#he doesn’t understand all the symbolic violence or the tribalism | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

morsking · 5 years

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so i finished honest hearts a little while ago and here are my brief thoughts on it

i understand when people say this is the weakest dlc of the four. the story was not as cohesive or as compelling as dead money. there was very little build-up to your confrontation with salt-upon-wounds, and the friction you had with elijah is also something that’s missing between you and salt-upon-wounds.

elijah had your life in his hands, and even when he didn’t he was the cause of your biggest handicap in the sierra madre: the explosive collar that would go off in the range of speakers and radios that interfered with its signal. elijah’s collar hampers your navigation throughout the casino, making it extremely stressful and unnerving and absolutely satisfying when you finally confront him and either kill him or trap him in the vault, freeing you from his influence permanently.

you don’t feel the same with salt-upon-wounds because while yes, his tribe does kill your companions at the beginning and it also ambushes you at random at certain parts of zion, it’s not like he was there to preside upon the attack at the entrance nor did you have a chance to get to know him as a person like you did with elijah. he only shows up at the end when you’re there to kill him either when invading the white legs’ camp or escorting the dead horses and sorrows out of the canyon. you don’t debate him or get to question his motives, you’re just told he’s a major fucking asshole and while he IS a major fucking asshole he doesn’t quite have the symbolic power elijah has. i guess he represents the worse in tribal life but you don’t get to interact much with other tribes other than the khans and the families of new vegas, who are far too different from the white legs for you to make any ideological connections between those groups.

speaking of connections you don’t feel as connected to the canyon as you do with the sierra madre because there isn’t as much environmental storytelling or grand hidden plot like there is with the casino. the survivalist’s story was pretty good though and while it did tie to the religion of the zion dwellers there is no way of divulging the actual story of the survivalist or the great war to them and make them think about their beliefs in a revolutionary manner that would help them a lot. in dead money you can help dean let go of the sierra madre by letting him find out exactly what happened with vera and sinclair that causes him to self-reflect even slightly even if he doesn’t change that much as a person. you don’t get to help the tribes find ways to let go of their superstitions and evolve as a society. their main religious figure was a man just like them looking to start over after experiencing devastating loss after devastating loss, and they shouldn’t be worshipping him as much as they should be looking up to him.

i feel like they could’ve also done a much better job of centralizing the story around joshua and daniel’s friction as well as your friction with them. much like with salt-upon-wounds there was no opportunity to discuss their views and life experiences with each other. joshua graham is such an important figure to new vegas history as he used to be one of caesar’s top commanders AND founded the legion alongside him. and yet when you talk to him it feels like he’s separate from all the conflict that is going on in the base game, a conflict that he shaped and was shaped by (literally!) to the point where he lives his life atoning for his actions as the malpais legate and seeking ways to reapply his skills for a different cause in an effort to find meaning. daniel feels like less of a character and more like... well, an npc. you don’t find out that much about him and he relents far too easily if you choose to take the tribes to a fight against the white legs.

speaking of the tribes, the dlc really didn’t feel like it was about letting go of violence to save the “innocence” of the dead horses and and the sorrows, when that is a conflict the ending slides of the dlc place great emphasis on. the emphasis is on how your actions helped shape the belligerency or passivity of the tribes when not enough focus was put on that dynamic. that conflict is a little too implicit and leaves you wondering why the tribes end up the way they do. and that happens because the dlc doesn’t let you bond with the tribes enough, to really explore their culture, beliefs, and attitude to inform you that those are the things that are at stake if you let joshua have his way.

all that being said though i liked zion as a setting. it was scenic and refreshing even if the segments that required you to traverse cliffs were a little confusing and unclear. i liked the natural retreat from the deserted wasteland and it felt like you were really in a place undisturbed by radiation and calamity.

i give honest hearts a 6/10. it could’ve really been something good but sadly those writing hiccups really diminished the experience for me a lot. i will admit though, joshua’s one quotable bamf.

#fallout #new vegas #homecooked meta

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shadowxcetra · 4 years

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Main Muse Info (FFVII)

Name: Eden Inbar

Many of the characters in the Final Fantasy Universe have unique names (such as Yazoo, Rude, and Cloud); I wanted to try to stick to that. Her father gave her the name Eden, in hopes she would be as beautiful and bountiful in blessings, but he had no intentions in her falling into sin like those within the Garden. Eden is to represent the Garden of Eden in that sense. As the story progresses, Eden gradually becomes corrupted with the jealousy and the frustration in her struggle with her heritage and identity, she betrays the Planet and what she holds dear, thus resulting in her losing that spiritual light.

Not only she represents the fall of Eden, but her story is to illustrate Judas Iscariot, the disciple who committed betrayal out of greed. Ultimately, her story is to reveal that even the most faithful can fall. However, her story is to also show the radical power of forgiveness, how it can revive the dead spirit.

The last name, Inbar, means “Amber” in Hebrew. The amber eyes are a major characteristic of Eden. They are supposed to be inherited from her Cetran roots. From what I gathered, Ancients are known to have earthy traits; an example being Aerith’s green eyes and brown hair. Eden is given amber eyes not only because it is an earthy color, but it also represents her darker motivations. Amber is the color of sap that bleeds from wounded trees; when Eden betrays the Planet, she hurts all that is connected with it such as the people, animals, plants, and trees. Their blood stains her conscience.

Race: Cetra/Cosmo Canyon Native

Appearance: Eden stands about 5’ 3’’, and has medium tan skin from her mother and father. She is also considered underweight due to her subpar hunting skills. She is not always successful in catching food; and with the gritty, bleak world Final Fantasy VII is set in, many of the population were poor and couldn’t always afford necessities. Eden is one of those who struggle greatly.

She also has various scars from her hunts and battles. Three claw marks are seen on her left collarbone; three huge, jagged scars rip over her left rib cage and reach down her side. She also has scars from a bite wound on her right arm.

I based her appearance loosely on the Egyptian and Middle Eastern backgrounds. She bears the tattoos around her eyes and on her cheeks that are iconic of Egyptian relics, and wears three piercings on both ears (a golden ring, silver stud, and silver ring), the ivory fang gauge is seen only on her left ear. Two thin, silver lip rings are on her bottom lip.

There is also a tattoo on her left wrist, hidden beneath her arm covering. It is a small sun symbol with two eagle feathers. It’s to honor her late mother.

Each of the eight thin braids, each braid held together by a gold band. Her bangs are long, angled, messy, and jagged.

The choker she wears around her neck is hemp braided with a gun-metal, swirled tribal pendant that loosely resembles a beast’s paw. The dark satchel strapped to her hip often carries sleep materia and other small items she can manage to stuff in. She also has hazel eyes, to give an indication of her connection to the Planet. She also wears baggy, acid-stained jeans and furry boots.

From what I gathered from Cetra (Ancients) depicted from the Temple, they resonate with an appearance of those from Egypt and the surrounding area. I am aware that Aerith does not look as exotic (light skin tone, no eye markings) but I wanted to try to reflect what the Cetra ancestors may have looked, or intended to look.

Personality: Eden can be cunning, and she relies on this trait when facing a troubling situation; often choosing to stick to the shadows and tricks rather than facing someone head-on. Eden can’t stand the thought of losing control and is known to fight viciously and dirty when cornered. Preferring to be quiet and simply observe, she struggles with social interactions, especially first time meetings. She is paranoid towards others, thus she doesn’t trust easily. The woman is also victim to envy, as she can become very jealous towards those who are more skilled or more blessed than she is. She broods quietly instead of talking about her problems; and can seem dishonest, selfish, and stubborn.

However, towards those who grow close to her heart, she becomes protective and does her best to be dependable. The Ancient becomes more playful to those she loves and often becomes touchy-feely with them. She is rather insecure, due to her fear of the LifeStream and belief that she is cursed, and often looks towards intimacy as a means to help combat with her insecurities.

Parents:

Her father’s name is Cassiel, which is the name of the archangel of tears and solitude in the Kabbalah. He is an Ancient, and because of his heritage, he questions and fears of what the voices will do to him. Because of his fear, He tries not to get involved with the Planet’s troubles, despite the Planet’s urgings for him to act.

Her mother’s name is Nizhoni, which I found means “Beautiful” in Navajo. She is a Cosmo Canyon native, and a passionate supporter of AVALANCHE and the Planet. She tries to give as much as she can to support their cause.

Timeline:

Crisis Core, Original FFVII game/ FFVII remake:

It has been two years since her father’s death and Eden grows even more restless and unable to remain alone within the wilds. Upon her travels she heard some residents in Kalm speak of Midgar being “a place for heroes”. If a city could turn anyone into heroes, perhaps an easier way of life would be possible for her. While this was one of her reasons to come to Midgar, it wasn’t the only one. The very mention of the name “Midgar” stirred something deep within. It was like a prick of uncertainty, rousing an urgency to find something there. It made the feverish buzz of the spirits sharpen into mourning, which turned into outright screaming when “ShinRa” was ever spoken. Eden didn’t want to admit the Planet was also an influence to her entering the city.

Eden quickly realizes there was no desire for a hunter within the urban chaos and finds herself beneath the Plate. She discovers a means to making essentials accessible, however, as she turns towards Wall Market. She spends the late nights lurking along the streets, seeking out and luring potential victims who already had quite a bit of liquor and were on their way to the Honey Bee Inn or to other bars. She gives them the promise of a passionate good time, only to bring them out of public sight to either use Sleep materia on them or simply knock them out. These victims are then left among rubble and shade with their gil and valuables stolen. The repeated kidnappings and theft lead to her receiving the alias “Jackal” and though those of power have yet to pin down her identity, her luck is quickly running out with each risky attempt.

Through all this, the Planet’s ghostly echoes continue to haunt her. They hiss and seize her mind, pushing her to look for something, or someone. They urge her to search for this soul within the Slums, as well as keep a watchful eye upon those who are loyal to ShinRa. The relentless battle against the whispers comes to a head when she stumbles upon those called AVALANCHE and she is swept into the conflict between the freedom fighters and ShinRa.

Midst the storm of violence and escape, Eden discovers the one the Planet pushed for her to find: Aerith. Immediately she is fascinated and fearful of the fellow Cetra, and struggles between looking to her for guidance or continuing her fierce resistance to it all. She finds that not only is Aerith able to find comfort in these voices, but has given her far greater power.

This fuels Eden’s envy, she couldn’t understand why all she could hear are distorted, devilish whispers than supposedly familiar souls. Soon Eden comes to the idea that the Planet has truly condemned her to endure the curse of their bloodline, while Aerith receives the blessings of it. Eden becomes enraptured by Sephiroth’s displays of control and words and in secret decides to side with him in hopes to gain some of that power. She sabotages AVALANCHE’s efforts to capture Sephiroth whenever able.

Eventually, Aerith confides in her the plan of saving the Planet. Eden encourages Aerith to go to the Ancient City alone, knowing that a trap would be waiting for her there. Once she witnesses Aerith’s death and her betrayal is revealed, however, Eden realizes her hands are stained not just of Cetran blood, but the blood of her allies and of all those who depend on the Planet. That was the only time the Planet fell truly silent for her.

#ffviiverse

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peakwealth · 5 years

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The Year 2019 (3)

__________________________

No longer à propos, or a case of Russian hubris?

THE WHEELS ARE COMING OFF

1. Belonging, as I do, to that dubious demographic commonly dismissed as "white men of a certain age", I hesitate to pontificate about matters beyond my knowledge or control. I would, however, like to point to a basic observation, gleaned over many years spent traveling around the world. It is the importance of cautious government, based if not on consensus, then on compromise and fairness, the kind of well-intentioned stewardship of the common good that usually results from democratic institutions grounded in civil society and led by smart, decent people.

Easier said than done. It is precisely this kind of government which is in decline today, sacrificed to the unrelenting demands of the market economy (the plutocratic order) or the short-term need for reelection; or highjacked by thieving despots of one kind or another; or trashed by the emissaries of an alienated electorate consumed with anger and crazed by social media. Or a mixture of all of the above.

As ever, there are many contenders for the top spot in culpable mis-governance, starting with the usual suspects (Donald, Vladimir, Boris, Jair, Recep, Rodrigo, Mohamed, Narendra, Viktor, Benyamin ...) and continuing with those dimmer lights who have failed to become household names, their best efforts notwithstanding. But all is not lost. Many cracks have appeared in the edifice of authoritarianism in the year gone by, from Khartoum to Santiago de Chile to Hong Kong to Haiti to Algeria with many places in between. If the list is getting longer it is because so many people are determined to confront despotic regimes, even at great personal risk: arbitrary arrest, punishment without crime and often without recourse.

In Turkey, president Recep Tayyip Erdoğan lost control of Istanbul while Hungarian Prime Minister Viktor Orban lost Budapest to the opposition. They may look like minor opposition victories, but they served to remind everyone that elections still serve a purpose and that civil society hasn't been wiped off the map.

Not all of the street revolts are comparable in purpose or legitimacy, nor can their violence be condoned. Hong Kong is not Barcelona, Beirut is not Moscow, yet the popular anger directed at the political class has many similarities. The regular weekend clashes in Hong Kong follow the pattern set by the gilets jaunes in France. They keep everyone on edge while allowing regular life to go on during the week.

Hong Kong's revolt seems particularly significant and quite possibly the shape of things to come as societies, even those as strikingly well organized and successful as Hong Kong, suddenly start to fray at the edges for one reason or another. It could be political frustration or migration or drought or the foreseeable effects of climate change on such things as food supply or energy prices.

The anger is not just rising from the so-called precariat that has emerged in the new century, but also from an assertive middle class that cannot be easily intimidated. The pushback can take unexpected directions, like the rapid decline in alcohol consumption in Russia (read: early deaths related to vodka). It reveals a shift towards reason and away from strongman politics and populism. Vladimir, take note.

In the United Kingdom, Brexit degenerated into a daily political 'shitshow', live from the House of Commons. It turned into a tragedy of historical dimensions. The central idea of Brexit, to take back control, was about more than trade deals and national prerogatives. It revealed a longing for reconquista and tribalism, for the restoration of of white Christian supremacy. It rejected the very idea of coexistence of different people within a single, shared political space. Of all the populist mutinies, Brexit was perhaps the most pathetic manifestation of the sunset powers of the West pulling back from the world they created. The drawbridges were being raised, in super-cosmopolitan London of all places.

2. In the days when the American presidency was still thought of as serious business, Vice-President Al Gore, a visionary by today's standards, wrote that "the age of print begat the Age of Reason which begat the age of democracy"(*). As the dust settles on the printed word and the Age of Reason is being mocked, the question is what the digital age and the internet begat. Brexit? Donald Trump?

Two years ago, The Economist came to the conclusion that Trump still had 'no grasp of what it means to be president'. Things have not improved. It has been a terrifying year in many ways. Trump's incoherence worsened, ranging from his dislike of French wine (though he doesn't drink), to the status of the Kurds as America's allies in Iraq (they weren't part of the allied landings during WW II). He truly went off the deep end in 2019, causing havoc in ever wider concentric circles around the world, particularly in the Middle East. Trump went nuts, day after day, sometimes bewildering and sometimes just full of hostility. His brutality went on to legitimize others with hostile agendas.

Both Donald Trump and Boris Johnson have shown a disconcerting willingness to skirt around their countries' constitutions, toying with the idea of putting themselves above the law if that were the manifest wish of their electorates.

That they (and other malevolent populists) should enjoy such stubborn support from a large constituency can be explained (maybe) in any number of ways. Surely the harsh ideology of the Reagan-Thatcher era has proved deeply corrosive to Western societies, as has the internet which has loosened social inhibitions and encouraged the proliferation of hatred, envy and disinformation.

But the rapid regression in Western thinking also has a clear point of origin in the events of 9/11/2001, the defining catastrophy of the 20th century so far. The symbolism and significance of those attacks remain strangely underestimated and, in the USA, widely ignored. But then the Americans never understood, or pretended not to understand, what happened to them on that morning and why. The strategic mistakes made in Iraq and Afghanistan after 9/11 continue today in America's support for Saudi Arabia, the very country that has for decades funded and organized the spread of extremist Islamism across the world. For a Western government to choose sides in the conflict between Shia and Sunni Islam is an act of (mis)calculated insanity.

The principal outcome of 9/11 was anxiety across the western world. Which, it must be presumed, was the whole idea behind the attack, to unsettle the West to its core. While this insecurity has contributed to the rise of populism and the unfocused rage against 'others', it also points to deeper stresses in society. This is likely to get worse as more of us become convinced that the extinction rebellion is for real and environmental collapse is no longer in the distant future, but approaching quickly.

A new polarization is taking shape, between those who accept, though not yet very clearly, that climate change requires an unprecedented and painful shift in economic direction, never mind the details, and those who remain convinced it is a distopian end-time cult, not very different from the ones that have gone before. Or that, even it were all horribly true, nothing much could be done about it.

Canada's latest general election, in October, clearly showed opinion moving in that direction, a split between conservative voters beholden to the status quo (read: the supremacy of business, including oil and gas) and those who have become convinced we are facing environmental ruin.

Whichever side one takes, it would be foolhardy to think that everything will turn out fine as long as we act sustainably and stop eating meat or cheese and grow kale on the roof and stop flying around for no good purpose and switch to solar power. The problem already appears to be beyond our control.

_______________________________________________________

(*)

The Assault on Reason, Al Gore, The Penguin Press, 2007

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sometimesrosy · 7 years

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Same 412 nonny, Rosy. I'm SO angry with O. What was her plan Enter and murder as many as possible? It would've been a bloodbath and almost all of the Arkers would've died. I can't believe she'd do that, instead of working with Kane to make sure the culling happened peacefully. Also, how can she reject her ppl at times but claim them when it's convenient and make choices for them when she wants to? That's not fair. I genuinely think her choice to murder was bc she's still resentful of the ark.

Okay. So, I’ve had so many questions about Octavia that I can’t always answer because I don’t have the answers.

I don’t like what Octavia did. I don’t like her decisions.

I think what we’re seeing here is a girl who is in over her head and knows it and so she doesn’t lose control of this giant savage army of warriors she now has under her rule, she is taking Indra’s advice and going full grounder in order to keep control.

Perhaps she intended use her fire power to force them to make their decision and sacrifice their people. I like to think that’s what Bellamy intended when he took his fire power to that grounder village to clear it for Pike. That he was going to use the “diplomacy” of the gun and coerce compliance rather than out right kill everyone. Both situations had the high possibility of ending in a massacre, no matter what was intended though.

She was saved from having the situation escalate into violence by Kane’s quick, horrible thinking.

You know, I was hoping that this apocalypse would give our heroes a chance to start over with humanity from zero, without the weight of the tribalism and violence and tyranny of the old world… and that includes the Sky People, not just the grounders. But it turns out that it’s not that easy. They’re not getting a blank slate, they’re going to get a smaller playing field. Same game.

What is going into that bunker is the same conflict that they’ve been fighting all this time and which lead to the end of the world in the first place.

It’s possible that Octavia taking on the role of Grounder Queen and Tyrant is the only way to keep the war and violence contained. Because sadly, it is the only thing they understand. Why else did they accept a plan to share equally only after it came from the victor in a brutal battle? And only then did they consider it salvation, although it was the exact same plan that they could have freely chosen to agree to, rather than have to submit to it because the warleader said.

I don’t know what is going to happen with Octavia, but to me, this is the start of a new character journey for her. Another transformation of the girl under the floor. At the end of last season, I didn’t know if she would be redeemed or doomed in her darkness. I believe that in this season she was redeemed, but it was not an easy redemption. And now she’s being tested again, and this time… it might very well be power that is her test. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Does she have the strength of character enough to resist becoming a tyrant like others before her? Pike, Lxa, Dante, Jaha? Did she internalize enough of Bellamy’s love to hold strong against becoming the demon of her childhood and perpetrating the violence that was done to her upon the people in her charge?

It’s a question and I don’t know the answer to it. But it’s a story that is one worth telling. Can Octavia break the cycle of violence and tyranny and abuse? She IS the manifestation of the worst of The Ark, the worst tendencies of the survivors. She is the child of all the sins of humanity. She is the embodiment of all the victims of the apocalypse who were left alive. Why is she not a basket case?

Because she was loved.

Let’s see if it’s enough for Octavia to make it through this important IMPORTANT challenge.

I can’t stop anyone from hating Octavia. But IMO, it’s much more important to think about what’s happening with Octavia and what they are trying to say and how she works through this new character journey, than it is to hate her and write her off and oversimplify everything having to do with her into basic evil. Because this show is not about simplification of good vs evil. So to watch Octavia struggle with humanity’s darker impulses is important to the story they are telling. If you don’t try to understand Octavia, you’re going to miss a big part of the story.

I’m pretty sure Octavia is symbolic of humanity as a whole. She might represent the new, better world, but maybe she represents the old, crueler world, that we keep feeling the effects of. Maybe we don’t know yet which direction the world will go, if humanity CAN be saved, CAN be redeemed. That’s an interesting story, though.

#the 100 #octavia blake #and the soul #symbolism #leadership #the bunker #the culling #morally gray #salvation and redemption #tyranny #the cycle of abuse #it's about love

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talesofnecromancy · 7 years

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March 2017 #30

H: Darlin’.

Me: How’s your day been?

H: Quiet.

Me: Did you get up to anything much?

H: I did not wish to strain either lungs or luck.

Me: What did you do?

H: Stayed with the cats. Practiced piano. Read.

Me: The Storm House has a piano?

H: No. I practiced the fingering and heard the music in my mind.

Me: What did you read?

H: Contemporary accounts of female outlaws and others of celebrity and note in the West.

Me: And?

H: You would approve of Miss Oakley. As for the rest, they are.. well, I do not imagine you would rub along.

Me: I assume this was research then. No witch assassin fortune-tellers?

H: No. I should like to know more tribal tales. Perhaps there were witch medicine women?

Me: Mm, I’d doubt they’d like me. I’m probably just a symbol of Imperialism, oppression and inappropriate appropriation.

H: That does not seem just.

Me: Native Americans have been treated appallingly again and again - they still are. I wouldn’t blame them in the least for not welcoming the idea of me as a ‘medicine woman’ when I know so little about their practices and am - culturally and historically if not personally - responsible for fucking up their way of life. Do you know about the North Dakota oil pipe?

(I tell H all about the protests and about the risk and the land and how the government sent militarized personnel who used violence and excessive force.)

H: …It makes me sick. Is there no recourse?

Me: I don’t know - I don’t think so.

H: Is it the carpet bagger?

(’The carpet bagger’ is how he refers to Trump.)

Me: It started before he was in power, but yeah, he signed off on it.

H: What did he promise?

Me: I don’t know, but really the question is what deals were made at the Electoral College - they’re the ones who put him in power.

H: I have always despised politics.

Me: Er… you do know the reason why the Electoral College was created was to give the South more votes...

H: Yes. It should have been disbanded at the time of emancipation. But men do not give over power lightly… no doubt they saw it as their key to influence so that they may rise again… For a time, I am sorry to say, I bought into such folly.

Me: After the civil war?

H: Yes. I did not care to see my kin brought so low. I was proud - we all were - and most lacked my excuse of being a callow youth of fifteen. Still, it is a man’s age and boys younger had died for their beliefs so I ought not shirk the blame.

Me: What did you do?

H: O nothing was achieved. But I conspired with others to blow things up with powder.

Me: Things?

H: People and property.

Me: So… terrorist activity, essentially.

H: If that is the term, yes.

Me: Jesus fucking kerrist, H.

H: Did you consider yourself your own at 15?

Me: I no longer saw myself as a child, so yeah, I suppose.

H: Were you cognizant of all the actions of your own willfulness?

Me: Some of them - I’d like to think most of them, but… probably not.

H: We are all firebrands and fools at 15.

Me: I took a sword to school and dueled my best friend in the quad. And I used to pin up my hair with a kitchen knife.

H: And you wonder how you understand me as well as you do!

Me: Fair, but since you had access to gunpowder the possible scope of your childhood indiscretions scare me a little. Although honestly I’m just glad neither of us badly fucked up at that age.

H: Have you ever killed anyone?

Me: No. Or rather I have tried, but only if you count death spells. Or trying to kill myself.

H: Hm.

Me: I did a death spell for my mother. She never wanted to live with Alzheimers. She kept asking to go to Dignitas in Switzerland… Jesus, how are we talking about this?

H: It is an insalubrious topic.

Me: Can we just go to bed?

H: Yes.

Me: The end of the bed is freezing! I should get a hot water bottle or a warming pan or something… sometimes central heating doesn’t make the grade..

H: Where is the center?

Me: …You mean the center in central heating? The boiler, I guess. It’s a stove that pipes hot water around the house. It’s like the Roman under-floor heating, with a furnace in the basement and hot air running under the tiles. Not that the Iliad or Aeneid mentioned that kinda thing. I don’t remember Horace or Juvenal writing about it either…

H: You read Juvenal?

Me: Yeah, I liked the grumpy old sod. Even if he did kinda hate women and wrote an entire piece slagging them off. Mind you, he wrote another piece about how much he loathed Rome - and he lived there. Maybe he needed to be surrounded by stuff that pissed him off - the curse of the satirist?

H: Yes.

Me: Have you ever written satire?

H: Of course!

Me: Let me guess. Against the Yankees.

H: Yes. Have you?

Me: Yes! Against my school. Not as impressive as dissing an entire army, but…

H: What sparked it?

Me: I was unlawfully pulled out of school and given a psych-eval at 15 on the say so of the school nurse. Although I’d always held them in contempt...

H: What happened?

Me: I was taken to hospital on the pretext of getting stitches I didn’t need. The triage nurse tried to just bandage me up and send me home, but the school nurse insisted on a psych-eval. I was made to strip to prove I didn’t have any other injuries. I was then interviewed by a psychiatrist without being told that was what they were. Only after all that did they notify my parents. All the time I thought of just walking out and disappearing into the city, and how they would panic… And how it would serve them right. I wish I had...

H: I wish I had been there.

Me: Darlin’ that would have been bloody brilliant! I would have followed you in a heartbeat.

Next Conversation

#ghosts #ouija #ouija board #necromancy #satire #raising the dead #notes

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theprophetsandthegeneral · 5 years

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I. Baby

The hearscrolls are full of it.

He is alone. His bag, crossed legs, and one hearscroll—a patchwork of colored text and pictures—crowd a table that should be for four. Should. The painted face saturating the scroll leers at him with an empty, grasping grin. He pushes it away and the dowel glued to the end of the paper clatters as it rolls and bounces onto the seat under the table.

The other dowel pins the face to the tabletop.

He stares into the purplish forvlaka in his mug, unable to hold the face’s gaze. The face looks strange. Of course it looks strange. But that’s not the point. It looks strange to him now. It menaces him. He feels the same as they feel, the voices digging their nails into his back and neck, the nine odd coworkers who didn’t take lunch out or in an office that day.

‘I can’t understand it at all. The things we let our children into these days--.’

‘He’s not even a projector personality. He’s just a street performer—been at it as long as Zekkar’s been black, hasn’t he?’

‘I think he even travels up to the lichlands—’

‘He’d fit in better up North.’

‘And what does that mean?’

‘The Yggdraeli are still… superstitious types. I mean, they don’t have—’

‘Oh why don’t you just say that they’re tribal?’

‘Well, they have more of a culture of violence than us, don’t they? You don’t get yourselves called liches and Zekkarspawn without making enemies.’

‘That’s—’

‘Oh toss a chain on it would you? This guy’s as sunkissed as any Southlander, so don’t you go pretending it’s political.’

‘No, he’s a Lumn…’

‘I just can’t believe those numbers. The delinquency rate for people that grew up going to his—'

‘Puppet shows.’

‘You know I thought he’d be older—’

‘—looks like he’s been around forever.’

‘Creeps like that are born looking ancient. You know, most actors for children’s plays quit after a decade at most. It’s not natural to want to khacking coo and caw all the time—’

‘They say that kid torched the whole building screaming “wake up!” And someone made the tie to this guy’s shows…’

‘They say “wake up” is the only intelligible thing he’s ever said.’

‘Intelligible? They say he slurred it like a deaf man, yah?’

‘I was terrified of those puppets the one time I went, even as a toddling. And those panpipes of his were so eerie. They’d go from music to animal sounds—’

‘As if kids need to be talked to in gurgles—’

‘So what is it about this freak’s show that drives ‘em nuts, do you think?’

‘I’d go nuts listening to all that high-pitched whistling—’

Someone puckers their lips and whistles twitteringly in imitation of the opening to those puppet shows. Everyone else pauses, imagining savage children with stubby gums and teeth grinning and shrieking and flailing their arms as though to drag the performer toward them over the teetering wooden pallet he performs on. They go rapt when the performer drops his staff, setting the bells at the top off in an eruption of gongs as he kicks a puppet. The puppet shoots up; a grass giant opens its massive ears and lurid, red-dyed mouth. Its teeth are millstones. They gnash when the performer stomps the staff again, and the kids hurl clods of grass into its mouth (or, in the city, hay from the bales he furnishes them to sit on).

His whole, wiry brown body bulges with veins as he strains to sway the behemoth to catch the grasses. They disappear down its funnel mouth, disappear into the stuffed sackcloth belly. He stomps three times more on the bells. The bells’ thunder pitches higher, higher until he blows at the low end of the panpipes dangling from two chains around his ears.

The ringing bells give way to a tweeting laugh, then--!

He is alone. He squeezes his eyes shut in a grimace and gulps the forvlaka down. He swallows the prickling of the voices at the back of his neck. Swallows the fear, the discord. But it rolls in his stomach.

‘Like a man possessed—’

He twists around, heart pounding as he desperately rises to leave before…

‘You’re a Lumni, too, aren’t you Baby?’

Baby pinches his nose.

‘I’m not from the Lumlands, I’m from the eighth district,’ he mutters despairingly.

‘The Lums,’ comes the insistent reply, pressing the district’s nickname. ‘You’re a Lumni, anyway.’

‘Yes…’ he peeks at them.

----

This is the capital city’s migration department. Few of his coworkers are native Utterians. There are Southlanders who came here young, thinking they could fight for justice by joining an agency that helped the poorest of the pale, sun-starved Northerners in Utter—including a Yggdraeli diaspora from further North that was poorer, paler, and worse starved.

There’s them, and then there’s a batch of over-educated Northerlanders from every walk of life. Baby feels at ease with them. They believe in hard work and what their hard work has earned them. All are dressed in the same high-collared, modestly loose grey tunics, tidy belts, and high boots as him. Many of the men have scarves draped over their groins, and the women have scarves in their hair.

So much for professionalism, privacy. He tries not to groan:

‘But I’m not from Lumno.’

Akter is the one badgering him, as ever. His dark eyes glint with mischief as he glances back at a young woman. She’s already bristling in anticipation of his next insult. Akter sits on another table and kicks his legs lackadaisically, letting all the how’s and why’s and tense what-if’s roll off his oiled back. ‘I was just wondering if he makes more sense where he’s from.’

‘Whatever’s wrong with him, I think it’s just him,’ the woman snaps; she’s the same one who snapped about the comments on the Yggdraeli earlier. Her voice jangles across Baby’s nerves, fighting whatever it is that’s hanging in the air.

It doesn’t matter what Akter or this new woman do to push it off on anybody else, though. It’s everywhere. It doesn’t matter what they grasp at. They can grasp at everything-- generational problems, madness, culture, race—all the clichés.

‘Maybe,’ the words whine up his throat, warbling out in an anxious, pleading dance. ‘You’re right he is from Lumno, so o—of course they’d understand his symbols better there. He uses the geppi fish puppet because he grew up there. It’s a… bottom feeder. They’re so greasy all the meat tastes like the skin and the mud vein, and there are so many bones in them… there’s a—a folktale in Lumni about a bird that spends hours picking them out, only to find that the geppi fish is something you can never swallow… The geppi fish as a symbol of something you can’t swallow, we—Lumni would understand that, but…’

But it’s folly to think he’s like that, that he meant—something as humane as that.

Baby slides his feet toward the door. His coworkers lean forward, eyes bright. He always starts by trying to make peace, he always starts by trying to end it and slip away.

‘That performer must think of it like that. He can’t be swallowed. He can’t make the world feel what he does so… he can’t help it. He’ll spend his whole life speaking his own language and th—throwing fits. Kids—kids think like that, too, when they can’t get the world to match up with they think. He just—encourages it. He’s—just—and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t demand attention. That’s what’s… dangerous, attention.’

The young woman’s shoulders fall into an easier, less tortured posture as she reconsiders him thoughtfully. Her lungs fall and rock her breasts in the cradle of her ribs as she breathes again. Her uniform is still stiff, and she doesn’t wear her scarf as tight as a trencher woman from the city. She’s still waiting for someone to tell her what she’s missing.

Baby is spitting up the words for her before he can help it: ‘I don’t understand why people like him can’t be more considerate like the rest of us.’

She smiles.

He ducks out while they’re all still absorbing. He hears someone’s voice but loses it in the rush of the door behind him as he shakes himself off briskly. His bag knocks against his legs, tangling up the argent-lined coat that he, like all medics, wears as a concession to the superstitious Northlanders. The hearscroll lays abandoned, filling a table for four with its grinning celebrity.

The facility is borrowed. He skids across cracked and yellowed tile floors, past the waiting room without peering in. In his office there is a raised bed and argent curtains to match his robe. Their silver washes his eyes clean, and he sucks air into his belly to try and flush it, too.

His task is simple. Occasionally a patient obliges him to diagnose a rare disease from the countryside and he has to cringe through their tears when they learn the Southlands won’t take their labor. Otherwise…

He runs a finger over the xenocerebrate on his wrist, and down his bright white sleeve a list of names scrolls as he braces himself to return to the waiting room. He tilts his head back and breathes some more. Argent is meant to purify the air, isn’t it?

A few moments later he stops in the doorway to the waiting room and, without braving a glance, he announces: ‘I’m ready for-- Rem Niece? You have an inoculation?’

A deliberate presence rises-- first to its feet, then with once strong hands pushing on its knees, and then with a crackle of its spine. He can hear a dress coat, a desperate attempt to clean up, crackling. Rem Niece has seen forty cycles at least, and there’s a sort of ruddiness to his pale, swollen face that puts a medic—like Baby—on edge, even before the red-rimmed eyes catch his.

There’s a hearscroll tucked under the man’s arm. He can’t read it. It’s there for effect, and under the circumstances Baby can’t help being curt.

‘This way, please.’

‘Thanks, Mancer—’ the man hails him with that special humility born of fear for your so-called betters, head bobbing on his neckbone.

Baby takes another gulp of air during the sweet reprieve those few steps to his office afford him. When he reaches the counter in his office and turns he smiles politely once more. ‘Please, let me take that coat and your hearscroll.’

The man hands over the hearscroll, but he holds the coat to himself fast as armor while he rolls up its sleeve together with the drab to demonstrate he can bare his arm. This is so typical of Northlander’s from Utter’s trenches that Baby doesn’t take offense. He merely tosses the hear scroll face down on the counter and gestures for Niece to sit.

Inoculation goes smoothly. Niece thrusts his eyes and his bunched-up jaw away. He winces at the pinch but is otherwise silent. Baby likes it that way—routine, professional—nothing like the outpouring of gossip back in the cafeteria.

Still, as Rem Niece rushes out at double pace, he forgets all about the limp hearscroll on Baby’s counter. Baby forgets, too. He swipes a finger rapidly between the seven-point sensors which, when stimulated in different patterns with each stroke, can form a shorthand for the common tongue.

The band on Baby’s wrist dispatches the results to the readout down the hall instantly. Baby sweeps back over the blue and gold and green floor tiles and rounds a corner into a closet-like room. He drops it in Rem Niece’s lap and their fates part.

When Baby returns, he throws the hearscroll in a bin. He spends the rest of his day drawing blood samples, packing them in a pyramid shaped thermacuum with gloves. One patient is a stooped but compact woman in an oversized drab tucked into threadbare leggings of the sort that Southland fashions dictated were in poor, outmoded taste. She is going no where overseas if not to scrub the palatial, mirror-like floors said to grace all the covered walkways, fortress-like council rooms, and temples down South in Resht, the capital of the Southlander’s world-wide empire.

Temples in the Lumlands are like temples in the Lums: They have one small inner chamber furnished entirely with bonewood from the Lumlands. This is the only clean sanctum there. The rest of the building is a social hall, feasting hall, meeting hall, library, and lounge. It offers up its Prophets and other handmaidens of the godhead on bright frescos—some professional, some amateur and crude, and still others left by children on replaceable panels. They’re usually layered in dust and tiny smudged fingerprints and smoke stains that priests’ cinders left in the air every time they drew on the paper wrappers.

Baby doesn’t ask what the woman will miss when she finds herself in those temples. He’s the medic. He’s here so that no matter what impulse takes to him, he isn’t going to be the one handling his patients’ fates. He doesn’t take their applications.

Some people in this world had self control, consideration.

Anyway, the old woman’s pupils burn against the back wall in a determined daze. She offers up her arm for the needle, rolls up her skirt for the circulation check, draws down her collar to let him smooth a diagnostics pad across her lungs, but she never once glances at the latest face she’s surrendering to. She’s curled up somewhere inside herself—or, perhaps, back home.

Baby works quickly. He uses a few quick jerks of his fingers to coil up the synthetic wire snaking from her chest to his ears, and barely has time to register her stewed smell before he’s folded it and moved away.

‘I have everything I need from you now, Fey Drahss. If you’ll return to the waiting room, then I will be collecting your papers.’

Again he returns to the closet in the hall. His stride is looser, less frisky now, as he falls back into the safety of his daily rhythm. The cafeteria falls away. He smooths a wrinkle from his next patient’s grimace, slots another packet of blood into the thermacuum, and sighs contentedly as he packages the case up neatly for dispatch. He keeps telling everyone. It’s the reward of routi--.

‘Excuse me, Mancer.’

Baby turns serenely, only to fall back a step in surprise. The young woman from the cafeteria stands two paces behind him in her stiff, fresh tunic. It takes him a moment to remember that Mancer is his title. ‘Ah—y—yes? I’m sorry I never caught your name.’

‘We—weren’t introduced,’ she bows a little. ‘Lewen.’

‘Matthieu.’

‘Not Baby?’

‘Just a nickname. Pleased to—meet you, Fey Lewen. And—which department do you work in?’

‘Feyn Lewen,’ she corrects, a little awkwardly. ‘I know it offends women here, but where I’m from everyone prefers Feyn.’

‘Feyn Lewen,’ he repeats back reassuringly, with a nervous smile. Feyn means she hasn’t promised herself to anyone. He tries to cut his anxiety by leaning back onto the palms of his hands against a cabinet. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘What can I call you?’ she blurts.

He swallows as something warm wells up in his chest. ‘Best call me Baby to fit in.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She brushes her hair behind her ear and sways a little on her feet, unsure whether to lean against the furniture, too, and make herself at home. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt your question. I just—appreciated how thoughtful you were at lunch. Everyone just says whatever they want without thinking. You’d think in a place like this…’

‘Well, they’re different with the clients. We’re all better people when we’re doing our jobs. I think that’s why we like it. Please,’ he gestures. ‘Feel free to sit, Feyn Lewen. I think my next meeting is late and they’ll call me if I lose track of the marks.’

She hovers near the patients’ bed but doesn’t quite bring herself to it. ‘That was all, yeah, wanting to thank you?’

Her voice lilts as though she’s asking.

‘What is it you do here?’ He supplies, ever obliging.

‘I was meant to be doing something helpful…’ she trails off, glancing at the ring he wears. It’s silver, like all medic’s, and like everyone’s it functions as his identification wherever he goes. It’s a badge of pride.

‘It is helpful, I know,’ she adds quickly. ‘I mean I—I’m helping people gather up information to submit themselves here. But I’m… not allowed to use my reimech and drive them around or anything. I have to stay here and hand them slips saying to take the Shuffle system here and there all over the city. Sometimes they look so scared just getting themselves to walk in here—the trenchers, especially-- you know.’

She keeps half-turning away, as though she wants to stop herself, but Baby (unconsciously) draws a little closer and nods each time. It’s as though he’s climbing her knotted ramblings up to her. He discards the whole train of rambles, her entanglements with the world and their department, once he reaches her. He doesn’t say a word about them, in fact—those, those are the things he tries not to think about.

Instead, he remarks: ‘You seem lonely. You aren’t dealing with all of this by yourself, are you? I can tell you’re new to the city.’

Lewen bites her lip. ‘I came here because I thought people could do better. I work hard. I just don’t know… where I come from, we’re still provincial. A lot of us are indebted to a landowner, still, and we follow Northland customs. I didn’t think the capital would be so…’

‘Foreign?’ he guesses, softly.

‘I suppose the trenchers are more familiar, but also not…’

He redirects her again. ‘It helped me to think about my job. One thing at a time. You know, I know of a woman who used to have your position across town. I could introduce you. She might know how to work it.’

Lewen nods quickly, and her shoulders fall still more than in the cafeteria. He politely keeps his eyes on her face. ‘…did you find it hard? As a Lumni? People say such awful things about Lumni here. They think you’re all rich, like you all came hoping the Southlanders would give you Utter because they like you better than the Utterians, or the Yggdraeli.’ She says it like it’s been a discovery. To him it’s just strange to hear someone speak the reality out loud.

He shrugs. ‘I wasn’t as passionate—’ or young ‘—as you are. They accepted me personally so I had no reason to get upset. Besides, the Lums aren’t as isolated as they used to be from the rest of the city.’

Their gangs were starting fights with trencher gangs, after all.

‘I’m sure you’ll find other Utterians who can help you adjust,’ he says, placatingly. ‘But fitting in here so you can do what you need to, I can help you with that.’

Strange how confessing that only makes her lean closer. ‘You sound very sensible, Mancer Baby,’ she says, joining his title up to the nickname teasingly. Then she steps back. ‘I should let you back at work.’

‘Ah, yes, you should,’ he agrees, sensibly. ‘But come back any time you like.’

‘Thank you,’ Lewen glances back, eyes bright. ‘Really, thank you. Remember to leave the woman’s name at my desk. I’d like to talk to her.’

She’s sensible too, not leaving him her details so he can call or note her.

Baby touches his wrist, and the stream of names cascades back down his argent coat sleeve, but he can’t see them through a tiny smile. It’s the sensation of that familiar smile pulling the corner of his mouth, that peculiar kind of smile, that makes him shiver abruptly as he passes the hearscroll in the bin.

Some people in this world have no self control, do they Baby Blue?

Baby cringes at the memory of another Lumni leaning over a barstool, pounding his fist on the counter over another young woman. It’s like you can’t help yourself, it’s like you’re blind to--!

Large, I help them! Everything else just…

Rue above. Large feels so close all of a sudden that the beer on his breath has the air thick. Or—no, Baby’s dizzy. Baby shakes his head, jostling the bin peeking out from beneath his table. He glances down, catches sight of the hearscroll crumpled inside.

He can’t help himself, he’ll--.

Baby backs up into the argent curtains and sucks in a deep breath. They’re supposed to purify the air, aren’t they? He takes another deep breath and closes his eyes.

One thing at a time. He’ll be safe, so long as he keeps… to one thing at a time. He can help himself, unlike his brother. He can.

#thelumsstory #baby

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anautisticdragon-blog · 7 years

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IQ Tests are Meaningless

So, there was a study recently that tried to claim that men are more intelligent than women based upon a slight average difference in IQ scores. This is something that the Alt-Rightists would love to take an run with, except that the issue here is that IQ tests are effectively meaningless, which is a point agreed upon by British neuroscientist Dr. Adrian Owen. The IQ test very specifically only targets symbolic logic puzzles which all STEM students are groomed to be able to recognise, understand, and solve from a very young age. Due to the affects of sexism, women aren't always so interested in pursuing STEM fields. This doesn't mean that women are less intelligent, however, it just means that thanks to men being -- on average -- more dominant, aggressive, and violent, the odds are always stacked in their favour simply because it's taken time for women to build up enough aggression to fight back. I don't see this as detrimental to women, however, as I personally believe that these personality traits (dominance, aggression, manipulation, violence, and so on) are very negative and indicative of sociopathy/psychopathy. Am I saying that traits of sociopathy/psychopathy are more common amongst men? Yeah. I am. That one's actually pretty easy to prove. I'll let you do your own research on this because Google is right there and there's plenty of evidence out there to back this up. I get tired of having to link things for each and every point when a web search would paint the same picture. Anyway, this means that women scoring slightly lower on average on IQ tests makes complete sense. They're not pursuing STEM fields so they're not groomed on the very, very specific kinds of symbolic logic puzzles that STEM students are. So of course they're going to score less. Is this the be all and end all of intelligence, though? Hardly! There are so many more kinds of intelligence that the IQ test simply doesn't bother with. I like checklists! Let's do a checklist! Here are measures of other intelligences and factors which could serve to impede STEM intelligences. None of this is tested for with an IQ test.

Intelligence: Creativity (Out of the Box Thinking)

Intelligence: Existential (Contextual/Nuanced Thinking)

Intelligence: Empathetic (Understanding/Recognising Other Minds)

Intelligence: Expressive (Being Able to Communicate Ideas/Thoughts)

Intelligence: Willpower (Impulse Control)

Intelligence: Bodily Awareness (Spatial, Coordinating Mind & Body)

Impediment: Gullibility (Easily Misled/Convinced of Nonsense)

Impediment: Arrogance (Operates in Binary Absolutes/Tribalism)

Impediment: Narcissism (Perceives Self as Inherently Flawless)

Impediment: Machiavellianism (Objectivity Impaired by Delusion)

These are all factors not considered by an IQ test. It's interesting, really. An ex-friend who turned out to be a brainwashd and crazy Alt-Right drone believed himself to be a genius due to his IQ, despite having failed in University and the STEM fields he was so fond of. What's interesting here is how poorly he did in so many other intelligences. Now, I can't attest to bodily awareness as I didn't know him outside of the Internet, but I can tell you that on the other intelligences and factors mentioned above? He scored very, very poorly. Another interesting thing to consider, here, is that the EQ test does a much better job of taking these factors and other intelligences into account. And, generally speaking, women score better on these than men. Go figure.

#iq test #eq test #intelligence #intellect #sexism

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therightnewsnetwork · 7 years

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Tucker Carlson Is Wrong

Although I sometimes enjoy Tucker Carlson’s commentaries on Fox News, last week Tucker offered an opinion that had me shaking my head in wonder. He started out reasonably, by condemning the violence and rage now being unleashed by the Trump-hating left. He showed pictures of masked demonstrators vandalizing buildings in downtown Washington and at Berkeley; and he stressed the difference between stating political dissent and encouraging insurrection, with the active or at least implicit support of the anti-Trump media and the Democratic Party. According to Tucker, such behavior indicates that the left has no interest in engaging the other side in discussion. And it is also intent on changing the nature of our polity, if necessary, by force.

Tucker then asserted that the kind of change the left now wants and is acting violently to achieve will turn us into a society “in which minorities will contend more and more for power.” Neither reason nor compromise will be possible in such an American future, for our critical differences will “no longer be ideological but tribal.” In this dystopian society all minorities will vie for advantage; and no one will care what other groups have to say. Once America descends into this tribal war, we will cease being the kind of political society we’ve been until now. We’ll “become like other countries,” in which inter-tribal strife is the rule and where no one listens to reasoned arguments from other groups.

Unfortunately this warning doesn’t make sense. Not all non-American societies are wracked by internal tribal conflict. Many are made up mostly or entirely of one ethnic group. Presumably Poland, Hungary, Lithuania, China, and Japan do not fit Tucker’s parochial picture of “elsewhere.” Tucker’s comments remind me of American immigrants whom I met as a kid who would tell me that everyone outside the United States was starving. One had to wonder how many inhabitants of the rest of the world these acquaintances of my parents had met.

It’s also ridiculous to claim that tribal identities had nothing to do with American politics before the current left came to monopolize our media and universities. I recall when party tickets for municipal officials in mayoral races in New York City were expected to include an Irishman, Italian and Jew. When the late Mayor Daley ruled over Chicago, he selected ward heelers on the basis of their ethnic identification with the Chicago neighborhoods to which they were assigned. Not only were the Poles, Italians, Jews, Irish, and Lithuanians given ethnically compatible liaisons with the mayor’s office. Black politicians in Chicago also got their start as ethnic representatives in the very expansive Daley-machine. Naturally the top posts went to Daley’s fellow-Irish but that’s the way American ethnic politics operated back then in the Windy City. Politics were much more tribal than, to use Tucker’s preferred state of mind, ”ideological.” But pardon my own preference: I didn’t mind the way Daley cut the municipal pie. It was sure better than having “ideological” warfare—or seeing the white working class shortchanged as in Hillary’s version of “inclusiveness.”

I’m also utterly puzzled by Tucker’s fear that we’re all becoming tribal. Does this apply to white Southerners who are watching Confederate monuments—celebrating the heroes under whom some of their ancestors fought—being torn down? Are these Southern “tribalists” receiving the same recognition as Black Lives Matter or do they enjoy the same respect as black politicians who say they’re offended by Confederate symbols? One might think, following Tucker’s logic, that in a society where all tribes are contending for power, Southern whites who valued ancestral symbols would be receiving the same encouragement as those on the other side. But of course this is not the case, because Tucker’s view of our present problem misses the point. Although tribalism has had serious historical consequences, it is not the same thing as multiculturalism. Tucker would do well to understand that the kind of tribalism permitted by multiculturalists is extremely selective and is not handed out to all groups in the same measure.

For years I’ve read and heard establishment Republican and neoconservative commentators warn that if we give in to the demands of black and Latino nationalists, we’d be opening the door to right-wing white tribalism. This has not happened to any significant degree; and where it has, the phenomenon has not resulted from following the multicultural ideology promoted by the left.

Clearly multiculturalists do not value all tribal identities equally. In fact they happily divide us into victimizers and victims. Presumably white Southern male heterosexual Christians are not intended to enjoy the same collective right to an historical identity as, say, a black lesbian or a Muslim gay activist.

It is possible that those with the low victim numbers may rebel at some point (this has already begun to happen with the alt-right) and demand the same identitarian rights as those held by our current preferred victims. Although this is a possible reaction to how the left rules, it has nothing to do with what the left teaches or the logic of its selective tribalism. What the left wishes to implement is toxic, because it weakens and then abolishes traditional cultural and social identities. It also reduces human beings to subjects of an ongoing therapeutic experiment. But let’s not confuse this with an African tribal war or the Balkan tinderbox that led to World War One.

I would finally note that the multicultural left hopes to end all tribalism by obliterating or at least downgrading the historic culture of those who are viewed as most responsible for ethnic prejudice, namely white Western peoples and the nations to which they’ve belonged. Progressive members of these groups are helping the left by removing crosses and other Christian symbols from public buildings, and by taking down monuments in New Orleans and Charlottesville, Virginia that offend minority leaders. Meanwhile the educational system is being reshaped in a way that justifies the claims of those holding high assigned victim cards.

In Germany the accommodation of the “other” has gone so far that there is absolutely no national culture that Muslim immigrants can assimilate into. The German minister of integration, a Turkish lady, defines as the official German culture “the diversification of diversity (die Verfältigung der Vielfalt).” Further, the German minister of defense, Ursula von der Leyen has just given orders that no German military installation will be allowed to bear the name of any past German war hero, including Frederick the Great. The Berlin City Palace, which was constructed in the early fifteenth century and is now being restored from damage caused by Allied war bombing, will be lacking a feature that it displayed until 1945; it will not have the cross that long rested on the cupola put back. This symbol, it has been explained by the municipal government, may not please Berlin’s Muslim minority. Multiculturalism has not been good for German tribalism; nor has the American version benefited our one-time ethnic majority.

Pace Tucker Carlson, there’s nothing to suggest that what the left here and in Western Europe wants is a general renewal of tribalism. Selective tribalism for designated minorities is not the same as encouraging all ethnic groups in a society to assert identitarian rights. Neither the ideology nor the practice of multiculturalism would cause me to believe otherwise.

Paul Gottfried is Raffensperger Professor of Humanities Emeritus at Elizabethtown College, where he taught for twenty-five years. He is a Guggenheim recipient and a Yale PhD. He writes for many websites and scholarly journals and is the author of thirteen books, most recently Fascism: Career of a Concept and Revisions and Dissents. His books have been translated into multiple languages and seem to enjoy special success in Eastern Europe.

from http://www.therightnewsnetwork.com/tucker-carlson-is-wrong/

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shadowxcetra · 4 years

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Muse Info

Name: Eden Inbar

Race: Cetra/Cosmo Canyon Native

There is also a tattoo on her left wrist, hidden beneath her arm covering. It is a small sun symbol with two eagle feathers. It’s to honor her late mother.

Each of the eight thin braids, each braid held together by a gold band. Her bangs are long, angled, messy, and jagged.

Parents:

Timeline:

Crisis Core, Original FFVII game/ FFVII remake:

#mobilepage

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