#for the record this is the same premise i had in mind for an art i did back in the twitter days. i just enjoy the aesthetic i guess LOL

[lbhslefttiddie]

ruminating once again on the concept of murdering shen yuan for fun suspense and ghosty reasons and like. i like the concept of trying to write a murder mystery but fanfiction doesnt really Work for murder mysteries because you know what everyone is about before you read the first paragraph. there's very little mystery to be had in guessing between a set of likely candidates, and a lot of it has less to do with logic and puzzling things out and more to do with judging how the author interprets 7 and also 9 so ive been stuck ruminating on it for ages.

and then earlier i had a stroke of what im not going to call genius because i thought "the best way to add a twist to a scum villain murder mystery!!! would be if the person who murdered shen yuan!! was also shen yuan!!!"

[cellarspider]

2/?? Prometheus attempts to establish themes

(Previous) | (Index) | (Next)

Several minutes into Prometheus, we have had no dialog, and we are going to wish that it stayed that way.

This is by little fault of the actors themselves. They all put in solid work. Many of the problems come from the writing, and others from the mismatch between their characterization what we’d call “informed traits”: What the movie tells us we should know about these characters. 

Elizabeth Shaw and Charlie Holloway are archaeologists. We see them with a dig team on the Isle of Skye, where they have just discovered their latest piece of evidence towards a radical theory. They have noticed something astounding that nobody else has dared to consider: evidence of alien contact with Earth, recorded in the art of disparate cultures from around the world. We, the audience, already know that they’re right. 

And we, the audience, know that the History Channel has had kooks on it for ages, ranting about Ancient Aliens. We’ve all seen the meme guy.

Okay. Let's try to meet this movie where it wants to be, thematically. These are its first two scenes, it's still establishing its direction, and nothing openly egregious has happened yet. We will ignore nitpicky stuff, like the fact that this previously undiscovered dig site is right next to a well-known tourist spot on Skye with 400 reviews on Google Maps.

This movie is establishing an existential premise for its themes. It implies aliens had some hand in shaping not just our culture, but our evolution. The questions it invites at this time are equally existential: why would they do that? What was their purpose here? What was their purpose for us? Why did they stop contacting Earth?

Whether life has a purpose is one of the core debates of philosophy and religion. This movie is beginning with the premise that terrestrial life does have a purpose, implied by the deliberate sacrifice of a thinking being to shape it. This supposition could create a more focused exploration of one possibility, within its narrative space.

I think it fails to deliver on this. The writing specifically fails to deliver on this, which will become apparent once we have more dialog. But there is also an issue with the framing of this premise, which the movie ultimately does not manage to avoid. An issue of cultural context.

Because this is where I, as somebody with a background in history, start to brace. The idea of extraterrestrials visiting ancient peoples is a discredited mid-20th century theory, which stems from ignorance of the historical record, and assumption of ignorance and incapability of ancient peoples to achieve great things, particularly outside of the cultures placed in the prized pedigree of European civilization. 

Such theorists look at the Great Pyramid of Giza and scoff at the idea that they it have been made without outside help, completely unaware of the century of more experimental pyramid-building that had preceded it, and the fact that we have written records that help us chart the progress of Egyptian mathematics for six hundred years prior to its construction.

They point to the Ramayana–likely written down around the same time that the Ancient Greeks were getting along just fine without aliens–and they say that the flying castles and chariots described in the text must’ve been aliens, who were mistaken for gods, and technological achievements such as rust-resistant iron must have been alien-made. Never mind that the period had a lively scholarly culture that was incorporating ideas from their Greek and Egyptian counterparts, and the people of the Indus Valley built well-planned metropolises with the world’s first known urban sanitation systems three thousand years before that.

They think the Moai of Rapanui, some of which were being erected while Shakespeare was writing his plays, were erected with the help of aliens. The actual answer, as usual, seems to be much more interesting: the Moai walked there:.

This is what ideas of ancient aliens are culturally tied to. You throw this into a movie, and even with the foreknowledge that they’re going to be proven right, I start out skeptical of these people from moment one. I was less likely to give them the benefit of the doubt, and less able to suspend my disbelief around them specifically. This will not get easier as we go.

Which is unfortunate, because most of the next scene is back to being phenomenal, and managed to bounce me back into going along with their premise.

...A side note as we close this out: Getting way too deep into the weeds here, but the art style of the cave paintings is worth mentioning. It appears to be a mashup of two famous cave’s painting styles: The animals are near-replicas of those famously seen in Chauvet (35,000 years old), and the humans and attendant dots are somewhat similar to Lascaux (17,000 years old), both caves in France. Here's an excellent little video from Tom Scott about the former, and the way that you can go see the cave paintings without endangering the site itself. There's a similar museum for Lascaux, shown below!

I say the human figures are somewhat similar to Lascaux, but I can’t find a match for the style anywhere. The closest I can find is from Tassili n’Ajjer in Algeria (6000 BC) or the Cave of Beasts in the Gilf Kebir mountains in Egypt (5000+ BC). This is because depictions of humanoid figures in european cave art are rare–ranging from a single bird-head figure in Lascaux, to the possible hoax at La Marche. 

This produces an interesting implication, if we take the movie’s premise at face value. If humanoid figures were avoided as subjects for cave art for thousands of years, their inclusion here is especially significant. Perhaps indicating that the alien visitors instructed that some visual representation of this scene to be made, or did so themselves. Thus, it is slotted in amongst the pre-existing animal art, creating a culture clash.

…However, cave lions never made it as far north as Skye. Their known northern range tapped out at about London. While it’s certainly possible that people could’ve traveled that far during this period, local animals tend to be the focus of cave paintings. So we’re getting the visual sense that a French stone age painter was doing a residency at Skye. Amusing, but odd.

⛬

(Previous) | (Index) | (Next)

⛬

Citations for alt text ramblings:

1. https://www.isleofskye.com/skye-guide/top-ten-skye-walks/old-man-of-storr 2. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chariots_of_the_Gods%3F 3. https://www.usinflationcalculator.com/ 4. https://kdp.amazon.com/en_US/royalty-calculator 5. https://search.worldcat.org/title/7625265

[ace-reviews]

SPRING 2024 ANIME RECOMMENDATIONS

The anime industry needs to chill the fuck out. Literally stop. This isn't your heart.

If you somehow have time left over after the 86,000 returning series this season, watch these new cartoons also.

---

ZACK’S RECOMMENDATION #1: Kaiju No. 8

For the sake of full disclosure, I ended up dropping this manga after about a year when due to a number of reasons I had to play catch-up on a bunch of Jump and Jump+ titles. I ultimately decided cuts needed to be made and this was one of them, but I made that cut with the full knowledge that it would eventually get a kick-ass anime and I was right because I’m always right.

The anime looks better than I’d hoped and sounds better than I imagined. The background music sounds like something from a blockbuster movie, and I mean that as a compliment, considering that's basically what it is. Even if you’re not really into kaiju, this is still worth checking out. Unless you’re allergic to beautiful animation and/or poop jokes.

ZACK’S RECOMMENDATION #2: A SALAD BOWL FULL OF ECCENTRICS

This series became a lock for my recommendation this season (even over the train anime, which is very good and you should also watch) the moment I discovered it’s based on a light novel by the same guy who wrote Haganai and A Sister’s All You Need. I’ve never read any of the novels in question because I’m illiterate but I enjoy both of those anime very much (though I will admit that the latter is not for everyone). Haganai transed my gender and for that reason alone I will support Yomi Hirasaka (by watching and recommending anime adaptations of his books. Alas! if I could only read) ‘til my dying day.

This was a solid premier on its own merits, as well. The characters are fun and likeable, the jokes land pretty much every time (at the very least, I can’t immediately think of any that didn’t), and reverse isekai stories are still uncommon enough to be fun. There is the unfortunately ever-present concern that Our Hero will turn out to be a sex pest, but based on Hirasaka’s track record I’m not too worried about that. Really, more than Haganai or A Sister’s All You Need, the anime this premier kept making me think of the most was Hanamatsuri (side note: you should watch Hanamatsuri.)

Also, look at her. She’s reading Detective Conan. I’m reading Detective Conan. That’s so cool of both of us.

---

CHARLIE’S RECOMMENDATION #1: Chillin’ in Another World with Level 2 Cheat Powers

Fairly standard fare for the cozy isekai sub-genre, but it’s a decent way to spend half an hour, if you don’t mind the harem aspects.

CHARLIE’S RECOMMENDATION #2: Grandpa and Grandma Turn Young Again

It was fine, I guess. Watched it because the premise seemed cute, and I wasn’t wrong. Felt like a short comic but animated, and the art was good. Really wish they didn’t have family members lusting after the grandparents, though.

---

FEN’S RECOMMENDATION #1: Route of Odd Taxi

FEN’S RECOMMENDATIONS #2: Train to the End of the World & The Many Sides of Voice Actor Radio

[acreattaviacco]

My MLQC Experience Log#1

Welcome to my somewhat reaction, I just want to gush about this game. I didn't know anything about this game but I like the art and premise so yeah!

I am not gonna get attached to these characters real quick no I am not

First time doing this let's go

First things first, hello our cute MC❤️

I must admit I did not expect we would run a company let alone our parents died???? But glad to know we have a backstory for ourselves

Another thing that surprised me was that they did voice acting in English!

Unfortunately, we didn't meet Victor in person but the first one we did meet was KIRO!...Oh no....I'm in trouble

Sir you smell like sunshine and that innocent smile is making me melt

You are literally shinning aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh🔅

also-

Don't do this Kiro (Childhood) friends-to-lovers trope is my weakness so don't add more fuel to the fire but sure I can give the prize card inside the potato chips. He's so extroverted!! But he's so sweet 💕

After our separate ways, we try going back to our company and-

Hello there Victor sudden entrance but thanks for saving me. (Wait what do you mean I am an Evol?) Sadly it was short but now it's Gavin!!!

Wait!! Gavin!!...you just left

Okay new plan for the last episode of Miracle Finder instead of Kiro it's Lucien the Professor but

Not only that he was really good at being cheeky and a tease I might have gone red from that conversation alone! Can you blame me? The man slowly whispered in our ear and hahahahahahaha😳

Okay👍

Luckily He agreed to be on the show and I like this side of him as well

aaaaawww 10/10 Domestic life Husband material

After finishing the last episode some good news!

I didn't mention this earlier but the side characters have sprites, some even have voices which is really nice

Now we report the good news to our boss, negotiate and-

Can we trick him with puppy eyes? Oh he's a cat person sadge : (

Okay, seriously both Lucien and Victor's voices are so soothing to hear can you record an audiobook for us? no wait I would sleep through it

Though this is funny

I really like Victor, he's the right amount of tsundere that I like it's cute. Sadly he had the last laugh

We are going through places so fast and this is chapter 2 But we get to meet Gavin now!

You faced Victor you'll be fine...wait he works as a cop?

WAIT! WAIT! WAIT! WAIT! GAVIN! WE ARE CHILDHOOD FRIENDS :D !!!!!

But at the same time aaawww Gavin what happened? What blood-soaked letter? I need to know more!!! (Also that scar, he doesn't hide it)

Hahahahahahaha I'm sorry why are you a lot cuter now? The fact we go to the same school and even after all these years? Shoot weren't we here on assignment?

After that investigation, there is this

It's sweet only to realize it's a tracker(Actually don't mind this, no I am not delulu) But hey the sentiment is there!

Now to report to Victor! But if he was my boss in real life I swear to you unless he makes moves first I would just be talking business and nothing else

I know we are in the entertainment industry but man our life is dramatic

Dammit why do you have to be our boss, still would romance you though, and 0 to 100 real quick

You call us from time to time and I wonder why Victor is so uh..."soft" to us. Don't stop though keep calling and texting even how much you deny it 💗

After that Business deal, we went out and dun dun dun trouble

!

Hooray! The sweet release of death! /j (Seriously I am joking but a lot of people want us dead)

Luckily Gavin (and Lucien's advice) saves the day!

I know the main story is linear but I still feel spoiled by all these CGs it feels unreal

Also did not expect I would fall for Gavin this hard, look at that warm smile!!! :D

It's nice to know we are still wearing our tracker, no I still don't mind this (Okay maybe I am a little delulu but let me have this)

I will gush on you later my sweet Kiro for now I will add you to the list of my bundle of sunshine characters I love and adore(It's a small list but I adore them aahhhhh)

Chapter two is done!

That's about it I haven't even touched the dates and events heck there are so many I just wanted to focus on the main story, for now, I need to figure out the game mechanics and grind to level up my cards

I should have looked at a tutorial first but now I will!!

@jozhenji , @celiciaa must taggy tag you :D

[lacenvs3000w24]

Interpreting Nature for Me and (maybe) for You

The connection between this week’s prompt and the concept of learning styles really guided my thought process for this one. The idea that people learn in different ways is not novel, but it shouldn’t be cast aside, either.

Initially, in my imagined life as an interpreter, I envisioned myself outdoors, delivering nature-oriented activities to a variety of audiences.

The more I thought about it though, I came to some realizations.

First of all, even if I think a particular activity is engaging and worthwhile, there is no guarantee that everyone in the audience would agree. There is a huge chance that some people engage way more than others with the activities, and there are many reasons this might be.

Think of a bubbly kid with a big personality — they are likely to present the thoughts and questions that pop into their head. In contrast, a timid but equally as interested kid might not have the same inclination to voice their ideas, despite fostering a seedling of grand enthusiasm within them. I can relate to the quiet kids in the corner who may be hesitant to push their way to the front, where the “best view” might be.

images from Pinterest

While I think offering something tactile, something auditory, and something visual is a decent catch-all strategy, it doesn’t entirely solve the problem. Beyond that, my learning style shapes the way I see the world, and the respective value of the ideas I have.

I tend to fall into the category of “auditory learner” — having someone explain things to me has always felt the most effective. Along with that, I think I understand things best when they feel like a sort of story — that kind of logical flow just makes sense to me and sticks with me the most, especially when I’ve also had time alone to reflect.

This had me rethinking my ideal role, because ideally, I would be able to offer a personal, individual experience to everyone in the audience. So, instead of focusing on trying to accomplish everything all at once, I think we can approach things differently.

I understand, somewhat, the way in which I learn, the types of activities that feel engaging to me. As such, if we each focus on honing that understanding and translating it into our work as interpreters, those who learn and engage similarly will have access to a truly valuable experience.

Personally, I really love the idea of combining my love for nature with my love for the visual arts. For example, in Lab Studies in Ornithology (course code is ZOO 4920 and I highly recommend btw), I loved the field notebook assignment. In short, we were asked to get outside, find some birds, observe them, jot down thoughtful questions and include sketches, then go home and do some research to answer the questions that came up in the field.

a collage of some of my field notebook entries from ZOO 4920

The general premise is one that natural historians employed, before snapping pictures and googling things on the spot was possible or feasible. It leaves you with a record of observations and information about the things that you are personally interested in.

My ideal role as an environmental interpreter, then, would involve developing a guided nature journal or field notebook, complete with relatively general (but also creativity-sparking) prompts and blank spaces to fill with observational sketches.

📜For example... Go to your favourite outdoor space and make an entry about a plant or natural feature that you tend to overlook. or Make an entry from an urban area near you. How is nature incorporated into this type of space? Try to spot and identify 5 species in this area.

In my mind, this fulfills my ideals offering others the chance to:

🌿get outside

✌have a personalized experience

📚capture experiences and observations, such that they can be reflected upon and shared with others if desired

A challenge I anticipate coming up would be parsing through my ideas to pick out the gems among the rubble, figuring out which ideas would actually be interesting to a wide enough audience while still being sort of niche. Either way, I think the fact that almost anyone, anywhere could pick up the journal and fill it with their own interpretation of their own surroundings.

Can’t wait to read about everyone else’s amazing aspirations!!

[10-porgs-in-a-trenchcoat]

What I See

Pairing: Clone Medic Kix x GN Medic Reader 

Premise: My musings here resulted in this. You're a medic in the 501st who works closely with Kix. At first you think the crush you have on him is one-sided, until one day you look through his sketchbook and are surprised by a portrait he drew.  

Word Count: ~2.2k

Rating: G

Other notes: gender neutral reader, no pronouns, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like clones 

AO3

--

Being an army medic had its ups and downs, its slower periods and bursts of intense stressful activity. You wouldn’t trade it for anything though. The pay was better than what you earned as a civilian medical worker, your patients were much more agreeable (even though there was the occasional trooper who insisted he was fighting fit when he was still far from being so) and your coworkers were professional and easy to get along with. One coworker in particular was your favorite, and you looked forward to the shifts you shared with him.

When you first met Kix, you admired him for the love and care he showed his fellow clones and commanding officers. The two of you quickly developed a rapport; he always laughed at the bad jokes you made, and you liked to challenge him to competitions to see who could restock supply shelves in the med bay the fastest … he always won, but every time you’d stick your tongue out at him and say “I’ll get you next time!” and he would only respond with a knowing smirk.

During down time, when there were no patients and paperwork was handled, Kix would sit at his desk with a leather-bound book and a pencil. It was an odd at first, seeing the rich brown leather and sheets of paper in an austerely sterile all-white setting filled with holopads and technology, but it also looked right in his hands. Without meaning to, you’d sometimes watch as he focused intensely on whatever he was scribbling into the book, brow furrowed in concentration as he worked.

“Jesse teases me and tells me I should just take pictures,” he explained one day as he showed you some drawings in his book, “but I find this relaxing.” He flipped to a sketch of a grassy plain with mountains in the background. You marveled at the details: the colors and shading on the mountains looked like sunlight glistening off their stony faces, the grass looked so realistically textured you thought it would feel like the real thing if you touched it, and he even added some wildflowers as well.

After seeing the meticulous designs he shaved into his hair, it was no surprise that Kix was an artist.

“Looks like it could be a picture,” you commented.

“Fives said something similar once, when we were down on Felucia he caught me drawing this-“ he flipped through the book to show you a drawing of a wide-trunked tree with large drooping leaves. “I just draw what I see,” he added with a shrug.

“You’re really talented though, the best I can draw is a stick figure.”

Kix cracked a small smile. “That was once the best I could do too,” he said.

The way his lips curved in his smile, the way his eyes shone as he looked at you - in that moment you realized just how beautiful he was. Sure, he was good-looking – all the clones were – but he stood out to you.

There was no use denying it, you had a crush on him.

Before there was a chance for your thoughts to betray you in any way, Kix’s comm beeped. “Duty calls,” he said, closing his sketchbook and stashing it in a drawer under his desk. He then stood up and made his way to his station, and you followed suit. Whatever was about to come into the med bay, it would keep you busy enough to distract yourself … so you hoped.

It had to be strictly professional between yourself and Kix, you reminded yourself as the first wave of injured troopers came into the medbay. Besides, given how quickly he could turn on a heel from artist to medic like that demonstrated how dedicated he was to his work, you knew he would never let anything get in the way of his duty.

--

Four rotations went by. Kix went on a mission with the rest of Torrent Company, leaving you to manage the med bay on your own during your shift. It was more of the same, really … but you thought about him more than you would care to admit. Of course, you always thought about him when he went on missions, you told yourself. Everyone worried about their coworkers, right? Especially if there was a chance they might not come back?

He always came back, you told yourself. This time wouldn’t be any different.

Only it was both more of the same and different. You were working on paperwork when the med bay doors suddenly flew open, and troopers began pouring in. As soon as you commed some off-duty medics to report to the med bay, you manned the triage station so you could tend to the more critically injured troopers first. It was hectic, a flurry of stressful activity, making sure everyone who needed a bed had one and every wound and scrape was patched up. It wasn’t until everything quieted down that you found Kix in one of the beds.

Your heart dropped into your stomach when you saw him. He was asleep, undressed from the waist up with bandages and bacta patches affixed to spots on his shoulder and the side of his head, and his lower half covered with a blanket. Nodes attached to pulse points on his inner arm connected to a machine by his bed that recorded his vital signs, and everything looked normal at first glance. His chart reported a direct blaster hit to his shoulder and a graze on his head, with an expectation of a full recovery, signed off by one of the medics you called in to help. You owed that medic big time, you thought.

A glance at the nearest chronometer revealed that your shift ended three hours ago, but you couldn’t leave. You didn’t want to leave. So you grabbed a chair and pulled it over to Kix’s bed so you could sit by him. Someone had to keep an eye on him after all. It was professional courtesy, you told yourself, that was all. Besides, even though your body ached and felt heavy with exhaustion, your mind was too active and on edge for sleep.

On the floor by his bed were his things: his armor, neatly stacked and organized, next to his medical pack. Inside his pack you found his sketchbook, and you figured you could pass the time by looking at his drawings again. You found the sketch of the plain and the mountain again and took a few more minutes to admire the detail. Then the tree on Felucia, and then a tooka cat, and when you turned the page you nearly dropped the book in surprise.

Kix had drawn you. In the picture you looked off in the distance, chin propped up on your hand. The detail was incredible: the shape of your nose, your mouth, your eyebrows, all rendered with magnificent accuracy. You wondered if he drew it from memory, or used a picture as a reference, or sketched you one day on duty when you weren’t paying attention.

It had to be a picture, you decided. What you saw before you … it was an idealized version of yourself. Better-looking than anything you ever saw in the mirror.

Before you could dwell on it any longer, you heard a weak drowsy voice calling your name. You looked up and saw that Kix had woken up, his head turned towards you and his half-lidded eyes meeting yours.

“Oh- you’re awake!” you stammered, your cheeks flushing with heat as you slammed the sketchbook shut. You sprang to your feet and came to his bedside – to tend to him as a medical professional, you reminded yourself.

“What’re you doing?” he asked.

“My job,” you answered plainly. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got shot,” he answered glibly. “But I meant, what are you doing with that?” he nodded his head best he could and glanced to the sketchbook that was still in your hand.

“Oh-“ You froze for a second. “I- sorry, I just really like your ….” Your sentence trailed off as you saw apprehension flash across his face.

“It’s fine,” Kix murmured as he averted his gaze away from you.

“I … I saw you drew me.”

“Yeah … drew that when I was away … was missing you.”

Oh. Maybe he was crushing on you too … the idea was equal parts exciting and scary.

“Missed you too,” you returned, reaching down to give his wrist a gentle squeeze. “And it’s a really good drawing of me too. Did you use a picture for reference or something?”

“Memory,” Kix said plainly.

“Wow …” You opened up the sketchbook again to your drawing and gave it another lookover. “And you made me look better than I actually do.”

“No. I told you before, I draw what I see.”

Your mouth fell open slightly in surprise, and you looked up to meet Kix’s gaze again. Tired as he was, he looked at you with a soft admiration, as if he was appreciating a fine work of art standing directly in front of him. Your mind was both full and blank at the same time, feeling flattered and treasured but at the same time unsure of how to respond to him.

“I … I’ve been putting off telling you how I feel about you,” he continued, “because –“

“Your duty comes first, I understand,” you cut him off as you sat down on the edge of the bed, turning your torso to better face him and setting the sketchbook down by his head.  

“No, not that. Well, it has to, but – but that doesn’t mean I can’t want more out of life.” Kix paused. He raised his hand and reached it towards you. You responded by raising up your own hand, taking his in yours, and holding it in your lap. Your other hand came to rest on his wrist. He was so warm under your touch, soft and solid and steady. You knew that you would eventually have to let go, but you didn’t want to.

“My favorite part of the day is when I get to see you, whether it’s here or in passing somewhere on the ship,” he continued, “and on the battlefield after I got shot, as I was lying there, all I could think about was how I might never see you again.”

“Kix, I-“

“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupted you. “Except, if- if after the war’s over you wanted to give it a shot? You and me?”

“Yes.” The words immediately fell from your lips as your mouth widened into a smile. You didn’t even have to think about it, and the potential consequences that the higher-ups in the GAR might inflict upon the both of you for even entertaining the idea didn’t matter. It just felt right, the idea of you and him. You couldn’t begin to explain it.

Kix returned your smile. You raised his hand to your mouth and softly kissed the back of it before lowering it back down to your lap. Before you could disentangle your hands from his, he returned that gesture as well, pulling your hand that was intertwined with his to his mouth and pressing little kisses into your knuckles. The feeling of his lips on your hand sent pleasant little tingles through your skin.

“Let’s talk about it some more after you’ve recovered,” you suggested.

“Yeah, of course,” he agreed absentmindedly. He shifted slightly in bed but suddenly stopped and froze in place, his face twisting into a pained grimace and a hiss escaping through his teeth.

“You okay?” You asked, pulling your hand back to you and scanning his body for any other signs of distress.

“Yeah, just hurts is all.”

“Let me get you some painkillers.”

“No need, I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Kix, I insist.” You told him in the sternest voice you could muster.

“I have the right to refuse treatment, especially if the treatment is better spent on my brothers who are in worse shape than I am.”

He was right, he did have the right to refuse treatment. But you couldn’t bear the idea of him being in pain.

“Okay … how about a sleeping aid then? Or some water? Can I get you anything?”

“If you want to do something for me, go get some rest. I’ll still be here when you report for your next shift.”

“Ugh, fine. You drive a hard bargain.”

“Ah come on, you know you love me.” Kix said teasingly, punctuating his statement with a smirk and a mischievous gleam in his eye.

Giving him a small laugh and a half-hearted eye roll, you pushed yourself up onto your feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Before you turned to leave, you took his hand in yours again, and took a moment to gaze in his eyes. It took everything in you to not immediately start imagining a life with him after the war. There wasn’t even any guarantee there was going to be a life after the war – the cruiser you were on might be destroyed tomorrow by the Separatists for all you knew – but the idea still filled you with hope and joy. Something to look forward to with him. Something else to fight for.

[themollyjay]

Dune, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Trash Fire

So, this blog has mostly been focused on writing, and that will probably continue, but there is a topic I want to address.  We’re coming up on the release of the third live action adaptation of Dune.  I’m writing this on September 10th, 2021, and Dune is scheduled to release on October 22nd, 2021.  Now, I will tell you up front, I am ridiculously excited for this movie, because I have read Dune multiple times, and I honestly love the story.

The thing is, for a long time, I struggled with that.  Not for the reason you might expect.  A lot of people decry Dune as a Mighty Whitey/White Savior story which, if you’ve only watched the David Lynch version, is a valid criticism.  The thing is, if you’ve read the books, you know that Dune is actually a deconstruction of those tropes, and an open criticism of the human tendency to fall in line behind charismatic leaders.  What always bugged me about Dune, and indeed a lot of classic science fiction (I’m looking at you, Lensman), is the sexism and gender essentialism that are often baked into the setting.

For those of you who don’t know, at the center of Dune is the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood and concept of the Kwisatz Haderach.  In the Dune series, the Bene Gesserit is an organization of women who have had special education which allows them full control over their bodies and a number of special abilities. Two important abilities for the Bene Gesserit are the ability to see into ancestral memory, and the ability to see into the future.  The thing is, the Bene Gesserit can’t see into male memories, and their ability to see the future is limited, so they have spent thousands of years on a breeding program to produce the Kwisatz Haderach, which is a man who can survive the process the Bene Gesserit undergo in order to gain these two abilities.  A process which normally kills men.  This is considered desirable because a male would be able to look at both the female and male pasts and see into the future with far greater ability than any female ever could.

Sexism.  Gender Essentialism.  Right there, wrapped up in one of the central premises of the story. There’s something similar in the Lensman stories, where women just don’t have the killer instinct necessary to become Lensman, although eventually there are female Lensmen, this is framed as the end result of a long breeding program necessary to create those traits in a woman, and the women who can wield the Lens are depicted as more evolved than regular women.  For the record, I also love Lensman and I had the same struggle to come to terms with it that I did with Dune.

But how is it that I can sit here and love stories where some the central premises of the story run counter to my lived experience as a trans woman?  That’s a good question, without an easy answer.  The short version is, “Not uncritically.”  The long version is, well, long.

Something that a lot of people don’t understand is that when you engage with any piece of media, you’re not engaging with that piece of media in a vacuum.  Media exists in context, and in a very real way, media exists as part of a dialog.  People will write stories, and other people will write stories in response.  Events happen in the real world, and people will write stories in response.  People will bring their own culture, their own societal preconceptions, and their own personal beliefs into their writing.

This is a lesson I learned largely by looking at the way my writing changed as I progressed long my journey toward coming out and going through transition.  As I went through that process, my view of the world changed, and the things that went into my writing, the things I wanted to put into my writing, changed with it.  That realization and understanding allowed me to go back and look at works like Dune, Lensman, Star Wars, Star Trek, and a whole host of other things, and see them not just as a product of their times, but as a product of the people who created them, and all of the things those creators brought to the table.

To be clear, I’m not saying that when something was created should insulate it from criticism.  Far from it.  What I am saying is that media isn’t some timeless thing that can be judged against absolute standards of right and wrong that exist outside of the context of the society in which it was created and the society in which it was later consumed. We have to view media in the context of when it was created, while critiquing what it says in the context of the society in which it is consumed. We have to look at works like Dune and ask, ‘What was the author trying to say in the language and context of 1965 when the work was created’, and then ask, ‘How does what the author was saying apply to us, now in 2021?’.  Are the things the author/creator said valid?  Are they worth applying to the modern world?

But more importantly, what I’m saying is that in order for any art to have lasting value, that it must be okay to find joy and value in things that are imperfect by today’s standards, because I promise you the things we create today and the art we leave behind us, will be found similarly wanting by tomorrow’s standards.  All we can do is try to create with compassion, understanding, and acceptance, and hope that history judges us on the good we tried to do, rather than by failings we don’t have the language, mindset or understanding to avoid.

So, with that in mind, come October 22nd, I will sit in front of my laptop, with a huge bowl of microwave popcorn, and I will watch as an amazing cast and an incredible director give new life to a story that I have loved for decades.  I’ll roll my eyes at the sexism and gender essentialism baked into the story and the setting, while I watch to see if this version has captured the warnings that Frank Herbert wove into the original story.  Based on what I’ve seen so far, I suspect I’ll love pretty much every minute of it, even if it’s still a Trash Fire.

[auror-lovie]

I Loved You, Mr. Scamander; Ending 1

━━━•✦.✧. Author’s Note.✧.✦•━

Ending No. 1

Author’s Intended Ending

Taglist for this series is still OPEN!

━━━━━•✦.✧. Summary .✧.✦•━

With the right words, the right timing, and the right emotions, one could get even the most strong-minded person to follow them.

━━━━━•✦.✧. Add-Ons .✧.✦•━

Emotional Manipulation

Angst

A lot of hurt

━━━━━━•✦.✧.☾.✧.✦•━━━━━

A lot happened in New York that Newt didn’t disclose in his letters. (Y/N)’s main concern being the Auror from America, Tina Goldstein. It seemed to be all Newt talked about when they got to Paris.

“Tina was right here!” Newt exclaimed. “Jacob, she was here. Tina stood here. She has incredibly narrow feet, have you noticed?”

(Y/N) had seen that look before. It was the exact way he looked when he was with Leta. He was in love.

Newt, Tina, and (Y/N) stood in a nearby alleyway, looking out over the square where tree roots rose to form the birdcage elevator to the French Ministry.

“The box is in the ancestral records room. So, three floors down.” Newt informed. He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a tiny bottle with only a couple of drops left inside.

“Is that Polyjuice?” Tina asked.

“Just enough to get me inside.” He looked down at his coat and found one of Theseus’s hairs on his shoulder.

(Y/N) gasped. “Newt! I hope you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”

He added the hair to the mixture, drank the potion, and turned into Theseus, still wearing Newt’s clothes.

She sighed. “Oh no… We’re going to get in so much trouble…”

“Who-?” Tina asked, puzzled who this mystery person was.

“My brother, Theseus,” Newt replied, adjusting his clothes. “He’s an Auror.”

“He’s my boss…” (Y/N) admitted.

“And a hugger.” He added.

~*~*~

Theseus exited a meeting room, Victoria following close behind. They made their way towards Leta, who was waiting for them.

“What’s happening?” Leta asked, concern written all over her face.

“Grindelwald’s rallying. We don’t know where, but we think it’s tonight.” He explained.

Leta and Theseus kissed for a moment. ‘Please be safe.’ Leta thought.

They pulled away and Leta looked at Theseus and Victoria. “Be careful. Both of you.”

“Of course,” Victoria assured her.

“Listen, I want you to hear this from me. They think that Credence boy might be your missing brother.” Theseus whispered to Leta.

Leta looked at him in disbelief. “My brother is dead. He died. How many times, Theseus?”

“I know, I know. And the records, the records will prove that, okay? They can’t lie.” He continued.

“Theseus. Victoria.” Travers said sharply.

They shared a look before leaving Leta and joined Travers. “I want every person at that rally arrested. If they resist-”

“Sir, forgive me… but if we go in too heavy, don’t we run the risk of adding to the-” Victoria started.

“Just do it. I’ve had enough of you and Miss (L/N)’s insubordination.” Travers looked at Theseus. “Keep your Communications Liaison in check.”

Victoria was about to go after him before Theseus held onto her upper arm. “I’m more than just a Communications Liaison…”

Theseus released his grip and put his hand on her shoulder. “That you are. You are much more capable than him. More… Level headed…”

She sighed. “Sometimes I just want to- Oh no.”

“What is it?”

Victoria looked at her bracelet. She could feel the warm sensation emitting from the charm on her wrist. (Y/N) was here. And if (Y/N) was here, so was Newt. She walked to the railing, overlooking the floor below.

Theseus followed and caught sight of Newt- as Theseus- with Tina and (Y/N) walking, heads down, through the Ministry typing pool.

The brothers’ eyes meet. (Y/N)’s eyes meeting with Victoria’s. Newt grabbed Tina’s arm and made a sharp turn down a corridor, (Y/N) following close behind.

Theseus and Victoria set off in pursuit, leaving Leta and a furious Travers behind. Leta backed away from the throng and slipped through a side door.

The trio continued to run along a corridor lined with pictures, the Polyjuice Potion already wearing off. “I don’t suppose you can Disapparate on Ministry premises in France, can you?” Newt asked.

“No.” (Y/N) replied.

“Pity,” Newt said nonchalantly. Now the potion had worn off completely.

“Newt!” Tina exclaimed.

“Yes, I know. I know there’s-”

Every portrait along the corridor turned into a portrait of Newt. An alarm sounds:

Urgence! Urgence! Un sorcier suivi, Newt Scamander, est entré dans le Ministère! Emergency! Emergency! A tracked wizard, Newt Scamander, has entered the Department of Magic!

Theseus and Victoria finally get to the same corridor. “Newt!” Theseus called out.

“That’s your brother?” Tina managed to ask between breaths.

“(Y/N)!” Victoria called.

“And who is that?” Tina asked, looking at (Y/N).

“My best friend.” (Y/N) answered.

“As for my brother, I think I may have mentioned in my letters we have quite a complicated relationship.” Newt continued.

‘Wait, he sent letters to her too?’ (Y/N) thought, but quickly dismissed it before she could ponder on it longer.

“Newt! Stop!” Theseus’s voice echoed through the corridor.

Newt, Tina, and (Y/N) sprinted through a second door, which led into a mailroom. Two elderly porters were pushing mailcarts across the circular room.

“Does he want to kill you?” Tina asked, a bit concerned.

“Frequently.”

“Newt!” (Y/N) scolded. “He does not want to kill you!”

As they sprinted past the mailcarts, Theseus sent a curse after them, sending the mailcart boxes flying. Tina blocked the spell. “He needs to control his temper!”

(Y/N) pointed her wand. ‘I’m sorry, Thes…’ Theseus was then slammed down into a high chair that (Y/N) has conjured out of nowhere. Hands bound, Theseus flew backward on the chair into a meeting room, where he slammed into a wall.

Newt awed. “I think that might have been the best moment of my life.” Tina laughed but was on guard when she saw Victoria.

Victoria nodded at (Y/N). “Go!”

(Y/N) looked at Victoria before running off with Newt and Tina.

~*~*~

Newt, Tina, and (Y/N) turned a corner into a beautiful area in front of towering Art Nouveau doors carved to resemble trees. A very old woman sat behind a desk bar.

“Puis-je vous aider?” Can I help you? The old woman asked.

“Er-yes, this is Leta Lestrange. And I’m her-” Newt said nervously.

“Fiancé,” Tina said quickly.

‘Wait… Was she misinformed?’ (Y/N) thought with a confused look on her face.

An increased awkwardness between them as the old woman lifted an ancient book onto the desk and opened it. Her finger ran down the list of surnames beginning with L. “Allez-y.”

“Merci,” Tina whispered.

Newt grabbed Tina’s hand and pulled her toward the doors into the records room. (Y/N) once again following close behind. The old woman eyed them suspiciously.

“Tina, about that fiancée business-” He started.

“Sorry, yeah. I should have congratulated you.” Tina replied, sadness in her voice.

The doors to the records office opened. They enter briskly. The doors close behind them, plunging them into darkness.

“Lumos.” (Y/N) said softly, yet firmly.

An extraordinary acre of shelves stretched away from them, all carved to look like trees so that they seemed to be on the edge of the forest. Pickett poked his head out of Newt’s pocket and squealed in excitement.

“Lestrange,” said Tina. Nothing happened.

“I think you need to be a Lestrange to-” (Y/N) started before realizing that Newt and Tina were not there anymore.

Tina set off, Newt right behind her. They weaved in and out of the carved shelves. Some of which housed rolls of parchment, the occasional prophecy, other mysterious trunks, and boxes.

“Tina, about Leta-” Newt started.

“Yes, I’ve just said, I am happy for you.”

“Yeah, well, don’t.”

She stopped in her tracks and looked at him. “What?”

“Please don’t be happy.” That sounded better in his head. “Uh, no, no. I’m sorry. I don’t… Uh, obviously, I- Obviously I want you to be. And I hear that you are now. Uh, which is wonderful. Sorry-” His shoulders sagged as a gesture of hopelessness. “What I’m trying to say is, I want you to be happy, but don’t be happy that I’m happy because I’m not.”

Tina looked at him, confused.

“Happy.” Newt paused. She still had a puzzled look on her face. “Or engaged.”

“What?” Tina asked.

“It was a mistake in a stupid magazine. My brother’s marrying Leta, June the sixth. I’m supposed to be the best man. Which is sort of mildly hilarious.” He chuckled nervously.

“Does he think you’re here to win her back?” She asked, a feeling of defeat in her voice. “Are you here to win her back?”

“No! I’m here to…” He stared at her. “-You know, your eyes really are-”

“Are what?”

“I’m not supposed to say.” He trailed off. Pickett climbed out of Newt’s pocket onto the nearest shelf and didn't notice.

“Newt, I read your book, and did you-?” Tina rushed.

“I still have a picture of you. Wait, did you read-?” Newt asked as he pulled the picture of her from his breast pocket and unfolded it. Tina was inordinately touched.

He looked from the picture to Tina. “I got this-I mean, it’s just a picture of you from the paper, but it’s interesting because your eyes in newsprint. See, in reality, they have this effect in them, Tina… It’s like fire in water, in dark water. I’ve only ever seen that-” He paused, struggling to say what he wanted to say. “I’ve only ever seen that in—”

“Salamanders?” Tina whispered, a smile on her face.

All (Y/N) could do was just stand there and watch. Of course. Just from being around her, (Y/N) could see how Newt could fall in love with her. If Newt was happy, so was she. “H-Hey guys! I’ve been looking for you guys everywhere.” She stuttered. It sounded more confident in her head.

A loud bang erupted as the doors to the records room flew open. They jump apart. Two pairs of footsteps made their way into the records room.

Leta walked inside, Victoria at her side, desperate. This was Leta’s last chance to hide evidence about Corvus’s death. The doors closed behind them. She raised her wand. “Lestrange.” The shelves began to move.

The giant trees shifted all around them. They were almost crushed as the Lestrange “tree” flew towards them. They hop onto a shelf.

The towering stack stopped, swaying, in front of her. She stared as an empty shelf confronted her. A mark in the dust where a box sat, a slip of parchment in its place. She picked up the slip and read it aloud. “Records moved to Lestrange family tomb at Père Lachaise.”

Leta spotted Pickett hiding among the deed boxes on the shelf and smiled

“Circumrota.” Victoria said. The record tower turned, revealing Newt, Tina, and (Y/N) clinging to the shelves.

“Hello, Newt.” Leta smiled. "(Y/N)."

“Hello, Leta.” They replied.

“Hi,” Tina said awkwardly, yet kindly.

Victoria looked at (Y/N) who was clinging onto the side panel of the “tree” then looked at Newt and Tina. Oh.

•✦.✧.🔎.✧.✦•

The figures of fifty aurors appeared in silhouette among the mausoleums. “It isn’t illegal to listen to him! Use minimum of force on the crowd. We mustn’t be what he says we are!” Theseus advised. Though the emotions of nervousness, even fear, and on a few, a clear will to fight, to avenge were evident of their faces.

~*~*~

“The moment has come to share my vision of the future that awaits if we do not rise up and take our rightful place in the world.” Grindelwald started.

Rosier appeared onstage. Bowing, she presented the skull-hookah to Grindelwald. Total silence fell through the auditorium.

Grindelwald was illuminated by the skull’s golden light. He inhaled deeply through the tube. His eyes rolled up into his head. He exhales and a gigantic cloak spread from his lips across the high stone ceiling, bearing moving images.

The crowd gasped. Images of thousands of marching, booted feet, explosions, men running with guns. The vision of a nuclear blast rocks the amphitheater. The crowd felt terrified. There were screams, until the vision subsided, leaving murmurs of panic.

“Not another war,” Jacob whispered.

The vision faded and all eyes return to Grindelwald. “That is what we are fighting! That is the enemy! Their arrogance, their power lust, their barbarity. How long will it take before they turn their weapons on us?”

Aurors entered the auditorium unnoticed, fanning out among the crowd. Victoria and (Y/N) being in that crowd of Aurors. They stood next to each other, holding hands.

The crowd settled down, agitated- expectant. They were waiting for a new, extraordinary revelation.

“Do nothing when I speak of this. You must remain calm and contain your emotions.” He paused. “There are Aurors here among us.”

The Aurors looked around in panic. They were wildly outnumbered. The crowd turned hostile. “Come closer, brother wizards! Join us.” Grindelwald announced to the Aurors.

“Do nothing. No force.” Theseus instructed.

One of the young Aurors has made eye contact with a young witch. She was angry, fingering her wand.

“They have killed many of my followers, it is true. They caught and tortured me in New York. They had struck down their fellow witches and wizards for the simple crime of seeking truth, for wanting freedom.” Grindelwald watched as he deliberately played on an unstable young witch’s feelings.

The young Auror raised his wand a few inches.

“Your anger. Your desire for revenge is natural.” Grindelwald continued.

She raised her wand, but the young Auror curses first. To the horror of her companions, she fell, dead.

“Disapparate. Leave. Go forth from this place and spread the word: It is not we who are violent.” People nearby took the body and Disapparate, as did most of the crowd.

Theseus and the other Aurors watched the purebloods leave. Victoria squeezed (Y/N)’s hand before letting go.

“Let’s take him.”

They started to descend the amphitheater steps. Grindelwald turned his back on the advancing Aurors, relishing the fight to come. “Protego diabolica.”

He spun and drew a protective circle of black fire around himself. The exits closed shut. Some of his followers walked through the flames into the circle. “Aurors, join me in this circle, pledge to me your eternal allegiance, or die. Only here shall you know freedom, only here shall you know yourself.” Grindelwald sent a wall of flames into the air, pursuing fleeing Aurors.

In the attempts to defend herself from the flames, Victoria ended up falling with her arm stretched out. This caused her arm to sprain. She continued, but her movements were slightly delayed due to the pain.

“Victoria, you need to get out of here,” Theseus instructed.

She winced in pain, holding her left arm in pain. “N-No. (Y/N)’s here. I can still fight.”

“Stop doing that. Stop trying to save everyone. Stop trying to put everyone’s health and safety over yours! In another time and another place, I would praise you for this. Though right now, we’re in the middle of a battle. Get out of here.”

“But sir-”

“That’s an order, Victoria.”

“Then you promise me one thing, Mr. Scamander.” Victoria pulled on one side of his collar to her level and looked him dead in the eyes. “You make sure she gets out of here.”

He gulped. Theseus never saw her like this- even on missions. “I will. Victoria, I promise.”

~*~*~

(Y/N) made her way to the bottom of the amphitheater, close to the ring of fire. “Gellert Grindelwald!” She yelled, her wand pointed at him.

“Ah. Miss (Y/N) (L/N). A pleasure to meet you. The Ministry’s “secret weapon”. Wait- don’t you come in a pair?” Grindelwald said, sinisterly.

(Y/N) blinked. She was not phased by his words. Three years of Auror training and years of work in the field prepared her for this type of situation. Flattery would not get him anywhere.

‘Her mind is sharp and strong, but what about her heart?’ Grindelwald thought before choosing his next words. “Alright. Let’s not talk about our professions…” He paused. “My dear, did you ever think that the Scamander brothers would miss you? They couldn’t even love you.” Grindelwald taunted.

She gulped, the grip on her wand loosened. “That’s not true! They… They did love me..” (Y/N) exclaimed, her voice faltering towards the end.

‘There we go.’ Grindelwald walked closer to the woman. “Did they really?”

Her heart raced. Her breathing became uneven. Yet it felt like she couldn’t breathe at all. Her hands started to shake. She looked at her wand, then at the Scamander brothers (who were waiting and analyzing the scene), then back at Grindelwald. “Y-Yes they did.” (Y/N) stuttered.

Finally standing within arms reach of her, he slowly moved her hand that held her wand away- and she let him do that. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes, but not in the way you wanted, did they?”

(Y/N) thought for a moment. She knew it was wrong, but Grindelwald’s words were so… tempting. His entire speech- he did have a point. And that’s when her walls- the walls that protected her and her feelings- crumbled. “No… They didn’t… I just… If I was just…”

The Scamander brothers had seen enough. It was not going the way they thought. “(Y/N), don’t!” Newt and Theseus yelled, making their way towards her.

Grindelwald sent up flames in their path, stopping them from continuing down the walkway. “Mr. Scamander, you and your brother are being quite rude. I’m trying to have a conversation with your lovely friend here!”

(Y/N) took a hesitant step towards Grindelwald. “I-If I join you… will the pain go away?”

He smirked, confident that he managed to gain another follower. “You’ll have that and so much more.”

She was about to take another step-

“(Y/N) please! Don’t leave us… Don’t leave me.” Newt pleaded, finally reaching the bottom of the walkway. Theseus, Leta, and Tina followed, stopping where he stood.

(Y/N) turned and looked at them. ‘Theseus. Leta. Newt. Tina.’ She gasped as the reality caught up to her. She would never be like Leta. She would never be like Tina. No matter how hard she tried, she would never be enough. The loves of her life, physically so close yet emotionally out of arm's reach.

Grindelwald walked around her then stood behind the heart-broken woman. “Look at them. Mocking you. Having no respect for your feelings. Can’t they see that they’re hurting you? The man you loved during your school years, just for him to fancy another. And even now, another woman has captured his heart. Then the brother! Oh, how smitten you were… Just for him to propose to the very woman that was the cause of your heartbreak the first time!”

“Grindelwald, enough!” Theseus yelled, pain evident in his voice.

“Please (Y/N), we can fix this!” Tina screamed.

Grindelwald patted her shoulders, “Think about all the times they hurt you…” He said before walking backing into the center of the ring of fire.

The shift in their friendship when Newt would give Leta his sweaters. All the times he would miss meetups because he was busy hanging out with Leta. The moment Newt started paying more attention to Tina. Hell, he’d talk about her all the damn time. All the times Theseus compared her to Leta. And the audacity of him to ask for advice on what gifts to get her. Were the years they were together mean nothing to him?

At the end of her montage, (Y/N) hadn’t even noticed the tears running down her cheeks. Grindelwald was right. With them, she faked happiness. Siding with Grindelwald would give her a chance at a new start.

“(Y/N), he’s manipulating you! ” Leta shouted.

“We didn’t mean to hurt you…” Newt trailed off.

“(Y/N), I would rather have you ignore me for the rest of your life than have you side with him! Stay with us!” Theseus admitted.

(Y/N) shut her eyes tightly, covering her ears in an attempt to block out their lies. Their sad attempts to make her stay. Their attempts of emotional torture. Tears ran down her cheeks- ugly sobs escaping her lips. All she wanted was for them to leave her alone. All she wanted was to run away.

“Newt loves you, (Y/N),” Tina let out, hoping that this last resort would work.

She heard that.

(Y/N) sniffled, uncovering her ears and wiping the tears from her eyes. “Not like he loves you, Tina… Remember? T-The salamanders…” She took a step backward, taking one last look at the people she held dear to her heart. “Leta, Tina… I’m not angry at either of you. Jealous, but not angry.”

She then looked down, the wand in her hand was suddenly captivating. “Theseus… Newton…” She trailed off before mustering up the courage to look at the men she loved.

Newt let out a whine. “What… What about Victoria?”

(Y/N) gasped softly. Victoria- her best friend. She shook her head before she could think about it any longer. ‘She wouldn’t miss me either… I was just a burden to her all these years.’

“Goodbye.” (Y/N) said quickly before running into the circle of flames.

“(Y/N)!” The four of them screamed.

“Tell Victoria I’m sorry…” She whispered as she Disapparated.

~*~*~

Grindelwald and his followers escaped, the flames extinguished, and Newt had chosen his side. The world was safe… for now.

Victoria, her left arm wrapped in a makeshift sling, made her way over to the four of them. She counted heads. Only four…? She looked at her charm bracelet. It had never felt that cold- even during the winter months. Why was the charm so cold?

“Where’s (Y/N)?” She asked, looking around in case she was in another area.

The four stayed silent. None of them wanted to break the news to her.

“W-Well?” Victoria stuttered.

Leta stepped towards her. “First, you have to know that none of us were the cause of whatever we’re going to say next.”

She gasped, “I-Is she…?”

“No! She’s not dead… She…” Tina trailed off.

“She what?” She asked, waiting for an answer. “Leta?” Victoria asked, only for Leta to look the other way. Tina had turned her attention elsewhere before Victoria could even ask her.

Victoria then looked at the Scamander brothers who were looking at each other. They were displaying miniature hand motions as if telling the other to say something. “Theseus and Newton Scamander… Either one of you better have a good explanation of why my best friend isn’t with you.”

“We tried to stop her, but…” Newt started while fiddling his thumbs, not being able to look at Victoria.

“But she was manipulated into joining Grindelwald.” Theseus continued.

Victoria gasped. The first thing she felt was pain, then it was quickly replaced with anger. Usually, (Y/N) would be there to stop her, but (Y/N) wasn’t there now was she? Victoria made her way to the brothers. She raised her hand, ready to slap Theseus’ face, but stopped just as her hand neared his cheek.

Theseus flinched, preparing himself for an impact that never came. When he heard soft sobs, he quickly opened his eyes to see Victoria crying.

That night, Victoria had lost her best friend to a monster. She dropped her arm and brought her hand close to her chest, the sobs getting more intense.

Leta and Tina made their way over to embrace her, whispering empty words such as “We’ll get her back” or “It’s okay. (Y/N)’s strong and smart. She’ll find her way out”.

Victoria sniffled. Her hair was a mess and her face covered with soot and mud. One of her arms hurt like hell, but none of those pains would ever amount to the loss of (Y/N). She finally looked up, her puffy eyes meeting the brothers’.

“I trusted you.” Victoria croaked. She brought herself to look at Newt. “She loved you… You know? Do you know how many times she’s cried on my bed in my room while we were at Hogwarts?”

She then looked at Theseus, “And you! You were her first boyfriend and I know that doesn’t entitle you to marry her or whatever, but for Merlin’s sake. Do you know how many times she’s come back to our flat at ungodly hours of the night, piss drunk trying to get over you?” Victoria ranted, getting out of Leta and Tina’s embrace. Years of emotional baggage finally fell off her shoulders.

Tina opened her mouth to say something, but Leta shook her head. Tina nodded and just let the scene play out.

“Victoria, we didn’t mean to-” Theseus started before Victoria interrupted.

“To hell with you, Theseus! You promised me that she’d get out of there! And you broke that promise…”

Theseus took a step forward with his arms open, going in for a hug.

“Please don’t. I need time and space away from all of you…” Victoria quickly stepped away from the four of them.

“This is the last time I’ll trust her heart- No, her life in the hands of a Scamander.” She said coldly before Disapparating.

[wyofabdoms]

Undercover I Do - Chapter 5

Characters: Javier Peña x female reader

Summary: While on an undercover assignment posing as a married couple, you are attacked and nearly assaulted. Upon waking, all you remember about Javier Peña is what you remembering seeing from two photographs of the two of you posing as the happily married couple. As you struggle to regain your memories, Javi struggles with his own feelings for you.

Rating: Mature (Eventual smut)

Warnings: fake/pretend relationship, married and undercover trope, temporary amnesia, hospitalization, blood and injury, swearing, awkward Javi, unrequited feels, mentions of sex toys, feelings, pining, 

Word Count: 3132

Notes: You're released from the hospital, and Javi sets up house. While doing so, he stumbles across a couple of things that make him feel all kinds of ways!

Read on Ao3

You were released from the hospital two days later under the stipulation that you were to rest and were not to return to any kind of active field duty until fully cleared by the doctor and his medical team.  Over the course of those two days, some of your memories had seeped back in, like figures appearing through thick fog and slowly taking form and shape.  But, it seemed to you, not any of the really important ones were returning.  You remembered now some specific events from the last two years of your time as an agent: big busts you had made, critical incidents that had ended badly for your agency, colleagues that had been lost in the line of duty.  You had been able to recall many details of your work against the worst of the drug cartels in Colombia from the last two years and even further back...but most memories of things from the past three or four weeks were still a grey void with nothing in them, not even shadows to hint at memories waiting there in the fog.

You were rarely alone at the hospital: if Dixon was not sitting at your bedside, then Javi was there in her place. Between the two of them, you had managed to scrape together some large pieces that were missing about your relationships: you had worked with Dixon earlier in your career in San Diego and when she had risen in ranks and earned a seat down here in the thick of things, she had brought you along with her.  You had the feeling that she viewed you as a bit of a protege and you felt confident that the memories you had of her support and backing of you were true.  Memories about your relationship with Javi proved to be a bit more difficult to get confirmation on.  While both Dixon and Javi were very willing to discuss and confirm anything you asked about your mentor, when you inquired or asked for clarification on your history with your husband, both agents seemed to hesitate for a moment before answering you.  Dixon was more guarded than Javi and the older woman would often change the subject as quickly as she could when you asked her about your husband.  You got a distinct sense that she did not approve of your marriage to the man you had been partnered with during your time here.

You remembered that was how you had met Javi; you had been assigned as his partner.  You remembered the earliest days of working with him: how he had flirted with you and you had rebuffed him, how there had been moments when your partnership had skated the line of something more.  But it was only the older memories that seemed to come clearly to you...the closer to present day you came, the emptier your memories became.  You had tried to remember when exactly your relationship with Javi had made the jump from work partner to life partner.  When and how had the two of you told each other how you felt?  And you had zero memories of a proposal, a wedding....no memories at all of how it felt to touch and be touched by the handsome man who spent hours sitting in comfortable silence next to your bed. You couldn’t bring yourself to ask him questions about those things...not yet.

Surprisingly, Dixon was the one who escorted you when you were released.  After the older woman saw you carefully buckled into the passenger seat of the car, you inquired as to why Javi wasn’t the one driving you home.  Dixon’s eye flickered behind her dark sunglasses, and she mumbled something about him getting your apartment ready for you. She assured you that he would be waiting at your home when you got there.

Your home.  For a moment, your stomach sank, thinking about how you would be going back to a place that was foreign to you but was supposed to be a safe haven, a refuge, the home you shared with a husband you were supposed to be in love with.  Would you remember any of it?  Would anything that you found there help jog anything loose in your memory?

You could only hope.

***

“Fuck!”

Javi growled as he struggled to keep a box from teetering off the pile of other boxes that it was precariously stacked on.  His hands were full of his clothes on hangers, halfway between the box he had just removed them from and the clothing pole in the closet.  He had been struggling most of the morning with lugging half of his possessions down the two flights of stairs of their shared apartment building and trying to make it appear as though he had lived in this apartment for longer than a few hours.  Both he and Dixon had agreed it would be best for her to return to familiar surroundings...but they still needed to keep up the premise that the two of you shared a life together.

Javi had never given much thought to domesticity.  The closest he had ever come was Lorraine...and the brief moment of introspection he had had when he had seen her those several years ago at that wedding.  Thoughts had crossed his mind then: what would it be like to have a wife, to wear a ring on his finger, to have promised himself to someone forever?  To have a future that was shared with another person?  To make important decisions with another person and not just on your own?  To have 2.5 kids and a house?  But he hadn’t spent too much time dwelling on it simply because none of that was really who Javi was, was completely unimaginable to him.  He had never once really thought that sort of life would ever be one he would want, much less be able to live.  And, quite honestly, he wasn’t all that sure that that kind of life was one that he deserved.

Now, it seemed, life was playing a little gag on him: turns out maybe there WAS a way for him to see if married life was for him...although he did hate the fact that his partner had had to be injured in the process.  

One thing he was certain of at the moment, though: if getting married and divvying up and combining possessions was as big a pain in the ass for real as it was for this farce?...Well, that was a strike against matrimony in his opinion.

At first he had merely grabbed a small duffle bag full of items; things he thought he might leave at a woman’s house if he was spending the night or a weekend: a change of clothes, toiletries, firearm.  But when he had let himself into her apartment two floors below his in their building, it had struck him that that wasn’t going to be good enough. 

Her apartment was lived in.  Unlike his own, which he realized now seemed a little sterile and cold, her’s was warm and (though not a word he often used in his vocabulary) cozy.  She had artwork on the walls, shelves full of books from all different genres...even a few board games and some well-worn records on the record player stand. He spotted a rolled up yoga mat under a bench beneath the window and a couple of handwritten recipes and smiling photos tucked under bright magnets on the refrigerator. Her bedroom smelled of lavender and soft vanilla; the bed was neatly made (again, unlike his own) and dirty clothes resided in a hamper rather than tossed carelessly into a corner. The spare room that served as an office housed neatly organized work related content and photo albums of people from home, holiday decorations stashed under the guest bed; her closet had her clothes neatly organized (by color, who knew!?). He had quickly come to the conclusion that he might need to put a bit more effort into this charade.

So he had proceeded to spend the next several hours being swept into a whirlwind of imagining what a shared space would look like if the two of them were actually married.  He had started with the few books he had in his own apartment; a few biographies, some car magazines and a ratty copy of “The Art of War” and “The Hobbit”.  He had jammed them onto the neat bookshelves in her living room before returning quickly with some of his own records: some Cumbia records and an Eagles album, which he shuffled in with her own Steely Dan, Creedence Clearwater and Three Dog Night. 

He didn’t have much to contribute to the kitchen besides a few bottles of whiskey and a bottle of tequila next to her own bottles of red wine.  He had pulled a photo taken when he graduated from high school from his wallet and placed it on the fridge next to one of her with her huge family.  He paused a moment to assess the contrast in the two pictures: her in the midst of her five older brothers and parents, all wearing matching Christmas sweaters...him standing bashfully and stiffly next to his dad, who grinned proudly at the camera, one arm awkwardly slung over a teenage Javi’s shoulder.  The bathroom didn’t take long, either.  He added his razor, a bottle of Old Spice, and his toothbrush and comb; he glanced into the medicine cabinet as he placed his deodorant there and eyed what looked suspiciously like a package of prescription birth control...his mind started to wander and he slammed the cabinet door shut, heading back upstairs to his apartment for another load.  

He had strong-armed his clothes still on the hangers into some file boxes to make them easier to carry down the stairs, then had hauled shoes, underthings, suits, jeans, and (what he had not really realized until this moment) a ridiculous amount of the same style shirt in different colors downstairs and was now trying to wedge them into one half of her closet, trying to make it look like they had been there for a while and doing his best to not become buried by the haphazardly stacked boxes.  Once the last set of shoes was stuffed into the closet next to a pair of sky high red heels he had never seen her wear before, (he was CERTAIN he would have remembered those) he opened the dresser to shove his socks and underwear into a drawer and gulped. Staring back at him was a drawer full of his partner’s bras and panties.  

For a moment he felt like a creep pawing through her underwear drawer, but he steeled himself and carefully nudged the sensible pieces of cotton material to one side of the drawer.  As the material shifted, he spotted a brief flash of red lace and something that could be black and leather, but he refused to investigate any further; he could feel his face flushing and his heart pounding harder.  He dumped his own underwear into the drawer and shoved it closed, sighing with relief and opening the next one; socks wouldn’t cause his mind to wander into dangerous territory nearly as badly!  He carefully shoved the rolls of clothing to the side to make room for his own once again and felt his hand hit something.  His breath hitched as he uncovered what was very obviously a vibrator.  Next to it was a tube of lube and a small box about the size of a deck of cards.  Try as he might, he could not stop himself from carefully tilting open the lid of the box...Javi was quite educated when it came to knowing his way around a woman, but he was clueless as to the purpose or use of the two small colored balls nestled into the velvet inside of the box...although he was pretty sure he at least knew where they were supposed to go.  

His mind clouded with images of his partner stretched out on the bed behind him, bringing herself to orgasm using these items and he felt himself harden in his jeans.  He let out a puff of air and carefully nudged the items to the other side of the drawer, reburying them beneath the socks as they had been before.  He piled in his own footwear, then shakily closed the drawer, still trying to blink away the images playing out in his mind.  He wondered what her face would look like as she came apart.  What did she sound like?  Did she cry out when she reached her peak?  What would his name sound like tumbling from her lips in the middle of her climax, what would she taste like…?

He stormed out of the bedroom, furious at himself for going down that path.  He felt like a pervert, getting so turned on after snooping through her personal effects.  He was angry at Dixon for insisting that they do this; but he was frustrated at himself, more.  He shouldn’t be going through her things like this.  He splashed some cold water on his face from the kitchen sink and trudged back up to his own apartment, pacing for a while once he got there, trying to both ease his erection as well as determine what else he should bring with him back to her apartment.  His eyes settled on the shoulder case that had been retrieved from the house that had been used in the undercover operation.  He pulled out the two framed photographs that had been next to “their” bed; the photos that she had referenced when she had first woken up.  He stared at them, thinking that if he hadn’t been present at the time they had been taken, he would have believed they were real, too...that they were actual photographs of two people madly in love with each other.  

Maybe…

No.  He stuck both pictures under his arms, grabbed another box filled with work files, tossed his favorite ashtray and lighter in the box along with one or two small tchotkes, a couple of coasters and a small plastic plant from the window sill, and made one more trip down the stairs.  He dispersed the items randomly throughout her apartment, thinking to himself that it at least gave a more unified image of two different people existing within the same space.  

He hauled the box of paperwork into her second bedroom converted into an office space and plopped it down on the desk, taking one or two folders and strewing them about the top of the desk, again in stark contrast to her own organized, neat piles.  It started to reflect their separate desks at work now, which he found convincing.  He sat in the desk chair for a minute and quickly shuffled through the small desk drawers, double checking for anything glaring that might be difficult to explain.  As he opened the bottom drawer, his eye caught a blue leather bound notebook.  Flipping through it, he saw pages and pages of writing in his partner’s familiar handwriting.  As he thumbed through, he was startled to spot his name on one page.  He carefully flipped back, scanning the writing and was surprised to find that it actually appeared quite often.  He turned a page and began reading from the beginning:

“Everything sometimes feels so incredibly heavy here.  The job, the humidity, the pressure of being a woman in this man’s arena.  I hate it!  I hate that I have to be strong all the damn time.  I hate that it feels like I can’t seek the same comforts as other women...even if I have insisted that it be this way.  I’m so grateful and proud of myself...most of the time...like 95.5% of the time.  The other times, I just wish I could let myself cry when something heartbreaking happens.  When someone says something scathing that hurts my feelings at work.  When I watch Javi go off to sleep with yet another woman.

Javi.  That feels so heavy all of the time, too.  I can’t seem to ever level myself out when it comes to him.  Some days he drives me absolutely insane and I want nothing more than to bash his face in with a paperweight.  Other days, I just want him to put his arms around me and hold me.  Not do anything or say anything, just hold me tight��because he is, truthfully, the only single person that I trust.  

And yet, am I fooling myself in saying that...in saying that I trust him?  Because do I really?  If I really trusted him, why don’t I just go to him?  He only lives two floors up.  Why can’t I knock on his door and fling myself into his arms and kiss him and feel what it’s like to press my body against his?  Why can’t I bring myself to do that?  Well...probably because I don’t really ACTUALLY trust him...not with that part of myself.  Javi is the man I want having my back in a shootout...but is he the man I want to be next to me every night when I fall asleep and every morning when I wake up?  I dream about him sometimes...about him being in my bed with me, but we’re usually not sleeping...we’re doing everything but.  I dream about it and then I wake up feeling empty because he’s not there, because it wasn’t real.  The emptiness is heavy, too...”

Javi clapped the journal shut, feeling his stomach churn.  He shouldn’t have read that and guilt thrummed through him.  These were her private thoughts; never meant for anyone else but her to read.  Once again he felt like an intruder and he loathed himself...Dixon...that asshole Ortiz...for putting both of them in this situation.  He dragged a hand over his face, growling low in his throat.  He looked down at the box at his feet, still open with a few files and the two photographs staring back up at him.  He reached in and took out one framed picture, sitting it upright on the desk: the “engagement” photo.  He took the “wedding” picture out and then tossed the journal into the box, carrying both items from the home office.  He carefully set up the photo on a bookshelf in the living room, then put the lid back on the box and headed back up the stairs to drop the box off in his apartment and lock up.  Before he left, though, he made sure to slip the freshly cleaned gold band onto his left ring finger.

His wife would be coming home any minute now.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8,  Chapter 9, Chapter 10,  Chapter 11,  Chapter 12,  Chapter 13

[theres-no-protocol-for-this]

ART

The last chapter of the story. After this would be Confidential Information, which I realize doesn’t 100% fit anymore, but I did my best.

My computational power is astounding; my human crew and the researches back at the university have barely scratched the surface of what I can do. I know who is responsible for taking my friend, and I will make them pay.

Several things happen simultaneously, which would be confusing for a human but is completely normal for me. We enter the wormhole, and Kaede sends over the data files she managed to download before we left the repair facility station. Everyone looks through them, me included, while I navigate us to the closest exit.

I get to the good parts first. “They” are the SecUnit’s manufacturing company, and they have been tracking it for some time. So, it’s our fault that they have it. We exposed too much information when we made a seemingly innocent request for repairs.

The company wanted to study a rogue construct in a controlled environment, and now they have SecUnit. And it can’t give them what they want.

Not for long because now we have a plan, and ours is better.

Humans and constructs secrete chemical that make them afraid. I don’t. But despite that, I know what terror looks like, and for me it comes with permutations, with possibilities and probabilities. A hundred simulated scenarios play themselves out in my processors, and they all begin with a simple premise.

SecUnit belongs with my crew and with its clients on Preservation and else where. The company (and I refuse to call it anything else because SecUnit wouldn’t approve) will pay for this. The only question is how quickly.

I falsify all kinds of data while my humans reprogram a few of my repair drones into malicious little monsters that will attack the feed. I also calculate fuel consumption, remind my crew to eat and sleep, and look through navigational charts to determine the fastest means of reaching our next destination.

By the time we return to transit space, nearly a hundred hours have passed. From the bridge, Seth speaks up. “Are you ready?”

Always, I reply.

I’m angry at the ones responsible. SecUnit would call this kind of anger cold — but then again, it taught me about anger in the first place. It shared its experiences and reactions with me. And right now, I’m thankful for these feelings because they make everything so simple. The university will balk when we visit next; this is probably not what they intended when they started the AI program.

Our engines have been calibrated. Everyone should strap in when we get close.

“We get one shot at this,” Martin reminds the rest of the crew, most of whom are seated in the crew lounge and eating dinner.

We’re in transit for just over twenty hours. My humans sleep, and discuss, and worry. I calculate.

Three. Two. One. Zero.

We exit the wormhole back in the same system we left 121 hours ago. The company’s warship isn’t here anymore, but why would it be? It chased us away, and it had no reason to stay behind after that. But they will call for it again once they realize we’re back, so our time is limited.

Right now, they don’t know we’re here because I’ve made sure of that. As far as the station is concerned, we’re a completely different ship, one with a contract in the sector that has nothing to do with the company. I didn’t know if I could spoof my signature well enough to pass. Now, I know.

When no alarms go off, I take the next step and request permission to dock.

Human-centric systems run mindbogglingly slow, so it takes a while for them to answer. As soon as the station’s feed becomes available, I hack into the repair facility’s HubSystem. Against me, it stands no chance now that it’s not on high alert, and I don’t give it time to change its mind. SecUnit would be gentle — I am not.

“Remember our mission,” Martyn reminds me. “We rescue SecUnit and get out. That’s all.”

If they have harmed SecUnit, I will not hesitate to deploy pathfinders to make sure they never get a chance to try again.

Martyn chuckles as if I’m joking. I’m not.

Next up, a little subterfuge on the part of the humans. We dock, I shake hands with Port Authority, and my crew heads out into the station. I scour the feed and begin working through the repair facility’s other systems — one at a time — until they all think I’m the one giving orders. I catch whispers of systems that I can’t reach, the ones we wanted to infiltrate, but I don’t care at the moment.

I’m also monitoring my crew’s vital signs as they setup the modified drones in several inconspicuous places near the facility. We are going to need them for the next step. And, I’m listening to comms traffic in case anyone notices that we’re not who we say we are.

Station security has rescinded all of the alerts associated with me. They really don’t expect us here. They don’t see SecUnit as a person and so don’t expect anyone to mount a rescue. It’s time to demonstrate the error in their thinking. Seth and Martyn helped me see my errors when Iris and I were young. This will not be the same.

Then I find SecUnit, and…

If I had a heart, it would be breaking right now.

It’s along in a tiny cubicle, immobilized and rendered silent, aware but not entirely away. The humans have restrained it not only with its governor but also chemical means. Its file is within easy reach, and inside I find cycles of pain and fear unlike anything I have ever witnessed, recorded in minute detail for further study. It has survived, and perhaps that will be have to be enough.

It still has my transmitter, which the company never found. They have hurt my friend, many times, and now my anger is no longer cold and distant. I will make them hurt, starting with Maxime Deneault, who authorized the procedures and signed off on the pain. And then on up.

But first, I reconnect my friend to the feed. SecUnit? I ping its hardware address.

ART? It sounds hesitant, disbelieving.

I’m so elated I play the opening theme to Sanctuary Moon.

Asshole. It sounds relieved. Fucking hell, ART.

Its governor tries to punish it for the unprofessional attitude. SecUnit stiffens from the pain but can’t move enough to relieve any of the discomfort.

I’m getting you out of there. We have a diversion ready as soon as you’re up and moving.

Wait, it tells me. You need those files, right? Seth does, to implicate the colony leaders? Get them.

I’m here for you, idiot.

I know that. But this way, it won’t all be a waste. Ten minutes aren’t going to change the outcome.

A technician walks into SecUnit’s prison of a cubicle and tells it to follow him. They head down a hall into a research lab. I watch through the cameras and make plans, examine schematics.

No, I say.

SecUnit sends me some sigil equivalent of a middle finger, and the governor doesn’t like that, either. At least its attitude hasn’t changed. I don’t know if it has all of its memories, but it appears to have enough. Do what you came to do. And then, get me the hell out of here.

I want to argue, but I can’t say no to SecUnit.

Oh, and I’ll need help to make sure the tech doesn’t realize you’re here.

Don’t worry about it, I tell it just as I find those air-gapped and entirely feed-disconnected servers.

I’m also ruining the life of one Maxime and scrambling all the databases I can get my hands on that won’t set off alarms. I won’t risk SecUnit’s safety, not now, but I make a list of other names. Meanwhile, the technician tests SecUnit’s governor and I panic. Flat out panic. I am about ready to zap the asshole, but SecUnit tells me it will be fine. That this isn’t the worst it’s lived through.

I will make sure it will never live through anything worse again. And if that means wiping the company from existence, well that’s a small price to pay.

The end.

[script-a-world]

Hi! I'm writing a story that involves gods created from stories and myths told by humans, and beings that inspired humans to tell those stories who are based off platonic forms. Im having trouble finding a good way to really differentiate between each type of being, what would you suggest?

Feral: Before I answer your exact question, I want to go through each point you’ve given us and kind of build out the idea.

Gods are created from the stories and myths told by humans. This is a really interesting premise for your pantheon. I’ve seen “gods require the perpetuation of myths and belief in them to survive,” but I can’t think of having seen your premise before. There is a TV Trope called Deity of Human Origin, and while one of the two types listed is this, the only examples I’m familiar with on the page are of the second type (mortal who becomes human). The closest I can think of in real world religions is the concept of a tulpa.

The stories and myths are inspired by “beings.” Like the Muses? If these non-human beings are inspiring these stories, how are they not already gods and/or why aren’t they becoming gods by getting humans to write stories about them instead of… some… other… gods…? Where are the beings getting the ideas for the gods that don’t exist until a human plays make believe about it?

The Platonic Forms are involved. Ok. Platonic Forms. Ok. Platonic Forms can be a really interesting starting point for worldbuilding, but I just don’t see how it meshes with the above ideas. Εἶδος actually predates Plato, but we differentiate Platonic Forms from this pre-Socratic form because Plato uses the term differently, except when he doesn’t and uses the term exactly the same way as the pre-Socratic philosophers. The point of this is to say that Plato never actually flat out defines εἶδος or sometimes ἰδέα; we just have to cobble together Plato’s sometimes contradictory statements across all his dialogues to come up with a general definition. So Forms are the perfect ideal of anything and everything. There’s a Form of Chair; there’s a Form of Courage; Forms for everything. Forms exist in some kind of more Real reality than our own, which is an imperfect reality - a spiritual realm versus our physical realm, if you like. There is a single Form for every type of thing in the physical world, our world. So, every chair in the world is an imperfect representation of Chair. Souls also exist in this Real reality before being born into the person or animal they inhabit. This is how we learn in Platonic theory; there’s never anything that is new to us, we remember or rediscover what our souls already knew. This is also how we are able to make seemingly arbitrary distinctions - how do we know if a piece of a tree that has fallen off is a twig or a stick? There is a Form of Twig and there is a Form of Stick and we remember “instinctually” which is which (“instinctually” is in quotes because that’s not really a Platonic word). For Plato, the entire point of philosophy and the basis of the Socratic method is to peel back the many, many layers to get to the capital-T Truth that we already know from when our souls lived with the Forms. Plato makes no room for the concept of invention through his Theory of Forms. The first person to build a chair was just building a representation of a Form that already existed and that they remembered.

How these three points work together. Unfortunately, they don’t. Once you bring in Platonic Forms, the other parts of your premise just don’t work for a few reasons. First of all, if your humans are going to be inspired - inspiration being a very unPlatonic concept in itself because it implies a lack of philosophical work to arrive at the Truth - then it will be their own souls leading them to the truth, not external beings - that is not how “learning” works for Plato. Second of all, this kind of storytelling of myths is very unPlatonic - yes, this is hilarious when you consider the medium he used to convey his philosophical ideas, but keep in mind that his conceit is he was merely recording conversations as they actually happened and his dialogues are entirely for the purpose of education and enlightenment, never for entertainment. Plato had no regard for the arts, especially poetry and the theatre - the first thing his Shining City does is get rid of the poets. The invented story, fiction, is contrary to the very idea of the Forms and philosophy. Finally, and I think most importantly, gods cannot not-exist, then humans create them through stories, and then gods exist. This completely flies in the face of how the Law of Non-Contradiction must be handled in a world where the Theory of Forms is true. Because Forms exist atemporally, that would mean gods both don’t exist and exist at the same time, which is a logical impossibility. Also, remember that humans cannot invent or create anything out of whole cloth; it has to come from a Form, so the gods must exist outside human creation or conception. Again, you also have this fictional storytelling - fictional because it does not come from actual Truth - becoming reality, but nothing can “become” something when you conceptualize it atemporally. It is always as it is, and something cannot be both fiction and non-fiction.

So, where do you go from here? I suggest dropping the idea of incorporating Platonic Forms. The first part of your premise is super solid and interesting; for the second part, I’m still a little shaky on what the beings are and their motivation, but that might be a space-in-the-ask-box issue. You can still have some kind of spiritual realm where perfect examples of everything exists, just don’t make them Forms and force yourself to wade through the nightmare that would be trying to make Platonic philosophy work. Alternatively, you can drop the first two ideas and go with a world in which Plato actually hit on the Truth of reality, in which case I would recommend a very close reading of an annotated copy of The Republic, as it does describe his perfect civilization.

And finally, your question. Not knowing what your beings are supposed to be and why they are inspiring humans to make up stories about gods that don’t exist that will exist because humans made up stories about them makes it difficult to give you any real advice. The first thing that occurred to me is that they could be sentient ideals of abstract concepts. So, for example, take the distillation of Courage or Gluttony and give them personalities to match.

[howling-harpy]

A gift from the heart

Pairing: Malarkey & Skip Rating: G

Word count: 2520 Summary: Skip and Don have a day in Paris, and they are on an important quest. [ao3]

A/N: Happy birthday @lyselkatz! This is for you, I hope it’s to your liking.

*

Skip had clearly taken his pass to Paris with a plan in mind. “You have got to help me find the perfect present for her!” he begged as soon as Don walked up to meet him, his hands crossed in a prayer that was surely blasphemous. “What is she going to do with a present at this point?” Don argued back. “You’re shipping yourself back home soon enough.” His heart wasn’t in it, not really. He was arguing more for the sake of arguing, but it was true that they had this one afternoon off and their chances of success were pretty slim.

Paris was a great place to rest and pretend to work at an airplane exhibition, the city was nearly bursting with emotion and will to go back to peacetime, and any heartsick soldier was bound to find something good to send back home to his sweetheart. Don wasn’t sure if he was trying to talk his way out of a shopping trip, or was he simply relieved about Skip’s energy and how he displayed it despite the broken arm and cuts and bruises and drawing the banter out. “With that attitude you will be very unlucky in love!” Skip declared. “My mom said that men who think of themselves as the greatest of gifts will find themselves very lonely indeed, and I plan to make the most of this mortal life and make sure that my girl has nice things!” “Fine then, since you’re the romance expert out of the two of us,” Don gave in and finally allowed a grin to spread on his face. “But what would she like to have?” “That’s why I need help,” Skip said, raising a finger to make an important point. “I’m the romance expert, yes, but small gifts are not my area of expertise.” The thought both did and didn’t make sense, but Don was past arguing over the title of romance expert and instead tried to think of the kind of gifts girls liked. His idea of a good time was an ice cream date and listening to good music, but that was something you did in person, not wrap in brown paper and ship across an ocean. “Uh… Perhaps a good record?” Don said uncertainly. That was more like something he would have liked to unwrap himself and then be delighted about how well his girl knew him, but it was a thought. “Nah, I’d get you a record,” Skip said, nudging Don’s side with his elbow, and flashed him a knowing smile. “No, this has to be a Faye Tanner-gift. I can’t give her a Don Malarkey-gift.” Don shrugged, then gestured at the streets lined with shop windows all around them. “Maybe we should ask around?” If possible, Skip brightened up even more. He seemed to be almost trembling with excitement and ready to explore the city. “That’s great! But we need some places to hit. Make it a proper mission.” Don smiled indulgently. He had had enough of missions and objectives for a lifetime, but Skip was feeling as playful as ever and he knew it was a joke, so he allowed it. “Alright, fine,” he said, then paused to think. “Let’s think some things that she likes and what she’d like to get, and then think where we’ll find it.” “Oh yes. A guest for a true love’s gift! Onwards!” Don smiled for real then. That made it sound like an adventure in a jungle or perhaps across castles and fields and forests instead of an all too real endeavour in current time with real consequences. It almost felt like they could have been friends since they were children and run wild in the woods playing adventurers and wild children. Together, they took to the streets of Paris, Don leading the way as he sometimes knew where they were and where they were going. The list of things that Faye might have liked was growing slowly: Something distinctly European, something pretty or something sweet. Something pretty would have probably been their best bet, given both could recall a dozen times a girl back home had referenced European fashion or make up, but that was quickly becoming a dead end for them. Post-war Paris was many things and there was no doubt about fashion coming back, but right then it wasn’t exactly a priority. At least not at a reasonable price. There were shops open and some driftier places sold many mismatched piles of treasures Parisian ladies had no doubt emptied from their closets while trying to make the ends meet, but Skip and Don quickly realized they didn’t know enough to make a good judgement about them. “This is just… Not Faye!” Skip huffed as they strolled down the street after the fourth shop. “She is pretty and I think she wears cute clothes too, but it’s just… Not like this.” Don didn’t know about fashion either, just of what looked pretty to him, but looking at Skip and knowing him he could imagine Faye was probably not the beauty queen type. “Okay, forget about dresses and hats,” Don thought out loud. “How about a ribbon? Or a scarf? Or jewellery?” Skip thought it over, but then shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. She doesn’t really do her hair, says it gets soaked and flops down anyway, so why bother.” “Okay, so something distinctly European then.” Aside from the airplane exhibition Don was consulting at, several other local cultural exhibits were also opening. Curators at Louvre had apparently cried when their looted treasures started to return in their collection from Germany, and museums and galleries had started to open again, even if only to clean and air the premises. It seemed people missed beauty in their lives, and Don couldn’t fault them on that. They all did. Still, the only thing sold at Louvre were postcards and other souvenirs. There was a certain charm to them, and perhaps sending some cool trinket home along with perhaps some photos and a letter with loving regards would do. Faye sounded like a girl who appreciated the personal touch and the thought more than anything material, so a breeze of culture from France might be the thing they were after. There were plenty of soldiers buzzing around the museum and the park, plenty of them apparently caught by the same idea, everyone trying to decide which artwork was the most suitable one to convey one’s feelings. Skip didn’t pay too much attention to anyone there, but Don had learned to recognize plenty of soldiers by their uniform, and a familiar one drew his attention right away. “Hey! Lieutenant!” Don called out as he recognized a familiar profile and a set of broad shoulders. “Do you know what’s the best gift for your lover?” Lipton jumped in surprise when he was spoken to and nearly dropped the stack of postcards depicting some old, cracked paintings of Roman soldiers. “My what?” he asked, immediately flustered. Skip giggled and skipped over to join them. “Not yours, sir,” he cackled, the entire idea absurd, “we’re trying to find something for Faye before I go home. She will feed me to her cats if I don’t send her a nice present beforehand.” “Oh,” Lipton said and cleared his throat, awkward and jittery on the spot. He set the postcards back to the holder and turned his back to the photographs of Roman generals and Greeks in aggressive military formations. “A wise choice,” Skip solemnly advised him with a heavy nod. “I don’t think any girl will like those. You ought to pick something more… Elegant! Beautiful! Something European.” Lipton smiled politely and shrugged. “Technically Roman Empire used to cover most of the continent what we now call Europe, and what we even consider Europe varies through history.” When Skip and Don just stared at him, he became flustered again. “I… Uh, I’ve been listening to some radio programs at night,” he explained. Skip laughed again. “Getting a history lecture is just about the most boring thing I can imagine doing in bed,” he chuckled, and Don joined in for the plain amusement of the mental image. Lipton lowered his eyes and blushed scarlet. “Well, to each their own,” he allowed diplomatically while swaying on the heels of his boots.   “Sure, sir,” Don said, then reeled them back on topic. “But the gift! Skip needs a gift for Faye.” “Oh, right,” Lipton said, visibly more at ease now that the attention was turning away from him. “Well… I don’t know Ms. Tanner, but you do, so you should use that. Whatever the gift is, the most important thing is that it makes her feel like you have listened to her and know what she likes.” “Uh-huh,” Skip said, and Don nodded along. It was a wise piece of advice, but not concrete enough to actually help them. Judging by Lipton’s smile, he realized exactly the same thing and shook his head at their impatience. Don was almost ready to appoint Lipton as the new romance expert if it wasn’t for his choice of Roman art and Greek pottery. Lipton sighed. “There’s a postcard of just about every European masterpiece here. Why don’t you look at those and pick one that makes you think of her?” Even though Lipton slipped away with a postcard depicting Marcus Crassus battling the rebel leader Spartacus, his advice was actually good, and Skip and Don started browsing the many pictures of various beautiful ladies and princesses and queens. They didn’t understand about the styles or periods but trusted their own eyes to tell what was really beautiful. Momentarily Skip was taken with a painting of a golden-haired woman wrestling a large book from a brown eagle with two heads, but even if beautiful she was too distressed, and the painting was too dramatic anyway. Eventually Skip picked up a postcard depicting a fairly modest painting of a girl dressed in simple clothes and a blue scarf on her head. She couldn’t have been more than ordinary, but the longer you looked at her gentle eyes and lips parted like in a half thought out question as she looked at you over her shoulder, the more convinced you became that she was by far not only the most beautiful but also the most intriguing of all women pictured there. “This one,” Skip said as he held the card. “She looks a bit like her too.” Still, having a simple postcard wasn’t a gift yet. It was a greeting, a simple souvenir, and it needed something more, so the quest went on. “What does she like?” Don asked Skip again as they strolled through the gardens outside of Louvre. “I think that based on all your tales of your bets and highjinks all I know is what she doesn’t like, and that’s you being an idiot.” Skip threw his head back and laughed. “Maybe so! Well, let’s see… Faye likes… Me. Cats. Baseball. Homemade pies. Milkshakes. Dancing. Pretty normal stuff, I’d say.” Just a normal girl, with normal interests, she seemed to be. Don was again at loss. It was a beautiful and hot summer day, and there was a small café on the street by the garden, and just the sight of it made them both feel suddenly thirsty and their sweet tooths ache. Mostly the café was serving coffee in tiny cups, but their display was also showing signs of revival as they served cakes, flaky pastries and chocolate treats. The prices were high and there wasn’t enough to fill the display completely, but what there was looked delicious and made with great care. They got two small éclairs because they looked nice in the window and the little sign in front of the tray had the word “chocolat” in it, and with their little treats they ventured back to the streets. Don was almost used to French baked goods after three weeks in Paris, but Skip savoured his from the very first bite. It was no wonder, the soft, fluffy dough alone was a treat, but the chocolate icing that cracked softly when you bit into the pastry was perfect, and from the face he made Don could tell that Skip hadn’t expected the cream filling. Skip chewed on the éclair slowly with his head tipped back towards the sun, and for a moment Don led him by the arm because he refused to look in front of him. “If only I could send something like this back to the States for her,” Skip sighed around a mouthful. “That would solve literally all my problems. Get a box of these or those little pink cookie things and that would be it. Too bad they wouldn’t make it to the States.” “You’re right, but maybe something else might,” Don said, his eyes already scanning for another shop. “Something sweet would do nicely.” They had to try a few shops for what they were looking for, but eventually Skip managed to find a metal tin filled with hard fruit toffees in candy wrappers. The candy itself wasn’t an extraordinary delicacy like fresh pastries were, but just as important was the beautiful tin they came in. It was like two gifts in one, European candy and a new decorative tin for buttons or letters or whatever Faye fancied. It was nearing evening, and Don had an early morning ahead of him and Skip had to report back to his commanding officer too, but the quest wasn’t yet done. “Don’t forget to wrap it up nicely too,” Don reminded Skip. “Sure, the postal office will put it in brown paper, but that’s not good enough for a gift for your girl. You got to at least find a ribbon to go under the boring paper and string so that she knows you’ve thought about it.” “Good point,” Skip said. “I’m sure I’ll find someone with a ribbon to trade – even something that doesn’t belong in some another dame’s underwear set. Thanks for the tip.” “Sure,” Don said. “Should I see you back to the station?” “No, that’s okay, I’ll find my own way,” Skip said. It was sensible that way. Don’s hotel was in the opposite direction and if he were to walk with Skip, he’d triple his own walk, and Skip knew it too and wouldn’t accept such a bother. Still it felt bad to part ways before they had to since things were uncertain, a discharge and a ticket home might come at a day’s notice, and then they wouldn’t see each other again. Not being able to say goodbye loomed over Don and kept him lingering. Skip seemed to sense it from him, because he smiled and reached to gently touch his arm. “Don’t worry, we’re headed in the same direction eventually. And when we get to the States, I’ll mail you the best present you can imagine.” Don was implored to smile, and despite the melancholy played along. “Really? What’s that?” Skip grinned bright as a summer sun, spread his arms and gestured at himself.

[passionate-reply]

This week on Great Albums: a deeper dive into one of the most underrated early synth-pop acts. You’ve heard “Fade to Grey” by now, I’m sure, but this record is weirder and wilder than you might imagine! Find out more by watching the video or reading the transcript below the break.

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! Today, I’ll be discussing one of the first opening salvos of the New Romantic movement: the 1980 self-titled debut album by Visage. You could be forgiven for assuming that Visage was the alias of a single person, presumably the dapper fellow all over their brand, but Visage were, indeed, a group!

That “face of the band” figure was Steve Strange, who was less of a musician and more of a tastemaker and aesthete, and the club promoter for London’s famous nightclub, The Blitz. The Blitz’s DJ, Rusty Egan, was also a percussionist, and had previously played in the punk band Rich Kids, where he became acquainted with Midge Ure. Famous for his many connections and skill at leveraging them, Egan put together a sort of dream team out of the many musicians he knew at the time: Ure, who’d been orphaned by the dissolution of Rich Kids, Billy Currie, one-time synthesist of Ultravox before their group split apart, and several members of Buzzcocks alumnus Howard Devoto’s band Magazine. A bit of a motley crew, for sure...but one can’t argue with the success Visage would achieve.

Music: “Fade to Grey”

“Fade to Grey” is surely one of the most iconic songs of early 80s synth-pop, and its music video pushed forth a bold new aesthetic for the new decade: sophisticated, futuristic, androgynous. While Steve Strange would consistently reject the “New Romantic” label for his own work, his influence on the scene was undeniable. “Fade to Grey” strikes a balance between being debonair and mysterious, with its ghostly vocal reverb, and being a straight-up club classic, with an absolutely massive synth riff. The inclusion of a French-language translation of the main lyrics gives it a lot of European panache, and may well have been one of the main factors propelling it to international success--“Fade to Grey” was actually an even bigger hit in markets like France and Germany than in Visage’s native UK. That aside, though, as is so often the case with these famous 80s songs, the rest of this album is not to be missed! If you’re looking for another song with a bit of a similar vibe to their famous hit, I think you can’t go wrong with its opening track and final single, also titled “Visage.”

Music: “Visage”

There’s something really satisfying about a track, artist, AND album all having the same name--the triple threat! Still, I think this album’s title track stands well enough on its own, with a soaring refrain that’s quite easy to sing along to. While this album doesn’t get quite as “baroque” as Ultravox would, on tracks like their famous hit “Vienna,” the dry piano used throughout this track really classes the place up. Thematically, the title track seems to assert the importance of fashion and style, as well as the importance of innovating in those fields--“New styles, new shapes, new modes.” While lots of electronic acts were fixated on the future, Visage were one of the first to center aesthetics to such a dramatic degree. Plenty of people, both at the time and more recently, would criticize New Romantic acts of the MTV era for being “style over substance,” as though their embrace of the parallel art form of fashion inherently made their music worse. I’ve never understood that criticism myself, since it’s perfectly possible to care about, or excel at, more than one creative pursuit at once. At any rate, the title track’s focus on novelty contrasts quite strikingly with the preceding single, “Mind of a Toy.”

Music: “Mind of a Toy”

“Mind of a Toy” is a surprisingly high-concept song in comparison to the album’s other singles, narrating the thoughts of a plaything that’s lost its lustre, and has been discarded in favour of newer and better diversions. It feels like a pointed criticism of the consumerist obsession with novelty, and a counterpoint to the apparent thesis of the title track. It’s perhaps also a sort of critique of the way popular music disposes of so many of its once-loved idols--who, like puppets, are often controlled by unseen outside forces. You’ll also find several tracks that push into more experimental territory on the album, to a degree that may be surprising if you’re only familiar with the big hit. The eerie, cinematic instrumental “The Steps” is perhaps the most striking example, and closing the album on this note is certainly a bold decision!

Music: “The Steps”

The album’s cover features Steve Strange dancing with a woman, in a starkly lit, greyscale composition that recalls early photography. In the background, we can see the shadows of several instrumental musicians--perhaps a nod to the composition of the band itself, in which the composers and instrumentalists happily hid behind the facade of Strange’s attention-grabbing persona. What’s perhaps most interesting about it is the fact that despite having a dance partner, Strange’s attention seems to be focused entirely on us, the viewers. He seems to meet our gaze, with a vigour and intensity that borders on confrontational.

Before “New Romantic” took such a strong hold as the term for this movement, one of the contenders for its name was “peacock punk.” I’ve always liked the way that alternative phrase communicates the brash, almost macho nature of its seemingly fey male frontmen, whose gender-bending style was often rooted in self-confidence that bordered on bravado. I think Steve Strange’s fixed gaze on the cover of this album embodies this principle of “peacocking,” and lavishing attention on one’s personal aesthetic in a daring, perhaps even aggressively counter-cultural manner. While a lot of this music, and its associated visual culture, has been dismissed as some sort of yuppie frippery, it takes some serious balls to transgress ideas about gender as much as the New Romantics did, and I’d say it’s pretty damn punk.

This album is, of course, self-titled, which I suppose could be seen as a sort of throwaway non-decision. But I think the use of “Visage” for the title calls attention to the idea their name represents. A “visage” is, literally, a face, but the connotation of the word is certainly a bit loftier and more refined than that. A visage is less likely to be an everyday face, and more likely to be a metaphorical or symbolic “face”--a front for something, a representation of some greater idea. While Strange and company couldn’t see the future, they of course ended up being the representative front for the coming wave of stylish, synthesiser-driven pop, even if they weren’t at the crest of it for too long.

After their debut, Visage would go on to release one more LP with their original line-up, 1982’s The Anvil. Less experimental, and more indebted to disco and dance music, The Anvil would produce two more charting singles, “Night Train” and “The Damned Don’t Cry,” though neither of them would reach the same heights of international success as “Fade to Grey.”

Music: “Night Train”

Later in the 1980s, Billy Currie and Midge Ure would become increasingly committed to their work with the re-formed Ultravox, and they left Steve Strange and Rusty Egan to continue the Visage project on their own. The two of them released one more album under the Visage name in 1984, but when that was panned, they went back to running the Blitz Club together.

In 2013, Steve Strange decided to return to making music, and revive the “Visage” name. While his untimely death in 2015 would cut this era short, Strange released one full album, and recorded enough material for a followup that it could be released posthumously. Though Strange is no longer with us, Rusty Egan has become quite keen on the idea of a Visage reunion of some sort in the past year or two, possibly involving Midge Ure, Billy Currie, and/or fellow New Romantic heartthrob Zaine Griff, who I think could fill Strange’s shoes better than just about anybody. It sounds quite promising, so we’ll have to stay tuned.

My favourite track from this album is “Tar,” which was actually released ahead of the album, in 1979, but failed to attract much notice. It was love at first listen for me, though--I love the way the chorus rises so triumphantly, only to fall back down into its screwy, glitchy synth hook. Besides that abrasive touch, the theme of the song is also a bit out there: it’s a somewhat patronizing number all about the repulsiveness of cigarette smoking. Perhaps now that fewer people are smokers, this premise will come across as less alienating than it did at the time! That’s all I’ve got for today, thanks for listening.

Outro: “Tar”

[krumbine]

It's time for a reboot.

As it turns out, I do this a lot -- literally, resetting my life after things have stopped making any sense. I'm 36 and twice-divorced -- it's hard to have a more significant reset than that, my friends.

It's been 18 months of this pandemic. 18 months that have seen a furlough, layoff, extended unemployment, shitty job interviews, the best job I've ever had, and the most professionally-creatively fulfilled I've ever felt.

It's been 18 months and I feel like I'm a different person. Which means it's time to take stock, re-assess, and reboot.

Because the thing is, I'm tired of apologizing.

I'm tired of apologizing for wanting to be safe.

I'm tired of apologizing for having the means -- remote work, good pay, and little life responsibilities -- to stay safe.

I'm tired of apologizing for living in Florida, home of the Freedumb Fighting Antivaxx, Antimask Covid-Denying Patriots who Vote Against Their Own Best Interests Even if it Kills Them (and Especially When it Does Kill Them). The COVID story in Florida is like a vinyl record with a DeSantis-sized scratch straight through it. We're repeating the same horrible events over and over and over again but Floridaman thinks the record scratch is just an intentional part of the beat.

I'm tired of apologizing for Florida, but this is where I am. This is where I own my house, and -- guess what?? -- this is where I have the means to stay cautious and safe, despite my governor's persistent, insistent attempts to murder all of his constituents through shit public health policy.

I'm tired of apologizing to work, family, and other insignificant strangers -- no, the petri-dish of infection rates and the capacity-breaking hospital system does not leave me comfortable stepping out of my bubble. Two shots of Pfizer is not a biohazard suit-of-armor when the rest of Floriduh's residents are practically spitting in each other's mouths.

(My general rule of thumb: when the transmission and hospitalization rates are low-to-insignificant, then it's safe out. What's the point of risking infection -- or literally anything else -- if you won't be able to receive the care you need at a hospital?)

I'm tired of apologizing. So I think I'll stop.

Here's the pattern: new circumstances are introduced (job, significant other, pandemic), I learn and adapt, I get comfortable in the new routine, and then I slowly find my way back to the important things.

For me, those important things have always been personal creative work that satisfies my soul.

That's the pattern, now here's the reboot: life either supports the creative premise or it doesn't. If it doesn't, fuck it (within all reason).

'tis the Season

Devilmas runs from October 1 through December 31. It's about the family you choose, zombies and horror films, getting drunk, high, and happy, and doing creative shit for yourself.

It's the anti-holiday season.

It's also the perfect time to reevaluate what's important and who you want to be.

In other words ... it's the perfect time for a reboot.

Along with no longer apologizing for having the means and the desire to not get COVID, here are the top three things I think about when reevaluating, dismantling, and rebooting my life.

Less is more.

I've already gone through several phases of minimalism, and mentally, I don't hold onto very much. I've lived in tiny houses and trailers, even though that home I'm not apologizing for has four bedrooms and is nearly 2,000 square feet. (There are still random drawers in the kitchen that are just ... empty.)

My brain is wired for minimalism, but it's not always at the forefront. A reboot is an excellent opportunity to recenter that priority. And while I'm not planning on downsizing my house or anything in it, I do have one exception to minimalism. This fervent and unapologetic tech fetish can definitely be put in check.

Minimalism helps me refocus from:

"Oooh, shiny new gadget!" to:

"Pay off the car. Pay off the house. This is the way."

More or Less

The last 18 months have been a strange tug-of-war with productivity (this will tie into my third point below). While unemployed, I doubled down on my personal creative work, mainly focusing on writing (adapting, rewriting, and polishing novellas, writing a mess of short stories, developing and writing a few drafts of a feature film for a friend).

Of course, when you're unemployed (as well as when you're freelancing), you're never really "off". This means that even though I hadn't worked for a year, it was still one of the most overworked and stressful times of my life. You know what I'm talking about. And if you don't, see above -- I'm not apologizing anymore, especially to people who simply lack the experience or the imagination (or the empathy) to be reasonable.

My point here is that, in the grand scheme of life, I wanted to find a space where I was okay doing nothing. Fuck productivity and just chill, literally at 100%.

And let me tell you: it's fucking hard. Maybe not impossible, but definitely hard.

Now here's the plot twist (more or less). The task of giving myself permission to do nothing is carefully balanced with an inexplicable kind of inner peace. It's literally a quieted mind and soul -- something that I only discover when lost in a meaningful piece of creative work.

This got me thinking that perhaps the illusion of productivity isn't so bad. (Obviously, this isn't a blanket statement. A lot depends on the person you are and if you struggle with our society's fetishization of productivity. If that's you, then please take this section with an appropriate serving size of salt.)

Productivity doesn't matter as much as how my chosen activities feed my soul.

Work is work is work, but if I can prioritize creative art that helps me lose myself for hours at a time, well, maybe that is being productive. Or maybe it's just doing what makes me happy.

Finally, nothing matters. Finally.

This is always the most valuable part of any reboot since it's foundational and spans all other concepts.

In 36 years, I've learned the hard way how to be a pretty chill human, but things still get to me. At work -- that best job I've ever had? -- frustrations still mount. At home, when something insignificant disrupts the status quo.

But the truth is that nothing actually matters. And that perspective helps put frustrations into their place.

We're all just a speck of dust hurtling through the cosmos on another speck of dust, and -- statistically speaking -- when compared to an infinitely expanding universe, humanity doesn't even exist.

Nothing matters.

Except for the things that do matter. Which is whatever the fuck I want those things to be. Because nothing actually matters.

Talk about life hacks that matter.

Cheers, motherfuzzers.

[crowdvscritic]

round up // AUGUST 21

Happy 2nd birthday to these Round Ups! For two years I’ve been making monthly pop culture picks, and they’ve included:

More than 200 movies

32 TV shows and specials, plus 8 different Saturday Night Live Round Ups

27 albums, singles, playlists, and more music picks

13 podcasts

12 books

2 concerts

There have also been articles, events, museums, social media bits, trailers, and a service that helps you find movies across streaming platforms. (Find all of them here.) This month I’m adding a few more, like: 

2 podcasts

2 albums

5 vampire movies

A conversation between two GOATs

A very funny dead guy

A terrifying Robert Mitchum performance

Another Dumb Rom-Com I Nevertheless Enjoyed

Here’s to another year!

August Crowd-Pleasers

1. Jungle Cruise (2021)

Indiana Jones meets Pirates of the Caribbean with a dash of The African Queen. I like all those movies, so sue me, I had a nice time! Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 7/10

2. Deep Blue Sea (1999)

Genetically-enhanced sharks try to break free of their cages in an ocean research facility, chaos ensues for the characters, and it’s a delight for us. For no intelligent reason, I love movies that make me guess who’s going to get killed off next, so a big dumb shark movie starring L.L. Cool J and Samuel L. Jackson? It’s a particular brand of joy. Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 5.5/10

3. Double Feature — Adam Sandler Comedies: 50 First Dates (2004) + Murder Mystery (2019)

Adam Sandler movies are little like IcyHot for the brain—that is, they’re the relaxing kind of mind-numbing. Thanks to a stressful month at work, I watched six Sandler flicks in August—which I don’t necessarily recommend but also don’t regret—and the Netflix original Murder Mystery (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 7/10) was one of the the best of the bunch. It’s a silly spoof of Agatha Christie’s work, and it’s a scenic two-hour European vacay. I also gave 50 First Dates (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 7/10) another try and was pleasantly surprised. Once you get past some of the gross-out humor at the beginning, you’ll find a sweet story all about how we need to keep showing up for the people we love.

4. Double Feature — SNL Comedies: Wayne’s World (1992) + Hot Rod (2007)

My love for Saturday Night Live is more than well-documented, so exactly zero mes were surprised that I loved these flicks from its alums. Wayne’s World (Crowd: 9/10 // Critic: 7/10) follows up with Wayne and Garth in the basement we first saw on late night. Now they have the opportunity to make it big on TV thanks to a sleazy exec (Rob Lowe). Brian Doyle-Murray and Chris Farley show up, and so do Laverne and Shirley? Hot Rod (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 6.5/10) follows Rod (Andy Samberg) as he tries to make it big as a stuntman and impress his stepdad (Ian McShane). Will Arnett, Bill Hader, and Chris Parnell show up, and now I can mostly forgive all those boys in high school who quoted this movie non-stop.

5. Weekend at Bernie’s (1989)

If those SNL comedies weren’t enough silliness for you, how about you add some Bernie to your lineup? Andrew McCarthy and Jonathan Silverman are wannabe-yuppies who think they’ve got their  career breaks when an exec named Bernie invites them to his vacation home for the weekend. What they don’t know is that Bernie (Terry Kiser) has been laundering money, is connected to the mob, and, is now, um, dead. The right thing would be to call the police, but then we wouldn’t have a 97-minute high-concept comedy, now would we? Crowd: 9/10 // Critic: 7/10

6. Twilight series (2008-12)

I mostly skipped the Twilight phenomenon at its peak, but I’m so glad I hopped on the train years later—this series of vampire vs. werewolf showdowns are ridiculous.  But major kudos to the filmmakers who somehow turned a dump truck of nonsensical gobbledygook and unhealthy teenage relationships into something insanely watchable. Also, major kudos to Billy Burke and his understated, curmudgeonly, sarcastic performance. Bella’s dad is the MVP with the only appropriate responses to all of the nonsense he's forced to participate in and the only tether this franchise has to reality. Be sure to watch with a friend so you have someone else to process this weirdness with. Series Crowd: 8/10 // Series Critic: 5/10

7. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers at The Muny

You know what’s great? Live theater! This month I made my first trip back to the stage at America’s oldest and largest outdoor amphitheater, the Muny in St. Louis. Their productions never disappoint, and these performers reminded me of Howard Keel, Jane Powell, and Russ Tamblyn in the best ways. 

8. Wimbledon (2004)

Paul Bettany and Kirsten fall in love at Wimbledon! Frankly, that premise alone should be enough to sell you on this very winning rom-com. Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 7.5/10

9. Career Opportunities (1991)

This month’s Dumb Rom-Com I Nevertheless Enjoyed! Frank Whaley and Jennifer Connelly fall in love while stuck overnight at a Target—which honestly sounds like a dream scenario—and since it’s a John Hughes script, it’s got some heart beneath its thin premise. John Hughes directing would’ve made it better, but there’s enough Hughes in there to catch my heart. Crowd: 7/10 // Critic: 4.5/10

10. First Blood (1982)

Aka Rambo: Part I. Sylvester Stallone is a tough-as-nails Vietnam vet, and Brian Dennehy is the self-righteous sheriff who ticks him off. It digs a bit into PTSD and how we don’t take care of our veterans, but mostly, it’s just Stallone going ape with a knife and explosives. Oddly, also from the same director as Weekend at Bernie’s! Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 7/10

August Critic Picks

1. TCM’s The Plot Thickens Season 2 (2021)

You know those movies that make you ask, “How on Earth did this get made?” This season of The Plot Thickens, subtitled The Devil’s Candy, is an attempt to answer that question. Pretty much no one thinks 1990’s The Bonfire of the Vanities works as a film—including yours truly—and reporter Julie Salomon documented many of its production troubles leading to the final product. A must-listen for anyone who loves hearing behind-the-scenes stories or just gets a kick out of schadenfreude. 

2. Gene and Roger (2021)

Gene and Roger, the summer series on The Big Picture podcast, is an overview and reflection on the work of Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert, starting with the launch of their individual careers in the ‘60s through their partnership that lasted into the ‘90s. Another must-listen for movie lovers, especially those who love digging into the history and criticism.

3. Gold-Diggers Sound by Leon Bridges (2021)

Chill vibes and cool groves to transition you from Summer to Autumn.

4. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1966)

Come for the Clint Eastwood, stay for the Ennio Morricone. Actually you can stay for Eastwood, too, because his humor is at his driest, and for Eli Wallach, whose Tuco is an insanely charming cockroach. It’s almost three hours, but this treasure hunt breezes by like a tumbleweed in the wind. Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 9/10

5. AFI’s Master Class - The Art of Collaboration: Steven Spielberg and John Williams (2011)

Two GOATS talking about making some of the GOATs. They share clips and explain their collaborative process (including on projects like Jaws and Schindler’s List), and they take questions from film students at AFI. I’m only wishing it were 10 hours instead of 1!

6. The Night of the Hunter (1955)

Robert Mitchum’s terrifying preacher elevates this classic into more than just a standard crime thriller. Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 8.5/10

7. Respect (2021)

While a few scenes indulge in melodrama, Jennifer Hudson’s killer performance—both in vocals and character work—more than makes up for it. This Aretha Franklin biopic hits the familiar beats, but it makes you feel like you’re in the room listening to Franklin sing , which is really all you want from a movie like this. Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 8/10

8. Solar Power by Lorde (2021)

At first listen, this minimalist pop record sounds worlds away from the angst of Pure Heroine and the melodrama of Melodrama. At second listen, you realize it’s the Lorde you know and love, just with a Laurel Canyon influence. Carole King even gets a shout!

Also in August…

This month Kyla and I checked out Loveline, a call-in radio show popular during the run of Gilmore Girls.  Should our favorite Yale students give up dating OR call into the syndicated radio show Loveline? Should Dr. Drew Pinsky and Adam Carolla give strangers advice OR make fun of them? Oh, and Germany OR Florida? Listen to ep. 107 of SO IT’S A SHOW?

The '40s are coming! Reviews of 1940s Best Picture winners are on their way, and I kicked it off with an overview of the Academy that decade focusing on how they responded to World War II and their new prestigious reputation.

Photo credits: The Muny, The Plot Thickens, Gene and Roger, Leon Bridges, AFI, Lorde. All others IMDb.com.

[thekillerssluts]

WILL BUTLER: GENERATIONAL, DIVIDED

With Generations, Will Butler presents an album with dark themes but eclectic and engaging music.

With Generations, released a few days ago, Will Butler is the third member of Arcade Fire to put out an album this year. Recorded in his Brooklyn studio, Generations is an eclectic work, with varied colours, sometimes closer to the vitaminized punk or the exhilarating flights of Arcade Fire, and other times not very far from cabaret song, a kind of antimony or emotional paradox between the engaging side of the music and the darker themes that are evoked.

In the five years since the release of his debut album, Policy, which served as a sort of tentative premise for the more assertive Generations, Butler hasn’t been idle. He travelled the world as a solo artist, then released the live album Friday Night, went on to design and record Arcade Fire’s Everything Now, travelled the world again, earned a master’s degree in public policy at Harvard, and organised a series of town-hall discussions to debate issues such as police contracts, prison reform, paid sick leave, voting rights, and so on. He also spent a lot of time playing father to his three children.

Sitting on a couch at home in Brooklyn with a mug in his hand, Will Butler is there to talk. Smiling, very comfortable and above all affable, it seems to give him pleasure to talk once again about his album, and to invariably answer the same questions about Arcade Fire that all the journalists ask him…

PAN M 360: During the last five years, you’ve done film, recorded, studied, you are the father of three children… With such a busy schedule, how did you find the time to conceive and produce Generations?

Will Butler: I’ve been building up songs over the last two years, and mostly playing them live when I can, at shows, and figuring them out. I hadn’t had time to sit down and figure out if I was doing another record or not, and last year I knew that I would have time in the summer to sit down with my touring band and record some demos, to see what these songs feel like. So I have a studio in a basement in South Brooklyn, and we recorded for a week, and at the end of those sessions, I was listening back to the takes and said, “this is the record, It sounds great! We have six songs here, we have a couple more, so let’s keep moving!”. So after the band sessions, I would take everything and put that on my laptop and work drafts of lyrics, cross some words, write other drafts… And I did that for about nine months, and the record was done. My last bit of recording was March 9, and then New York shut down on March 14… (laughs). So yes, it was a bit long between the two albums, but so much has happened in the last four or five years. (laughs) Not just in my life, but in the whole fucking world.

I knew I needed a stretch of peaceful time to process all that. And my wife and I, we have an older kid and we had twins two years ago, so you know, all this takes up a lot of brain space! But it was also trying to synthesize what was happening in the world since my last record. 2015 was a year of protest, there was Ferguson and Baltimore and then the election and the shit show since 2016, and now it’s the same thing again, with the pandemic on top… So I was basically trying to figure out how to respond to that with art.

PAN M 360: Who worked on the album with you?

WB: There was Miles Francis (Antibalas) on drums, who has been playing with me for the last five years, Julie Shore and her sister Jenny, who is also my wife, and Sara Dobbs. Everybody sings on this record, and the rest of it is a lot of synthesizers. Miles also took care of the guitars, and I played a little bit of guitars too, as well as some piano and keyboards, and I took care of the recording and producing. I did a bit of everything!  

PAN M 360: What are the main themes on the album? It feels like you touch on fatality, despair, but also hope…

WB: Yes, there is a lot of despair on this record, especially in the lyrics. I don’t think there is much despair in the music. The music is always pretty forward-moving. But the songs are the words and the music, so there is always a tension between what your mind is thinking and what your body is doing. (laughs). I’ve always absorbed the lyrics last, so I always process music through my body, and then it ultimately reaches my brain. Besides despair, it’s being overwhelmed, like not even knowing what to do or where to turn or how to begin to formulate an answer to the questions that have been posed, particularly in political life, but it’s the same on the personal side. You know, some of the songs, like “Promised” or “Surrender”, are about friendships that have broken over the years, or have faded or twisted, and not knowing what to do with someone that you love but that has fundamentally lost you. So what do you do with that besides feel bad about the past, or wish that things were different? So both on the political level and the personal level, I was overwhelmed by giant forces, and trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

PAN M 360: There are several shades of sound on this record. It starts out a little punk, and then slides into the indie rock and pop that we know from Arcade Fire, it flirts with Bowie, LCD Soundsystem, to finish with something more reflective, cabaret even, à la Destroyer… It’s a very interesting pacing on this album.

WB: Yes, there is a strong A-side, B-side feel. It doesn’t mean you have to listen to the record on vinyl, I listen to everything on Spotify anyway, but it has a first act and a second act. The first act is a little more urgent, a little more punk, whereas the second act is a little more electronic, and then “Fine” is like the afterword or something, it’s like an author’s note.

PAN M 360: Seems like you’ve worked on your voice since your first album. You seem to have a lot more confidence and emotion.

WB: I think that comes from very deliberately working out most of these songs on stage, learning what the core of the song is. Policy was more something that was created in the studio… I don’t know… I was experimenting. The bulk of Generations is something like, “we’re here, we know what we’re doing and we’re doing it.” As nebulous as the lyrics can be, there is still a musical mission. And I’m a better singer, I guess. From having to sing as a frontman, you just become a better singer (laughs).

PAN M 360: Looking back, how do you perceive Policy, how would you compare the two albums?

WB: Policy, to me, is like a bunch of different characters. Like every song is like in a different suit or skin. This record sonically changes a lot, but it’s still one perspective, whereas Generations has a bit more of a coherent vision. The record as a whole has a bit more of a sonic arc. It’s not a concept record but it’s tied together both sonically and lyrically.

PAN M 360: Would you say that your solo work allows you to express yourself in a way that you couldn’t with Arcade Fire?

WB: Yeah, I think that’s true! But also, Arcade Fire lets me express myself in ways that I can’t on a solo record. Update one is that I don’t write any words for Arcade Fire (laughs). That’s like a very big difference. And there is a slight difference in ethos, and in approaching recording… Generations is a collaborative effort but I’m more the director, and Arcade Fire is more fighting with co-workers, in a creative way. But to me, it’s also like the same project. You know, it’s like Marcel Dzama, who sometimes does movies with Amy Sedaris and sometimes does paintings, but they’re all from the same body of work, a little bit.

PAN M 360: And what does your brother think of your music?

WB: I think he likes it. In the band, we all think we’re all talented. We like each other and we trust each other. So if they wouldn’t like it, they’d tell me.

PAN M 360: How’s it going with the new Arcade Fire. Should we expect a record soon?

WB: We can’t really work separately. We can do a little bit online, but we’re not good at it… So if the virus stays calm, we’ll get back together and be basically on track… It takes us so long to make a record anyway, it takes us a year or a year and a half. The timing has been different, the process has been different, but the process is always different…

https://panm360.com/en/interviews-panm360/will-butler-regeneration/