#declamatoriness

[rinshlv2nrlcsy]

Big tit THOTTY Teen Sydney Sky Loves Big Black Cock Of Dads Boss Mexican teen boys gay sex party first time Guy completes up with First time with Big Black Dildo and sucking cock Arthur Lust Busty big booded lesbian Indian girlfriend cum on her nipples Petite squirting teen Holly Hendrix hardcore anal Bucetinha gorda Chupando a buceta da amiga Maria Isabel milf super cachonda

[evilios]

ἱμερτός (himertos) - a poetic epithet given to Apollo and Dionysus with the meaning dear, desired, longed for, lovely.

[tanaudel]

Even when a movie or book hasn’t been great, I usually try to list 5 things I want to borrow & try.

Sometimes a significant proportion of that list is the texture in the end credit art.

[moorishflower]

A Fridge Full of Jam

Having a bad memory day today and so I wrote it out w/Dream

Sorry fav blorbo you get to experience the Horrors

He is walking back home from the park when he gets the text from Hob.

Cottage pie for din love

Could u pick up 1 large onion + sum garlic on way home? ta

Dream looks at the message. There is a corner market between where he currently stands, stock still on the kerb, and the New Inn, where Hob currently is. He could, quite reasonably, stop there and purchase the items that Hob has requested of him.

Another message comes through as he is contemplating.

Sum tomato paste too pls

I love you!

He finds himself smiling at this last text. Hob has had many, many years to perfect shorthand of all varieties, but he has never once shortened 'I love you.' It is always the full declamatory sentence, complete with full stop or exclamation. There is something heart-rendingly lovely about it.

Dream stops at the corner market on his way back. Hob has furnished him with an identity of his own, now that he is human, complete with debit card, and money to make purchases, and a driver's license that he still hesitates to make use of.

(He once knew how to operate a car in theory, but that, along with billions of years' worth of other knowledge, is one of the things lost to him now that he is human.)

The market is not busy this time of day. Summer has come upon London, blanketing the great city in a smog of humidity and incipient rain. It is the sort of weather to drive most people indoors, where they might at least seek the relief of a fan, but Dream is not bothered. He is cold, almost always, and it is during weather such as this that he is allowed the luxury of short sleeves. During weather like this, he takes long walks in solitude, and goes to the park to feed the birds, and sometimes there are other travelers to accompany him, but more often than not he is alone.

He prefers that, some days. The crush of humanity is not nearly so pressing now that he no longer contains all of its dreams and nightmares within his own head, but it is sometimes, still, overwhelming.

Dream checks his phone. One large onion, garlic, and tomato paste. Is there anything else that they need while he is here? Strawberry jam, perhaps. He eats it on his toast each morning, so they are bound to be almost out. There is a specific garlic-parmesan salad dressing that Hob likes, and which this market happens to carry. He picks up a bottle and puts it in his basket, along with a jar of jam. Do they have crisps at home? He thinks they do, but is it the sort that he likes, or is it the sort that Hob likes? Hob prefers sharp flavours. Tomato. Salt and cider vinegar. Dream enjoys simple fare. He picks up a bag of Walkers 'roast chicken' crisps and studies it, then drops it into the bag.

He moves down the aisle.

The clouds have broken by the time he leaves the market, though not for the better. Rain patters in the gutters, dampens his hair and sticks it to his skull as Dream hurries home, a shopping bag in each hand. The New Inn is not far, but it is far enough that he is wet through when he ascends the steps to its front door, stamping his feet to knock loose any mud or debris that might cling to his boots.

"Welcome to the–oh, hullo, Dream," the hostess says. She is a petite, smart young woman named Anne. Once, he would have known her greatest fantasies. Now Dream knows that she attends university at King's, and that she had Hob for one of her professors last term, and that she is somewhere in her early twenties...and that is all. "Out doing a bit of shopping?"

"Hob is making cottage pie," he tells her. She smiles. Hob's employees – they are not technically his employees, but they all refer to themselves as such – observe his relationship with the Inn's proprietor as though they are a much-beloved television show. It is strange, to be the subject of a story in which his own opinion is entirely unwanted.

"Enjoy," Anne says, and Dream nods at her, and ascends the stairs to the second floor, which Hob has claimed as his own. The front door is unlocked, and so Dream lets himself in.

"That you, love?" he hears, floating from the kitchen. Dream follows the sound of it, stopping in the doorway. Hob is there, standing over the stovetop, a pot of water boiling and the pale, oblong shapes of several peeled potatoes bobbing about within. When he looks up, he smiles. "'Course it is, you never answer right away."

"I will endeavor to do so in future," Dream says. He sets the bags on the table and begins to unpack them, laying the items he purchased in a neat row so that he may put them away with utmost expedience. Hob temporarily disengages from the stovetop to look over his shoulder.

"Jam?" he asks, reaching around Dream's hip in order pick up the jar. "We've already got jam."

Dream peers at it. He uses it so often. Every day. He tries to think of how much had been in the jar when he had taken it out of the fridge that morning, but draws a blank. "But...I eat it every day," he says. His voice, even to his own ears, has the unpleasant texture of a whine. Plaintive. Hob takes him by the hand and leads him to the fridge.

"See?" he says, and there, in the fridge door, is not only one, but two jars of strawberry jam. One is not even opened. "Remember? You bought more a week ago."

He does not remember. It had happened a week ago. Dream stares at the jars. His hands feel very loose; he is suddenly glad that it is Hob who is holding the new (the third) jar, because he thinks if it were him he would have dropped it by now.

"I...forgot," he says. In that moment, in the aisle, it had seemed impossible that they should have enough. He uses it every day. It had not even crossed his mind that he might have already bought some earlier.

"Hey," Hob says. "Come here. It's all right, yeah? We'll find a recipe to use jam. It's fine." He puts the jar down on the counter, and Dream finds himself being drawn into a hug. The kitchen is steam-warm, and Hob smells like raw potatoes and fresh herbs. Dream presses his nose to the curve of Hob's neck and blinks back useless tears.

"I forgot," he says again. Hob runs a soothing palm up and down his spine.

"You know," Hob says, "I read something the NHS published a bit ago...about how depression affects memory? Basically, how prolonged periods of, ah, stress and anxiety can stunt how your brain makes new short term memories?"

Dream tries to tug away, but finds himself held fast. Hob's hand splays flat against the small of his back.

"It's all right," he says. "It is. You were...I mean, my memories of after Robyn died are like Swiss cheese. And you had all that great big Endlessness to rely on before, but now...it makes sense, is all I'm saying. And it's all right."

Dream makes a sound – he is not wholly certain it is a dignified sound, nor good-tempered – and this time does not try to pull away, but buries his face into Hob's clavicle.

"How do you stand it?" he asks. He means the wild swing of moods. He means the instability. He means the being human of it all. But there is no easy answer to any of these questions. The shortest, of course, is 'you just do.'

"Lists help," Hob says. "Alarms. Things like that. And sometimes you just roll with the punches." He sways to the side, hooking his fingers around the jar of strawberry jam and making room for it in the fridge door. "Sometimes you've got three jars of jam."

(Later, when they are eating their cottage pie sans tomato paste, because Dream had remembered he liked roast chicken crisps but not the final thing that Hob had asked of him, he will try to reflect on the wisdom of this. Love, he will think, is an unlocked front door, a sentence with a full stop, and a fridge full of jam.)

[dionysus-complex]

you mentioned you specialize in roman violence. can you rec any good works on the subject, especially during the late antique period? how much (or little) time/writing did latin authors spend on the question of the necessity/morality/glory of violence, especially when bound up with empire and borders? did rhetoric around domestic violence evolve?

It's obviously a massive topic, so it's difficult to know where to begin! For looking at violence in Late Antiquity, I highly recommend the work of Maijastina Kahlos as a starting point - most of her scholarship deals with tensions between religious communities in the Roman Empire in Late Antiquity, and I've found it extremely clear and illuminating. For Late Antique slavery, I'd look at Jennifer Trimble's work, especially "The Zoninus Collar and the Archaeology of Roman Slavery" (2016, JSTOR link here). On the intersections of violence and the legal system, I'd recommend Sarah Bond's 2014 article "Altering Infamy: Status, Violence, and Civic Exclusion in Late Antiquity" (JSTOR link here) as well as Julia Hillner's 2015 book Prison, Punishment and Penance in Late Antiquity. Amy Richlin is essential reading on Roman violence in general, and I'd highly highly recommend her piece "Cicero's Head" in Constructions of the Classical Body (ed. James Porter, 1999) if you have access to an academic library and can get a hold of it; it's explicitly framed as a Jewish, post-Holocaust reflection on the violence of the Roman proscriptions and civil wars and has been profoundly influential on my own thinking.

In general, Imperial-era Latin authors spend a lot of time thinking about the necessity/morality/glory of violence, to the point that I'd say violence is the key theme in Imperial Latin literature. It's often bound up with Stoic philosophy (in the 1st-2nd c. CE; Seneca's De Ira is a key text - you might take a look at sections 3.18-19 on torture under Caligula), and given the bias of our sources which skew toward the elite/senatorial-class perspective, it can be harder to track down texts that explicitly make the link between violence and Roman imperium. One famous example is the speech of Calgacus in Tacitus' Agricola 29-32 (link to a translation here), which purports to be the speech of a Celtic general in Britain rousing his troops to battle against the Romans in the 80s CE. Given that speeches in Roman historiography are generally regarded as being compositions by the historian, it's important to ask why exactly Tacitus of all people gives a prominent place to a scathing critique of Roman imperium - there are lots of ideas on this and few definitive answers, but it's a startling passage to say the least.

Imperial Latin epic poetry (e.g. Lucan's Bellum Civile; Statius' Thebaid) is well known for being graphically violent in the extreme (as in brutal torture, dismemberment, and one infamous instance of brain-eating in Thebaid 8), and there's a lot of work on how and why violence becomes highly aestheticized for Imperial Latin poets. There's also the genre of Roman declamation (difficult to explain, but essentially something like mock trial cases that were used for rhetorical education and showmanship), which frequently explores extremely violent scenarios involving torture, kin-killing, etc. Most scholars these days tend to read declamation as a space where (elite, male) Romans worked out and interrogated various cultural anxieties and taboos. Because of this, you get some of the strongest condemnations of violence found anywhere in Latin literature in the declamatory corpus, but it's difficult to extrapolate from that because again it's something like mock trial and rhetorical showmanship that does not necessarily map on to real-life Roman attitudes.

I've barely scratched the surface and there's a lot more I could say but I'll cut myself off here - I might be able to offer more specific recs if you're interested in e.g. violence as spectacle, aesthetics and artistic representations of violence, etc.

[protemporescitor]

"But she ded tho" (a.k.a. the dumbest argument against Clerith) - A rant

To expand on my previous post, in which I posited the crazy, far-fetched theory that in a fantasy setting mayhap death is not the relationship brick wall that it would be in a more grounded, realistic one*, I just want to bring up a few points to further buttress this off-the-wall notion.

"Cloud can't be with Aerith. She's dead!"

We've all heard it a thousand times. It is the argument most commonly levelled against Clerith. It is also the worst (and laziest) one.

It's often delivered in a declamatory and glib fashion, as though it were some sort of obvious conversation ender. Q.E.D. End of debate. The ultimate gotcha. "Checkmate, Clerith fans!" the haters think to themselves, chortling and patting themselves on their backs for this profound insight. (Insert tasteless and juvenile comments about Aerith being "shish kebab-ed" by Sephiroth as desired.)

And all I can think is "That's it? That's your best argument? That's some weak tea, man."

Despite its myriad flaws, this idea continues to radiate throughout the fandom a good quarter century after the original title's release, as though it had never once been challenged. It is a feeble and untenable position, a house built on sand, and one that deserves to be thoroughly demolished. With Rebirth on the horizon, and all the shipping wars nonsense rising from the grave once more as a result, it is high time, if you'll forgive the expression, that we laid this cliché to rest once and for all.

(*Note: Even in a more "realistic" setting lacking any kind of fictional afterlife, this would still be a gross oversimplification of the story's themes of loss, regret, and yearning, as well as entirely ignoring the idea of love transcending death, but we'll set those concerns aside for the time being.)

Lastly, before we begin: This is not an anti-Zerith / CloTi screed. Those pairings both have an undeniable canonical basis. My aim here is simply to demonstrate that the notion that Cloud and Aerith are forever separated by death is rendered invalid by virtue of the type of setting that their story takes place in. (Something that, frankly, one would reasonably assume to be perfectly obvious. Alas, such is not the case. And so I find myself yet again pointing out the glaringly obvious.)

Now, without further ado, let's begin:

Part 1. Before (the Compilation) Crisis

In the beginning, there was the year 1997, and Squaresoft had just released their latest title. And lo, it was good. We spent days and weeks following our favorite polygon people around their embattled little globe. We fought, laughed, cried, and struggled up until the Meteor Crisis reached its crescendo, and the credits rolled. Gosh, what an ending! But what did it all mean? How did things REALLY turn out? Did we get a happy ending at all?

According to some, Cloud lived happily ever after with his childhood sweetheart, Tifa. According to others, he continued to roam the earth in search of his Promised Land to be reunited with his tragic lost love, Aerith. Yuffie swiped everyone's materia (again). Cid finally went to the moon. Red XIII opened a haberdashery in Costa del Sol, or something. No-one really knows for sure.

And so, the fandom began to spread to every corner of the internet in search of answers. Thus began the age of dissension. Opinions clashed across fanzines, blogs, and fanfic country alike. Wild fan theories abounded pertaining to special codes, methods, and blood rituals capable of bringing back our erstwhile flower girl. The fan-made media bubble surrounding the game turned into a lawless land of misinformation and vicious disagreement. None were spared.

A brief digression on why said rumours persisted for as long as they did (CAUTION: Massive spoilers for Chrono Trigger).

One side proposed a simple solution. A way to cut the proverbial Gordian Knot of our fandom. It was quite obvious, really. Just staring everyone in the face. The flower girl was dead, and that was that. Thus, there was only one possible conclusion to our narrative. Cloud's feelings on the matter were, of course, irrelevant. With Aerith out of the picture, the only logical choice left to him was to settle down with Tifa, and that was that. Never mind the themes of doomed, tragic love and the possibility, strongly hinted at throughout the game and outright confirmed during its ending, of existence after death.

Overall, direct evidence for said afterlife was scant, but not entirely absent from the story. As an example, at one point during her childhood, Aerith speaks to Elmyra, trying to comfort her, saying that the spirit of her husband wanted to come visit her, confirming that an afterlife presence did indeed exist. But for some, this simply wasn't evidence enough. And so the war raged on. Which brings us to…

Part 2. Advent Children: The smoking gun

Remember back when a certain portion of the fan base insisted that Gaia erased all the humans at the end of the story, on the flimsy basis that we don't see any during the game's brief post-credit scene? Well, that little theory was neatly undone by subsequent releases in the Compilation, showing regular ol' humans still roaming around Gaia in all their everyday human-ness. Hence, it is rarely brought up these days. Would that the pernicious notion of "but she ded tho" could follow in its footsteps, given that the same film roundly contradicts it in every way possible.

For starters, the film inexplicably bring two characters, Rufus and Tseng, hitherto assumed to be dead, back to life, probably in an effort by Square to shoehorn as many recognizable members of the cast into their animated feature as they could. But that's not all. Next we have three characters that everyone agreed were deader than doornails ALSO making appearances, first in flashbacks, and then directly influencing the world of the living. Zack speaks to and encourages Cloud during his struggle. Aerith reaches out to him (quite literally) from beyond the grave and assists him in defeating Bahamut. And of course Sephiroth pops back into existence just in time for his contractually-obligated boss fight near the end of the film. All three demonstrate quite clearly and definitively that death is not the impenetrable barrier to continuing interactions between the living and the dead in the world of Final Fantasy VII, as a certain segment of the fan base would have everyone believe it is.

To be blunt, I don't know what level of dense you'd have to be to keep up this so-called "argument" in light of this information. Advent Children reiterates what most of us already knew, that our story takes place in a fantasy setting* with a confirmed afterlife existence.

(*You'd think that the name of the series would clue people in.)

The notion that death represents, within the context of said setting, the ultimate end was already softly contradicted by the original game's narrative, and then (because that was apparently too subtle for some people) flat-out annihilated by the existence and events of Advent Children. It should have long since ended this nonsense. But somehow, it didn't. These revelations, obvious though they are, remain ignored for some reason. And so, the cycle of willful ignorance continues.

But we're not done yet. We now move on to more tangential, but still relevant arguments against this line of "reasoning".

Part 3. Stop Hitting Yourself: Why "but she ded tho" is insulting to everyone

And I do mean everyone. Let's examine this, shall we?

It's insulting to Cloud.

To suggest that he loses interest in Aerith the moment she sinks beneath the waters, or that he is obligated to move on simply because she is no longer among the living, with no mourning period, no time to work through his guilt and grief, is to portray him as shallow and uncaring, something that goes against virtually all the characterization that he's been given throughout the story. The line of thinking apparently goes "Well, she's gone. That sucks. She was cute, too. Better move on to the next available piece of meat."

Sounds pretty gross when you write the quiet part out loud, doesn't it?

It's insulting to Aerith.

"Didn't even toss the b@#h a Phoenix Down, just dumped'er in the water LAWL"

I'm sure you've all come across comments like that at some point, usually originating from some errant redditor or blogger. Thinking themselves fine fellows and enlightened, above-it-all gadflies, they provide us at length with this and other prime specimens of 14 year-old internet edgelord "humour" that carries about as much edge as a perfect sphere. Remarks like these serve little purpose beyond confirming my suspicion that our fandom is indeed plagued with illiterates who can't tell the difference between the terms "revive" and "resurrect", and insist on conflating game mechanics with storytelling. And you wonder why some people are confounded by words like "flammable" and "inflammable".

(All right, I'll put the salt down. For now.)

"The party's designated white mage dies, oh no, that's so sad, boo-hoo, life goes on," I hear you say.

But boiling Aerith's role down to one of merely that of a temporary party member who kicks the bucket halfway through the story, never to be heard from again, both cheapens her purpose within the larger narrative and denies the clear effect that she continues to exert, directly and indirectly, on it and the other characters after her passing.

Though Aerith may have departed the world of the living, the story makes it abundantly clear that her influence on it has not ended. There are hints here and there that she still tries to assist her friends from the afterlife. As an example, when the party rediscovers Cloud in Mideel after assuming that he might be lost for good, a villager sums it up best with the following remark: "That boy must have one hell of a guardian angel."

It's only mentioned as a vague hint in the original story, but it is clear that some beneficent force is acting on Cloud and Tifa's behalf, aiding them in their survival and uniting them in the Lifestream in order to help Cloud recover his memories. Later supplemental material confirms that to have been Aerith's doing. If that's not enough to convince you, though, the original game's ending leaves little room for ambiguity as to Aerith's continuing influence. When Holy sputters and fails, she coaxes the Lifestream itself to intervene, burning away the calamitous meteorite, helping her friends put an end to the planetary crisis long after her own demise. I suppose the lesson here for silver-haired godhead wannabe villains is this: Strike her down, and she shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.

So the idea that Aerith's participation in the story immediately comes grinding to a halt upon her death is both puerile and easily demonstrated to be false. But even if that were the case, downplaying her lingering influence on Cloud and the other characters in this manner would still be ignoring the creators' intent. Whether one interprets Cloud and Aerith's relationship as romantic or merely platonic, it is clear that her death, the loss of one of his closest allies, is something that wounds him deeply, and scars him forever. Two years on, he still pines for her company and desires her forgiveness for his perceived failures. She clearly occupies a special place in his heart, and her memory and legacy live on within him, spurring him on as he wanders the planet, searching for some way to meet her again, defying the impossible. (Which, as we all know, isn't going to happen. This is, after all, Final Gritty Reality we're talking about here.)

Ah, but all of this is a moot point, you say? Even if he did wish to be with her, preferring the company of the last Cetra over that of his childhood friend… well, too bad. That's no longer an option. We can spout all of this verbiage about "soul pain" this and "star-crossed lovers" that, but at the end of the day, Aerith is still dead, and that's that. At least, that's what ardent CloTi fans will insist, no matter what. So, what is Tifa to Cloud, then, by their own logic?

Which brings us to perhaps our most salient, and most overlooked point, at least as far as CloTi shippers are concerned. If all that wasn't enough for you, you may want to consider that it's deeply insulting to Tifa, as well. Grievously so, in fact. Quite possibly more so than any other character in this whole equation. And the reason why should be plain as day if you stop to think about it for a fraction of a second.

Here's the thing… if you can't articulate why you think Cloud would prefer to be with Tifa in spite of Aerith being alive, then you are essentially declaring her the "winner" by default on no other merits than the fact that she's still sucking down air. Stating "but she ded bro" means relegating Tifa to the role of a consolation prize. I don't think I could ever hurl such a staggering insult towards her as her biggest fans keep doing, without even realizing they're doing it.

Ask yourselves, is that really what you want for your supposed favourite character? To frame her as being doomed to eternally play second fiddle to her fallen friend? Cloud's "plan B"? The "side piece"? Someone who only stands a chance if her rival in love is literally six feet under? I'm sure she'd be thrilled by the high regard in which her own fans seem to hold her. (Hey, you said it, not me. It's not my fault if you don't take the time to actually consider the ramifications of what rolls off your keyboard. But by all means, keep insulting your own favorite character just to put down a ship you don't like.)

In closing, if we unearth the subtext and reframe it to highlight what people are, in essence, saying, it's this: "It's a good thing that she-who-shall-not-be-named bit the dust, because otherwise our beloved Best Girl Tifa (tm) wouldn't stand a chance."

It's a simple enough question: Why do you think that Cloud and Tifa belong together? What, in your mind, makes them a good fit for each other?

"Well, the competish is dead." ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Not exactly a ringing endorsement for your best girl, now is it?

Part 4. "Heads, I Win. Tails, You Lose": A brief word on hypocrisy

In fandom, it's often the loudest and most obnoxious voices who tend to drown out the more reasonable ones, those of fans who are just minding their own business and grooving on the thing that they like. Which, unfortunately, renders this next part a necessary component of the greater argument that I'm trying to make. Multishippers and sane, reasonable CloTi and Zerith fans may consider themselves exempted from the following harangue.

The rest of y'all, buckle up.

The too-oft repeated refrain of "but she ded tho" entails a twofold hypocrisy. The first part is:

Case of Tifa: Fan hypocrisy regarding death.

Strident anti-Clerith fans, with their usual level of maturity, will often bring up Aerith's demise in a gleeful, mocking tone that can best be summed up as "ding dong, the witch is dead!" And if the shoe were on the other foot? If their Best Girl Tifa (tm) were the one pushing up daisies instead of Miz Gainsborough? Would they be quite so cavalier in their attitudes?

Who wants to bet that these fans wouldn't be making this "argument" so loudly if it was their ship that was in question? Consider this scenario: Suppose that the remake trilogy does the unthinkable and has Tifa die in Aerith's place. What then? Would they accept that "but she ded tho" is, at best, a double-edged sword, one that applies equally to their own favourite ship were their fortunes to be reversed?

Something tells me that's not the case.

But if you think that's hypocritical, you ain't seen nothing yet. This first point pales in comparison to…

The Zerith Exemption: Fan hypocrisy regarding the afterlife.

You know what my favourite thing about this whole debacle is? When people inform me that because they are separated by death, Cloud and Aerith have no hope of ever being together again. They will then unironically pivot to shipping Zack and Aerith, two characters who are together in the MOTHERFUCKING AFTERLIFE.

It's wild. How do you even compress that much cognitive dissonance into one skull? We're talking about mind-melting, Olympic medal-worthy levels of mental gymnastics here.

Now, before someone accuses me of being morose, I'm not suggesting that Cloud hop off the nearest cliff just to be with his beloved (Aerith would not approve of him throwing his life away, for one), just that when he reaches the end of his natural life (which may not be too long, given the cells eating away at his body), he can finally be reunited with her in the afterlife.

Many ardent CloTi shippers see themselves as bound by law to uphold Zerith as a shield against the dreaded Clerith plague. But to proclaim, implicitly or explicitly, that the afterlife encompasses one but not the other is not an idea that can be taken seriously. It remains an utterly bizarre blind spot, one that beggars belief.

On a related note, there is the infamous misconception that is…

Part 5. The ZaCloud Fallacy

While this is not directly related to my main point, I nonetheless find myself compelled to address this issue. There is a long-standing confusion that bedevils our fandom, one that has its roots in the Shipping Wars (tm). I am, of course, referring to the ZaCloud Fallacy.

We owe this particular misapprehension to Crisis Core, a prequel/gaiden game that was released ten years after the original FFVII. Already, its existence can mess up the timeline, so to speak, as, strangely, people tend to treat it as a sequel rather than a prequel, and as though it were adding new and vital building blocks to the world of FFVII instead of merely distorting the original story while retreading it with a far less interesting cast of characters. It also retcons major elements of the original story that it shouldn't have (such as the events taking place in Nibelheim five years prior to the main narrative), lazily steals Clerith scenes only to rehash them with Zack and Aerith, and forces players to endure, at length, crimes against literature, courtesy of Genesis.

It's an odd prequel, to say the least, given how heavily it relies on the original story for context. Sequentially, it may take place before FFVII, but it can only be fully appreciated with the original in mind; it cannot be treated as a stand-alone story. The worst thing about Crisis Core existing is that playing it first can outright ruin people's perception of the original narrative by spoiling several major plot elements and even lessening them in the process. Crisis Core's writers are especially guilty of cheapening dramatic moments like Zack's last stand by transforming it from a quiet, tragic, harrowing scene about sacrifice to an utterly over-the-top and emotionally overwrought trainwreck. It all merely serves to add to the confusion, especially for gamers who started with this title instead of the original.

But if that were not enough, Crisis Core's reckless meddling with the story combined with the acrimonious and all-consuming nature of the shipping wars has resulted in one of the most nonsensical misconceptions in the entire fandom. During Crisis Core's ending, Zack implores Cloud to carry on his legacy, thus giving rise to the erroneous assumption that Cloud's behaviour in disc 1 is merely that of him "being Zack". Clerith-hating fans, in particular, pounced on this idea as a way to put a safe distance between him and Aerith, characterizing their interactions, whether platonic or romantic, as merely a case of Cloud utilizing Zack's memories and personality around her (Never mind that Zack and Cloud's personalities are as different as night and day).

It is a fundamental and willful misreading of the story, a gross oversimplification of a more complex and granular truth in service of a fan-originated meta-narrative, one that has been assembled in order to reach the conclusion that Cloud and Aerith's relationship is null and void, and that therefore the romance between him and Tifa remains unchallenged. (Never mind that the story is intended as more than just some playground tug-of-war romance). To maintain this lie is to do violence to the story by destroying Cloud's character arc and reducing him to a virtual non-entity until the very end of the game.

Having already been rebuked in regards to this pervasive delusion, certain fans have tried to hedge their bets by suggesting a second, more advanced version of this idea. ZaCloud Fallacy 2.0, if you will, which states that Cloud is only in Zack Mode (tm) when he's around Aerith. I don't even know what to say about that sort of nonsense. To paraphrase Charles Babbage, I am not able rightly to apprehend the kind of confusion of ideas that could provoke such an assertion.

I'd go into this in more detail, but YouTube creator LinkOnTheBrink has already covered this topic extensively in their superlative video essay "How Shipping Can Ruin a Narrative".

It may seem like I'm trashing Zack or Zerith here, but I'm really not. That was never my intent. So let me be clear about this: I like Zack. I just hate Crisis Core and what it's done to this fandom. If you prefer CloTi and Zerith to everything else, I don't much mind. Ultimately, this isn't about shipping wars nonsense, but protecting the narrative from such nonsense.

And that leads us to…

Part 6. I Against I: Where the fandom went wrong

We all know that the infamous FFVII Shipping Wars (tm) are as stupid as they are inescapable. Anyone who's spent any time at all within this fandom has inevitably run afoul of them and their detritus at some point, whether they've chosen to participate in them or abstain from the whole debacle. But there's a reason why this acrimonious dispute has raged on for as long as it has. Much like Blade Runner fans would argue until they were blue in the face about whether or not Deckard was a replicant, fans of this story have been squabbling about CloTi versus Clerith for ages for similar reasons. (Zerith got roped in as a "political wedge", I would argue, as much as a pairing in its own right.)

It's more than just a war over shipping, it's a war over canonization, over character motivation and psychology. Of how we ultimately interpret the story and its characters. Given the vagueness of the story's ending, one can't help but wonder and speculate as to how everyone ended up afterwards. (Advent Children and Dirge of Cerberus may have offered some answers, but they still largely sidestep these questions in a noncommittal, to-be-continued manner.)

The problem is that, for many fans, it isn't possible to simply say "It's my preference" and be done with the matter. Unlike most rarepairs and bananas pairings like Cait x Jenova, CloTi and Clerith remain hotly contested because they go beyond mere shipping, or even aesthetic preference, or which characters one most identifies with; they lie at the core of how we perceive the story and its inhabitants. In that sense, I don't consider it to be an entirely frivolous debate, just an unsolvable one.

So, what's the answer?

There's this long-standing piece of received wisdom about JRPGs vs. WRPGs, where the latter involves more freedom at the expense of focused storytelling, and vice versa. This idea might hold true to some extent, but it is not some iron law that must be obeyed without question. For a game like FFVII, choices that radically affect the narrative structure would be considered an aberration and not the norm. And yet, it might represent the only way out of this quagmire that doesn't involve throwing half the fandom under the bus in the process.

For me, Mass Effect and similar titles (e.g., Quest for Glory) have already presented an obvious solution: Let the players choose. (There is already some precedent in the form of the Gold Saucer scene, although it ultimately doesn't change the outcome of the story all that much.) It may not be a perfect solution, but I'd argue that it's far better than leaving one side out in the cold. At least this way, everyone gets something.

"Ah, but this is not feasible," I hear you respond. "Not for an Eastern-style RPG, at least. Only one of these pairings can be correct, and one must, above all, respect the creator's vision."

Yeah, look where that got us.

Part 7. As You Like It: Ship whatever you please (just stop this nonsense)

I realize that this little essay of mine has been digressive, rudimentary, rambling, extemporaneous, and scattershot. So let me try to reach some kind of meaningful conclusion here.

Much of this anti-Clerith rhetoric we've seen over the years seems to stem from a place of insecurity, whether it's murmuring "but she ded tho", claiming that Cloud was only ever Zack in disc 1, inventing a fictional sex scene underneath the Highwind from whole cloth, and so on… The thing is, there is no need for it. Clerith and CloTi both exist canonically. Even the game manual says as much, describing Cloud, Tifa, and Aerith's relationship as a love triangle. In other words, the love triangle is what's canon, and the rest is by and large up for interpretation. (Zerith also canonically exists, and we've known this since the OG.)

The true reason why this whole disagreement has gone on for eternity, I suspect, has less to do with any debate over canonicity alone than it does the sheer enmity and pettiness that it has continued to spark for so long. It has metastasized over the years, going from being a mere squabble over which pair is canon to an exercise in holding the other side in contempt. That endless cycle of disrespect and reprisals is undoubtedly where it all went wrong in the first place. (If I had a nickel for every time someone commented "but she ded tho" or "wHy iS zAcK bLoNd iN tHiS pIc?" when someone posts a piece of Clerith fan art, I'd have a pretty nice collection of coins by now.)

Obviously, we should all try to just click off when we encounter content that we dislike, but it's not always easy, especially when something we harbour a strong aversion to is so deeply enmeshed within something that we do enjoy. And so, our fight-or-flight instinct kicks in. Before you ask, yes, I'm as guilty of that as anyone else.

Still, I firmly believe that the occasional olive branch can go a long way. So let me simply say that I have the utmost respect for Tifa and Zack. They are worthy characters in their own right. So create and share all the CloTi/Zerith fan works your little hearts desire. Hire a fleet of skywriters to declare Zerith your favourite couple. Throw a giant CloTi parade through the middle of Times Square. We don't mind. Honestly.

As stated above, whether it's CloTi, Clerith, or Zerith, you can stop fretting over which one is canon; they all are. The other three permutations (Zakkura, Zifa, AerTi) don't get much in the way of canon acknowledgement, but they probably should at this point.

In the end, this is about saving the narrative from the shipping wars, as much as anything else. To say that you prefer CloTi or something else to Clerith is fine. To assert that Clerith doesn't exist in any form, however, is where I begin to take exception.

Ultimately, I say ship what you like. All I ask is that you retire this sort of narrative-wasting nonsense. It's time we threw it into the garbage can of gaming history where it belongs. As for questions of motives, character interpretation, canonization, and so forth… if we cannot reach an accord, then let us at least try for a more amicable disagreement.

As for my fellow Clerith supporters, the next time you see the withered old canard that is "but she ded tho" being bandied about in the wild, feel free to laugh and treat it with the derision and contempt that it so richly deserves.

[scarlettsandmaroons]

midnights like this | n. romanoff

about me | series masterlist | natasha romanoff masterlist

pairing: professor!natasha romanoff x collegestudent!reader

chapter three | chapter four: he is sunshine

chapter summary: your mother was crazy. and when the realization of something you long denied, defended even, hit you, your first instinct was to leave, and drink until midnight. it didn't occur to you that you might run into the woman who took a share in making your life miserable.

warnings: a more dig into the evident mommy issues; a fight with your terrible mother, curse words, kind of long, unedited.

a/n: here's the long awaited update. i don't think it's as good as expected for a chapter that took too long to be uploaded, but I PROMISE YOU IT GETS BETTER. anyways, i'm sorry it took so long! christmas break is right around the corner, and i had to get so much done.

your mother once slapped you so hard your vision went black for 5 seconds. that was over the peanut butter she had you look for but couldn't find. she got so mad at you, she hit you. you were five that time. 

growing up, you always tried to find a way to hold some grudge against your mother. one would say it's easy. she hits you everyday; every chance she gets, and you would be stuck with the bruises she left you for the next day until she gives you new ones. 

she yells at you, always. never had she not yelled at you for anything. she brought home weird guys who you'd often catch her have sex with in the kitchen. she embarrasses you. she once flashed your neighbors in anger as if her boobs would prove a point.

she manipulated you. gaslighted you into doing everything for her. from picking up her drugs from her dealer, to dropping it off to her boyfriend's house. 

you were a kid. that was your life everyday from when you learned how to walk, until you met billy in fourth grade. 

you can't really hate your mother though. she was an addict. she's a drunk. for a while, you two lived in her van which she filled of off with weed and beer. she hurt you in every way that a mother can possibly a child. she was terrible. and you hate her for that. but sometimes, there's a thought that tugs at the back of your mind, a feeling that you're being illogical. that you're being unfair. she was an addict. she needed help. why would i hate someone who needed help?

but you needed help too. away from her. but you can't. you're stuck with her. who would possibly look after her. 

you promised yourself you'd do good in school. she hurt you everytime you don't. so you can get out of there and be on your own. you knew she'd hurt you if she saw your grades. 

you were holding your report card in your hand, and mrs. romanoff did fail you. until you saw it, you held onto that small ounce of hope that she's only doing everything to scare you, to humiliate you. you hoped she wouldn't follow through. you prayed your friend's little outburst at least defended how dedicated you are; how much of a good student you are. 

of course, to pray that she was like those professor in movies who beat you to shape by humiliating you, but reaches an arc where becomes proud of you for whatever kind of declamatory speech you give them, might be a little too much. it should be enough that you're still here a week later. not suspended, not expelled, still here.

but it never hurts to hope. 

well, it does—when you hope a little too much. the disappointment hurts. when you dream a little too high, and suddenly, you come crashing down, it hurts. 

"at least she's your only failing grade," billy's eyes stayed on the paper you gave him which your professor took the liberty of laminating. you have this theory that she only did that to emphasize—to immortalize the only two failing grades you have, both from her, among your otherwise "straight a student" grades. but that just made you all the more disappointed which is a feeling you share with billy. 

neither of you were disappointed of you, of your performance. your sleepless nights, and your caffeine-induced body did not deserve a below 50% grade. you were disappointed of how little to none your efforts did in persuading mrs. romanoff. of course, you didn't persuade her. you basically yelled at her. but still, if she had only let you leave when you asked her to, you wouldn't have resorted to barging in her office and invading her space by accusing her. but you were even more disappointed of how little your efforts in her class weighed in on your grade.

"i mean, she is a terrible professor," she's not. she is terribly good. "that's a lie. she's just a bad person." 

billy groaned frustratingly. "she's not though!" he insisted. "she is a good person." 

billy always came to defend mrs. romanoff. despite having barged into her office, pointing fingers at her, and calling her biased, he never lets you think she is a bad person. he defended her. and maybe that's why you have this small hope within you that maybe, just maybe; she's kind. she's nice. and from what you've heard, she is. from what he told you, the little boy who was "auntie nat's little bill", she is nice. just not to her students. and especially, not to you. 

the both of you continued walking even as he dropped his hands to his sides. "if she were, she wouldn't give a student whose life almost revolves around her subject, a failing grade," you argue. "not even just a failing grade. the failing grade." 

"she is a good person. i grew up with her. she was auntie nat. and eventually—" 

"maybe she doesn't have a family," you theorized. you said it as if it were some massive discovery, which if you turn out to be right, might just be one. if she turns out to be a sad lonely woman then it might explain why she's been so hard on her students. on you. 

"she does!" 

"i just don't understand why she's targeting me—why she seems to be targeting me," you sighed out in deep frustration. "what is it with me. why me?" 

you've been walking around campus for a while. that's always been your bonding with billy. you two like to walk, to tire yourselves. it's always better than spending money for the same purpose: to hang out. 

and then you dropped everything, even billy. "mrs. maximoff?!" you were sure your scream echoed through the hallway of the left wing and into the offices of your professors as all regard for absolutely anything was washed away by the sight of a brown-haired woman who was striking through the hallway as if she owned the place. you ran to her, and she was quick to open her arms wide to welcomed you into a hug. you were much excited to see her than her own son. 

your nose nuzzled through the crook of her neck. you inhaled her, you took her in and her motherly warmth. how you've missed her. she was your second mother. she was your mother. being with her, seeing her, hugging her filled the gap in your heart. the void left by your own mother. 

mrs. maximoff wrapped you in a tight hug. "y/n, oh how you've grown!" she says, pulling you away by the shoulders so she can let the image of you sink in. and then she pulled you in her arms again, "i missed you so much." 

your heart screamed of so much joy while your arm clung to billy's mother. you toured the university, gone through every hallway, every crevice. and while billy walked almost dreadfully slow behind the two of you, the most special women in his life walked gleefully in front of him as they shared laughter and stories. 

"will you be going back to your revenge hair though?" you asked. "oh!!! i would love to see it. please go back to your revenger hair." 

"i might when i get divorced again." 

she laughed and continued on your conversation. she invited you out for lunch, and then for a stroll down the park, and after your second class with mrs. romanoff, you find her waiting for you outside with a smile on her face. 

it almost made you cry, how appreciative she was of you. she was more of a mother to you that day than your mother ever was. you spent the entire day together, at some point losing billy but not entirely caring. she continued on listening to your stories, encouraging you to go on. 

she knows your situation with your mother. for almost the entirety of your childhood, you stayed in the maximoff household because yours was too dysfunctional for a kid. she took you in until your mother broke up with her boyfriend and demand that you return. 

you hadn't seen mrs. maximoff until now. 

"what if you stay with us tonight?" 

your day with mrs. maximoff ended when you had reached the gate. she held you by the shoulders and looked at you with hopeful eyes. "i don't want our day to end. if it were up to me, i'll keep you forever!" she says. 

you laugh at her, forcing your arms to tangle against hers so you too can hold her by the shoulders. 

"what weird mother-daughter ritual is my mother forcing on you now?" you ignored billy's comment as he approched you. 

"i'll ask my mother." you say. neither you or mrs. maximoff acknowledged billy who was almost forcing himself to be seen.

"i'll prepare the guest room." 

"hello, yoo-hoo. am i invisible or something?" billy waves a hand in between the both of you, to which his mother only scoffs at annoyed.

"oh shut up, billy." mrs. maximoff says playfully.

billy frowned as he dropped his shoulders and slouched. "but i thought you came here for me!" 

"sure. anyways," his mother looked back at you. you were sure going to tease him about how you'd always been the favorite child later. "i'll make your favorite!" 

you laughed. "i think the last meal you remember to be my favorite was cotton candy with pop rocks." 

"true." she clings her arms with yours again. closing the gap between you, and the space to which billy can squeeze in. "but i hear a lot about you, so you should trust me." 

you looked at billy behind you and flashed him a playful glare. "what have you been telling mrs. maximoff!" 

"mama, dear. call me mama." 

you melted. 

your mother never lets you call her mom. at first, not in public. and eventually, not even when you two are alone. so to say you had a bad mother, was an understatement. you didn't have a mother at all. 

and somehow, for the first time since you left billy's house, you feel like you did.

"mom!" 

your loud angry call echoed around the walls of your two-floored house. but somehow, the squelching sound of your mother eating out the face of some man against the wall of the staircase was louder. 

you could feel yourself shrinking. not only was your house a terrible mess, your 40 year old, alcohol-reeked, duster wearing, mother was also grinding her every bit to the man who seems so closely your age. 

clothes scatter on the floor. dirty plates, peeking from the arc of your living room where it's stacked near the couch. nothing is where it should be. there were shoes everywhere; trash on the floors. 

you spent your whole teenage years living in this dump. at some point, you stopped caring. but mrs. maximoff...

her house had always been so cozy. so neat. it was never messy. she made sure that it was clean, and tidy, but never so much that it looks like a showroom. she made sure it felt like a home, that it felt like people lived in it. she had each member of the family incorporated in her house, from using her children's kindergarten artwork as decoration, to using their favorite colors as the scheme for her home. 

it always smelled like roses, and tuberose, and fancy hotel bathrooms in her house. everything is where it should be. and they're a functional family. mrs. maximoff, although going through a rough patch with her husband, had always been so loving, so kind. she is a good mother. 

nothing about billy's family is similar to yours. not that you had a family in the first place but god did you wish you did. 

"god, mom! stop!" you scream again. your head shaking from the sheer force of your voice. 

you felt mrs. maximoff's hand on your shoulder. for a moment, you weren't sure if she was taking pity. seeing the state you'd lived in for years, does she feel sorry for you? 

if she did, you'd hate her. 

"y/n, dear. i'll talk to your mother." she whispered softly. "go upstairs."

"oh perfect, sweetie, you're here. meet my new boyfriend." your mother said with pride as she moved away from the boy so slowly as if basking in the feeling of getting caught. 

"janet, please," mrs. maximoff pleaded. 

"wanda, sweetheart, are you here to take my daughter again?" your mother slowly walked down the stairs, her hand waving in the air until her fist slammed against the wall, "because no!" she yelled. her eyes dark, and angry. and then she laughed again. like a maniac, a psychopath. 

her eyes were red and puffy, and her cheeks were deeply hollowed from drugs. the way she looks now would have never lead you to believe that she was once a scientist two decades ago.

her last study was of quantum physics. she and her husband, hank pym, got so far into the study that they, at some point discovered a way into the quantum realm. 

that was around the time her first daughter was born. hope van dyne. after the discovery of the quantum realm, your mother wanted to go into it. to further their research. to go inside it. the obsession she had over the study, her life long work, made her a negligent mother and wife. 

hank left her with hope. with a note, of all less. and he took everything. 

she told you that when you were five and she got so high she couldn't make it passed the porch so you laid down with her. suddenly, all of it made sense. it shouldn't to a five year old, but it did to you. she wasn't crazy. not a scientist turned crazy. but a woman who lost her family. 

"mom..." you called out. 

"don't!," she yelled, taking you aback to which mrs. maximoff quickly pulled you behind her. "call me mom!" she breathes out. and suddenly, with a calm and composed demeanor, like a switch inside her flipped, she smiles, "call me janet, dear."

she continued to advance towards you. very slowly, it scared you. "janet, you're not well—"

she slapped mrs. maximoff. 

it was so loud, so hard, it echoed around the whole house. it rung in your ear, and you felt it in your chest. 

at that moment, you understood why hank left her. why he pursued the study on his own. why her kid never called her. she was crazy. that's why her family left her. 

you couldn't for years because you felt sorry for her. for the way she lost everything. but now you see how she deserves it. 

you had to leave.

at least, tonight. 

so you did. you pulled away from mrs. maximoff's grasp and took a cab to the farthest pub you can afford to pay him to take you to. 

you weren't sure if you were allowed to be served a drink. but when the bartender saw your teary eyes, and your severely worn out state, he didn't question anything. instead, he served you a drink you didn't really asked for, and continued to until midnight, when you had a couple and could barely stay on the stool without almost falling off. 

the bartender had to hold you by the shoulders on multiple occasion to make sure you didn't fall down. yet, you continued drinking until your mind was so fuzzy, you couldn't even hold yourself up so you had to lay your head on the counter. 

you raised a finger, and in quite a declarative tone, said, "another on—" 

but you were cut off. "that's enough for her, thank you." the woman says with nonchalance. "i'll pay. do you take card?"

you recognized that voice. though, your very blurry vision and barely opened eyes only allowed your sight a view of the woman's waist and the line between her red top and her skirt, you knew who that was. 

"mrs. romanoff!" you said with what your intoxicated brain made it seem to be such a great discovery. "what are you doing here?" 

"you're too young to drink, aren't you?" she says, placing something inside her clutch, while you force yourself to sit up. "on a school night too."

"why do you care?" you say, looking up.

"i don't." 

she was standing beside you, towering over you. despite the blurriness, you can still see her eyes as clearly as ever. she had these deep set of green eyes that you'd never ever want to look away from. the kind that pulls you in. she pulls you in. even when she's scary. even when she humiliates you. somehow, she's still so... beautiful.

how can such a beautiful person be so mean.

"why do you hate me so much?"  you ask. 

"i don't hate you."

"why are you targeting me? i might not be excelling in your subject, but i'm better than others. i don't see anyone else receiving a failing grade, so why are you targeting me?" you were practically yelling at her, exactly the way that billy did. you wanted to tell her how shitty your life was. you wanted to give her a rundown of everything that happened to you. you wanted to tell her that your life was already shit, to ask her why she has to make it worse. why were you given a life like that? a professor like her? why you?  "why me?"

"because you make it so easy,"  she says casually.

you sighed, looking away and slouching against the marble counter. "that's just mean." you say."you're mean." 

"what do you want me to do about it?" 

"i want you to be nice."

"how."

there was a pause. you might be pushing it. but you were drunk. you had a shitty day. you don't care if you even get kicked of the school. your life was already shit, it would only be shittier, and when you grow up from a life like that, you stop even hoping for anything to get better.

"billy tells me your nice in your house. outside of school. do that to me..." 

"do what to you?"

"say hi to me. greet me. cook me eggs. stroke my hair, love me." you looked back at her with pleading eyes. you didn't know what you were asking for, only that you so desperately wanted her respect, even her validation; to be seen, and treated like a human being she actually acknowledged, that you were begging her to do just that. "treat me as if you live with me. find it in your heart to love me. so it will be easier for you to be nice to me." 

"you want me to be nice to you that much?" 

she continued looking down at you. she didn't sit down. she just looked at you, her body merely a few inches away from you that you'd gotten more drunk on her scent than you did on alcohol. 

"yes." 

she smelled like rose water, vanilla, and cherries. she smelled so good. you wanted to get drunk on her forever.

"okay."

[campgender]

In this era of post-feminism, the utterly reasonable claim that women should be afforded sexual freedom – that they should be able to declare their desire loudly, to be perverse and lustful and up-for-it – slid into the more dubious insistence that women are and must be so. And something of this insistence – that in the name of sexual equality, women must hold their end up and be assertive, declamatory, unashamed – found its way into the affirmative and enthusiastic consent initiatives.

Critics then and now – Katie Roiphe and Laura Kipnis among them – have worried about the sexual timidity and fear conjured within consent culture. I’m arguing instead that the current consent rhetoric has taken something from post-feminism’s positioning of sexual uncertainty and fear as abject – from its framing of sexual hesitation as belonging to history. To be a contemporary and empowered sexual subject in consent culture, one has to be able to speak one’s desires out loud with confidence. Silence does not belong with us here; it belongs to the past and to the abject female subject of yore.

from Tomorrow Sex Will Be Good Again: Women and Desire in the Age of Consent by Katherine Angel

[invisibleicewands]

Michael Sheen explores the art of acting.

One night in March 1906 an actor gave a not-very-good performance.

Nothing particularly unusual about that – it happens, according to your taste, all the time.

But this actor was Constantin Stanislavski. He had already played a decisive role in forging a new kind of theatre company, the Moscow Art Theatre – a tightly disciplined, dedicated ensemble with high production values. The MAT also established its own approach to acting – away from the declamatory, melodramatic style of the day and towards something more emotional, more naturalistic, something possessing, as Stanislavski might have put it, inner truth.

But on that night in March 1906 his own inner truth, he felt, was lacking.

The crisis this triggered in Stanislavski – the Stockmann crisis, as it’s sometimes called (Stanislavski was performing the role of Dr Thomas Stockmann in Ibsen’s An Enemy of the People) – prompted him to retreat and revise his firmly-held ideas on acting – as he did throughout his life – and to begin formulating what became known as the System: a codified way for actors to create believable, authentic, naturalistic characters night after night.

Stanislavski’s ideas have been passed like a baton down the generations since, with subsequent acting teachers adapting and modifying his ideas in different ways. They’re still part of the bedrock of acting training today.

Michael Sheen explores Stanislavski’s ideas, with writer Isaac Butler, actors Adrian Lester and Simon McBurney and legendary acting teacher Patsy Rodenburg.

Isaac Butler’s history of Stanislavski and the Method is called 'The Method: How the Twentieth Century Learned to Act'.

[burlveneer-music]

The Sorcerers - I Too Am A Stranger - new album of cinematic Ethio-jazz from ATA Records

I Too Am A Stranger was recorded at ATA Studios by the core Sorcerers trio, featuring the compositional vision and timeless lines of bassist Neil Innes, truly rare grooves from drummer Joost Hendrickx (Gott Street Park, Eddie Chacon) and a little cosmos of tones and melodies from reed/flute/vibes/keyboard player Richard Ormrod. Up-and-coming Leeds trumpeter Olivia Cuthill was chosen to augment the brass sections, and regular collaborator Danny Templeman fills out the percussion palette. As ever, the Ethiopique sound is front and centre, as evidenced in flute features Bebaynetu and Kid Mahout, and the final track, alto sax feature She Who Perceives The Sounds Of The World. Beyond the Addis influences, I Too Am A Stranger references other unique and striking sounds that have always enthralled members of the ATA family: the declamatory baritone sax-heavy chanbara soundtracks of Fumio Hayasaka [Yasuke In Roppongi, Oromo Moon], the fuzzed-out vibes sound of Vibrafinger-era The Stark Reality [side openers The Warrior Code and He Who Kills With One Leap], and Moondog’s popping woodblocks [Moth, The Road Forward]. Comprised of multi-instrumentalist and label boss, Neil Innes, drummer Joost Hendrickx and fellow multi-instrumentalist Richard Ormrod. The band was conceived after Neil (with former band member, Pete Williams) wrote and produced some Ethio-inspired music intended for release as a 7" single. The music garnered such a popular response that they developed the sound further before recording the debut album The Sorcerers. Emboldened by the success of their initial venture, the band dived deeper into the rich Ethio-inspired soundscape, crafting a truly unique identity. The Sorcerers pay homage to the rich history and cultural significance of this influential style of music while bringing their own unique energy and perspective to the table. The culmination of this artistic exploration is their eagerly anticipated third album, "I Too Am A Stranger." 

[chthonic-cassandra]

As a consequence, the actor is led to experience something like the authentic Macbeth miasma: he is haunted by others even when he is alone; he is alone even when he is with others; he is secure only in being unreachably cut off; he denies it all (because lying to others) even as he confesses it (because speaking to himself). What is at stake, therefore, is both a manner of acting (how declamatory, knowingly false, mock-theatrical, pleading, uncertain, etc.) and, embodied in this acting, a state of mind. Above all the part is written - and must be acted - in a style that is very finely tuned to the ironies that can mediate speaking: how one may in different moments be differently revealed to or concealed from oneself.

Simon Palfrey and Tiffany Stern, Shakespeare in Parts

[richmond-rex]

It is not generally known that William Caxton sued for pardon following the abortive gentry rebellion against the Crown in October 1483 [...] Caxton's pardon of 1484 invites a reappraisal of his career. It sheds light on his activity as a mercer and diplomat, his close connections with power and patronage and his own vulnerability, through his ties with the Woodvilles, during a period of upheaval. While the death of Rivers and the ensuing events saw Caxton lose valuable custom, after Richard's death he again secured royal and noble patronage which increased the press's output. In a political context Caxton's complicity in the rebellion of 1483 should not be ruled out. In view of his position at Westminster it would be naive to assume that he could have been wholly unaware of the revolt. While there is no evidence to suggest that Caxton was actively involved in sedition, nonetheless his patronage during the period focuses attention on the nature of his publications.

— Louise Gill, William Caxton and the Rebellion of 1483 | The English Historical Review

Like Blanchardin and Eglantine, others of Caxton's works from the period reflect the same milieu and emphasize intrigue, corruption and the politics of disaffection, which mirror in some measure the interests of the market. Knight of the Tower, which he dedicated to Elizabeth Woodville, draws attention to the sequence of events set in train by Richard and has clear parallels with the dynastic manoeuvre which united the houses of York and Lancaster. Curial, translated by Caxton at the request of Rivers and published after Richard III's accession, might also be said to offer commentary on the politics of the period. From the late fourteenth century, its theme deals with court and country, courtier and gentleman; the one, debased and superficial, the other depicting the 'true and rightful life'. Significantly, it left the press when the household was in disarray, with many of Edward IV's own courtiers and servants in exile abroad or at home. Dedicated to Richard III and commissioned by a squire, the Order of Chivalry, a declamatory work calling for the restoration of knightly duties and virtues, is perhaps another interesting choice in the context of the times.

[crazy-so-na-sega]

Senza dubbio, "il Progresso" e "la Civiltà" possono fare un eccellente effetto in certe frasi tanto vuote quanto declamatorie, adattissime a impressionare la folla, per la quale la parola serve più a supplire la mancanza di pensiero che a esprimerlo [...]

-René Guénon

[doomedandstoned]

GOAT MAJOR Unveils Stoner-Doom Gem, “Evil Eye”

~Doomed & Stoned Debuts~

By Billy Goate

All morning I've been rocking out to the dark, doomy sounds of GOAT MAJOR, a UK stoner-doom band hailing from Wales. In November, they gave us an introduction to their sound with the three-track EP, 'Evil Eye' (2023), and now the band's full-length album 'Ritual' (2024) is slated for a March release on Ripple Music.

The album is a rip-roaring romp through a Gothic graveyard full of occult secrets, in the vein of Black Sabbath and Early Man. The songs are tight, with an unrelenting energy and a good balance between riff, rhythm, and vocals. Definitely fitting for the eternal blackness of these long, wet, cold winter nights.

"Evil Eye" (whose music video premieres today) begins with a fiendish slow 'n' low guitar motif that leads into declamatory verses with some unsettling dissonance. The riff returns and when it does, you may feel a sweet note of relief. There are some painfully beautiful harmonies between guitar and bass, swirling arpeggios, and a chorus that is both badass and lovely. A doom-worshiping gem!

Look for Ritual by Goat Major on March 8th, in what portends to be another big year for Doom. Stick it on a playlist with Green Lung, Freedom Hawk, and Beastmaker.

Give ear...

SOME BUZZ

Captivating audiences with their fuzzed-out steamroller sound, devastating riffs, creepy and haunting melodies driven on by aggressive grooves and sophisticated fills, Goat Major set themselves up as a formidably earth-shattering newcomer in the British stoner and doom metal scene.

Following the 2022 release of their occult-laden "Ritual" video and numerous club and festival performances in the UK, the trio have recently signed to Ripple Music and released their debut EP 'Evil Eye' on all streaming platforms on November 10th, 2023. They are now getting ready to unleash their occult spells upon the world with their debut album 'Ritual' in the dusk of winter 2024.

Follow The Band

Get Their Music

[the-consortium]

Yo, not gonna lie. I think Fabius is really handsome.

"Do you think the Harlequins are crazy?" Saqqara doesn't bother to slowly and systematically introduce Arrian to his thoughts. Without any preliminaries, he strolls into the atrium, where the World Eater is staring intently at a vine with finger-length, poison-dripping thorns, as if he could change anything about the plant by sheer force of thought.

"Of course they're crazy. That's a prerequisite for the followers of their god. Tzeentch looks like an under-complex country bumpkin in comparison." Arrian tries not to get distracted. He raises a pair of tweezers in the direction of a flower, which turns vigilantly to face him. But of course he is curious. "Why exactly this time?"

Saqqara holds out the datapad, reads the sentence of the anonymous message aloud, declamatory. He then waits, holding his pose as if expecting applause or some form of approval from his friend.

Arrian straightens up, takes a step away from the deceptively calm plant. "Hm. That's very strange indeed." - "Exactly! What's wrong with them?" - "Well, I wouldn't call it wrong. After all, he looks just as pretty as the rest of Fulgrim's sons when he's fresh."

Saqqara waves his hand. "Yes, but you always get the whole package with him! And that's always pretty worn down at some point sooner than later!" - "Maybe that's what they find attractive?" - "The worn down part?" - "No, the constant change. That he doesn't stay the same. It's certainly an exotic concept for Eldar. And for Eldar who live to turn stories into reality and mould protagonists for them, he's probably the sexiest man who ever lived because of that! He can and will be anything."

Saqqara stares at Arrian for a while. Several emotions cross his face. In the end, astonishment turns into reluctant approval. He nods slowly. "Yes, somehow that would fit their logic."

He shrugs devotedly. "Alright, so we're actually working for the prettiest Astartes to ever wear Fulgrim's Gene-Seed!"

Arrian laughs softly, shakes his head in amusement and goes back to tending to the aggressive plant.

[cleverthylacine]

I’m moderately surprised that Soundwave doesn’t get femme-coded more: we’re talking a character who (at least G1) carries a brood of minions around in an internal cavity. (Also, have you ever heard the Mandarin dub? They play the character as a declamatory Beijing Opera baritone,)

I see him get femme-coded often enough but it's much more interesting to me when he isn't for this exact reason.

Let Soundwave be a nurturing dude 2k23!!!

My fics were also originally based in the continuity (IDW1) where the cat and the birds are his fully sapient adult friends, and the cat, Ravage, is another neurodivergent person who helped him deal with his own neurodivergence. In my fic'verse, Ravage is Soundwave's conjunx (romantic partner/spouse) and they do fun things with his telepathy, and their complementary sensory acuities and sensory processing disorders. Not all of which are even smut!

In IDW1, the four of them were forcibly converted to host and cassettes by a Senator who had it in for them. Rumble and Frenzy, also forcibly cassettified, are Megatron's batch siblings, and actually older than Soundwave or Ravage are. They're pranksters, and often childish, because who is going to mess with one of Soundwave's team that is also Megatron's brother? XD

I have not heard the Mandarin dub but that is hilarious.