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eretzyisrael · 3 years

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What We Can Do About It

Last week I explained How They Did It, how the enemies of Israel – the Arabs, the Soviets, the international Left, and others – turned much of the West against us. What can we do about it?

I concentrated on the ‘softer’ aspects of cognitive warfare, such as the infiltration of higher education and international organizations like NGOs and UN agencies, corporations, the use of social media, the exploitation of minorities with grievances, and the support of public antisemites (e.g., Ilhan Omar). But we should keep in mind that more kinetic actions can also have primarily cognitive objectives. The PLO’s European terrorism during the 1970s paved the way for its conversion from a gang of despicable terrorists into a member of the UN, and for murderer and thief Yasser Arafat to become a “statesman.” The 9/11 attacks against the US changed the media portrayal of its Arab and Muslim citizens from “billionaires, bombers, and belly dancers” to hardworking citizens who are targets for islamophobic hatred (this is not the case with Jews, despite the fact that Jews are far more likely to be the victims of hate crimes today).

Terrorism works on various levels, but on the deepest, visceral one it creates paralyzing fear, which the mind – still subconsciously – tries to rationalize away by distancing itself from the victims and identifying with the terrorists. “Don’t kill me, I am on your side!” the terrorized mind shouts. “I’m one of the good ones!” (e.g, a “Jew for Palestine”).

The counterattack has to be planned, coordinated, and specifically targeted in all of the arenas, soft and hard, in which cognitive war is being waged against us. This is something the State of Israel has never come close to doing. Our efforts at public diplomacy have often been most charitably described as a bad joke, like the campaign to advertise Israel as a destination for gay tourism(“Come to Israel! We have nice beaches and we won’t hang you!”) At best we are reactive, responding to vicious accusations of war crimes, apartheid, and other depravities, usually long after the damage has been done. And we often ignore the cognitive implications of our actions, or the lack thereof.

It won’t be easy. Organized support for anti-Israel organizations (including those connected with terrorism) has been going on for decades, with millions of dollars annually flowing from sources like the George Soros organizationsand the European Union. Social media, especially, is constantly changing and new battlefields appear almost daily. Everywhere you look (e.g., Wikipedia) there is anti-Israel bias. And for every pro-Israel activist there are ten, or a hundred, attacking us.

An effective cognitive counterattack must have two parts: how we speak to the world, and – most important – how we act. Let me take the second part first.

There are basic human instincts that precede the ideas expressed in the UN charter by hundreds of thousands of years. Our actions must affect those instincts in a way that will cause others to respect us, and our enemies to fear us. I am not suggesting that we follow the example of the PLO and hijack planes in Europe, but our response to terrorism and threats from enemy countries (e.g., Iran) can be designed to have the appropriate effect. Humans are attracted to strength. They want to be on the side that’s stronger. They talk about the importance of moral and legal principles, but they bet on the winner. Our actions should radiate power and control, and even ruthlessness.

For example, no terrorist should survive his attack. Israeli security forces and the individuals involved have been sharply criticized, both by Israelis and others, for the “Bus 300 affair” in 1984, when two captured terrorists were executed in the field after interrogation. My contention is that this action sent exactly the right message, both to our enemies – “don’t try this or you will die” – and to the rest of the world – “Israel does not tolerate terrorism against her citizens.”

Our pusillanimous responses to Hamas, which has on numerous occasions killed Israelis and which today holds two Israeli citizens and the bodies of two soldiers hostage, is supposed to be justified for practical reasons, but is a total failure from the standpoint of cognitive warfare. When Israel bombs an unoccupied Hamas installation after arson balloons or even rockets from Gaza have burned crops or damaged buildings, the message that is sent is that we are too weak to protect ourselves. When our citizens are held captive while we supply electricity and water to the Gaza Strip, the message is that Hamas is in control, not Israel. I understand the limitations of our power, as viewed by the IDF, but I believe that they are not weighing the cognitive aspects of the question heavily enough.

Recently, the IDF demolished the home of a terrorist murderer, a citizen of the PA who was also an American citizen, despite a request from the US State Department to desist. This was the correct action from the cognitive point of view, sending the message that Israel is a sovereign state which controls Judea/Samaria, and which does not tolerate terrorism. On the other hand, the continued presence of the illegal Bedouin settlement of Khan al-Ahmar as a result of pressure from the EU and the UN tells the world that Israel does not control the land.

Our greatest enemy is Iran, whose regime has explicitly threatened to destroy us on numerous occasions and is developing nuclear weapons. There are obviously multiple considerations that play into choosing the best response, from a pre-emptive strike on her nuclear installations to a continuation of the campaign of sabotage that Israel has been waging for the last few years. Cognitively, the best approach is the one that publicly demonstrates that Israel has the power to destroy the installations, regardless of the distance or their fortification. This could be a massive aerial attack, or it could be covert action that is made public after the fact. The worst case is that we refrain from taking action because of pressure from the US.

In the soft realm, one priority is to put an end to Israel’s self-imposed cognitive failures. There is no reason that Israelis should be allowed to act as paid agents of the EU or the international Left, as is the case with B’Tselem and numerous other anti-state organizatons. There is a weakly enforced law that requires Israeli NGOs that receive half of their funding from foreign governments to report that, on penalty of a relatively small fine; and even that was opposed by the Left and the Arab parties in the Knesset. It is absurd that these groups should be allowed to operate in Israel. All foreign funding – private or governmental – for political NGOs should be forbidden, period. Representatives of foreign NGOs hostile to Israel should not be allowed into the country.

Speaking of Arab parties, there is a Basic Law that says that in order to run for election to the Knesset, a candidate or list must not “[negate] the existence of the State of Israel as a Jewish and democratic state.” This law is interpreted loosely by the Supreme Court, so that Arabs who do precisely that can sit in the Knesset. That must end.

Israel has military censorship, which sometimes makes us look foolish when foreign publications are revealing details that Israelis are not allowed to read or hear from their own media, but at the same time, the Ha’aretz newspaper is allowed to attack the state, day in and day out, often using material from the foreign-funded NGOs. Foreign propaganda outlets make good use of it, saying “even Israelis admit…” This is unacceptable; it borders on treason, and it must stop.

There is a place for traditional hasbara, explanation, or presentation of the news from the viewpoint of the state. I am not sure why everyone is entitled to an opinion and a platform from which to broadcast it, while the state is not. Why not a government TV/radio/Internet news outlet, staffed with professionals who could respond immediately and accurately to false accusations? Doing this properly, so that it would be both authoritative and not boring, would be expensive and require high quality personnel that would not be easy to find; but it is worth doing.

Much of what I have suggested will be criticized because “it violates human rights” or it is “antidemocratic,” or similar things. I don’t disagree. But the idea that Israel has to be a paragon of human rights and democracy is wrong. It is an expression of the antisemitic idea that Jews must always be held to the highest of standards – indeed, to a standard that is continually raised so as to always be out of reach. Israel is not a Platonic ideal state; it is not even the United States. It is a tiny nation with no strategic depth that is surrounded by enemies who themselves violate every standard of civilized behavior. National survival is more important than human rights – especially when those defining the concept of human rights are indifferent (or worse) to our survival.

Abu Yehuda

#Information War #media #terrorism #war

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iol247 · 4 years

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Opinionista • Ismail Lagardien • 15 March 2021

Fifteen years along the road to nowhere, and the worst is yet to come

We are at a point, now, where instead of pointing to the perversity of misguided distribution, corruption, theft, maladministration, tenderpreneurs, and State Capture, discussions are deflected – and the spectrum of opinion has been narrowed.

In 2015, Justice Malala published his book We Have Now Begun Our Descent. Without having read the book I sat down to consider South Africa’s future, and concluded that there was little to no hope for the country. I was in Bonn, Germany, at the time, after four or more years in the secretariat of the National Planning Commission. Although the Covid-19 pandemic has had a dreadful impact on South Africa’s political economy and society – as it has on almost every country in the world – the country’s problems took a turn for the worse at Nasrec at the end of 2017, and Malala’s “descent” gained momentum.

I want to break with orthodoxy, and say that it is the politics, not “the economy,” as the old canard goes. Homo economicus might believe that the economy is everything, and everything is the economy, but “the economy” is those millions of transactions that humans make every minute of every day, and the personal and public political decisions that enable or disable those people (from making those transactions).

A collapse that preceded democracy

Before I continue, I want to share a passage I wrote between 1991 and 1993, when I was the southern African correspondent for the New Straits Times of Malaysia. I don’t have the exact date of publication, because the person who decided to make a “portfolio” of my work neatly trimmed my reports and columns but failed to include the date. I was going to save it for my memoir, but here it is – written at a time when the apartheid government was losing its grip on power and state institutions in the early 1990s:

“It is as if a villainous character had every day, over the years, gone to the Union Buildings, the seat of government in the capital, Pretoria, and methodologically and systematically undone every single screw, bolt, nut and nail of government. Every day, now, for months on end, a section of government in South Africa is coming apart. It is difficult, now, after a spate of scandalous exposes in recent months to say exactly when the disintegration first started, or when the first door, window or desk in the Union Buildings collapsed. What has become evident, however, is that the state is collapsing bit by bit, in slow motion, while its powers of rehabilitation [are] dissipating with its political might.”

It has been reported, over and again, that the democratic government inherited a state that was on its knees. As the Afrikaner historian Herman Giliomee wrote, a decade ago, March 1985 marked, “the day apartheid started dying”.

Wrote Giliomee: “Pik Botha recalls: ‘I will never forget the night of July 31 when [Minister of Finance] Barend du Plessis phoned me… [He said]: ‘Pik, I must tell you that the country is facing inevitable bankruptcy … The process has started.’”

We had growth, and increased social spending, but the thieves saw opportunities

The first democratic government of South Africa, led by Nelson Mandela, was fully aware of the terrible state of the economy. They managed, within a decade or more, to provide utilities and access to public goods and services (including social grants) to millions of people across the country (all necessary for a stable, progressive social democracy), while managing the country’s finances, avoiding profligacy – and through it all, produced growth and a Budget surplus.

This demonstrated that you can reduce poverty, provide social services, deliver public goods and services, as well as manage the country’s finances. The problem that emerged, after the first 12-15 years was not lack of growth, or a contraction of the economy, it was about distribution – much of the growth did, indeed go to social spending, but a lot more began to go into the wrong pockets. Corruption, maladministration, cronyism, nepotism and prebendalism took root – what good was the ANC-led state, if it did not line the pockets of its leaders, and members who were deployed to state agencies, and boards across the country?

Fast-forward to a few years later, and we are at a point, now, where instead of pointing to the perversity of misguided distribution, corruption, theft, maladministration, tenderpreneurs, and State Capture, discussions are deflected – and the spectrum of opinion has been narrowed. Somewhat simultaneously rose the politics of identity (the ugly version), and instead of policies focusing on social problems, they focused on contortions of language, the politics of revenge, populism, scapegoating, and the speeches and statements of leaders were increasingly laced with words like “bloodshed,” and all the while xenophobia, aimed mainly at Africans and Asians, has spread.

A careful read of Carl Niehaus’s eight-page submission on likely policies of the ruling alliance, suggests we are expected to choose between Radical Economic Transformation by policy (ANC), or Radical Economic Transformation by force (EFF). At what point do the ANC’s radical forces join the EFF? Impossible, but not improbable.

Are we there yet?

Let’s take stock, briefly, of where we are. We know that “the economy” is in the pits. But what makes an economy stable, expansive, progressive and able to secure social justice? Don’t ask an economist. To them it’s all cost-benefits, assumptions, laws and models which they mistake for truth. And anyway, people who are so sure of their own predictive powers belong on the beachfront with fortune tellers. What makes an economy work is everything else: the people, the institutions, the policies, ethics, food, water, shelter, clothing and, well, energy. If we start just with energy, consider the fact that we may have load shedding for at least the next five years.

This week, Eskom’s Chief Executive Officer, André de Ruyter, confirmed that “there will be a shortfall in supply of electricity of approximately 4,000 megawatts over the next five years as announced by President Cyril Ramaphosa. We welcome further interventions announced by the president, which will include a further request for proposals for a further 2,600 megawatts from wind and solar energy.”

Using non-economic rationalist orthodoxy, us ordinary citizens know, intuitively, that you cannot run a shop, a workshop or any heavy industry without a stable source of electricity. We also know that you cannot get to work without commuter trains running. We also know that we place our lives in danger with every taxi ride. While us mere mortals don’t travel abroad much, if at all, we know that planes belong in the air; that the public broadcaster is meant to serve as, well, a public broadcaster; the police are meant to serve and protect; our military personnel should be able to march in straight lines, and its hardware has to be up to date (you can’t have stockpiles of ammunition that is outdated); along with the police and military, the state security system ought to make us sleep better at night, and criminals need to be prosecuted – even if they are among the highest office-bearers in the ruling alliance.

A woman walking to work is not safe. A family sitting at home watching TV is not safe. A farmer working his or her fields is not safe. The driver stopping at a red light is not safe. Do we really expect someone to invest in an existing or new industry or fund innovation if a faction of the ruling party calls for “the mass nationalisation of industries including mines, insurance companies, steel and chemical companies”? The future of work is changing, but our major union leaders, supported by barbarous professors, want our workers to stay in the bondage of assembly lines – instead of retraining them for new, more innovative means of production.

All of these represent the life world of everyday people in South Africa. Every time anyone buys a loaf of bread or a bag of oranges they comprise “the economy”. Speaking of oranges, you can return the land to “its rightful owners” and (with the help of the former white owner) farm citrus products, but if individual oranges have a fungal disease you may not be able to export your produce. That’s not a racist conspiracy. (I use this one example because I have some insights into a related domestic issues case, and about the way the World Trade Organisation works.)

This can go on and on if we can’t guarantee: the safety of investments; a reliable stream of energy; community and personal safety; trains that run; a reliable justice system – with judges who are unimpeachable; a postal service that is functional; public servants who do the jobs they’re paid to do; teachers who teach; nurses who are paid well, and don’t sign in for one another when they want to escape parts of night duty; and if we don’t play our part, as active citizens.

The government can build schools, but parents must make sure their children attend school, and show an interest in the child’s education. The government can provide trash cans, but people must use them. Visit downtown Johannesburg and you may get a sense of how filth has built up – it’s not quite at the levels of Naples, but give it time. While we hold the state and political parties to a high standard, we need to, also, report on citizens who refuse to pay or steal electricity and water, then cry foul if they are brought to book. That, is largely, the result of ANC promises. With another election in a couple of years, do we really think the ANC, or any political party is going to tell people to pay their electricity bills or get cut off? And so, it’s not “the economy” it’s everything we do, and say, every day, that makes the economy work.

We may have started our descent, as Malala, wrote almost six years ago; my loss of hope has deepened – helped along by #statecapture revelations. But let me turn to the observations I made in the early 1990s, with regards to the National Party:

“What has become evident, however, is that the state is collapsing bit by bit, in slow motion, while its powers of rehabilitation [are] dissipating with its political might.”

https://www.dailymaverick.co.za/opinionista/2021-03-15-fifteen-years-along-the-road-to-nowhere-and-the-worst-is-yet-to-come/

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kriscme · 3 years

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One Life to Live

Hi, sorry for the delay if you’re following this story on Tumblr. The chapters that have been put on AO3 have at last caught up with the chapters here. New chapters will go up weekly from hence on. You might find it easier to read on AO3 though. I’d link if I knew how. I’m Kris22 over there.

As always thanks to Ronja for allowing me to write fanfic of her Hunger Games fanfic “The Chance You Didn‘t Take” available on AO3 and FanFiction. Chapter 30 “Marcus presents well on TV, doesn’t he? You wouldn’t guess how much he hates it.” My hand stills as I focus on the screen and Buttercup nudges his head beneath my palm in protest. I absently go back to scratching him behind the ears and his chest rumbles in contentment. “Yeah, well, you soon learn to fake it,” replies Johanna from the other end of the sofa. “You should know that better than anyone.” “Yeah,” I say. Fake or not fake, real or not real, on television who can tell the difference? “That’s where Gale and I used to meet to go hunting,” I tell her. Cressida had Marcus stand with his back to the valley, using the mountains in the distance as backdrop. The sun was directly behind him and it shone through his golden-brown hair and set it aflame as if it were a halo. Man-on-fire, I can almost hear Cinna say. He’s the darling of the media now. I don’t envy him. I nervously wait for the moment Cressida interrupted the interview to ask me how I feel about a national park but it’s like it didn’t happen. It’s been edited so seamlessly that no one would guess there’d been a break in the dialogue between Marcus and herself. True to her word, there’s not even the slightest glimpse or mention of me anywhere. And nothing either in the separate feature she did on District 12 that had aired immediately before.

I let out my breath in a long exhale and feel the tension ebb from my muscles. I imagine Marcus in District 13 having the same reaction. We felt sure that if there were any compromising footage it would come out either before the interview was broadcast or during. And apart from that . . . um . . . incident in the woods, what else could they have on us? Only that Marcus was a guest in my house but that was a very reasonable arrangement given the circumstances. Otherwise, it was all very circumspect. No public displays of affection, no chaining naked to trees, no fights with logging companies. Only Johanna knew the extent of our relationship, and I doubt she’d have told anyone. Peeta’s engagement to Lace would have made a juicy story, but thankfully he’s protected, having done nothing to attract publicity to himself – either through his own actions or through association with another. “Looks like you’ve dodged a bullet,” says Johanna. She reaches for the remote to switch off the television and then settles back onto the sofa. A plate of Peeta-made cookies is on the coffee table delicately iced in Peeta’s signature style. She takes one and scrapes off the icing with her teeth. Johanna likes the icing best. If you let her, you’d end up with a plate of cookies that look as if mice had been at them. “It would seem so,” I reply. I wish I could feel more certain, but if I’ve learned anything from my experiences is that life seldom is. In fact, feeling safe almost guarantees that you’re not. I forget to stroke Buttercup again, and tired of my erratic attention, he decides it’s time to move on. He drops to the floor and ambles over to his favorite lounge chair, tail swishing. He leaves behind a layer of cat hair on my dark green trousers. “I told you nothing would happen,” says Johanna. “Wouldn’t want to ruin the fantasy they’d put so much effort into perpetuating, would they? I stand naked against a tree for a good cause and the media goes berserk. You get caught shagging against a tree with the current golden boy and then nothing.” “You know that’s not true,” I say, exasperated that she still thinks like this. “Maybe at one time, when it would have made the Capitol look stupid if the truth came out, but not now. They’ve had no compunction giving Marcus bad publicity in the past so I can’t see why it would be different just because I’m involved. We were mistaken about what we heard that’s all, and then we let paranoia take over.”

I’d agonized over whether I should tell Marcus about Remus and the knowing look he gave me when I returned to camp. In the end, I decided that he should have all the information just in case he needed to be prepared. That was a mistake. Between Cressida’s return to the Capitol the following day and Marcus’s for District 13 a week later, our waking hours were spent alternating between optimism that we had nothing to worry about and then dread that we had everything to worry about. Marcus was petrified that another scandal would put his mission in jeopardy. As there’s no official mandate from the central government to establish national parks, he depends on the goodwill and co-operation of individual districts and a negative association with me – any association with me, actually – could have that support withdrawn. Especially in 13 where my name is anathema. For me, it was the terror of a media onslaught, that what had happened before could happen again – my private life no longer private but entertainment to be analyzed and exploited. That the careful re-building of my life as plain Katniss Everdeen would all come to naught. That it might impact on Peeta, who’s only just now finding himself after what Snow did to him. We had our first ever real argument. I told him it was his fault for breaking his own rule and luring me into a clandestine meeting with him for sex. And he said it was my fault for . . . he couldn’t quite articulate why it was my fault but it had something to do with being Katniss Everdeen. It seems if I’d been a nobody we could have fucked in the main street (his words) and while it would likely have had us arrested in 12 it wouldn’t have merited even the smallest mention in the Capitol. Because, you know, we’re just ignorant hayseeds and they are so much more sophisticated than we are and they have no morals (my words). Oh, and he wasn’t exactly a nobody either. In fact, that was the problem. We did calm down and apologize to each other and had make-up sex, which was nice, but it wasn’t how I imagined we’d be spending our final days together – tense, fearful, with each blaming the other for our predicament. It wasn’t until the night before he departed for 13 that we came to a mutual understanding. Neither of us were at fault. We were victims of our celebrity – a celebrity that neither of us had sought. Mine was thrust upon me, and his was a regrettable consequence of his life’s work. But I did tell him he was partly to blame. If he had been fifty, pot-bellied and bald instead of young, handsome and with eyes the color of maple-syrup that could melt any women’s heart, he wouldn’t attract a fraction of the media attention that he does. And then he told me that if I had been a scraggy, wrinkled old bat instead of young and nubile with eyes like silver moons and hair evocative of midnight, all the Games prowess in the world couldn’t have made me the cultural icon I’d become. We were just too good looking for own good. And then we laughed and had sex – playful, affectionate, I-want-to-remember-this-forever sex.

But the worry was still there when we lay in each other’s arms that night, and the next morning when we said our goodbyes. It was a bitter-sweet ending to what had been an unforgettable interlude but as I watched him pass through the Village gates for the last time, rucksack piled high, long legs in hiking boots striding purposely towards the next wilderness to be saved, I was struck by the rightness of it. It was how it was always going to end; how it always should have ended. Johanna tosses a denuded cookie back onto the plate and picks up a fresh one. She ignores the pained look I send her way. “Would you have gone with him?” she asks. “If you could?” I brush cat hairs from my trousers to give me a few seconds to think about it. I’d honestly never considered it since I can’t leave 12. But there was a time when I could have happily left everything behind and followed him around the country, hiking mountain trails and making love at every opportunity. It was at the concrete house by the lake, the morning after we’d made love for the first time and there weren’t enough superlatives in the world to describe how wonderful I thought he was, although now I find it hard to determine exactly what I did feel for him.

“No,” I say eventually. “Even if didn’t mean being in the public eye again, I still wouldn’t. We don’t want the same things.” I hesitate, wondering if I should say anything, but then blurt it out. “I don’t think I’m normal.” I brace for the sarcastic response I’m sure to get, but to my relief it doesn’t come. “None of us are,” she says grimly. “You don’t go through what we have and come out normal at the end of it.” She’s silent for a moment, but then rouses herself. “But if you want me to comment further, you’ll have to be more specific,” she adds. I sigh. I don’t know to explain it to myself, let alone to someone else. “Well, it’s about how I felt about Marcus. I mean, it wasn’t that long ago when I would have done almost anything for him. He made me feel so . . . so . . . “ “Turned on?” she smirks. I feel my face grow hot. I should have known the real Johanna couldn’t be too far from the surface. “Yes, but more than that. Wanted. Desirable. And we had so much in common too. But when he left, I didn’t feel much of anything. I should have been devastated, shouldn’t I?” “Rebound.”

“What?” “It was a rebound. It’s when you haven’t got over one relationship and you dive straight into another. Marcus gave you the validation that Peeta didn’t. It’s not so complicated. Pretty simple, in fact. Happens all the time.” “It does?” “Yep. It goes like this. You feel like shit because you’re still hung-up on your ex so you’re looking for a distraction – something or someone to make you feel better. So along comes Marcus who is clearly attracted and you transfer the feelings you don’t think Peeta wants on to him. Only it doesn’t last because it’s not based on anything real.” But some things were real. I really did like him, felt a connection with him, even. And I liked the sex, but maybe that’s just a physical thing. I haven’t been with enough men to know if it’s different when it’s with someone you truly love. “A rebound is bad then?” I ask. “Depends,” she says. She takes another cookie from the plate. “Has it made you feel better or worse? And then there’s the person on the other end of it. It’s generally considered not fair to them. But, if you had to pick the ideal man to have a rebound with, you couldn’t have done better than Marcus. I told you at the beginning– one track mind. Nothing competes with saving the forests for him.” Gale. He was like that. The cause is more important than any relationship. As soon as Gale heard about the uprisings in the Districts, he no longer wanted to escape with me into the woods when just minutes before, he’d been so keen. But Peeta, he would have gone with me, even though he knew it was a bad idea. “He told me he doesn’t keep girlfriends for very long. I guess that’s why,” I say. He’d also have figured out what a liability I’d be to him. And I certainly wouldn’t want the kind of life a relationship with him would entail. That final week had been an eyeopener for us both. But at least it ended well, all things considered. I put out my hand for a cookie but change my mind when I can’t find one that hasn’t had the icing scraped off.

“You’re disgusting,” I tell her. But I can’t keep from laughing. It’s part amusement, part relief. No repercussions from that lapse of judgement in the woods and an explanation that makes sense to me about my feelings for Marcus. I feel a sudden rush of affection for the woman who’s helped me through this – and more besides. Once I compared her to an older sister who really hates you. I guess I have to revise it to an older sister who sometimes seems to hate you but really doesn’t, and you can always depend on to have your back. “I’m going to miss you,” I say. “Yeah, I know,” Johanna replies casually as if she were picking lint off a sweater. “But my reason for coming here in the first place was to help Marcus out and he’s gone. Peeta doesn’t need me anymore either. So even if I hadn’t been asked to, it still would have been time for me to go home.” “You’re going to be great mayor.” “Thanks, but I’m not mayor quite yet. I have to be elected first. It’s the way it’s done now.” Before the war, District mayors were appointed by the Capitol but now all governing roles are decided by vote. It’s the republic Plutarch had talked about, just like in the history books. The people elect their own representatives. “You’ll get it,” I say confidently. “They love you in 7. They wouldn’t have asked you to run, otherwise.” Who’d have guessed that Johanna would be destined to be Mayor of District 7, but when you think about it, it’s the perfect fit. She’ll bring passion, commitment and integrity to the role. And essential for a career in politics, a thick skin. “So, have you thought about what you’d like to do on your last night here and to celebrate your candidacy?” I ask. “How about drinks first at the pub and then dinner at that restaurant you like or maybe see a movie. Or we could do all three. Anything you like. “ “Anything I like?” she asks ominously. Images of pub crawls, strippers and naked sprints through the streets flash through my mind. “What I’d like is dinner with just the four of us. You, me, Peeta and Haymitch.” I groan. This is far, far worse. “You more than anyone know the circumstances – “ “I don’t care,” she says flatly. “Ever since I got here, I’ve been stuck between the two of you. Haymitch has too. Why don’t you think of other people for a change and how it affects them? You and Peeta are Haymitch’s family! What do you think it’s been like for him?” “He hasn’t said anything,” I say, on the defensive. “How can I know if – “

“It should be fucking obvious! How brainless can you get?” She gives me a look filled with contempt. I guess she’s back to being the older sister who hates you. I hadn’t considered it from Haymitch’s perspective. He’d have missed the dinners, I suppose, but it’s not as if they could continue forever. They were only intended to help us establish a routine. And besides, it was Peeta who showed the first signs of breaking from them. “It’s not like I started it.” As I say it, I realize how false that is. I was the one who put a complete stop to the dinners and made things awkward between Peeta and me. All because I couldn’t handle him being with Lace. “I don’t care who started it,” she says, but less angrily than before. “It’s time for it to stop. Is this how you’re going to live the rest of your lives? Forever trying to avoid being in the same place at the same time? You’re neighbors, for fuck’s sake. You’ve been in two Games and a war together. You don’t throw away a bond like that because he fucked another woman when his brain was mush. And now that you’ve fucked another man, you’re even. There’s nothing standing in your way now. So, what’s stopping you? It can’t be Lace. She’s gone.” Gone, but not forgotten. Not by me, and not by Peeta either. But Johanna does have a point. If Haymitch is a kind of father figure to us both, then that makes us his children. And having two children who don’t get along and won’t join in any family activities if the other is there too, can’t have been easy. For my own part, it has been a strain avoiding Peeta when we live so close, work similar hours, and have Haymitch in common. But it hasn’t been just me. Peeta stopped seeking me out like he used to when he found out that I’m in love him. Nothing about our situation has changed, Lace or no Lace. He stays away from me because he knows that I’m in love him and he feels bad that he can’t love me back. And I stay away from him because I know that he knows, and feel humiliated that he does. But if . . . “You’re right,” I say. “It is ridiculous. You make the arrangements and I’ll be there.” “And now that Marcus is out of the picture – “

She stops suddenly, confused. “You will?” “Yes. In fact, I can hardly wait. It’ll be fun.” I rise from the sofa to gather the cups and the plate of ruined cookies to signal that the visit is over. Johanna looks stunned as if she can’t believe how easy that victory was. She was probably all primed to go into battle and then it failed to materialize. How disappointing that must be.

“Oh, Johanna!” I call out cheerily just as she’s about to walk out the door. I’ve just remembered something Haymitch told me. “Maybe we should let Peeta do the cooking. He likes to do it. He’d always take over when we had our dinners.” If I have to do this thing, I at least want the food to be good. “Sure,” she says, still dazed. And then she’s gone. I wonder if Peeta has already agreed to it, or that she still has the job of guilting him into it too. I decide that it doesn’t matter either way. Peeta will be motivated by the same reasoning as me. The present situation can’t continue. It’s funny, in the way that’s weird rather than amusing, that mine and Peeta’s situation is now reversed. In the days following the Games and before we embarked on the Victory Tour, he avoided me for pretty much the same reasons I avoid him now. And, in turn, I avoided him for the same reason he avoids me. It’s the discomfort of being around someone whose feelings you don’t return. But there’s one crucial difference. Peeta had hope. I know that now from what Haymitch told Peeta before the prep teams arrived. He could afford to wear his heart on his sleeve knowing that there was a good chance that if I was given the space I needed, it was only a matter of time before I felt the same way. I have no hope. Therefore, my strategy will have to be different. This is about survival, not about capturing Peeta’s heart.

Peeta will have to believe that whatever I felt for him, I no longer do. That’s the only way we can be at ease with each other. I may never stop loving him, but I know how to bury my feelings so that they don’t show. I’ve had plenty of practice at it. After my father died. When I was reaped. When he started going out with Lace. I can do this. I can put on a show. I don’t even have to be good at it. In the Games, Peeta was convinced I was in love him because he wanted to believe it. So now I do the opposite and he’ll believe because he wants to believe. And if he can’t do that, he’ll pretend. We’re both very good at pretending. Chapter 31 Venia purses her lips at the state of my nails. “There’s not much I can do with these apart from a polish. If you want artificial nails, you’ll have to come back when Octavia’s here.” “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I mostly just wanted my hair trimmed.” The shape Flavius had cut into my hair has nearly all grown out. Working at the school during the week, and out in the woods with Marcus on the weekends hadn’t left much time for trips to the beauty salon. I ask, “Where’s Octavia? Not sick, I hope.”

It’s unusual not to see Octavia at her station, her auburn head bent over her task. Since Venia re-united with her coworkers, each has settled into their former specialties as beauty therapists. Flavius is hair and makeup. Octavia is the nail expert. And Venia is skin treatments and waxing. “She left work early,” smirks Flavius. “She has a date.” Venia collects a few tools from the nail station and returns to my side. While Flavius cuts, Venia smooths and buffs. It reminds me of my days as a tribute when all three of them would be working on various body parts at the same time. “We weren’t busy, anyway,” says Venia. “You’re the last customer for the day.” I know. That’s the reason I chose to come at this time. I didn’t want to take the chance of running into Lace when she’s having her roots done. “Anyone I know?” I ask. “Possibly,” replies Venia. “He’s from 12. Thom something. Bick? Hick?” “Hickory?” “That’s it. Hickory. Octavia’s had crushes before but she’s got it really bad this time. I caught her looking through wedding catalogues.” Venia pauses mid-buff. “I’m worried for her.” “How come?” Thom is a nice guy. He was a friend of Gale’s who helped with the clean-up of 12 and gave me a ride home in his cart when I was too weak to walk home. That was the day Peeta came back. “Because of . . . you know, of what we did before the war.” I don’t miss Venia’s use of “we”. If Octavia is accused of being a facilitator of the Games, they all are.

“But doesn’t Thom already know? He was in 13 at the same time as you.” All the survivors from District 12 actually. But Venia shakes her head. “Octavia didn’t know Thom then. We didn’t mix very much with the people there. We thought it safer to keep to ourselves. Especially after the bread.” I suppose being shackled to a wall and beaten for simply taking an extra portion of bread wouldn’t exactly endear the populace to you.

I try to reassure them. “You do know that I’d vouch for you if it ever came out? And tell them how you helped prepare me for the rebellion propos and Snow’s execution?” “I know you would. And maybe we’re worrying over nothing. But we risked a lot coming here and 12’s our home now. Flavius has met someone too – he’s from the Capitol, so that’s not a concern but if we had to leave . . . And Lucia is settled in school and has made friends and Cicero has a good job at the medicine factory . . .” And so Venia goes on. Flavius chimes in too. He tells me they’re set to take on two apprentices and once the tailor has moved out, they want to expand the salon –

“What? Arthur’s leaving?” This is the first I’ve heard of it. But maybe that’s not so surprising. I haven’t seen much of Arthur lately. It’s been only been Max, Johanna and me at pub nights. Arthur is obviously spending his Saturday nights elsewhere. “Oh, he’s not going far,” says Venia. “Just to another store on the main street. He says it’s better situated for passing trade and with the dressmaking shop next door it will likely bring more business to them both.” “I don’t think more business is the only thing those two want from each other,” says Flavius with a suggestive wink. “Flavius!” chides Venia, but she can’t conceal a smile. “It’s true, though. We misplaced the stone we use for sharpening scissors and Octavia went to ask Arthur if we could borrow his. But no one was there even though the door was open. So, she went through to the back, thinking that’s where he’d be, and she caught them red-handed, kissing, and his hand was up her skirt. Octavia forgot all about the stone.” The two of them collapse into giggles. “We didn’t think he had it in him,” says Venia, when she’s able to speak. Neither did I. I can’t laugh about it though. Peeta will be devastated when he hears that Lace has moved on. And so soon after their break-up too. But as badly as I feel for Peeta, I also can’t help feeling happy for Arthur. If there was ever a man who deserves reward for long devotion, it’s him. I only hope that Lace proves worthy of it. One thing I do know is that Peeta isn’t going to hear of it from me. I’m done being involved in his love life. It’s brought me nothing but trouble ever since he made that confession to Caesar Flickerman years before. My only objective is to get over him if I can and make sure that he thinks I have. And that makes this dinner tonight so important. It will set the stage for our relationship going forward. We’ll be friends. Not necessarily close friends. But at least friends who can enjoy social occasions together and feel comfortable in each other’s company. Johanna wants us to dress up so I guess that means I’ll have to wear a cocktail dress. I have one already in my closet. It’s the emerald green dress I wore to the party in 8. But it’s long sleeved and in a heavy fabric and that makes it too hot for this time of the year. I’ll have to go down to the basement where most of the Cinna clothes are stored. There’s a whole rack of cocktail dresses to choose from. But what do you wear when you want to show that you’ve made an effort, but don’t want to appear as if you’ve set out attract anyone in particular – and by anyone, I mean Peeta.

I begin by eliminating colours that are evocative of sunsets or flames. That takes care of anything orange, red or yellow. And then anything that Lace might choose. If Lace is Peeta’s idea of feminine allure then I should make sure to do the opposite. Therefore, no pastels, ruffles and especially any kind of lace. No. No. No, I think as I reject one dress after another. And then I find it. The perfect dress. And so different from the girlish or jeweled frocks that Cinna usually dressed me in that it’s almost as if he knew that one day, I might have a need for a dress such as this. It’s in unrelieved black. Simple and unadorned in slinky silk jersey. I really like it, but Peeta, who loves colour, probably won’t and it’s sure to send a message that I didn’t dress to please him. I accessorize it with black high-heeled sandals and silver and jet earrings. The dress comes to just above the knee with a deep halter neck. It’s impossible to wear a bra without it showing, so I leave it off. I turn around to check how it looks in the mirror from the rear. The clinging fabric does set off my best asset, but since it’s a dinner and I’ll be sitting on it, no one will see it. The burn scars, although much improved from the skin treatments, are still noticeable on my back. I decide to draw attention to it by putting my hair up in a kind of messy bun. This will contrast with Lace’s unblemished skin and immaculate hair and will surely show Peeta that I don’t care at all about being attractive to him. I arrive at Peeta’s door at the same time as Haymitch. He’s wearing a dinner suit, but his white shirt has already untucked from the waistband and his tie isn’t around his neck but dangling from his breast pocket. His eyebrows rise as he takes in my appearance and his lips curve in a sardonic smile. If I needed any confirmation of how incongruous I look in this get-up, I just got it. Johanna answers the door, elegant in a wine-red fitted dress with matching shoes. She appears to have paid a visit to the salon too, because her hair is now a uniform color and has been restyled to lie flat against her skull and frame her face instead of the usual red-tipped spikes sticking up all over her head. “I like your new look,” I tell her. “Yeah, it’s more conservative than I usually go for but I figure I have to start looking the part of mayor sooner or later. But what about you? What have you done with Katniss Everdeen?” I smile and shrug. I’m unsure if not looking like myself is a compliment or not. Peeta stops short when he sees me, his mouth gaping, but he collects himself quickly. “You look beautiful,” he says.

“Thanks,” I murmur. He sounds sincere but I know how easily Peeta can fake it. “You look good too.” And he does, in a cream suit designed by Portia. We move into the dining room. Johanna’s gone to a lot of trouble. I can almost imagine we’re at one of those fancy restaurants in the Capitol. Fresh flowers, dim lighting, the furniture polished to a high sheen. The table is resplendently laid out with the finest dinnerware and gold cutlery. These came with the house. I have them too but I’ve yet to use them. I wonder if Peeta recognizes the pattern on the plates as the same as those that accompanied our feast in the cave. Johanna and Haymitch take seats at opposite ends of the table. That leaves Peeta and me to sit across from each other.

White wine is poured into cut-crystal glasses and starched linen napkins are laid across laps. I wait for either Johanna or Peeta to start bringing in the food but they stay seated. How are we to eat if the food never leaves the kitchen? I eye the woven gold basket filled with soft rolls in the center of the table. Is that all we get? Just then, Cass enters the room carrying a large silver tray. “Good evening,” he says, as places a bowl of soup in front of each of us. “I hope you brought your appetites with you. Don’t forget to save room for dessert.” And then he’s gone. Presumably back to the kitchen. “What was that?” I say to no one in particular. “Cass is doing all the cooking tonight. He’s a qualified chef. He can cook all sorts of things - not just pastries and desserts,” says Johanna. “Yes, I know that. But what’s he doing here?” Peeta answers. “Johanna thought it would be nice to have a professional do the cooking so we could relax and enjoy ourselves.” Right. I just wish Johanna’s idea of relaxation was drinks at the pub, or a barbeque in the backyard. Any place where I didn’t risk locking eyes with Peeta at any minute. We can scarcely look at each other. Every time his eyes chance to meet mine, they flit away. It’s like being back at school. We’re doing a very poor job of acting at ease with each other so far. I’m a lousy actress at the best of times but I expected better of Peeta. Clearly the knowledge that I’m in love with him freaks him out to the extent that he’s forgotten all his acting skills. The food is a welcome diversion and I tuck in. The soup is creamy pumpkin sprinkled with slivered nuts and little black seeds. Sublime. I recognize it as one of the soups at the Capitol feast. It’s followed by those delicious little roasted birds filled with orange sauce. Then fish swimming in a green sauce flecked with herbs. And then, oh, I don’t believe it! Lamb stew with dried plums! On a bed of wild rice!

That makes me think of our feast in the cave, of course. It’s even served on the same patterned plates. My eyes instinctively search out Peeta’s. Do you remember it? You must, surely. How excited we were when that parachute arrived. How careful we were to eat only small portions so we wouldn’t be sick after so many days of hunger. And then how we whiled away the time until we could eat again – snuggled together in the sleeping bag, my head on your shoulder, your arms wrapped around me, imagining our life together if we survived the Games. You, me and Haymitch, you said. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games tales. You must remember it!

But Peeta doesn’t look my way. His gaze flickers between Johanna and Haymitch without it ever landing on me even though we’re sitting directly across from each other. And he laughs just a little too loudly at Johanna’s poor taste joke about prunes and how we’ll all shit well tomorrow. He remembers our feast in the cave, all right! I’m certain of it. He just doesn’t want me to know that he does. To spare me the humiliation, probably. I want to kick myself. Gawping at him like a love-sick idiot – practically begging him to remember one of our most intimate moments together. At least Peeta has his wits about him, not letting on that the stew holds any particular significance.

I quietly return to my stew. It’s not as good as I remember it and I can only manage a few mouthfuls. Saving room for dessert, I tell Johanna, when she comments. Unfortunately, there’s a long break between this course and the next. I suppose Cass wants our stomachs to have a rest before he brings out the dessert which is sure to be spectacular. But it makes the pressure to appear congenial and unaffected by Peeta’s presence that much harder when I don’t have the food to distract me.

Since I got here, Peeta hadn’t spoken a great deal, and me even less. The conversation has been carried mostly by Johanna and Haymitch. She’s been picking his brain about the challenges of town planning and the provision of services such as garbage collection and road maintenance. Johanna had better get this job for mayor. She already acts as if it’s hers. That’s why it’s a surprise when the focus of attention turns to me. I’d been occupied twisting my crystal glass around by the stem watching the colours change across its facets. Anything to keep my mind off the person sitting opposite me. “You’ll step in, won’t you, Katniss?” Johanna asks. My head jerks up. “Hmm? What – “ “She doesn’t have to,” says Peeta quickly. “Step in for what?” I ask, directing my question to Johanna. “To watch the tapes with Peeta.” says Johanna. Before I can respond Peeta interjects again. “There’s no need to bother Katniss. I’ll be fine with Haymitch.” “You won’t,” says Haymitch. “The tapes labeled ‘to be watched with Katniss’ are all that’s left. It’s probably why the content has become repetitive lately. Aurelius has obviously run out of material I can help you with.” “You need to watch all the tapes,” Johanna adds. “You don’t know what memories are missing until you do.” “Katniss has already done her share. I’ll be fine watching on my own,” says Peeta. Johanna shakes her head. “You know that’s not how it works. You need someone to put it into context. Besides, the tapes were her idea to begin with. She should see it through.” Peeta turns to me for the first time. “There’s really no need.” He’s almost pleading with me. I really want to accept his offer to not watch the tapes with him. I know he’s giving me an escape but if I go along with it, it gives the impression that I’m afraid and that’s not good either. It has to appear as if I have nothing to hide. Which I don’t. Except the part that I’m still in love with him, of course. I can see where he’s coming from. After my slip-up with the stew, he’s worried that if I’m compelled to watch the tapes with him, I’m sure to give myself away. He’s protecting me from myself. I look coolly into the blue eyes of the person who is now my greatest opponent and I promise myself I will defeat his plan. Johanna is right. I should finish what I started. Remember that my primary objective was for Peeta to find himself. And if those tapes hold the final pieces, then I’m determined that he shall have them. I will watch those tapes, no matter how bad they are, and he will never guess from my reaction that I still carry a torch for him. It’s the only way we’ll ever be able to act normally around each other. “I’m happy to help,” I say. “Same time and place?” All eyes are on him. He’s trapped and he knows it. Peeta’s nod is almost imperceptible. What a timely moment for Cass to bring out the dessert. It’s a tower of pastries filled with different flavored custards, welded together with chocolate and studded with raspberries and sugared violets surrounded by an immense web of delicate spun sugar. There’s enough for at least a dozen or more people. But the best thing about it is that its position in the center of the table effectively blocks out my view of Peeta. So, Dr Aurelius has sent tapes that he wants Peeta to specifically watch with me. I wonder if I was ever going to be told about them. Probably not if it had been left up to Peeta. He’s obviously anxious about what’s on them. That makes me think that he has most, if not all, of his memories back. Enough, at least, to guess at how I feel about him. It seems that the tapes have progressed from those which showed me either indifferent or acting a part to when I began to return his feelings. And the irony is that it’s made not a scrap of difference. I’m glad now that Dr Aurelius sent the compromising tapes first. I had never stood a chance with him, even without Lace.

Cass comes out to clear away the dessert plates and the remains of that pastry thing. He frowns at how little impact we made on it. But it really was huge. To make him feel better, I ask if he can wrap it up for me to share around the staff room tomorrow. Max will probably make some joke about chocolate covered balls and phallic symbols. We finish with tea for Peeta and me and coffee for Johanna and Haymitch. Haymitch takes from his pocket a silver flask and pours a generous slug of whatever’s in it into his cup.

The dinner finally comes to an end. I pull Johanna aside before I go, ostensibly to say goodbye to her. I won’t see her tomorrow. The train for 7 leaves very early and Peeta has offered to walk her to the train station.

“The whole night was a setup, wasn’t it? To get me to watch the tapes with Peeta again?”

She doesn’t bother denying it. “Yep. Someone had to give the two of you a nudge in the right direction.” She gives me one of her stern big sister looks. “Don’t waste it.”

“I won’t,” I say. She doesn’t have to know that I have something completely different in mind to her.

I hug her goodbye and wish her luck. I don’t know when we’ll meet again. Not with me stuck in 12 and Johanna busy being mayor but maybe she’ll find time in her schedule to visit at some point.

“Don’t be a stranger,” she calls out as I leave. Where have I heard that expression before? Ah yes, Plutarch. They were the last words he spoke to me before he left the hovercraft that brought me back to 12. Thankfully, even after that scare with Marcus, that’s exactly how it’s stayed.

“Never,” I call back. No one could ever be the little sister that Prim was. But maybe I’ve gained a pretty good substitute for an older one.

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gle21ahsgov · 4 years

Text

Media Assessment of Issue

Articles

Objective Article: “Trump and 2020 Democrats brand themselves criminal justice reformers” (https://www.reuters.com/article/idUSKBN1ZQ14K)

Liberal Biased: “ Trump’s criminal justice policy, explained” (https://www.vox.com/2020-presidential-election/21418911/donald-trump-crime-criminal-justice-policy-record)

Conservative Biased: “Trump Urges Us to Reflect on Prisoners and Redemption” (https://www.nationalreview.com/2018/04/president-trump-second-chance-month-redemption-for-prisoners/)

SACAP Analysis

a) Reuters Article

Subject:

Hunnicutt and Bernstein describe how President Trump has helped reform criminal justice and present the Democratic candidates’ views on how they would address the issue.

Author(s):

Trevor Hunnicutt ~> reporter at Reuters

Mostly writes about investment news and some politics

Pomona College alumni; offered him journalism internship opportunities

Sharon Bernstein ~> reporter at Reuters

Generally writes about California policies and politics

Former reporter/editor for the Los Angeles Times (liberal-leaning)

Even though Bernstein wrote for a liberal leaning source in the past, this does not majorly influence the more objective news source and articles she must publish now. Overall, both authors seem credible, so the article should provide pretty accurate information.

Context:

Reuters ~> known for accuracy and impartiality (est. 165 years ago)

One BILLION readers worldwide every day (through broadcasts, television, newspaper, etc.)

Article published on January 27, 2020

Since the article is from Reuters, the article SHOULD present both the liberal and conservative views of the topic fairly, and the news should still be relevant because it was published pretty recently.

Audience:

Largest international news provider

Reaches 115 countries in 16 different languages

Reuters must deliver relatively unbiased news because there are millions of active readers. It has an established reputation and readers.

Perspective: Objective.

Trump ~ First Step Act (reducing prison sentences especially for drug use, more rehab programs, second chance out in the world thru good behavior)

criticized for not managing local police

Biden ~ wants to eliminate prison sentences for drug use entirely

Wants to eliminate private prisons and cash bail

Change so youth cannot receive same charges as adults

Warren ~> increase availability of social services to take care of youth

Wants to rely on counselors and teachers to help reform youth rather than police and prison sentences

Buttigieg ~> wants to invest $100 million into support services for youth instead of youth prisons

I agree with all perspectives considering youth incarceration reform. Both Democrats or Republicans seem to have similar thoughts of eliminating prison sentences related to drug use and changing to support services and rehab programs to help support youth rather than simply throwing them in jail.

b) Vox Article

Subject:

In his “explanation” of Trump’s policies, Lopez emphasizes on the failures in Trump’s “tough on crime” policy and clearly diminishes Trump’s role in the First Step Act, mentioning it as an “outlier” to his regular policies. By doing so, Lopez paints President Trump in a bad light, influencing readers against his policies.

Author(s):

German Lopez ~> Senior Correspondent for Vox

Mostly writes about criminal justice and public health

Univ. of Cincinnati alumni; degree in journalism

Wrote for City Beat Cincinnati (somewhat liberal newspaper)

He lives in Washington D.C. with his husband

Lopez is accustomed to writing more liberal articles, with his background in Cincinnati and now writing for Vox. As a result, the article is filled with liberal bias, undermining Trump’s beliefs and policies under the guise of “explanation.”

Context:

Vox ~> only established 6 years ago

Very liberally-biased

September 11, 2020

Vox has only existed for a mere 6 years compared to Reuters 165. As a result, it does not have an established reputation as a news source, so its articles ends up skewing left rather than remaining strongly unbiased. This gives Lopez the chance to attack and undermine Trump’s policies in his article. However, it is published recently so the information is relevant.

Audience:

More liberal audience

38% of audience age 18 to 34 (making $100K+)

Since the audience is also more liberal, they are more willing to accept liberally-biased articles, which allows Lopez to write (and Vox to publish) a more subjective piece.

Perspective: Liberally biased.

Trump’s failures in the “tough on crime” policy

Supposedly wants harsher punishment for crimes (esp. drug-related)

Author calls the First Step Act an outlier and considers it more of Congress’s doing than Trump’s

Lack of control over police brutality and mass incarceration issues

Ends investigations into police misconduct

Support for capital punishment

According to author ~> Trump is simply doing whatever he can to get reelected

Hence ~> law and order tweets and tough on crime

I kind of disagree because the author completely undermines what Trump HAS done to reduce prison sentences, especially in relation to drug crimes. Apart from the First Step Act, Lopez does not really present the conservative side at all; he only criticizes the issues in Trump’s policies.

c) National Review Article

Subject:

Robinson first discusses facts related to issues regarding imprisonment, including the number of people in prison and the economic burden of keeping people in prison. Then, Robinson discusses Trump’s belief of BOTH holding people accountable and still giving people second chances or opportunities, especially for young people.

Author(s):

Gerard Robinson ~> Executive director for Center for Advancing Opportunities (CAO)

former Secretary of Education for Virginia

former Florida Education Commissioner

former President of the Black Alliance for Educational Options

Education, criminal justice, economics, and legislation expert

Republican

Robinson does not seem like normal reporter for National Review. This piece is likely a one-time article that he published, but he is rounded in all areas from education to criminal justice to help create education opportunities for fellow black children. He is Republican so it makes sense that he published his article on National Review, a conservative leaning source, and in his article, he praises Trump’s efforts in reforming criminal justice, for youth and adults.

Context:

National Review ~> established 65 years ago

conservative editorial magazine (news and commentaries)

Published on April 18, 2018

National Review articles tends to skew to the right, so the magazine allows Robinson to approve of Republican President Trump’s policies rather than attacking them in his article. Although the article was published two years ago, it should still be pretty relevant since change in politics happens quite slowly.

Audience:

Since the National Review is a conservative magazine, its readers also tend to be more conservative, so they support the policies and bias that they read from this magazine and article.

Perspective: Conservatively biased.

April 2018 ~ Second Chance Month

Trump wants to reform prisons to give inmates a second chance

“Affording those who have been held accountable for their crimes an opportunity to become contributing members of society is a critical element of criminal justice that can reduce our crime rates and prison populations.”

Offering apprenticeship programs and prison education programs

Second Chance Pell Grant

I support Trump’s idea of accountability and opportunity. We do want people to learn from their mistakes and crimes, but that does not mean staying in prison forever. Not only is it expensive, but to me at least, that isn’t what I would consider as a “second chance.” So I believe in the apprenticeship programs and support services so high school and college kids can truly get that second chance out in the world; they still have the opportunity to learn and grow.

Similarities/Differences Between Articles

In the Reuters article, the different perspectives regarding criminal justice (and youth) were clearly presented with minimal to no commentary. As a liberal leaning news source, the Vox article attacks Trump’s current ideas such as “tough on crime” and his lack of federal action against police brutality while ignoring/undermining his legal actions like the First Step Act. The National Review article addresses the same “tough on crime” policy in a different light—Americans must be held accountable for their actions BUT through the First Step Act and apprenticeship programs and the Second Chance Pell Grant for youth, they still get a second chance at LIFE rather than wasting away in prison.

My Perspective

Without considering his moral character, I do believe that President Trump has done some useful things for this country. I feel a little more inclined to believe in his policies because he is already president and he is ACTIVELY working to help resolve said issues in criminal justice and getting youth out of prison and the support they need. Since the Democrats are only words and promises right now, I think I should wait to see how they will ACTUALLY handle the issue when they become president.

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vanessateo3205 · 4 years

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Domestic Media - Blog Post (Vanessa Teo)

This week’s readings are eye-opening as they probed me to explore and think critically about how the ubiquitous TV set sitting around in nearly every household’s living room has such a significant impact in our lives despite sometimes becoming a wallflower during family gatherings. Spigel introduces the TV as a spatial apparatus that blurs the line between private and public spaces, where live transmissions from television broadcasts have the ability to turn “there” into “here” for its viewers on a daily basis, making virtual presence feel more like a physical presence for its viewers. Spigel also analyses how the television has disrupted traditional forms of intimacy in households and forced people to rethink the gendered spaces of their homes. Most intriguingly, Spigel demonstrates how the function of the television has changed over the years of modernisation, starting from being a symbol of modernity and social mobility in the early years of invention. This symbol eventually transitioned into a site of display of family history and cultural heritage for most households, becoming the central point of the house where the family congregates. Specifically, Spigel posits that the TV is able to blur the line between the private and public space because it serves as a threshold technology that transgresses the public and private space, producing new forms of sociality. The TV is also capable of bringing the public world into the private world, removing the need for physical travel. Indeed, this phenomena is observable in our present time society. In 2020, the annual Singapore National Day Parade shifted from a physical live performance to a fully live broadcasted show on television, where spectators were not allowed due to social distancing efforts during the pandemic. The televised live broadcast created a new form of sociality for our nation, bring the nation together in a creative new way through the NDP Virtual Choir.

Singaporeans were encouraged to submit video recordings singing We Are Singapore and Home in order to participate in the National Day Parade. The virtual choice acted as a platform for Singaporeans to contribute to the celebrations and connect with each other and celebrate in the safety and confort of our homes. I fondly recall sitting in front of the television watching the live broadcast of Singaporeans from all ages and walks of lives, singing together. It may have been just a single short video, but the fact that it was a national broadcast created a pseudo-physical experience of togetherness, and it was indeed a heart warming experience to observe how the television became the medium through which Singaporeans were united virtually nevertheless. This demonstrates how the television, by bring the public world into private spaces, is significant to nationalism as it is able to construct a national identity and promote national unity. This proves that the television is a media space that is ideal for cultivating national culture. I agree with Spigel that the television definitely plays a significant and even irreplaceable role in our public and private lives, even if we have previously taken the television for granted as a part of our living room in nearly every household, which Spigel describes as television fading into the background as an ‘ambient’ experience due to how central it is to our daily lives. On the flipside, this is because the absence of the a television in any household would be deeply felt, as if the living room is incomplete without a television set. Similarly, the absence of a televised national broadcast of the NDP 2020 would have been deeply felt by Singaporeans. I believe the central role of the television in households will not change even in the generation to come. The possibilities offered by the media spaces created by television are endless, as television is part of the feedback loop of activities between humans, artifacts and technologies that construct our social reality and culture. (Source: https://www.channelnewsasia.com/news/singapore/covid-19-ndp-virtual-choir-public-how-to-submit-12839776)

#NM3205 #TW1 #mediatization

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scav-eng-er · 5 years

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Hold Me Tight. Modern Reylo AU

I have never cried so hard writing something as I did now. This story is based on “If The World Was Ending.” I have no words, but I’m still crying.

Here is the song if you would like to listen to it while you read!

For @reylo-trash-4ever and @mojona1999, this is for you two! Surprise. im emotional.

My next chapter will be up this weekend. Thank you!

Ben wasn’t even paying attention to the news when it went public. He bustled about his apartment, distracted by the worries of potentially burning his lunch. His toast was burning, his coffee was starting to get cold and he didn’t bother looking at the pile of mail building on his kitchen island.

“Alert. Alert,” A mechanical voice echoed into his living room. “We interrupt your programming. This is a national emergency.”

The annoyingly familiar weather storm alert pulled his attention, but what worried him was that he could also hear it above his floor, below and around. Everyone’s televisions were broadcasting this..?

“The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration has detected a significant environmental event that will impact the greater United States. You and your loved ones should seek the nearest fallout shelter immediately. Please stand by for further area updates.”

The screen went black.

I was distracted and in traffic I didn't feel it when the earthquake happened

Ben’s blood went cold.

Fuck, this was actually happening?

The fallout shelters scattered around the city was just a precaution months ago. Were people going to take this seriously? There’s no way an entire city could fit in those bunkers. He recalled seeing them on the news when the first and only environmental threat was near the city. The mayor decided to construct poorly developed “safe houses” to appease the worried citizens. However, most of the city (and the world) tossed the fear aside like a usual storm that would soon be forgotten.

A cry and scream could be heard in his building. A chill went down his spine. Grabbing his phone, Ben went to message the first person he could think of. He ignored the shaking in his hands, fear of the inevitable closer than he ever thought. He just wanted to see her.

But it really got me thinkin', were you out drinkin'?

Were you in the living room, chillin', watchin' television?

Wait. Should he text her? Should he call her? They haven’t spoken in almost a year. Hell, the last time they actually spoke face to face, she was returning his hoodie. Her favorite hoodie. She always loved how much it smelled like him, and he loved when she wore it. God, he missed her. He missed her hugs and how she made him feel so relaxed. The stress of life was nonexistent when she was with him, and his heart would still flutter when she walked in the room. They still acted like lovesick teenagers sometimes, even after their three year relationship. Which is why it hurt so much when they ended it.

What was she doing right now? Surely she must’ve heard these news too. She was usually home now, and she could’ve seen the report as well. Was she alone? Was she scared? Of course she was probably scared, he was fucking terrified. He didn’t want her to be alone, he didn’t want to be alone. He thought about visiting his mom and dad’s graves, but it wouldn’t matter. He would see them soon enough. Who would want to spend their last minutes of life in a cemetery?

It's been a year now, think I've figured out how

How to let you go and let communication die out

Ben could still hear cries from the building, but now there were prayers, and he heard others hurry down the main staircase. The sunny day outside continued on, and birds chirped away, unaware of their imminent doom in who knows how long. He looked at his phone, no new messages. Ben was a loner, he would admit that. His only other friends were because of Rey. They would tag along on dates or go to parties together. Poe even spent the night at his place a few times and the boys would go to games together. After the break-up, they all kind of disappeared, and Ben didn’t blame them. He missed them. He missed her.

He missed their drunken confessions of love at the bar, Poe, Finn and Rose laughing around them. Not a care in the world as he held her close to his heart.

He missed their predictable and routine mornings of kisses, coffee and witty discussions on the way out the door to work.

He missed their arguments, the late night screams turned to sobs turned to moans among his sheets at 3 a.m.

I know, you know, we know you weren't

Down for forever and it's fine

I know, you know, we know we weren't

Meant for each other and it's fine

He watched the screen, re-reading their last messages to one another. It was almost like any minute he expected her to call, her face surprising him on his home screen. Tears brimmed as the reality of what was happening settled in. The potential future he had imagined was gone and Ben choked back a sob. Everything he ever wanted to do would cease to exist, he never got to see the world, get married or have his own children. All these things he could’ve done with Rey, cut short by life itself.

Ben:

You don’t have to respond, but know that I’m always here for you for anything.

Anything.

That message held more meaning now that it had then, and Ben prayed Rey would understand that. He would do anything to try and make her happy again, for the last few hours they had to live, he was hers. Even if she didn’t want him. He wiped his arm across his wet eyes, not caring that he looked like a weeping mess.

Then, at the corner of his eye, he saw it.

Adrenaline swept down his arms and through his body at the three dot indicator that appeared across his last message. She was thinking about him! She was writing to him! Did she want to see him? Why else would she be messaging him now? Then as quick as they appeared, the dots were gone.

“Fuck.”

In a heartbeat, Ben was out his door.

But if the world was ending, you'd come over, right?

You'd come over and you'd stay the night

Not even remembering where his feet took him, Ben found himself outside hurrying towards her home. The sight of the public only made him walk faster, not wanting to waste another minute away from her in this state of chaos. Cars swerved down the streets, people running around him, some carrying bags, others carrying children. It was as disastrous as those end-of-the-world movies Ben had seen, only this time, it was actually happening. The sky was still blue and the trees gave off a vibrant, peaceful green in the summer day. The crowds and shouting in the streets however, brought him back to the realization that in a few hours, they would all be nothing.

An argument broke out over a vehicle and people began to get physical. Ben continued on. He just pushed his way down the city streets. Avoiding any conflict was a priority for him, hoping he would make it to her in one piece. The feeling of being in her arms again felt so good to him, like he was coming home. Her place wasn’t always clean, and she always had the TV volume up too loud, or let dishes in the sink too long, but it always felt like he could come and go as he wanted and she would always give him a kiss hello or goodbye. When Ben was home with Rey, he felt wanted.

And even though he only saw those three dots, it was enough for him to hope he still was.

Would you love me for the hell of it?

All our fears would be irrelevant

The last thing Ben wanted to think about was their break-up. None of that mattered anymore, at least to him it didn’t. He continued to think about her, blocking out the horrors of the world around him. Her smile replaced his fear, and he couldn’t help but laugh at the time she slipped in front of his apartment after a snow storm. The pizza she picked up was okay, but she had a nasty bruise on her hip for days.

Soon there would be no more pizza nights, no more weekend trips, no more surprise birthday parties, no more cuddles in the dark. At least, when they broke up, there was still the chance he could have that again, with Rey or someone else. But now, Ben realized there was no other person he wanted to spend his life with but her.

If the world was ending, you'd come over, right?

The sky'd be falling and I'd hold you tight

His feet propelled him on the corner of her street. He could see the top of her building, higher than the others around it. The tears began to fall again as he hurried to the entrance. The feeling of seeing her, being around her, holding her was enough to break him down forever. She was intoxicating and he couldn’t get enough. He wrapped his hand around the railing and heaved himself, two steps at a time to her floor. He left his house for the last time, he breathed outside air for the final time, and he would see no other face but hers. Almost panting, her front door sent chills down his spine. He was saying good-bye to everything else, but was about to greet his whole world.

And there wouldn't be a reason why

We would even have to say goodbye

Ben’s fist shook, him knocking on her door could hardly be heard over the sound of the blood rushing around his brain.

If the world was ending, you'd come over, right? Right?

~~~

Her eyes only widened at the screen in front of her. The black, and eerie alert had proven that all the storms, disasters, and unexplainable occurrences that had been happening were warnings of what was to come. And now it was here.

I tried to imagine your reaction

It didn't scare me when the earthquake happened

She fiddled with her phone, her toes curling under her on the couch. It was flooded with heartfelt messages from her friends, saying good-bye, that they loved her and hoped she was happy wherever she was.

“Peanut, I will never forget how much light you brought into my life. You helped me live with passion and found why I was put on this Earth. You will always be my Rey of sunshine. I love you.”

Finn. She just saw him yesterday when they went to the gym together.

“Rey, you are the best friend anyone could ask for. You have lived a life worth living and deserve every breath. You saw the best in me and there are no words to describe how much I will miss you, miss everyone, and miss life. I will see you soon amongst the stars. All my love.”

Rose. They were just planning a girls day next week, with shopping, lunch and deciding who’s house they would crash at.

“Hey sweetheart, sure you heard the news… Enjoy the time you have, you are a great gal and I hope you are surrounded by those who matter. God Bless You.”

Poe. She just helped him move some new furniture in last week with her truck, and they laughed after she hit her knee on his coffee table.

Surrounded by those who matter…

Who did matter? As much as she loved the messages, and responded with equal love and admiration, there was only one message, one person that mattered. She wiped away her tears, realizing she hadn’t cried this hard since her parents passed away. Rey was only nine then, but the pain of sobbing at the funeral were as clear as the day outside.

She pulled up his messages, never having the courage to delete them. His face on his contact was comforting to see, and she scrolled through their old conversations. Shivers went down her arms, a chill in the room and all Rey wanted was to be held. Her apartment felt colder now, with the rush of everything that happened, she didn’t want to be alone. Her kitchen was still dirty with dishes from this morning, she even had a load of laundry in the basement that she had to get later. None of it mattered, all that mattered was that she wanted him. She noticed the picture frame by her door. It was knocked down one night when Ben couldn’t keep his hands off her after dinner. They didn’t make it to the bedroom, the passion too evident in his kisses on their way home. She had felt so safe in his arms, his heartbeat loud in her ears when he held her close, filling her up with love atop her kitchen counter.

But it really got me thinkin', the night we went drinkin'

Stumbled in the house and didn't make it past the kitchen

Fear suddenly spiked in her and she began to panic, the realization of dying hitting her. In a hurry, she could do the only thing she wanted to do. His last message made her insides warm, remembering how much he cared that she was okay. She wasn’t now.

“Please come over. I’m scared and I need to see you. This is all so stupid and..”

No, no, no she can’t text him! She erased the message and sighed. What was he doing right now? Was he at home? Was he working? She tried not to remember his schedule that was practically engrained in her memory. She knew he was probably home for lunch, so he definitely saw what happened. Maybe he went to the cemetery, or maybe he is out trying to find a way to escape out of the city. Rey didn’t want to be selfish, but what she hoped was that he was thinking of her the same way she thought of him. The feeling of pulling him into her, and taking in all she was made her mind hazy and her heart flutter. He made her feel drunk just by touching her hand, or looking at her a certain way.

Ah, it's been a year now, think I've figured out how

How to think about you without it rippin' my heart out

She didn’t need to see what was happening outside, too scared to see the sight. Standing up from her couch, Rey walked around her home. The trinkets and junk she had now had so much meaning. Her kitchen tools that she bought over the years, the photos of her friends, the wobbly shelf she fixed herself held books that helped her learn so much. She had some plants scattered about, the greenery making her home full of warmth and life.

And I know, you know, we know you weren't

Down for forever and it's fine

I know, you know, we know we weren't

Meant for each other and it's fine

And every. Single. Fucking. Thing. Reminded her of him.

The tears flowed freely, and Rey imagined the thousands of memories she had of him. Their mornings at her dining table, their movie nights on her couch. There was even a useless ceramic pigeon thing on her shelf that he got her after a bad day at work to cheer her up. The empty feeling of dying alone frightened her, and she wrapped her cardigan around herself to try and feel better. It was numbing for her. Everyone knew the question: If you only had 24 hours to live, what would you do? People would usually say travel or do something crazy. She didn’t know what she wanted to do. Rey always thought it silly to wonder about useless things like that, focusing more on the now and trying to work to support herself.

What would she do?

But if the world was ending, you'd come over, right?

You'd come over and you'd stay the night

She would be with Ben. She would confess how much she missed him, how she wanted him back in any way she could. She would forgive him, or beg for his forgiveness, whatever he wanted.

Running her hands through his locks, she would kiss him to the point of exhaustion, hoping he could feel her love through the breathless confessions.

She blinked back tears but they continued to fall. She would go on and on about everything she loved about him. His handsome face, his gentleness, his desire to help others, but also his stubbornness to prove he was right, his anger issues, and his need for approval were just some of the things Rey loved about him.

If he wanted, she would re-tell all their funny stories and make him laugh, desperate to see his smile, to hear his laugh. When she first met him, he was a dark, brooding, man. As she slowly pulled him out of his own mind, Rey noticed how beautiful his smile was. And when she heard him laugh for the first time, she was hooked. Hell, she would even go on about how she fell on the ice after she picked up their pizza for movie night.

It all seemed so silly then, to worry or be embarrassed about that kind of thing. But now, Rey would give anything to relive that moment. If she could go back, she would pull a giggling Ben into the snow with her and kiss him like she never had before.

Would you love me for the hell of it?

All our fears would be irrelevant

If the world was ending, you'd come over, right?

Sky'd be falling while I hold you tight

Rey would do anything Ben wanted, as long as she was with him. By his side, for the rest of their lives, no matter how short that was. She missed how he smelled, how her felt against her, with his strong arms protecting her from the world she fought so hard against. She was strong, they both knew that. But when he saw her nightmare nights for the first time, she thought he would stop calling, stop talking and she would have to be by herself all over again. It came as a shock when he stayed, and even offered to stay up to wake her before it got too worse again.

No, there wouldn't be a reason why

We would even have to say goodbye

Eventually, the nightmares came less and less. And Rey would wake in his arms, wrapped up and protected. He would rub his thumb against her, as if saying, “I’m here, I’ve got you.”

He was her dream from the nightmares of reality.

If the world was ending, you'd come over, right?

You'd come over, right?

You'd come over, you'd come over, you'd come over, right?

She drew out the sounds of the television behind her. The alert continued on for an hour and Rey knew there was nothing more to do. She was about to crawl into bed with music and hope for a quick death when..

Knock knock knock.

I know, you know, we know you weren't

Down for forever and it's fine

I know, you know, we know we weren't

Meant for each other and it's fine

She stood still for a moment, straining to hear. Did someone just knock? Who was knocking on her door now? Should she even answer? She attempted to wipe her eyes, trying to look presentable during the end of the world. She opened the door slowly to see who stood on the other side.

But if the world was ending, you'd come over, right?

You'd come over and you'd stay the night

She huffed, struggling to breathe, sobs taking over at the sight of him. Ben rushed through the threshold into her home, arms scooping her into his chest and lifting her off the ground. His heartbeat was still pounding from the nervousness of seeing her beautiful face once again. His breath hot and sweet against her cheek and he whispered, “I’m here, I’ve got you.”

Afraid he would pull away or even disappear, Rey dug her nails into his back, grabbing him for dear life. Crying into his shoulder, she apologized for everything and anything. He carried her until he collapsed from emotion into the living room, his own tears falling into her sweater and hair, dampening her locks. He held her shaking body in his lap, feeling like they were both where they were supposed to be at the end of it all.

They apologized and cried, shaking with emotion. Happiness to be in each other’s arms again, with fear of the unknown and inevitable. They tried not to think of how much time they wasted with the fighting. Had they known what was to happen, every fight, every argument was nothing compared to their love and need to be together.

Would you love me for the hell of it?

All our fears would be irrelevant

Eventually they became quiet, silent tears dripped on her carpet. Their hands wrapped in the others, their legs entwined, never letting go. The TV was on but muted, soft music played from her stereo instead.

Ben spoke first, “Do you remember,” his voice was groggy and wet from crying, “when you made me run out in the rain to get your phone after you dropped it out the window on the freeway?”

She erupted into laughter, a sound that he could hear forever, “I didn’t drop it, it was the wind.”

Ben rolled his eyes, “Uh huh.”

“What about when you dared me to wear that bunny suit so we would win the costume contest!” Rey exclaimed.

“Well we did win!”

They talked and giggled, the reminder of what was happening outside forgotten. The two were too busy enjoying each others presence, catching up that they didn’t notice the distant bright white light grow brighter on the horizon.

If the world was ending, you'd come over, right?

The sky'd be falling while I hold you tight

“Are you still having nightmares?” Ben mumbled, rubbing his fingers between a lock. Her hair still smelled like her citrus shampoo, and the sun casting light on her was a refreshing sight for his eyes.

“Sometimes..,” Rey said, “but this makes up for all of it.”

She pulled his hand from their grip, kissing his palm.

“I’m sorry. I know I shou-“

“Shh. None of that matters now. I’m just happy you’re here.

Ben smiled, “Me too.”

A vibration from the earth began to shake her home, but they didn’t notice. Ben started joking about the infamous pizza night, Rey begged him to stop, planting endless kisses to make him shut up.

“I also heard you hit your knee at Poe’s! What a klutz you are!”

“I knew he told you! What a tattletale!”

No, there wouldn't be a reason why

We would even have to say goodbye

There was so much love and hope in Ben and Rey’s eyes, they forgot everything that was happening. Ben laughed until tears of sorrow turned into tears of laughter, his stomach ached as Rey told him how she and Rose got off the wrong train stop a few days ago. They were one again, the back of Rey’s mind wondering when their wedding would be, while Ben had thought if he wanted their child to have her hair or his. They had all the time in the world to think about it.

If the world was ending, you'd come over, right?

You'd come over, you'd come over, you'd come over, right?

It was fast. It was quiet. Their gaze fixed on each other, two souls in love, the bright white light non-existent to them. It shook her home in a millisecond, their smiles forever in the others memory.

If the world was ending, you'd come over, right?

#reylo #rey #ben solo #reylo modern au #reylo fanfic #star wars fanfic #scavenger writes #reylo angst #reylo story

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newstfionline · 4 years

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Sunday, November 29, 2020

The global recession in democracy (The Economist) [In the wake of the election, there has been] a further partisan deterioration in American democracy. It is also part of a global democratic recession. The collapse of the Soviet Union led to a flourishing in the number and quality of liberal democracies, but the trend has now gone into reverse. Hungary and Poland are blocking the European Union budget because their governments refuse to bow to the rule of law. In the world’s largest democracy the Bharatiya Janata Party (bjp) under Narendra Modi is capturing institutions, including the courts, the police and now, it is feared, the election commission. The Economist Intelligence Unit (eiu), our sister organisation, has been compiling a democracy index since 2006. Last year’s score was the worst ever. Covid-19 has accelerated the decline. The threat is not from military coups but governments in power. Given time, unscrupulous leaders can hollow out democracy completely. Two decades ago Venezuela held meaningful elections; today it is about to eliminate the last kernel of opposition. But even in countries where such a calamity is unthinkable, the erosion of norms and institutions leads to worse government.

Los Angeles orders more restrictions as coronavirus surges (AP) Los Angeles County announced a new stay-home order Friday as coronavirus cases surged out of control in the nation’s most populous county, banning most gatherings but stopping short of a full shutdown on retail stores and other non-essential businesses. The three-week “safer at home” order takes effect Monday. It came as the county of 10 million residents confirmed 24 new deaths and 4,544 new confirmed cases of COVID-19. The order advises residents to stay home “as much as possible” and to wear a face covering when they go out. It bans people from gathering with others who aren’t in their households, whether publicly or privately. However, exceptions are made for church services and protests, “which are constitutionally protected rights,” the county Department of Public Health said in a statement.

El Salvador, Honduras, Guatemala stage mass raids in crackdown on MS-13, Barrio 18 (AP) The Central American countries of El Salvador, Guatemala and Honduras have rounded up hundreds of suspected street gang members as part of a U.S.-backed effort known as “Operation Regional Shield.” The attorney general’s office in El Salvador has taken the lead, reporting that it obtained arrest warrants for 1,152 suspects, of whom 572 had been arrested by Friday. The weeklong effort particularly targeted members of the Barrio 18 and MS-13 gangs, which operate in all three countries. Most of those arrested face charges ranging from extortion and kidnapping to murder.

Belarus’ Lukashenko says he will leave his post, state media reports (NBC News) Belarusian President Alexander Lukashenko said he would step down after a new constitution is adopted, the state-owned BelTA news agency cited him as saying on Friday. “I am not going to shape the constitution to suit my needs,” he is quoted as saying. “I am not going to be the president once the new constitution is in place.” Belarus has been rocked by months of anti-government protests ever since Lukashenko—often referred to as “Europe’s last dictator”—claimed victory in an Aug. 9 presidential election that his opponents say was rigged, a charge he denies. It remained unclear whether Lukashenko’s comments were sincere or whether he was just paying lip service to the prospect of him stepping aside. In any case, it is the first time he has publicly reflected on how the country will be governed when he is no longer president. Lukashenko has maintained his grasp on power in the former Soviet nation for the last 26 years.

Queues at barber shops as France eases coronavirus lockdown (Reuters) People eager to get a haircut stood in line outside barber shops and department stores selling gifts and Christmas decorations were busy on Saturday as France partially reopened following a month-long lockdown. Shops selling non-essential goods such as shoes, clothes and toys reopened in the first easing of a nationwide lockdown that started on Oct. 30 and will remain in place until Dec. 15. Bars and restaurants remain closed till Jan. 20.

Pope installs new cardinals, including first African-American (Reuters) Pope Francis on Saturday installed 13 new cardinals, including the first African-American to hold the high rank. Nine of the 13 are under 80 and eligible under Church law to enter a secret conclave to choose the next pope from among themselves after Francis dies or resigns. It was Francis’ seventh consistory since his election in 2013. He has now appointed 57% of the 128 cardinal electors, most of whom share his vision of a more inclusive and outward-looking Church. Thus far, he has appointed 18 cardinals from mostly far-flung countries that never had one, nearly all of them from the developing world. In Saturday’s consistory, Brunei and Rwanda got their first cardinals. In his homily, Francis told the men to keep their eyes on God, avoid all forms of corruption, and not succumb to a “worldly spirit” that can accompany the prestige and power of their new rank.

Hong Kong leader says she has ‘piles of cash at home,’ no bank account, due to U.S. sanctions (Washington Post) Hong Kong Chief Executive Carrie Lam keeps “piles of cash” at home and is unable to open a bank account after being targeted by U.S. sanctions, according to an interview the top official gave on Friday evening. “Sitting in front of you is a chief executive of the Hong Kong SAR [Special Administrative Region] who has no banking services made available to her. I’m using cash for all the things,” Lam told HKIBC, an English-language news channel based in Hong Kong. “I have piles of cash at home, the government is paying me cash for my salary because I don’t have a bank account,” Lam added. Lam is paid around 5.21 million Hong Kong dollars, roughly $672,000, a year, making her among the highest paid public officials in the world. Despite her bravado, Lam’s remarks were widely welcomed by her critics. Some activists noted that it appeared to suggest that even Chinese banks were complying with American financial restrictions.

Iran’s supreme leader vows revenge over slain scientist (AP) Iran’s supreme leader on Saturday called for the “definitive punishment” of those behind the killing of a scientist linked to Tehran’s disbanded military nuclear program, a slaying the Islamic Republic has blamed on Israel. Israel, long suspected of killing scientists a decade ago amid tensions over Tehran’s nuclear program, has yet to comment on the killing Friday of Mohsen Fakhrizadeh. However, the attack bore the hallmarks of a carefully planned, military-style ambush. The slaying threatens to renew tensions between the U.S. and Iran in the waning days of President Donald Trump’s term, just as President-elect Joe Biden has suggested his administration could return to Tehran’s nuclear deal with world powers from which Trump earlier withdrew. The Pentagon announced early Saturday that it sent the USS Nimitz aircraft carrier back into the Mideast.

Ethiopia says its military now controls the Tigray capital (AP) Ethiopia’s military has gained full control of the capital of the defiant Tigray region, the army announced Saturday after Tigray TV reported that the city of a half-million people was being “heavily bombarded” in the final push to arrest the region’s leaders. The army chief of staff, Gen. Birhanu Jula, made the comment about the military’s control of Mekele while speaking on an Ethiopian state broadcast. Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed said in a separate statement, “We have entered Mekele without innocent civilians being targets.” Neither mentioned the arrest of any of the leaders of the Tigray People’s Liberation Front, which runs the region. The Tigray leader could not be reached. With communications cut to the region of 6 million people, it is difficult to verify claims by the warring sides. Each government regards the other as illegal.

Dispel Lockdown Woes and Hectic Holidays With Simple Tips For Boosting Mood (Good News Network) Wintertime weather, holidays, and a pandemic lockdown can make routines difficult, but practicing mindfulness can offer a solution, and be done in very simple forms. The year has been a real humdinger for some and a tragedy for others, and using mindfulness—the direct mental effort to make yourself present in each passing moment, can help remind so many of us why the holidays are a favorite time of the year. Even though the thermometers are reading low, walking is not only a great way to practice mindfulness, but it gets you out of doors—which every psychologist worth their salt would explain is great for your mental health. 1. Reduced daylight hours lead to a reduction in the natural absorption of vitamin D from UV light. Vitamin D is one of the most important biochemicals for the immune system and fighting off viruses. 2. Exposure to cold increases the brain’s production of norepinephrine, a behavioral chemical that can make you feel elated and excited. 3. Exposure to trees, sky, the stars, and nature has been shown time and time again to help improve mental well-being. Studies have shown walking in forests or in close sight of trees has been shown to lower levels of stress and anxiety.

#headlines #news

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trilliontreesinitiative · 5 years

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THE TRILLION TREES INITIATIVE

It was really all my fault. Stars in my eyes, I haphazardly met strangers from the internet in more-or-less public places and pled my case, just to be brushed off over and over again. Months of pounding the keyboard, and trying to find people to help me, I gave up and decided if it needed doing, I could at least give it a game try.

I posted my plea to every corner of the internet, every newsgroup I could find, every fledgling website. This was back before there were pictures on the internet. I was a true believer then and was sure that if I found the right people, somehow we'd find a way to plant a trillion trees on our planet.

Spare change went to seedlings that I nurtured through frigid winters and increasingly hot summers. I surreptitiously planted them - a spade in one pocket and a sapling or ten in another, all wrapped in a damp rag ready for a moment no one seemed to be watching--I could add a sapling to a border of trees along the waters' edge, or in a little clearing of national forest.

Time passed, kids came, and overwhelmed by the responsibilities I'd willingly accepted without any real sense of the gravity of my commitment to the humans I'd made, I let my zealous mission drift off like my trapeze artist dreams from thirty years earlier. My kids were smarter than me, and kept me busy ferrying them back and forth with their extracurricular activities. I felt like an unpaid lab assistant for their science fair projects, but I knew that sacrifice was part of parenthood and I tucked my passions behind a mask of nurturing officiousness.

I truly forgot about the pleas I'd broadcast so carelessly. The internet was a wild place in the late twentieth century, and twenty years after my last screams into the abyss came the most unexpected answer, delivered simultaneously to my old and new email account and sent as a text.

WE CAN HELP WITH THE TREES.

It looked like it came from my own email address, my own cell number, and it was only addressed to me.

I almost swiped away the messages, but ... but what was I rejecting? My old mission? I still knew we needed trees to help counter our own environmental carelessness. What if my shouts into the void reached someone who could actually help?

I wrote and discarded responses, one after another. Finally, I replied with "I'm open to suggestions," and watched as my own words buzzed my telephone and felt foolish and a little more cynical as nothing happened. What was I expecting? Hackers to show up with bushels of acorns?

__________________________________

It wasn't hackers, it was a strangely bland man who rang my doorbell the next morning right after I'd hugged my kids and seen the bus shuttle them to school. Since I was still wearing pants, I answered the door.

"Sorry, we're renters" has been my greeting to anyone at my door for the last decade. It’s not actually true, even -- we bought our rented house before the kids were born, but it usually cuts off any sales pitch and lets any visitor trundle off to a more likely mark. I wasn't even really thinking about the weird message of the night before--my chore list was mighty and overwhelming and if I wanted to live in a clean house, I needed to make it happen--but the bland man took a breath before I closed the door in his face.

"THE TREES"

I don't know how it sounded like thousands of voices, all at once, at a conversationally comfortable volume, but I got a sense of foreignness, of something far beyond my understanding, happening right at my front door.

My chores didn't seem to be much of a priority anymore. I felt no danger from the stranger, just overwhelming urgency to do as he wished. My desire to invite the stranger to sit at my dining room table and listen was my only priority. I led the way to the table and offered some coffee to my guest.

"NO, THANK YOU" the myriad voices replied, sitting across the table from my spot. He just looked like a guy in his late twenties or early thirties. He could be my pizza delivery dude, or the guy who managed the movie theater, or a shoe salesman. Sandy brown hair was cut and combed neatly. He seemed to be in reasonable shape, with rested placid eyes and a neutral expression on his slightly ruddy face. He seemed both comfortably solid and like he was vibrating almost too fast for me to tell.

"HERE'S OUR OFFER" echoed (maybe only in my head? Maybe I'm actually going crazy. This is the weirdest interaction I've ever had with a sapient creature. I'm pretty sure that guy was not a pizza deliverer or salesman, he was something, maybe many things, different.)

The paper felt high-quality -- thick and smooth, but the letters were iridescent, black at first glance, but racing oil-slick colors at any angle. My eyes couldn't focus on it at first. Did this guy drug me? Why did I let him in my house? He was probably a serial killer. Or a mass murderer? All those voices all at once? This was insane.

"PLEASE READ IT"

I obediently looked down at the words.

"WE, THE UNDERSIGNED, WISH TO SAVE YOUR PLANET WITH YOU"

I looked up at the bland man and tried to explain my insignificance "I like where you're going with this, but I'm just one person. I'm not in charge of anything really, including my own children. I can't even keep my houseplants alive." I pointed at browning foliage in my house, a spider plant that was purportedly unkillable until my indefatigable inability to keep track of my own commitments caught up and dried out.

"WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE AND WHO YOU CAN BE. KEEP READING."

The words seemed to swim and reform as I looked down again.

"WE WILL BUY VAST TRACTS OF LAND AROUND YOUR PLANET. WE WILL PLANT YOUR TRILLION TREES. YOU JUST MUST AGREE."

I felt completely inadequate. I was in no way qualified to agree to this. I'm a suburban mom, not a diplomat or foreign dignitary. I recycle and try to avoid single-use plastics, but I'm not even sure that I'm doing that right. What if I was agreeing to an alien invasion? My authority is limited to two small humans who were at least half jerk, and that's not counting their father's influence.

More words scrambled across the page. "WE WISH NO HARM TO YOU. WE JUST WISH TO MAKE YOUR PLANET MORE HABITABLE, BOTH FOR US AND YOU."

Ah, there's the catch. Who the hell are they? Do I want to cohabitate with another species? What if they're like kudzu -- invasive and impossible to remove?

The page seemed to shimmer as the letters reformed: "WE WILL ONLY GROW TREES THAT CAN THRIVE WITHOUT DAMAGING OTHER SPECIES."

"But why me?"

"YOU ARE THE DREAMER"

"Even if I didn't want you to do this, there's no way I could stop you, so...sure! Go for it."

A pen rolled across my table and stopped, pointing at a big black X at the bottom of the page.

"SIGN AT THE X"

I looked over the page again. No legalese had suddenly appeared. The words were the same, The pen felt heavy and I knew I was doing something irrevocable but I couldn't seem to stop. I used my best handwriting and signed my name, which of course you all know by now.

The bland man inclined his head and took the paper at once, tucking it into an inside pocket of his tan corduroy jacket.

“THAT SHOULD DO IT,” his voice buzzed more as he stood, and moved to the door.

I felt bemused and a little like I’d signed something expensive away without fully understanding the value as I locked the door behind the stranger. Maybe I was seeing things. Maybe none of it happened.

__________________________________

The first sign that I hadn’t suffered a psychotic break -- to be honest, I was a little surprised it wasn’t, I’d always felt precariously balanced on the edge of sanity and figured this was the final separation of my tenuous grasp on reality -- the first sign was a few days later, when I finished matching another dozen socks, rolling them together, and throwing them in my older child’s underwear drawer. Her room was a pigsty, but we’d come to an agreement that her worktable was her problem and that no food was consumed in her room, so it was relatively hygienic. I looked out the window and saw that the empty lot next to my house no longer had a sign advertising a local Realtor and something was happening.

I slid my feet into flip-flops and walked to my mailbox and saw the bland man riding a giant lawnmower, cutting the native brush to nearly barren dirt. I flipped through three credit card offers I planned to dump straight into the recycling and leafed through the grocery circular and noted that pork chops were a few dollars cheaper per pound, so McRibs would be coming back soon.

The silliest things played through my head as I watched him clear the land, as a flock of quail (I have Opinions About Quail, mostly that they’re only saved from extinction by reproducing so much, because they seem to have a death wish near motorized vehicles) ran on foot just ahead of the mower.

I waved at the man, since we were acquainted. Sort of. I didn’t know his name, and I’d never even thought to ask. Why didn’t I ask? I’d signed a contract that I didn’t truly understand and I didn’t even know his name. I patiently waited for him to mow back toward my property line, the forgotten junk mail between my arm and chest.

He shimmered a little as he hopped off the mower and moved towards me.

“WE MUST PREPARE THE LAND.”

I nodded, like I knew his plan all along and was magnanimously supervising him. I offered him a bottle of water, or the use of my toilet, if he needed it.

“WE HAVE WHAT WE NEED.”

Why was he speaking in the plural? It hadn’t seemed odd until just then. My sense of incongruity and that something was Just Not Right began to ramp up. I waved at them and walked back to my bungalow. I popped online to see what was happening in the world and saw the bigger picture, easily seen by less self-absorbed human beings.

Every single vacant lot in the world was being mowed flat by a bland looking man, who was identical in feature to every other bland-looking man mowing a vacant lot. Too weird. Reporters tried to talk to the men, but they placidly mowed each lot, one after another. Where did all of the mowers come from? There were no brand markers on the machines. As soon as the lots were cleared, furrows were plowed. The bland men moved implacably, good neighbors every one, and stopped the racket of agricultural busywork well before dinnertime. They started the next day after sunrise.

The story got bigger as the days passed. It was on the front page of newspapers, and everyone seemed to have a hot take on what was really going on. Aliens? Nah, they looked too normal. Clones? How could millions of clones make it to adulthood without someone catching on? As far as I could tell, I was the only one who’d successfully spoken to any of these….people, if that’s what they were. I thought I might be able to tell someone about my weird experience, but I was also positive that no one would believe me. I told my husband the strange tale and he laughed at my creativity and rubbed my back as I drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, I drove the kids to school and went to the public library. I used it frequently for escapist fiction, mostly about young women in the early 19th century trying to snag a spouse. I went straight to the reference desk.

“Do you know what’s going on with these guys mowing and plowing everywhere?”

The librarian grimaced, “You’re number six to ask today. We have no idea.”

I returned a stack of Regencies into the slot next to the desk, and walked back to my car without grabbing any new trashy fiction. I drove home pensively, worried that I had fucked up something big.

Safe in my garage, I felt my anxiety rise, and I tried to breathe slowly and smoothly and reason my way through this mystery. I agreed to let someone plant the trees that I knew we needed. We clearly weren’t taking care of our planet and someone else was stepping in for us. Did it really matter that I didn’t understand their reasoning or motivations? I’d been begging the world for so long, and someone finally listened. Panic attack averted, I stepped into my kitchen and rinsed the breakfast dishes before loading the dishwasher.

__________________________________

I looked out of my kitchen window and saw a wall of trees in the formerly vacant lot. Not seedlings, fully grown and mature trees. I flipped on the news, and it was the same everywhere. The trees were in. The space station reported that there were just new trees everywhere, they hadn’t been uprooted from forests, they just suddenly existed. Every tree fit perfectly in its microclimate, and fruit and nut trees were included in each single-lot forest, freely available for hungry mouths.

I ran outside and looked for the man. He was standing with his hands on his lower back, looking up. Fruit trees were in full bloom. Conifers looked like they’d been growing there since time began. I stood next to the man. I didn’t even know what words I could use to express my gratitude, my discomfort, my fear.

“WE ARE DONE, MS. APPLESEED” he buzzed, and suddenly became a cloud of bees. The cloud, the machinery, the man all dispersed. The signed paper fell to the newly turned earth. The trees stayed where they were.

A lot of people had been watching the planters. A lot of people saw the planters become clouds of bees. A lot of people grabbed one of the billion copies of my signed contract, and everyone saw my name, clear as day. “Terra Appleseed, Mother of Trees”, the headlines called me.

My number was unlisted, but my phone didn’t stop ringing for weeks. I didn’t have any of the answers that the reporters wanted. I was just a dreamer, I told them. I don’t know why the bees listened to me.

The scientists had the most to say, of course. Carbon dioxide was down, oxygen was up. Glaciers stopped melting, and while I was trying to sound like a functional adult, refusing any interview requests, my older daughter figured out how to make cold fusion work.

She’d built a variation of a Farnsworth Fusor that fused two atoms of hydrogen into one of helium at room temperature, and suddenly eliminated the need for fossil fuel combustion. With a ready-built platform, we freely gave away her discovery to anyone who’d listen. At first, people thought I’d somehow organized the tree thing to sell my daughter’s invention, but I knew we’d get by fine without charging a dime. The truth was more mysterious and unexplainable, but we, as a species, weren’t going to get ourselves in such a fix again -- we didn’t need to. We just needed the bees to start us off, and my daughter to finish our addiction to combustion.

People started planting their own trees, too, but nothing made them grow forty feet in a day. The bees kept that secret. I was much too boring to stay in the spotlight for long, and I returned to my diet of trashy novels and quiet longing for that feeling of secret importance that had filled the days of planting, the wonder at this enormous leap towards peace and understanding that seemed to fall into my lap.

It was enough. My obituary decades later would focus on the mystery of the trees, the dream I tried to spread, and the unexpected way it came true.

The trillion trees initiative worked. We reached for the stars, comfortable that our home planet was safe. We found life everywhere we looked. As far as I know, no one ever spoke to the bees again.

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gadgetgirl71 · 4 years

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Amazon First Reads September 2020

It’s that time yet again! For me and other Amazon Prime Members to take our pick of this months Amazon First Reads. So if your an Amazon Prime member don’t forget to get your free First Reads Book.

This months choices are:

Thriller

Every Missing Thing by Martyn Ford, Pages: 367, Publication Date: 1 October 2020

Synopsis: One family. Two missing children. A lifetime of secrets.

Ten-year-old Ethan Clarke’s disappearance gripped the nation. Just as his parents are starting to piece together a life ‘after Ethan’, their world is ripped apart once more when their daughter, Robin, disappears in almost identical circumstances. They’ve lost two children within a decade … and now doubts about their innocence are setting in.

Detective Sam Maguire’s obsession with the first case cost him his own family, but he has unfinished business with the Clarkes. He is convinced that discovering what happened to Ethan holds the key to finding Robin. But what if the Clarkes know more than they’re letting on?

With the world watching eagerly, the clock is ticking for Sam as he embarks on an investigation that forces him to confront his own demons. To uncover the truth, he must follow a trail of devastating deception—but the truth always comes at a cost …

Book Club Fiction

Millicent Glenn’s Last Wish by Tori Whitaker, Pages: 340, Publication Date: 1 October 2020

Synopsis: Three generations of women—and the love, loss, sacrifice, and secrets that can bind them forever or tear them apart.

Millicent Glenn is self-sufficient and contentedly alone in the Cincinnati suburbs. As she nears her ninety-first birthday, her daughter Jane, with whom she’s weathered a shaky relationship, suddenly moves back home. Then Millie’s granddaughter shares the thrilling surprise that she’s pregnant. But for Millie, the news stirs heart-breaking memories of a past she’s kept hidden for too long. Maybe it’s time she shared something, too. Millie’s last wish? For Jane to forgive her.

Sixty years ago Millie was living a dream. She had a husband she adored, a job of her own, a precious baby girl, and another child on the way. They were the perfect family. All it took was one irreversible moment to shatter everything, reshaping Millie’s life and the lives of generations to come.

As Millie’s old wounds are exposed, so are the secrets she’s kept for so long. Finally revealing them to her daughter might be the greatest risk a mother could take in the name of love.

Police Procedural

The Unspoken by Ian K Smith, Pages: 295, Publication Date: 1 October 2020

Synopsis: In this new series from #1 New York Times bestselling author Ian K. Smith, an ex-cop turned private investigator seeks justice on the vibrant, dangerous streets of Chicago.

Former Chicago detective Ashe Cayne is desperate for redemption. After refusing to participate in a police department cover-up involving the death of a young black man, Cayne is pushed out of the force. But he won’t sit quietly on the sidelines: he’s compelled to fight for justice as a private investigator…even if it means putting himself in jeopardy.

When a young woman, Tinsley Gerrigan, goes missing, her wealthy parents from the North Shore hire Cayne to find her. As Cayne looks into her life and past, he uncovers secrets Tinsley’s been hiding from her family. Cayne fears he may never find Tinsley alive.

His worries spike when Tinsley’s boyfriend is found dead—another black man murdered on the tough Chicago streets. Cayne must navigate his complicated relationships within the Chicago PD, leveraging his contacts and police skills to find the missing young woman, see justice done, and earn his redemption.

Contemporary Romance

Roommaids by Sariah Wilson, Pages: 301, Publication Date: 1 October 2020

Synopsis: From bestselling author Sariah Wilson comes a charming romance about living your life one dream at a time.

Madison Huntington is determined to live her dreams. That means getting out from under her family’s wealth and influence by saying no to the family business, her allowance, and her home. But on a teacher’s salary, the real world comes as a rude awakening—especially when she wakes up every morning on a colleague’s couch. To get a place of her own (without cockroaches, mould, or crime scene tape), Madison accepts a position as a roommaid. In exchange for free room and board, all she needs to do is keep her busy roommate’s penthouse clean and his dog company. So what if she’s never washed a dish in her life. She can figure this out, right?

Madison is pretty confident she can fake it well enough that Tyler Roth will never know the difference. The finance whiz is rich and privileged and navigates the same social circles as her parents—but to him she’s just a teacher in need of an apartment. He’s everything Madison has run from, but his kind hearted nature, stomach-fluttering smile, and unexpected insecurities only make her want to get closer. And Tyler is warming to the move.

Rewarding job. Perfect guy. Great future. With everything so right, what could go wrong? Madison is about to find out.

Literary Fiction

A Single Swallow by Zhang Ling, Pages: 299, Publication Date: 1 October 2020

Synopsis: The eagerly awaited English translation of award-winning author Zhang Ling’s epic and intimate novel about the devastation of war, forgiveness, redemption, and the enduring power of love.

On the day of the historic 1945 Jewel Voice Broadcast—in which Emperor Hirohito announced Japan’s surrender to the Allied forces, bringing an end to World War II—three men, flush with jubilation, made a pact. After their deaths, each year on the anniversary of the broadcast, their souls would return to the Chinese village of their younger days. It’s where they had fought—and survived—a war that shook the world and changed their own lives in unimaginable ways. Now, seventy years later, the pledge is being fulfilled by American missionary Pastor Billy, brash gunner’s mate Ian Ferguson, and local soldier Liu Zhaohu.

All that’s missing is Ah Yan—also known as Swallow—the girl each man loved, each in his own profound way.

As they unravel their personal stories of the war, and of the woman who touched them so deeply during that unforgiving time, the story of Ah Yan’s life begins to take shape, woven into view by their memories. A woman who had suffered unspeakable atrocities, and yet found the grace and dignity to survive, she’d been the one to bring them together. And it is her spark of humanity, still burning brightly, that gives these ghosts of the past the courage to look back on everything they endured and remember the woman they lost.

Supernatural Thriller

The Haunting of H G Wells by Robert Masello, Pages: 393, Publication Date: 1 October 2020

Synopsis: A plot against England that even the genius of H. G. Wells could not have imagined.

It’s 1914. The Great War grips the world—and from the Western Front a strange story emerges…a story of St. George and a brigade of angels descending from heaven to fight beside the beleaguered British troops. But can there be any truth to it?

H. G. Wells, the most celebrated writer of his day—author of The Time Machine, The War of the Worlds, The Invisible Man—is dispatched to find out. There, he finds an eerie wasteland inhabited by the living, the dead, and those forever stranded somewhere in between…a no-man’s-land whose unhappy souls trail him home to London, where a deadly plot, one that could turn the tide of war, is rapidly unfolding.

In league with his young love, the reporter and suffragette Rebecca West, Wells must do battle with diabolical forces—secret agents and depraved occultists—to save his sanity, his country, and ultimately the world.

Nonfiction

Welcome to The United States of Anxiety by Jen Lancaster, Pages: 288, Publication Date: 1 October 2020

Synopsis: New York Times bestselling author Jen Lancaster is here to help you chill the hell out.

When did USA become shorthand for the United States of Anxiety? From the moment Americans wake up, we’re bombarded with all-new terrifying news about crime, the environment, politics, and stroke-inducing foods we’ve been enjoying for years. We’re judged by social media’s faceless masses, pressured into maintaining a Pinterest-perfect home, and expected to base our self-worth on retweets, faves, likes, and followers. Our collective FOMO, and the disparity between the ideal and reality, is leading us to spend more and feel worse. No wonder we’re getting twitchy. Save for an Independence Day–style alien invasion, how do we begin to escape from the stressors that make up our days?

Jen Lancaster is here to take a hard look at our elevating anxieties, and with self-deprecating wit and level-headed wisdom, she charts a path out of the quagmire that keeps us frightened of the future and ashamed of our imperfectly perfect human lives. Take a deep breath, and her advice, and you just might get through a holiday dinner without wanting to disown your uncle.

Children’s Picture Book

The Monster on the Block by Sue Ganz-Schmitt, Illustrator: Luke Flowers, Pages: 32 Publication Date: 1 October 2020

Synopsis: Monster is excited to see what kind of creature will move into Vampire’s old house on the block. He even starts practicing his welcome growl for the new neighbour. But when the moving truck pulls up, it’s not a greedy goblin, an ogre, or a dastardly dragon that steps out. Instead, it’s something even more terrifying than Monster could have imagined! Monster quickly rallies the other neighbours to unite against the new guy on the block. But what if the new neighbour isn’t exactly as bad as Monster thinks? Join Monster as he confronts his fears in this charming and light-hearted look at what it means to accept others who are different from us.

*** Which book will you choose? I have no idea which book I’ll choose as there a couple of books that interest me this month. ***

#AmazonFirstReads, #Amazonkindle, #AmazonPrimeMembers, #BookClubFiction, #Books, #ChildrensPictureBook, #ContemporaryFiction, #Kindle, #KindleBooks, #LiteraryFiction, #NonFiction, #PoliceProcedural, #SupernatuarlThriller, #Thriller

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thesaltofcarthage · 4 years

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“Coriolanus” on National Theatre Live’s YouTube channel free this week

A NEW! interview with Tom Hiddleston from The Guardian:

Coriolanus is a play that’s more respected than revered. Why does it have a rather difficult reputation? Coriolanus is relentless, brutal, savage and serious, but that’s why I find it interesting. Shakespeare sets the play in ancient Rome: a far older place than the Rome more familiar to us – of Julius Caesar or Antony and Cleopatra or the later Empire. This Rome is wild. A city-state wrestling with its identity. An early Rome of famine, war and tyranny.

In the central character, Caius Martius Coriolanus, Shakespeare shows how the power of unchecked rage corrodes, dehumanises and ultimately destroys its subject. I’ve read that some find Martius a hard character to like, or to relate to – less effective at evoking an audience’s sympathy than Hamlet, Romeo, Juliet, Rosalind, Othello or Lear. Yet there is a perverse integrity and purity to be found in his obstinacy and honour, which sits alongside his arrogance and contempt.

The play’s poetry is raw and visceral, quite different from the elegance, beauty, clarity and charm found elsewhere in Shakespeare’s work. The warmth and delight to be found in his comedies are absent here. But the unstinting seriousness and intensity of the play is what makes it fascinating.

How well did you know the play? I didn’t know it well. I had seen an early screening of Ralph Fiennes’s terrific film adaptation at the Toronto film festival in September of 2011. I was fascinated by the visceral intensity of the play: the power, hubris, and force of the title character; its lasting political resonance; and the immediacy and profundity of the familial relationships, particularly between mother and son – Volumnia and Martius – which struck me as perhaps the most intense and psychologically complex presentation of that bond I had come across in Shakespeare.

What drew you to Coriolanus as a character? I was fascinated by the evolution of Martius/Coriolanus as a character through the play. His arc is purely tragic. He begins the play as Rome’s most courageous warrior, is quickly celebrated as its most fearsome defender, then garlanded by the Senate and selected for the highest political office.

His clarity of focus, fearlessness and ferocity of spirit, all qualities that make him a great soldier, undo him as a politician. His honesty and pride forbid him from disguising his contempt for the people of Rome, whom he deems weak, cowardly and fickle in their loyalties and affections. He cannot lie. “His heart’s his mouth / What his breast forges that his tongue must vent.” He becomes a tyrant, branded a traitor, an enemy of the people: an uncontained vessel of blistering rage. He is banished, changed “from man to dragon”. Joining forces with his sworn enemy, Aufidius, he plots revenge against Rome: “There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger.” And then finally, at the very end, as he watches his own mother, wife and son kneel at his feet and beg for his mercy, he reveals – beneath the hardened exterior of contempt – a tenderness and vulnerability not seen before.

That shift, from splenetic warrior to merciless “dragon” to “boy of tears”, fascinated me – and the fact that his intransigence, valour and vulnerability all seem to be located in, and released by, his complex attachment to his mother.

How does this play about politics and people resonate in today’s society? The play raises the question as to how much power should reside in the hands of any individual: a question that will never go out of date. “What is the city but the people?” cries the people’s tribune, Sicinius (in our production, brilliantly played by Helen Schlesinger). The people must have their voices. And, beneath that, I think the play also raises another complex question as to what degree any individual can withstand the intensity of idealisation and demonisation that comes with the mantle of unmoderated leadership or extraordinary responsibility.

It’s a physical role – how did you prepare for it with fight director Richard Ryan? Josie Rourke and I knew it was important to the clarity of the play that Martius be credibly presented as a physical presence. As a warrior, we are told, he “struck Corioles like a planet”. Big boots to fill. Hadley Fraser, who plays Aufidius, and I began working with Richard Ryan three months before we started full rehearsals on the text of the play. The fight between Martius and Aufidius is a huge opportunity to explore their mutual obsession (“He is a lion that I am proud to hunt”).

We also hoped there would be something thrilling about presenting it at such close quarters in the confined space of the Donmar. We wanted to create a moment of combat that was visceral, brutal and relentless. We knew it would require skill, safety and endless practice. The fight choreography became something we drilled, every day. Hadley was amazing. So committed, so disciplined. It created a real bond of trust between us.

You previously starred in Othello at the Donmar. What’s special about that space? The Donmar is one of the most intimate spaces in London. I must have seen at least a hundred productions there over the last 20 years, and as an audience member it always feels like a thrill and a privilege to feel so close to the action. There’s a forensic clarity to the space: the audience are so close that they see every movement, every look. For actors, there’s nowhere to hide. That’s exciting.

It’s what makes the Donmar special: the closeness, the proximity. Hard to imagine in the wake of Covid-19. Theatres everywhere need all the support they can get. But that’s what’s encouraging about National Theatre at Home. It’s keeping theatre going, but it’s also a reminder that the sector will need real support to stay alive: from the government and from us, the people who love and cherish it.

There is a rather bloody shower scene – what are your memories of that moment? I remember that the water was extremely cold. But I was always grateful, because the preceding 20 minutes – scurrying up ladders, down fire escapes, into quick changes and sword fights – had been so physically intense that the cold water felt like a great relief. Martius says to Cominius just moments beforehand: “I will go wash / And when my face is fair you shall perceive / Whether I blush or no.” So I washed.

The scene did have a thematic significance. So much of the play, and the poetry of the play, is loaded with references and characters who are obsessed by the body of Martius as an object: how much blood he has shed for his city; how many scars he bears as emblems of his service. His mother, Volumnia (in our production played with such power and clarity by Deborah Findlay), says in a preceding scene that blood “more becomes a man than gilt his trophy”. Later, during the process of his election to the consulship, to the highest office, Martius is obliged by tradition to go out into the marketplace and display his wounds, in a bid to court public approval; to win the people’s voices. Martius refuses, in contempt for both practice and people.

In the shower scene, Josie wanted the audience to be able to see the wounds that he refuses to show the people later on, but we also wanted to suggest the reality of what those scars have cost him privately. We wanted to show him wincing, in deep pain: that these wounds and scars are not some highly prized commodity, but that beneath the exterior of the warrior-machine, idealised far beyond his sense of his own worth, is a human being who bleeds.

It’s an intense performance, in a three-hour play. How did you unwind after the show? My first thought is that I was always unbelievably hungry. Thankfully, Covent Garden is not short of places to buy a hamburger. I will always be grateful to all of them.

How did you modify your performance for the NT Live filming? The whole production for NT Live was very much the same as it was every night during our 12-week run. Naturally, as a company, we couldn’t help but be aware of cameras on all sides, especially in a space like the Donmar. We were all so grateful that the National Theatre Live team had come over the river to the Donmar. I always hoped the broadcast would capture the headlong intensity of the whole thing. The play opens with a riot, and does not stop.

What have you been watching during lockdown?

I was gripped, moved and inspired by The Last Dance, the documentary series about Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls in the mid-90s (Steve Kerr!). Normal People for its two extraordinary central performances from Paul Mescal and Daisy Edgar-Jones. I’ve rewatched old tennis matches, which somehow I have found very comforting: in particular, the 2014 Djokovic/Federer Wimbledon final. And – because we all need cheering up – Dirty Dancing.

Coriolanus streams on YouTube from 7pm on 4 June as part of National Theatre at Home. Available until 11 June. How to make a donation to the National Theatre. How to make a donation to the Donmar Warehouse.

#tom hiddleston #coriolanus #national theatre live #he used 'raise the question' and not 'beg the question'

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momtemplative · 4 years

Text

MASKED.

In a house with two young kids, our quickest sanity-stabilizer in this COVID era was to head outside and go for a walk, or a bike ride, or to roller skate. We’d pay close attention to the proximity of passers-by, but typically the grassy fields by the bike paths were an open canvas for the kids to blow off some steam. And we’d all return home a bit winded and slightly more stable.

Then, a little more than two weeks ago, a strong recommendation came from Governor Polis for everyone to wear masks in public. But what, pray-tell, was “public” referring to?

Here’s what the CDC endorsed: wearing cloth face coverings in public settings where other social distancing measures are difficult to maintain (e.g., grocery stores and pharmacies) especially in areas of significant community-based transmission.

So that’s what we assumed Polis recommended as well. That night we even had a happy hour gathering with our neighbors, all at least 6-feet-away, but without masks. We didn’t feel like we were being sneaky or non-compliant, we were simply following the guidelines as we understood them.

But then we started seeing people in their yards wearing masks, and on walks wearing masks— in addition to 6-feet! There was an eerie infiltration of mask-wearers, and, with that, the non-verbal communication of an abrupt change of protocol. Our sacred, oft-traveled, 1,000-step bike path that loops around the block started to feel unfamiliar, as if it were a movie set peppered with strangers, wearing homemade cloth curtains over their cheeks.

We quickly felt like a minority out there with our bare faces.

An afternoon walk was once a favorite time of day—quarantine or not. Quickly though, in light of the current mask situation, and before I began to wear one, my brain started to get stuck in a grinding pattern of managing everyone else’s whereabouts in accordance with my own. I noticed that I was judging those who were masked, at least in part because I was sure they were judging me.

Their judgment and my judgment felt cut from the same cloth: judgement as a way of controlling the uncontrollable. There is so much confusion about protocols. So much fear of the radio broadcast of white noise and speculation that is to be our future. All these feelings get lumped together into just trying to do it right. I returned from one particular walk stiff as a board and deeply grumpy.

“Jesse,” I said, “I’m not going on a walk again without a mask.”

I opted out of any domestic sewing of masks at first, and started with my old-lady cardigan tied around my face like a waist. I then upgraded to a bedazzled bandana that I bought to fill Opal’s Easter basket last year. I love the happy fabric, but it wouldn’t stay up over my nose for anything beyond the liquor drive-through (my singular biweekly errand). Store-bought masks are not an option. They’ve been back-ordered for weeks and if the stock is replenished, it needs to be saved for the blessed healthcare workers.

By the next weekend, Jesse and Opal wore masks that they made from a YouTube video, using mustard-yellow t-shirts and rubber bands, while on a bike ride. That ride turned out to be very brief because, according to Opal, it was so hard to breathe.

The solidarity and confidence that come from wearing a mask are helpful and significant, sure. But the act of wearing a mask changes the experience entirely.

On a purely physical level, it muddles your peripheral vision, steams up your glasses, makes it hot and very hard to breathe.

On a social-emotional level, the masks create a real separation between people. It feels similar to being at a costume party—even if the invite list includes most of your friends, everyone is suddenly anonymous.

I walked behind two people (in masks) and a dog from a block away that I thought were my beloved next door neighbors. I even hollered at them. (They didn't hear me.) Then I got closer and realized it was a different dog and very much not my neighbors. It’s all very disorienting.

One week in, and Opal has taken Polis’s suggestion as gospel. Of course, I don’t blame her. Sometimes when we are out and about, so is the rest of the neighborhood. During those times, the mask feels safe and dare-I-say comforting. (Like we are good, complaint citizens. Go us.) But other times, there is nobody outside. I tell Opal, “Sweetie, we can keep our masks around our chins until we see someone (dozens of feet away!) and then put up our masks.”

Opal’s reply: NOT A CHANCE.

I try to imagine what it would be like to experience all this at age ten. What other such details has her system become accustomed to over the last month? Zoom call playdates, online school, little sister around all-the-effing-time. Maybe some feelings come out sideways? Maybe everything seems overwhelming and busy even though very little is happening?

In the olden days, before COVID, any sort of outdoor trek was soul-nourishing for all of us. It ticks a lot of boxes: sunshine, fresh air, exercise for me and the dog and the kids, a brain reset. Now, masked, such an activity is beyond taxing. Ruth has no desire to keep her mask on and she’s a runner. We can bribe her with a lollipop to stay in the stroller, but the girth of the BOB, along with the leashed (80-pound) dog requires skill and intentional footing on an average day. Trying to juggle it all through a face-drape is the emotional equivalent of walking through tar. A guaranteed headache.

Returning to our backyard, with its creaky swingset and patchwork yard, and removing our masks (along with the associated invisible constraints) is beyond restorative.

“That’s the best part about a mask,” Opal said. “Taking it off and having the air taste so fresh and cold again.”

On Sunday morning—a few days ago and two solid weeks into the mask-in-public rules of conduct—the kids were scattered on the floor watching Frozen while I folded laundry and Jesse tinkered away at the sewing machine. Project: to sew face-masks that fit each of us properly. It was a lovely scene of the times. I would imagine Norman Rockwell painting such an episode if he were alive during COVID. A family of four (plus cat, plus dog) in their natural weekend habitat. Slow to dress, sipping juice or coffee, and, sewing face masks.

“Ruth,” Jesse said, “Come on over here and try this on to see if it fits.” Ruth scurried over to him to try on her mask like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Later that day, I walked our dog wearing the mask Jesse so lovingly crafted for me (after three fittings). It was exquisite, hands-free, spacious around the mouth. He even used the sweetest yellow-petal, summer dress fabric. When I returned, I kissed him straight through the mask.

In spite of a good fit, it still takes exponentially more effort to greet someone while masked—you have to yell or over-gesture to compensate for the fact that both of your faces are completely erased. Because we wear ours primarily outside, most people are in sunglasses with their masks. But if not, they are far enough away where eye-reading is not an option. It’s all a straight-up guessing game.

More often than not, for the sake of simplicity, it’s just me and the dog these days. Typically, I have my dog’s leash in my left hand, and a steamy bag of his shit in my right that gets carried for countless unpleasant blocks. This is due to the lack of public trash facilities on the neighborhood routes I find are easier to navigate within the guidelines of 6-feet-between. Bike paths are pretty tight if there isn’t open space to veer off on either side. And now I’ve got my mask on, and fogged-up sunglasses. The uniform is similar to that of someone on Halloween in a last-minute ghost-sheet costume, with just the eyes cut out, cobbling along with both hands full. This is not a “path is the journey” sort of moment. I’m lucky if I can twitch out a head-nod or an elbow-wave to a passer-by.

It feels important to counteract the separation that has become synonymous with health and life. But I’d be lying if I said I was able to muster a greeting every time.

In our culture, masks (when not worn in a medical setting) often represent sinister actions—bandits or bank robbers or the KKK who want to hide defining features.

For many Asian countries, mask-wearing was a cultural norm even before the coronavirus outbreak. In East Asia, many people are used to wearing masks when they are sick or when it's hayfever season, because it's considered impolite to sneeze or cough in public.

The 2003 Sars virus outbreak, which affected several countries in the region, also drove home the importance of wearing masks, particularly in Hong Kong, where many died as a result of the virus. Says the BBC news: “One key difference between these societies and Western ones, is that they have experienced a contagion before—and the memories are still fresh and painful.”

I recently read a story about two black men who were wearing masks at Walmart—fully in compliance and trying to keep themselves safe—when they were accosted by police. It hit me like a whip how individualized each of us are experiencing this pandemic. I skoff at my mask because it’s a pain-in-the-ass. But I’ll never be faced with also having to weigh the risks of racial profiling.

Delving further, I read that to-mask-or-not-to-mask has become a way to take a political stance. Trump supporters carrying “My body, My choice” signs, with an illustration of a crossed-out mask—this is a common image to see in the media right now.

The Washington Post said: “Even as governors, mayors and the federal government urge or require Americans to wear masks in stores, transit systems and other public spaces to contain the spread of the novel coronavirus, the nation is divided about whether to comply. And it is divided in painfully familiar ways — by politics and by attitudes about government power and individual choice.”

So, clearly, it is about so much more than just a mask.

This just in.

In a press conference that took place a few days ago, April 20th, Governor Jared Polis and state epidemiologist Dr. Rachel Herlihy outlined how life may change in Colorado as soon as next week, when “shelter-in-place” shifts to “safer-at-home.” They are essentially the same, just with a select few businesses opening with strict distancing rules and incremental shifts toward less physical distancing over all. Polis mentions nothing different about mask-wearing. Meaning, still wear them in public, especially if you can’t get 6-feet-between, especially if you’ve been exposed or have symptoms.

I noticed an immediate difference on my walk following his announcement. There was a family of four playing frisbee in an open space without masks! My initial feeling was wait, WTF? (And yes, I realize we are living in a strange state of affairs for my initial reaction to a beautiful family frolicking in a field to be contempt.) There was a man throwing a ball for his dog in a park that still had many visible CLOSED signs—also NO MASK. (Again, WTF??) I then gave a wide, grassy birth to a group of mask-free bike riders.

I notice my mask feels more like a burden on my face without the unifying solidarity of everyone doing it. We all seem to be getting different memos.

There’s a huge relief that people are back to having faces, to be sure. I miss people. I love faces. But I have to admit that in spite of my hemming and hawing, I’d gotten used to feeling protected. It’s impossible to make sense of any of it. Even little Ruth came in yesterday and gave a tiny cough. “I’m sick,” she said, “Since I didn’t wear a mask today.”

Circling back to the facts, the only thing worth grasping at right now, I am challenged to find any bit of news to suggest that our household need to be wearing masks while out on walks—under any level of regulation thus far. Neither Jesse nor myself are working outside of the house. We don’t visit with friends or family. (Big sigh.* We miss everyone terribly.) The odds of us being silent carriers are beyond slim. We are not immuno-compromised. So wearing masks these last few weeks—while still on socially distanced walks—could probably be categorized as an act of cultural alignment, an act of doing everything we can for the cause.

As of right now, this moment, I do not see our mask-wearing as being impactful to our macro OR micro community. So, for the sake of preserving the sanity of our tiny culture for the long haul, I vote that we wear our beautifully-Jesse-crafted masks on our chins, like flattened feathers at the ready.

“As it (the “safer-at-home” regulations) rolls off April 27, we need to figure out how to run the marathon now that we’ve run the sprint,” Governor Polis said in his most recent press conference. “I hate to break it to you, but the easy part was the sprint.”

#momtemplative #HeatMamaWords #mindfulparenting #COVIDwords #masked

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