#and i have to re assemble myself but there are too many pieces to put back or to fix

[rustencohle]

i feel paralysed

a spectator in my own life as that movie quote goes

pulling myself out of the gutter for a moment only to be sucked back in deeper and deeper into an abyss of my own making

i only wish that if one day i’ll get to be happy i will look back on these years and not feel pity for myself

tonight i feel that only a miracle could turn me into someone that doesn’t disgust me as much as i do

[sockablock]

I’ve had a small idea for a little while now, so I’m testing the waters with a first chapter! It’s a bit long, so excuse me there, but hopefully y’all enjoy reading! :3

—

It began with a letter that arrived one morning as Essek sat alone in the kitchen.

The courier himself had seemed just as surprised to be delivering a message to the reclusive Shadowhand, but a cursory glance at the carefully-folded envelope and a less-cursory casting of Detect Magic had signaled no foul play. So Essek took the letter, settled back beside the dining table, and floated over a glass of chilled juice for the reading.

His eyes flicked over the return address, and though it did seem familiar, it did not immediately spark recognition. His first real impression of the message was simply that of crisp, neatly-printed handwriting and the faintest whiff of…hmm. Lavender.

The letter began with a standard greeting.

To Shadowhand Essek Thelyss—

I hope you have been keeping well since we spoke. It has been some time, and I admit it is strange for me also as I realize this is likely the first letter I have sent you since our meeting.

He sipped the juice.

You are a busy man, and I would not intrude on your time if my request is unwelcome or unfeasible. But you see, in the time since we have ended the war and sealed away the Chained Oblivion—

Essek nearly spat out his drink.

He managed, in the proceeding moments, to weakly swallow, and shakily set his glass back onto the table. He cleared his throat once or twice. He gently coughed.

He picked up the envelope he had discarded earlier and quickly, the pieces fit together.

The Firmaments. Eastern district. The neighborhood where once, Den Thelyss had provided a house for a ragtag group of outsiders…

He snatched the letter back into the air.

—and semi-accidentally, though certainly also purposefully toppled the Cerberus Assembly.

Essek had to pause and re-read that sentence. It still didn’t sink in until nearly a minute later. He rubbed his temples, and resumed.

As such, it has befallen on I, and by extension the rest of the Mighty Nein to rebuild some of the arcane infrastructure of the Empire. To be more specific, in our meeting with King Dwendal’s court, a lord accused us of trying to cripple the nation by eliminating a powerful institution of magic and Beauregard volunteered that I would be the best candidate to replace it. One comment led to another, and perhaps it was our past efforts in politicking, or our recent defeat of the Maw of Eternal Darkness—

Essek wondered if he had any alcohol.

—but the court ultimately, shockingly, decided that I should be put in charge of creating and overseeing a new arcane academy for the Dwendalian Empire. And so, at the time in which I am writing you this letter, I have been appointed the Headmaster of a new Soltryce Academy, though I certainly will not be keeping that name.

It is with this in mind that I am writing to you now, my friend. For you see, despite the apparent confidence of my friends and my “superiors,” I do not believe I am capable of running a school on my own. Certainly not implementing the necessary infrastructure to have a school of any repute by the next century as well. And though I have my friends, and some resources, and an idea of where to start, the destruction of the Assembly and the Cobalt Soul’s anti-corruption efforts have left our nation in a sorry state regarding reputable mages. So, my dear friend, as we have worked together in the past, I have quite a large favor to ask.

And as Essek’s eyes continued scanning further down the page, the sinking sensation gripping his stomach was not helped by the decanter of plum wine that floated over to his table.

—

Meanwhile, beneath a shining sun on what seemed like the opposite side of the world, Caleb Widogast, the appointed head of a yet-to-be-named-academy was being berated by one of his closest friends.

Beau at least had possessed the decency to shut the tent flap so the army of woodworkers outside would not hear this.

“—suspicious! Caleb, there’s no way it’ll work. And not just because he’s the Shadowhand of the Bright Queen, also because…because…well…everything!”

“I think if he carried an umbrella during the day—”

“Not what I’m talking about,” Beau said. “I’m talking about literally every other problem that asking Essek to teach will cause, good gods.”

Caleb leaned back on the small wooden crate that was currently serving as his favorite chair. The slightly-larger crate he was using for a desk said “Honigblumen Brewery” on it.

“Well, nobody will be teaching for quite some time yet,” he said, “so we will have plenty of chances to work out the kinks.”

Beau shook her head at him, then took a seat. “I’m so far down disbelief city that I’m not even going to talk about the fact that you just said kinks.”

“I meant—”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I know what you meant, and here’s what I mean. Caleb, as much as I know you like Essek, there’s no way any of this is gonna work. First of all, he’s already got a job as the Shadowhand, and I doubt he’d wanna give up a cushy position like that to come work for a nothing-at-all school in the middle of the Empire.”

“Ja, I know, I know, I’ve thought about that—”

“And did you think about the part where he’s the fucking Shadowhand and you’ve asked him to come to the middle of the Dwendalian Empire to teach a goddamn gen-ed course?!”

Caleb was quiet for a moment. And then he said:

“Actually, I was thinking of asking him to take the more advanced levels—”

Beau reached across the ale crate to flick Caleb in the head. “And you don’t see a problem with that, at all? Caleb, for the gods’ sake, use your stupidly big head to consider the fuckin’ political ramifications of that. If the Empire catches wind of this, they’re gonna hate it, war over or not over. And I don’t even mean that in a ‘there’s gonna be shitty racism’ way, which is something else you’ll probably have to deal with later, I meant that in a ‘think about his last job description way.” And speaking of that, I mean, on Essek’s side, really, are you really expecting him to really settle down and help teach after he’s spent a lifetime—a human lifetime—being a military spymaster? Not to mention the fact that he’s a power-hungry war criminal who betrayed his own nation to get ‘arcane secrets’ or whatever. Seriously, dude, there’s no scenario where this goes well for you or him.”

At Caleb’s expression, Beau’s tone eased just slightly and she added, as a peace offering, “Really, dude.”

Caleb sighed. He scratched at his head.

“I…look. I…I think you’re right, but…there are also good possibilities of having him around. He is knowledgeable, he is skilled, I know his magic firsthand, and he has always been trustworthy—”

“Ha!”

“—for us, Beauregard. I think he is one of our best potential candidates, especially as he is only one of three so far. Just…trust me on this one, alright?”

She studied his face intently. The sheerness of the tent walls let in quite a bit of light, giving both of their eyes a faint, sunny sparkle.

With these two, though, it was more of a manic glint.

“What’s this really about?”

“Was?”

Beau leaned closer. “I said, what’s this really about? I don’t think that’s your only motivation. And if I’m gonna trust you, you’ve gotta be straight with me. I know you’re not an idiot, so I believe you when you say you’ve thought about the risks. What’s made them all worth it? What do you really think, and don’t give me that crap about him being a good teacher. You’ve got good teachers. Two advanced ones anyway, and you said yourself yesterday that the rest can be trained. So what’s up? What’s your real game here?”

Caleb floundered only slightly under the intensity of her stare.

“How long have we known each other now? No, fuck that, I pulled you out of the mouth of a forsaken god. Tell me, dickwad. Come on, it’s me.”

And after a moment, Caleb pinched his nose.

“It’s…it’s… it’s partially selfish. And…”

This, Beau understood. She nodded. “And…?”

“And…well, I…was thinking last night, after dinner, about who I want on this project. Aside from you all. And I realized…thinking about everything we have been through, that…for the most part, especially after our…revelations at sea, Essek is one of the people I want around. Largely because, well…”

He gave another sigh.

“Because I want to see what has become of our Xhorhastian friend. More importantly, I want to see if he has…or…could, ah, change.”

“Change,” she said flatly.

“Ja. I…I think I need to seem him change.”

“Because?”

“Because...” Caleb exhaled. “After everything we have been through, what we have seen, after fighting against the Assembly and watching so many mages crumble, I find myself searching for…assurance. Assurance that not every wizard is bad. Assurance that we even deserve this second change. And…if at all possible, what I most would like is to know that anyone, even the most driven and ambitious, the most ruthless, cutthroat, power—as you said, power-hungry—wizard can be shown that there is another way. That…ultimately, all of us can be redeemed.”

He looked back up, and raised an eyebrow. “I want to make this school a force for change. And I want to make it a place where we change, too. I said once before, and I still believe it is so, that Essek and I have a lot of things in common. It is time to see how much we can be changed.”

Beau did not answer for a drawn-out moment, but neither did she look away.

“I think you’re pretty changed, Caleb. That should be a point in your corner already.”

“That’s true,” and this time his smile was a little brighter, “but that is largely due to our group. I think Essek has gotten some of the Mighty Nein treatment, but probably not enough.”

“So…so is he your pet project now, or something?”

“Ach, no, nothing so…no. It is more of a…the thing is, Beauregard, I do consider him a friend. And we got so caught up with the Angel in Irons cult and then the Assembly that, well…it is just, before all that happened, I did like spending time with him.”

“Me too,” she waved a hand, “he had good wine, and when we got him in the hot-tub, he wasn’t that bad. Still don’t know if he’s worth all this. He’s a war criminal—yeah, I know what you and Jester think, but that’s what I think, and Veth agrees. Seriously, you never know, he could be too far gone, and I don’t want him near this school and project if it’ll put you in danger or risk anything.”

“We are no strangers to danger,” Caleb murmured. “And I…would like to think that with enough effort, nobody could be so far gone.”

Beau sighed. She leaned across the crate again, but this time it was to put an arm on Caleb’s shoulder.

“You’re really fucking stubborn, you know that?”

“Ja, so I have been told.”

“Essek has betrayed people before. His people, before.”

“Yes, but…” Caleb shrugged. “He also will probably be betraying his own nation to join this school.”

“Oh, good,” Beau grunted. “So at least he’s had some practice.”

—

By the time Essek had managed to re-arrange his thoughts into something even mildly resembling order, the letter in his hands was so thoroughly crumpled that all its corners were bent.

He attempted to smooth them back out. When this failed to be satisfactory, he put it back on the kitchen table.

A…teaching position at Caleb’s school. Well not Caleb’s school, but a new Empire Academy that Caleb would oversee. And they needed instructors, as well as mages to help build it, and he thought Essek would be a good fit…

Idly, he wondered if Caleb wanted a teleportation network, as many of the finest institutions had. He wondered if this was something he would have to organize.

Apparently, the Mighty Nein had defeated the Chained Oblivion in some obscure corner of the world, without most of civilization even noticing. But Essek remembered the readings that morning, remembered the clamor and panic in the Cathedral, remembered the theurgists in the Conservatory practically tearing themselves apart to understand what was happening. If their claims were true, and this wasn’t an elaborate prank on the Mighty Nein’s end, a large part of Essek vowed he would draw chalk circles for them forever, if they asked.

But a small part of Essek had the needling thought: why didn’t they tell me it was happening? I could have helped them.

He glanced back at the note.

Well, they were asking for help now, weren’t they? And if nothing else had changed, it was the simple fact that Essek would still do his best to help his friends.

There were just some minor complications to be dealt with.

Namely, what to tell the Bright Queen. And his—

He made a face.

—and his mother.

—

A few days later, Essek stood in front of his bathroom mirror.

It was a beautiful piece, made from polished volcanic glass and set into an ornately-twisted frame of dark metal. It was the perfect gift for someone who regularly floated around Rosohna being called the Shadowhand, but as far as mirrors actually went it left some details lacking.

Still, it served Essek well enough, and he’d never really gotten around to replacing it.

He stared into his dim reflection and slid a hand over his chin.

—

Elsewhere, another wizard stared too, but not into any reflective surface.

Veth’s eyes hadn’t refracted light like that for nearly two years, now. But Caleb could still feel the weight of her gaze boring into his skull as she searched for answers.

Eventually, she sat back.

“Alright. How?”

“Yes, I know it’s—was?”

“How?” she repeated, and steepled her fingers. “How are we gonna do it? He’ll need a disguise, right?”

There was a long pause as Caleb processed this. He managed, “You are…not mad?”

“Well, it’s not like I’m happy, but I trust you, Caleb. You have a reason?”

“Er…yes. I quite do.”

“So…alright, then.” There was a pause, then she added, “I am kind of annoyed you already sent the letter without asking, though.”

“Sorry.”

“I feel like I should ground you.”

“That, er…you can, if that makes you feel better.”

Veth genuinely seemed to consider this. Behind them, through the thin tent-walls of the office, they could hear a delighted child running circles around adults. They were, respectively, Luc Brenatto, having the time of his life shooting the Mighty Nein with wooden darts.

They were rounded off, of course. Yeza had seen to that with great care.

“No,” Veth sighed eventually. “No, that probably sets a bad example. I don’t think a professor can ground the Headmaster.”

“Head Professor, do not forget. I trust you the most out of everyone on this project. Not just because you are my friend, but you are qualified. And you really understand our mission.”

His tone of voice suggested that this was a conversation they had had many times. The way Veth’s face colored just slightly suggested she was still having trouble with the ‘qualified’ part.

Nevertheless, years of trained suspicion broke through the treacle-sweet flattery.

“But you didn’t trust me enough to tell me you were planning to ask Essek to come earlier,” she pointed out. “What did you think I was going to do?”

Caleb winced. “No, Veth, I…scheisse. That was…I was being impulsive that night. I…the idea occurred to me and I did not even hesitate to contact him. I…in retrospect, I should have.”

At least, to his relief, Veth nodded in response. “I get that,” she shrugged. “And like I said before, I am on board. You’re lucky I like you so much, Caleb. I don’t…care for Essek, but if this is what you want, I’ll…deal with having him around.”

“I am sorry again,” he said. “And, er…if it helps, you will also be his boss.”

Veth hadn’t been a goblin for years, but her eyes gleamed.

“Please be nice to him,” Caleb added.

“Nice?” Veth scoffed. “He’s not exactly nice.”

“He was nice to us—”

“Not Yeza.”

At the tortured grimace that passed across Caleb’s face, Veth sighed.

“Look, don’t worry, seriously. I was mostly kidding—I’m kidding! I just…you know that I have complicated feelings about Essek. In a…in a sort of way, I understand what he did. And I know where he’s coming from, I do. Lots of us are...well, we were pretty sketchy too. He really reminds me of the things we’ve done. But…he hasn’t shown nearly as much remorse as I’d like. And some of the things he’s done are—” She risked a glance up into Caleb’s impassive expression, “—I don’t like that he still doesn’t seem to care. But…he is a wizard, and I guess he’s our friend. So…if you can keep him from doing anything, I don’t know, very sketchy, then I’m on board. I trust you.”

Caleb’s expression went soft. He nodded.

“Thank you, Veth. I appreciate your cooperation in this matter.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“And I do hope that…well, I hope we can stop him from ‘sketchy’ things. In fact, ah…a small part of me is hoping that eventually, he will want to stop doing sketchy things all by himself.”

“Really?” Veth sounded more than skeptical. “How?”

Caleb shrugged. “The same way you and I did, no?”

—

Now Essek stood before the iron wrought gates that led into the expansive manor grounds of his family home. He could see, high above and a bit back, the five towers that made up the domain of the Umavi of Den Thelyss, long empty after all her children had moved on.

And, Essek recalled with a grimace, after his father had most probably, definitely, died.

It was a lonely castle. A feeling he could commiserate with, even in his smaller manor.

He straightened his collar. He knocked twice.

—

“By getting rich as adventurers.”

“By getting friends.”

—

“It is a surprise to see you here,” said Umavi Deirta Thelyss, Denmother of Den Thelyss and also Essek’s actual mother. “You rarely visit outside formal events and holidays.”

She did not add that Essek had totally missed the last two get-togethers, and thus must have been in a charitable mood. The rare—albeit leftover—tea blend that Essek had brought might have tipped the scale.

“I know, Mother.”

“I worry about you, of course.”

“I know, Mother.”

“And I’m certainly proud of what you’ve accomplished thus far.” At this, she took a sip of the Blooming Grove’s best. “I trust you are finding ways to keep yourself busy even during these times of peace?”

“Of course, Mother. Er…actually, it is partially that subject which I wish to address with you.”

His mother lowered her cup.

“Ah. So this is not purely a social call.”

“Er…no.”

She dabbed at the corner of her mouth, but Essek could have sworn she’d just smiled. Or, he backpedaled, at least tactfully smirked.

“Is this about access to the Beacons again, dear? As I always say, I can try to put in a word, but we have never been the den as involved in religious matters.” She paused, and tilted her head at him. “Is this about Consecution?”

“Er…no.”

“Oh. Well, then? Speak your mind.”

Under the table, Essek twisted at the hem of his sleeve.

“I, ah…well, that is…I’ve received a letter, Mother. An offer of…professorship. From…an Academy.”

This seemed to genuinely surprise the Umavi.

“Professorship? But…why?”

“Someone out there believes in my arcane prowess, apparently.” With the first sentence out of the way, Essek managed to sip his tea. Only a true observer would have noticed it falter slightly in its trajectory.

“Well,” said his Mother, trying to meet his gaze, “what a strange request to make of one already so gainfully employed. As the Bright Queen’s master of…let us call them the more obscure matters of state.”

When Essek did not match her eyes, she continued, “What sort of Academy is this, dear? Surely none in the Marble Tomes would write you in this way, and I find difficulty imagining you taking up permanent residence in Asarius. Which must mean…”

Essek sighed. His mother certainly was a true observer.

“Yes, Mother. It is outside the Dynasty.”

“Worse than that, I am sure.”

“Er…”

There was a sweeping of long robes as his mother leaned. She wasn’t wearing her headdress, but could loom without height, her sheer imposing presence doing the work just fine.

“Essek?”

He sighed again.

“Inside the Empire, Mother.” And because they had gotten this far, and he didn’t have much else to lose, he added, “Run by Widogast. Caleb Widogast, if you remember him, as well as a number of his friends, I gather. It is the…replacement institution currently being built to fill the void—”

“That the Assembly left, yes, I assumed.” She settled back, and a shifting of fabric indicated that she had crossed her arms. “And our dearly departed hero Widogast wants you to teach there?”

“And to assist him in establishing some of its curriculum and facilities, yes.” He tactfully ignored the ‘dearly departed’ bit.

“That would certainly be an odd career move for you, Essek. And surely, foreigner or no, he has spent enough time in our country to be aware of the implications of what he is asking.”

“Surely, Mother.”

“And as we all know, he has had training in Dunamancy these last years. I do hope his teacher had impressed upon him how vitally important it is to keep such training and knowledge a secret.”

For the first time since reading the letter, Essek paused.

In all his…well, excitement was not a word ever ascribed to the Shadowhand, but certainly in his anticipation to consider his offer, it had never actually crossed his mind that he might be asked to teach Dunamancy.

A small but very significant part of him riled.

Across the table, his mother drank some more tea. She was watching her son, who to his credit, had mastered the art of freezing his micro-expressions so swiftly that they could not be read. But without his mantle on, sitting in his mother’s tearoom, his hands were fidgeting up a storm across the table.

He probably hadn’t even noticed. She took another sip.

In a matter of seconds, Essek was back. He shook his head, and reached for a dry cookie.

“I think he is aware of the gravity of the situation. And I trust him to have already, ah…weighed the pros and cons.”

“And have you?” asked Deirta Thelyss, knowing the answer.

Essek bit down.

“I believe I have.”

—

“So…that’s it? We just wait for an answer, now?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he’ll say yes?”

“Well, I certainly hope so.”

“How’s he supposed to tell you?” This one was Jester, leaning across a stack of milk crates. “He doesn’t have Sending, I’m pretty sure.”

There was a pause in the air as the Mighty Nein watched Caleb consider, and realize this.

“Oh,” he said eventually. “I, er…I had assumed he did.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Beau said. “How did you think he was going to answer back? You didn’t think Xhorhas had a postal service to Felderwin, did you?”

“I, ah, admit that—”

“Maybe you should check our mailbox in Rosohna,” said Fjord kindly. “He probably just sent it to the Xhorhouse, or something.”

Caleb faltered, and scratched the back of his head. “…scheisse. You don’t think he has been waiting all this time to answer already, has he? I had not even considered—”

“I would not worry about that.”

All of them turned as a voice outside the door drifted in through the thin walls of the tent.

Then the voice added:

“How do I…oh, there is a latch—”

But he did not manage to finish the assessment before Jester ran over, threw the flap open, and tackled Essek bodily in a hug.

—

“In that case, there is only one last thing to say.” The Umavi of Den Thelyss sat back in her seat. A thin trail of steam curled up from her cup.

“I forbid you from going.”

“Thank—you what?”

She steepled her fingers. “I say ‘no,’ Essek. I will not let you chase this Empire wizard across the continent to teach at his school.”

“I…but…that is not…Mother, why?”

The swiftness of his outburst answered the question for both of them.

She studied his gaze.

“Essek, you have a purpose here. You have a bright future, and a reputation, and glowing prospects and I will not let you squander that to go off spilling our nation’s secrets.”

Essek managed to bite his tongue just in time. His mother would not have liked his instinctual answer.

Instead, he choked out the words, “I’ll quit, then. I’ll defect. I want to do this. More than I have ever wanted anything else in my life.”

Later, he would wonder why he said that. Even later, later, he would wonder if that were true.

The oldest and nearly-youngest souls of Den Thelyss stared at each other across the tea table. Their drinks cooled, and somewhere high above, the sun began to rise over the city of Rosohna.

But down here, beneath the blanket of perpetual stars, the only light was from the low, flickering lamps along the wall.

“I would do anything,” one said.

“…is that so?” said the other.

—

He was released after the impact knocked his parasol aside and his skin very quickly, visibly, began to redden. They immediately ushered him into the tent, shouting and laughing and clapping him on the back all the way, though he noticed that despite the friendly reception from Jester, Caduceus, Fjord, and even Yasha, Veth seemed somewhat frozen in her smile, and Beau even less warm.

That was…probably to be expected, actually. He wondered if this might present an issue and was about to open his mouth, say something, until he noticed a figure striding across the tent floor, side-stepping a stack of crates, and taking him by the hand.

Essek met his eyes. It had been some time, since he saw those eyes. Then he blinked.

“By the light, Caleb, you have grown a beard.”

There was a pause, and then Caleb laughed, and that was new too. Essek always forgot how quickly humans could change.

“I had meant to shave it before you arrived,” Caleb admitted. “It is, ah, a product of sleepless nights overseeing the construction of a new school.”

“It’s terrible,” Jester said. “It makes you look old.”

“I can fix this now if needed,” said a voice, followed by the sound of an unsheathing sword.

“Er…maybe…later, bitte?”

And Essek couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “I nearly forgot how boisterous all of you are, all the time. I have…” He turned, faced the Mighty Nein. “My life has not been nearly as interesting without you in it.”

“Well then, welcome back,” Caduceus gave a smile.

And even Veth, despite their…history, stepped forward.

“I said it once before, didn’t I? Welcome to the Mighty Nein, Essek.”

She even stuck out a hand for him to shake.

—

“I want you to report back everything to me. And when the time comes, when your Headmaster is summoned to the castle, I want you to go with him.”

“But…Mother, why?”

Her voice was nothing but gentle as she addressed her son.

“It is well-known that King Bertrand Dwendal has no heirs. And rules over quite a…combative court, with an iron fist.”

She leaned in even closer.

“What would happen to the Empire, do you think, if he was removed from that picture?”

—

And somewhere else, on what felt like the opposite side of the world, Caleb put an arm around Essek’s shoulder, and grinned.

“It is good to see you again, my friend.”

Essek’s lip twitched into what could approximately be called a smile.

“Good to see you as well,” he said.

[nordleuchten]

La Fayette and Emma Willard at the Opera

When Emma Willard was travelling Europe in 1830, she visited General La Fayette in Paris in late 1830. The two were close friends, had already met before and especially Willard had nothing but the purest admiration for La Fayette. In her book Journal and Letters from France and Great-Britain (1833) she re-printed several letters where she told her sister every last detail of her visit. Her letters are unusually engaging in my opinion, because they are so personal. Old letters and journals can sometimes feel very stiff, very old and completely removed from our modern reality – but hers is so lively, so ordinary that I could not help but relate to her during certain passages. Due to Willard’s hero-worship of La Fayette, I was afraid she would put him on a gigantic pedestal – but she paints a very humane picture of the ageing Marquis, one that is actually rather refreshing.

With all of that being said, here is a passage from Emma’s letter to her sister Almira Hart Lincoln Phelps from December 7, 1830:

I must now tell you, how it was that we spent the evening together. It was at the Opera Francais, usually called the Grand Opera. You will remember that he told me he had not been at a theatre since the revolution, and the first time he did go, he would go with me. One evening before had been appointed, and failed from the illness of one of the performers. It was the evening before last that we finally went [December 5]. I expected that the people would have cheered him as he entered. But he was in a citizen's dress, and went with a determination, as it appeared, not to be known.

The two boxes next, and each side the king's, were for the evening taken by the La Fayette family. There are places in each for six persons, two in front, and three deep. The General, Mrs. S-. of Baltimore, (a particular friend of Madame George La Fayette,) two of the General's grand-daughters, Col. C-, an officer of his household, and myself, filled the box to the left of the king's. Mrs. S— and myself were placed in the front seats, notwithstanding our entreaties that the General would take one of them; two of his grand–daughters had the two next, and the General was quite back where it was impossible for any one below to see him. The first piece was an opera, “Le Dieu et la Bayadère.” In this I saw the performance of M’lle Taglioni, the first dancer in the world. Much of this French opera dancing is what it should not be; but of Taglioni, though expected much, yet her performance perfectly astonished me; and I exclaimed in a pas seul, where she seemed divested of terrestrial gravity, and to fly, rather than dance, “this is the sublime of dancing!"

The scenery of the theatre — the splendor of the dresses and decorations — the crowds of actors, all capital in their parts — the perfection of instrumental music displayed by the grand orchestra, who were all so perfect in time, that it was as if one spirit played the numberless instruments — all this was admirable.

After we had been in the theatre about half an hour, an officer entered the box, bowed very low, and presented the General a paper, containing a few lines, written, as I observed, in an elegant hand. He looked rather grave, and perplexed for a moment as he read the paper; then said— “the king has sent for me to come to him. I must go, but I will return.” I begged him not to return on my account, if it would incommode him; but he said he could not consent to lose all the pleasure of the evening. Before he returned, the first piece was over; and those of the La Fayette family, in the other box, came in the interval, to greet us. Their countenances seemed a little shaded, and I though they were uneasy that he had insisted on sitting so far back. Mrs. S-. then took her place behind my chair, and all appeared determined that he should take the front seat, when he returned. Just as they had completed the arrangement, he came in, but he refused to go forward. Mrs. S-. now refused to take the seat, as did the other ladies also, who were in the box with us. Just then the sweet Mathilde La Fayette came from the other box to speak to her grand father. He told her to take the seat; and though she would not for the world have done an impolite thing by voluntarily taking the precedence of older ladies; yet she did not a moment dispute, what she saw was her grand-father's will.

Thus seated and arranged, we went through another dancing piece. It was the ballet pantomime of Manon Lescaut. The scenery and the dresses, represented the court of Louis XV. The stiff bows and curtsies,-- and hoops and trains, and elbow cuffs, -- the frizzed and powdered heads, and enormous head-dresses -- the silk velvet, gold-trimmed, long-skirted coats, and silver embroidered white satin vests,-- the little boys and girls dressed like their fathers and mothers, and curtsying and bowing as stiffly, -- the dancing of minuets -- slow, and graceful, and formal, --it was all pleasing: and the representation was historically true.

Gen. La Fayette was much amused. “Why,” said he, “this is exactly my time!” “Voila ce petit enfant!” exclaimed Mathilde, as a little boy, a sprig of nobility, in a long embroidered coat, and flapped vest, with his hair queued and powdered, appeared upon the stage. Said the General, “I was dressed just so, when I was of that age !” “Just so.”

That piece went off. But I observed that the eyes of the people, were ever and anon, turning towards our box; —and when at another interval, we rose from our seats, as every body did, suddenly there was a shout, “Vive La Fayette! Vive La Fayette!” It resounded again and again, and was echoed and re - echoed by the vaulted roof. In the enthusiasm of the moment, I exclaimed, “you are discovered - you must advance!” – and I handed him over the seats, unconscious at the moment that I was making myself a part of the spectacle. He advanced, bowed thrice, and again retreated — but the cries continued. Then the people called out “la Parisienne! la Parisienne!” You know it is the celebrated national song of the last revolution.

The curtain rose. Nourrit, an actor who, in the former piece had the principal male part, came forward. He was dressed as a Parisian gentleman. His figure was bold, and he bore in his hand an ample standard, which he elevated, waving the tri-colored flag. He had himself, been one of the heroes of the three days. He sung the song in its true spirit, amidst repeated applauses. When he came to the part where it speaks of La Fayette with his white hairs, the hero of both worlds, the air was rent with a sudden shout. I looked at him, and met his eye. There was precisely the same expression as I marked, when we sung to him in Troy; and again I shared the sublime emotions of his soul, and again they overpowered my own. My lips quivered, and irrepressible tears started to my eyes. When the song was over, the actor came and opened the door of the box, and in his enthusiasm embraced him. “You sung charmingly,” said La Fayette. “Ah General, you were here to hear me!” was the reply.

When we descended to leave the theatre, the thronging multitude reminded me of the time, when crowds for a similar purpose assembled in America. The grand opera house is an immense building. In the lower part is a large room, supported by enormous pillars, and used as a vestibule. To this room the crowd had, descended, and here they had arranged themselves on each side of a space, which they had left open for La Fayette, that they might see, and bless him as he passed. There was that in this silent testimonial of their affection, more touching, than the noisy acclaim of their shouts. There was something too, remarkable in the well defined line which bounded the way left open. A dense crowd beyond- not even an intruding foot, within the space, which gratitude and veneration had marked. I can scarcely describe my own feelings. I was with him, whom from my infancy I had venerated as the best of men; whom for a long period of my life I had never hoped even to see in this world. Now I read with him his noble history, in the melting eyes of his ardent nation. And I saw that he was regarded as he is, the father of France- aye, and of America too. America! my own loved land! It was for her sake I was thus honored, and it was for me to feel her share in the common emotion. My spirit seemed to dilate, and for a moment, self- personified as the genius of my country, I enjoyed to the full his triumph, who is at once her father, and her adopted son.

I do not know about you, but her descriptions have drawn me in, just if I had been there at the opera that day. The interactions of the family, the merry entertainment, La Fayette joking about his age and sharing childhood anecdotes, the want for historical accuracy being a think way back in 1830, the people singing their revolutionary song, the people lining up for La Fayette ...

A short clarification, the revolution mentioned in the text is not “the” French Revolution but “a” French Revolution – the July Revolution to be precise (also referred to as the French Revolution of 1830, the Second French Revolution, Trois Glorieuses or Three Glorious Days.) The Revolution saw the forced abdication of Charles X and the ascent of King Louis Philipe I. La Fayette played an important part during these events and many people of the time were of the opinion that King Louis Philipe more or less owned his crown to La Fayette. The revolution was also the reason why this visit with Emma Willard was the first visit to the opera this year for La Fayette. He thought people would think of him as vain were he to seek out a public place where the people would undoubtedly cheer for him (as they did).

[harringtonheartache]

Daybreak | Part Twenty-One

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Lab Escapee! Reader?

Summary: Part twenty-one of this fic. Rescue team re-assemble... with more members? 

Word Count: 2,800 +

Warning(s): Self-inflicted injury, mention of guns, blood, cussing

A/N: I am very excited for the next (last?) few chapters! Hehe, I hope you guys are enjoying the series! Lemme know how you feel about where things are going (-;

The pad of Hopper’s thumb traced over the old wallpaper of Joyce’s home. He looked at the long scratch carefully, like he was in a museum and it was an art piece displayed in a fancy frame. And then he huffed, like he was irritated, and turned around to face Joyce again. He didn’t have any words, though, and they both looked at one another blankly. 

Steve had returned himself to the couch, sullen and uninterested in Hopper’s investigation. He turned his left hand over and held in in his right, his own thumb feeling over the line across his palm; the scar, the one he gave and healed himself. The stitches — how many did it take? Six? Eight? And when he bandaged it in white, how many times around his hand did he wrap the cloth? How long did it take to bleed through?

“We have to summon it,” he said. 

Hopper and Joyce turned from one another to face Steve, and he picked himself up from his seat in a hurry. He didn’t look at them as he rushed, a few steps around boxes and debris, straight to the door. Neither Joyce nor Hopper had found any words before he was through it and on route to his car. 

Hopper sighed — that irritance again — and took a few strides to plant his hand on the door knob. He swung it open, the force rustling miscellaneous papers scattered across the room, and called out at the retreating teenager. 

“Where are you going?”

Steve tugged on his car door and leaned in over the driver’s seat. His hand felt around on the floor of the passengers side, and he grabbed for the bag of forgotten first-aid. He picked himself up swiftly, plastic bag swinging at his side, and turned to march right back up to the porch. 

Hopper was still stood in the entryway when he climbed the steps, and without even looking at him Steve swerved around his figure back into the home. Hopper followed the kid’s movements with his eyes, studying him like he had the wall. Joyce stood like a centerpiece in her own home, her presence losing saturation by the minute. A simple box of bandages was dumped onto her table, a second one sliding out and knocking into the first. Steve dropped the bag and progressed towards the kitchen, his plan still unspoken. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Hopper spoke after him with a second effort. He shut the front door again, a distracted push of his hand sending it to a close. “Hey!” he called out to the disappearing figure. 

Steve came as he left, quickly, only this time he held in his grip a knife. This did not silence Hopper. 

“Woah, woah woah! What the hell? What are you doing? Give-”

“Just calm down, okay? I’m not-”

“Give me the knife, Harrington”.

He dangled the blade in his hand as he gestured, hands tossed in the hair nonchalantly. “Just listen to me!” he said in defense. 

“Just put the goddamn knife down,” Hopper told him troublingly. 

Wide eyes on the verge of being rolled, Steve slapped the knife to the table. “There! Will you just hear me out?” The silver spun against the hardwood as silence stilled the rest of the room. One hand drifted to Hopper’s hip — fed up, tired — and the other wavered in the air — yielding, tired. 

“What?” he asked his question in one word. 

“We have to summon it,” Steve said matter-of-factly, like Hopper should have picked up on what was happening. Keep up!

“Summon it. With a knife.” The return was dull.

“No, with blood”.

Hopper’s face jumped, exasperated but in a way that was partially a performance. “Oh!” he bursted, his free hand thrown in the air to hit his thigh with a smack when it came back down. “With blood”. 

“It showed up because Nine’s arm — it was bleeding. She told me. She knew it came because of the blood. If I just cut myself, minimally, the blood will lure the thing back here and I can-”

“You’re not going to cut yourself-” Joyce started.

“We aren’t summoning a nine-foot-tall creature that almost killed you a few hours ago!” Hopper voiced sourly. 

Steve’s hair flopped in front of his eyes and he sighed. It stayed there for a moment, himself gearing up to continue the argument, and then he tossed it back into place as he brought his head up again to look at his opposed. 

“Look, wherever that thing took her, she said Will is there, too. She thinks she can find him,” he said, eyes drifting between the two adults but settling on Joyce at the mention of her son. Her mouth twitched as she watched him, and he continued his speech; something between an explanation and a plea. 

“And I have to believe that she’s okay, that she will. But she’s hurt, probably pretty badly, probably exhausted.”

Hopper shifted on his feet, his cold stare dwindling for a moment, internally fighting with the idea of giving into this askew reality. The things he had been told of — the superpowers and the alternate dimensions (she called it the ‘upside-down’, right?). He had yet to see any of these things for himself, and instead stood protected by the shadow of ignorance. If he let this happen, when would he face everything he had been told of? 

When blood started leaking from the cut Steve had proposed, slow to drip in thick red splotches against the floor? Would the wall shake and rumble like Joyce had described, and if so, is that when he’d face it? Would it take until the creature emerged from the wall for him to truly realize, and, could he ever go back to the shadow? 

“We have to help her. That thing created a portal when it showed up, and that’s the only way we know how to find it. We can get them both back. It can be over,” Steve said. 

Over. What did that mean, exactly? The word came from his own mouth, but Steve was still unsure of its promise. For Joyce, the idea was easy. It would mean having her son back home, ending the search. And for Hopper he’d return to work, Steve would guess, unburdened by this nagging supernatural side-story in his life. And for Steve… ? What would it mean for Steve? Going back to school, regularly, perhaps? He couldn’t imagine things being over for himself without needing to conceptualize a life for Nine, too. A new life. She wouldn’t go back to the lab, that wasn’t an acceptable normal anymore. So she’d take up residence… where, exactly? He let himself envision her at his own home for only a second, nipped in the side soon after by the teeth of realism. Hiding wouldn’t do long term, and his parent’s wouldn’t take her in like a stray dog to sleep at the bottom of their son’s bed. He’d also have to consider the people of Hawkins’ Lab. They didn’t just go away, excuse themselves as a problem simply because Will would be found. 

Where would she go?

Where was she now?

“Okay,” Joyce said pensively. Her brows trembled a little as she looked at Steve, an earnest smile sent his way as he looked back at her. 

Hopper dropped his chest, closed his eyes. Two against one, now. He raised a hand to scratch at the back of his head, and opened his eyes to the stare of Steve: wide-eyed, expectant. 

“Okay,” Hopper said, his voice still a little rough as not to show too much compliance. 

Steve’s head rose from his shoulders, a bit dazed by the agreement. 

“Not… not right now, though,” Hop said. Steve’s expression dropped again, and even Joyce turned to face the sheriff with a look of displeasure. “I need time, I’m expected at the station. And I need to prepare, too. If we’re fighting some giant monster and possibly entering another dimension, I need to get some things together.” Steve wanted to roll his eyes (they have to move, now!) but he stopped himself. Better not to be that bold when Hopper agreed in the first place, be grateful for the win. 

“Well- well when? Hop, I need to find him. I need him back.”

Joyce’s words, so tender and so broken. The monster in the wall, the mental image she had saved and sealed tight in her mind, began to shrink; a threat no longer so potent. With the voice of a small child, she begged for the chance to save her own. 

“I-” Hopper started, and he looked down at her, rethought his plan. More wide eyes trained on him. “Tonight. I’ll come back tonight and we’ll do this. I promise”. 

-

Jonathan Byers, or as some may call him: the one still standing. Lanky, awkward, but not without allure. Perhaps someone his younger brother would emulate with personal charm when he grew up. To each their own appeal, but both without a doubt amiable and compelling characters. 

Maybe it has thrown off Jonathan’s stride, though. Being something of an outcast is cause for hardship, even if it shapes a person nicely. And it did, but he stumbled up the steps of his front porch like he was made of sticks.

What he saw when he made it through the door threw him off further: Steve Harrington and his own mother, an intense conversation happening between the two. Sure, Steve himself wasn’t so bizarre. He drove around the kids, Jonathan’s little brother being one of them. He was a friend to them, a more evolved version of a babysitter, and his presence wasn’t too jarring as a casual act. But Will wasn’t around. He definitely knew that. And Steve had already given his help to the investigation, deeming his occupancy unsettling. 

“Mom?” Jonathan asked, still a shadow in the doorway. 

Joyce turned, Steve’s eyes following the same path. 

“Oh! Uhm- Jonathan,” Joyce said, that same awkward energy the person she spoke to often adopted himself. 

Joyce wasn’t thrilled with the idea of Steve participating in the evening’s plans. He was a teenager, though physically bigger than her, a kid nonetheless. She’d rather take the task on herself (okay, she’d allow Hopper, he’d be of great help), but his company was cemented. She wouldn’t be able to shake him, and she knew that, and maybe it would be okay. Her own son was different. She wanted to protect him too, of course, and maybe he was shakable. She realized now that she might have to lie to succeed. 

“Steve wanted to see if he could help out in any way.”

“The house is a mess.” 

This was an uncomplicated response, but also a touch unsettling. Joyce stalled. 

“I know. Things just piled up so quickly,” she said to him.

“What’s going on, mom?” he asked coldly. 

Her ability to lie faltered, she shifted on her feet. “I’m- I’m just trying to find your brother,” she said, voice partially cracked. Steve stood next to her unmoved. He longed to excuse himself, but didn’t see it a viable option. 

“If Steve can help,” Jonathan started, a hand hidden in jacket sleeve motioning to Steve, “then so can I. What’s going on?” 

Steve looked back to Joyce, eyes ping-ponging between the two as they carried out their tense conversation. He really wished he had left with Hopper, at this point. 

“It’s just some routine work with Hopper, nothing you’d need to be here for. You should get out of the house for a while. There are some- some more posters. You could hang those up. That would be a big help,” she said, turning to the table to reach for posters that weren’t actually beside her. Her hands fell back to her sides as she faced Jonathan again, acting as if she hadn’t just looked for something that wasn’t there. 

“Mom,” he said, and he looked at her the way he had been doing a lot recently. “Don’t just push me out of the house. I want to help. Let me.” 

“It’s just-” Joyce stalled again, progressing forward a few steps to land herself closer to Jonathan. She reached a hand up to touch his face, but pulled it back before making contact. Her hand shook and she looked at him with a quivering mouth. “It’s dangerous, honey. I can’t put you in danger.” 

Jonathan had to stop himself from taking a step back, started by his mother’s demeanor. “Wh- what do you mean? It’s okay, I can protect myself, just let me help,” he said, voice beginning to sound frantic, words stacking up against one another. 

“I just. I can’t have you here. Not with Will gone. I need you as my constant, okay?” 

He swallowed once, then a second time when he felt his eyes water. 

A new sound filled the silence as a truck pulled in the driveway, headlights flashing through the window as the sun had recently started it’s descent. All three Byer’s house occupants turned, and Chief Hopper became a figure in the window. He slammed his driver’s door, shuffled around back to take something from the truck bed, then started his stride up the porch. He entered, blatantly (they were well past knocking, right?), but then froze at the sight of the newly arrived. 

“Oh. Shit,” he said. The gun he held was readjusted in his grip. 

“What the hell? What are you guys doing? What’s with the gun. Mom, you don’t even like guns.” Jonathan turned between the two adults. 

“It’s just a precaution, kid. That thing isn’t going to hurt your mom, I promise,” Hopper said, taking Joyce’s place in the conversation. 

“Thing? What thing?”

“Oh…” Hopper trailed off. “Not even the… ? Okay, sorry. I’ll just…” He let himself all the way inside now and closed the door, excusing himself to the sidelines. 

“I’m not leaving.”

“Jon-”

“No! Not with whatever’s going on! I need to be here!” 

-

Whatever’s going on was a fitting description for someone of Jonathan’s isolated position, and someone had to fill him in. 

It took a while. Longer than Steve would have liked, for sure. Hopper wasn’t certain who was in a further state of denial: him or Jonathan. And Jonathan wasn’t leaving, that was decided; or more or less declared. It wasn’t favorable for Joyce, and her knee rattled against her hands as she bounced on the couch. 

“So, blood will draw this thing here?” Jonathan asked from beside her. He was talking to Steve now, and the teenager, older by just one year, confirmed the statement. He picked up the knife he had set down hours ago and held it in his hand, watching the blade reflect colors of red, blue, yellow, and green from the Christmas lights hanging above. 

“Wait, no, no,” Joyce said, standing from the couch in an attempt to gain control over just one thing happening in her home. “You shouldn’t do it, one of us should,” she said, motioning between Hopper and herself. Hopper winced at the proposal, uneasy with the idea of being nominated. 

“Joyce, it’s okay. Really, I need to,” Steve said to her dulcetly. “I'll bandage my hand right up, no worries. I owe it.”

“You don’t owe us anything,” she said. 

“I know. I owe it to Nine,” he spoke softly, a smile somewhere between kind and somber stretching his lips. 

He twisted the blade in his hold, Joyce moving to prepare the bandages he had promised he’d use. He contemplated his hand, where to add a new scar. Opening his fingers, he eyed the line already present across his palm: the old scar, self-inflicted as well, from that first time he’d sewn stitches. He thought about tracing over it, refreshing his memory with the same pain, but closed his fist and opened his other hand. A clean slate. 

He drew a new line across his alternate palm, slowly as not to cut too deep, and breathed out a huff of distress as he created a new cut. The blade came back red (it had fulfilled its purpose), and he practically dropped the knife back down on the table. He gripped his wrist, holding his newly-bleeding hand steady, and turned his grip around for the blood to run down his palm in a thick line of cherry-red. A single drop led the way, and a tiny puddle of his own blood formed at Steve’s shoes. 

Joyce moved promptly, taking Steve’s hand and wrapping it in cloth as soon as the damage was done. He held his breath, a squint on his face as he tried to disregard the pain. 

It happened almost as rapidly as it did the first time, and Hopper and Jonathan looked around, panicked, at the flashing lights. The shaking followed as expected, rattling the house like a bad storm. Jonathan, standing now, turned towards the more experienced. 

“What the hell…” he started, his question falling limp. 

“Back to it,” Steve spoke, a tad blasé.

---

Tag List: @ggclarissa @gurl-ly @alewifex @we-are-band-sexuals @cpt-lamby @l0ve-0f-my-life @easvtohate @used-avocado @kwyloz @itzpikapie  @samwise-babeyy @kaelyn-lobrutto24 @mochminnie @peterwandaparker @ayamecrevan @lilyhw1 @seninjakitey @lulurose17 @write-from-the-heart @hargreevelr @sledgy14 @stranger-names @marvelouspottering @crimesolvin @pradaxstyles @im-a-stranger-thing​ @fancytravelerbird​ @queenofthehairharrington​ @blahhhhhhhaaa​ @prettysbliss​

[47-shades-of-hitman]

In Your Likeness | Chapter 2 - You seem familiar

Four weeks later

 The white noise of the lights around buzzed in your ears.

Sebastian walked up to you, cup of tea in hand.

“Here.” he said, placing it onto the table, the teaspoon resting in it rattling at the movement.

You sighed, leaning back, putting down the small pieces of equipment you were holding. Instead, you wrapped your arms around the hot mug, relishing in the sweet smell that came from the herbal beverage. You never took your tea with sugar, but opted to not tell him.

“Thank you.” you mused, smiling at him whilst bringing the cup up to blow into it, cooling it down just slightly. “Where would I be without you?”

Sebastian scratched his beard and smiled. “Well, for beginners, you wouldn’t be in sunny Jerusalem if it weren’t for my lead on a Piece of Eden.”

“That’s my lead, too!” sounded from the other side of the room, followed by a crumpled piece of paper being thrown at Seb’s head.

“Oi! Yeah, I get it, Miranda.”

“Sunny Jerusalem, you say?” you countered playfully, bending over your work again. “Then tell me, why are we hidden several floors underground instead of floating on the Dead Sea? I could’ve stayed in Tel Aviv to do more research there.”

Sebastian perched himself on top of the table you were working on, taking a swig of his coffee.

“Oh, come on (Y/n). You love Jerusalem. No-one who knows the city as well as you do. You’re only glad to be back.”

A large grin spread over your face, knowing he was right.

“(Y/n), take a look at this.” Miranda appeared at your side, handing you a yellowed folder.

“What’s this?”

“Information about your new target. Azra El-Sharani. A dangerous woman, mind you. She might seem harmless, but according to our spies, she killed her own husband. Templar ties? No doubt.”

You whistled through your teeth, flipping through the papers Miranda had so carefully compiled.

“I like a challenge from time to time.”

“This is not a game. Especially not here, on this soil. It’s drenched with blood of all kinds. Let’s not add too much to that, please.”

You tipped your chair back so you were leaning on its hind legs, balancing it just right.

“I know, Miranda.” you said. “I know this place like the back of my hand, but I know when to  not  strike. Thing is, if I don’t remind myself to have fun every once in a while, I might slip into madness. It’s not only what  makes  me the best at what I do – it  keeps  me that way, as well.”

Miranda nodded, her blonde curls bouncing at the movement of her head.

“Naturally. On with it.”

“Of course.” you replied. “I will let you know when I leave.”

As she walked off, the heels of her pumps clicking almost obnoxiously against the floor of the bunker, you leaned forward again, returning to your work. The acetone was sharp in its scent and stung in your nose, yet had evaporated in the time you had left it to dry. With practised ease, you re-assembled your bracer, clicking the blade back into place.

“You need to eat before you go.”

“Do I?” you asked your friend. “I believe I just had tea. With sugar, even though I never really take that in my hot drinks. That should give me enough energy for the rest of the day.”

Sebastian hopped off the table and followed you suit when you stood and made your way over to the exit. Grabbing your coat, you threw it over your shoulders. Despite it being your summer garment, it was immediately sticky against your bare skin.

“(Y/n), I am being serious. We can’t have you faint on us.”

“Being peckish keeps me sharp, Seb.” you explained, putting on the bracer. From the chest underneath the mirror hanging on the wall you took another gauntlet, this one equipped with built-in tranquilizer darts, which you could use should the need arise. You wished you had it on you on your previous contract the other day  – that rival hitman, of whom you didn’t know the name. 

He had crossed your mind more than once this month.

You shuddered, but you weren’t sure if it was because of the aversion you felt towards the ICA or the vivid memory of his  impossibly blue eyes.

“Are you sure you’ve read the file well enough? We could go through it together while enjoying some sandwiches? I could get you some falafel, too? Or something sweet… Babka?” Sebastian tried.

You sighed, giving him a tight-lipped smile.

“Time is of the essence and there is no way that I can wait any longer. Jerusalem is waiting to be rid of her Templars. My absence has made the lower ranks lazy.”

Sebastian let his shoulders hang, knowing that there was no use in pressuring you any further.

“Alright.” he said, “Enjoy your surroundings. Many people would be jealous of you, regarding your whereabouts, I mean.”

You laughed a little at the IT-manager. “Oh, Sebastian. No one should be jealous of me in any regard. Anyway, isn’t your break over already?”

Sebastian checked his watch, hiding the expression of shock on his face. “Shit, I’m five minutes late. Never mind, I’m the manager after all. Good luck on your endeavours, now.”

You nodded and folded your hands on your back, watching him trot away, a certain spring in his step he always had whenever he was late.

Before you left the premises of your quarters, you dropped by Miranda, just as she had asked of you. However, when you turned the corner, you ran straight into her, almost colliding against her shocked face.

“Oh, (Y/n)! You startled me!” she breathed. “I was just about to get you, really. I just got a call from the Council’s office. They want you upstairs.”

“Why? What is going on, have they told you? I was about to leave for that file, actually, I—”

“I’m not sure, but the Eldest of Council told me that you needed to meet with him right away.”

“Mr Howard?” you countered, feeling your stomach tighten. He was the highest ranking member of the Council, making you immediately nervous.

“Yes.” Miranda sighed, seemingly just as scared. If Mr Howard called for you, it couldn’t be good.

“Thank you for letting me know.”

You rushed away, pushing through the doors after straightening the lapels of your coat in the mirror. Walking up a few flights of stairs to where the Israeli Council had their headquarters underneath Jerusalem, your mind started to run.

Was it something you had said, or did you take breaks that were too long? No, if that had been the case, you wouldn’t be called into office. After all, you were the best Assassin they had and the most hard-working one at that. If you took a break that was ten minutes longer than planned, it—

You halted mid-step, standing still for a moment as realisation hit you. The agent from the ICA you had run into a few weeks back… Mentally cursing, you rubbed your forehead in frustration, resuming your walk to the main office, though with a heart that was even heavier. They must’ve found out that there were rivals on their turf. Took them a long while, too. Perhaps you should’ve reported it, but you hadn’t regarded it as a threat.

Oh, you were going to get the lecture of the century. On why you should’ve killed that hitman instead of letting him walk out, or at least how you should’ve neutralised him. About how he had probably now killed someone prominent within the Creed and that it could’ve been prevented if you had ended him. Perhaps you’d be banished for negligence or charged with the guilt of a fallen brother- or sister-Assassin.

Your knuckles rapped on the metal door in front of you and you took a deep breath. A Master Assassin felt no fear when it came to scaling buildings, killing people in high places, taking  Leaps of Faith. .. And yet, you were about to shit yourself because you had to speak with your superiors.

“Enter.” sounded the way-too-familiar voice of Thomas Howard, Eldest of Council and thus, the highest power when it came to the Brotherhood of Assassins. And so you went, closing the door behind you after slipping through the tiny gap you had created by pushing it open.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” you were surprised at how confident your voice sounded.

“Yes, Miss (L/n). You may approach.”

The walls were covered in photographs of places, people and objects, red thread lined through here and there, revealing the on-going development of plans. You halted at the front of Mr Howard’s oaken desk, folding your hands on your back.

The middle-aged man looked at you thoughtfully.

“Miss (L/n)… You’ve been our best Master Assassin ever since your brother died. Is that correct?”

“Affirmative, sir.” you replied, swallowing away the lump in your throat at the mention of your deceased brother. “For five years now, sir.”

“Time and time again, you’ve proven loyalty to the Creed. I would trust you with the Brotherhood’s most secret investigations concerning Pieces of Eden and the extermination of Templar forces.”

You bowed your head humbly. “Thank you, sir. I’m honoured to hear that, sir.”

“Now.” he said, standing up, his robes swaying at the movement. “I need you to follow me.”

Why the secrecy, you wanted to ask, but opted to bite your tongue instead. It would be too rude a question, especially to the Eldest.

And so you went after him in silence, the only sound the beat of your footsteps.

“I will explain in further detail later, but we’ve picked up on a lead that runs deeper in importance than just exterminating the Templar Order. No, what we found will shake the world. You’re my most capable Assassin, so I need you on board.”

You nodded. “Sir, I’ve sworn fifteen years ago that I would do my all for the Brotherhood, that I would give my life and my dignity if it meant to serve it,” you paused before adding “...Sir.”

Mr Howard hummed in response. “I don’t think you’re going to like this, though.”

“Sir?” you asked, but he didn’t reply anymore.

“How about my other mission, sir?”

“I’ve placed Bethany on it. She’ll handle it just fine.”

“But Bethany is just a novice, sir. She won’t be able to—”

“I need you here.” Mr Howard said, displeased with your prying, and the tone of his scolding voice made you immediately cast your eyes downward.

“I apologise for my nosiness, sir.”

“Alright.” he said, and swiped a key-card to open a large, thick door.

The room was near empty, an ominous hue omitted by fluorescent light, a large table littered with files and documents in the middle. A few members from the High Council stood around, but an unfamiliar woman had her eyes on you. You locked her gaze to yours and raised an eyebrow.

Who was she?

“Here at last, Thomas.” an older lady you knew well stated, clearly unhappy with his late arrival. Siobhan Vermont glared at the two of you with narrowed eyes.

“I apologise, Mrs Vermont. The most important thing is that we’re here now, and I guess there are a lot of questions.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but someone cut you off before you could even start.

“You withheld information from us, (Y/n). You forgot to mention a rival assassin roaming the streets of Jerusalem. Someone of your ability should notice a thing like that right away.”

Casting your gaze downward, quite ashamed. “I apologise, sir. I should’ve reported it, but I threatened—”

“We already knew of their presence.” Mr Howard said. “There is no harm done, yet keep it in mind next time something like that happens.”

Your head whipped up to him and you frowned in confusion.

“I don’t understand, sir.”

Mr Howard walked to the strange woman and whispered something to her. She nodded and went to the adjacent room silently.

“This is a mission we hoped we never had to plan, but the situation forced us into cooperation with people who have ties to the ICA. Something big is going to happen, something that will make the entire world shudder, something that will make the eradication of our own, current enemies seem insignificant.”

Mr. Howard ushered you to the middle of the room, to the table, and on the other side of it, someone was being led forward as well.

When you halted and looked up, resting your hands on the files underneath you. In front of you, mimicking your position, he stood. 

Icy blue eyes met yours, something in his gaze stirring.

“We meet again.” he dryly stated.

You sighed, feeling puzzled, then, your gaze hardening.

“So it would seem.”

[swordoforion]

Orion Digest №45 - Alternate Models of ESF: What is Essential?

Eco-socialist federalism was founded on, and still relies upon, its central tenets. Regardless of the method by which it is implemented, it is important to understand that the nations of Earth must be united under one federation, that economy cannot serve the people adequately unless the means of production are available to public use, and until the system created is focused upon the preservation of Earth's ecosystem to allow humanity's continued survival. Everything else, much of what has been introduced in past issues, is merely models and suggestions on how this much could realistically be achieved.

I stand firm on the idea that the basic description listed above is true and necessary, but I also understand that the methods previously disclosed could be susceptible to my personal biases or lapses in my knowledge. Many have tried to implement the above concepts and met with some degree of failure, though the ideals are not to blame; simply the way they were handled. Similarly, I intend to keep writing and proposing more details on eco-socialist federalism as I envision it, but at the same time I am entirely welcome to alternate interpretations and approaches to the application of ESF to the world's political systems, as well as suggestions for improvement upon my own models.

It is not that I consider what I have written incorrect, but one person's perspective on such an issue might not compare to the perspectives of many. The two may align, but I find that the insights and experiences of others can make a collaborative piece of theory or art all the greater, and the juxtaposition of two differing perspective on an issue can prove a great testing ground for the merits of an individual theory. I believe that there are multiple ways that eco-socialist federalism can be achieved, and that different models can be more effective at accomplishing the goals of Orion.

While our membership leaves us currently unable for such a democratic assembly, the aim is to spread across the world and accumulate members that can reach a consensus on a strategy forward, and when the time comes, I am prepared to make my case not just through essays, but to members of Orion from every region, in hopes that I will find a majority that is in agreement with my plan. At the same time, to not leave my strategy up to democratic review would be a disservice to the spirit of the mission - we aim to build a world that serves the people, and if it is found that my judgement is lacking, and that current ESF models are inefficient in putting people and progress first, I am welcome to new and fresh ideas.

Similarly, when the time comes where Orion's structure has been filled out and established, I intend not to continue to serve as Instruist (as derived from the Esperanto word 'instruisto', the elected chair of Sword COMMAND, the executive house of Orion's command structure - represented by the office's seal, DKTC) until properly and democratically re-elected by such an assembly. My intent is to lay down the foundations of Orionist theory, philosophy and structure, as well as to propose my own approach to them, and leave it up to future members of this organization as to what path they shall choose to take.

So then, how might other models differ? While a federation must remain democratic, the structure of Parliament, the Judiciary, and the Executive Bureaucracy are not set in stone, let alone are the presence of such houses assured. Models that still allow for citizens to have a say in every level of government still accomplish the basic purpose. An economy can still be socialist while ridding itself of the market, so long as every citizen that falls beneath the livable threshold is provided for, and that the means of production are accountable and available to the public, rather than to private ownership. Finally, while de-escalation is one proposed strategy for environmental revitalization, there could exist both more and less extreme alternatives to save the ecosystem, especially as more and more advanced technology is developed.

It is important to understand that these models may need to change with the passage of time due to the unpredictability of the future. Certain circumstances may arise that require Orion to adapt and change, whether political, social, or environmental. For example, should the federation established one day be distorted into the antithesis of its ideals, it would be foolhardy to simply try once more with the same exact strategy; it is of vital importance that Orion can learn and grow with time. Just as a federation may be fallible, it is important for each member to understand that so too could the organization become doggedly stuck on an incorrect path, and as a member, it is important to stand up and fight even their fellow members on issues of importance to the organization and the world.

Outside of eco-socialist federalism, the other two primary components essential to Orionist thought are those of philosophy and structure, both of which have been laid out. Digest No. 41 detailed the basics of Orionist philosophy - the five levels (beauty, empathy, responsibility, discipline, and sacrifice) that detail the duty to fight so that the people of the world can truly appreciate the world around them and find greater meaning in their lives. Structure is listed already in several places - the two house command structure of Orion (Sword COMMAND, of which the Instruist is elected and the other positions are appointed; and the Council of Flagbearers, of which regions elect their own representatives), as well as the three branches (Sword of Orion, Liberius, Museion Institute) and their respective chapters.

Beyond this, I anticipate that over the course of Orion's existence, the words and theories written down in the Digest may be subject to change and evolution, and while I may find myself in disagreement, I am open to the idea of being proved wrong. However, it is vital that the theory, philosophy, and structure remain essential. We cannot forget that people deserve to enjoy the world, and that we owe it to each other to be kind and work together. We cannot neglect the precious balance between us and our natural habitat. We must make sure that our society is one that is united and puts accountability in the hands of both the individual and the community. Finally, as long as there are those who are willing to strive for these ideals, Orion must fight for the survival and prosperity of humanity, and for that unending pursuit of beauty and knowledge.

- DKTC FL

[kintsugi-sheep]

2021.01.10: Redcaps and Manga Reviewing, Vigor and Nostalgia

Alright, so what happened this week?

Well, I don’t think I’ll ever forget what happened this week. I was six when September 11th occurred, so I wasn’t really cognizant of what had happened. But I am cognizant now. And I won’t forget what happened on January 6th for a very long time. I don’t consider myself especially patriotic or loyal to the democratic system of government as it operates in this country, but I do acknowledge when something so sacrosanct is violated.

I don’t want to spend time getting into this. If you’re old enough to find this blog post you’re old enough to know what happen. I hadn’t intended for that to be what I wanted to talk about anyway.

Where I left off last week, I wanted to announce my intention of making a video on Shaman King.

There are a number of hurdles—some might even dare to call them issues—with this idea. I’m not a reviewer. I don’t have any video editing experience. I don’t have a platform of great enough scale to protect my work. And, for the nature of what I intend to write, I may not even have enough time to get it out before the series drops in April.

So why bother?

Because I love the series. For years, it almost never came up in conversation, but when it did, I was pumped up with the nostalgia I had while reading it. I didn’t know where this excitement came from for years.

It’s a good manga. Not the best that there ever was, but yet I inexplicably loved it. And I didn’t really know why. But when I was asked what my favorite manga of all time was my answer would be Shaman King.

When I heard the anime was getting a re-release and when I heard they were going to re-publish the manga in full this time, I was ecstatic. I told my friend about it and, being the type of person who’s typically late regarding news related to anime releases, they already knew.

Then, I saw the articles. And my heart ached.

Read my article about how Shaman King is pulling a Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood.

Read my article about ten characters that will be in this anime that weren’t in the original.

Read about whether or not this character is okay for woke 2021.

And I my stomach sinks when I think about what will be coming next.

Theories made by people who read the series and are reciting spoilers for clicks.

Essays on why Hao is the greatest anime villain of all time for clicks.

Speculation on whether or not Yoh can beat Goku in a fight.

I don’t have a very high opinion of journalism. And knowing that the series I love will be used and disposed of for quick clicks is upsetting to me.

In deciding to do this project, I put it all together. I realized why I loved this series.

When I drew as a youngster, Shaman King’s stab-your-eye-out-on-my-protagonist’s-edges art was my early influence for character design.

Every story I’ve come up with—whether or not it’s been continued, recycled into another idea, or wholly abandoned—has had themes of spirituality that I’d only seen present in Shaman King as a child watching it on the FoxBox.

It was my exposure to the reality that manga and anime don’t always coincide; I hadn’t watched FMA or FMAB yet.

I used to record the Saturday morning cartoons and watch them with my grandmother, and while for years I’d hop between Fox, the WB, and ABC recording cartoons so that we’d watch things like Lilo and Stitch, Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends, the Proud Family, Xiaolin Showdown, Coconut Fred, Ultimate Muscle, Johnny Test, Mucha Lucha, Jackie Chan Adventures, even One Piece—to name what I could from the top of my head, these shows didn’t all run on these channels in the same breadth of time—I’d skip over Shaman King, keeping it selfishly to myself like a child would.

This week, it hurt watching a bunch of redneck monsters trample over the Capitol. As someone cynical of the government, it hurt to know something so sacrosanct could be treated so shamefully. But it hurts so much worse to imagine that I wasted all these years, like a boy concealing his affection for a girl until she falls into the arms of someone else, to actually take the time and express the love I have for this series.

The image of this post is an issue of Jump a buddy of mine bought at a thrift store or yard sale and gave me almost three years ago. I posted the picture with a long blurb about how my week feeling on Facebook. A lot of it is auxiliary, but I’d like to recount what I wrote here.

Spoiler alert, I was feeling a little pretentious that day:

 “Vigor. Even writing this feels more cumbersome than it actually is.

How do I say what I mean? I hate nostalgia. It’s true, if hyperbolic. I see it cut down so many peers, creatives, and critics like a guillotine; a sloppy, artificially guided, swift force that lops their heads into a collective basket of thought.

Still, this past week I’ve felt my own dismissive chest opened with a more surgical precision that permissed” [NOT A WORD] “nostalgia to play with my heart strings. I reflected on Avatar, a show from a time when animated shows didn’t have their runtimes bisected for the simpler consumption of children that would choke on anything longer, that powered itself on the labor and inspired vision of its creators and crew as opposed to memes for the children and references for the adults, and had the temerity to demand that an audience be comfortable going thirty minutes at a time without a joke to amuse them.

My friend went to Pennsylvania and got me an issue of the now defunct Shonen Jump magazine from 2004. It had series of comics I’d forgotten about and an ad for Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man 2, but those were inconsequential. I find Shaman King to be the greatest comic I’ve ever read and in August, the month of the issue I’d received, the protagonist was featured prominently on the cover. I remembered how engrossing it was to read something with that level of complexity; taking into account my age. And never since have I seen a series with such a great balance of brutality and humor and never since have I seen any form of media where” [REDACTED FOR SPOILERS] “led to a happy ending.

To round it off, within the hours before writing this I’d watched Feel Good Inc. I couldn’t help but feel my eyes begin to water at the genius of Damon Albarn and Jamie Hewlett. An unforgettable song latticed with moments of haunting beauty and brilliance.

As a child I would sit down for hours to draw terribly. And I loved every warped, misshapen, humanoid, tailed thing I drew. I’d scan my grandmother’s cookbooks and write recipes by mending foods I liked together in a manner similar to Frankenstein assembling his monster. I wrote chapter after chapter of a terrible story because I wanted to prove to my first girlfriend that I could write something better than twilight. I had a sense of self-motivation. I hadn’t struggled through college for a year to graduate without confidence in my own abilities. Or lost friends to unfair circumstances beyond my control or the ignorance of how much control I had. Or been stressed to the point of genuine fear from some of my earlier work. In many ways I still feel like the child I was when I lived at my grandmother’s house. Except now as a child too anxious to do anything besides what he knows will keep him alive.

How do I say what I mean? Not well. That, too, may have been a bit too hyperbolic. It’s not that I hate nostalgia, but that I fear being stagnated in memories of better days. Still, like a failing vegetarian having a hamburger the time I’ve taken to indulge myself has let me realize something I’ve been missing from my diet.

Vigor.”

[ice-the-creator-destroyer]

Minecraft story: Days 4-7

Days 1-3

Day 4:

At the suggestion of a friend, I turned off the auto-save feature and moved Chocolate Milk and Tess back into my house and closed off their access to the porch and Arnold’s Enclosure; this will restrict their movement to under 20 blocks in any direction so that they will not despawn. It has worked perfectly, but I still will not save my game when they are not both in my direct line of sight.

While I held what I think was a stack of two eggs, one from Tess and one from a chicken I had in my ranch outside, I tried and failed to eat a slice of cake, throwing the egg into the wall, hatching a small baby chicken. I had not intended on hatching these eggs; I had not really set in stone any plans for them, but they probably would have been made into a cake. I had full intentions of hatching Tess’s eggs, but only once I could assure they were all her eggs. I immediately fell in love with this baby chicken, and named him Lelo (it’s pronounced exactly like Lilo from Lilo and Stitch, but when I thought of the name, I visualized it with an e, so- yeah. It’s not like some thing to make him unique, it’s just how I visualized it.). I do not know whether or not Lelo is Tess’s biological child or if they were another chicken’s egg, but it does not matter now, because Tess has adopted him as her own, Lelo is Tess’s child and nobody can say otherwise. Of course, there was a bit of panic, as once Lelo grew up I would not be able to differentiate between him and Tess. I built a boat and placed Tess inside, and Chocolate Milk placed herself in the boat because that’s what Chocolate Milk does. Of course because my house was so small that the boat ended up blocking the front door, so now I have to leave my house through the back.

I added a storage room to my house after much frustration on what to keep and throw out due to inventory space.

I found an underwater ravine in the ocean beside the desert out behind my home. I have mined a lot here and it wielded lots of materials.

I HAVE ACQUIRED DIAMONDS! After literal hours of mining and searching, I finally found a pocket of 5 diamonds. I mined all around each diamond to ensure there was no lava around it that would burn it. I used three of the diamonds to make a diamond pickaxe, and then mined a sufficient amount of obsidian to assemble a Nether portal. I hope to go to the Nether and find a Nether fortress to find name tags inside the fortress. I have exited the game for the night, and will venture into the Nether tomorrow.

Day 5:

As YOGSCAST Lewis & Simon once said, Screw the Nether.

After a few minutes of prep, I began my journey into the Nether and was immediately attacked by a Ghast, who damaged me and put out my nether portal. I was able to re-light the portal and flee through it as I saw another shot coming towards me. Something interesting to note was that when I went back into the Nether, it was as if no time had passed, and the charge was still coming towards me.

Ghasts have been the bane of my existence. From the moment I stepped into the Nether they have harassed me at every turn. I tracked my progress and marked my way by the stone walls and hides I had scrambled together across the hellscape. I actually grew quite talented in fighting them, having stacks of cobblestone, able to craft a protective wall out of them in seconds, darting out from behind the wall and firing arrows, and surveying the area before dashing to the next protective wall of cobblestone I had built.

Fighting Ghasts requires a significant amount of arrows however, and there is only one way I know of acquiring feathers...

The chickens in the ranch outside my home are brought into the world and are often showered with seeds to help them grow big and strong quickly and then are paired off with a loving companion with whom they have lovely little children. What happens after that I try not to think about too much...

In order to feed the chickens and grow enough wheat to sustain the rapid consumption of bread in the Nether, I expanded my farm. It is not as neat and orderly as it was before, but it is more efficient.

I discovered that in the Nether, a short distance from the portal, was the end of the Nether, a large bedrock wall as rough and uneven as the bedrock at the bottom of the world. It is truly a sight to behold.

It is a well-known rule in Minecraft that a person should never dig straight down, but today, digging straight down saved my life. As I was fighting two ghasts behind a cobblestone wall, a third appeared behind me where I had no wall to protect myself, and fired at me. As someone who had been hiding behind stone walls for the past few hours, I guess I was in no position to judge the third Ghast’s tactics, like my own, it’s tactics sure as Nether were a lethal pain in the ass. I ran out into the open in my panic, and was now being fired upon by three Ghasts. Low on health, my body set ablaze and charing by the second, with terrifying beasts attacking me from both sides, I had no time to build an efficient cobblestone shelter, so in an attempt to save myself, I pulled one last desperate move: I dug a hole. Switching to my Iron Pickaxe, I looked straight below myself and dug. My body falling each block I removed, I quickly was out of the line of sight of the Ghasts. When I dug into a pocket of magma blocks and was damaged, I kept digging, knowing I would break through the pocket soon enough, and I did, emerging safely onto netherrack flooring. Safe away from the Ghasts, the fire charing my body fizzled out while I was at half a heart, leaving me severely injured, but alive. I placed a block of cobblestone above my head, and laughed at the absurdity of the situation and my luck.

When I returned home low on cobblestone, I built a cobblestone generator, with both water and lava flowing to meet and make cobblestone. I am ashamed to admit that I died to this contraption. Placing myself at the edge of the waterflow to more efficiently get the cobblestone before it was swallowed up by the lava, the water pushed me into the molten rock, setting my body ablaze. In a moment of sheer stupidity, I forgot that there was water right behind me as part of the contraption, and dashed to the ocean not far from the generator. Unfortunately, I had taken too much damage already, and the fire killed me while I was one block away from the water, scattering my inventory into the water, which I had to swim out for. I regained 7 of the 23-25 levels I had, a significant drop. After this I gave up on the cobblestone generator, and went out to the pathetic excuse for a cave not far from my home to mine cobblestone. During my mining, I found a large cave very similar to a small ravine. The only thing that differentiated it from a ravine was that the high ceiling did not open up to the sky. The single waterfall that led down all the way from the ceiling might have led to an ocean, making it an underwater ravine, but I did not check. I found 19 pieces of iron ore in this pseudo-ravine, and sufficient cobblestone from it and the cave I had come in from.

After many trips back and forth from the Overworld and the Nether for arrows, bread, and once cobblestone, I finally found a Nether Fortress. After one more trip back to the Overworld for sufficient preparations, I entered the fortress. I got all the way to the blaze spawners, but as I tried to destroy one of the spawners, I was killed by a blaze. After staring at the death screen for a moment, I turned off the PS3 and promptly gave up. The most valuable item I found in the chests leading up to that point was iron horse armor, and I don’t even have a horse.

I chose to raid the Nether Fortress for Name Tags instead of choosing the much easier fishing method is to reduce the kill count; I didn’t want to end so many fish’s lives just for Name Tags when I could go and get them in some chests in a fortress, but look at what has happened: I’ve had to kill so many chickens for feathers to make weapons used to kill other creatures. I cannot bring back the creatures I have killed, but I can choose to stop killing them. Screw the Nether, I’m goin’ fishin’.

Day 6:

At the suggestion of a friend I have rethought my decision to ditch the Nether. They reminded me that placing torches around a spawner will deactivate them, and suggested a more humane way of getting arrows: skeletons. Thank you friend, this world would be much bleaker without your advice.

I still took up fishing, knowing I could get name tags from there. I took nine fish, and after that, threw the rest back. I’ve gone fishing in real life before, there was no way that the fish could have died that soon after being caught. They’re not dead; shush.

I fished by day and hunted monsters by night. While fighting monsters at night, I encountered a Husk giving a Baby Zombie a piggy-back ride on it’s shoulders, though there is significant evidence to suggest that the Baby Zombie was controlling the Husk. I acquired sufficient arrows from the skeletons to venture into the Nether again, and acquired a saddle from fishing, but no Name Tags. Seeking to enchant my fishing rod with the Luck of the Sea enchantment to increase my chances of getting Name Tags, I went out to mine and found diamonds rather quickly, enough to craft an enchanting table, as I had used the previous 2 diamonds to craft a diamond sword in a moment of forgetfulness. I added another room to my house: a crafting room. Inside the room I placed a crafting table, an anvil, and an enchanting table. I remembered that I needed Bookshelves to increase the power of the enchanting table, but I was hesitant to acquire the leather required to craft books by killing cows. A quick internet search left me with another option: Fishing. Of course. I continued doing what I was doing: fishing by day and hunting Skeletons by night. As tools and armor naturally broke, I realized I was running low on iron, and that it would be smart to mine more iron now before my iron tools ran out rather than screwing myself over by not having any backups when they eventually broke. I went to a cave and began to mine, and found more caves and lots of iron.

One of the Zombie’s I was forced to kill in the cave dropped a potato?? I thought I would have to find a village to acquire potatoes but I guess not. I am growing potatoes now in my farm.

After being satisfied by the amount of iron I acquired, I tried to exit the cave, but discovered that I couldn’t find the way I had come in, running around in circles. I dug through the wall and my own exit, and emerged in a swamp. I spent the next chunk of my time lost in those swamps. I’m glad I got lost there of all places though, as I ended up finding slimes that I killed in self defense and got slimeballs that I later made leads out of. I made a 64 block tower of dirt with a torch atop it when I first got out of the cave to mark such a good mine; I used that tower to help find my way. I found a witch’s hut, but did not enter, knowing it was very dangerous. Night approached as I first saw the house, and I had my first encounter with Phantoms, as I had not slept in several days.

I eventually found my way back home, and might have kissed the ground if I had a button to do so. I am so happy to finally be home.

Day 7:

I returned to the Nether and entered the Fortress. I ran up the blaze spawners and blocked them all off with a wall of cobble, and placed torches around one which didn’t work. I soon realized that the spawners had no chests around them. I looked through what as far as I could tell was the rest of the Fortress, and none of the chests had Name Tags in them. I promptly left the Nether. Until I choose to go to the End, I will not be returning. Screw the Nether, everything I’ve done in the Nether has been an egregious waste of time, resources, effort, and life.

I went back to fishing. I crafted a boat and swam out a bit so no monsters could get me and set up shop. While fishing I caught a rod with Luck of the Sea II, Lure II, and Unbreaking III. No, I’m not kidding. It was on low durability so I went home, and merged it with my current fishing rod using my anvil.

I HAVE ACQUIRED NAME TAGS!!! I acquired them all through fishing. The first one I got I saw it as I reeled it in, and then it flew over my head. I scrambled around and out of the boat, swimming around until I found it. I named Tess first, as I needed to differentiate her from Lelo first and I wanted to let her out of the boat. She had been flapping her wings ever since she was put in the boat, and I know she was happy to finally be out. I accidentally hit Chocolate Milk while trying to break the boat; I’m sorry Chocolate Milk. They have now all been named, minus the dogs as they don’t despawn, and I opened up the way to Arnold’s Enclosure, before I remembered that wolves had spawned in there. I quickly blocked the enclosure back up. There was only one wolf in the enclosure, though before there had been four in there; I didn’t think wolves could despawn but apparently they can (Or they were killed by monsters.) I went to get bones, and then back into the enclosure and tamed the wolf inside. Welcome to the family Bernard.

I kinda don’t know what to do now. For the past few days the entirety of my time was dedicated to getting Name Tags for my companions. Almost everything I’ve done has been for them. I think I will just enjoy them for a while. I wasn’t there much while Lelo was growing up, and I’ve been on a mission since day 3; it’s day 7 now; I’ve been going in and out of the house without paying them as much attention as they deserve for longer than I have been paying them the attention they deserve. I gave them treats when I happened to have wheat or seeds in my inventory, but other than that they have sadly been neglected. I was so focused on keeping them safe and from despawning, I neglected their happiness. Well no more. From now on I’ll be showering them with the attention they deserve. Everything I’ve done so far has been for them, and it will continue to be. Chocolate Milk, Tess, Lelo, Norman, Betwood, Bernard, I love you all. Happy New Year.

[torispencerkeene-blog]

BE A HERO. WEAR A MASK (Take Two)

In the past few weeks I have been trying (mostly without success) to spread the message that HEROES WEAR MASKS. I find so much of this disturbing, but recently I came across a post from someone who was giving their reasons for not wearing masks. I don’t want to call that person out, or make them feel bad, so I decided to do a little bit of research. I came up with eight main reasons that people don’t wear masks, and I want to show you what they are and give you a hint as to how those things could be countered if you have to explain this to anyone. 

I would also like to remind you that we are all in this together. Please don’t get into a fight about this. Healthy debate is great, but don’t let anyone pull you into a fight. It could be more dangerous than them not wearing that mask. 

*******************************************************************************************

1. It's harder to breathe when I wear a mask. 

If you find it more difficult to breathe while wearing a mask, then you should absolutely be the FIRST one wearing a mask. Take that feeling, of having a hard time getting air... now quadruple it. You might be getting close to the first stages of what asthma feels like. 

When I can't breathe it absolutely terrifies me. I have asthma, and wearing a mask sometimes does make it a little harder to breathe. But I wear the mask because the idea of having a tube down my throat just so I can get air is ten-million times more terrifying. I don't want to die from Covid-19. I really, really don't. 

2. It makes me uncomfortable. 

There are other masks out there. If you can't find one that is comfortable, you can make one. It's fun and interesting to make your own designs and just do what you want with the material. There are masks that are made from spandex that are much more comfortable and slip right up under your glasses so they don't get all foggy. If I can do it, so can you. 

3. It isn't my responsibility to keep other people safe. 

Maybe not, but it isn't only strangers you would be protecting. When you wear a face mask, social distance, and take proper precautions (like washing your hands with hot water and soap for a full 20 seconds), then you are protecting yourself, your children, your parents, your friends, your neighbors, your grocery store clerk. Most of them are people you see all the time. You like them. You want them in your life. Wear a mask for them. Be a hero. Being a hero isn't about only meeting your responsibilities, it is going above and beyond for other people. 

4. It makes me afraid (Or, it’s fearmongering).

If you weren't afraid, I would be worried about you. Seriously, we're all afraid. Every single one of us has some fear. Maybe it isn't Covid-19. Maybe it's a fear of a car accident, or fear of losing someone, or a fear of the dark. All of us have fear. But rising above that fear and doing what is best for other people is a sign of bravery. Like Clara from Doctor Who, perhaps whisper, "Let me be brave." 

When you are afraid of the dark, you bring a flashlight. When you are afraid of a stranger, you carry pepper spray. When you are afraid of a disease... you wear a mask. 

5. It doesn't work. 

Actually, that is where you are wrong. No, I’m not about to get up on a political soap-box and preach at you about who is right or wrong in politics. I don’t like Republicans, but I also don’t really care for Democrats. I guess, maybe, I could be called an Independent, but even they don’t really fit my criteria. So me saying this isn’t about politics. Please hear me when I say that. I don’t care who you vote for... wear a mask when you do it. 

If masks didn't work, why would doctors and nurses have been wearing them for so many years? It doesn't make them look important. It's because they don't want to carry any diseases home to their families. It makes perfect sense. If you were working with asbestos, you would wear protective gear for that too. Doctors know viruses and diseases can spread, so they protect themselves. 

The medical workers and scientists working through the Covid-19 pandemic have been pretty clear about masks in recent weeks. The more we learn, the more we know we need these masks if we want our country to completely re-open, and to STAY open. I did a bunch of research on this, mostly because I got into a debate with someone about it, and found literally dozens of articles and PDFs about the effectiveness of masks during the pandemic, and all (except a few older pieces by someone I wouldn't want treating me for a splinter) said the same thing. Masks help slow the spread. 

In fact, one news report I watched said that in a hair salon, two customers had Covid-19 but didn’t know it. The stylist and other customers didn't get it because those customers were wearing masks! Keeping a mask on protects everyone you come into contact with. It isn’t a perfect solution (there are none) but refusing to wear a mask only keeps the spread of the disease going on and keeps us shut down longer. 

6. It violates my rights. 

Which ones? 

Laid out in the Declaration of Independence it says that 'all men have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.' I will grant you that. And you have the right to express your opinions (I can show you how) but that does NOT mean that you have the right to put other people in danger to exercise those rights! I have the right to LIVE. I want to live. I don't have grandchildren yet. I would like to actually live long enough to meet them. I want to live long enough for my son to get married. I want to live to pursue some of my dreams, to find that happiness for myself. Wearing a mask protects my rights!

Are you talking about your first amendment rights? That is the right to religion, free speech, having a free press, the right to assemble, and the right to petition the government. 

 - If you want to practice your religion, services are being held online by so many churches I couldn’t begin to name them all. (If you are a shut-in like I was, you already know this) There are dozens of churches that post their services on their websites. It’s how I watched when I couldn’t get to church. 

- If you want the right of free speech, make your own mask into a statement!

- If you want the press, it’s everywhere! 

- If you want to assemble, no one is stopping you (unless the area where you live has increasing numbers of Covid-19, in which case they are trying to save your life).

- If you want the right to petition the government, you can... just do it safely. There are more ways than one to petition. Start an online petition. Do a drive-by petition where every family makes statements on their car. If you want to, you can even make your mask a petition. There are more ways to do it than gathering together without simple protection for yourself and the ones you love. 

7. It's a political statement. 

 Actually, it isn't. It's a statement that you think you know more than every doctor and nurse, every scientist in all the countries around the world. Masks have NOTHING to do with politics. But they can... Let me tell you how. 

Get blank black or white reusable face masks and either fabric markers or puff paints. Then you can write whatever you want to say on your mask! Then it can BECOME a political statement! 

8. President Trump doesn't wear one, why should I? 

First, let me reiterate what your mother probably asked you at least once during your formative years (if your mom is anything like mine). “If all your friends jumped off a bridge, would you?” 

All I am saying is use common sense. It's not up for debate. We know wearing masks slows the spread. Don't do something dangerous just to have solidarity with the president. If you want to impress him, find a red reusable face mask and write ‘Make America Great Again’ all over it with white puff paint. 

*******************************************************************************************

So, what reasons do you have for not wearing a mask? Is it something I didn't cover on the list? Is there something you want to know and no one has given you an answer? Do you wear a mask and want to know how to convince others to wear one? Do you wear one, but don’t even know why? 

Ask me. If I don’t know the answer, I will try to find it for you. I am up for healthy debate (but no actual fighting) about the pros and cons of wearing masks. If you have real evidence to support not wearing one, I’d love to see it. Anything that can help me answer questions and teach people. 

Also, if you want access to my research, type in the pros and cons to wearing a face mask to fight Covid-19 in your search bar. Yeah, you might pull up a couple articles from people who are against it, but if you look for MEDICAL research, you will get the same answer every time. Masks slow the spread. There are tons of videos on YouTube about it as well. 

Look, we're all pretty smart people. No one is asking you to change your political beliefs. We only want the chance to live. We don't want to die. We don't want our kids, our parents, our brothers and sisters, or our friends and neighbors to die. We have seen that countries that practice social distancing, mask wearing, and proper precautions are already on the other side of the curve. If we want America to be fully open (and stay that way) we need to do our part. 

BE A HERO. WEAR A MASK!

[hecallsmehischild]

(TLDR) I sewed three patches on this couch two days ago.

Today I watched one of the high school graduation ceremonies taking place across the country. I was surprised at how many bitter and resentful responses I had to swallow down as the video rolled on. I can’t put my finger one hundred percent on why, but I think it had a great deal to do with the emphasis on success and making a huge impact, and the laying of this expectation on the shoulders of those who were graduating.

I graduated from an earlier iteration of this particular high school. What I treasure most were the memories I made with friends there, and the good teachers I encountered. I graduated with a 3.7 GPA and two AP classes (Psych and English) from a private college prep Christian high school. Despite how reserved I tended to be, I somehow won “Most Memorable” in the yearbook, and anyone who took English with me knew how much I loved to write. It was pretty obvious I was going to succeed in my... goals? Eh, we’ll figure out goals later, because anyway I was pretty sure to be a total success wherever I chose to go.

Goals. Be a writer, right? Some degree in Creative Writing, maybe land a job as an editor at a publishing house? Right? That’s what’s supposed to happen? I guess? I went two states away to go to a college that offered better financial aid and had a good Creative Writing program... what, I should have asked, even constitutes a good Creative Writing program?

The next two years watched me slowly flush my 3.7 down the toilet. Granted, it would have helped if I understood that I was contending with Bipolar 2, and not just Depression, but I don’t think that would have changed enough to save me. I had no idea what being an adult looked like. I didn’t understand the "units” I was supposed to accrue at college (they somehow landed in the “abstract” section of my brain). I’m supposed to shape my own course, now? How does that work? But I didn’t even have the language for my confusion and everyone seemed to KNOW these things. And then, out of nowhere, something would happen in a class and my brain would throw up an utter blockade against the idea of ever returning to class A, X, or C ever again because I fell asleep too often/couldn’t face the peer review board/didn’t understand what the hell they were trying to teach me/couldn’t MAKE myself finish that 8 page paper that should have been a cakewalk for someone like me.

I failed. I utterly and completely failed, as my classmates continued on toward their bright, shiny college degrees and plans for Masters.

In a Christian High School, one of the extra expectations laid on you is that you go out and do great things for the Kingdom of God. I am so divided about this statement, because I have to believe it is handed out with good intentions, but I believe it misses something very important about the very Kingdom it wants to represent. By coupling this with graduation and talk about success and “dreaming big” and all those grand speeches, it makes representing God out to be exclusively a grand endeavor, with a whole string of unspoken footnotes attached. Your ministry must be notable, your actions seen and discussed (as favorably as possible), you must emulate Jesus (but only in the aspects of his excellence, not his counter-authoritarianism or radical table-flipping if-you-please), you must be sure to leave your mark on this world so you can hear those oh so coveted words, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” Live a good life, waste no time ever, always strive for above and beyond, don’t be controversial, don’t struggle for too long in life, try to have a good marriage and family and don’t embarrass us too much. Take what I say, here, with a grain of salt, this is the jaded observation of a slightly embittered graduate of a class of ‘07.

You know. My parents have been in ministry almost all my life. Thirty years, and nearly all of those years, their tiny ministry has not been able to pay them full salary. Thirty years of striving and strife, shattering into a thousand pieces over and over and slowly re-knitting each time. Thirty years of trying to walk in Jesus’ footsteps and stumbling every step of the way. Thirty years, and I’d still wager most people don’t know about Improbable People Ministries or A Tour of Roses the way they know names like Joyce Meyer or Billy Graham. (I’m not, here, knocking those people. I’m pulling up a comparison of names to make a point) That they aren’t as well known isn’t what galls me. What galls me is that there’s some unspoken criteria that if they aren’t that universally known, then what’s it worth to God and His Kingdom?

And I turn and I look at me. Two days ago I sewed three patches onto a couch. We ripped it during the move, two years back. I didn’t have any confidence in my sewing skills because, well, I don’t really sew. Every now and then, we’d make the rips worse, and comment about either patching it up or replacing the couch. And I thought, I’ve done so many other things in this house that I didn’t think I could do, maybe I could do this. So I picked out a fabric with birds all over it, to nest among the flowers on the couch. I got two yards, much more than I needed because I had no idea what mistakes I might make. I cut out approximately the right size and shape, plugged in an audiobook, and got to work. Roughly two and a half hours later, I’d done the thing. A professional reupholstery person definitely would have done it better, but I fixed it. I put my touch on it, and now my husband will smile every time he looks at the couch, and it will quit ripping whenever we lean back.

Where am I going with this whole couch bit? Well. I think sometimes God does his work through big names, like Billy Graham or Mother Theresa, and in that way He reaches a lot of people. But I submit that success and visibility and        I M P A C T       is not the only way it works. These days, I go sit and talk with the one neighbor I have energy to visit. I sweep and mop the floor. I push for one more fix to the house, or get adventurous and try to fix it myself. I make fresh meals at home, sometimes with cookies or bread. I hug my husband and chase him around the house (or get chased). I write fanfiction. I make pretty and silly things. I read books, to myself and aloud to others. When I’m struggling, I’m trying more often than not to STOP myself from thrashing to get things done, so that I can pass through the period of depression or downswing with fewer internal lacerations.

Some people will shoot for the stars and land there and do great and grand things. And that is well and good. But the Kingdom of God is not limited to those things. I don’t know what He has for me in the future, but for now I tend to what is at hand; myself, my husband, and this house. And I think that this is work He has given me to do right now. It is a small thing, but it is my thing, and it is not lessened by the fact that it’s for a very limited number of people. And the marvelous thing is that while this work is good for those around me, it also is stretching and teaching me new ways relating to the world. This “small” work is also healing me. And that, in turn, overflows back onto the people around me.

I reiterate: I sewed three patches on this couch. It’s a ridiculously tiny thing in the grand scheme of things. As is assembling a cabinet, or replacing a toilet seat, or learning how to paint a wall. But I took YEARS to come out from under the belief that my decisions were always going to end in disaster, or that I was riding everyone else’s wake because I couldn’t own my life choices. I’m still horribly afraid of screwing up in some areas, but that fear is lessening its grip on my life one area at a time. I think I will be flailing through life my whole life long, and they don’t talk about that in graduation speeches because they want to send you off feeling super confident. But I wanna say, to any fellow flailers who may not feel all that confident, or who had that confidence shattered, you aren’t less.

I know... that I’m speaking as a Christian, here. And that not all of you reading this are. And that’s ok, I’m not here to change you. But whether you are or not, I wanna say that the way I’ve seen God work in my life and my family’s lives is that nothing is wasted. Small things we never would have deemed important became lynchpins down the line. Areas of our lives metaphorically burned to ashes are in continual process of bearing unruly wildflowers. And I believe He sees all those small things in your lives, too.

The other day I sewed three patches on a couch. And healed a tiny bit more. And brought a fraction more peace and joy and laughter to our surroundings. And that is one facet of the Kingdom of God.

[roaminginspiration]

The Empty Space Next to Me

Sorry it took onger than an hour, guys.

chap 1 (x)  / chap 2 (x) /  chap 3 (x) / chap 4 (x) / chap 6 (x) / chap 7 (x) / chap 8 (x) / chap 9 (x) / chap 10 (x)

Chapter 5

“You’re gonna work as a what?” Sam exclaims on their video call with unconcealed bafflement.

Steve rolls his eyes. “She gave me a second chance, Sam. I can’t blow it.”

“But are you sure you got this?” his friend asks, slightly worried.

He shrugs. “Sure. I mean, I did some housework in my apartment after moving to DC.”

Silence follows. “Steve, you assembled a bookcase using the instructions guide. That hardly counts as housework.”

“Well, there are still online tutorials,” Bucky chimes in behind his shoulder.

Sam turns to shoot him a dark glare.

“Thanks Buck for your input,” Wilson answers to him dryly. “It’s always useful when you remind me what the modern world I have grown up in has to offer.”

Then he turns to face the phone again.

“What about the team?” he asks.

Steve nods. “Since Thanos things have been different. I’m not really needed. You take the lead, Sam — I trust you. And if something comes up just give me a call and of course I’ll help.”

His eyes glance over to his best friend. “You guys got this,” he says assertively. “Let’s say I’m on an indefinite break.”

Sam frowns while Bucky nods calmly.

“Is that what we should tell the others?” Sam asks.

“For now.”

Going downstairs, Steve finds Eliza reading through papers at the dining room table. She smiles and takes her glasses off as he sits down.

“I am no longer used to dealing with all that paperwork — Katherine just handles it for me.”

“Nothing bad, I hope?” he asks.

Eliza shakes her head and smiles. “Just the usual billing and other mundane admin papers.”

She puts them away and looks at him closely.

“I didn’t think you would take my advice of fixing things with Katherine so literally,” she comments with a little smirk.

He snorts. “Well, I’m a very literal person.”

She probes him quietly. “No, you’re not,” she says. “So about the job…”

“He shakes his head “I’m not asking for any money. Your hospitality is more than enough.”

Eliza leans back on her chair. “Looks like you’ve thought it all through. But it wouldn’t honest of me to have you do all this housework without paying you.”

“I assure you, that it’s perfectly fine by me. I’m not here for the money.”

“Oh, that I am aware,” Eliza comments knowingly.

“If I may ask,” he begins. “Why are you helping me?”

The woman eyes him attentively. “I want what’s best for Katherine and I feel you sticking around is what she needs. Besides, it’s a pretty quiet place — nothing exciting ever happens around here. I could use some entertainment.”

Katherine appears at the door, outside on the porch. Jake has just driven her home, he kisses her on the cheek — Steve stiffens slightly— and waves at Eliza who nods back.

“Yeah. I definitely look forward to seeing how this all plays out,” the woman whispers.

A cheeky smile comes to her lips then she puts her glasses back on.

_____________________________

The first housework turns out to be more arduous than he had predicted. Handling tools does not come as naturally as yielding the shield or Mjolnir did.

He works all day, has dinner with Katherine and Eliza in the evening, then when he goes to bed, he watches video tutorials and diligently takes notes.

Eliza did not lie: the house was in desperate need of maintenance. Most of the flooring needs fixing and the dull paint and wallpapers need a glow-up, and that is without mentioning the plumbing or the outside. As different a life as it is to avenging, he quickly grows to appreciate this new routine. The physical exhaustion at the end of the day is different but he likes the tranquility of this new lifestyle.

Days go by and things have already begun to feel different. He asked Sam to have his car collected and brought back to the compound. As for clothing, he stopped by a store while running errands for equipment. The style has changed quite noticeably: he has traded the shiny shoes for leather boots and most of his urban outfits have been replaced with more practical ones; mostly T-shirts and jeans.

On a sunny afternoon, he is working on the roof, replacing some loose tiles. Katherine suddenly appears on the yard, Riley following close behind with her wailing tail. Katherine looks up and smiles.

“Everything all right, up there?” she asks.

He takes his eyes off of the tiles and breathes out. “Yeah, all good.”

She is smiling. “So…,” she begins. “If you fall off you can just fly, right?”

He snorts while running a hand over his sweaty hairline. “I don’t do that.”

She pouts. “I know. That’s my point.” She then puts a hand up to her forehead to shield herself from the sun and smiles at him.

She is teasing him and he likes it. It almost feels like old times.

“Well if you need a break, there’s iced tea ready.”

And she disappears under the roof.

He holds the hammer and to hit the nail into the nail. He sinks the nail, and half of the hammer, too.

He sighs. It will take practice and time before he comes to grips with all this.

____________________________

Katherine brings Eliza her daily pills with a glass water, then after an hour of tidying up goes to do some painting. Steve is in there too, covering the walls with a light shade of mauve.

Standing on a stepladder, he stops when he sees her walk in. He begins to come down to leave the room and give her her privacy but she tells him he can stay. He picks up his brush again and resumes painting the wall.

She is mixing colors on her palette but he doesn’t notice the few peeks she casts in his direction. She doesn’t notice how his body has slightly stiffened as he tries to remain focused on his work.

She eventually turns her attention back on what she is doing and dips her small brush into the paint.

“So what do you draw?” she eventually asks from where she is sitting in the middle of the room.

It takes him by surprise. He finally allows his body to pivot so he can look at her. She is sitting on her stool in the middle room, wearing high-waisted loose blue jeans cuffed up above her ankles with a slightly cropped cotton striped top revealing the rim of her pants and a bit of her skin. Her hair is down her shoulders with a natural wavy aspect.

“It depends,” he says, resuming his work. “It can be pretty much anything.”

“Sounds nice,” she says musingly but genuine interest. “Maybe someday you could show me your sketches.”

He pauses and glances at her. “I haven’t drawn in a while.”

Her green eyes gaze at him over the canvas. “Why not?”

He tries to recall the last time he wandered into a sketch. It was on one of the early days during their fugitive period. They had been sitting in a car on an isolated road for hours while waiting for Sam to come back with food and other supplies. Natasha was in the driver’s seat, alert and surveying their surroundings she always did. He was in the seat next to her, doodling on the back of a paper, head down.

“Do you think I should dye my hair?” she asked out of the blue.

“Why? Your hair’s perfect,” he commented matter-of-factly, absorbed in his task.

“I know. But red is kinda eye-catchy. Besides, you’re not the only one allowed to have an in-the-run makeover with that stubble of yours.”

“…Which I intend to let grow into a full beard by the way,” he finishes coolly, eyes fixed on the paper.

“Yeah well, my point is…if I blended in more easily, I could go and run the errands myself. I’d know what to get us. And I’d be faster, too.”

She glanced at the dial clock on her dashboard and sighed. She leaned her head back on the headrest and gazed at him.

“Clearly you’re handling boredom better than I am.”

“You should try sketching,” he said.

“Uh-uh,” she shook her head. “I can’t afford to let my mind wander into drawings. It would mean I would have to let my guard down.”

He looked up at her. “Yeah, I know the feeling,” he said.

“Except your guard’s down now.”

He closed his hand around the pencil and gazed at her.

“Only because I know you’re watching my six.”

She looked numbly at him for a short moment and he smiled at her. He folded the paper and put it in the glove compartment along with the pen.

“When you’re ready to swap the roles around I’ll be there to share some drawing tips.”

Natasha snorted then both resumed surveilling the area.

The old memory floods back accompanied with a feeling of wistfulness it didn’t have then. But although he can only sadly realize Natasha never allowed herself to let her guard down (because she never had the luxury to), he notes Katherine has reached that place where she never has to have her guard up.

“Circumstances didn’t allow it…until I completely fell out of the habit.”

Katherine looks at him musingly. She seems to understand what he kept implicit.

“Louisiana might work its magic on you eventually. Just wait and see,” she says.

All he hears is how she is open to him ticking around for a while. He smiles to himself as he dips the brush into the pot; she mirrors him then both resume their painting.

A couple of hours later filled with many long conversations, the familiar voice of Jake rings out in the other room.

She turns to look at Steve with a nervous wince.

“Does he know?” Steve asks.

“I’d rather stay anonymous as long as possible,” she answers.

He understands she hasn’t told Jake who he is and why he is here.

“Ok,” he whispers. Just then Jake walks into the room.

He walks up to her, wraps his arms around her from behind and plants a kiss into her neck.

“You’ve got paint,” he comments.

“Where?”

Jake dips a finger into some liquid and pokes the tip of her nose with it. They both laugh.

Jake eventually looks up and notices Steve standing on the stepladder across the room. He frowns in surprise.

“Wow,” he comments with a frown. “I didn’t think you’d still be around…”

She gets up and wipes her nose with a piece of cloth.

“Steve is our new handyman,” she says.

Jake eyes him quietly for a couple of seconds then finally musters a response. “Awesome,” he exclaims with a smile and it fades away soon after. “Careful the amount of work doesn’t discourage you.”

Steve climbs down the stepladder.

“I’m not the quitter type,” he answers, watching him with a great deal of self-assurance.

Jake rubs the back of his neck, then forces a laugh. Steve’s look doesn’t waver.

“Kate, do you mind if I join you for dinner?” he asks. He reaches over to hold her hand.

“Tonight?” Katherine arches an eyebrow.

“Yeah. I haven’t seen you all week.”

She pauses, slightly surprised by this unexpected self-invitation.

“I’m sure Eliza won’t mind.”

“Great. See you tonight, then.” He murmurs then pecks her lips.

He waves at Steve. “Good luck.”

Dinner is almost ready. All three of them are gathered in the living room, and Eliza has been noticeably zealous since she found out Jake would be joining.

The engine of his car eventually thrums in the yard and he comes inside.

Eliza sits at the head of the table, Jake next to Katherine. Steve unhurriedly joins to sit across from them. Soon, dinner begins.

“You look kinda familiar. What did you do before coming here?” Jake asks.

Katherine glances over at him with a slightly concerned expression.

“I ran a company,” he answers casually. If leading the Avengers can be seen as such. “Lots of traveling.” Including on space ships and through time.

Jake nods, keeping a poker face to conceal he is impressed. “And you just stopped?”

“Things were rough for a few years but now that it’s come back to normal I thought it was the right time to have some indefinite vacation.”

“Must be a real change, though. I heard it’s very difficult to hang it up and pass the mantle. It’s the kind of life you have in your blood.”

“Yeah, the pace sure is different around here,” he says, and his eyes shift to look at Katherine who is staring back at him. “But I’m liking it.”

His eyes then flicker back to the man sitting next to her, with his arm draped over her backrest.

“And you, what do you do?” he asks.

“I work in a farm 15 miles South. I’m hoping to buy my own house soon. Maybe have a few horses,” he adds, squeezing her shoulders and she laughs.

Steve looks at them quizzically.

“Kate here loves horseback riding,” Jake clarifies. “And she’s great at it. But what isn’t she good at, right?”

“It’s just a hobby I took up,” she explains dismissively with a sheepish grin.

“She goes to the Dawson’s who own a stable from time and time.”

Steve had no idea she liked or did horseback riding. At least, he knows for a fact Natasha didn’t. It is one of Katherine’s new interests.

As different from the woman she once was, he enjoys discovering these new little things about her.

At the end of dinner, Katherine gets up to pick up the dishes. Steve stands up to help but Jake has already beaten him to it. He takes them all to the kitchen and spends the next 15 minutes with her in the kitchen to assist her with the washing and wipe the wet plates she hands over to him. Steve watches them from the dining room, given no choice but to acknowledge the obvious affinity between them.

One yet so different from the one he had with Natasha. While the latter was more implicit, synchronous and unostentatious, theirs was more conspicuous and boisterous.

Two different types of energy, but both as genuine and earnest.

Steve gets up and takes Riley out for a walk. The dog was the first to warm up to him. She sometimes waits outside his bedroom door for a morning jog in the woods.

After a sullen stroll along the lake, he comes back to the house. Jake and Katherine are saying good night at the door, then he steps out on the porch.

Riley runs up to him, walks around him to quickly collect a stroke then runs back to Steve and stands by his side. Jake comes down the stairs toward him.

He shakes his hand.

“Well, it was nice to have a proper chat. I guess I’ll see you around a lot, huh?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Steve replies, shaking back.

Jake smirks. “Great. Me neither.”

And he gets in his car.

The next day a couple checks in for the weekend, people in their late forties on a short getaway from Mississippi. Steve deems it best not to make himself visible to minimize the chances of getting recognized. So far, he has been lucky not to pique the locals’ curiosity, the main reason being the guesthouse is quite isolated and the majority of the people living in the area are more or less old and prefer radio as a medium than the internet or television.

So he spends most of the day working outside. The porch has all his attention at the moment. He has already replaced half of the railings and has moved on to smooth the surface with sandpaper.

It is such a hot day he had to take off his shirt and work in a grey tank top. His arms and chest are glistening with sweat.

Eliza is sitting in the shadow, chatting away.

“I’ve never been to New York. Robert was always scared of flying,” she says with a chuckle. She readjusts the blanket under her. “We should replace this agonizing bench with a swing with a proper, thick mattress.”

He nods. “I’ll look for one next time I go to town.”

Katherine comes through the door, carrying a tray with refreshments. She slowly puts it down the round table, pours Eliza a glass and brings over to the elderly lady. She is staring at Steve the whole time. He turns and smiles at her before getting back to work again. Suddenly hit by a wave of heat, Katherine pours herself a glass and absent-mindedly gulps down a sip from it while taking on sight in front of her.

“Katherine, you might want to pick up your jaw from the floor,” she hears Eliza say.

The words irk her and she stiffens and flips her neck to look at her. The elderly woman is smirking cockily, eyes fixed on Steve working.

Katherine arches an eyebrow. “After you, Eliza.”

And she goes back inside the house.

After the guests’ departure, Eliza calls it a day off and asks to go on a picnic. Katherine prepares sandwiches and wraps the fresh muffins while he packs up all the blankets.

They spend the afternoon at the lake. Riley spends half the time trying to catch frogs; she spends the other half asking for more food. Eventually, she lies down to nap next to Eliza whose back is leaning on the old oak tree.

Katherine and Steve walk down the wooden pier nearby. She sits down, takes her shoes, rolls up her skirt above the knees and gently dips her feet into the cool water. He does the same after pulling his jeans to half his calves.

They both watch the circles their feet make spread indefinitely over the water. She slowly raises her foot out of the water and looks at the drops of water roll down to her toes and eventually fall into the water.

“Thank you,” she says while staring into space. She then turns to look at him. “For not saying anything to Jake.”

He nods with a slightly clenched jaw. “Sure.”

She smiles and resumes looking at the scenery.

“So Jake…he makes you happy?”

She bites her bottom lip, pensive.

“I think so. He’s the first person I met after Eliza. He’s the person who knows me the best.”

He feels his chest tighten as he takes that punch. He smiles sadly to himself; it seems he will always be too late.

“I’m happy for you, Katherine. I really am.”

She doesn't need to know about the part where he is unhappy, because it is secondary.

A bird chirps in the tree behind them.

[buzzdixonwriter]

You Don’t Say

For me, one of the unforeseen benefits of Facebook and other social media is that it gives me a chance to do rough drafts of ideas, assembling my thoughts and getting feedback before committing to more permanent form.

And sometimes, like asteroids colliding in space, two separate ideas / posts slam into one another and either create something new and unexpected, or else shatter themselves and reveal interesting aspects of their nature heretofore hidden from view.

That happened recently with a pair of Facebook posts I made on Dennis Prager and Harlan Ellison.

Let’s get the turd out of our mouth first.

. . .

Dennis Prager is a purveyor of herpetology lubricants admired by many on the right-leaning-nazi side of the spectrum, primarily because he keeps his mouth closed when chewing.  Half of what he says is repackaged self-evident truths of the “Don’t eat the yellow snow” variety, a quarter is opinions that if not startling original are at least not genuinely harmful, and the remain quarter is egregious bullshit for which he deserves a public pants down spanking.

Hmm, what?  Oh, yes; purely metaphorically, of course.

I long since wrote off Prager as a. utterer of inanities, but recently his turdmongering was forced on my attention by someone who posted a link to Prager’s argument that the “left” (i.e., basically anybody who thinks Auschwitz was a Bad Idea) is inflicting harm on both the American body politic and the universe at large by denying people like Prager the right to drop the N-bomb whenever they feel like it.

As some of you no doubt already knew, Prager is a member of what polite bigots used to refer to as “those of the Hebrew persuasion”.

That a person from an ethnicity that historically suffered hatred so vicious and specifically targeted that a special word had to be created for it (“anti-Semitism” because the original word -- “Jew-hatred” -- was too damned ugly even for bigots to use) now has his knickers in a twist because he’s “not allowed” to use the only other word of equal or greater impact -- also coined specifically by oppressors for expressing unrestrained hate and contempt against those oppressed -- is so rich in irony that all I can do is swipe a phrase from Jim Wright over at Stonekettle Station and say Dennis Prager has “all the self-awareness of a dog licking its own asshole in the middle of the street”.

First off, he’s lying: Neither the “left” nor American law prevents him from dropping the N-bomb whenever he feels like it and I invite him to go down to the intersection of Normandie and Florence in South Central and drop it at the top of his lungs for as long as he is able and please make sure to take plenty of video recorders along because I really wanna see what happens next.

Second, why the fuck would you want to say that? Seriously, other than in an evidentiary context (a cop giving testimony in court, a journalist reporting what some bigoted politician says, etc.), who today gains anything from repeating the word other than inflicting unjustified distress on people who have done nothing to deserve it?

(This is the point where a bunch of alt-right trolls are gonna jump up and say “but whatabout all the times when black people say it?” and to those trolls I’m gonna say STFU & STFD; if you can’t grasp the difference in context then you’re too damned stupid to be allowed out in public except at the end of a leash and with a ball gag in your mouth.)

It’s a word specifically created and designed to be used to brutally oppress people who did nothing to deserve that brutal oppression.  Why would anybody outside that group use it except to participate in that brutal oppression?

. . .

Least there sit any in the cheap seats who presume the above rant was targeted at Dennis Prager simply because he was Jewish, guess again, ya yutzes.

Few writers enjoyed as brilliant and as incendiary a career as Harlan Ellison, and I count myself privileged to have been one of his friends.

Ellison, as many of you know, also was Jewish, a damned tough little bastard, singled out for hatred and abuse as the only Jewish child in his backwater Ohio school, growing up with nerves & balls of chromium, a bona fide Army Ranger, and a writer so honest and fearless that when he wrote about juvenile delinquency in the 1950s he did so by infiltrating and joining a street gang to get first hand experience and insight on the kids who ran in that crowd (and as icing on the cake, James Caan played him in the TV version!).

Top that, Dennis.

Harlan’s electric eclectic career features many highpoints, but the one I want to focus on is his brief 4-year run as TV critic for the legendary Los Angeles Free Press (a.k.a. The Freep) from 1968 to 1972.  

What’s interesting is that Harlan did this while at the same time at the height of his demand as a TV writer.

You got any idea how hard it is to make a living while you’re gnawing on the hand that feeds you?

Harlan may have been crazy, but damn it, he was honest.

Back to the issue at hand.

Recently I’ve been re-reading his TV criticism columns, collected in two volumes, The Glass Teat and The Other Glass Teat.

The depressing thing is that all the evil we see today was in place back in those days, and the same smug pious frauds and their dimbulb marks kept congratulating themselves how wonderful they were as things continued to spiral out of control.

Oh, we've had good moments when we made changes that improved the lot of people who'd previously been marginalized, but the core cancer is still there. Harlan was no cock-eyed sentimentalist -- he was often filled with anger and could vent it spectacularly at deserving targets -- but he did have hope that somehow we could keep nudging the ball further towards the goal lines.

The columns make fascinating reading; they are nowhere near as dated as one might suspect. Sometimes they offer diamond-like brilliant dissections of a particular instant in the cultural gestalt, other times they examine the unseen (well, to most audiences, that is) tides of Hollywood that shape our media, sometimes he turns his attention to bear on seemingly insignificant and forgotten local programming only to show with McLuhan-esque clarity how that tiny piece of seemingly insignificant fluff is symptomatic of a much wider, much vaster, and far more serious problem.

One entry caught my eye in particular, the March 7, 1969 column on a failed ABC pilot called Those Were The Days.

Harlan sat in the studio audience watching the taping of that pilot, and his column praised the courage and insight of producers Norman Lear and Bud Yorkin, the brilliant performances of Carroll O’Connor and Jean Stapleton, and the raw honesty of the pilot’s sharp comedy and writing.

Those of you not in the cheap seats have already realized this was the second failed pilot for what would eventually become All In The Family over at CBS (there was an even earlier original pilot called Justice For All back when Archie and Edith’s last name was Justice, not Bunker.)

I remember the hoopla when All In The Family finally aired in January of 1971 as a mid-season replacement.

You might count Archie Bunker as the white Dolemite insofar as the comedy sprang from the shock of all the crude and vulgar things he said.

Lear and Yorkin were mocking that mindset, belittling bigotry, exposing the Babbittry of millions of “good” Americans who lacked either the self-awareness or the courage to take a long introspective look at themselves and realize how badly they were failing as citizens of this country.

Audiences weren’t supposed to like Archie Bunker.

And that’s where Lear and Yorkin made their fatal mistake.

No, audiences didn’t like Archie.

They loved him.

. . .

Asteroids collide, and sometimes they form new planets, and sometimes they shatter and expose what lies beneath.

Prager’s modern day Babbittry crashed into Harlan’s half-century old anti-Babbittry, and from the explosion a stark truth revealed itself.

It’s almost impossible to make an outlaw a villain in popular media.

No matter how many banks they rob, stages they hold up, sheriffs they shoot, the mere fact that somebody wrote a song / dime novel / movie about ‘em makes them into heroes.

Demi-gods.

People to be admired.

Emulated.

Professional wrestling knows this.

You can never be so big a heel that you won’t have a legion of followers.

And you can turn a heel into a baby face in the blink of an eye and none of the fans will remember the despicable acts the wrassler did just last week.

You put an Archie Bunker on TV, you do not get millions of people to recognize themselves in his hateful / hurtful behavior and change their ways.

Oh, hell no; you get millions of people to applaud him for saying and doing what they say and do in private.

And now that it’s all big and bold and brassy on TV, why it becomes even easier to say it in the privacy of your own home, then over the fence with the neighbors, then in the bar down the street, then on the street itself, and then against people who have done you no harm, who have committed no sin other than the heinous crime of not being exactly like you.

I remember watching and liking All In The Family when it first came on because I, like millions of other Americans, got the joke:  Archie was no hero.

But it wasn’t long before the voices cheering Archie began to drown out the voices laughing at him.

Lear and Yorkin tried undoing their damage with Maude and The Jeffersons and Good Times and other spinoff shows, but the bigot was out of the bottle.

Archie Bunker, even though written in a way to ridicule his use of bigotry and stereotypes, became a champion and defender of those who clung to said bigotry and stereotypes.

So tell me again why you want to drop that N-bomb, Dennis.

Explain to me -- even while you talk out of both sides of your mouth and claim even if everybody can use they word maybe they shouldn’t use the word -- how that does anything to help anybody…

…other than bigots and hate mongers.

Your argument is as circular as the thumb and forefinger gesture white supremacists use to signal one another, a gesture deliberately chosen because it lets them transgress openly by lying about the truth meaning of their gesture.

And Harlan, you were right about Those Were The Days as it began evolving into All In The Family.  Absolutely brilliant -- but absolutely deadly.

Not airing All In The Family wouldn’t have eliminated racial / ethnic / sexual prejudice in the United States…

…but it would have denied those ideas a voice.

The narcissist always proclaims, “I don’t care what they say about me so long as they spell my name right.”

Well, that’s what we got with Archie Bunker.

None of the bigots cared if we made fun of their ideas…

…just so long as they got their ideas out there.

Because ideas are made legitimate by their presence.

Now clearly, this is a bade that cuts both ways.

Ideas once unthinkable -- liberty and justice for all in the form of racial and gender equality, f’r instance -- need to be championed in public.

But we need to shout down and stamp out the bad ideas.

The United States took their foot off the neck of the defeated white racists after the end of the Civil War, and as a result jim crow came roaring back, and things did not change for millions of Americans for another entire century.

We allowed bigots and hate mongers and slavers to be whitewashed and glorified and forgiven for their crimes against humanity…

…and in the process we allowed them to continue victimizing African-Americans more and more.

Every song about the Ol’ South, every novel glorifying plantation life, every movie showing happy field hands, every statue commemorating murderous traitors as men of honor and principle, every single iteration of that idea made millions of people’s suffering not just possible but inevitable.

. . .

Now this is the point where the alt-right trolls are gonna jump up and ask “did you ever drop the N-word?”

Not in casual conversation, no.

I was born and raised in the South (Appalachia, mostly); my father’s side of the family were almost all Southerners.

Almost all.

My paternal grandmother was born and raised in New Jersey and met my grandfather when both served in the U.S. Army medical corps in WWI.  When my grandfather died in his 40s, my grandmother originally moved back to New Jersey, but her three children (dad and two aunts) felt heartbroken at having to leave their Southern cousins and friends behind so even though she carried no particular love for the South, my grandmother moved her family back and stayed there for the most of her life (she and one of my aunts moved out to California to be near us, but that’s another story for another post).

One thing my grandmother absolutely refused to tolerate was use of the N-bomb anywhere near her, especially under her roof or in the homes of her children.

This included both the -er and -ra variants, because Southern racists who didn’t want to appear as uncultured and as boorish and as bigoted as their backwoods cousins preferred the second pronunciation because they could claim they were actually speaking respectfully about “colored people”.

So I grew up in the rare white Southern home where the N-bomb merely wasn’t used, it was actually denounced as wrong.

Now, don’t go thinking my grandmother was some great paragon of virtue; she wasn’t (she was hell on wheels, in fact, but that’s another story for another post).

But she did recognize there was something wrong with the use of the N-bomb, and whether she demanded her children never use it in any form to keep them from appearing to be boorish, bigoted louts, or whether she just thought it was simple good manners of the golden rule variety not to use it, I dunno.

But I do know we never used it, and when my parents heard our neighbors or schoolmates use it, we were reminded in no uncertain terms that we were never to use it.

But that doesn’t mean I haven’t used it.

A couple of decades ago I wrote a screenplay based on the life of Robert Smalls, in particular his incredible escape from Civil War Charleston by hijacking a Confederate gunboat and sailing it right past Ft. Sumter to join the Union fleet, bringing his wife and several other escaping African-Americans with him.

As a skilled harbor pilot, Smalls enjoyed certain privileges other enslaved African-Americans didn’t.

For example, he was allowed to go about the streets of Charleston unescorted…

…provided he wore a big diamond shaped brass tag around his neck.

Like a dog.

The tag indicated to slave catcher patrols that he was one of the “good” ones, that he could be trusted because he was helping his masters in their struggle against the Union by guiding blockade runners into the safety of Charleston harbor.

But knowing Southerners the way I do, and knowing the kind of low class good ol’ boy types they recruited for such jobs, I couldn’t imagine the slave catcher patrols being particularly courteous to him, even when they knew they had to let him pass because clearly he had the protection of some high positioned muckamuck.  

And I could easily imagine them flinging the N-bomb at him with great glee, taunting him, daring him to act “uppity” so they could beat the crap out of him and teach him some manners and remind him of his place.

So I used the word in their dialog in my script.

Would I use that word today?

Probably not.

It’s not that crucial to the story, and if the viewer doesn’t grasp the concept that these are bigoted bully scum from their actions and attitude, then I’ve failed my job as a writer.

Have I ever quoted people who dropped the N-bomb?

Yeah, I have, in the past.

I’ve quoted Richard Pryor and Blazing Saddles and Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction.

I would excuse it then as the aforementioned evidentiary context but ya know what?  I don’t quote those lines anymore.

I still think Pryor is hilarious and will recommend his routines to anyone I think might be interested, but he as a member of the African-American community at large (because like any other ethnic group, African-Americans have numerous sub-cultures and sub-communities among them), he could say things in a way neither I nor any other white person could say them.

(And, yeah, there’s a big debate going on to this very day among African-Americans about the appropriateness of that word and you know what?  Whatever decision African-Americans reach for themselves is their business and should not involve any input whatsoever from we white folk; we not only can’t use the word, we can’t even comment on how they choose to use it.  Period.  Full stop.)

Blazing Saddles when it came out used the N-bomb to be deliberately transgressive, to make a sympathetic point re how unfairly African-Americans were treated.

All well and good.

But nine years earlier there had been a movie called A Patch Of Blue and while it wasn’t a raucous comedy like Blazing Saddles it tried making a point about race relations in America and it was a really. Really good movie and it made some important points but today is virtually unwatchable not because of any flaws in it but because the times have changed.

Ditto Blazing Saddles.

We don’t need to approach the problem that way any more.

Quentin Tarantino?  I really like what he does as a director and a screenwriter but his use of the N-bomb to show us how transgressive his characters are is really shallow.  I have a strong feeling his movies are going to be considered embarrassingly passé’ in a generation or two, much the same way as benign-yet-stereotypical characters in 1940s movies render many of them passé’ today.  

Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction lose nothing by changing the N-word to something else.  

Maybe an argument could be made for its use in Django Unchained or The Hateful 8 but even there I think substituting another word wouldn’t significantly change the tenor or tone of either movie.

So I stop quoting those lines from Tarantino’s films, at least not fully.

I can admire his skill / talent / craft without signing off on his problematic elements.

Let me offer an analogy: If a creator can get the same dramatic effect by pretending to shoot somebody but not actually blasting them with a gun, then they can get the same dramatic effect by using something evocative of the N-bomb without actually dropping it.

(By the way, for those who may be curious, my mother was from Naples and a bona fide card carrying member of Mussolini’s Fascist Youth Brigade, but that’s another story for another post.)

. . .

We are plunging into a new cultural conflict -- and while I think there will be violence, I don’t see it being violence on the scale or level of political organization as the Civil War -- and we can only win by refusing to let the bigots and the hate mongers spew their bullshit in the marketplace of ideas.

There is no compromise with an oppressor.

Stand up to it every time you encounter it.

Make it unthinkable, never acceptable. 

  © Buzz Dixon

[otterandterrierwrites]

{Hungry hearts} IX. Star fritters (pt. 2)

A/N: The promised follow-up to this! I don’t want to sell myself short here but I hope the Drama feels right and not anticlimatic. My brain was like “too mushy for this time period, add angst!!” and I couldn’t argue against that. BUT there is a lot of cooking and talking about personal stuff, too!

A couple of days went by before Leia got back to him about their cooking plans, so much so that Han was beginning to think she had either forgotten or was acting like it.

‘Some of us are busy leading a revolution, you know,’ she told him wryly, arms akimbo as she watched him push a repulsor cart loaded with packs of membrill cheese into the mess hall’s kitchen. He’d kept those hidden from the person in charge of overseeing the supplies brought from Espirion as they were unloaded, since the membrill hadn’t been requested and he’d yet have to confirm with Leia that they were safe, edible goods. Afterwards, he had figured he would hold on to them for a little longer, until their off-the-books meeting (or else, until Leia asked).

‘I think you were just afraid your cookin’ skills will never live up to mine,’ Han drawled, parking the cart and sitting on a counter.

‘First off, get your butt off the place we prepare food on,’ Leia said, raising an eyebrow at him. ‘Second, does everything have to be a competition with you?’

‘Not everything, but—’

‘Good, because my fritters will knock everything you’ve ever made out of the park.’

‘Ha! Alright, let’s see it.’

Leia pointed at several piles of pale squares separated by layers of flimsi that she’d laid on the table.

‘We’re actually going to use the pre-made puff pastry dough that we use for pies because I… um, I actually don’t know how to make puff pastry. I remember the ingredients, but not the exact quantities. And you also need to do some tricky folding with butter, and you have to let it rest,’ she explained.

Puff pastry pies were a rare treat in rebel bases. Synthefood and dehydrated rations were the norm: easier to obtain, store and prepare than natural foodstuffs, and often lacking in terms of flavour unless you got creative with them—which many of the Alliance’s untrained cooks were not.

‘I was under the impression we’d be doin’ the whole thing?’ Han quipped. ‘You know that takes some of the credit off your cookin’ skills, Your Worship, don’t you?’

‘Oh, shut up and come here.’ She re-opened the pack of membrill Han had brought into her office and grabbed a knife. He noticed half of the square was missing and felt oddly pleased at knowing she’d at least enjoyed some herself. ‘First we need to cut this up into small squares, but not too small. Let’s just do this one to start with, all right?’

Once that was ready, she grabbed one of the squares of dough and laid it in front of her.

‘Now we take a piece of membrill, put it in the middle. We get some water in there,’ she said, dipping her index finger in a glass she’d set on the side and drawing a circle around the membrill square before grabbing another piece of dough. ‘We cover it like this, with the corners matching.’

She wetted the area over the covered sweet again, pressing lightly on the dough to seal it, and picked up the confection.

‘And now we just pinch under it like this and fold the corners out a little. See?’ Leia held it out for Han, who thought it looked more like a flower than a star.

‘Okay, I think I got it,’ Han said, nodding and rolling up his sleeves. He stood next to Leia and she watched as he repeated what he’d seen her do.

‘That looks good. Pinch it a little more—that’s right.’ She gave him a satisfied grin and then looked away, lost in thought for a moment. ‘I know I said we were just going to make a couple of them but—since there’s a lot of membrill and there’s a good stock of frozen dough… What if we made enough fritters for everyone, for breakfast tomorrow? I think the cooks will appreciate it. That is, if you want to. We’d have to be here a while, and we’d be doing a good deed, which I know you hate...’

‘Cute,’ Han said, although part of him appreciated her quick thinking in teasing him—when she wasn’t trying to hurt him. ‘Fine, let’s do this.’

He began to hand her over the packs of membrill, which Leia methodically unwrapped and set side by side on the counter—actually a long plank of durasteel set over trestle legs, identical to the ones spread out in dozens of rows in the hall outside. When the cart was empty, he grabbed a knife and they worked side by side cutting smaller squares of membrill.

‘So how come you know how to do this, Princess?’ Han asked as they worked. ‘Don’t imagine you were ever required to make dessert back home—or was it part of your royal training?’

He knew he was treading dangerous ground here: Leia could be as cagey about her past as he was. But sometimes, she’d open up a little, offer some kernels of her life before the day they’d met. In return, Han often found himself reciprocating—not with stuff that offered much about the less savory aspects of his life, though.

It wasn’t so much that he needed to know about her past. Nobody could understand better than Han that some things were best left behind, that his present self was the only thing he cared to show to the world. He was fine just getting to know this Leia, the one he shot Imps next to. He asked questions because then she’d talk to him about something other than her rebellion. And yes, maybe he’d learn something about her in the process.

Leia shrugged. ‘They were my favorites and I wanted to know how they were made, so one day when I was about six or seven, I snuck into the palace’s kitchens and asked one of the cooks to teach me. Memily was afraid she’d get in trouble if she put the crown princess to cook, so she told me we had to ask for my mother’s permission. I think I didn’t take that suggestion very kindly,’ she said, scrunching up her nose in embarrassment.

‘What did you do?’ Han asked, his knife still as he looked at Leia with interest.

‘Oh, nothing too bad, but… yeah, I think I said that I was the princess and she had to do as I said. I loved Memily, though. She just talked to me and convinced me to go to my mom and ask. She was very entertained by the idea, my mom,’ Leia said with a small, wistful smile. ‘She came down with us so that Memily could teach her, too. I was allowed to hang around the kitchens afterwards, if I wanted, as long as I behaved and didn’t get in anyone’s way.’

Han grinned, thinking of a tiny girl with pigtail braids trying to order around a bunch of poor cooks and learning how to make pastries next to her mother (whom he pictured in full queenly regalia).

‘So did you pick any other cookin’ skills from your stint as kitchen assistant?’

‘No,’ Leia said, laughing. ‘I’d moved on to something else a few weeks later. I did attempt to cook when I started going to Coruscant as my dad’s apprentice but—let’s say he claimed to have allergies I know he didn’t have, and I gave up after that.’

‘That bad, huh?’

‘Yeah… And I knew it was almost inedible, I just refused to give up.’

That didn’t surprise Han.

‘I think we’re done here,’ he said, looking down at all the cut-up membrill.

‘Okay, let’s clear up some space here—and here we go,’ Leia told him, moving a pile of dough squares next to him and setting the glass of water between the two of them.

They began to assemble the pastries, working in silence for a while.

‘Maybe I should take a commission here in the kitchen, teach ‘em what “flavor” means, whaddaya think?’

Leia chuckled softly but didn’t look up. He could see her biting her lip slightly and wondered what she was thinking about. Had he said something wrong?

‘Maybe you should,’ she said casually. ‘So when did you learn so much about cooking?’

‘Long time ago,’ Han said. ‘Picked up some from Chewie an’ his family.’

‘Oh.’

He could do this. He could give her something.

‘But mostly, I learned from Dewlanna,’ Han told her. It was less painful now, talking about her. ‘She was a Wookiee, too, an’ a great cook. She lived in the ship I grew up in, ya know. Looked out for me.’

‘Sounds like she was really special,’ Leia commented, touching his arm briefly.

‘Yeah.’

Leia didn’t ask what had happened with her, and Han was grateful for it. She got it. She understood this implicit agreement between them of not pushing, of accepting what was being given—at least as far as sharing personal information went.

‘She made a mean wastril bread,’ he said, smiling fondly at the memory, ‘an’ whenever I came in and watch her cook, she’d put me to do somethin’, said everyone should know how to feed themselves.’

‘Smart,’ Leia said with a dry chuckle. ‘My strategy is to just stick around people who can feed me.’

‘Don’t worry, sweetheart, as long as I’m here I won’t let you starve,’ Han said, without thinking much about his words. He expected to hear her laugh or make a comment, but Leia only said ‘Right,’ and kept working in silence.

After some time, she asked, ‘Would you start frying the ones we have while I finish the rest? You know how to fry, right?’

‘Sure, yeah. Do you?’

‘I... have fried,’ Leia said, looking away, her mouth twitching.

‘Oh no. What happened?’

‘A lot of splattering, and food that was still uncooked inside.’

Han shook his head.

‘Rich people.’

‘Hey!’

He winked at her and walked to the lined-up freezer units. ‘Fat, right?’

At Leia’s confirmation, he picked up a pack, took it to a deep pan and began his task. He fried pastry after pastry until they were golden brown, and placed them on trays lined with disposable towels.

In between batches, when the first ones he’d done had cooled off, Han said, ‘Alright, let’s try this.’

Leia looked up and watched him.

‘I hope you’ll like it.’

Han picked up a second fritter and held it out for her. ‘You too, Princess. Go on, you’ve earned it.’

The star fritter was as crispy as it looked, and Leia had been right: the sweetness of its heart was balanced out with the crust.

‘Well?’ Leia asked eagerly; he saw now that she had still not taken a bite out of her fritter.

‘Hats off, Your Royalness,’ he told her, raising his half-eaten pastry to her in salute. ‘They’re really good.’

‘Told you,’ Leia said, but she grinned before she started to eat. There it was, the nostalgic look again, as she savored her star fritter slowly, closing her eyes for a moment before staring off into the distant past of a Leia who wasn’t allowed to cook and didn’t need to, who was loved by parents that spent time with her, who thought that, no matter what, she’d always have her home to come back to, a plate of star fritters waiting for her.

Han was physically attracted to her, of course, but he was also drawn to the way they worked together, her quick wit, the fact that she didn’t back down from anything. Hells, even her shooting turned him on. And yet it wasn’t just that. He felt something for her he’d sworn he’d never feel again; mushy, idiotic feelings that he had no idea where they were coming from. He wanted to get her on his ship and fly her away from everything, have her making him try food from every corner of the galaxy while she watched closely for his reaction.

No, fuck this. I just want to sleep with her! he thought viciously.

‘Think we’ve done enough work today, Princess. When do we get to play?’ he asked, leaning in close, ignoring how lame his words sounded to his own ears as he tried to push those pathetic thoughts away.

Unsurprisingly so, Leia took a step back, her face darkening with confusion.

‘We still have some work left to do, Captain,’ she said firmly, then pointed at the still boiling pan. ‘That fat is going to overheat.’

‘Didn’t I do enough?’ Han asked, his voice rising in exasperation. He was met with a scowl.

‘Then go! I still have work to do here!’

This wasn’t what he wanted. How had they even gotten there?! But that was the truth, wasn’t it? She had work to do and it didn’t matter if he stayed or left. It never had. She “appreciated it” if he stayed, but only as long as he behaved and didn’t get in her way.

He turned on his heel and started walking away, waiting for her to call him back, to say that she wanted him to stay.

She never did, so he walked faster, because it was easier than staying and keep burning himself trying to do something he wasn’t meant to do.

[ifeveristoday]

Amazon releases the Boom! Buffy a day earlier than its published date - I thought it was just a fluke with the first digital copy, but I preordered the second issue and it happened again.

Buckle down internets, here are some mildly quick reactions to issue 2 of the Boom! reboot

okay, so the preview panels are fun to guess about and theorize but wow, dialogue really puts everything in context and all of the supposed drama that I was thinking/okay reading other people’s thoughts re: what was going to happen -- I was wrong about pretty much everything except for Buffy disliking Joyce’s boyfriend. Of a year. 

who is probably most likely not evil or going to die in a horrible fashion ...right?

Nice meeting you Eric.

The pacing of this issue is just as quick as the first one - I feel because there are so many characters and such a rich mythology to draw from, that there’s going to be a long run of introducing all of them into the Boom!verse before there is a long sustained arc - that we meet 2-3 new characters each issue and then get a corner piece of the overall puzzle.

This is both good and bad - because it can be overwhelming to a new reader who may not have seen the show and is experiencing Buffy for the very first time in comic form, but for a long time fan like myself - these little introductory drips make me really impatient for what comes next. I just want to collect all the Scoobies and get to the story!

The new additions - Eric and Rose don’t strike me as anything more than love interests currently and are appropriately supportive of Joyce and Willow. 

They’re more like cameos but I hope they will get fleshed out in future issues.

Onto canon characters-

Cordelia, Cordelia, Cordelia. In full Queen C/Tracey Flick mode. The twist is that there is no animosity between her and Willow, and Cordelia is that rare popular person who’s actually nice to everyone which is so not how popular media portrays high school to be. I know! Willow envies Cordelia but it’s not due to any messy romance issues, it’s because she thinks Cordelia is so much nicer, smarter and more beautiful. Rose sweetly reminds her that she is all that too.

So for everyone who was worried that just because Willow wears crop tops now she isn’t the awkward insecure muppet skinning sweetheart from the show --- she still is.

Cordelia’s confidence and charisma have been amped to 11 in the Boom!verse - she’s running for class president and already has been Ms. Sunnydale 2017 and 2018. In a conversation with Spike, she also reveals that she doesn’t care what other people think about her.

It’s interesting in this introduction of Cordelia- she’s the most overtly confident, with it character so far - Buffy has that whole secret identity she’s poorly keeping and burgeoning slayer powers, which leads to prickly independence and sassing of authority figures and also a remarkable lack of knowing how to read a room, Willow has self-doubt about her own worth, and Xander -- well those blue boxes were his blogs and feelings of alienation the entire time. They’re three separate characters that are drifting alone in the same direction, whereas Cordelia has the appearance of popularity, beauty, and connecting to others. So ...pretty parallel to the show actually.

Robin - similar to Cordelia in the confidence department - he’s also super smooth - the closing distance between him and Buffy in each descending panel was a nice touch. Buffy, who is already on edge for inadvertently showing off her slayer speed to the track coach, mistakenly thinks Robin is flirting with her - which he neatly turns around into a compliment and a flirt. It was cute, but I want to know why he fell off a roof.

But back to that other meet cute - Cordelia spots a few of her campaign balloons floating around Sunnydale woods and because she’s environmentally minded, runs to catch them.

Spike is lurking in the woods. As you do.

This dialogue:

What’s a nice British guy like you lurking around high school campuses for?

Luring girls like you into the woods.

What big eyes you have, Grandmother.

Cordelia does not interrogate Spike further about why he’s hanging out in the woods and even offers him a ride -- but this is brushed off due to Cordelia’s belief that paranoia is pointless - “..what’s the point in assuming everyone is out to getcha?”

Oh you sweet summer child.

They’re all so young, Gandalf. *sniff

And Spike knows her name, so that’s going to end up real well.

I thought it was both believable and telling that Xander’s blog box wrote “Girls don’t even have to try to be likable. A friendly smile, and they have anyone wrapped around their finger.”

Spoken like a boy who doesn’t know anything about girls. But he’s in pain and we’ve seen what happens when people are in pain and don’t reach out - as quickly as the Scooby Gang assembled in the first issue, they are distant from each other in this issue as other characters are introduced. Xander is constantly shown as an outsider looking wistfully at Willow/Rose and Cordelia. And the chat group with Buffy/Willow, he really feels left out. I honestly hope they don’t go down the path Jonathan did in Earshot with Xander’s characterization, but that last ominous blog box - When am I gonna finally get what I want? <shades of school shooter I’m just saying there’s media precedence>

And finally, to Anya and Drusilla - they’re the keepers of the Spooky and hint at an arc - what brought them to Sunnydale in the first place. Drusilla knows Anya is a demon and can’t be tortured or killed, and Anya tricks Drusilla with a psychology trick, which -- I’m not sure I like, but I will admit I laughed at Anya’s smug expression in the last panel. Bet you feel real dumb right now -- indeed. I’m going to calm down on the theorizing of future previews because they are misleading without dialogue. 

So future issue: JENNY CALENDAR (Year Book Club will now be meeting in Ms. Calendar’s classroom in Room 106), the school play is Phantom of the Opera (could be worse. could be Cats.) and there’s a sinkhole in the Science Wing.

And there’s a gossip girl style bulletin at the beginning of the issue:

Ok, guys, NEW SCHOOL YEAR UPDATE! There’s a new student named Buffy and she seems SUPER cool, but also, like, super introverted? Btw I am GREAT at talking to introverts, but she spends all her time in the library with the hot dad librarian. Weird. Also, I hear she walks around a lot at night STABBING PEOPLE. Who does that? Maybe she just needs a new friend to show her that stabbing is bad!

Immediate headcanon: this is Harmony writing these updates. Also Xander’s blog has only three followers. 

Final verdict - they’re still hammering out characterizations and the tone of the story, but I dislike that the Scooby Gang has basically evaporated in the second issue and that the cameos of the love interests don’t really add anything to the story except to announce their existence. Eric is totally not going to bite it at any time.

Buffy basically only hangs out in the library and hasn’t attempted to make any other friends besides Xander and Willow, there is no Dawn (and no Mr. Gordo, this is outrageous), Cordelia’s charm offensive makes me think she’s going to reveal herself as a Mayor Wilkins type later on but until then, shine on you crazy diamond. Giles is there to be annoyed at Buffy and I find myself in that odd position of being both on their sides but mostly like Giles, get your feet off the table, Buffy. I was hoping to find out more about when Buffy started training with Giles - they’re definitely not close yet, still very much in the I’m just doing this because I have to and why don’t you take your sacred calling more seriously, you frivolous American teenage girl phase. But yeah, she’s bratty to both Joyce and Giles.

Willow and Rose were there to be cute, and that’s appreciated but again - Rose didn’t really bring anything meaningful to the storyline.

Also yeah there’s a giant bat monster that kills vampires loose in Sunnydale.

Must be Tuesday.

[dxmedstudent]

Do the even ones greater than 50!

That’s quite a few, but fortunately I need a little relaxation right now.

52. Do you ever want to get married?On the whole, yes. I don’t believe it should be religiously necessary, and I respect people who object to the history associated with marriage, or who think it’s just a piece of paper. It sounds like a financial pain in the butt, and it’s a risky move, logically speaking. But to me, it represents a conversation between two people that their life together is no longer provisional; a confirmation that they want to spend their lives together and work together as a team. I’m a realist; many marriages end in divorce, and I have as good a chance as anyone else of falling victim to those statistics. And it’s OK if things don’t work out; life can be complicated. But I also believe that when you meet the right person, there’s something special about agreeing to take that leap of faith together, and trying your best. Knowing someone feels that way about you must be an irreplaceable feeling.

54. Have you ever been cheated on? No, and I hope not to be.

56. Are you an introvert or an extrovert? Introvert who’s had to pick up enough extrovert skills due to work and adulting. But really, I revert to introverted given half a chance.

58. What talent do you wish you’d been born with?Time travel or teleportation. Maybe flying. Do healing powers count as a talent? Lol. Realistically though, I guess I wouldn’t change who I was. Not because I’m perfect (far from it); there are lots of skills I’d love to have the time to develop. But I think it’s better to focus on what you can do now, rather than what you would have wished to have been.

60. Do you believe in love at first sight? No. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in attraction at first sight; I’m mortal, and very occasionally when I meet someone something inside goes “!!!”, but it’s usually a multifactorial thing, and it rarely happens on my first interaction with someone. But, that’s not the same as knowing someone intimately and loving them for who they are; this is not something that can happen instantly or be rushed. Most of my crushes developed over time. Maybe it doesn’t help that I am faceblind, which usually complicates things. This can make online dating harder; a picture on its own means little to me;someone can be absolutely gorgeous like a painting, but leave me cold or be completely forgettable. Talking is therefore a very important part of the process for me; you gain a much better idea of how well you click.

62. Have you ever dyed your hair? Yep, every few months since my mid 20s. I was gifted with greying hair since my late teens, and my ascension to silver-hair has rapidly gained pace since my mid 20s. My hair is greyest at the temples, which means that my usual hairstyle hides it pretty effectively. I’m quite a low maintenance person when it comes to my hair; I really just want to brush it, tie it in a bun and get on with my life. So I dye it as close to what is left of my natural hair colour as possible. I wish I had the time and energy to do something more dramatic with my hair, but medicine isn’t the easiest job to do wacky hair things. One day, I’ll let myself go natural with my hair, but given that most of my seniors in their 40s or 50s are less grey than me, I’m not quite ready to embrace the look, yet.

64. Would you go against your moral code for money?I hope not. I don’t care about money enough to compromise the things I believe in, but I’m also fortunate that I’m not impoverished. I know that’d be a much more difficult question to answer if it came from a position of severe financial need. It’s easy to say you wouldn’t do something for money when you are comfortable.

66. Who are you jealous of?I don’t believe in indulging feelings of jealousy (or envy, since the technical term jealousy doesn’t seem to fit here?), but in working through any stigmatised, negative emotions you feel. I’m not someone who gets particularly insecure about seeing other people’s lives on facebook or instagram etc. We all want different things at different times, and life is not a competition. Someone else’s happiness does not take yours away.

But in the loosest sense, sometimes, when I’m halfway through a set of 12h shifts, revising in my off hours and too tired/busy to see the people I care about or indulge my interests? I look at people living their normal 9-5 lives, with the time and energy to spend with loved ones and indulge their hobbies, and I feel a twinge that makes me re-evaluate my relationship with work because I too just want to be happy and maintain some semblance of a work-life balance. And if you just hang out with medics, you get a really warped perception of what a normal, healthy life is, so it’s actually important to hang out with non-medics too, and realise that there’s more to life than obsessing over medicine. Life needs balance, and I’m happy that people sometimes remind me of that, even if it’s at times when it gives me complicated feelings about it all.

68. How long was your longest relationship? My longest relationship is with myself, and with my parents who have put up with me for over three decades. My longest friendship has lasted since I was around 8 years old; we still talk regularly even though my best friend from primary school has now moved abroad! I’m still in touch with friends from secondary school, and even talk to some med school friends who I met in my previous degree pretty much daily. In comparison, no romantic relationship has lasted nearly as long, but they’ve lasted as long as was realistically feasible at the time. That’s not a competition; we put romantic relationships through a very different kind of process, because they are essentially an extended interview for a particularly intimate place in your life.

70. What is the sexiest thing someone could ever do for/to you? Be a feminist. Nothing like a guy that respects women, treats me like a person and understands the importance of consent.

But really. Most people? Nothing. If you don’t like someone, nothing is gonna make them sexy, no matter how alluring they might try to be. But if you like someone, isn’t almost anything they do kind of sexy because they are the one doing it? I find someone doesn’t even need to be trying to be remotely sexy if you like them, it just sort of… happens. Half the fun is the way that your gaze lingers over small, almost imperceptible details and mannerisms that make them who they are. That’s my excuse for getting uh… distracted by the most random things, anyway!

72. Are you in a relationship?I’ve retired from online dating and am seeing someone. There are a lot of things going on on my life right now (and theirs), so I’m just happy to take things one step at a time and see what happens.

74. Are you a bad person? I don’t believe so? At the very least, I hope I can try my best not to be. I try to be kind, and to do better. I try to learn from my mistakes. I don’t believe in passing value judgements on people lightly; most people aren’t ‘bad people’, and by stigmatising making mistakes, we can make it harder for people to admit their mistakes and learn from them. And it makes it harder for people to process their feelings and past experiences and work on doing better.

76. What did you do on your last birthday? I don’t remember that I did anything at all on my last birthday, actually. I think I took the day off work, so I must have done something; I’m pretty sure I celebrated with a few friends and family, because I always do something, even if it is something minor. But it’s been years since I did 'big’ birthday meetups, because it’s impossible to get most of my friends in the same place these days.

78. If your best friend died, what would you do? Be bereft. I don’t really know how to answer this question; does it want a description of the entire grieving process? Needless to say, the sudden death of someone close to me would be a huge shock.

80. If you only had 24 hours to live, what would you do? Do my best to spend time with all the people I care about and let them know how much they mean to me. Probably write some letters for their future selves, to make sure I got everything across. Give them all something of mine that I thought they would like, so they’d have something to remember me by.

82. Are you happier single or in a relationship? I’ve been single for much longer than I’ve ever been in relationships, and I’ve been perfectly happy single for the majority of that time. There’s a self-contained peace to living a happy, fulfilling single life, and I don’t believe that being single deserves the stigma that it sometimes gets. I get a lot of hassle from relatives about being single, but that was always frustrating because they assumed I must be miserable when I really wasn’t. That said, spending time with a person who makes you happy is also a pretty nice feeling, and contributes something a little different to your happiness. It can make an already nice life a bit nicer, even if it isn’t technically essential to live a nice life.

84. What is your happiest childhood memory?I don’t know that I can pick one. I have fond memories of birthday parties, or playing with my friends or sister. Fun days out in the park. School assemblies. That kind of thing.

86. Have you ever had an imaginary friend? No. I had a very vivid inner life as a kid; lots of stories about what the toys got up to, but they weren’t my friends as much as they were players in our stories. Maybe it’s because I had a sibling that I never really needed an imaginary friend.

88. What is your ideal career? Helping people, but then also getting to write/draw about it, and helping other people who help people.

Because competitive 'staying in bed all day with cats and a hot drink’ is not a real job, apparently.

90. Are you conservative or liberal? Liberal. Nothing much to say here; that shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone who reads my blog.

92. Do you like kissing in public? No. I’m a shy person by nature, so sloppy PDAs don’t come naturally to me. I also don’t like being stuck next to couples who are getting pretty intimate on the tube, so I don’t like the idea of making others comfortable by forcing my own romantic interactions on them. I’m a much cuddlier person in private, as my loved ones will attest.

94. Where would you like to live? I have no set plans, which is just as well because you never know where life will take you, between work or relationships. My parents never planned to end up where they did, so I remember their example and try not to get too hung up on planning exactly what form the future will take; because you really don’t always know where you will end up. But I’d ideally like to live in or around London, close enough to family and friends that they can remain a part of my life. To me, being able to spend time with the people you care about is important self-care, and ultimately important for my happiness.

96. Describe yourself in one word.thoughtful.

[arabellaflynn]

About a week ago, I crewed a show at the studio theater for a non-profit outfit up from New York. The guys who run it are friends of our executive artistic director, and they come up two or three times a year. I like them; I dealt with them a bunch when I was at the box office, because when you're the most experienced person they have around they hand you all of the EAD's friends, and I have an unofficial standing request to work their shows even when I'm not the only crew who is both in town and not drowning in finals. One of the guys, as it turns out, is laid up with an injury right now, so the other one had to fly solo, on top of performing in the show. I ran into him coming down the stairs as I was going up, and as soon as he saw me he just lit up like, oh, it's you! How are you are you working are you going to be my box office again! I told him I'd swapped over to doing tech and he asked if I was disappointed that I didn't get to dress up anymore. I'm not often visibly rattled. The internal monologue is a different matter. My mouth was making bubbly, sociable conversation, while my lizard brain was huddled in the back of my skull, peering suspiciously out through a slit in the blinds, going, "I don't understand, you are a producer, why do you know who I am?" Because frankly, for the most part, they don't. Aside from the yawning chasm between tech and talent at all levels of the entertainment industry, producing a show is an undertaking not entirely unlike juggling an armload of emotionally-compromised cats to a series of increasingly short deadlines. It's not personal. They have much more pressing things to do than keep track of the minion who is assembling their rented tables. [Belated recollection #1: This group comes back every year to book their spring show in our cabaret theater. This producer gets a gentle reminder from the event staff every year that he is in fact paying us to clean up after his show, and he does not have to help us. This reminder fails every year, and he ends up striking half of the tables by himself.] [Belated recollection #2: The dress code for front of house in the studio theater is, in its entirety, "wear black". I used to entertain myself by dressing splashy. The first time he got a load of one of my box office outfits, he asked to take a picture, so he could show his house manager in NYC and tell her to, and I quote, "step up her game". I would have assumed he was flirting except that he is, to the best of my knowledge and in roughly descending order of relevance: gay, taken, and twice the age he probably thinks I am.] By the end of then night I was like, you know what? He clearly likes me and thinks I am an actual human. He co-directs a non-profit whose mission is providing opportunities to dancers and multi-modal movement artists. I hate pestering people about work when they're trying to do other work, but I bet if I catch him after the performance I can get him to talk shop for a bit and give me some career advice. Or life advice, which is pretty much the same thing in the arts. God knows I need some. It was a brilliant plan, and it was chugging along beautifully right up until the part where he derailed it by inviting me to our EADs birthday party. Actually, he asked me first if he'd be seeing me there. I thought he was talking about a different event entirely, because why the fuck would I be at our director's actual personal birthday party? I have no idea what he thinks I do there. Officially, stage crew and event staff are one rung up from the bottom of the ladder, and that only because we get a per-show contract that specifies they will be paying us in money. (Unofficially, I have a lot more clout than that, but only because of longevity and institutional knowledge. It works only irregularly because, you know, unofficial. Nobody else at my pay grade has enough social capital to rattle any cages.) The office staff have meetings we don't go to, lunches we're not invited to, and loads of conversations we're not a part of. A large part of the reason I know as much as I do is because they like to have meetings out in the lobby when "no one" is around -- which is to say, they have forgotten that I am at the reception desk and that I can eavesdrop in at least five languages. I know one of them is getting married in the fall, and I also know that there is a 0% chance I will be invited to the wedding, or any wedding-related activities. They're great people to work around, and most of the time they're even reasonable people to work for, but there is this unspoken assumption that we're all going to go home to different planets at the end of the day. It took him like three tries to invite me to one party because I could not for the life of me figure out why he was telling the help all about the director's birthday plans. It finally got down to me pointing out that I had none of the details necessary for attending said party -- such as, for example, the time and date it was taking place -- because I had not received an invitation, and him telling me to go poke the EAD's assistant to get one. Then he hugged me and left to catch his train back to New York. Have you ever spent an entire day trying to get useful work done with your lizard brain jumping up and down in the back of your skull shouting things like, YOU JUST WROTE AN EMAIL TO SOMEONE'S EXECUTIVE ASSISTANT TELLING THEM THAT AN IMPORTANT PERSON JUST TOLD YOU TO INVITE YOURSELF TO ANOTHER IMPORTANT PERSON'S PARTY, SINCE WHEN IS THIS A THING YOU DO? It's really annoying. It also does not go away when the assistant replies to your email to say she's put you on the guest list. That just adds a counterpoint all about, YOU ARE ON THE GUEST LIST FOR A PARTY THAT HAS AN ACTUAL GUEST LIST MAINTAINED BY AN ACTUAL ASSISTANT WHOSE JOB IS TO MAINTAIN THESE THINGS WHAT HOW WHY. I'm not in objection to any of this. Clearly I have made myself a friend. The context is just really doing a number on my brain. One of the reasons I was so good at that job was that I was charming and helpful when you were looking right at me, and I was completely out of sight and out of mind otherwise. Nobody paid attention to me because nobody had to; I just ran around and did things and they didn't have to think about it. The class division between management and minions there also irritates me on a regular basis, mainly because it means people don't talk to each other about really obvious stuff, and it takes me a while to cotton on when I run into someone who is either entirely ignorant of it, or entirely indifferent to it, which this dude plainly is. Which of these is the case is an open question. Judging from what I've seen of his performances, whatever got his attention is the same thing that keeps getting attention from the ballroom people. Everything I have ever personally seen him do on stage has been, at some fundamental level, experimentation with and exploration of the delicate clockwork of interpersonal connections. The last piece I was witness to was a duet that I can only describe as an intimate tap dance, a phrase which I encourage you to not think about too hard, lest it stop working. I saw him run it with his dance partner in an empty theater before one of the shows. There was a ringing silence when it ended, as the two of them had to re-adjust to a world that contained more things than tap shoes and each other. He was doing comedy ballet panto at one of our holiday shows last year, and the joke he ran with was still that he kept getting way too closely intertwined with the other dancers in increasingly outlandish ways. He's done a lot of pieces with his co-director and performing partner of 25+ years that are literally just creating a shared pattern and turning it around over and over again, so the audience can see it from all of its  many intricate sides, and saying, look at all the marvelous ways this fits together! This seems to be a capital-T Thing for him, and it's probably the same capital-T Thing the Eccentric is aiming for with bachata, and that the flamenco dancers get from chasing duende, and possibly that Ye Ballroom Instructor was going for when he quit actually asking me to dance and started just walking in my general direction with his hand out. Normally, I err on the side of assuming that folks talk to me because I'm friendly and I'm in front of them, but these people keep zeroing in on me. It's becoming a pattern. right down to the part where they are super confused when I don't immediately realize what's going on. I'm just like, I'm happy you have decided we are friends! But I'm unsure when this happened! Sorry for the confusion, I'm adjusting! I like to think I'm quicker to catch on now, what with this being my third or fourth time through this dance in as many years, but it's also a terrifying conclusion to come to, mainly because jumping is the only way to get there. One, they think they're being obvious and are bewildered when I have questions, and two, the more important someone thinks this stuff is the more likely they are to gnaw their own arm off at the elbow to escape having any kind of conversation about it. Breaks the hell out of the whole 'back away and look at this logically' tactic. Based on history, the correct course of action here is to go to the damn party and bluff like I'm not utterly confused until that is actually true. And also possibly find out if he knows swing or merengue, because I can lead those without stepping on anybody too much. from Blogger http://bit.ly/2JBk3mV via IFTTT -------------------- Enjoy my writing? Consider becoming a Patron, subscribing via Kindle, or just toss a little something in my tip jar. Thanks!