#dodder view

[a-life-revised]

{ @doddering-egoist } The Temple was coming along nicely. Megatron brushed the dust from his palms, and braced his knuckles against his hips, peering out at more of the springs he'd dug out.

Already, more mosaics had been unearthed, as well as a few fountains, some artwork..

Rung would be pleased.

As he was waiting around, however, there was a.. a spot in the distance. He squinted a little at it, before realizing it was moving. Another mech, perhaps, coming to look at the work they were doing? Someone who wanted to make use of the showers and springs? Whoever they were, as long as they minded the non-violence rules. Nothing to do but wait. ..and maybe lift a servo in greeting at the approaching figure.

[taliabhattwrites]

I’m sorry if you’ve answered this, or if it should be obvious, but you does your substack say trans/rad/fem? What is trans radical feminism? How does it differ from just radical feminism?

Yep! It says Trans/Rad/Fem, as does the title of my book.

The short version is that your average online hate speech aficionado who calls themselves a TE"RF" is no more well-versed in actual radical feminist literature than the billionaire writer. The most feminist literature they've read is likely wizard kidlit, and maybe the most hateful bits of 'Transsexual Empire' or a bit of Sheila Jeffreys if you're lucky.

Meanwhile, the radical feminist tradition was one that itself emerged as a materialist, inclusive, and more working-class counterpoint to the First Wave's doddering Friedanism. People don't recall much of the first wave, but it engendered such ironclad feminist arguments as "lesbians are not oppressed by patriarchy because they do not marry and are not confined to the domestic sphere", or "mothers and fathers are equally responsible for women doing to the bulk of childcare, because mothers are so reluctant to let go."

Truly, it's a miracle there were any subsequent waves at all.

Adrienne Rich's essay on Compulsory Heterosexuality can be viewed as something of a turning point, a collation of a more materialist framework (since I don't believe Rich necessarily originated all the points she raised). She, rather gently and with more patience than I have ever demonstrated, addressed the arguments of the heterosexual feminists and highlighted the coercive nature of patriarchy and of heterosexuality itself, which could be considered a social regime, a model that attempts to subsume all women into domestic servitude and sexual labor for men.

(A quick aside--if you've ever encountered any arguments on this site along the lines of "CompHet is only for lesbians", do note that the original text involves Rich, a lesbian, laying out the argument to hetfeminists that all women, even straight women, are subjected to a mandatory heterosexual existence, and are punished for trying to live outside of it, as by pursuing economic independence or choosing to be childless.)

For me personally, given the rather dismal state of Indian feminism, which is dominated by affluent liberals and ignores the more radical prolefem and dalit feminist elements attempting to come to the fore, it was refreshing to finally behold a piece of feminist literature that identifies and names forced marriage as an aspect of patriarchy, one that a significant chunk of women all over the world, both within Western territories and without, live with. So much mainstream feminism in the 2000s and beyond was located in the interpersonal, the foregrounding of choices women "should" make, ignoring that for the vast majority of us, patriarchy either denies us any choice at all, or presents us with false ones, harshly punishing us for some choices while presenting them as "free".

(Liberal ideologies and systems, bound up as they are in a veneration of contracts between equal parties, account very poorly for contracts between parties on unequal footing, where one is at a significant material disadvantage and cannot truly make a "free" choice.)

Besides, it is neither true that modern feminism entirely discarded the second wave--look at "gender is a social construct" and "heteronormativity" for now-banal feminist concepts steeped in radfem origins--nor is it true that the "third wave", such as it was, was entirely aa step forward in inclusivity, trans-acceptance, class consciousness, or even racial justice. One need only look at the state of modern feminist discourses to see how well the latest "waves" have managed to argue the case for trans liberation, and my current most well-known essay is a deep dive into the Orientalist, transmisogynistic origins of "third genders", an idea the queer academy has uncritically absorbed and even championed.

I am under no misapprehensions that second-wave feminists would be my pals. A lot of them were white, for one thing. It is, however, a tradition that is both more diverse than the prevailing image of white, middle-class lesbian academics would have you believe, and one that has more than a few useful things to say, especially to a transfeminist.

I don't think we are best served by erecting a cordon sanitaire around the second wave and refusing to engage with it critically. I've read Transsexual Empire, for fuck's sake, and doing so revealed to me just how paper-thin this reactionary movement has always been. That book is as farcical and easily disproved as Hilary Cass' recent bilious screed, but both were elevated to legislative and political relevancy not due to their veracity, but because institutions simply need any literature to provide a veneer of legitimacy to their transphobia. That the texts exist at all is enough.

I have, in short, made my life's work engaging with scholarship that has historically ignored us, vilified us, or instrumentalized us, and that is as true for second-wave feminists as it is for cultural anthropologists. I just believe that Monique Wittig and Adrienne Rich made valuable contributions to feminist thought, and even as we remember all that their missteps, we should not erase what they did right.

On a personal note, I can think of no better revenge than taking the abandoned threads of the radical feminist tradition and finally fulfilling its aborted potential, as a transfeminist. The trans question tore the movement apart because of a subset of zealots who couldn't and wouldn't see us as sisters in the feminist struggle.

I am going to finish what they started, and make the conclusions that they couldn't. We're good at cleaning up other people's messes, after all.

[mariacallous]

Trump Bemoans the Injustice of No Consequences

This morning, I headed to chilly lower Manhattan to witness the criminal sentencing of Donald Trump. As I walked alone in the post-dawn quiet through Foley Square, where the borough’s courthouses are clustered, I read the inscription above the entrance to the New York State Supreme Court building: “The true administration of justice is the firmest pillar of good government.” It’s a line lifted from one of George Washington’s letters. Just up the block, in a courtroom on the fifteenth floor of the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse, this sentiment was about to be put through an extreme, absurd, test.

What’s a fitting punishment for a President who breaks the law? America has never been quite sure. Last spring, when Trump sat through a weeks-long trial in Judge Juan Merchan’s courtroom, it almost seemed like the rules would, finally, apply to him. Yes, he was the presumptive Republican Presidential nominee, and, yes, the trial was held under oppressively tight security restrictions, and, yes, Merchan gave Trump leeway to viciously bash the court, the prosecutors, the witnesses, and the jury in ways not typically tolerated from criminal defendants. But inside the courtroom the proceedings proceeded. Testimony was heard, evidence was introduced, a verdict was reached: guilty on all thirty-four counts of falsifying business records in the first degree, as part of a scheme to suppress damaging evidence from becoming public during his first Presidential campaign. That was the unanimous decision of twelve of Trump’s peers on May 30th.

Much has happened since. The sentencing in the hush-money case, which Merchan postponed several times during the election season, was like a bit of unfinished business from a time when the true administration of justice was the firmest pillar of good government. It had always been thought unlikely that this case would end with jail time, or some other serious consequence, for Trump. The November results insured it. Merchan was put in a bind: How to resolve the case that had resulted in a guilty verdict without impinging on Trump’s ability to be President? A potential solution presented itself in the idea of an “unconditional discharge,” wherein Trump’s conviction would stand, but the matter would be left there.

The hearing began at 9:30 A.M. Manhattan District Attorney Alvin Bragg and his team of prosecutors were in the courtroom. Trump, with Merchan’s permission, appeared virtually, via Microsoft Teams. (Among other things, the Trump sentencing may be remembered as the apex of the W.F.H. era in this country.) He was sitting next to his lawyer, Todd Blanche, whom he has nominated to serve as Deputy Attorney General in his second term. Trump’s face appeared on screens mounted on the courtroom walls.

Joshua Steinglass, an Assistant District Attorney, spoke first. He excoriated Trump, accusing him of breeding “disdain” for the rule of law, and of putting those involved in the trial in “harm’s way.” “This defendant has caused enduring damage to public perception of the criminal-justice system,” Steinglass said. Still, he acknowledged, the defendant was about to become the President. As such, the District Attorney was seeking a sentence of unconditional discharge.

Blanche went next. “I very, very much disagree with much of what the government just said about this case,” he said. He reiterated arguments Trump’s defense team had made before, about the timing and the motivations underlying the case. He suggested that the votes of tens of millions of citizens should outweigh the verdict of twelve jurors. It was a “sad” day for Trump, Blanche said, and for the country. Nevertheless, he, too, requested that Merchan issue an unconditional discharge.

Then it was Trump’s turn. While Blanche was speaking, Trump was mostly frowning, and looking off camera. Occasionally, he leaned and his face went partially out of view, like a doddering grandfather during a family Zoom. During the trial, he had not testified in his own defense, and in the courtroom he’d stayed mostly silent, save for the occasional outburst of muttering or sighing, for which Merchan repeatedly admonished him. Now he had the floor. “This has been a very terrible experience,” he said. “The fact is, I’m totally innocent. I did nothing wrong.” He referred obliquely to Michael Cohen, his former lawyer who became one of the prosecution’s star witnesses in the trial. “He was allowed to talk as if he were George Washington,” Trump said. “But he’s not George Washington.”

Merchan, sitting on the bench, looked impassively on through all of this. When it finally came time to render judgment, he began by thanking the court clerks, officers, and staff. Then he acknowledged his bind. Because Trump was about to become President, he explained, the “only lawful sentence that permits entry of a judgment of conviction” was an unconditional discharge. “Sir, I wish you godspeed as you assume a second term in office,” Merchan said. Then, the unpleasant task finished, he quickly left the courtroom. The live-stream screens went blank, and the prosecutors filed out. The first criminal trial of a former and future President was over.

[bugeyedfreaks]

I enjoy seeing PPG fan interpretations of the characters online, and I think it's very interesting to explore the varied ways that people interpret them. The diversity of ideas and different perspectives are really cool! It's just that every time I see a fan interpretation of a “future” Mojo Jojo (“future” meaning 10-15 years from the original timeline) portrayed as some doddering old wrinkly elderly dude with grey fur riding a robot wheelchair, I just can't help but be like... huh?

Why would you so drastically age up this super smart actual baby?

It's weird because, yeah, if you stop and think about it… he's technically around the same age as the PPG (perhaps even younger because they were born at five years old... this is a weird show, what can I say), so despite his hilariously deep voice or love of the more mature, finer things in life (which I just view as him trying to be more refined since, you know, he now has like all the intelligence ever)... I just don't feel in my heart of hearts that he would be drinking prune juice and watching The Price Is Right if the girls were teens/adults. He'd probably be more or less the same as he is canonically since he’d still retain his super intelligence (maybe he’d be a little taller as a treat, or at the very least he’d just whine even more than usual… maybe even more jaded, we just don't know).

[angel-of-the-moons]

Nothing Is Lost

Khonshu x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Nothing really!

A/N: This chapter will mostly be some exposition from Khonshu's point of view, and a few flashbacks of his. Also, because sources vary depending on what universe of Marvel Khonshu is from, I took some liberties to do whatever with his familial ties. After all, mortals don't ever truly know all the relationships with their gods, do they? And they have many forms.

Taglist: @drinkingwithkhonshu @astrosphereblog @themostegotisticalgirl124 @patchesofwork @lialiwasneverseen

Chapter 15:

Old Friends

Khonshu gently laid you down in your bed, stripping your wet jacket and shoes off and covering you with your blankets.

Your face was twisted with distress, your voice leaving you in weak groans. The words "please" and "help me" the most consistent he could make out as your face flushed and you began to sweat, the vein in your temple thumping visibly beneath your skin as tears slipped past your lashes and dripped down to your pillow.

What were you dreaming of? It was growing tiresome; you not telling him what he so readily wanted to know. And even more accurately, that Jezebel, one of his more than trusted followers was not telling him the answers.

But... Jezebel knew him very well. Khonshu knew that she knew he had not had such a puzzle presented to him in... Well. Longer than he'd ever care to admit aloud. A simple challenge, as opposed to hunting Ammit and Harrow, and having Jake Lockley taking the both of them out permanently.

A simple puzzle as opposed to the greatest one he's never been able to solve...

He would enjoy unraveling the mystery that surrounded your being so readily.

He was half tempted to get into your head himself; to pull the information out of you and be done with it. But that was no fun, and it was wrong, in this right.

It was different with Marc, Steven, and Jake. Even Yehya and Jezebel; who had let him into his mind willingly.

Learning of Jezebel's memories had filled him with a brief joy he hadn't felt flutter to life within him in thousands of years. It brought a warmth to his weary existence knowing he at least had someone he once knew returned to him; she was one of the only individuals he felt any scrap of true joy or humor in the world with these days. Even if it was miniscule.

"Hmm." He hummed aloud, crouching by your bedside to stare as you twitched and flailed in your sleep, crying out for aid he could not give.

Joy and humor. A puzzle.

If he could, Khonshu would have smiled.

His eyes traced the stars, drawing the shapes that the mortals had transcribed to make sense of the glowing celestial objects.

"Khonshu?"

"Hm?" He hummed boredly, sighing as he sat up on his elbows to look at her.

Hathor snorted with a smirk, her soft round face creasing as she did; briefly running her hands through his feathers, "You are not paying attention."

"Fah. These festivals are always your source of entertainment. You know I prefer the silence of the night. Not all this... mirth." He said, looking down from where they sat, sweeping his arm in a broad swath; invisible to the mortals below as they danced, sang, drank, and played amongst one another in celebration of the first successful harvest and the fact that the Pharaoh's army had crushed would-be invaders towards Egypt, securing their power yet again.

"Hmph!" She huffed indignantly, her ears clapping in distaste at his remark, the sound of her jewelry tinkling as she turned away from him stubbornly. "Khonshu, you are--I swear it--even less unenthusiastic to be around than your father."

"Amun is only as enthused as he is to be around you is because he wishes to sleep with you." Khonshu laughed, "Which I doubt will ever happen."

Hathor swatted at him, knocking his nemes askew and into his lap. "Oh, hush! Now, make your move. I have been waiting an eternity, you doddering bird."

Khonshu laughed again and sat up straight, fixing the position of his headdress and fixing it back into place, his dark feathers puffing up slightly in offense before smoothing it down as he looked at the game board.

It was a simple game--mehen, the mortals called it--the board carved in the shape of a coiling serpent. This particular set was painted to look like Apep (or Apophis as the mortals also named him). Khonshu's pieces were marbles carved of obsidian, whereas Hathor's were ivory-carved lions.

He plainly moved one of the marbles, skipping ahead of two of her lions, making her groan in defeat as she had to reposition them. "You--youuuu--!" She sputtered.

Khonshu huffed a short laugh, "I like to gamble, you know that, Hathor. And you should know I'm very good at it."

"Well one day that streak of yours will fail, you know." She snorted, resting her chin on her knuckles as the other firmly clasped her knee in her palm, her eyes studying the board.

"But that day is not today, my dear." He says, his tone rather chipper as he carefully sipped his wine.

"Honestly, why don't you walk the streets a little? It will do you some good. Distract you from the dreary task of your Fist performing his duties." She sighed, looking down at the mortals below once again.

"I worry about you."

Khonshu rolled his eyes, "Hathor, I am fine. We all have our duties. Mine lies with justice, yours is all of... this." He opened his hand to gesture to the festivities below.

"You forget how closely our divine powers are linked!" Hathor says, looking at him with a sly expression.

"Am I, now?" He mused.

"Yes," Hathor laughed gleefully, moving her lions piece ahead a few steps, getting ever so close to the head of the snake.

After Khonshu grumbled, staring at the board as he tried to sort out where and how to move next--piecing the puzzle of his next move together carefully--he looked at her as she pointed to the sky, right at his moon.

It was thin, a nice glowing crescent of light.

"You forget what that tends to mean. Your powers flow during this night, and of course link with mine. I bring joy, music, ecstasy and children into the world. Your moon, in its current state, helps their livestock and land become fertile... and as well helps their women conceive children. And this continuously brings joy, mirth," She says the word mockingly and with the same tone he had used before, "And fertility. Yes, you help dispense justice. But you also heal and give life, Khonshu. Enjoy it. Don't wrap yourself in a shroud of stars and leave it at that."

Hathor finished off her goblet of wine and grabbed her harp, beginning to pluck the strings in a wonderful melody that soothed him. He recognized the song well, it was one her priestesses played during prayer sessions, typically when mortal women would pray to her for the gift of a child.

"Embrace the mortals you protect... don't just keep them at an arm's length. Yes, you have your Fists... but you also have your arms. It will not kill you to wrap them around them from time to time."

Khonshu fell silent, turning his gaze to the mortals below as Hathor began to sing, a smile on her plump, plush lips.

Perhaps... she was right. He wouldn't say it out loud, of course. He knew she would simply poke holes in his own ego and toy with him with the facts.

Khonshu then rose to his feet, grabbing his staff.

"Hm? Where are you going?" Hathor asked with a smile, continuing to play her harp.

She formed her statement as a question; yet she already knew the answer to it.

"For a stroll." He merely said, disappearing in a blur.

Hathor grinned to herself, plucking her harp as the ushered prayers of women during moments of intimacy as well as the simple gatherings below whispered in her ears on the wind.

Khonshu walked, standing in the shadows as he watched the mortals dance and sing. There was something rather... infectious about the joys the humans were showing.

He had even entertained a toddler as they hobbled up to him, babbling nonsense and trying to hang from his robes even though his parents could not see him for their own eyes. He rubbed the child on his head as his mother kissed his cheek and carried him back over to where a roast bull was being portioned out with bread and wine.

Men and woman alike danced with one another; the instrumentalists and singers flowing like silk to match the nearly nude women who danced with Hathor's name painted on their bodies, gold hanging from them and glimmering in the firelight.

He continued to walk through the streets, peeking in to watch the more reserved and family-centric gatherings many held in their homes; feeling the warmth and life and innocence they were all so blissfully existing in. One home he had surveyed was hosting a celebration as a young mother gave birth to twins--a rare and dangerous occurrence for certain--a very, very welcome and celebrated occasion.

Khonshu had taken a moment of his time to reach out and soothe the pains the woman and her son and daughter felt, touching each of them imperceptibly and watching them relax as her husband cried, holding the three of them in his arms as though they would vanish in an instant.

After that, he trailed the streets some more; feeling the exuberant life slowly give way to the silence of night as he approached a funerary temple. It seemed, he realized, that even on a night of such joy and life... death was still ever-present.

"Bakenkhonsu." He greeted civilly, watching respectfully as his priest was tending to and beginning to embalm the body of a woman with tender care.

"Father." He greeted, his voice strained and heavy with emotion, his head hanging low and his usually bright eyes downcast and sad.

Upon closer inspection, he recognized this particular mortal. Bakenkhonsu had been the one to prepare her youngest child for burial not too long ago. It seemed her grief, in the end, took her away to be with her son once again.

"She passed away early in the morning." He explained. "Her husband was still grieving the loss of their son, but stayed strong. His daughter... oh, her daughter."

He looked up at Khonshu, his eyes full of tears, "Why is it that someone as young as she have to see so much death in such a short time? She blames herself for her little brother's death. And in that regard, feels responsible for her mother's death..."

Khonshu laid his hand on his priest's shoulder, his gaze softening in sympathy.

"Death is never an easy thing, nor can it be fair. But it is important that we understand that it is a fact of life. And in the end, they will all be together again."

"I... I understand. But..." Bakenkhonsu turned, carefully beginning to wrap her body up in soft linen; a red-dyed shroud nearby. Her coffin was beautiful and ornately painted, the gold leaf mask that awaited her surprised him. She was nobility, high status.

She tended the Queen, and the inscriptions on her coffin told how her husband was close with the Pharaoh.

Ah. That explains it. The Pharaoh being so close to her family undoubtedly felt grief in his heart as well, maybe even the others in his house. So out of the kindness in his heart, he likely paid to have the finest burial items to be laid on her body before being placed in the coffin.

"I know," Khonshu said to him softly, his palm resting on the young man's head. "But she was a good woman. Anubis and the others will welcome her with open arms, her son will greet her as soon as she passes into the Field of Reeds. She will never need to fear him drowning in the Nile, again."

This seemed to lighten the burnden on the poor man, his body straightening up. "Benerib made offerings to most of the gods. She would go to every temple as she could often get to and leave prayers and offerings to you all. I think this is what drove her daughter to seek knowledge."

"Her daughter? She is a scholar?" Khonshu asked, stepping away so Bakenkhonsu could resume his task.

"Of a sorts." He chuckled, his tone tainted with bittersweet fondness. "She wishes to learn the ways of the gods, to teach them to other mortals even long after she passes on."

Khonshu chuckles softly in turn. A very ambitious goal, if not an unattainable one. Very few of his brethren--save Hathor and a short bundle of others--got past arm's length with the mortals, "That may not happen."

"But even so, it is a noble goal." Khonshu sighed, looking up towards the night sky through one of the high skylights above. "Even if she does not learn what she wants to... She will still learn and pass on things to her descendants."

"Yes... That is what I told her." Bakenkhonsu smiled, looking up at him once more, his hands pausing in their delicate wrapping of the body of this once sweet and loving woman. "But she just smiled at me, and accepted the challenge. She apparently likes puzzles."

Khonshu chuckled. "Ah, I see. It would seem--"

Their heads both snapped upwards, towards the door of the room as the sounds of sobbing reached their ears, carried on the wind as it whistled into the temple.

Khonshu looked at his priest, and once again the atmosphere changed as he heard words--both accusatory and pleading--carry his name on a soft voice.

"The daughter--"

"Yes." Bakenkhonsu replied quickly, his jaw tensing. "She has been... I--I left her to her grief back in the temple. It was like nothing I said would bring her comfort... Sometimes, we need to be left alone to pour our feelings out."

Khonshu heaven a heavy sigh, his grip tightening on his staff for a moment as he took a pace of a breath to think.

His hand extended and he weaved a spell over the body; so that nothing could ravage her in the time Bakenkhonsu would be away.

"Don your armor, my Fist." He orders gently.

"Yes, Father."

And without hesitation, Bakenkhonsu pressed his fist to his chest and bowed his head. The Moon Disc on his chest glowed, his eyes glowing as white as the stars as linen and fine armor began to enshroud him; the holy armor of Khonshu's Fist now in place of his ceremonial robes.

"What... Will you do, Father?" He asked quietly.

"I will speak to her." Khonshu said, vanishing in a blur as Bakenkhonsu's body lurched slightly before stiffening back up again.

And now, with his patron God controlling his body, Bakenkhonsu receded into blissful complacency as his feet softly dragged through the streets as he marched his way to his temple, away from the sad aura of preparing the bodies of the dead.

He approached his temple, regarding the other priests with cordial nods as the bowed in respect to him as they went about their business.

The temple was well-lit, given how thin the moon was it could not shine into the large stone house of worship to illuminate pathways. But he knew. He always knew the way to his altars.

And as he approached the main chamber, he saw... her.

She was laid at the feet of one of his statues, her face buried in her arms as her body was racked with sobs. The sight touched him, made him feel the waves of guilt and pain flowing from her body as she muttered things meant only for the gods to hear.

And they did reach his ears, at least.

He approached her, gently resting his hand on her shoulder, and began to speak.

"She did all that? On her own?" Yehya gasped softly, setting his cup of tea on his desk.

"Yes." Khonshu replied. "With my guidance, in the beginning. But, she got caught up in the moment and snapped a man's neck."

Yehya frowned thoughtfully, his brows pinching as he linked his fingers together, his elbows resting on the desktop. "And... Jezebel wouldn't tell you anything more about her?"

"About as much as you have, Yehya." Khonshu admonishes with a sigh.

"I'm sorry, father, but..." The god silenced him with a hand in the air.

"I understand, my son. This is a mystery I must--and will--solve myself. I haven't had such a challenge in a long time." He said to him, "I relish the challenge, even if that little whelp is an annoying pest."

Yehya Badr laughed, the corners of his eyes creasing as he looks up at him, "Is she that frustrating?"

"Like a fly that will not stop buzzing in my eye." Khonshu grunted, stamping his staff on the floor, shaking his head.

"You will figure this out. You always tend to." The mortal man replied, adjusting the cuffs on his suit. "From what I have seen from interacting with this woman... She is rather slow to trust. And... Surprisingly ready to throw the first punch. But, given how she has been the victim of so many crimes..."

He shook his head and sighed, his smile faltering, "But it is... good, that she was so responsive to your guidance."

"She complained even more than Marc does." He groused; his voice dripping with irritation.

"Speaking of..." Yehya said, looking up at him. "Has the Ennead called another meeting to discuss what happened with Ammit and Harrow?"

"Yes, however our Avatars were not present for this one." He snorted dismissively, saving his hand. "Though... I do not believe they have replaced them as of yet anyway."

"It's a pity, what happened with Hathor's Avatar. Yatzil was a good woman." Yehya murmured, "From what little I knew of her from our first meeting, she was a kind and gentle soul."

"It is their fault for ignoring Ammit's imminent release," Khonshu reminded him. "Their Avatars did not need to die, yet through their inaction, the gods they worked for signed their death warrants. As well as the souls Ammit devoured prematurely."

"I only wish I had been present. Had I been, maybe Harrow..."

Khonshu walked over to him and placed his hand on his shoulder, "I needed you here, Yehya. There is much evil and injustice here. Marc Spector and the others served me well in other avenues. Your value is here."

He nodded, his lips pressed in a thin line as he thought. What would they all do once Khonshu found out about who you may very well be? Will you remember who killed you? Would that bloody chapter of history and unsolved pain come to a close?

More importantly, how would Khonshu feel about the one person he truly loved with all his being being reborn into somebody entirely new?

What would this mean for the future?

He could only surmise and place bets on hypotheticals with Jezebel; nothing was certain. Yehya was but a man, and he had to admit, the mysteries of reincarnation were still very much alien to him; despite what Jezebel had drip-fed him from what she had experienced. It wasn't something so simple as to be placed in words. Far from it...

"Is she still asleep?" He finally asked after the room fell into a ringing silence.

"Yes. Though she tosses and turns and cries out," Khonshu muttered. "Crying for saving from what, I do not know. She will not tell me what her dreams are, either."

"She will. I know it." Yehya replied resolutely. "I know that one can only keep such things contained inside for so long, before dying to cut the seal and let them all out."

"Indeed."

Khonshu walked towards the window, looking out onto the city streets. "Yehya, I want you to patrol tonight. There is a sickness on the prowl, and I want it cured before any others are harmed by it."

Yehya stood, pressing his fist to his chest and bowing his head. And for a moment, Khonshu could see Bakenkhonsu right then. He could see many of his previous Fists with that gesture of loyalty.

"On your will, Father." He swears solemnly.

"And... when I am indisposed, I want you to keep an eye on that little pest for me. Let me know if something changes about her."

He nodded again, his eyes shifting to an eerie white glow as his body was wrapped in his own variation of Khonshu's divine armor. The god rested his hand on his head, bowing his own: "Be swift, my Fist. Strike them down."

Hunter's Moon left, his cloak fluttering behind him as he went out to fulfill his mission. Khonshu looked out the window and up at the sky.

It was a crescent moon.

Chapter 16: Link

[thommi-tomate]

People about Thomas pt3

Sepp Maier:

What impresses you about Thomas Müller?

I'm hugely impressed that he has stayed at FC Bayern for his entire career, just as I did. What more could you ask for? He's won everything there is to win with FC Bayern. Thomas is FC Bayern through and through, and that's the right thing to do. He even played in the club's youth ranks.

You celebrated success with another famous Müller in your team, is Thomas as difficult for a goalkeeper to predict as Gerd was?

Them are two completely different types: Thomas moves all over the field, our Gerd was dangerous inside the box like nobody else. Thomas also makes assists, which wasn't Gerd's specialty, to be honest. But they both have something in common: Thomas belongs to the list of the great FC Bayern players, just like Gerd or Franz Beckenbauer, or whatever they were called in our ероса.

Ron-Robert Zieler:

The first time I played against Bayern München in March 2011, we won with Hannover 96. We left the pitch with a 3-1 victory. I was given Thomas Müller's shirt, whom I'd already known for six or seven years at the time. We had played together under Bernd Stöber in the U-16 national team.

The shirt - Thomas, I hope you'll forgive me - is currently in a storage room that my wife and I have rented. We've moved so many times in the last few years, six in eight years, that we've decided to leave everything we don't need in storage until we have time to unpack everything into a permanent home once our careers are over. Then I will also - I promise - take out the Müller jersey, even though he wasn't exactly my favorite opponent. I conceded 45 goals in games against Bayern Munich. Nine of them came from him. But if there's anyone you can't be angry with for long, it's Thomas Müller.

He was already a dodderer when we met in 2004. Even then he reminded me of a Skydancer, those funny figures that move strangely when a little wind blows on them from below. Thomas is like that too. Unconventional in his movements. He is a horror for goalkeepers. From his movements, it's impossible to know which way his shot will go.

The best goals Thomas scored for me were in Brazil in 2014. In some training sessions he outplayed me; I was there in goal alongside Manuel Neuer and Roman Weidenfeller. But he was good. Maybe I gave him a bit of confidence so that he could score five such unforgettable goals on our way to the World Cup title.

All the best for the future, dear Thomas. And even if you and I never meet again on the pitch (unless the Cup draw dictates otherwise), I invite you to try to score against any other fellow goalkeeper more times than against me. Without complaining, I would let this unglamorous record of goals conceded pass.

Felix Zwayer:

I can't remember how many times I've had the honor of whistling Thomas Müller throughout his career. But it has (almost) always been a great pleasure. Thomas is a true professional, and you can tell that he is also aware of the referee's point of view. That makes for an honest and open dialogue on the pitch.

Last season I had an experience with him that I found very respectful: After losing the game in Leverkusen at the beginning of February, he came to see me despite the huge disappointment, thanked me for the way I had conducted the game and said goodbye in a very polite manner. Not everyone manages to do that in a situation like that. I was very impressed. Overall, I think I've noticed a clear evolution in the league over the years: Before, people just talked, communicated and sometimes complained. Today, the comments are much more professional and also more selective, and the conversations are held at the same level.

What always impresses me most about Thomas when I see him on the field is that he is a great motivator, he leads the way, sets an example and involves his teammates. That also shows as a referee. He is simply a great leader on and off the field.

[suzalulusource]

Was the final episode something you thought of from the very beginning? Taniguchi: Yes. The ending was decided upon beforehand. Although it was eventually cut, I actually had [Okouchi] write a script for episode 1, one which began with the scene of Suzaku attempting to kill Lelouch. I'm talking about episode 1 of the previous series, not R2. The relationship between Lelouch and Suzaku described in these 50 episodes has seen a lot of ups and downs. They've shot at each other with guns, tried to kill each other, stepped on the other's face after he humbled himself by getting on his knees...... Taniguchi: From my point of view, Lelouch and Suzaku's relationship in the previous series did not go beyond that of reunited childhood friends. It wasn't "friendship" -- they were playing at a "make-believe friendship". With R2, my intention was to show how it turned into "friendship" in the truest sense of the word. ......As for the part with the kneeling, if Lelouch hadn't done that, he might have been killed by Suzaku, and Suzaku, had he not stepped on Lelouch's face, would probably not have been able to control his rage. Basically, it was necessary to go that far for Lelouch and Suzaku to be able to rebuild their bonds. Taniguchi: It's a matter of definition, but for me, the relationship between "good friends", to put it bluntly, is one in which "they are able to change each other's soiled underwear even when they've become doddering geezers". Fukuyama: Though in my opinion, that's already crossed the line into "love" territory (laugh).

from an interview in Newtype November 2008 (translation by Celiss Galvea)

[wizardnaturalist]

the way aging is treated in rote is also strange to me. fitz complaining about how he feels at the end of his life while in his 30s in tawny man I can sort of understand, as he is disabled and suffered great physical trauma and has never had a healthy self image, but other characters seem to be treated much the same way? burrich especially is treated as though he's in his twilight years, only just managing to keep going, no longer able to proficiently complete his daily tasks, handing over the horse rearing and ranch work to his sons, etc. when he's only what? in his 50s, Maybe early 60s? I can understand some stiffening, some slowing, some vision loss, but it's hard to believe that "doddering old man" is what the readers are supposed to expect of that age.

Patience also was treated as an Old Woman from the moment of her inception. part of that is likely fitz's narration, being a kid and assigning Oldness to anyone over 25, but it pretty much persists. plus, fitz isnt writing this diary until years after assassins quest, when he's well into his 20s and therefore far less likely to view a 40 year old woman as Agéd.

[aliatori]

Leap of Faith

The Forsaken and the Forsworn | Post-Fate | Gabriel Berthelot/Hugo Melançon | 3k words | Mature | T4T

Gabriel’s not entirely keen on the idea of leaving the Enclave.

Sure, it ain't the Umbra with the cool comfort of its misty shores, and Watcher knows there’s much and more to do back at The Storm’s Eye, but Gabriel's well and truly charmed by the unique delights of the Sungold. With so few days left before the Squall and Tide are set to get underway on their respective courses, he’s determined to enjoy them.

A waterfall twice as wide as Gabriel is tall roars behind him. Its waters whip to a frothy white as they descend over the crest. The noise fills his head with a pleasant blankness like the rush of blood in his ears in the heat of battle, or the pressure of Xeheia’s holy waters in his ears as he submerges to pray.

There's also more green than his eyes rightly know what to do with all around: moss and lichen draped over every inch of rock jutting up from the clear blue waters, vibrant hues of jungle decorating the sloping peaks of other Trinoran isles on the horizon, and bell-shaped petals the pale hue of fresh sweetmelon draped on flexible branches overhead.

One shade in particular snags his attention at present: the sea-glass green of Hugo’s eyes, sharpened to a fine pique.

“What?” Gabriel spreads his arms wide. Since he’s already divested himself of everything but his focus, the gesture affords Hugo an unimpeded view of his nakedness. “You act like a doddering old man preparing for your own burial at sea, I’m gonna call it like I see it. There was a time you’d’ve beaten me and been down in the water already. Now you’re sittin’ there like a sour headwind.”

A gratifying flush blooms from the vee of Hugo’s lavender vest to the underside of his jaw. Anger, lust, or general vexation—the source of his consternation hasn’t ever mattered to Gabriel, and sure as all seven hells it doesn’t matter now. He just likes that he’s ruffled Hugo’s feathers.

“Let’s say I’ve developed a certain distaste for sailing close to the wind.”

“Let’s say you’re full of shit.” Gabriel ticks points off on his fingers as he lists them. “Fisting a god, stealing ships out from under the noses of merchants, bringing me and the fold to the Enclave in the first place, hells, burning down a whole godsdamned Imperial port—yeah, I know that one was you, don’t look so surprised. Play at even keel all you like, but don’t pass it off as anything but an offering for your secret-eater.”

Hugo puts his hands behind his back. The new definition in his scarred biceps means he must be clenching his fists. Another point in Gabriel’s favour.

“That’s a creative way of calling me a liar. For you, anyway.”

“If I wanted to call you a liar, I’d say it plain. I’m saying it ain’t the whole truth, and you know it, and I’m sick of settling for subterfuge and signal flags from you. We’re past all that.” At Hugo’s flat expression of disbelief, Gabriel laughs without mirth and adds, “As past it as the two of us are ever gonna get.”

Hugo rocks back on his booted heel. A raw wound flashes across his face. There’s a stretch where Gabriel thinks Hugo will find some forthcomingness. But then he looks off into the distance, treating Gabriel to a familiar stoic profile, so whatever notion he’s grappling with only bloodies the waters of this particular argument.

He’s long past the days of chasing after his former captain, and lucky for him, there’s a quick and diverting exit from this conversation he no longer wants to have. He’s three strides from the edge of the waterfall when a coil of familiar metal captures his forearm.

Alright, so maybe he doesn’t chase after Hugo.

But there’s still the fucking riptide of his presence to contend with, drowning any urge to break free. There’s a fissure in Hugo’s expression, a crack in the hull in want of sealing.

“This…” Hugo begins, trailing off, gesturing with his other hand to encompass himself, Gabriel, the cliffs, the seas beyond. “Brings back memories that are difficult. Unpleasant to recall.”

The tempest of Gabriel’s temper builds and breaks on his indignant exhale. “Yeah, you don’t have to remind me of how bleedin’ unpleasant you find the fold. You’ve made it pretty godsdamned clear. So piss off and—”

The rest of his swears vanish in the warmth of Hugo’s lips on his, urgent, insistent, tongue all velvet heat as he delves into Gabriel’s mouth. He kisses like it’s the only apology he knows how to give, or like he’s gasping for air, or like a prayer in a language they still share, and by the time they break apart, Gabriel’s heart rivals the waterfall as it pounds in his ears.

“Not every part of those memories is unpleasant,” Hugo says in a low rasp, grazing his teeth along the stubbled skin fluttering in time with Gabriel’s pulse. He pulls back to fix him with a stare of breathtaking intensity, lips pursed in thought. “Everything worth remembering includes you.”

A mutiny erupts out behind Gabriel’s ribs. It’s as close as Hugo’s gotten to the words he, for whatever gods bedamned reason, talks circles around, the ones involving ‘I’ and ‘love’ and ‘you’ next to each other.

He’ll take it. For now.

Gabriel cradles the back of Hugo’s head in his palm and draws him close until their foreheads touch. “’Course it does. I’m unforgettable, by your own lengthy and colourful admissions. And spectacular. The best captain to sail the Fourfold and veritable holy terror.”

“Second best.”

“I’ll remember that when I’m heaving half the fucking ocean up to save you from getting pincered by a bunch of navy dogs.”

“Perhaps you’d do better to remember why you’re permitted on Enclave shores at all.”

“Well, Jihane and me have taken a shine to each other, so I reckon I’ll be invited back. Especially since it’s the Squall she asked to sail aboard and not the Tide.”

“And I wish you luck in accommodating Jihane and her… exacting standards.”

“Nothing the best captain in the Fourfold can’t handle.”

There—a rebellious twitch of Hugo’s lips, buried beneath the overwrought consternation he strangles it with.

With a snort, Gabriel shoves Hugo’s bare shoulder. “Even second-best captains aren’t afraid of such a tiny risk like some cliff jumping. Besides, I ain’t hearing any alternative propositions for the evening’s entertainment.”

“I have a few.” Hugo looks Gabriel over from head to toe with filthy intent, and while tempting, the beck and call of the sea below raises a different kind of tide in Gabriel.

“Would it kill you to relax for a godsdamned turn and follow my lead?”

One bold eyebrow wings up. “Kill me? Hardly. But it would certainly be a leap of faith.”

Gabriel turns away from Hugo to look over the cliffs and the basin below. It’s a glittering, dizzying drop, enough to make his head spin, but he’s no stranger to a plummet. His blood heats in anticipation.

“Everything’s a leap of faith these days, Captain Melançon, in case it’s escaped your fine weather eye. Comes with being at the beck and call of forces beyond our ken. So why not start here?”

Without waiting for an answer, Gabriel pivots, swallows the ground in two long strides, and launches himself off the cliff's edge, his joyful bellow echoing through the oasis. The freefall snatches his stomach and pins it to the base of his throat. He flips through the air, ass over end, clutching his knees to his chest in the last moments, and then—

He plunges into the sea like a shout, saltwater rushing over the ink of his bondmark and bringing him to a second kind of life. Gabriel exhales as momentum drives him further downward. Xeheia’s presence fills him as he inhales blessed water, a thunderous euphoria joining the mortal delight of a leap off the edge.

For a moment, he’s tempted to drift further down, to commune, to pray. To find where aquamarine becomes sapphire becomes deepest black.

But for now, there are other matters to tend to.

With the orange and pink sunset to guide him, Gabriel orients himself skyward. A series of powerful kicks gets him most of the way to the surface. He breathes out Xeheia’s sustenance, breaches, and inhales the soil-after-rain scent of Enclave air, grinning wide and laughing loudly. The power and majesty of the waterfall impress even more from this angle as he treads the waters disturbed by its arcing flow.

Squinting, Gabriel glances up and sees Hugo leaning over the edge before vanishing beyond it. Figures. It’ll be a decent climb back up the cliff, so he may as well enjoy a swim before he heads back to the uptight son of a bitch.

Instead, he finds himself in a meditative trance as he treads water, lulled into a prayer-like state of calm by the nearby waterfall. Gabriel’s never been this close to one or seen one this large. It’s not the Depths, or the enchanted veins of water laced through the Storm’s Eye, but there’s a holy might to it all the same.

Then a motion from above draws his eye.

There’s no mistaking Hugo’s form—not the ass-naked state of it, nor the elegant twist of his lean limbs as he dives off the cliff into the waters below. Gabriel holds his breath as he watches Hugo soar through the air in a graceful arc, then expels it in jubilation a moment later, whooping and hollering. A blink later, Hugo slips beneath the surface, cutting through the water clean as a knife, vanishing without a sound.

Each passing moment turns Gabriel’s excitement acrid. The bubbling sensation toes the line of fear. His own difficult memory flashes behind his eyelids unbidden: Hugo floating, lifeless and prone, bleeding and blackened.

Before true terror can take hold, Hugo takes hold instead, using the element of surprise to drag him beneath the churning surface of the lake.

The world vanishes in an expanse of crystal blue threaded with green. Gabriel aims a vicious kick in Hugo’s direction, aiming to dislodge his hands from his ankles. Maybe bloody his nose up a bit for the trouble, too. He manages the first goal if not the second. Hugo treads water beside him; orange-gold sunlight from above dapples across his skin, his silver-streaked hair floating in an aura around his head, grin no less fierce for being toothless. He rotates in the water and propels himself upward.

Bold of him to show his scarred back to Gabriel.

He does Hugo a kindness by letting him get a couple good gulps of air in. After all, Gabriel’s rarely interested in an unfair fight, no matter his reputation past and present. Then he glides over, grabs Hugo on either side of his waist, and drags him right back under.

Were it not for the blood-warm waters of the Enclave flooding the spaces between their limbs as they wrestle, it could be a time ten Risings passed. He could be a first mate again, lust-sick, half ready to put a knife to his palm already, insubordinating his way to a dunk in the sea for the joy of Hugo’s attention in Xeheia’s waters.

The present makes itself known in other ways. Hugo, the slippery bastard that he is, lands a punch on Gabriel’s tit with his artifice hand as he shoves away. The pain forces a bubbly stream of Watcher-blessed air from his lips. But the throb of the impending bruise matches the interested one in his dick, which hasn’t changed much at all.

Gabriel gives chase. They collide in slow motion, the powerful currents from the waterfall making the lake harder to move through. He wraps one arm around Hugo’s thighs from below, blocking Hugo’s slow-motion swat with his other elbow. The angle gives him a great view even with all the thrashing: the dark curls between his legs, the scarred muscle of his chest, and the ferocious set of his jaw. He looks away from Gabriel, towards the surface, throat bobbing. His lungs must be burning by now.

Here, another marker of change. Once, there was a time Gabriel would have held him under and watched him drown. (Would have tried, anyway.) Instead, he releases Hugo, content to gloat about his victory when they’re both above water again.

Hugo swims towards him instead.

Strong hands, one metal and one flesh, grip Gabriel’s shoulders, Hugo using him like an anchor to situate himself. Fathoms-deep emotion lurks in the vivid green of his eyes, and there’s Gabriel’s heart again, twisting like a fish out of water. Heat builds low in his belly and coils outward as Hugo weaves himself into Gabriel’s bulk—chest to tits, thigh wedged between his legs against his stirring dick, and of godsdamned course, a hand in his hair, to get him right where he wants him.

Gabriel doesn’t mind. Much.

Not when Hugo places his mouth to Gabriel’s, demanding even as he yields, a moan vibrating through his chest as Gabriel breathes sacred air into his lungs. Hugo drinks him down. His calloused palm charts a course along Gabriel’s neck and collarbone, coming to rest in the valley of his chest, right next to his thundering heart.

It fills Gabriel with uncanny rapture.

His bondmark fills with magic, skin thrilling as his power seeks, quests—

And finds nothing.

It’s gotten easier, these spiritual stumbles, but not easy. Xeheia’s gift proves a storm wind howl, searching for a port, or maybe a shore to destroy.

Gabriel gives it both.

His limbs burst with power, merging and uncoiling into four, six, then eight tentacles. There’s a pain like a good, deep stretch, then a sickening lurch of his stomach, and then finally bliss, Xeheia’s magic coursing through him as rapidly as the nearby waterfall. Hugo pauses their breath sharing to draw back, eyes widening in surprise, then narrowing as Gabriel wraps slick, powerful limbs around each of Hugo’s. His pupils are wide as the dark moon, his teeth digging into his lower lip, and that’s when Gabriel kisses him.

It’s like this they breach the surface, a tangle of arms and legs and tentacles, Hugo held fast in his embrace whether he likes it or not. They’ve drifted to a distant curve of the cliffs around the brackish lake, the roaring waterfall behind them.

Gabriel won’t ever feel Hugo bond-to-bond again, but this—his Xeheia-blessed arms tracing the ghostly scars of his butchered bondmark, coiled against the wet heat of his folds, squeezing the taut muscles in his thighs and calves—is as good a substitute as he’s getting. If he focuses hard enough, Gabriel can almost sense the faint echo of magic, the last shred of Xeheia left in Hugo’s spirit.

He's got other things to focus on, though.

“Quit while you’re ahead and release me, Berthelot,” Hugo says, pitching his voice in that too-familiar way to be heard over the thunderous susurrus.

“Your mouth says one thing, but your cunt says another.” To illustrate his point, Gabriel slides the muscular tentacle between Hugo’s legs back and forth. The slickness there ain’t all him, that’s for godsdamned sure, and Hugo’s strangled gasp only proves his point further. “You know what a white flag looks like. So go on and wave it, then, if you wanna go so bad.”

Consideration weighs down Hugo’s expression. While he’s thinking about whatever vagaries are in the offing, he pinches Gabriel’s nipple hard, rolling it between his fingers afterward.

“You ain’t exactly helping your case, doing that.”

Hugo, being Hugo, does it again, just harder this time. A final limb, barbed and sensitive, begins to unfurl from the slit tucked between Gabriel’s tentacles, swelling along with the heat in his blood.

“And what,” Hugo begins, dipping his head and sinking his teeth into the corded muscle of Gabriel’s shoulder, eliciting a string of curses from him. “What case am I trying to make, exactly?”

“Oh, the usual.” Gabriel’s airy tone belies the strength he uses to grip Hugo’s jaw, heart pounding as he admires the black tips of his limbs curled against Hugo’s neck. “I best you, you refuse to admit I bested you and act the sore loser, we fire some shots across the bow and maybe punch a few earnest holes in the hull, then we both get what we want anyway.”

“Is that right?” Hugo tries to pry Gabriel’s arm away, fingers splayed across the sacred ink spilled there. He’s still got a tentacle or three free, so he lifts one from the water and wraps one coil of sucker-covered muscle around Hugo’s forearms, lacing them tight as his own precious boots. “Seems you’re getting ahead of yourself without a plan. As usual.”

Unbothered, buoyed by pleasantly warm currents, bitten by sharp teeth of lust, Gabriel admires the picture before him: Hugo, arms bound above his head, muscles tense against the restraint of Gabriel’s Xeheia-blessed body, glaring daggers even as his hips grind and roll against limb between his legs.

Gabriel trails his barbed cock along the outside of Hugo’s thigh and curls it around his backside, a quiet moan rumbling in his throat at the resulting shiver of pleasure. Fury darkens Hugo’s features, but the circles along the undersides of new limbs can sense—can taste—the fresh arousal pulsing from his cunt.

“You know me—I learn by doing. So I reckon we’re about to find out together.”

[sloshed-cinema]

Spell (2020)

Oh, this wanted to be Misery so badly, didn’t it? Things go badly awry for high-powered lawyer Marquis when he learns of his estranged father’s death and decides to take his family out to pay their respects… in his single-prop plane. As one does. When a thunderstorm causes them to crash, Marquis wakes up in the home and at the mercy of a kooky older couple who prove to have ulterior motives. Marquis puts himself through hell and back as he tries to get his family and himself out of this Appalachian nightmare. This really had a lot of ideas and thoughts to toss around, but ideas and execution are two entirely different things. The opening features scene after scene of legendarily hamfisted exposition dumps: we learn that Marquis knows how to pick locks, and his early interactions with both his colleague at the law firm and the convenience store clerk demonstrate that he is both acutely aware of the views held by some of how black people “should” act and his own inherent social prejudices brought on by negative childhood experiences. He lectures his kids about taking the high road, yet doesn’t hesitate to mock folk magic practices. Then again, a lot of those practices appear to be pretty damn worthy of ridicule if not outright horror: these senior citizens be chopping people up and using body parts for Hoodoo! This is where we get to Eloise, the obvious highlight of the film. She dodders around, controlling Marquis’ movements around the house like some sort of Annie Wilkes who got seriously into the magic section of her local new age bookstore. The presentation of affable charm while saying some of the most ludicrous shit imaginable is a real treat, as is her demise when Marquis suddenly learns how all this shit works and can Rambo the fuck out of the situation. I guess if you can pass the bar exam, you can pull a nail out of your foot and murder the sheriff in cold blood.

Sometimes it’s okay not to make choices for the sake of making choices. The dialogue sequences in this film seem to recognize that they are lacking on a major level and instead seek to make up for or distract from that by shooting them in the most bizarre way possible. The camera often fragments Marquis’ face when he talks, only an eye or a random bit of his forehead visible in the corner of frame. Elsewhere, unintentional jump scares pepper sequences which try to parallel two events unfolding concurrently. Someone had the brilliant idea of capturing vomit-o-vision and having Marquis barf onto some sort of plexiglass panel to create a more immersive experience, and they were so proud of that gag they showed it twice. This is all just so utterly wild, a film that is at once completely forgettable and head-scratchingly bizarre.

THE RULES

SIP

Someone says 'Marquis' or 'mercy'.

The blood moon is mentioned.

Someone gets powder blown in their face.

A flashback begins.

BIG DRINK

City folk laugh at or disdain country folk.

Nail... shenanigans.

[cinemaocd]

Jenny's ongoing list of films watched 2024

February

January list, here.

Inland Empire (2006)*** It took three attempts to get through this long, confusing film. Like Mulholland Drive or the Season Three of Twin Peaks, Lynch films improve on repeat viewings even if meaning remains elusive. That is part of the joy-- sometimes you just vibe with it.

Death of Stalin (2017)**** One of my favorite films of the last two decades. A harried farce with the bloody-mindedness of Macbeth. Like the Scottish Play, we know how its going to come out, but the fun is in watching the articulate villain, played with delicious malice by Simon Russell Beale being outdone by a team of bumbling, petty bureaucrats and one very bad ass soldier. The Boyfriend (1970)*** Ken Russell's surreal tribute to the burlesque musical genre makes the most of its setting in the 1920s by putting his star Twiggy in iconic psychadelic reiterations of the flapper dress. If you opine the fact that drop waist dresses come back into style every 15 years or so, then this movie is as much to blame as anything. Poor Things (2023)*** Emma Stone gives a wild and convincing physical performance as Bella, a baby's brain in the body of her dead mother and Mark Ruffalo as typical 19th Century Rake Getting His Comeupance iscasting I didn't know I needed. I loved the yearning Godwin (Willem Defoe in truly amazing Frankenstein's monster makeup) and though I haven't read the book, I was drawn into the grotesque, ai generated world of the film. The aesthetics of this movie are as engrossing as the story and characters. Adventures of a Dentist (1965)** The Soviet version of the live action Disney comedies of the 70s, where a humble person is given magical power. Here a dentist is given extraordinary, almost magical abilities to perform dentistry without pain. He becomes a celebrity and his fall from grace involves him giving in to the decadent trappings of being a popular dentist. The humor has a darker edge than Disney though I wouldn't go so far as to call it a black comedy. Adolf Hitler: My Part in His Downfall (1973)** This Spike Milligan film plays like a double episode of Dad's Army, not least because of the presence of Arthur Lowe who plays practically the same character here as he does on the tv show. That is not the end of the world however and this is easy to like farce with Milligan's ascerbic, anti-authoritarian bent that is grittier than anything on the sitcom. The Master (2012)** I had high hopes for this, one of Phillip Seymour Hoffman's final films and his last collaboration with director Paul Thomas Anderson is loosely based on the origin story of Scientology. Joaquin Phoenix plays a shell shocked veteran who drifts into the path of the cult leader played by Hoffman. Amy Adams gives a chilling performance as his much younger, controlling wife who is the real power behind the cult. I think I would have an easier time with this film if Anderson hadn't gone around giving interviews saying that Scientology and it's founder L. Ron Hubbard had "helped a lot of people." Of course, this is PTA and Phoenix's character isn't helped at all and he makes the cult worse by being a violent enforcer for the leader's enemies. The levels of whitewashing involved in making a deeply misogynistic cult into a secret matriarchy is just...ugh. However, the homoerotic tension between Hoffman and Phoenix makes the film worth looking out. Murder of Quality (1991)** Made for TV adaptation of John Le Carre's second novel. Denholm Elliott plays Smiley as more doddering and anti-social than Alec Guinness' iconic version of the character. This early Smiley story is more a traditional English village murder mystery, ala Miss Marple, with Glenda Jackson playing Ailsa, Smiley's war buddy that runs a women's magazine. Christian Bale plays one of the students at an elite prep school that forms the economic backbone of the town. Le Carre is merciless in his portrayal of the toxic, petty characters, the wealthy and wannabe wealthy swamp dwellers who run rings around the local constabulary until Smilley steps in and withstands their slings and arrows long enough to solve the case.

The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1970)*** Sometimes you sit down to watch a movie with such low expectations that you are pleasantly surprised that it doesn't totally suck. The excitement of things not being as bad as you feared can blot out some of a movie's excesses. At the end of the day this is Billy Wilder, physically incapable of creating a boring movie throwing the whole bag of tricks at this faux biography of Holmes starring Robert Stephens and Colin Blakely. There's farce and physical comedy, verbal gymnastics and exotic locations. Holmes' possible homosexuality is tastefully hinted at and attempts to create a sensationalist account of his drug use, amount to little before the mystery gets rolling. One of the big delights is Christopher Lee as Mycroft whose scenes with Robert Stephens are bitchy queen pissing contests. Genevieve Page does a turn as a would be damsel in distress who turns out to be a worthy opponent to Holmes similar to Irene Adler.

Irma La Duce (1963)*** For some reason between this and Poor Things I ended up watching two movies about Parisian brothels this month. Billy Wilder based this pastiche of 1950s travelogue adventure films like To Catch a Thief and Charade on a French stage play. A strange attempt to weld the success of the Apartment with Some Like it Hot, reconfiguring a Marilyn Monroe vehicle as a reunion of Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine. Like the Apartment, Irma LaDuce is tinged with melancholy while avoiding a lot of the cliches about sex work that wind up dating so many films on this topic. The main complaint I have about Irma LaDuce s that it's about 45 minutes too long, a common complaint about many films of this period. (Damn Lawrence of Arabia and all who sail in her).

Witness for the Prosecution (1982)*** A made for tv adaptation of the classic courtroom drama, which credits Billy Wilder's screenplay of his film version. Ralph Richardson and Deborah Kerr star in this remake and honestly their chemistry is just off the charts and we're left to wonder how they never managed to make a film together before. Wendy Hiller, Diana Rigg and Beau Bridges round out the amazing cast. Lacks the tension and edge of Wilder's film but I'm having too much fun with Ralph to care.

The Major and the Minor (1942)**: Billy Wilder's first film as writer and director has some of the hallmarks of his later, greater works: farce, trains, mistaken identity, and queer themes in the form of a lesbian coded sister of Ginger Roger's romantic rival. That all the fuss is about fairly bland Ray Milland is easy enough to overlook as Wilder makes the film about toying with Rogers image as sophisticated, sexy, dancer. Typical Wilder inside jokes about the film industry abound, such as a craze for Veronica Lake hairdos among the tween set and swipes at Hollywood actors like Charles Boyer Rogers' childish masquerade to avoid paying full adult fare is preceded by a series of calamities where she's pursued and objectified by a lot of nasty older men. Hoping to escape their advances as well as the ignominity of turnstyle jumping, she maintains the charade through a long weekend with a lot of handsy tween boys until Milland's fiancee is discredited as a controlling social climber. There is a bizarre side track into her home town where Rogers also impersonates her mother before revealing her grown adult self to Milland. No one ever accused Billy Wilder of being restrained I guess.

The Children's Hour (1961)**** This classic of queer cinema was necessarily a scorched earth tragedy at the time of its release. William Wyler's dreamy, restless camera drags you into the warm, cozy life of this female partnership between Shirley Maclaine and Audrey Hepburn that seemingly has the potential to be a romantic partnership. When nasty gossips and spoiled children start a rumor that they are a couple, the scandal destroys their business and standing in the community. Terrorized by the homophobic townspeople, they are eventually "cleared" of the crime of being gay for each other, just when Maclaine's character comes to the brutal realization that she really is in love with Audrey Hepburn's character. It's hard to watch her grief and shame as she admits that the bullies have discovered a truth about her that she didn't know herself. A fact so many queer people can find relatable. The film is based on a play by Lilian Hellman which used the topic of homosexuality to expose the cruelty of female narcissists who bully their way into power. There is much in common with Hellman's The Little Foxes in that way, but the film, perhaps owing to Wyler's inherent romanticism has more of a Romeo and Juliet quality than the play. One feels that Audrey Hepburn has perhaps realized the truth in the lie, just a few moments too late.

Sweet Charity (1969)*** Directed by Bob Fosse, starring Shirley MacLaine and Sammy Davis Jr and Chita Rivera this classic musical combines the best of Fossee's signature choreography, sixties pop show tunes and the psychadelic aesthetics of the late 60s. This and the Boyfriend have a lot in common, though I think the music in Sweet Charity is more solid and the contemporary setting makes it a tad edgier. MacLaine plays yet another flavor of sex worker, a dancehall hostess and paid companion who seeks to be elevated out of her life into respectability through marriage. The fiancee here is uptight and lacking in appeal and when he finally just flakes out in the final reel it's no great loss to the film.

Thief (1981)** Atypical heist film starring James Caan and Jim Belushi, directed by Miama Vice creator Michael Mann. You can see the beginnings of that iconic 80s TV show, in this movie which favors long scenes of action being edited to music with sparse dialog. Caan squares off against Tom Signorelli a local mob boss who dares to threaten Caan's wife played by Tuesday Weld.

[believerindaydreams]

regarding the War Machines: there is a very specific point where the Doctor of "You can't change history, not one line!" becomes the Defender Of Britain and this is it. Innes Lloyd, the man who sets the tone for the rabidly xenophobic era more politely known as "base under siege", has arrived.

it is traditional to write off Hartnell's comments that the show was being taken over by evil forces as the dodderings of a sick old man who should have retired already. and this may be correct from the point of view of fluffs and health and keeping up with the gruelling production schedule, but honestly I've always taken the man at his word on this one.

[kohakuhoshi]

I hope people who are LGBTQ+, AFAB, not white, not fundie Christian, students and former students, disabled, and low income will pull their collective heads out of their asses and realize that Project 2025 is going to seriously fuck up their lives and that the outrage over Palestine and "Joe is too old" is a smokescreen to keep you from seeing what SCOTUS is doing and how horrible project 2025 is.

It's 900 pages but Wikipedia summarizes a lot of the points.

I'm not scared of Trump just by himself.

I'm terrified of his enablers.

I'm terrified at the loss of checks and balances.

I'm terrified that it's now outright legal to bribe a politician.

I'm terrified that our rights are being taken away and people are too outraged about other things to care.

I'm terrified that the corrupt SCOTUS has given a president free rein to be a tyrant.

I'm terrified that corporations have near unlimited power.

I'm terrified how a minority (1%ers and evangelical Christians) is taking over every aspect of life and will punish everyone who they can't use and who does not fit into their narrow world view.

I think we can agree those are all bad things.

I haven't slept a full night since the SCOTUS voted themselves the highest authority, made bribery legal, gutted regulations and consumer protection and ruled a president can do whatever while he wants as long as it's an "official" act.

Do you want the out-of-control dementia ridden doddering despot who will install loyalists and turn the country into a wasteland or the doddering old fool who won't turn this into a robber baron and fundie paradise?

This is no longer Giant Douche vs Shit Sandwich. This is literally a fight for our basic human rights. I really do want a third party in but we can always do that next cycle when we aren't circling the drain, once SCOTUS has been reined in and checks and balances are restored.

Look.

I have made you a chart. A very simple chart.

People say "You have to draw the line somewhere, and Biden has crossed it-" and my response is "Trump has crossed way more lines than Biden".

These categories are based off of actual policy enacted by both of these men while they were in office.

If the ONLY LINE YOU CARE ABOUT is line 12, you have an incredible amount of privilege, AND YOU DO NOT CARE ABOUT PALESTINIANS. You obviously have nothing to fear from a Trump presidency, and you do not give a fuck if a ceasefire actually occurs. You are obviously fine if your queer, disabled, and marginalized loved ones are hurt. You clearly don't care about the status of American democracy, which Trump has openly stated he plans to destroy on day 1 he is in office.

[bllsbailey]

Democrats Are the Greatest Threat to Democracy We’ve Ever Faced

Forget any foreign adversary or terrorist group, Democrats in this country are the greatest threat to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness our country has ever known. Internal threats are always dangerous, especially to a country as strong as ours, but that half the political establishment and almost all of the media are active participants in actions designed for the specific purpose of harming American citizens (up to and including their deaths) and destroying the country is something for which there is no precedent.

Think of all these “progressive” idiots who hid Joe Biden’s decline. That treachery still has not been viewed in its entirety. It is only through the grace of God that something horrible didn’t happen while that doddering, old fool was in the White House. His handlers kept him insulated from exposure, which protected us from him starting a war or having our enemies see just how gone he was to embolden them to take action somewhere else. 

But those bastards were the ones who should have exposed his inability to do the job. Only for reasons of their political agenda did they conspire to hide it – agenda über alles – from the public. And hide it they did. I don’t know if that is full treason or not, but if it is not, it is as close as one can get without getting there.

None of this would have been possible without a compliant media. If I could see it, and you could see it, in the limited, necessary public “proof of life” appearances Biden made during his administration, the people just outside the inner bubble sure as hell could. They chose to ignore it. 

More than that, they actively worked against anyone who pointed out the truth. They’re selling books now and working diligently to wash their hands of complicity by asking the politicians when they noticed and why they didn’t say anything, but that’s a bit like accusing your friend of cheating to distract from your own infidelity.

There is enough guilt to go around because every single one of them had the opportunity to do the right thing for the American people, and not one of them chose to. I realize that would have elevated Kamala Harris to the presidency, but I don’t care. She’s horrible, but she is aware of her surroundings and cognizant of actions and their consequences. The same cannot be said for Joe.

Everyone says it all the time, but you can’t hate these people enough. They called you crazy, they called you a “threat to democracy” because you noticed what was happening in the White House, and you asked questions. I’d say there’s a special place in hell for people like that, but there isn’t a segment – they’re what hell was created for.

That we survived the Biden years as well as we did is a testament to America and the result of a cosmic coin toss. It could have gone the other way, easily. 

Even still, Democrats are claiming they had no idea. There are Democrats who insist that there was nothing wrong until that debate. Yet, every excerpt I’ve seen from the latest attempt at progressive absolution is littered with anonymous “Cabinet Secretaries” unwilling to put their names out for the public to see. 

It doesn’t matter which ones are speaking about which event Biden fumbled; every Cabinet Secretary was complicit, as not a single one of them said anything about Joe’s decline or a lack of access to the president for four years. 

How is that not a form of treason? The oath they swear is not to a president, it is to the Constitution and the country. They chose to ignore that for their own political purposes.

What’s even more telling is you know that if any had spoken out, Democrats – all of whom knew the truth – would have turned on them, tried to ruin them. The “reporters” who ignored what was right in front of them are now getting book deals and winning journalism awards, but they’d be unemployable had they said anything.

But that’s what true heroes do: they stand up when it is necessary, not when it’s popular or convenient. Yes, some made passing references in columns or commentary about Biden’s age being a possible issue, but not one of them beat a drum over it. They checked the box so they could later, should the truth come out, point to that passage or column and claim they’d been on it; that they were one of the good ones.

No one wrote about what is the biggest scandal since a stroke completely incapacitated Woodrow Wilson, and his staff and wife secretly ran the country until it was “safe” and necessary. If Democrats continued to deny the truth, they would lose by more next time. This is a time for confession, hand-washing, and buck-passing. But a Silkwood Shower can’t wash off these stains. 

AOC knew and lied, Joe Scarborough knew and lied, Nancy Pelosi knew and lied, David Muir knew and lied, Rachel Maddow knew and lied, and Chuck Schumer knew and lied. You name the Democrat, and they knew and lied, not just about Joe but about us when we told the truth. 

There are a lot of words that can be used to describe these people, their character, and what they did, none of which are good. Whichever words you choose to use, you are correct. Let this haunt them to the grave, let us remind them of what they participated in until they’re there. And let’s fight like hell to make sure these bastards never even come close to sniffing power again. 

Derek Hunter is the host of a free daily podcast (subscribe!) and author of the book, Outrage, INC., which exposes how liberals use fear and hatred to manipulate the masses, and host of the weekly “Week in F*cking Review” podcast where the news is spoken about the way it deserves to be. Follow him on Twitter at @DerekAHunter.

[wwwstrangersandpoetrycom]

Beyond Absurdity

A doddering president, A gaggle of naive WEF young leader grads with Allegiances to pie in the sky  Propaganda, Their own countries debased, Corrupted, Politicians addicted to foreign support, Flipping money to Nazis and Zionists, Fools hoodwinked, corralled into the military, Bleeding out in senseless pathetic proxy wars, Perhaps the saddest tragedy, Billions of people supporting,…

[ballyhubbock]

Murder On The Dodder - book review

I review a new Irish crime fiction novel, Murder on the Dodder by Keith Bruton

This is a Dublin hitman’s diary, a fast-moving thriller with a high body count. We step into Patrick Callen’s world as it threatens to spin out of control. The root cause of his problems is that he fell in love. Before this, he was a relentless cold, cool, calculating killer, with a steady stream of successful contract killings. Unfortunately for him, his chosen love interest comes with strings…