire acquired new territories through the division of Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. The Jewish community constantly faced hardships and discrimination. “Pogroms”, the ultra-violent attacks on whole Jewish neighborhoods were terrible massacres, with no prosecution. 

  Finally, the growing revolutionary movement created secret societies and terrorist groups, who either supported the monarchy or wished to overturn it, both in their own violent ways.

  This dangerous cocktail would be the cause of many sad and unfair acts against innocent people, and it would play the main role in the Beilis Trial.

  Let us return to the sad story of the 12-year-old Andrei, who grew up without much affection or care from his single mother. His neighbours & classmates would often see him wonder the streets alone in the late hours. Despite the obvious neglect, he was considered a smart & well-behaved child, perhaps a little quiet and distant at times. He studied in the Theological School at St. Sophia Cathedral, hoping to become a priest which was his chance to escape his miserable life.

(The only photos that exist of Andrei, are those from his funeral)

  When Andrei’s body was discovered, he had been missing for 8 days. Inspection indicated that the boy was not murdered in the cave, and numerous stab wounds were sustained after he was already dead. The main cause of death was a blunt head trauma. It seemed the piercing wounds had exsanguinated his body and a wave of dark rumours swept through the nation, theorizing a “ritual killing” or a “blood libel”, which according to some old-wives tale was a Jewish tradition. The situation, being as volatile as it was, did not need much to spark up a public outrage. Antisemitic tendencies were further fueled by the investigation receiving anonymous letters, blaming the Jewish community for the murder. 

  Even though no hard evidence indicting Jewish involvement was found, the society’s demand for justice against the non-Christians was forcing the police and court to dig for “the truth”, even if it meant fabricating it. The far-right nationalist groups began protests, using Andrei as a martyr icon. New pogroms were planned to avenge the boy, who could never had imagined such attention during his lifetime.

(The cave where Andrei’s body was discovered)

  Because the cave where Andrei’s body was discovered happened to be conveniently located near a brick factory run by a couple of wealthy Jews, the fingers were quickly pointed at them. The role of the scape goat had befallen Menahem Mendel Beilis, superintendent of the factory. The “evidence” and witness statements presented to the investigation did not make sense and showed all signs of being tempered with.

(Menahem Mendel Beilis  on the day of apprehension )

  Luckily, in the police force there were some capable of disconnecting themselves from the antisemitic propaganda and taking an unbiased look at the crime.

  The main suspicion was the inconsistencies in the statements of one witness- Vera Cheberiak, who was one of the first to blame the Jews. Her son Zhenya happened to be Andrei’s close friend, and the boys often played in their home. Secondly, Vera was known to be connected to organized crime- holding a fence, dealing in stolen goods.

(the main suspect and probably one of the true murderers of Andrei- Vera Cheberyak)

  Zhenya’s first statement said that Andrei visited their home on the 12th of March, the day he disappeared. However, he later revoked his story and seemed to be frightened. Additionally, Vera’s neighbor remembered hearing strange noises and a child crying that same day. It was later uncovered, that Andrei and Zhenya had a row and the former threatened to spread the news about Vera’s illegal activities. It all was starting to look like Andrei witnessed something he shouldn’t have and paid a heavy price. Vera and her “buddies” further undermined their innocence by refusing to be interviewed, changing statements, even escaping custody.

(Vera’s gang buddies, believed to have murdered Andrei- Singaevskiy, Rudzinskiy & Latushev)

Despite the piling evidence against Vera Cheberyak and her gang, Menahem Beilis spent 2 years imprisoned before being put on trial. However, the attempts to prove his guilt were absolutely embarrassing and clearly fabricated. The workers of the factory provided a strong alibi for Beilis- the day Andrei went missing, the production was in full throttle, and he hardly left his office. Furthermore, a piece of fabric found next to the boy’s corpse matched bedsheets from Vera’s house. The court and jury had no more reason to hold Beilis and he was immediately released. The decision was respected by the outraged right groups and the intended pogroms were cancelled. The medieval concept of “blood libel” was denounced by the prominent journalists and politicians. Shortly after his release, Menahem Beilis migrated to USA, where he passed away in 1934.

  The tragedy of this story was in the fact that the murder of a young neglected boy was exploited by conflict-hungry individuals to carry out their dirty political agenda. Cheberyak received a fine dose of punishment from life itself- during the investigation 2 of her 3 children, including Zhenya, passed away from dysentery. She was never officially convicted for the murder of Andrei Yushchinsky, however was executed in 1919 by the new communist government.

  The Beilis Trial was extensively covered by the international media and was the subject of many books and cinema on the topic of Anti-Semitism. It also marked the political and moral rock-bottom that the Russian Empire had hit, in its preparedness to turn a blind eye on a known criminal and shift the blame on a Jew...on any Jew.

[themissingmarvel]

The Witness

(This is just my own writing. It’s not a fanfic or anything. It’s just something I’m working on. I’ll keep the rest of my sideblog, but if this tickles your fancy at all, or whatever, let me know. Otherwise I’ll just be posting the link to the Tumblr for my assorted writing)

It always takes me a moment to remember I am alone. The sensation is jarring because I am never alone, but simply isolated. I hear words and voices, dripping down like rain onto the pages before me, my pen flowing without my guidance. It dances through the fibers and creases of the sheets bound in leather, and I am a spectator. There is relief that comes in bringing memories and feelings to life, to allow myself space within my mind for more than the thoughts of others. Even as the book fills, my body cramping as the sensation of discomfort fills me, I feel so much relief. The path of a young girl, her decision to cross the street a block up and her thoughts that are created from that, are no longer mine. She is not mine. I see the future that has happened of a woman once set to live a life of financial success traded for the future of a woman giving up hope at nineteen.

Sadness. I remember that’s what I am hearing, seeing, feeling. Loneliness is always worse when shared with someone else, but hers is mine. I cannot touch this path taken, because the choice has been made. A ripple into a wave into devastation all at once, and it is no longer mine. I feel a tickle on my cheek, surprised to reach up and feel a tear. Crying. Sadness. It is not an emotion I cherish because it is not mine, but the resentment built inside me I take responsibility for. Humanity with perks and drawbacks, and I feel I own it all. I belong to these thoughts that are not mine, and the life taken is torn from my consciousness, leaving me alone with loneliness.

The book is filled, and I stare down. Her eyes, a deep chocolate, begin to fade from my mind and I recognize the split. I am not the woman in the bathtub, the one clutching the razor as she shakes, and that olive skin is not mine. The black hair sticking to bare skin is not mine, and I am not destroying my own body. My pen hits the table and I find myself relieved by the physical pain that settles in its place. Shoulders once hunched over a book feel sore, my hand cramped and shaking. The last words in the book are almost unrecognizable, except for the finality of it. One might extrapolate the ending to a story that has yet to happen and is set in stone from the tone put forth. I am not the author, but I am the owner.

Feelings that are not mine dissipate like smoke, but what I am left with, as my world becomes focused, is in fact mine. The deep resentment I work to avoid is fed like a flame, devouring what I desperately try to cling to. I am angry and sad, and I feel responsible for emotions that don’t belong to me. I am the author but not the owner. Logic informs me that I have not made this choice, to take my own life, but my mind feels to be the culprit. I am tearing pieces of her from me in a desperate attempt to reclaim my mind that has already gone so long without knowing itself.

Closing the book with ease, I carry it with me, my legs dancing across the marble floor as I remember myself. So many names. I frequently repeat my own so I don’t lose them, afraid to write my own book for fear that it will escape me forever. Memories are tricky when they are the only history you have. I have no photographs to cherish, no trinkets or tokens to remind me of who I am or where I come from. Instead, there is ink on my fingers and a sense of longing for something, I know not what, to ease me into something else.

Standing on a nearby stool, I reach up high and slide the book by others, finally watching as I leave the girl behind. She is both nine and nineteen, and I do not know which. I know only her story and her choices, and I know her choice has led her down a path none could stop. I am grieving for her loss in the eyes of her mother, grieving her loss through her own eyes. Desperately, I hurry off of the stool, letting go of all that I have touched, all at once feeling a sudden void appear.

It takes me by surprise, standing flatly with my bare feet against the marble, and it is then I hear his voice. Made and unmade. Here and gone. There is nothing except for him and his desperate plea to be made free of… what? For the first time in my existence, I feel my head aching from being so empty. This presence, both there and not, is rattling my sanity around like a penny in a coin jar. Here I realize why I am in pain, and it is the understanding that it is because I can feel my own thoughts finally flooding in. Memories of stories, a disconnect between me and them, a schism created in a cataclysm of knowledge that was never mine.

Before I am aware of what has happened, I am on the floor, eyes fluttering open, forcing myself to reality. Is this reality? I take a moment, lying there, to stare at the rows of books lined before me. Perception altered, but this is my reality. It is mine. I blink a few times to force myself to understand where I am. Careful movements pull my body upwards until I am sitting, half on my side, legs sprawled out with my hands holding me up. The voices are back, screaming, powerfully against my skull, and I attempt to organize them as I always do. For a moment, I contemplate that I have finally gone insane, unable to understand the voices or see the faces. I cannot hold them. I cannot touch them. I can only hear them, and it is driving me mad.

My hands rise to my head, gripping at my hair as I gasp for breath that does not come. Panic. This is a sensation I am familiar with at a disconnected level, a place where I am not the one in panic. Who feels panic. Who is panic. What is panic? These voices won’t stop, and now they are pleading. In my current state, I cannot decipher all of them, feeling like I have reached into the water and I am trying to pull a strand of liquid. It is impossible. And for the first time in a long time, I scream, my own voice jarring even to me, “Stop!”

At once, there is silence. I sit. I hold my head and I wait. My command has echoed and I can hear it swimming down the halls of my library. I feel it touching every book and every piece of furniture. For as long as I can remember, I have been alone, so the feeling is comfortable to me. But now, with my words, I know I have summoned something else forward. The man of Light? Those of Light? Those of Dark? I remember the fights. The pain. I remember why I am alone.

Quickly, I scramble to my feet, carrying myself in the direction of my personal manuscripts. They are mine, and I cannot question why I can think so clearly all of a sudden. Clarity has not been a word in my vocabulary in some time, so I embrace the ability to utilize it. Clarity carries me and I flee, dancing with the wind that cannot touch my world. I feel my body in its entirety, carried by air and light, pulled back through darkness and shadows, held together by thin fibers of reality.

My movements stop suddenly as I reach my table, the old oak worn, polish that was there once years before, gone from a millenia of use. I see his form at the table, words to describe him flooding my now-freed mind. Confident. Smooth. Relaxed. Wicked. Dangerous. Dark. Frightened. Handsome. Terror. I can feel myself grasping for other words that I may utilize, but he speaks before I can, “The Witness. It’s been some time, hasn’t it?” A smirk plays on his lips, and I find myself confused.

This conversation is new to me. I haven’t had it. It isn’t happening. And yet he is here and speaking. Anger washes over me, “You broke it.”

He stands and I step back. His hands lift as if to show passivity, but I know better. The man in robes of darkness. He is their creator, but not mine. My feet feel colder as they touch the floor, my fingertips frozen as I step back with each of his steps forward. He is taller than me, his dark hair slicked back, blue eyes piercing. He is handsome because he has willed it so, and I recall my previous encounters. I am aware now he is trying to catch me unawares, and he has the upper hand. His voice is smooth as it leaves his lips, “The barrier? Yes, of course. Your little fit not too long ago informed me of where you were. You’ve never been too good at sanity, love.”

My face has contorted to anger, despite my attempts. I am desperately confused and terribly frightened at this sudden space in my mind. Has he caused it? Has he simply taken advantage? I ask none of these questions, “My space.”

He smiles, broadly, walking towards me with steps of confidence as I am stopped by shelves of books, “Honestly, how long has it been since you spoke with another? I was hoping for better conversation topics than this.” I watch as his hand extends, briefly stroking my jawline. His words would be sincere were it not for our own history.

But talking helps me. While I would never tell him, conversing with another will always bring me back. The available space I now have, the space occupied with the rest of the world, certainly doesn’t hurt. My hands reach up and apply pressure to his chest, forgetting my own force as I will him back. He stumbles, laughing as he does so, but I speak first, “You have no business here, Bringer.” He holds up his hands again and I am expected to be placated by this motion. I am not.

“She speaks! Full sentences, no less. I would disagree that I have no business here, Witness. We both know my business. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” He grins. I am reminded of the stories from lore of all cultures. The stories of the serpent that taunts. He is the serpent, but I am the Witness. I have realized, now, that he is not aware of my inability to know. He is not aware that there is space in my mind, and that my sanity, for now, is left free. So I stand, attempting to remember what it looks like to hold my ground. I wish that I could free a book, read through memories and gain them back. To my left is a brown book holding the life of an adult, one I cannot recall but I know holds power. I wish to have it back.

“Bringer, you are to leave. I want none of your business! I told Light and Dark years ago I would have no place.” I speak as sternly as I am able to manager. However, his laughter is both sincere and cold, filling the halls and corridors, leaning his head back as it explodes forth. I am aware of the look of anger filling my features, unable to stop the clenched fists as he steps forward, testing the waters.

I resist and stand as he speaks once more, “Witness! Let us drop the formalities. Please. You’re too lovely a woman to be called by such a name. Let us converse as they do.” He speaks plainly, giving me a look of exasperation and amusement which bothers me incredibly.

I am angry and I shout, my willpower gone, whatever of it I had, “I will not. I told all of you I wasn’t playing a role in your games! I am no witness!”

His hand reaches out sharply, a flash and flurry of movement as he slams his hand against the shelf to my right, “Whether you like it or not, you are The Witness. Your sense of time has left you, but I know better. We spoke eons ago, I was hoping you’d changed your mind.” His hand brushes over the binding of the books, my eyes widen as he does this.

There is little to know about my space, except that it is mine. The place I exist in is understood as sacred, and it is of my creation. The tomes that fill the place before me are all of mine, and have all been inside of me. He is touching what I know is sacred. He is touching me. I feel my face contort, “Do not touch them. I would sooner set fire to this place than allow you access.”

He looks amused. The Bringer smiles at me with his features that I recognize as dark, with a façade so very much him, “You’d sooner bring on insanity? That is, more than you are? We both know, if you burn this place, all of this,” he twirls a finger, then taps my head, “goes back in here.”

I push him away again, angrily regaining my distance. I do not miss interactions, and I am swiftly reminded as to why I have preferred being alone. Suddenly I am longing for the memories that have crowded in my mind, and a profound feeling of loneliness lingers. My hands brace the table, feeling my heart race as emotions I have forgotten how to own become mine again. My life is not in jeopardy, and I am aware that he cannot harm me here. I am safe. But safety is a matter of mindset, and mine is dwindling.

He comes back, a scent of smoke and ash dancing with him. I feel his presence, but he remains distanced, “Fine, let me be candid. I’m here because we need you. Madeline, please.” I hear pleading, turning my own face at the sound of a name he has chosen to use. I remember its meaning, I remember that he has placed me on a pedestal, as they all have. While most have kept a distance, his darkness feels comforting. His motives are never hidden and I always know what to expect.

“Oliver…” He looks pleadingly at me, and the human emotions I am so aware I have not felt are now consuming me. His motivations are selfish. But I find myself wanting to believe this is not the case. I find myself pleading for his honesty. I want to take a book now, take all of them, and put them back into my mind. This hollow feeling is filling with my own thoughts and my own emotions, overtaking me like a virus.

His face changes, and at once I have shown my hand. I recognize his face and I turn mine away, “Leave.”

He reaches out and his cold hand grabs my bare arm, pulling harshly as his voice raises in volume, “Madeline, don’t you see! This is what I mean! Your confusion is his work. He’s robbing us of futures, all of us!” I turn sharply and free myself from his grasp, now holding my soft brown fountain pen. He looks surprised, though hasn’t time to do much else. Holding up the pen, I write in the space before me,

Be Gone, Oliver

in writing that dances on air. Before any words to argue can escape, he vanishes before me.

[kaja-skowronek]

Chaos in Hasetsu

Yuuri wakes up to the buzz of his phone. 

It takes him a moment to realize he’s not in Saint Petersburg. The bedsheets smell like the detergent Mari uses to wash all Yu-Topia’s bedding, and this is the first sign Yuuri gets before he realizes that ah, he’s in Hasetsu, and Victor is not here. 

The second sign is when he reaches to grab his phone and notices his bed is empty. 

Victor is still in Saint Petersburg, coaching Yurio through his Nationals. Yuuri never stops feeling bad about not being there, but Minami needs him too, and Yuuri is his primary coach, and he’s got responsibilities, even if his primary responsibility involves kissing his husband senseless and doing other things Victor later gushes about in interviews, making Yuuri blush. 

It’s probably Victor texting him now, Yuuri thinks. Victor, who texts all the time when they’re apart from each other, and who texts often when they’re quite close just because he enjoys sending Yuuri inappropriate messages and pictures of dogs. So it’s Victor - or Phichit, but then Yuuri’s phone would buzz incessantly, so it’s unlikely, or Yurio, fed up with Victor’s bullshit and come back here Katsudon or I swear to god.

Yuuri squints. It’s Victor. 

Vitya (´ε｀*)

 yuuuuuri i’m so sad about Makka (´°ω°`) 

please send kisses 

and hugs

yuuuuuuuri (｡•́︿•̀｡)

Yuuri may be half-asleep and undercaffeinated, but he immediately notices three things:

1. Victor didn’t use too many emojis - at least for Victor’s standards, which involve communicating almost entirely in pictograms as if their culture regressed to its pre-alphabet state. An emojiless Victor means a serious Victor. 

Yuuri becomes Concerned. 

2. The text is about Makka, which makes it Important. 

3. They may have joked about Makka being an immortal god of dogs (god is dog spelt backwards, do you get it, Yuuri?), but she’s also getting old. 

Yuuri’s fingers act before his brain does. It’s quite fortunate; he panics only after he’s sent a flurry of concerned texts. With Victor being as attached to his phone as he is, hopefully Yuuri won’t even have time to go into his full panic mode. 

He sits cross-legged in the bed, crumpled bedsheets still around, and stares at his phone, willing it to ping, buzz, call, or do whatever it can do to give him a sign that Makka is okay, okay as ever, happy as ever, with her cute doggo smile and the paws and the fluff and that spot behind her ears that she loves to get scratched. 

He forces himself not to think about not good things, because if he does, they will happen, it’s a fact of life, so he just sits and sits and sits and thinks about cute paws. There’s nothing wrong about them. He can think about them. 

Yuuri’s got Victor on speed dial, and he makes use of that. Nothing. He’s eventually redirected to Victor’s dorky voicemail (Hi, this is Victor Katsuki-Nikiforov, Yuuri’s husband...) and he disconnects with a click. 

Victor never, ever checks his voicemail. Yuuri does it for him because Victor always forgets. (For a man who loves surprises, he’s predictable like that). 

“Don’t panic, Yuuri”, he says out loud now. His voice almost doesn’t shake. ‘Think’. 

Yurio. He can call Yurio. Victor’s probably with him, anyway, so Yurio would know. 

Yurio picks up his phone, because he’s dependable and not Yuuri’s husband and because he’s glued to it anyway. 

“What now, Katsudon?”, he growls instead of a greeting. Yuuri’s too anxious to smile fondly like he usually does. 

“Yura”, he says, “is Vitya with you? or Makka?”

“Can’t you call your stupid husband? I’m not his secretary”, Yurio says. “I’m at home. Your dog is not allowed here. She’s scared of Potya and it makes Victor cry, remember?”.

“He texted me something worrisome and didn’t reply”, Yuuri frets, “is he with you?”.

“He’s not”, Yurio says. “Listen, if it’s about my step sequence, I only shouted at him cause he was being annoying, okay? I didn’t mean to-- whatever”. 

“We’ll talk about your step sequence later”, Yuuri says, because he picks up that it might be important, but there’s important and important and Makka falls into that second category. “Tell Vitya to call me when you see him”. 

“Yeah, okay”, Yurio grumps. “Whatever”.

Yuuri disconnects before he can panic more. 

It goes like this for an hour: Yuuri takes a few calming breaths. They don’t work. Instead, he works himself into an anxious, messy state which he knows too well. He doesn’t leave the bed. 

He leaves a few messages on Victor’s phone. He even resorts to voicemail, which is a lost cause. Only Yakov uses it because he remains blissfully unaware that Victor never checks it. 

He checks the phone every few seconds. 

Nothing. That’s what you get when your husband is a chaotic texter, Yuuri learns.

He goes through all pics of Makka he has on his phone, and he has many. There’s a whole Makka gallery, and what’s not there will be on Yuuri’s Instagram, #doglovers, #cutedogs and #nofilter cause Makka is perfect and needs no Valencia to fake it. 

Yuuri scrolls all the way down to the bottom of his account, and that’s an impressive accomplishment - since he met Victor and Makka, his profile became transformed into a full-blown dog account, with two updates daily. Makka has more likes than Phichit’s hamsters. 

“Please call me”, Yuuri mutters. “Be okay”. 

Victor calls. 

Yuuri’s so shocked at the sudden buzz he drops his phone and then entangles his legs and one arm in the bedsheets as he frantically tries to pick it up before Victor ends the call. He swipes it, randomly, with a sweaty finger, and presses the phone to his ear. 

“Vitya”, he breathes at the same time that Victor screams “Yuuuri!”, and Yuuri has to put his phone a bit further away from his ear. 

“Vitya”, he repeats, “Makka. Is she okay? Why didn’t you call me back? How is she? What happened?”

“Yuuuuri”, Victor all but wails, and Yuuri’s heart stops, and then beats much too wildly. “Yuuri, it was terrible, terrible, and you weren’t there and I wanted to cry”. 

“Vitya”, Yuuri repeats. His heart is doing strange things, and so is his voice. “What-- what happened? Is Makka okay?”. 

All the way in Saint Petersburg, Victor sniffs loudly. He’s an ugly crier, and Yuuri loves him, and he’s so afraid. 

“She”, Victor starts and stops, and Yuuri’s heart starts and stops too. “I’m so sad, Yuuri!”. 

“Vitya”, Yuuri repeats. His voice, somehow, is stronger. “Is she okay? Why didn’t you answer my texts?”. 

“That’s so awful!”, Victor exclaims into the speaker. “I’m so sorry, My Yuuri, I got distracted at the swimming pool, you know how they won’t let you swim and text at the same time? But really, Yuuri, it was so horrible! I was leaving and I had to lock the door and she looked at me, Yuuri, and she was so sad! She did that thing where her eyes look like two cute starts from that emoji you like but you say you don’t like it. I couldn’t take it!”.

It’s like a cold shower. Yuuri lets relief wash over him in waves, and he can almost hear - and he can hear - his heart rate slowly return back to normal. Victor’s voice loses nothing of its dramatic quality, and suddenly Yuuri feels his back hit the crumpled ocean of his bed and he can see the greyish white of the ceiling. He laughs, and laughs, and laughs into his phone. 

“Yuuuuuri”, Victor’s tone is as theatrical as accusatory. “My husband is so mean to me!”. 

Yuuri laughs some more. 

It’s okay. 

[akria23]

Get Down had me crying like a bish!

I can't describe how much I love this series. How much respect for it I have. It's so much of our culture with this important subtexts and messages. I mean take the finale episode for example - the big get together throw down scene! Even though I'm black and I have interest in just about all the eras when it comes to music it's still easy to forget how much music - our music - has transformed. It's easy to forget that we invented a lot of shit even though that's often been stolen and watered down for others. Music for blacks has always been this element that's just reigned supreme - no matter what part of our history you look at music has been founding. Music has also transformed our way of dance of course - one thing I love about the get down is its highlight of disco dance in our culture. Because yes be-boying is something that's populated from that time and while disco music is often brought up on movies that highlight that era (about blacks)...the dance form is often left to the wayside or night shined on. And the fact that the disco king (who refers to himself as such) is someone that always has his finger on the trigger, is my favorite thing. I was so jazzed when there was a battle between hip-hop and disco - because that's real. One washed the other out before something else came along and affected that thing too (rap). Plus that scene was fucking epic. Can I also say I'm here for them bringing girls to the mic and having them do hip hop and not just singing disco! I was sooo amped. And baby was referenced as Queen and I dug that too with all the kingdom talks of kings. Ra-Ra is so precious. I love that every member has their role - there own superpower and everytime he creates a plan he's just like a genius Cinnabon who can do no wrong. I cried so many times for fucking Shaolin in part 2. I def liked him more this time around. He was more human, more real. You guys know I love my broken baes. My heart broke for him a million times over. Zeke made him believe they were ride or die, that they were family that he could lean on him and the Kiplings and then he turned his back and walked away. He spent his childhood and adulthood being raped by Annie, running drugs for her, surviving alone. He says in one episode - "You've never seen me out with a girl, on dates and holding hands, I don't know nothin bout that shit." - this part shows is just how Annie has affected him. When he goes to find Dizzee at Thor's and he's sees into D's world/his sexuality we get subtext that maybe Shao's sexuality ain't the lady killer as he makes it - he also refers to Dizz as his brother (his alien brother) and we see him refer to the members as his brothers a few times (showing his opening up). When he lets Boo start to run drugs for him, it's not out of greed or malice it's because Boo was gonna be in that life regardless of what anyone said and Shao felt like he was better under his care than someone else's. Its also because Boo hit him with that relatable - they're gonna leave us one day and I ain't got no college to go to - line. Zeke often has one foot in and one foot out where Shao is concerned. He had many people in his ear warning him about how bad Shao was. So hearing him out was never on the table. Mentally I couldn't help but say it's because you love him when Shao asked zeke what's stopping him from fucking zeke up right then since they aren't family, because that's what it really was. He had stood in front of Zeke and once again stripped himself bare by revealing a part of himself he never showed anyone else (his real name) and Zeke used that against him - telling him things that deep down he believed himself. And then to see him go back to Annie! Gah! I cried and cried and then that bitch shot the kitten! Man....they had me fucked up with this season/part. Can I give a honorary mention for the fact that it was this shared reality that made homie give up trying to get Shao to come back and sign that paper. That scene was so important. Last but not least - my baby Dizzee and in part his baby Thor! My boo was somber this season/part. We also didn't get a lot of him because jaden's time allot was different/his contract. But I still love this shit! Paint nails, crazy philosophy, considered weird and still a rebel at heart. Diz had to settle more into his own sexuality this season/part. Thors locked up and Diz is taking a stone cold break from his street art and even his old friends. For some reason his father feels like he's the bad one (ha). It just seems like he's a little disconnected and trying to keep his head down while making comic sketches for his jailbird boyfriend. That all of course changes when Thor gets out. It's clear he doesn't want his family to know about his sexuality or his relationship with Thor. And they're so stupid they're still calling Thor his friend even though he took that step towards him before he passed out, repeatedly draws him, spends all his time with him, and draws him hearts with spray pain in the air...he just doesn't wanna lose those close to him. He doesn't think they'll accept him. You could see the fear dropping off of him when Shao walked into Thor's place and saw everything - from the way he glanced from his Rumi paintings to a sleeping Thor. Rumi is a metaphor for his own sexuality but it was easy to read between the lines in that room. Diz's art is a very important part of him. It's how he communicates, how he tells his stories. Like music and dance art (def street art) is a big part of the culture and The Get Down used all 3 to triangle eachother in a nice way. Music, dance, art, they were all a rebellion and art was Diz's preferred form. It was what originally bonded him and Thor (and can I say how cute it is that Thor supports him and amazed by his performance both with a mic in his hand or an art tool!). I'm gonna have to talk about Dizzee again cause they had me all the way fucked up with that ending. Dizzee is my fav and I'm just not...it's not where I'm at - at all. It's frustrating to love this shit so much and know it prob won't be renewed. Like...ugh. Five fucking episodes - it wasn't enough! And don't even get me started on the domesticated house scene of pure freedom and elation as Dizzee and Thor painted each other. Everything had me crying like a baby and that finale had me wtfing all over the place.

[cutsliceddiced]

New top story from Time: The 10 Best Songs of 2019

2019 was a year of upheaval in the pop music world, with new voices rising to the fore through unexpected pathways. Lizzo’s career was jolted forward by a Netflix trailer; Lil Nas X rode TikTok and Twitter to the top of the charts. Stars emerged out of Brooklyn (Pop Smoke), Spain (Rosalía) and Nigeria (Burna Boy), expertly wielding social media and huge streaming numbers to captivate audiences across the world.

And as new voices claimed the spotlight, some of pop’s biggest names, from Charli XCX to Dua Lipa, continued to put out irresistible, vital earworms, as well. Here are TIME’s best songs of 2019.

10. “Crowded Table,” The Highwomen

The fact that The Highwomen even exists is impressive. The new supergroup brings together four of country music’s most prolific women: Maren Morris, a country-pop star with powerful vocals and mainstream hits like “The Middle”; Brandi Carlile, the Grammy-recognized folk artist whose work is marked by wry brilliance; Amanda Shires, a notable fiddler and country mainstay; and Natalie Hemby, the heavy-hitting songwriter who’s been the secret weapon for artists like Kacey Musgraves, Miranda Lambert and Lady Gaga on A Star Is Born. That all four found the time to make an album together speaks to their commitment to claiming space for women’s voices in a historically patriarchal industry. And that their music—as exemplified by the beautiful ballad “Crowded Table”—weaves in political statements only adds a layer of richness. “I want a house with a crowded table,” they insist, “and a place by the fire for everyone / Let us take on the world while we’re young and able, and bring us back together when the day is done.” The line works as a mission statement for these four distinct artists: make great music and complicate our definitions of womanhood, motherhood and femininity in the process. They make that statement over an unabashedly pretty melody, going in and out of duets and harmonies with seamless, generous sweetness. (Bruner)

9. “Simmer,” Mahalia ft. Burna Boy

Ever since going viral for a Colors Studios performance in 2017, the British singer Mahalia has enjoyed a steady rise, scoring hits including “I Wish I Missed My Ex” and the Ella Mai-assisted “What You Did.” On “Simmer,” she repurposes the burbling bassline of the 1997 dancehall classic “Who Am I” by Beenie Man, using it to anchor a love story in which a relationship verges on boiling over. A sultry and irrepressible appearance from the Nigerian singer Burna Boy, one of the year’s breakout stars, turns the song from a B-side into a global summer anthem. (Chow)

8. “So Hot You’re Hurting My Feelings,” Caroline Polachek

Caroline Polachek has long worked on the fringes of the mainstream pop world: she fronted the indie pop band Chairlift for a decade and racked up songwriting credits for Beyoncé, Solange, Charli XCX and Travis Scott. But she takes center stage on this year’s Pang, her major label debut album with Sony. The best of the bunch is “So Hot You’re Hurting My Feelings,” a cheekily named song propelled by handclaps and strutting muted guitars. But while the song sounds readymade for a night out, it drips with lovesick anxiety: “I cry on the dancefloor, it’s so embarrassing,” Polachek confesses. The music video—in which she skips and spins in cowboy boots across a barren, hellish landscape—perfectly reflects the song’s paradoxically carefree potency. (Chow)

7. “Too Much,” Carly Rae Jepsen

Carly Rae Jepsen has built a cult following on the power of her brand of pure, heart-on-your-sleeve pop. (Her widely-praised third album was even nakedly called Emotion.) “Too Much” synthesizes everything that makes the Canadian artist, best known for her 2012 earworm “Call Me Maybe,” beloved. It’s got relatable, on-the-nose lyrics; a commitment to catchy, sweet melodies; all sung with Jepsen’s intimately breathy vocals. Most of all, “Too Much” feels intensely honest. “When I feel it, then I feel it too much / I’ll do anything to get the rush,” she sings, then turns it around: “Is this too much?” Her ability to swing from wild joy to insecurity—all over a shimmering dance tune that’s as infectious as anything she’s produced—is a triumph. (Bruner)

6. “Crime Pays,” Freddie Gibbs & Madlib

Bandana, the widely acclaimed album from rapper Freddie Gibbs and producer Madlib, was forged in trying circumstances: Gibbs says he wrote most of the record in an Austrian jail while awaiting his eventual acquittal from sexual assault charges. Given this initial disconnect between the pair, it’s astonishing how perfectly Gibbs’ gravelly rhymes coalesce with Madlib’s sun-bleached soul production. “Crime Pays,” in particular, perfectly toes the line between their aesthetic sensibilities: Madlib unearths a pristine sample from jazz fusion artist Walt Barr that conjures both nostalgia and unlimited possibility, while Gibbs confronts the darker realities of chasing the American dream: “Diamonds in my chain, yeah, I slang but I’m still a slave / Twisted in the system, just a number listed on the page.” (Chow)

5. “Don’t Start Now,” Dua Lipa

On her 2017 debut album, Britain’s Dua Lipa established herself as a honey-voiced rising star of mainstream pop. On “Don’t Start Now,” the debut single off her sophomore project, she proves she has something to add to the conversation. And that something is a propulsive, infectious disco sensibility. Made with juicy synths, bubbly percussion and bouncy vocal twists, it’s a tune that celebrates independence and promises joy in the process. Lipa made her name on the cheeky breakup empowerment hit “New Rules”; “Don’t Start Now” follows in that breezy, forward-thinking tradition. “Though it took some time to survive you,” she sings, “I’m better on the other side.” It’s the sound of a new pop era. (Bruner)

4. “Juice,” Lizzo

Lizzo’s “Juice” is a funk-soul self-love dance anthem built to inspire confidence. That’s no fluke; her long-gestating career as a singer, songwriter and flutist has taken off this year thanks to her commitment to the goal of making listeners find assurance in her feel-good, fun-loving lyrics and danceable beats. She kicks things off by turning a fairy tale trope into an affirmation: “Mirror, mirror on the wall, don’t say it, ’cause I know I’m cute,” and ends the song with a bold giggle. With a retro-sounding melody that resonates across generational tastes, the song has already become a dancefloor mainstay. “Juice” sounds like it was perfected in a test kitchen, equal parts joy, cheeky lyricism and timeless appeal. (Bruner)

3. “Welcome to the Party,” Pop Smoke

While mainstream rap is still dominated by trap—the crawling subgenre from Atlanta—artists have also been looking north and taking elements from drill, Chicago’s much faster and frenetic style. “Welcome to the Party,” which was inescapable in Brooklyn this summer and fall, manically races forward, with the 20-year-old rapper’s syllables spilling out in terrifying, clipped bursts. Pop Smoke growls both his threats and boasts in unruly, unpredictable clusters—but even more jarring is producer 808Melo’s bassline, which seems to bubble out of the deepest recesses of the American psyche. (Chow)

2. “Con Altura,” Rosalía x J Balvin

“Con Altura” is a record-breaking collaboration between two Spanish-speaking artists with distinct backgrounds but powerful influences: Spain��s Rosalía is making a name for herself with flamenco-inflected alt-pop on works like her Grammy-nominated, poetically inspired second album El Mal Querer, while J Balvin reigns as one of Latin America’s reggaeton kings and one of the most popular artists on the planet, thanks to his international chart-toppers like “Mi Gente” and “I Like It.” Together on “Con Altura,” they found a sweet spot that mixes a number of musical traditions, from dembow to hip-hop to reggaeton, while still flexing their individual powers. Over spare, specific percussion, Rosalía’s voice rings out with lilting, sing-song precision; Balvin provides a balancing, stable counterpoint. The combination is potent and haunting, hinting at the diversity of Latin music and the creative future it is inevitably heading toward. (Bruner)

1. “Old Town Road,” Lil Nas X

“Old Town Road” contains many opposing truths. It’s both underdog and behemoth; eye-rollingly trivial and slyly progressive; radio-ready hit and oddball meme. This summer, it was both a distraction and the thing you couldn’t escape.

And it was this shapeshifting ability that made “Old Town Road” the ideal cultural artifact for 2019, in its endlessly iterative and argumentative nature. Whether people went online to criticize it, dance to it or remix it, everyone interacted with it some way, continuously pouring fuel as it set record after record.

And as Lil Nas X added to the fire by releasing a stream of remixes, the song became less a single record and more a fluid canvas for transgression. Each new version ruptured a new boundary or norm—whether it was Billy Ray Cyrus singing about his Maserati or BTS member RM delivering bilingual wordplay. Once scorned as outsider—both to Nashville and the music industry at large—Lil Nas himself became the gatekeeper, and then opened the door as wide as possible for everyone else. (Chow)

via https://cutslicedanddiced.wordpress.com/2018/01/24/how-to-prevent-food-from-going-to-waste

[punalavaflow]

Kalani retreat put up for sale

Kalani Oceanside Retreat in lower Puna, which has remained closed following the eruption of Kilauea volcano last May, is for sale — and at least one creditor is crying foul.

Molly Masaoka, who owns Yoga Centered Studio and Boutique in Hilo, said she hasn’t been returned an $18,000 deposit she and a partner had plunked down for rental space at the 19-acre retreat, also known as Kalani Honua. Masaoka added she knows of others facing the same predicament.

“We’ve been doing teacher training down there for about six years, two or three times a year,” Masaoka said Wednesday. “We brought in probably a million, two million dollars for them over the past five or six years, you know. We put down a deposit to reserve (space) for future teacher training. … When the lava started, they sent out this email that was, like, ‘Oh, we’re closed indefinitely because of the lava.’ … No talk of, like, refunding anyone’s money.

“This is just our story, but there are probably, like, 20 or 25 other people who are in the same exact position for retreats scheduled throughout the year.”

The agriculturally zoned 19-acre parcel with conference center, kitchen, dining lanai, office and gift-crafts shop, three staff rooms, a pool and other amenities is listed online for sale for $2 million on the personal website of Richard Koob, Kalani’s founder. The contact is Elizabeth Koob, a Yonkers, N.Y.-based lawyer and Koob’s sister. The Tribune-Herald was unable to find any listings by local real estate companies for the property.

The county’s Real Property Tax Office website lists the owner of the property as Kalani Honua Inc., a domestic nonprofit organization. The state Department of Commerce and Consumer Affairs website lists Tonya Ozone as president of Kalani Honua Inc., with Rebecca Marshall as secretary, Craig Torchia as treasurer, and Lynda Saffery, Tam Hunt, Larry Reitzer, Janet Elizabeth Taylor and Randy Franklin Niklason as directors.

“The nonprofit owns it, but we have a mortgage to (the Koobs),” Ozone said. “We haven’t paid the mortgage in a year because we haven’t had the funds. They’re not wanting to foreclose because that’s a long, involved process for them. We don’t want to do bankruptcy because we want to satisfy all of the debts we owe. So we are actively pursuing the sale of the property.”

The last sales transaction listed on the county’s property tax website for the property is a $10 warranty deed with a sale date of May 21, 2009, and a recording date of Nov. 19, 2010. The seller is Koob Hawaii Enterprise LP, a domestic limited partnership with Kalani Kai Eco Village Inc. as the only partner listed. Kalani Kai Eco Village is a domestic for-profit corporation. Its listed officers are: Elizabeth L. Koob, president and director; Stephen J. Koob, vice president; Mary Jane Koob, treasurer and director; Richard T. Koob, secretary and director; and Daniel J. Koob, director.

Ozone said the actual mortgage note is for $1.6 million over 30 years. She said the $10 is “for a lease, which I have never understood, nor has anyone ever explained it to my satisfaction.” A Realtor consulted by the Tribune-Herald said a warranty deed for $10 “and other considerations” is a common practice.

According to Ozone, there have been “several inquiries” on the property, which has a total market value of $2,375,800, according to the county’s property tax website.

Ozone acknowledged Kalani’s creditors include Masaoka and others who paid deposits for use of facilities for future retreats.

“Molly’s one of probably, gosh, a hundred people or so that we owe money to. We owe close to $200,000 to retreats,” she said. “Our intent is to pay that money. But until we get the funds, we’re not able to do that.”

Asked why retreat deposits weren’t put into a trust account of the type property managers use to keep tenant deposits and rent payments separate from operating capital, Ozone replied, “That’s a good question.”

“Kalani Honua has been in business for 43 years. The way the business model was set up — which we were in the process of fixing — we would take deposits for future retreats, so we would always be running six months behind in some payments. When the lava came, it shut the business down, and we’ve never been able to recover. We’ve been closed almost a year due to the lava. We had no reserve funds, whatsoever,” she said.

“… It’s difficult to fix something that’s been perpetuated for 40 years. So we’ve never had, like, a buildup of cash. When I became the board chair in 2017, for the first time we actually got a line of credit — very small, but Kalani had never even had that to operate with.”

Ozone cited another, more recent, economic impediment to Kalani’s bottom line as a contributing cause of the closure.

“We had also been operating 30 percent behind budget from projections, due in part to Airbnbs in the area. That had started to impact our business and we hadn’t really adjusted for that, either. So we were already behind our projected budget.”

In addition, Kalani had been ordered to convert its cesspools to a septic tank system and had sought a state grant of $228,600 from the legislature in January last year for that purpose.

State court records indicate the only lawsuit filed against Kalani was by Hawaii Employers’ Mutual Insurance Co. Inc. On Nov. 19, Hilo District Judge Bruce Larson awarded HEMIC $6,441 plus $155 in court costs.

Over the years, Kalani has been host to retreats and events including — in addition to yoga — ecstatic dance, massage and massage classes, nutrition and wellness training, concerts, music workshops and retreats, movies and the like.

“Kalani Honua strives to provide a learning environment promoting a better understanding of Hawaiian culture and the natural environment,” a paragraph in the septic tank grant request states. “As Hawaii’s largest retreat center, Kalani Honua has provided opportunities for personal growth and transformation via nature, culture, and wellness for over 40 years.”

Masaoka said she hasn’t sued because of the money it would take to do so. She also expressed doubt about lava being the reason for the resort’s closure.

“It wasn’t about lava, because access wasn’t cut off to Kalani,” she said.

Ozone said while physical access to the property on Highway 137 wasn’t cut off, the lava emergency declaration by Mayor Harry Kim essentially shut down operations.

“And as long as the emergency was in effect, there were no overnight stays permitted. So until he undeclared the emergency … we weren’t legally allowed to operate,” she said.

“We would love nothing better to see Kalani reopened under a new nonprofit. Whether the buyers choose to do that, I don’t know. But our intent is to sell it so we don’t have to go into foreclosure or bankruptcy and so we can satisfy all our debts,” Ozone continued. “The retreats, like Molly and all the other people, are our first priority. We want to make sure they get their funds back because they’ve been doing retreats at Kalani for many, many years. They put their trust in us, and we want to respect that and appreciate that. These folks are just small businesses, and they can’t afford that financial hit, either.”

As for Masaoka, she remains dubious and lays blame on the nonprofit’s board of directors.

“They took hundreds of thousands of dollars from people and kept the money,” she said. “There’s a disconnect between the reality of the situation and what’s being portrayed in the community. It’s unfortunate. I love Kalani. I love the staff. Nothing against the staff — I know most of them did their absolute best.”

Email John Burnett at jburnett@hawaiitribune-herald.com. from Hawaii News – Hawaii Tribune-Herald http://bit.ly/2ve369H