#considering. buying some kind of mobility aid to help me walk around because oh my GODSSS EVERYTHING HURTS ALL YHE TIME

[severalcowboyhats]

still no diagnosis as to whatever’s up with me and why i’m always hurting and tired and blah blah blah BUT. i have a dr. appointment next monday so. hopefully something will come of that but i’m trying not to get my hopes up you know

[scripttorture]

You made it clear torture is not an efficient way to get information. I wonder, does that apply to people who have been trained to endure it, like soldiers? If I go by my personal example, even the mere threat of mutiliation would make me tell even things they didn't ask for...

OKthe kind of thought experiment you just conducted has been used toargue torture can be effective and is ‘justified’ for centuries.

It’snot that your logic is faulty. The process of trying to imagine thesituation and think about what you’d do is very natural and human.But this is a perfect example of how people can approach the topic oftorture with good intentions and little knowledge and walk away withconclusions that are a long way from the reality.

Basicallythe state of mind you’re in now (which I am presuming is reasonablycontent and not in immediate terrible pain) is a long way fromtorture. If you haven’t been tortured or in an analogous state ofextreme pain it’s extremely difficult to imagine how you wouldactually respond or what it would be like.

We’reparticularly bad at imagining the effects on our memories, logicalthinking and ability to process information. We imagine that inextreme pain we’ll still be capableof remembering things we can remember easily now.

Thatjust isn’t true.

You’reassuming that you’d be able to remember things in that state.You’re also assuming you’d know something relevant in the firstplace. Both are highly unlikely.

Peoplesaying ‘anything’ is part of the problem.It’s part of whytorture can never work. Because most of the people who are brought indon’t know shitand some of them will alsosay ‘anything’ to try and make the pain stop.

Torturers(and humans generally) are terrible at telling when people are lying.So they can not tell the difference.

Allof these are points I’ve covered before. They’rein this old post on why torture doesn’t work, thisone on effective methods of investigation, thisone on what torture actually does to interrogation andthis one on the effects torture has on victims. Ohand this one on the effect torture has on memory.

Ifyou’ve read my previous Masterposts then I’d suggest moving on toRejali who covers all of this verythoroughly, or O’Mara who wrote less of a doorstep and concentratedon the biological reasons why torture can’t work.

Torture‘training’ does not appear to have any effect on a person’sability to resist torture. Resistance to torture appears to be commonand innate.

Essentiallythe factors that combine to mean torture can not ‘work’ are to dowith how we process pain and how our brains are wired. No amount oftraining changes that.

Howevertraining that’s supposed to help soldiers resist torture has beenlinked to soldiers torturing people.

Torture‘training’ does not appear to do anything to make soldiers more‘resistant’ because as human beings with human brains they arelikely already incredibly resistant to torture. The structure oftheir brains means that torture and abuse are never going to beeffective ways to get information from those brains.

Buttorture ‘training’ doesshow soldiers how torture is conducted. It gives them a standardisedintroduction in causing other people pain.

Andsome of them go on to use that to harm others.

Ona tangentially related note- whyis the idea of mutilation so terrible? Why is the idea of livingdisabled or disfigured so frightening? The WHO estimates that about athirdof people have some kind of disability or life long medicalcondition.

Tryanother thought experiment with me. Think of that mutilation you’reafraid of, whether it’s losing your hands or your legs or yournose. Now look up how people who actually have that condition liveand what they say about their condition. Look up mobility aids andprosthetics and surgical procedures and recovery times.

Lookat what disabled people outside the paralympics have achieved. It’sa long list.

WhatI’m aiming at here is this: becoming disabled is a real possibilityfor everyone.That prospect is a lot less scary if you know what you can doin that eventuality.

IfI ever lose a hand I’m getting the krukenberg procedure and somehooks because I have a lot of respect for heat proof limbs heldtogether by rubber bands. And suddenly the ‘nightmare’ scenario Ithought of as a budding teenage artist, losing my hands, istoothless.

Ifyou’re struggling to get your head around the idea that torture isuseless as well as immoral- I’m not surprised. There’s a lotof background information in our global culture justifying torture.

But-If you’ve read my Masterposts and you don’t get it then theproblem isn’t you, it’sme.The way I’m explaining it isn’t working for you.

That’ssomething I’m going to have to work on, being clearer and beingaccessible to everyone.

Butit probably means that right now? I’m not going to be able toexplain this in a way that will help.

Whichmeans I think the best thing you can do is go to my sources. Youcan find O’Mara’s book here.Youcan find Rejali here.For the love of everything holy do not buy Rejali in hardback, it’shuge enough already.

Youshould also consider reading what survivors have said about theirexperiences. Alleg’smemoir can be found here.Searle’saccount of his time as a POW is available here.Fela Kuti’s Coffinfor a Head of Stateand UnknownSoldierare on youtube and spotify.

Don’ttake my word for it. Look at the research. Read what survivors say.

That’swhy I have a sources page and why I try to cite as much as Ipractically can.

Don’tjust wonder about it. Do the reading. Get informed and get angry.

Anddo not blame yourself if I have failed as a teacher.

Edit: A reader noticed that the links don’t work. These should now be fixed.

Availableon Wordpress.

Disclaimer

[friendly-fire-engaged]

The kids were less than alright

((Flora and Martin should not be left unsupervised to have heavy conversations about rough childhoods. Sorry mobile viewers. This wasn’t supposed to be a four hour rp stint but it sure turned into one))

Flora Valerian is about as zoned-out as usual, placidly sweeping the steps of whatever dirty, crumbling old building this is.

Martin Adler is about to change that. The half-hyur shuffles up the road on foot. He still lacks his usual spring to his step, but he’s moving. That’s an improvement over earlier. "Flora!" He waves.

Flora Valerian stands straight up and turns on her heel, almost fumbling the broom right out of her hands. "Martin," she starts, heading toward him, "Do you feel better, at all?"

"Marginally." He answers. The soldier hops up the stairs, flinching when he lands a little too roughly on one foot. "The folks at the Reach have been takin' good care of me. Been making me change dressings and checkin my head every day." He points to the broom. "Why do you dust out here? It's just gonna get dirty again."

"Good, good. Ah, it's better you go there. I apologize if my mother was rude, or anything. I intended to stay up and try and make sure things did not get off on the wrong foot. But-- well, I am glad to see you up and walking around." She looks down at her broom. "That's... why I'm sweeping. Because it will get dirtier the longer someone does not, yes?" She sounds a little confused. "There has not been anyone taking care of this place for some time."

Martin Adler waves off Flora's concerns. "Eh, I think she was too busy being miffed with Autgar to get in my face about anything." Martin assures. "As for the sweeping, I guess it just seems like a lost cause, but I guess someone's gotta."

"I think-- if the spirits here have been so willing to accept me living in this place, I ought to replay them by keeping this place up. And-- well, it just makes me happier." She pauses and tilts her head to the side. "Ah, did... she offend him? Or did he offend her...? Oh, no... I had a feeling."

Martin Adler raises a skeptical brow and stares at the ruins. "Spirits, huh?" He repeats. "You ever actually see one?" The question about Autgar has him freezing. He scratches his chin reluctantly. "Err, I dunno. It's probably nothing. They'll get over it." He promises.

Flora Valerian nods. "I don't see them or hear them-- they say, up north, you can see all sorts of strange things. But-- ah, the men who died here at Sali were old, and-- I think they had few regrets, when they did what they did. So, it is different from what I think folk usually think of-- when you hear stories about spirits, and ghosts, and things." Her head stays cocked to the side as she considers his explanation. "Ah, you're probably right. I just-- ah, it's embarrassing, is all. She is not very pleasant."

Martin Adler 's gaze wanders north thoughtfully. "What happened here, then?" He makes himself comfortable, plopping down on the stairs. "Who used to live here, monks? How'd they die?"

Flora Valerian 's gaze folows his. "It's-- This is the place elderly monks would live out the rest of their days, yes. And-- they would take in children from the city to instruct them in the ways of the order. But, ah-- During the revolution-- Many of the men here knew they could not fight back any longer, and that they had been cornered. So-- rather than letting the teachings fall into the hands of the Corpse Brigade, ah-- They ended their lives."

"...Oh."

Martin Adler stares quietly up the path. "It's weird, trying to imagine anyone being able to slaughter the monks. Look at Berrod and Autgar, they can punch holes through people if they wanted!"

"And even if they were old men-- to have even once been this strong, they must have been stronger than most, still, their age."

"Age claims everyone eventually." Martin shrugs. "But still, with how Autgar flattened me to a paste the other day, monk killers seem a little far-fetched. Wonder how they did it..."

"Purely for speculation, of course," he hastily adds.

"I don't know much about the Corpse Brigade or their methods-- which, that's odd to think about, isn't it? I lived not malms from where they decided to hole up. But-- The Corpse Brigade of Ala Mhigo and the Corpse Brigade of Broken Water are two very different entities, I suspect." Flora Valerian keeps sweeping as she talks.

Martin Adler blinks. "Wait, you did what?!"

Flora Valerian looks to him. "Have you heard of-- in Thanalan, there's a place called Little Ala Mhigo, where a lot of us settled. In the middle of Broken Water, which is a lawless land.  And-- unfortunately, the Corpse Brigade decided to settle there, too, because of this."

"Ehhhh..." Martin shrugs. "Not really. Don't know much about life over the wall."

"Oh, I ought to take you. It is not really a safe place to travel to-- so ordinarily, I would object. But I think we will be fine. The Uldahns occupied us, there, to keep an eye on the beastmen, so-- it is not as bad as it once was, in terms of, ah, the Corpse Brigade."

"Have I ever backed away from danger?" Martin smiles cavalierly. "I'll be more than fine!" He presses for more information. "What was it like? Growing up there?"

"Yes, ah-- It will be fine." She pauses. "We were all folk who had survived the migration through the Black Shroud, but-- for whatever reason, could not make lives for ourselves in Ul'Dah. We were all very poor, and very hungry and ill. But we were angry-- I remember always being so angry at the Ul'Dahns that came to offer us aid. It seemed so patronizing. But-- I think this was the only way we could feel powerful. Between the Amal'jaa and the Corpse Brigade-- ah, at the worst of it, I think --one or the other would raid our settlement every other night."

"Things got better when the Flames came. But none of us wanted to admit it."

"Uldahns? Patronizing?" Martin snorts disdainfully. "I woulda never guessed." He leans into the conversation eagerly. "So what did you do out there? Just huddle in the mud all day?"

"The height of their kindness-- I will never forget this-- was that they would waive the entrance fee for competing in the Bloodsands, for us. So that we could fight to the death for their entertainment, yes. And so many of us took them up on that-- they're buried in pauper's graves in Drybone, now." Her nose then twitches. "Nothing could be grown in the soil, there. We had to leave the settlement and forage for everything we ate. So-- we were very easy folk to target and isolate."

Martin Adler 's gaze hardens. He harrumphs. "I guess that's a common thread, then." He remarks cynically. "Sell your body to the bloodsands in Eorzea, sell your body to the Empire's war machine over here. The prime resource my village exported, back in the day, was conscripts." He falls silent, listening to Flora once more. He watches her intently. "Were you ever... y'know..." He fumbles for the word. "...targeted?"

Flora Valerian pauses. "Yes. I don't really think about it, anymore. But-- It was a great victory for me to leave that desert behind. It sounds-- it sounds unbelievable to me, still, but I felt safer sleeping on the street in Ul'Dah than I ever did in Broken Water. It's-- I have faith that things will never be so bad again, for the children of our countrymen-- as what I experienced, or what you did."

Martin Adler immediately freezes. The sheepish look on his face speaks louder than words. He shouldn't have asked that. "Shite..." He breathes, at a loss for better words. An awkward silence hangs over them.

"... Good that you're in a better place now than before... yeah?"

"Yes," she starts, with some difficulty. "I'm going to spend the rest of my days mastering myself and what brings me sorrow-- besting my own mirage. It's the happiest I could've ever imagined myself. I told my husband that. I think-- I think it's possible to cut off what rots us."

Martin Adler slouches on the steps, looking thoughtful. "How do you even begin that?" He asks, smiling wearily. "Seems impossible to do, starting from the bottom of it... Not that I've ever shied away from a challenge."

Flora Valerian finally takes a seat, setting her broom across her lap. "It's-- It's going to be difficult for all of us, certainly. But-- tell me your worries."

Martin Adler grimaces. "Do I have to?" He groans, turning his gaze down the path and away from Flora. He's being slightly dramatic.

"I want to help. You should let me."

"Hnnnngh." Martin groans. "It's seriously nothing. I'll work through it." He promises. "Just need to think on it for a bit."

"You should take your time, yes. Don't worry about it. Do you need water, or tea, or anything like this?"

Martin Adler straightens up and blinks. "I didn't mean right now..." He mutters. But then again... "Tea would be good."

"I had some brewed. It is likely still warm. Come on, then."

Martin Adler shoves to his feet and saunters after her. He glances over the ruins ahead. "Y'know, when it's not raining, it looks a lot nicer out here."

"I think it's beautiful, yes. Especially to imagine what it looked like when folk lived here."

Martin Adler gaze wanders over the crumbled ruins as he tries to do just that. When they arrive in the monastery, he hops up onto one of the tarped over crates, creating an explosion of dust. He sputters and coughs and settles down on his new perch.

Flora Valerian plops down on the ground where she's put her dead animal skins and few posessions. She digs through a crate and hands over a still-warm canteen of tea.

Martin Adler accepts it with a grateful nod and drums his fingers against it. "Do you forage for the herbs for it or is this the one thing you buy?"

"I usually forage for it, yes. It's very easy, and it is never the same tea twice. My husband brings me other kinds, though, sometimes. But I don't carry coin-- so I don't buy things."

Martin Adler sniffs the tea curiously, then takes a tentative sip.

The tea tastes exactly like you'd think it might-- like random-ass boiled mountain herbs.

Martin Adler swallows thickly, biting back a look of repulsion. Oh. "It's... unique." He praises through clenched teeth. "But, if you don't buy things. What do you do? Barter? Trade? Surely there's something you can't get from the mountains."

"Oh, good, good." She brightens up a little. "People have been kind to me. An ananta from my old cell makes my clothing, and mends it when there is something wrong. And my husband likes to bring me things like bread, that I cannot make on my own. And-- ah, lately, when I have come back, for the night-- I think it is folk from the Ala Mhigan Quarter leaving me bread and water, as well. And I have bartered on occasion. I have traded adventuring work for things I need."

Martin Adler eyes Flora thoughtfully. "What do you do for them in return? The ananta? The locals?"

"I think-- As for Mahira, I do not know why she has always been so intent on keeping me well. But-- She was able to find work under my husband, as his maidservant. So this is part of it, I think, surely. The locals-- I know not what to think of this, yet. But-- an old woman, the one who brought me my broom, was just happy to see that there were monks here, again."

Martin Adler takes another sip, despite the grossness of the taste. "They just... do it." He states. A grimace follows. "That's... weird. You don't even like, give them blessings or some shit for it? You just exist and they give you brooms."

"I haven't, yet. I think I ought to be. If I see someone here, I try to talk to them and pray with them. But, well-- I think it still is not enough, you are right. I think-- there is still a novelty, in their minds, to me being here."

"I mean, sure, that’s given.” Martin replies. “You lot have been dead for 20 some years and now suddenly you're all back. Probably a lot of old folks really delighted to see that. And youths too, I s'pose."

Flora Valerian nods. "It-- I love to see them happy, but in truth, I have done nothing to deserve it."

"Eh, you'll think of something to do." Martin shrugs.

"Their favours did not matter to me at all, at first, but the more I think about it, the more I realize what we are charged with.

"And that would beeeeee?" Martin drawls.

"As Autgar says, yes, the protection of this country. But not only that. Their spiritual well-being, as well. When I was a child, growing up, I--- Ah, some of my questioning and despair-- I always wished that the Fists were still alive. I wanted to ask them everything that was on my mind."

Martin Adler looks to the worn stone tiles below. "Growing up, when the imperials weren't around, the children in the village would sneak out to the mountain and play pretend. Monks, corpse brigade bad guys." He chuckles bitterly. "They'd make me be the latter. Or King Theodoric."

"But, I always thought I wanted to be a hero and save the day in those games. Be a monk. I think that's every little boy's dream. All the ones that grew up hearing the stories."

“Ah, yes! It was the same for us. Or-- we would be the Resistance, or something like this. Or-- well, I wasn't really allowed out, much. But I got to hear everyone else play."

"I snuck out as much as I can. Better to be out in the mountains than back at home."

"What was it like, where you grew up?"

Martin Adler 's face falls. He scratches his chin. "Ehhh.... cold. We were up in the northern mountains. Lots of snow in the winter. Bears were common. Those were the staple food during the winter."

"Ah, but one bear is at least a lot of meat, yes? Was it plentiful enough?"

"For the most part.  We didn't have a lot of hunters in the village; men under the age of 40 were conscripted, women as well if they didn't have children to care for. So it was the old patriarchs that would go out and hunt. But bears are easy to kill in the winter. You just have to find their den and slaughter them in their sleep. It isn't much of a hunt."

"Unless you find a roving male that didn't hibernate. Those ones are dangerous and kill men and women out of hunger."

"I never thought of that.” Flora replies, “I've fought one, before, but-- ah, did-- did those bears come close to your village, ever?

"Sometimes, yeah. One killed a girl a few years older than me and her baby brother. They were just outside the village. The hunters chased it out and killed it after."

"Couldn't eat the meat though, they said. It would be wrong... indirect cannabilism, I guess."

"Y-yes. I agree. That's terrible."

Flora Valerian thinks. "Your mother was not conscripted, though, yes? I assume your father was..."

"I don't want to talk about them."

Martin Adler cuts her off coldly.

"You don't have to, then."

Martin Adler had hunched up defensively at the question, but slowly relaxes. He falls silent a moment. "...What were you going to say my father was?"

"A soldier, mayhap." Flora answers. "I don't know."

She follows up. "I understand, now, how it was. You don't have a choice. It just happens."

Martin Adler averts his gaze. "Yeah, well, I don't know a whole lot of people who are that understandin' about it." He huffs.

"I know. And that is the most insidious part of it."

Martin Adler is quiet. "...Did you overhear the other night? When Autgar was talking about it?"

"...What?"

"He brought it up in front of your mother. Asked if I had any aether in me. If it would be possible for me to even learn to be a monk."

"Why wouldn't you be able to?" She squints at him.... until it hits her.

Martin Adler watches realization dawn on her. He squints. "I thought that's what you were implyin'."

"N-no. I wasn't. I didn't know. I-- I'm sorry if it seemed that way."

Martin Adler 's gaze is fixated on a pebble on the ground. He shrugs listlessly. "It's fine. That cat's out of the bag with a few people now. Autgar and Berrod know."

Flora Valerian shakes her head. "I won't tell anyone."

"I believe you."

Martin Adler flashes a bemused smile and chuckles at his own reply. Like he’s surprised he even said it. "It's not often I get to say that, but I do."

"And I won't let anyone disparage you for it." Flora adds. "I am very good at keeping secrets."

Martin Adler smiles softly. It’s a rare, genuine look on him. "Thanks."

"If it-- if it makes you feel better, I would have never known if you did not tell me."

Martin Adler laughs. "Oh phew. I pass well. I guess I was luckier than that Arenvald guy. My mum didn't care enough to scar me up in case I grew a third eye. My grandad considered it, but he was always too sloppy drunk to follow through with the threats." The half-hyur taps his forehead. "Just a shallow lil pockmark. Like I got the pox or something. Close as I'll ever get to one." He rubs at the center point between his eyes.

"Autgar slapped me when I told him." He presses his palm flat against his forehead. "Wanted to make sure I wasn't lying and there wasn't one glamoured over."

"G-grow a third eye?" She looks a little horrified, but the longer she continues to look at him, she lets up. "I have more pockmarks than you do. I hope he will not decide to slap me over it." She pulls the hair away from her forehead, and-- indeed someone who had the real pox doesn't look too different.

"That's the rumor, at least. That halfies'll grow one just like their pureblooded cousins. So far I haven't found much truth to it, but who knows? Maybe I'm a late bloomer." He jokes.

Flora Valerian just sort of nods, looking a little frightened at the prospect. "Even then-- glamours, yes?"

"Works as long as you're not getting slapped by monks." He replies. "Buuuuut I don't think it'll happen. Twenty is a lil late for last minute growth spurts."

"Yes, yes. It's true." Flora pauses. "I thought you were so much older than I. But you're only a little bit."

"War does that to you." Martin jokes. "Prolly got some grey hairs on my head from my time as a prisoner."

Flora Valerian 's head juts to the side. "Prisoner?"

Martin Adler hesitates. "That's... a long story."

"You don't have to tell me, either. Not unless you want to."

“Yeah, I know.” Martin Adler thinks on it. "One day. But not today. It's been a long enough one already."

Flora Valerian nods. "I understand, yes. Thank you, though, for being as frank with me as you have."

"Workin' on it." Martin smiles wryly. "All part of destroyin' that mirage, yeah?"

Flora Valerian brightens, and even looks to be smiling-- a little. Just a little. "That's right, yes."

Martin Adler drums his fingers on the canteen and looks down on it. "About earlier..." He begins.

"Ah?"

"You and Autgar and Berrod make it look easy. Destroyin' your mirages and all that shite." He remarks. "But it feels like... I dunno. If I get rid of it all, change everything around... what's left of me?"He laughs guiltily. "Not only that, but it's fuckin' hard to do. Stop being afraid, easy I guess." He is known to lie. "Stop being angry? Hah!"

"You never destroy yourself. You destroy what brings you sorrow. I know that sounds impossible-- and-- I am not there, yet, not at all. But there is a reason we have our whole lives to do it." Flora explains. "What will be left of you is the man the Destroyer intended you be. Before your mirage brought you sorrow. I believe this."

"He sure brought me a lot of sorrow alright." Martin mutters under his breath. He takes a breath.

"I feel this way, too."

Martin Adler chuckles. "I got that impression of you." He agrees. The smile on his face withers to something serious. "I want to be able to change..." His tone falters reluctantly. Where words fail, his body language speaks. Sagging shoulders and a tired sigh finish his sentence: he's not ready.

"It's not an overnight thing, I know. But I want to succeed."

"Just don't be so harsh on yourself," she says, hypocritically. "All of us are here for you. All of us want this for you. I know this for a fact."

Martin Adler smiles thinly. "No promises, but I'll try." He hops out of his seat and offers the canteen back to Flora. "I know you lot do. I won't disappoint."

"I know you won't."

Martin Adler cants his head, smiling flippantly. "How do you know that?"

"Because I won't let you disappoint me. I just will not let it happen."

Martin Adler's smile turns to a grin. "Yeah? Well, then I know my soul is saved." He laughs. "Thanks for the tea and the talk, Flora. I best be getting back to the Reach."

Flora Valerian stands up, bowing her head. "Please be well-- Strength in Rhalgr. Let me know if you need me for anything, yes?"

"Will do, Flora. Comet guide ya."

Flora Valerian nods to him.

[meryllgabionza]

My Mobile Day: A Journey

Our mobile phone… our best friend, our day-to-day partner, a part of our daily routine. No doubt, it became a necessity nowadays. People tend to be emotionally attached to these gadgets, and this leads to our completely detachment to the real world. Okay, I must admit it is nearly impossible to live without out it. All the things that we do the entire day have something to do with it or in better term, connected to it – our job, finance, school, even our day-to-day meal planning, it is all in there!

So now, let talk about what we are here for in the first place -- I walk you through a journey of my mobile day. Let me start off with a question to you- yes, You. Have you ever counted how many apps you have in your device? Have you ever wondered which one of them are the most valuable to you? Well, I consider myself as a “below average” to “average” user. Let us just say that in an active weekday, I only spend a half to an hour and a half mobile phone usage (this depends on how much work I have that day). Comparing it to my boyfriend, he has almost 3 hours spent each day using is mobile phone. Disclaimer! This differs during the weekends of course and let us not forget the lockdown that is currently in effect, my screen time is so much higher than my usual days.

24 over 80

| Fun Fact! According to a statistic gathered by Build Fire, there are an average of 80+ applications downloaded in a user’s device.

So, by that fact I just gave you—I think you have already figured out why this section is entitled that way. This is also another proof that I am not in to using mobile phones. I only have 24, let me spell that out – TWENTY-FOUR, out of EIGHTY applications on my phone which is roughly 15% of the average user’s (I am bad at Math, so sorry). Okay, okay I know I sound a “little” bit exaggerated. I have this phone for almost two years now, and of course I have un-installed some apps that I rarely/never used to open-up some space from my storage. 

It is just mind-boggling for me to think that people have a lot of data stored in their phones; that they have 80 different software on their device, and they are willing to share their information with its owners. This just means that truly trust our phone or we just are fixated on them.

 Socials.

Like the famous quotes go...

“Humans are social beings.” Or,

“No man is an island.”

We are born to communicate and collaborate with other people. They help us grow, define, and shape our beliefs, philosophies, personalities, lifestyle, etc. Other people influence us to be the person that we are now. This reflects our activities online as well. By examining my daily mobile routines, I have figured that I tend to open more social media channels that anything else – for example Facebook, Instagram, and Snapchat. I launch it mostly for entertainment and communication. As a recent immigrant (just landed almost two years ago- April 2019), I had difficulty to find people my age. Most of my friends back in my country I have met during my academic journey. I am not a social person per se and I do not usually approach a person for the first time. So, during the early months of my stay here in Canada, I usually open-up my socials to catch-up and talk to my friends back home. And as the time goes by, I go out and meet people along the way (this is way before COVID). Well, not only these I also use my phone in other way for games (i.e., Call of Duty), transportation (tracking TTC buses- I use Transit Now), and tracking my activities and diet (Samsung Health). Two of these apps are also kind-of related with social and communications as well, the main obvious one is Call-of-Duty Mobile. If you are not familiar of the game, this is a multi-player shooter game that you can team up with your friends or strangers to complete an objective. This game allows players to use their microphones and speakers to talk with your teammates during a match. In Samsung Health on the other hand, lets the users connect with their friends or strangers compete on challenges and compare stats of their fitness progress which in my opinion is a great way to communicate with people with the same interest as you.

Oh! To add furthermore to this section, I give Google Search a special mention. This is one of the apps on my phone that I could never un-install. This helps with every search or query I need. No matter what you are looking for – recipes, locations, a weird thought. It will answer you in a milli-second.

 Micro-moments

Let us go back to Google Search… have you ever thought what do you usually search about?

Have you heard about the term, Micro-Moments?

During my last semester, I learned about this term that is firstly coined by Google. Basically, it is an occurrence where the user looks for information of their queries whether these are location, shopping, basic questions, etc. These are the “I want to go”, “I want to know”, “I want to buy”, and the “I want to do” moments that initiates the customers’ buying journey.

Okay, let us stop talking about the definition of the word and move forward to what are some micro-moments that we deeply identify lately these days. Well, for starters the first moment for me is “I want to breathe”. Why, you might ask? From all what happened to the world this past year and all the misfortunes, it is important for us to just pause for a moment and breathe. I like to take an hour or a half to just clear up my mind and listen or watch peaceful things on the internet through my phone or smart tv before going to work or start the class. I also do some feel-good readings about hope, serenity, and just good news to help me and my mind get that moment of calmness that we all need and aim for these days.

Another moment is “I want to explore”, this also came up during the lockdown. All of us stayed mostly at home and sometimes I know it is feeling restrictive and suffocating. So, I what I do is research about different places around the world and learn about their culture through videos and articles. In this way, you will be able to help you mind looking forward to a better future.

 The Downside

Like all the things in life, everything has its downside. Being online most of time can be draining--constantly checking our phone each minute hoping for a new notification to pop out. Also, just by scrolling around social media all day, we might bump into bad news that can ruin your whole day. Oh! Do not let me start on the sudden crashes or malfunctions! Especially when you are in the middle of a game or you are anticipating the exact time of the bus arrival! It can be real frustrating for the users, especially when you are running late for work and you are highly reliant on that certain app. This frustration can also be applied to mobile games where you play or interact with other users. Another, downside of mobile is the miscommunications on social media. I have heard a lot of stories about arguments because of just a miswording or other type of unfortunate occurrence that can end relationships or hatred between people. I have lost a lot of friends and ended relationship because of this, which to think of it I sometimes can be a good thing—you know to end some “toxic” relationship that can greatly affect your mental health.

 At the end of day, we just need to accept and embrace the un-ending evolvement of our world. We need adapt to these changes but also take precautions so it can help us rather than destroy us. We also should not let social media or our mobile define us. We should you this as an aid rather than the focus of our whole day. Okay, enough “lecturing for today” and let us end this with a question…

If our mobile phone can only have five apps on its system (except of the essentials to run the system of course), what are those and why?

[sudsybear]

Tasting Freedom

School started and I still kept busy. This time with school spirit. I was into the whole “senior” thing, enjoying the perks of being a senior, like late arrival and early dismissal. For me that meant no more Saturday Studies! Once again I was a teen counselor; teamed with Erin and Tommy, we talked to our fifth grade classes about having fun without doing drugs. I was once again in Triple Trio with Julie, Liz & Shari - we harmonized well. I continued voice lessons, and still participated in Corral and AFS events.

 David and Moj joined a program at the high school, “WHY” Wider Horizons for Youth. Both my brothers had participated years before. They called it the “WHY go to school?” program. Those who participated essentially did high school co-op programs, attending only the required classes at the high school just part of the day. The rest of their time was spent in business and industry learning hands on about how business runs and what jobs are available in different fields. David set himself up at the local public television station, learning about video and camera work. Moj got a programming job, one of his first paying jobs. With the money he earned he bought his first car, a green Triumph TR-7.

 Victor arrived home from boot camp, two inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than when he left. That slim wiry frame filled out into an impressive masculine “T.” His white blonde mane was cropped short, and he looked almost bald. To celebrate Victor’s return from boot camp, David and his buddies prepared an “Apparatus Salute.” One salute went errant and nailed Victor in the back of the head. Julie and I drove injured Victor down to Kroger’s to get some burn treatment first aid. We stood in the aisle of Kroger’s and sprayed the back of Victor’s head and neck with burn ointment until the sting was gone. Welcome home Victor!

 My parents allowed the Senior homecoming float to be built in our driveway. I helped build it of course, as did David and Moj and scores of others. Weeks in the making, we first voted for the theme, then drew up and approved the design, and finally arranged for the acquisition of materials. To go along with Reagan’s Star Wars defense plan and the NASA space program, we dreamed up a rocket theme with one large rocket and ten smaller model rockets around the side. All the rockets were actual working models that were to be launched at the football field after the parade. At all hours, classmates banged two by fours together, rigged the model rockets, figured out a detonation system, stapled chicken wire, and stuffed pom-poms. We won the contest for best float that year. And David was awarded “Student of the Month” for his efforts on the project.

 Our beloved Buick died that Fall. It broke down on I-75 between Galbraith Road and downtown. Erin and I were headed to buy supplies for the float. In the breakdown lane on the highway with the top down, singing camp songs while the traffic whizzed by us. I was exhilarated, enjoying the slight danger of the speed of the cars around us. Erin was terrified. David happened by in his Datsun and rescued us, taking us home. But the car was dead. Dad arranged to have it towed to the repair shop. The U-joint was gone and Dad wasn’t willing to put any more money into the car. The body rust was pretty bad, the radiator needed to be replaced, the engine needed to be re-built, gashes in the ragtop needed to be repaired. It just wasn’t worth the upkeep. Victor wanted to buy it, but Dad wouldn’t sell it to him. I loved that car…as did my brothers before me. We’d each love to have another one someday, as would Victor.

 Soon after the Buick’s demise Dad took me with him on a Saturday afternoon to look at cars. He eyed a used AMC Pacer, one of those “fishbowl” cars of the late ‘70s. He asked the salesman about the car, its history. I panicked at the prospect – a Pacer?  What a completely un-cool car! When we got home, I explained quietly to Mom (out of Dad’s earshot) what Dad was considering. She rallied to my cause, and we put Dad on a less embarrassing car chase. We ended up with a used Volvo station wagon for Mom. “Boxy but Safe” (from the movie, Crazy People with Dudley Moore and Daryl Hannah). The wagon had a ton of miles on it, but was the car that fit our needs at the time, and was a far more tolerable alternative to the Pacers he’d been eyeing.

 The Volvo was forest green with tan leather interior. I only drove it a few times. Instead I drove Dad’s old commuter vehicle, a 1979 standard transmission (4 speed) powder blue Pinto hatchback. It was easier to park, got better gas mileage, and you could carry anything in that hatchback - an all-around practical vehicle. It had powder blue interior with vinyl seats, and just like the Buick, when the weather got hot, you’d burn yourself sitting down, and stick to the seats when you tried to climb out. There was a crack in the oilcase, but that was easily managed – I just added a quart of oil with every fill-up. Sure, the engine smoked and you could smell burning oil. But overall, it was a sound vehicle.

 Dad taught me to drive the standard transmission. Painful and not pretty, we managed without killing each other. The look on his face when I ground the gears was enough to make me want to avoid it. He had me drive up the steepest hill with a stoplight at the top. I sat through three light cycles and pissed off I don’t know how many drivers behind us before I managed to get the hang of it, and proceed through the intersection. I mastered it finally…and Ford clutches are nightmares! I discovered later how much variation there is in clutches…our Nissan clutch was spongy and soft, and the Mitsubishi hydraulic clutch had a weird sweet spot that took a couple turns around the block to get used to.

 Erin inherited her Mom’s old Pinto and named it “Nellie.” (I’ve never named my cars – I just remember their stats.) It was on its last legs when she got it, but it was wheels. Her powder blue Nellie and my powder blue Pinto-mobile were often parked side-by-side in friends’ driveways, or in the school parking lot. She and I differed greatly on driving styles. She claims I ride the clutch…I maintain that you can leave your foot on the clutch so long as the gearshift is in neutral. I’ve never had to replace a clutch, so I can’t ride it too badly. Her Pinto had a black interior and a trunk. That intrigued me…what’s the point of a trunk on a Pinto? With a hatchback and a fold-down back seat your storage capabilities are infinite…but a Pinto with a trunk? What’s up with that? You can carry a couple of six-packs in the back, but not much else.

 Moj had his new-to-him Triumph, British Racing Green, of course. It complemented Christopher’s Fiat Spider. But wait! Christopher’s dad invested in a bright red Datsun 300Zx. That was the vehicle to envy. They still had the Fiat for driving around town, but the new Datsun was a temptation. I was embarrassingly demoted from a big engine, lots-of-room-for-passengers convertible to the two-door squeeze-in-the-back-seat Pinto. I traded in coolness for fuel efficiency and practicality. Did I have a choice?

 I filled out college applications – Ohio State, Northwestern, Tufts, Augustana College (where Kenny Anderson attended to school – quarterback of the then-winning Cincinnati Bengals), and the University of Rochester. Between the application forms, the entrance essays, and the paperwork to get transcripts sent, there was a lot to do. I had homework, and I still babysat for spending money. I stopped writing letters – I had too much else to do. Besides, Ross was out of my league and didn’t even answer my letters last year. If the experience was so horrible, why did he go back? What would be the point in writing? A typical teenager, I was fickle.

 Out of the blue, this arrived:

  Postmarked 24 Oct 1984. Canton, OH

 Dear Susan,

 Okay, I’ll write first this time.

 How are ya kiddo? School sucks, but that’s to be expected. Do you have Mr. Parker this year? I hope so; I love seein people suffer.

 No, but seriously. (as I can be, which is not very)

 Utopia is a great band! Aren’t all these colors great?

How’s Klebby?

I heard you guys broke up, but if its none of my bus, that’s cool.

____________________________________________________________

Have a fun, productive, sexual, innocent, sweet wonderful year and write back soon.

 Ross

 No, I didn’t have Mr. Parker that year. In middle school I was offered the opportunity to join both the accelerated English and Math programs, but the school recommended that students not do both. I chose English, and shortly thereafter regretted my decision. So the summer after eighth grade, I took algebra in summer school in order to join my friends in the accelerated math program. It quickly became apparent that my summer school algebra was not enough to keep up in the accelerated math program, so instead I moved into the regular math series, but a year ahead of my classmates. As a junior, I had been in a classroom full of seniors.

 I already suffered through Mr. Parker’s trig class the previous year. Yes, I had to sit in the front row because my grades sucked. He loved assigning seats based on grades. After every major test, he had us stand up, line up around the walls of the room, and re-assigned our seats based on our new averages. What kind of sick mind enjoys that?  I passed Trigonometry with a respectable “C” and barely passed Functions – I scraped by with a “D” despite losing my temper and walking out of his classroom. But he and I came to an understanding at the end. The man enjoyed bullying his students. He hadn’t gambled on me badgering back.

 Senior year I had Mrs. Grandstaff. A group of us, who, for whatever reason still needed a math course; we weren’t taking AP Calculus but had already taken Mr. Parker’s Trig class. The Math Department invented “Discrete Math” for the fifteen or so of us. Somebody re-named the class GRAPES – an acronym for something obscure and irrelevant - and it stuck. I guess we learned some math, statistics is what I remember, something about Standard Deviation. That and ten factorial: 10! = 10x9x8x7x6x5x4x3x2x1 whatever you do with that.

 And yes, since Ross asked, David and I finally broke up. As friends having fun together, we chided each other when one of us goofed up, we were free to enjoy each others’ relationships with others, we rejoiced in the fun we shared together. But once we were dubbed boyfriend/girlfriend, expectations changed. We had to be jealous, we had to behave a certain way toward each other, we had to do certain things for or to each other because “that’s what boyfriends/girlfriends do.” We didn’t have the language to communicate our expectations; we couldn’t live up to what others expected of us; and we lacked maturity that allows us to ignore our peers and be content with our own way of doing things.

 To this day we still keep in contact. Erratically. I’ll shoot off an e-mail, he might or might not answer. He’ll send me a postcard every once in a while. I try to see him when I get back to Cincinnati, but it doesn’t always work out. I lost him for eight years. We needed to grow separately I suppose. When I started this project, I asked David about our break-up. He remembered his own version until I dug out an old letter he kept. He had the right issue on which we had different anticipations, just not the accurate perspective. We had great times together, but our intimacy ran its course. But we were just seventeen, and at that age hearts heal as quickly as they are injured. Or do they?

 I dream that he and I will reunite in the sunset of our lives. Each of our spouses long gone for whatever reasons, our children grown, we stay in the same retirement village, enjoying each others' company. Two old farts finally having some fun together.

 Just a freshman, Beth’s younger sister Mandy invited David to the fall SubDeb formal. At the time I was probably privately devastated, but put on a public face of bravado. If I didn’t babysit that evening, I likely made arrangements to go out with other girlfriends, taking in a movie or some such.

 Liz and I became better pals that fall. Neither of us had boyfriends at the moment and we reveled in “hubba-hubba hunting” – scoping out handsome hunks at public festivals. Like everyone else, Liz and I had known each other since elementary school. Like David and me, she has two older siblings – ten and twelve years older. She was yet another “last” child in our circle of friends. Liz has a phenomenal musical gift. With a BFA from Peabody Institute, today, she plays cello professionally. Back then her life was rehearsals, lessons, and performances. By senior year, she had struggled through and succeeded against several medical challenges – enduring wearing a back brace to correct scoliosis and working through hospitalization and therapy to manage anorexia. And at seventeen, a senior in high school, she was fit to party, and we had fun together. Because of her musical talent, she took lessons at the local music college, the University of Cincinnati Conservatory of Music. She made several friends who were enrolled, and they jokingly invited her to events on campus. We were bold, a tantalizing twosome, heading down to UC and crashing the frat parties more than once. (No we didn’t drink – we were too scared). How we stayed out of real trouble is beyond me.

 Since David and I went our separate ways, I was unattached, unfettered, and went out with whomever asked. I saw “The Graduate” with one guy. (Not a good “date” movie. I think I scared him sitting in the dark watching a young Dustin Hoffman be seduced by Mrs. Robinson.) I attended Corral functions by myself or with girlfriends.

 Victor drove home from Ohio State for a weekend and took me to see Pink Flamingos by John Waters. It was showing at the theater downtown – re-released for a limited showing. Victor called me up and invited me to go see it. It was the midnight (okay, so eleven o’clock) showing, and I had to ask my parents for special permission. They said, “Sure, if you want to.” Obviously they knew nothing of John Waters or Divine, much less Pink Flamingos. Whew! What a movie, “cult classic,” I guess. Totally and completely gross and disgusting, it is the loose story of trailer-park trash competing for the unlikely crown of filthiest people alive. With explicit references to incest, rape, drug use and abuse, shoplifting, the movie is Rated NC-17 today, and even Roger Ebert writes, “It should be considered not as a film but as a fact, or perhaps as an object.” Victor and I walked out of that movie a little dazed.

 I saw The Killing Fields five times that fall and winter. Liz, Erin, Shari, Valli, and Victor – all wanted to go to the movies, and after I saw the movie the first time, I was enthralled with the story. In the midst of Cambodia’s civil war, Dith Pran befriends Sydney Schanberg, an American reporter for the NYTimes. The movie is a testament to friendship, commitment and survival. I found it an inspiring story of the triumph of the human spirit. With serendipity, resourcefulness, and dedicated friends, a person’s will to live can survive anything. The movie fit with other survival stories I’ve encountered – Alive, the story of the soccer team that resorted to cannibalism to survive a plane crash in the Andes, any one of a number of Holocaust survivor stories, and later, Terry Anderson’s memoirs of his captivity in Lebanon. I didn’t mind seeing it the fifth time with Victor. He was annoyed with me, but I thought he should see it.

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