#anyway they were hunted for sport and taken as slaves

[high-guardian-herbs]

So here is the character sheet for the orcs! And boy their history and lore makes me sad

[lilylilym]

On Eren’s choices and Ymir’s curse

Ah, yes, I am back from Attack on Titan hell and I have thoughts. Major spoilers, do not read until you finished the manga.

This essay will be about Eren’s “choices” or the lack thereof when it comes to attacking/defining/reshaping/destroying humanity and how much of this could be read as Ymir’s curses.

First, let’s talk about what undergirds his course of action:

the injustice of historical trauma being justified for modern time apartheid:

Eren traveled long and far to realize how much the Eldian outside of Paradis was being discriminated against and held as noncitizens in multiple lands and nations, so much that they have to renounce their “belonging” to their identity and claim their personhood only “accidental” Eldian and not “truly” one like those from the Paradis island (as seen in

I take that the non-Paradis Eldian resemble the Jewish diaspora in the ways they are persecuted and subjects of ethnic cleansing, and a recent example would be Muslim people, in how they were put into camps all over the world, forced to live in ghettos, hated for the fear of their religion and their gods.

The hatred for Eldians supposedly started because Eldian leaders become power hungry and warmongers who colonized, massacred, and dominated Marleyans for 1,700 years. This is a debt that Eren, unlike Zeke, was NOT ready to pay, given that he is also only an Ymir subject in name like the vast majority of the Eldian population and was not in anyway responsible for the greeds of old, powerful royals. Unlike descendants of King Frizt, whose genealogy comes from passed down memories of literally cannibalism and war crimes for generations that destabilize all the inheritors in fear, shame, and disgust that they would not dare to do anything but die with the memory, Eren is a regular boy with so much indignation, feels so unjust for his loved ones and people who had to bear the cross they didn’t yield. As such, he refuses to see the current treatment of Eldians as just, and this marks the goal (not the solution) of his plan: to not let Paradis Eldians suffer any longer. So he does what he thinks he needs to do in order to advance that goal, all the while NOT KNOWING the outcome, only WISH for it.

Now this is not a metaphor for why Nazis or white settler colonialism and slave owners in North America shouldn’t pay reparations for what their government has done, because their descendants still uphold power over their historically subordinated subjects and perpetuate a system that does so. AND, the main character squads or people we think as ”good guys” here do defy the monarchy and old power toward new future for Eldians, so their refusal to align with old Eldians is nothing sort of revolutionary.

Now let’s talk about Ymir’s will and her curse.

Ymir’s will and the timeloop aka self-fulfilling prophecy and Watchmenian godly time:

If you watch HBO Watchmen (2019) you will know what I mean by godly time. Dr. Manhattan in the show experience all times and all dimensions AT ONCE, so thing happens simultaneously for him in all the worlds he occupies, and he is in every world talking to everyone. Also, he is a god, so he doesn’t follow human emotions, reasons, values, things are just actions set in motions toward outcomes. Nothing matters, because Gods as beings are not a set of ideologies, but circumstances that are willed by people. And humans are trully uncontrollable, ungovernable, down to the last one of them and their human interests.

What does it mean to say that Eren bears the will of god and Ymir?

So Eren went ahead and woke up the Wall Titans to have them rumble the earth. Did he do that because he wants to kill people? He doesn’t will it, but accepts that as a side effect. Did he want to scare other nations? He knows that if he sets this in motion, uncontrollable things would happen, disregards of what he wants or plans. It’s not like he can just reroute the Titans then park them back up in the wall, because there’s no going back, even if time is looping, the future is always in the process of being written. Inevitable, he said, was the course of action that he took and yet he goes through with it because he doesn’t believe in the inevitability of human bowing down to fate. Zeke’s plan was to make all Ymir subject sterile just so they couldn’t reproduce-and Eren thought of Historia and her bloodline that had already defied their fate (of becoming host for the founding Titan thus ends the family affair of eating their family members), and he thought of his parents, and all the comrades whose bloodline ends with them in their quest to freedom. Zeke’s self-imposed role of god of nothing does not interests Eren. He wanted more. And he saw the difficulty of achieving freedom in the last couple years he had when the deep rooted racism against Eldians by the Marleyans were also equipped by state militarism and the overall brainwashing machine in all aspects of life that literally turned children into loyal warriors who want to die violent death and adults who pushed their children there so they can live a sorry ass life. He saw the problem in all, and had no solutions, no moral judgements, only power to rupture this world anew.

At one point, it is the godly power of Ymir that affects Eren, her will that determines what Eren can do based on the memories he could see through her, and she CHOSE destruction. A lot of folks I saw was bewildered by the biggest revealing that Ymir was just an enslaved girl with her tongue cut off and think all was caused by her blind loyalty to her abuser. They also read the Ymir’s curse (die after 13 years) as nonexistent because she’s not a goddess who struck a deal with the earth devil but the first human to be blessed by the gift of life, to regenerate and to change life forms. This is where my reading, I think, will differ from a lot of people.

I dont think Ymir loves the king. I think Ymir’s curse exists. I think she cursed the Eldian king with the thing she knows will destroy all the future generations to come: a monstrous power, a literal man-eating power that will only be used for destruction that so long as anyone has it they become the enemy of humanity. Ymir did not know peace in her entire life, not a single person was nice to her even the slaves, every single one sought out to live a sorry ass life and sacrificed children to avoid violence unleashed onto them. You see that times and times again, from the original story of Ymir being singled out by grown men and women as releasing the pigs, to the men hunting her for sport, to the king using her bodies to the last bone, committing unforgivable violence forcing his daughters to consume her raw flesh, and they grew up to become adults who would make their children eat their raw flesh to generate power. You see that in the story of Eren, Mikasa, and Armin, who became orphaned child soldiers and adults who have seen death around them keep pushing them to be solutions for an ancient crisis even they know nothing about. You see that in the Marleyan Eldians who wish their kids would become warriors so they can become some model minorities and leaving the interment camps. Over, and over again, the cycle of violence is willed and carried out by people, no matter the shapes and forms. Of course, this is a nihilistic view that does not take into account critical perspectives that could work out, realistically, what types of oppressions and injustice that each group deals with (i imagine in real life there would be groups of critical Marleyans who resists their government and other types of social movements in order to end apartheid against the Eldian diaspora, and that Marleyan as a military state does have to rule their subjects with democratic laws and whatnot, but vengeance cannot be a guiding principle for modern society), but to engage in the right and wrong discourse is to literally disregard the entire theme of Attack on Titan.

So for 2000 years Ymir, in the form of an unloved child, consumed by greed and apathy, set into motion that the fate of the Eldian tribe will grow so big, so expansive, so powerful that their enemies will rise somewhere along history. And they will never know peace. Not until she meets another person who rages on her behalf, who understands the pain shes going through, to come and beg her to let go. When Eren comes to tell her she is free, it is not from the bondage of a ruler, a master, but from her bind to what he had done unto her, thats when she can rest. Let me make it clear, Ymir is not a slave to Frizt and the royal family, she is a slave to more than 2000 years of unforgivable injustice and silent scream, when all the people who have been trampled on bear the bloodline that was forcibly taken from her only ask her to help them, and not a single person speaks the truth on her behalf. She rages, and rages, and rages, and the humans created out of her legacy against her will, suffer. And she, the good child that wants freedom for the pigs, at one point believes that for her rage and curse she can no longer be loved. Not until she sees another girl coming to kill the monster who had carried out her will, with love. Eren can be loved, privately, quietly, for all the monstrosity he had unleashed onto humanity. And so can Ymir, be free, be loved, be at peace after all of eternity. She can leave this realm.

I wish Ymir’s perspective could have been shown more through the manga, but I don’t think it is not there. It is also a meta thing for AoT to let readers come up with their own reading of “freedom” and “justice” and ways to repair ancient hate. The events in the book, in a large scale, are not justifications for the actions taken, but rather a set of events that are connected, willed, and carried out against thousands of other possibilities, to the point of inevitable. Choices are always taken with or without true understanding of the context that would define such choices as right or wrong. And if you dig a little deeper, all the contexts that have the power to define decisions as right or wrong end up being created out of ambivalent decisions, as well. So much that the only thing you learn out of this story is this simple truth: attack on titan is the attack on humanity.

[carryonmywaywardwriters]

Heathens - Soulless Reader x Demon Dean (Short Series)

A/N: Yes, I’m alive. I just don’t particularly want to discuss it in depth. For now? Have this. I have some stuff lined up to be posted, already. So, there’ll be some more over this next week that way. As always, feedback is incredible. And, I hope you all enjoy <3

PSA: I am NOT a minor friendly blog. If you are below 18, please come back when you’re older. I don’t want to lose my blog because you were too eager to grow up. If I discover you, I WILL block.

Warnings: Harley/Joker kinda relationship. Unhealthy. Power driven. Implied/Upcoming smut. Etc. Each chapter will have individual warnings.

Word Count: Roughly 2,800

“Y/N?” Dean Winchester. A deep, gravelly voice you hadn't heard since Bobby died echoed around you. A voice that should have meant something. Instead, it made you turn slowly, a brow raised. Waiting for the consequences with a blank face.

He hadn't been sure it was you. Darkness covered you. But, that wasn't enough. The actions he'd witnessed too fundamentally wrong to be from the woman he'd known. Y/N wouldn't ever kill in cold blood. Wouldn't off someone simply for attempting to mug her.

But you had. Without even blinking. You simply took out your gun from the back of your jeans. Shot twice, causing the kid to fall to the ground. Picking up the bag, you slung it over your shoulders. Another bullet was slung, this time to the skull, before you walked away. Tucking the gun away. Only to find yourself stopped by Dean in the alley.

The Y/N he knew always cried after a hunt. After any kind of kill. His lifestyle had been necessary to you at the time, but taking a life had never come natural. If anyone had known that, it was Dean. You'd turned to him from the beginning. All the way until the day he'd shoved you away. Trying to protect you. Failing miserably from the look of things.

“Well, well, well.” Your head tilted to the side. Inspecting him as though he were a bug. “And to what do I owe the pleasure?” Your lips kicked up humorlessly. “One of the great Winchester Duo paying little ole me mind again. What an honor.” The sarcasm might have made him flinch in his original state, but he was able to withhold in his newer form- barely.

“Happened to be walking this way, on a job.” He wasn't lying. Not completely, anyway.

Crowley had directed him that way. Promising that he'd have a kill ready for Dean. A means to keep the Mark under control. Even as a demon, the need to shed blood was fixed into his very being thanks to the raised scar etched into this forearm.

Once, you'd been repulsed, and even scared, of how easily Dean had lifted the gun and fired. He had gotten to the point where he barely blinked as a human, much less as a Knight of Hell. And yet, he couldn't help but to wonder what had taken the light out of your eyes. The guilt out of your head. What had turned you into him.

“I see you found her.” Crowley's low voice called out, in a way that should have sent chills up your spine. Instead, your lips pulled up even wider.

“You're working with the King of Hell?” You chuckled darkly. Losing what bit of tension there'd been in your shoulders. “Man, I've missed out on a lot. When did you become his bitch, Dean?”

“I'm not his bitch,” He bit out. His eyes flashing black under the alley light. Expecting you to shiver in revulsion.

“Even better.” Your smile fell a bit, but your face didn't lose that off feel to it. As if you were possessed. Or, maybe even under a spell. “You became his slave, instead.”

“I'm no one's slave, Y/N.” His words echoed another past memory.

“I'm scared, Dean.” You'd swallowed tightly, looking into his green eyes. Scared wasn't enough to cover it. You were petrified. A dead man could see it.

“Why?” If he was able, he'd fight off every one of your fears. Kill them before they could even begin to form.

“Because you're changing.” You whispered brokenly. The sound ripped at his chest. “You're becoming a...a slave. To this life. The guilt. Your fear... And I can't do anything...just sit by and watch.”

“I'm not a slave to anyone.” He'd bit out. Pride winning out against the urge to protect. “Or, anything. We'll be fine, Y/N. We always are.”

“Funny.” You snorted. Drawing him back to the present. “I've heard that before,” Your mind had traveled to the same place. “And, yet, here we are.”

“Yes,” Crowley had been watching the exchange curiously, “here we are. Eloquent words, darling.”

“I try,” Tilting your head mockingly, you got to the meat of the situation. Clearly not wanting to be bothered. Particularly by them. “What do you want with me?”

“It would seem that you're part of a contract that went wrong-”

“Oh, yeah.” A false, heavy sigh left your lips. “I almost forgot about that.” Dean's gaze turned back to his fellow demon for a moment. Attempting to piece together what was happening. “Thanks, by the way. Really loved having a hell hound come after me.” You pinched your index finger to your thumb in an approving gesture. “It only got better with the small hoard of demons you sent on my ass.”

“Such sass-”

“I was nicer before I lost my soul. Forgive me for my lack of manners. I seem to have trouble feeling these days.” Coldness seeped from your lips. A weapon honed by the attacks.

“You're soulless?” Understanding swam through him. Why, although you were so different, you were still so familiar.

The way you moved. How you detached. An empty eeriness clung to your features. It was completely unnatural. As if you were his brother when he'd come back from hell. Broken. Missing a large part of what made you, you.

“It's not as awful as it sounds.” You ran your tongue over your teeth as you glared at the superior demon in front of you. “Actually, I like it. A lot.” Your fingers twitched back to your weapon, “which is why I don't want it back. The only thing I want is to be left alone.”

“The contract isn't complete-”

“It wasn't my contract.” You cut him off, sneering. The tension lining your body. Prepared to fight to keep yourself destitute. “So, not my problem.”

“But, it is ours.” The shorter man hissed while snapping his fingers. Sending your body flying through the air until it connected against the brick. Your skull cracked with enough force to knock you out. But, you'd live. After all, you were there for a reason. “All yours.” Crowley motioned at Dean. Signaling that you'd be his kill.

“Why her?” Dean narrowed his eyes. Taking in the shameless king in front of him. Resisting the desire to step between him and your lifeless body.

When he'd turned, he hadn't become the usual demon. Bits that hadn't quite died off when Metatron stabbed a blade into Dean's body made themselves known on a regular basis. Killing Lester rather than the wife had only been the most recent offense.

The king of the underworld not only needed the job finished, but he needed that almost human part of Dean gone. Wanted the obstinate side of him to crumble. If Dean killed you? The woman he'd loved at one point- if not always...the problematic demon would morph. He'd be the perfect side kick.

“I believe that you already know the answer to that question, Dean-o.” Crowley quipped, following the movement of the green that had reappeared. Seeing the hesitation, and the connection being made. “You're almost to your full potential. There's just a smidge that needs fixed to get you there. This will make everything right.” His eyes were slightly crazed, as if he needed this. “It feels good, right? To continue to be a demon. To not be riddled with those pesky emotions. Fear. Guilt. Love. To do what you want, when you want, without being held back. Without consequence.”

“You're right.” Dean's jaw clenched lightly. The first blade came out of his denim jacket, and into his hand. “I am a demon.” His lips pulled up into a twisted smile of his own. Growing confident in his decision. “I feel nothing. I can do what I want, when I want.” Crowley backed away as Dean stepped between you two. His back facing your body. “And, I'll kill you before I kill her.”

–

“Dean?” Your head should have hurt far worse than the dull ache given the amount of blood you could see smeared onto the pillow and sheets in the mirror above the bed as you squinted up. But, that was nothing new. You'd been that way for weeks. “Where the hell are we?”

He'd been pacing by the window when you'd woken up. Completely ignorant to your eyes opening. You turned his way, watching the way he moved.

His hand wrecked his hair over and over again. The jacket was gone, thrown onto the table with a blade made from a large jaw bone resting atop of it. Red flannel was tossed over a black t-shirt. Even as a demon, he had to layer up. If you could have felt amused, you would have.

“I'm not telling you.” His eyes flashed back in warning. As if that would matter to you. “You're a problem for me, Y/N.  Always have been. Now? You fucked this up, too.”

“Oh, yes... Let's blame the soulless girl who's been back into the equation for five minutes.” Your eyes rolled heavily as you got to your feet to stretch. “Your problems came from your own hands, Winchester. The minute you sold yourself for Sam, it was over. I was the one unwillingly pulled into the fray.”

“Watch it.” The green was gone for a longer period this time. His anger showing in another snarl. “Go too far? That blade will land in your throat.”

“If you were going to do it, you would have already.” That devilish smirk crossed your lips. So certain now that emotion didn't rule you. “I've been out of your life for years, Dean. It should have been simple. Especially since you're sporting the Mark of Caine.” Your eyes landed on the reddened flesh. Too well versed to not recognize the symbol. “Take it this is the first blade?” You walked over to the weapon. Dried blood coated the yellowed, aged, bone. “You actually cut Crowley with this? To get me out of there?” Your brows rose as the weapon twisted in your hands. Mind churning as you inspected the rusted flakes clinging to it. “How sweet... I suppose you want paid back... the usual good enough?” Dean liked sex. That was no secret. He'd accepted more than his fair share from women he'd saved back in the day. His full lips pulled down into a deadly frown at your words. No doubt second guessing the decision to keep you alive. “Oh, lighten up.” Your eyes rolled at his grumpiness.

He'd be lying if he said that the offer wasn't appealing. Demonhood hadn't diminished his sexual appetites. If anything, they'd only grown stronger. Everything carnal expanding inside of him. However, he had bigger things to focus on. He'd nearly offed the King of Hell. Other demons would be on his ass sooner than later.

“You have any idea how you ended up in a contract?” Finding out who'd asked for your soul to get collected was the first step. That was about as far as he'd gotten.

“No clue.” Your finger was pricked by the point of the knife before you set it down. You sucked at the irony liquid out of habit. Grinning lightly at the way Dean's eyes followed the action. “I don't even really think one exists.” You finally stated, licking your lip clean of the rust flavored spot that had landed on it.

“You think he was trying to manipulate me?” He didn't seem surprised. Furious enough to have ignored the dart of your tongue.

It should have seemed odd to you. Dean with black eyes. The Winchester embracing the bad rather than the good. Not attempting to fight it anymore. But, you took it in stride. It was amazing how simple of a task it was when you didn't have any worries left.

“Tell me it doesn't make sense.” He couldn't. You knew it. “And you're just going to take that laying down?”

“He has an army of demons at his disposal. I just have me.” You looked at him expectantly while pointing to yourself. A grunt of acknowledgment left him. “And, you. But, that'll only last as long as he holds onto your soul.”

“Good point.” You pursed your lips. It was your turn to pace. Self preservation being the only thing you had left. “So, what're you planning to do about it?”

“You think I'm going to run.” He heard it in your voice. His pride hadn't been damaged by death. It rose its venomous head as you shrugged, pretending that wasn't what you were thinking. “So, what do you think I should do? After all, you seem to have it all figured out..” He plopped to the bed, looking at you expectantly. Daring you to come up with a better idea. Mocking you with his words. Still so similar to the man he'd been.

A low hum left you. Your eyes turned out to the window. Gazing at the world beyond as you moved. When it finally came together, you turned your head his way.

“You stopped the Apocalypse. You destroyed the Leviathans. And who knows what else since I've been gone.” Your pacing turned into more of a prowl until your hands rested on his shoulder. His eyes turned black immediately, again. You weren't sure if it was in response to your touch, or out of distrust. But, neither stopped you. “That was as a human. As a demon? I think you could take over Hell, and take all of the power for yourself.”

That caught his interest, “Yeah?”

“Let's face it, Dean.” Your lips brushed against his ear as you sat down on his lap. Drawing forth a low shiver. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you got to work. “Most demons know your name. They fear it.” Your hand brushed over the hair by his ear as you leaned back to look into his eyes. Staring into the bleakness. “You could have killed Crowley today. Easily.” He was too well trained not to be able to. “I know it. You know it. And, I'm sure he does.” Your lips curled up deviously. Setting the bait. “You've earned the crown, already.”

“And what's in it for you?” His eyes narrowed distrustfully. Knowing there was a catch. That no one, even those without a soul, came without a price.

“Besides you? And protection?” You shrugged nonchalantly. As if it meant nothing, “I rule by your side.”

“And here I thought demons were the power hungry ones.” His blackened eyes searched yours as you leaned forward.

“We soulless people have drives, too.” Your lips brushed against his lightly as you talked, making his breath hitch. “I want to live. I want to be safe. Unchallenged. I want to feel powerful for once in my pathetic life.” Your tongue wet your lips, grazing against his in the process. “And, this? This is how I can get all of that. You and your body are just a hell of a perk.”

“And your soul?” The million dollar question.

“I want it locked away.” There wasn't a moment of hesitation. “I meant what I said earlier. I don't want it back.” The almost empty E/C eyes searched his warily. The next question would determine everything. “And, your demonism?”

“It's me.” He answered gruffly. As if it was insulting you'd bothered to ask. “I don't want cured. I don't want to go back.” His dark smile made your lips kick back up. “I love this disease.”

“So, we have a deal?” Your grin grew. It was oddly chilling to Dean, even in his form. But, that didn't stop him from nodding. “Where you're a demon, does that mean we kiss on it?”

“Something this big, it takes a lot more than a kiss to seal it.” His raspy tone made your body break out in goosebumps. Your emotions may not have been there, but his words alone felt like a caress to your skin. As if your senses were amplified in those regards.

“Better get to work then,” Your lips met his as he pulled you down onto the bed. Signing over everything to you.

Forever: @dean-winchesters-bacon​ @supernaturalginger​

[pen-whipped]

The Rabbit Hole

(for my friend that asked to remain nameless)

Just west of Colorado Springs, Colorado is a town tucked so neatly on the side of a mountain that the entire place rests on a slope. Buildings look half as tall on one side as they do the other. Ma’ & Pa’ shops and taverns line the main street, while houses hang off cliff sides. Usually, walking the streets is a nearly perfect 50/50 mix of locals and outsiders, and it’s obvious who's whom. It's like one part hemp jewelry and sun skirts and the other part Fossil watches and Polo t-shirts. Not today though; it’s raining. No one’s out. So this visiting burlesque performer—whom I’ll refer to as "Ms. International" (because she’s a professional performer who trots the globe)—she and I stay in the car and watch the slanted town just as one would a movie at a drive-in theatre: through the windshield.

After Colorado, Ms. International tells me, she and a handful of other burlesque stars are going to Australia for a two-week tour. Burlesquers in the "land down under" makes me think about the rabbits Westerners took there and offset the ecosystem. I imagine burlesque with no known predators in Australia, resting at the top of the food chain and disrupting the order. I hope your guide there is better than I am here, I say to her, referring to the limited information I provide of the town as it plays on the windshield screen. Then I’m off the rabbits and on to bigger thoughts, thinking about how burlesque is conquering the planet these days like colonialism, imperialism, and capitalism. All “–isms” of Western affairs—Burlesque-ism, brought in for sport and game only to multiply exponentially and cause chaos among the natives.

Through the rainy windshield the buildings bleed together and become one, washing into a collage until it all looks like the same mess. I mention the rumors about the little town having more Pagans than any other city in the nation — another really bad tour guide informational bit. Not like devil-worship Pagans, I clarify, more like earthy hippies. And Ms. International’s quick to say she understands. There’s only a moment’s pause before she slides her eyes toward me beneath her droopy Jessica-Rabbit-like eyelids, sort of the way a crook in a cartoon would when looking around to make sure no one was suspicious of the crime about to be committed. Then she says out of the side of her mouth, I practice Santeria, ya know.

I don’t know.  All I know is the moment she says she practices Santeria that Sublime song jingles inside my head. I don’t let her know this song reverbs in my skull and gets stuck on repeat of the only four lines I know from it, even as our conversation continues. But the guy in the song says he does not, in fact, practice Santeria anyway, and he also ain’t got no crystal ball. But Ms. International immediately has my curiosity in the palm of her hands like a crystal ball, clouded and hazy and swirling about, ready to discover some fortune.

I remember another line in the song, something about poppin’ a cap in Sancho and slappin’ a chick down, and I ask Ms. International exactly what Santeria is. For some reason Voodoo comes to mind, I tell her. The song loses its lyrics, limited as they are, and becomes a hum in my head. Background music. Score for the film melting on the glass movie screen before us.

And so she gives me a history lesson — more informative than, but about as brief as, my tour guiding of the rain soaked town - which, by the way, we are no longer giving much attention to since this Santeria bit is far more intriguing and has an internal soundtrack, same four vocal lines mixed with bad humming as it may be. While both were heavily influenced by Africans via the slave trade, Voodoo grew from the mixture of cultures in Haiti. Santeria, she explains, grew from almost the same mixture, only in Cuba, so a dash more Spanish - which inevitably means a dash more Catholic. It’s what the slightest difference in any recipe will do, I’m thinking, wondering about an offset of the slanted mountain town’s perfect mixture of Pagans and Yuppies, thinking neither is like the rabbits in Australia since they seem to have created a perfect ecology of economic trade; perhaps this is a capitalistic version of Santeria.

Sancho better run and hide if he knows what’s good for him, because daddy’s got a new .45!

She tells me how the slaves would pray to the Catholic idols. Little bobble-head figurines of The Virgin and other saints, I’m imagining, thinking that at the bottom level of a ship at sea, bobble-heads would really sway and look alive. They we’re actually praying to their own gods, she says (only Ms. International doesn’t say, gods, she says, Orishas). They used the Catholic saint figurines as disguises, she continues. So long as the Spanish crew thought they were praying to their completely non-fictional santos and not some make-believe Pagan gods, then they would permit the slaves their prayer.

This, to me, I say, is all religions. Rain soaked and bleeding together. A chimera bobble-head with the hair of its main swaying over its goat-like body and serpent tail. They all borrow images and ideas from one another. The town through the windshield. Silver screens and drive-ins. Christians in Australia — they took more than rabbits for game to hunt; they took the fucking Easter Bunny too. An entire ecosystem ruined.

Of course my ignorance of Voodoo makes me think about pinpricked dolls and headless chickens. And so now I have an image of Pinhead from Hell Raiser as a bobble-head dancing on my dashboard. Its head swings to Caribbean grooves that come from some white guy singing about sticking the barrel of his .45 straight down Sancho’s throat, like a needle in a cursed doll.

My silly thoughts do not hide my true interest though. I’m rather intrigued by this new knowledge, this history and philosophy and religion all meshed together: a syncretism — a new “–ism” in the confinement of my car. I want to keep Ms. International talking. Teaching me. Her knowledge is like wild hares escaping to Aboriginal planes.

I respectfully ask Ms. International if she believes in or practices any kind of sacrificial killings. A question logically in sync with my ignorance. I do in fact make offerings to certain Orishas, Ms. International says (only, I now know Orisha means god). Each Orisha requires specific offerings for specific blessings. An offering means you give something up and is very much a sacrifice in this way, but, she says, killing animals is done only by high ranking spiritual leaders — Santeros, Babalawo, and others in the hierarchy — those atop the food chai. And it’s only done in very rare occasions.

When you give something up, something is given in return, Ms. International says. And when you take away from others, something is taken from you. So taking the life of any creature carries great risk.

Now I’m thinking about American Indians saying thank-you prayers to a dying buffalo as they rip its heart out, then making use of every square inch of its body. This is Eucharist type-a-shit. To be at one with the Earth in this way. The universe. Buddhism comes to mind. Hippies. Yuppies. Hindus. Karma. Christ on the cross. It’s all watered down and drenched, bleeding together as one. And even though I don't admit it, I think about that Cosby girl, Lisa Bonet, in that movie Angel Heart, dancing around a camp fire in some Voodoo trance while strangling a headless chicken. And still, that fucking song, jingling away about Sancho stealing his girl. But now, this deep in the hole with Ms. International, I see that just as Sancho has taken, so shall he soon lose something - lost via the barrel of a .45 straight down his punk ass throat.

It all comes together in a way that makes sense. And I tell Ms. International one of my favorite quotes from Ralph Waldo Emerson: "Man recedes as fast on one side as he gains on another." Technology, I say, is a perfect example (though this comes from no place of wisdom on my part since Emerson uses the Geneva watch as an example in the essay this quote is from: "Self-Reliance"). Look at all the world around us and how it developed new and fascinating amenities; we can travel by car, plane, and boat, but we’ve lost the ability to walk great distances; we can send emails, text, and Twitter but we no longer speak verbally to one another. Man has a fine Geneva watch, Emerson says, but he can no longer tell time by the sun itself. And I’m thinking about the slanted town’s people, one half with hemp bracelets and the other half with Fossil watches. Neither can tell time by the sun. And with this and so many other similarities and offset relationships, both sides bleed together and become the same mess. I recognize truth in Emerson’s claim; I always have. I explain to Ms. International that I also believe the opposite to be true. Emerson says that through any gain, a loss naturally occurs; and so contrarily, I believe that through a loss, so too would a gain occur. A sacrifice. Whether given or taken. One and the same.

I realize that I myself do believe in sacrifices, Karma, Jesus on a stick, Pagan witches burning on a stake, bobble-head shish-kabobs. It’s all the same, I say to Ms. International. Hypnotized by the water on the windshield. Every inch of Christ's body was used like a buffalo, salvation for those still living, feeding off his remains. Flesh of my flesh. Here and now. Give and ye shall receive. Eye for an eye and all that shit. We are all Pagan Christian Santeriaist Voodoo Children of the Corncob Buddhists. All of us—floppy-eared mutant beasts offsetting ecologies because we have no known predators. Even Ms. International, as she sits in my car, changes me with new knowledge like wild hares on my plane head. It's what we hope education will do. Experience and awareness passed between us to bring us all together and make us one and the same. A mess. A collage. Watered down. And in this way, we are all soaked the same with Truth. All of us are like rabbits in Australia, something in a foreign land burrowing holes and multiplying, wreaking havoc where order resides, and destroying the natural habitat of ignorance.