#i like to hang out in the periphery of people who party hard and observe. not horribly keen on joining in.

[vamptastic]

like i may be a goth communist but i am also a nice jewish boy who cant drink and slaves over my homework all day and goes back home to visit my parents twice a month. parties are fun for watching people you already know get drunk and bad for getting to know people. also i am lame. god bless.

[ktheist]

lie to me, lie with me.

warnings. mention of miscarriage, divorce and alcohol.

[day #1348]

jeon jungkook doesn’t not believe in soulmates per se.

“i just don’t believe that you’re supposed to give your whole life to someone some invisible force decides is ‘right’ for you,” his eyes hadn’t particularly been observing the every change of emotion on your face.

but you were half-expecting that he would see through your seemingly momentous pause - when in fact, you were only going over the odds of him shutting you out if you spoke your mind. that all your life, you spent staring at the digits in your wrist for the moment you’d meet the destined one.

the other half of your soul.

he seemed like it though.

 the kind of person to turn someone away at the romanticized mention of red strings and destiny, that is.

you couldn’t really say those words weren’t planned - no, by then, you’d already gone over the possibilities of this attractive but emotionally cautious man shutting the hopeless romantic-you out and you chose the only other option to stay by his side.

“me too.”

that’s the first lie you ever told to jungkook.

“really?” his unnervingly hollow eyes seemed to sparkle even just a little bit as though he wholeheartedly believed you.

“yeah,” you’d shrugged, eyes rolling as though the notion of two souls combined had been ludicrous, “like who’d want their lives decided on some countdown?”

in less than a minute, you’d told your second lie to the man you’d since then decided, could easily break your heart.

“cool.” but the ghost of a smile and the lull of his head as he looked at you with a sort of comforting mutual understanding, as if thinking ‘so it’s not just me’ - had been worth it.

and so began the series upon series of lies you tell jungkook who after several ‘would you like to grab dinner’s and ‘i like spending time with you’s later, became your boyfriend.

the numbers kept decreasing whilst long sleeves, wristbands and hand scarves began to find home on the surfaces of your counter, coffee table, couches - anywhere that you could think of, there’d be a colorful flowery piece of cloth or a black nike wristband lying around in your periphery. they blended so well with the background.

jungkook was tolerable for the most part. that is, until you moved in together and he bought a an empty bowl which started to get filled up by your wrist accessories. 

“you know, i don’t really mind the countdown,” he’d told you casually while you were huddled up together on the grey couch of your shared living room, every change of color scheme from the tv reflecting in his eyes like a second projector, “you don’t have to hide it from me.”

he never did.

but that was because his was on 0.

it always had been ever since you met him that night at some party that your uni friends invited you to.

“i just like having something on my wrists,” by then you’d lost count of how many lies you’d spoken with your sweet lips as you laid your cheek on his chest, a hand on his abdomen whilst his arm tugged you closer to him as though he couldn’t stand a hair breadth’s distance separating you.

“what would you say about having something on your finger?” jungkook’s eyes had slanted to your gawping ones ever so casually but the way his gaze quivered told you of the nervousness that he hid almost perfectly underneath his unbothered facade.

“what?” you breathed out, lips threatening to curl into a full blown smile but didn’t because you couldn’t let yourself make up scenarios of a home and mini you and him running around the living room but when his lips quirked the way it would whenever he was happy but didn’t want to show it - you knew it had been jungkook’s way of promising for a future.

“what?” he casually shrugged.

you’d went back to crushing your cheek against his chest as the hand on his abdomen went around to his hip, hugging throughout the movie.

[day #899]

it was your second christmas together, surrounded by your family and relatives who’d all been supportive of you and jungkook’s relationship - that they’d teased you just as you were about to pass jungkook a bowl of salads to place it on the dining table. the spot you’d happened to intersect each other at had been none other than the doorway, underneath a mistletoe.

you were seconds away from going for a quick peck but he’d been faster to fall on one knee and pulled out a velvet red box.

“yes,” lie. “yes,” lie. “yes,” lie. “yes!”

fucking lies.

he’d lifted you off your feet with his arms around your waist while you kissed him passionately in front of your family. your grandmother had looked impressed, your mother had tried to hide her smile while your father was gripping the fork a bit too tightly - you’d then, commented on the slightly bent condition of one particular cutlery as you helped your mother with the dishes.

[day #542]

convincing jungkook to wear a bow had not been an easy task. he hated anything so formal and restricting, just as he hated the surprised look in your friends and extended family’s faces when they found out that your countdown was still running.

it took a lot of promises and pecks on his cheeks, lips, knuckles - anywhere you could get your mouth on - to get him to stay throughout the reception and after party instead of whisking you away to have your first night at the five-star hotel he’d saved up for almost a year to book.

but you were married and you were beginning to wonder if that was all that mattered.

“i love you, i love you,” you’d echoed the words as he’d slammed you against the wall after the guests left, drunk or sober but sleepy.

“you better,” the smirk he had on had been a smug one - almost as though he was the proudest and happiest man in the world to be able to have you. to call you his.

at least, even if he didn’t say it, you knew his love was more solid and real than your meaningless lies.

[day #248]

“we’ll get through this.” jungkook’s hand swallows yours as he squeezes it in what you assume to be a reassuring gesture - he’s never said anything he doesn’t mean.

but your heart is broken in half and your lower body is sore and hurting from the extraction process. you couldn’t even bear to look at the forming parts of a human - of who could have been your second child. or first.

you don’t know anymore.

“how, jungkook?” you question, eyes boring into his.

“wh-”

“how do you expect me to ‘get through’ losing my second baby?” the first time, you’d planned your child to be born on september just like daddy’s birthday. but on your second month of pregnancy, you’d felt an excruciating pain in your lower abdomen.

you didn’t take a hard fall on your butt. didn’t do any rigorous lifting. didn’t even do any chores - jungkook had insisted.

he’d been the most attentive, if he could, he would have marched up to your boss and demand that she’d let you work from home but you’d stopped him and convinced him that nothing could go wrong when all you had to do was sit on your ass in an air conditioned office until he came and pick you up.

“i lost a child too, ___,” it’s the first time he sounds so vulnerable. so fragile. almost as if another word from you would break him beyond repair.

“please just... don’t leave.” the sob escapes you before you can even suppress it. 

“i won’t- i never will.” he kisses your forehead and climbs into the fit-for-one hospital bed with you after the lights went off and the nurses left.

but the truth hovered in the air like an overdue storm.

every soul who rejected their other half and took on another’s will never truly be complete. or at least, they’d never feel complete.

[day #76]

jungkook hardly gets nervous. the handful of times he did, you could count with your fingers.

the day he proposed to you. the day you both decided to take a pregnancy test for the first time after trying for a baby for months. and today.

“what’s this?” you’re burning holes through the beige colored document that jungkook just slid over to you.

“what it looks like.” is all he says, shoulder line sagged and eyes refusing to meet yours.

“i don’t know what it looks like.” thorny tendrils wrap around your voice - you start to regret it as soon as you see the way he physically flinches at your tone, “what’s it supposed to look like, jungkook?”

“you’ll be happier.” he doesn’t offer you an explanation. and yet those three words ring in your ears like a summon.

“no,” it’s a surprise that your neck hasn’t snapped from the way you’re shaking your head, “no- i’m happy with you.”

“we haven’t been happy in awhile now, ___.” it’s the single drop of tear that mars the back of his hand that rushes to wipe it away as though he’s the one trying to convince himself that he’d do fine without you.

like you would without him.

but you’ve fought too many times. tried too many options. marriage counseling. therapy. even trying for and losing another baby. as if third time’s the charm. as if you’re not doomed from the moment you both sat in his car at target’s parking lot, holding a beer in one hand. alcohol and 3 am conversations can lead to so many things.

“if you want to go back to her-” the lump in your throat forbids you from saying more.

“no- no, i won’t.” jungkook hurriedly refutes, his eyes burning with a sort of disappointment that you’re not sure if you can bear, “how could you even think that i would...”

“people change their minds all the time, jungkook.”  you shrug, trying to be casual about it even though your cheeks are wet and your vision is blurred with tears.

a pause hangs over the kitchen you both shared and spent countless mornings making breakfasts.

“are you...” he starts but you don’t - couldn’t let him finish before you find yourself gasping and sobbing all at once.

but you don’t deny the possibility of your hand picking up the pen and flipping through the pages until you get to the back before scribbling your signature once the countdown strikes zero.

[day #0]

it’s been on zero for quite some time now. on the first week, you spend your days and nights curled up under your sheets. your cheeks don’t even have the time to dry before they’re wet again and there aren’t many occasions where your eyes aren’t swollen.

your heart feels like it’s being pierced by a thousand spears and your body feels like a tonnes of brick are crushing down on it. your legs, they’re shackled by the marriage you refused to nullify and rather teeter on a tightrope on in a guise of a break. separation. whatever they call it.

jimin’s crestfallen expression burns at the back of your mind and jungkook’s tear stained face etches itself at the back of your mind.

one chosen and the other destined.

one loved and the other, you can feel yourself falling for.

but you know better than to prolong both of their sufferings just because the young adult version of you thought you had the excuse of leaving anything and everything for your other half at your disposal. but lies upon lies built up into truths.

“i met him at a restaurant i was supposed to meet a client at,” you explained to the man with dark circles around his eyes and looking lesser than you’d last saw him.

but you probably didn’t look all that flattering either. throwing on what clean clothes you found in your closet and barely able to apply makeup before you left.

“he knows i’m married - he saw the ring.” it still wraps around your finger like a miniature cuff. a promise. a vow.

jungkook’s is missing, a lighter hue marking the spot where his ring finger should be.

“so you’ll finally sign the divorce papers?” his usually velvet voice sounds much harsher. as though he hadn’t used it in awhile. as though his throat had been filled with alcohol instead of words.

“what is it with you and acting like your time’s up? you said...” you have to take a well-needed breath to recenter, “you said you’d never leave,” if it was you from three months ago, you would have wept and cried like a baby. but at the moment, all that’s left is dried up tears and chilled anger.

but perhaps, jungkook’s is the shade of blue. a sort of flame that looked like it would burn less if not at all until you learn that it’s more fatal than its amber counterpart. 

“yeah but weren’t you looking for a way out?” he laughs, the sound almost scratching against your ear drums like sand paper, “i always wondered when you’d stop this whole act... maybe feel a little guilty for tricking me... but your sleeves are full of those, huh?”

tricks, he means.

the last piece of your heart drops straight to the ground.

“what are you-” and yet you still try.

“don’t pretend like you’re all innocent!” the cups on the table shakes when he slams his fist down on the smooth surface. but when he doubles over, hands pressed against his eyes as though physically trying to push the tears back, the heart you thought you’d lost in this long, emotional battle - with whom, you’re not sure - begins to clench painfully.

jungkook might as well tear your chest apart and take the organ in his hands and crush it.

“it’s true, i was never sure if i truly loved you,” the confession is overdue. perhaps even lacking in so many aspects, but it doesn’t really matter, does it?

“but i’m tired of second guessing - i... i want to grow old with you... i want us to buy that barn and start raising chickens and milking cows and adopt a bunch of cats and dogs,” the tears you thought have dried out are now pouring like waterfall, “two’s a family. two and a bunch of cats and dogs’s a family.”

your eyes hurt from the way you wipe your tears with the back of your hand but your heart aches more as you watch your husband try so hard to hold back his own tears, “i’m sorry it took me so long to realize that.”

you’re undeserving of his forgiveness and yet when he goes around you and gather you in his arms, you cry and cling onto him like he’s about to fade away any moment.

“i love you, goddamn it,” he curses before kissing the top of your head, “i fucking love you.”

“you think i don’t?” you manage to force out, trying to glare but failing spectacularly as you weep harder, hands crunching his sweatshirt in your grasp.

truth.

fucking truth.

[prose-for-hire]

The hotter twin

Pairing: Xander Harris x reader

Request: "I didn't kiss you! I swear it wasn't me!"  (maybe when he gets split in two)

Requested by: @sunflower-stan​

A/N: Reader is usually kind of mean to Xander, until he (or someone with his face) kisses them. They never said anything until everything boils over at a Scooby Halloween party. 

You and Cordy were best friends. You had both unfortunately stumbled upon the Scooby gang in high school and became roped into the whole saving the world thing. You had survived graduation and continued to help the others while you balanced college and your social life.

Today was Halloween. You had dressed up, hoping that you could let yourself relax. You were going to a party at Buffy’s house but you knew pretty much any party that happened there ended in some kind of disaster. You were fond of the rest of the Scoobies, although you didn’t often admit or show it.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, making sure your costume was okay. A secret part of you, one you didn’t want to admit to yourself knew you had picked your costume with him in mind. You hoped he would think it was cool. No, you didn’t. Who cares what he thinks? Don’t kid yourself, you definitely do.

You remembered that kiss you had shared as you stared at yourself in the mirror. You closed your eyes, wishing you could feel his lips on yours again.

You had been sat in the Magic box, Giles had given you a job after you had persisted in asking him every week after you graduated. He wasn’t particularly fond of you, your bluntness and sometimes confrontational manner meant he had suspected you weren’t going to give pleasant customer service. 

But, you could be nice to people. You just tried to put up a front especially when you felt vulnerable. That’s why you and Cordy had been such close friends, you understood each other. You missed her, but you had stayed on for college in Sunnydale while she went away to LA.

So, there you were two weeks ago. Sat behind the register on a particularly slow day. Nobody else was in, you had been looking after the store alone. Which showed how far you had come in Giles’ eyes. You were his favourite employee.

“What you need a spell to create a girlfriend? Know a man that did that - well, I say man...” You tailed off, thinking about it. It had given you the creeps. You shrugged, “All you need is a robot and some brains” You offered with a pause for effect, “Oh crap, I forgot, you don’t have any” You said, your usual back and forth with Xander that you had expected. But he didn’t retort. Didn’t make an equal joke at your expense. 

He just moved and lifted the counter so that he could duck under it and join you behind the register. Smiling at you slightly while he observed you closely. He moved with purpose, had a new confidence that you couldn’t deny you were attracted to.

“What do you want, Xander?” You had said, more softly this time. You looked away from his eye contact, feeling vulnerable under his gaze. He was looking at you in a way that made your heart flutter. Your stomach flip.

“You” He whispered, before moving his hand to cup your face. He pulled you towards him, closing the gap as his lip met yours. It was slow, passionate. A revelation. You wrapped an arm around him, trying to become closer to him. Your lips fit together perfectly, your heart was hammering against your chest so violently as if it wanted to break free and merge with his.

He smiled after you both pulled away. He looked proud, satisfied. You had kissed him back. You were speechless, for the first time. He had just turned and left without saying another word.  

When you arrived at the party, it was already in full swing. If there was one thing you had learnt from Cordy, it was to always turn up fashionably late. That way, you weren’t hanging around waiting for the fun to start. The house was decorated really nicely, you knew Willow and Tara probably had something to do with it. The music was really good and everyone seemed to be in a good mood. 

The costumes were really good and you winked at the person that had a sheet over their head with two holes cut out, knowing that it was Dawn. She had been told she could have a sleepover as long as she stayed upstairs during the party. But she had wanted to be grown up and had sneaked downstairs. You had some approving looks on your own costume and you smiled at some of the more attractive people in the crowd. Perhaps you could find a way to take your mind off Xander. Or maybe even make him a little jealous. 

As the night went on, you had been enjoying yourself, becoming more social that you usually would. People might even mistake you for friendly which you didn’t usually allow to happen. You were just trying to enjoy yourself. Take your mind off your feelings for Xander, but somehow you managed to check what he was doing out of the periphery of your eye no matter where he was in the room.

What you didn’t realise was that Xander had been watching you and commenting on the way you had been flirting your way around the party to anyone that would listen. Willow, Tara and Buffy had all made their excuses and found a way to escape his running commentary which is when you had taken your chance to finally walk up to him. You had to say something.

“Xander we need to talk” You hissed. He looked at you, confused. You barely spoke to him without an insult flying his way and he was confused that you had cut out the usual biting comment and wanted to talk to him alone. You just rolled your eyes and getsured for him to follow you into a quiet corner.

“W-what’s goin’ on, Y/n?” Xander had become more and more nervous around you. It had started before the kiss and it was because he really did have a crush on you. What you didn’t realise, was around the time of the kiss that you hadn’t stopped thinking about, there had been a spell that had created a second, more successful Xander. This Xander had kissed you and you hadn’t found out the truth. But it made you more frustrated as Xander acted like he didn’t want to know you (which, in fairness, didn’t help that your attitude could be so biting).

“So, we kissed-” You started, but quickly got cut off.

“W-wha-?! Kissed? I wouldn’t kiss you, I mean, eurgh!” he mock-shuddered for good measure, “I’d get some sort of disease or-” He continued incredulously. He usually said things like this, but it hurt more today. 

“Cut the crap, Harris. I’m talking your tongue, my mouth. Any recollections?” You continued bluntly. It hurt, this constant harshness now. You just wanted his affection. You wanted to be able to trust him with yours.

“I didn’t kiss you! I swear it wasn’t me!” he insisted, waving his hands out in front of him as if to erase the scene before him.

“Oh yeah? Who was it then? Your evil twin?!” You asked sternly. You scowled, getting more upset. At the same time, Xander remembered. There really had been a second him. A second him that did everything that regular him wished he could. Oh crap, he must have kissed you and he didn’t even get to remember it.

“Actually-” He started to explain.

“You big liar, Xander Harris! You know your panties? They’re on fire!”

“I don’t have-”

“Big, massive old lady panties. On fire” You scolded, crossing your arms in a way you must have picked up from Buffy. You were upset. Angry. He had brought up all of these feelings and you were annoyed he was denying everything.

You stared for a moment, he was floundering. His mouth opening and closing. You didn’t need this. You didn’t need him messing with your head. You didn’t need to wait around for someone that probably kissed your for a dare. So, you stormed off. 

“Hey, wait!”

“No, you know what? I should have known! That stupid ‘twin’ was hotter than you anyway!” You shouted, whipping around. 

“Y/n, please!” he pleaded, which was new and it took you off guard, “I mean it, ask anyone!”

“I don’t care anymore, I just want to get drunk and find a real man that I can kiss without any of these stupid childish games you have to play!” You shouted, your voice louder than the music now.

“Then, let’s just start over!” He pointed at you before holding a hand out as if to offer to shake, “I’m Xander and I like you and I want you. I know it’s hard to believe ‘cause of my strong manliness, but it hurts when you cut me off. I get it, I’m average. I have no strength, I’m no vampire and I don’t have any magical powers-”

“You’re not selling yourself here” You said, but he could see the smile spreading on your face.

“-But, I do care about you. I’m jealous of me, the other me, because he got to kiss you. He got to do that and now I can’t ‘cause you hate me again”

“I- I don’t hate you Xander” You admitted as he put his hand back down.

“Yeah? I’m definitely feelin’ the love with the scary shouting in the middle of a Halloween party with everyone we know watching” He said sheepishly as you looked around to see that everyone had stopped what they were doing to watch your exchange. When you stared back they quickly looked away and pretended not to listen in.

You stepped towards him, sliding your hand up his chest and pressing your lips to his. You slid your hand up his neck and weaved your fingers between his short hair and his hands caressed your back. He hesitated at first, but relaxed into the kiss. It was everything he had hoped. Dreamed of. He kissed you with fervour, never wanting the moment to end. 

You eventually both pulled back, breathless. Both feeling your cheeks redden. You didn’t know what to say, you just smiled, avoiding the audience who wasn’t being subtly anymore. All eyes were now on you both.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you, that costume looks good on you” He offered after he got his breath back.

“You know what would look better?” You smiled suggestively and leaned in again, meeting his lips. He had flushed further, but enjoyed you being more honest with him. Showing him that you actually did like him. Maybe you could try it out, this honesty seemed to be worth it after all.

Every kiss was as good as you had remembered it. Maybe even better. His lips were like magic. You spent the rest of the party laughing and dancing and making sure you could lock your lips with his at every opportunity.

[einefrau-entremundos-blog]

On sadness and belonging

Last night I took up space in a place where it didn’t feel like I was taking up space at all.

That’s a rare feeling for someone who possesses what the lyrically-blessed Julien Baker would call a “difficult mind”. The brain that runs a million miles an hour tells you you’re in the way, even when you’re not. It self-degrades, saying you’re different and lesser-than and would be better off somewhere, anywhere else, preferably alone, rather than bothering the normies with your social anxieties and your too-strong opinions and your peculiar inclinations. It tells you to shrink, to camouflage, to float away. 

I love people, but often have a hard time believing they love me. That’s something I’ve been working on talking myself out of for years. A large part of that process is saying yes to nearly everything I’m invited to, and cultivating a sense of curiosity and a love for humanity that swells until it overtakes my unfortunate self-involvement. 

Those moments are the most beautiful, and last night was one such moment.

I panicked last week when a radical politics-practicing former community organizer whom I met through a dating app invited me to party at his house. I’m a slow, tedious mover, and surely this was just a path to an easy hookup? Or a test to see if the milquetoast, femme-y blonde could hang with the proverbial ~real ones~ (see how quickly I bounce from fearing I’m too much to fearing I’m too little?) Or maybe it was a pity invite given in similar panic by a nice human who wished to appease my meekly-issued “Hope to see you again soon”? We were both Midwestern, after all.

I recently learned there’s a term for this sort of mini-catastrophizing: defensive pessimism. Not quite as harmful as straight-up hatred of the self and others, but perhaps equally insidious, it means being constantly on edge and ready for the worst to happen. This style of thinking can have benefits, but I’m not sure if it’s worth the trade-off. It’s been said that defensive pessimists, with their aversion to risk and ability to see ten steps ahead, live longer. If that’s true, then I can’t wait to live out the next 80+ long years of sweaty palms, chattering teeth and shaking legs. Let’s party!

I walked up to the door of the party, not quite sure what to say or do amongst the radicals, failing to acknowledge that I almost was one, once upon a time. I had a 4-pack of beer, which gave me something to do with my hands, at least. 

“Uhh... hi. I’m D’s friend. I’m here, and I have beer.”

I was silently mortified by the words coming from my mouth until I realized everyone at this party was just as awkward as fuck as I was. Their blinking stares and polite pleasantries reflected my own. My inner monologue self-soothed as I silently praised the heavens.

D emerged from the living room. “I’m so happy you could make it!” He shyly wrapped me in a warm hug and I had one of those “Oh yeah, I really am a bona fide bisexual and not the self-loathing lesbian I sometimes suspect I am -- this guy cute as FUCK” moments. We chatted for a bit and later throughout the evening, but because he was the host I couldn’t in good conscience attach myself to him at the hip, and if I’m being honest, I didn’t have the confidence to do so anyway. 

I think it was for the best. Not only did I get to overhear genuine, unprompted feedback about what D was actually like -- religiously observant, active in his many communities, radically inclusive... all of which is to say, real-deal HOT -- I was also able to hear stories from some of the most lovely and honest individuals I may have met since moving here.

These strangers, active in poetry and drag and queer liberation and literacy outreach and Yiddish language propagation and non-cisgendered feminism... my heart melted and I craved their acceptance, though for once I didn’t need to beg for it. I didn’t need to put on my whole quirky-girl-who-doesn’t-care-what-you-think shtick, because these people were so radically real that I was allowed to be real right back. It reminded me of a self from years ago, the one who existed during idealistic college years, the one whom I’d since abandoned in favor of a more practical life and more practical partners and a more practical view of what life “should” look like. I realized for the first time in ages that life doesn’t have to look “that” way, and that the expectations I’ve slowly become beholden to could have possibly been one of the major traps ensnaring me in this all-pervasive anxiety the whole time.

In the throes of my last serious depression three years back, I ingratiated myself with the most “normal”, mentally stable folks I could find, living with them for a spell and becoming an eccentric fixture in their worlds. These people are still some of my very best friends. But as anyone who’s grown up feeling different for whatever reason knows, the ones your love (and who love you) aren’t always the ones who challenge you -- the ones who help you become your most brilliant. Through no fault of their own, the ones who provide you with the grounding needed to exist in the “real world” aren’t always the ones to help your true colors shine. You love their stability, but you tire of feeling you’re living on their peripheries -- that you’re not quite a perfect fit. At the same time, it’s familiar, it’s the default, and therefore you can’t put your finger on why you’re so lonely all the time.

Able to blend and coexist peacefully in the mainstream, I think it’s finally time to let me colors shine. Coming out to my immediate family and close friends in October kicked my ass into letting go of many false stories I told myself which no longer served me. I think it’s finally time to peel back some of the other layers behind which I’ve been hiding. 

For years, I’ve been so mortified by my feelings and the mushy, teddy bear way that I see the world. “No soy una de esas,” I repeated to myself until I believed it. I am logical. I am sturdy. I’m in-touch. I’m not gauche. I’m not sensitive, nor an activist, nor an artist. I’m not too much. I’m not one of those.

From the constant reprimands of my all-too-practical parents (who no doubt sought to protect me, knowing the “real world” of the Bible Belt was too rough for someone so idealistic), to being openly laughed at by yuppie college classmates in a political inequality (!!!!) class when I described my perfect future as one in which I had enough free time to run in the park on nice, sunny days and spend time with the people I love (they preferred to envision themselves on yachts), I always intuited that my dreams and desires were naive and unconventional.

I don’t need a lot to be happy. But I do need to belong. Unfortunately, that belonging can sometimes feel like more of an albatross than affording a massive yacht. 

But last night it didn’t feel that way. 

I want to bottle that feeling. I want to build a life that reflects it. I want to dance and drink beer in candlelit living rooms and speak from the heart and stand for justice. 

Last night reminded me there are others who want the same thing, crazy and awkward and childlike as it may appear. The world of simple abundance we seek isn’t as elusive as we thought. No more need to doubt and bend and over-explain.

We belong.

[hyperballadofthesenses]

a little too interested...

To Preface:

I’m a generally confused person in terms of being able to figure out social cues, and therefore most of my friends are either eccentric people my age or older adults. It’s kind of always been that way. I’m also a bit of a loner because of this. Keep that in mind.

So:

There's this freshman writing course at my university, and everyone is required to take it. It's sort of thematic and can vary in terms of theme depending on what you're interested in. I'm really into the arts in theory and practical work, and so I took an art-themed writing course my freshman year, as expected. The professor is a really cool, laid back guy (I don’t know how old he is). He sort of is a bit detached and comes off as a shy, quiet person some times. The poor guy is given a painfully boring curriculum and you can tell through the smiles that he is actually quite unhappy with his work. Because of this drone and his veiled disinterest in teaching such a drab curriculum to students after students, I kind of made this inside joke with my friends where we'd imitate him giving lectures.

I found that he was really overly harsh on my work in the first semester when I had his class. He would tell me my paper looked near-perfect and would give me a B+/A- while everyone else was making easy A's. I worked so hard on my final paper and earned an A- when I wholeheartedly felt like I deserved an A. I showed the paper around to my friends and they all said it was a solid, comprehensive essay. I confronted him and said that I thought he was being unfair, and he gave me all the contact info of people who could I could contact so as to report him for unfair treatment of a student.

What?

He was always super nice to everyone, and always cared about students' interests and would give them links to articles or magazines if there was something in there on their topic or interest in general. It honestly was all perfectly normal, though one day I found myself having lunch with him in the dining hall where he went after class one day. He was a bit shy and awkward, though he noticed I had a Beatles bag and liked old movies and suddenly he opened up and we talked for quite some time.

I don't specifically remember what happened since I had to be hospitalized due to my chronic illness, but this semester really was a fucking insane whirlwind. See, he lectures in another film class of mine (I'm a film major specializing in theory and aesthetics, and he lectures about films specifically), and we'd often get to talking about favorite films. He would give me recommendations and slowly he began to stop and engage in more and more and more chats with me whenever he saw me. We have probably had 5+ meals together as of now. He has never given any students so much attention as I've seen. I was honestly flattered.

I should also mention that ALL of the films he picked out for me were highly sexually explicit and super pornographic even. Like tons of genitals and BDSM, etc. I had no idea he had it in him, frankly.

He would even "cut class" to talk to me and ask me about how I was doing, what I've been listening to, watching, etc. Still, I thought we were just really into the same stuff and were having fun together. One day he cut his own class for 40 minutes to show me his DVD collection in his office, and then went to "survey" the dorm kitchen which I had been compulsively cleaning earlier., and he asked me about how I liked to tidy, what my dorm room looked like...

He gave me a bunch of DVDs, and suddenly he opened up about his childhood and his anxiety about being a good father to his six-year-old. He said that he really wanted to talk to me about the films and that I was welcome to come to his office at any time. He kept complimenting me about pretty much everything, and I had the tiniest bit of a crush on him too so it was all flattering (so I’d say I’m like 90% gay as of now). He has never once spoken to me about his wife, though I have heard him talk about her to other people quite loudly (within earshot, I assume intentionally).

Cut to our weekend arts trip down south of the state. Our itinerary was to visit tons of museums and see concerts, plays, etc. The entire trip he would make an effort to be near me. He was pretty much following me everywhere, though he clearly was trying to be discreet about it. One day, I was heading off with two of my friends to get lunch from a food truck, and he followed us all the way there. He was interrogating me about my summer, who my friends were, what music I've been listening to, what films I've been watching, etc, etc, etc.

My friends were walking a bit ahead and he suddenly leaned over and asked me:

"So, what's the party scene here at (insert university name here)?"

And so I jokingly said that it sucked and no one had anything decent except vodka. He went on and on talking about what he was like when he was "my age", describing in so much detail how he would get wasted and wander city streets with his roommates. Then, he asked me:

"Do you smoke? I wouldn't go so far as to call myself a stoner, but... I try to smoke or have some special treats at least twice a week, you know?" Oh my god…

So we had a conversation about what weed he liked, the funny names of his dealers, and where he gets it now. I later had to tell him that I'd keep it secret, and he blushed and looked totally freaked out. He would totally get fired if anyone found out he was basically implying to a student that he wanted to smoke with them.

He asked me how I spend my summers (now twice, actually), if I'm going to be in the area, and when I said I worked as a nanny he basically interrogated me about my childhood and told me stories from his childhood (like VERY personal stories such as how his parents' divorce impacted him). I ended up telling him that I have a chronic illness and doing little things are very painful, and he went into hawk mode and constantly offered to help me out. He told me about his ex-girlfriends and kind of casually asked about my relationship history, during which I told him I was a lesbian (not 100% true, maybe 90%), but he still wouldn't back off. I also mentioned that I can't have kids because of my illness (it's totally invisible, by the way), he got really sad for me and tried to console me, almost aggressively, actually.

When we went to a museum he said that he picked this one because he "knew I'd like it".

He would constantly try to engage in conversation with me or keep me in his periphery. He was just this kind of constant looming presence. He would always be in my museum tour group, he would always eat at the same place or nearby. He would follow me to shops and try to act nonchalant about it. At the airport waiting area heading back to school, he sat directly across from me even though I was tucked away from everyone else trying to read. He took out his book after I did, and LITERALLY copied me every time I crossed my legs or leaned forward slightly. I would catch him staring up at me from time to time, though he would immediately look away. Anytime I would talk with any other students who came by, he was watching me like a hawk as I interacted with them. When I said I had a headache and needed Advil (I didn't ask him for it, I asked another student), he basically flung into action and pulled out an array of medicines and other general stuff.

I have told two friends about this, both of whom think the weed thing is hysterical. They're both in awe about how much attention he gives me, as they both think he's cool and kind of vaguely have crushes on him as well (they're both gay guys). I should also mention that he's genuinely a decently good-looking guy. My friends are also both a little concerned and creeped out on my behalf.

After the trip, things were very awkward. He kept looking over at me and when I told him I had the DVDs to give back he turned white as a sheep and just nodded and hurried away. Then he tried to awkwardly talk to me about whether I liked them in the hall… Something weird is up. He recently told me that he’s really excited to watch my final presentation for his class.

Is he really lonely? Maybe. Am I some kind of weird embodiment of some kind of ex-girlfriend or something? Maybe. Any inputs, observations would be well appreciated.

This has been on my mind for a while, as I’m seeing him for (maybe) the last time on Monday. I might end up taking his class next year since it’s in my major, but it depends on whether I get in or not. He sent me all this info about how he wants me to be in it... it’s all really confusing. Is he being nice or is he interested in a problematic way?

The weirdest part of this all is that we honestly have a good time together and have the same interests. To be honest, I’d be down to smoke with him and hang out with him some more. I think he’s lonely. I am just wondering what his angle here is. 

[6four1-blog]

June 29th, 2017 (Kavousi, Crete, Greece)

When I resurfaced, my hands were treading through the turquoise waters of Agriomantra. I felt like a video game character whose eyelids were just opened, with only his hands and beach ahead of him. I saw five boats parked on the shore and nearly thirty people under the large olive tree. Even from out here, I could smell the scent of the aromatic oregano and the mouthwatering lamb that seemed to ebb and flow out towards the sea like the very waves themselves. In the periphery of my vision, I caught a glance of the young children attempting to climb the sheer, orange cliffs. They were climbing up the rock precipice that I had been on just a few moments ago, nearly twenty-five feet above sea level. The stones were jagged and sharp, unbothered by human use and wear. As I scanned the small bay, I realized it was encircled by a large rock protrusion that protected the little beach from the rough waves of the Aegean. The tiny rock peninsula reached out towards the west in the direction of Pachia Ammos and Agios Nikolaos, almost like the welcoming arms of St. Peter’s. This arm calmed the furious waves so that we could swim in the exotic waters and explore the dreamy cliffs. I could hear David yelling at James to stop being a μαλακα and to jump the cliff. I could hear Britney and Marissa giggling about some joke that seemed to fade into the gale, as every sound naturally did in Agriomantra. My vision paused as I found a narrow gap in the rocky extension. There was a cold gust that flowed through that crevice, inviting me as if Boreas, the Anemoi of the north wind, was whispering “ελα, Paul, ελα.” I subconsciously began swimming towards it, as Odysseus’ men must have when they heard the beautiful songs of Aglaope. Starting with David, my friends started following me as if we all found the same allure in the same chilly wind.

We approached the tunnel slowly like ships in the Bermuda triangle, incessantly afraid of the unseen projections below that could end our dig season in an instant. We climbed into the cave-like passage on all fours like Golum in Lord of the Rings, careful to watch for not only rocks but also sea urchins. The ledges were unembellished and sharp, utterly merciless towards mere mortals like us. Climbing through that cave either made you appreciate your life or ended it. Despite knowing that the rocks were slippery and each step may have been my last, something told me to continue, to see just a little more, and to dare to be more adventurous that I have ever been before. We were now facing north in this narrow strip of water. The landscape that surrounded us was like that of a miniature Argolid, as if we were perfectly nestled on the tapered cavity of a snake’s tongue. Out in the distance, we could see the island of Pseira and a few boats wayfaring the waters like lost nomads. But beyond the island and the vessels, there was nothing but vast ocean as far as the horizon could extend. Unlike Agriomantra, the waters here were a dark navy, glimmering with a depth and ferocity that pervaded your heart and stopped it for a second, making you question whether you could ever leave if you plunged into its abyss.

I jumped. Of course I did. I took a large gulp of the sea water on my way up, which was repulsively saline but enchantingly feral. Even after more than ten years of competitive swimming in my childhood and adolescence, I was not ready to conquer these waves without modern machinery. The cliffs towered over me and the waves thrashed me around like a rag doll. Bobbing up and down in this open cavern, surrounded by baleful scarps, reminded me how small I was in this big, magnificent world. The inaccessibility of this location is what kept it beautiful, looking the same as it would have been if Theseus took a detour to Eastern Crete thousands of years ago. It is inherently tragic that the beauty of a place, like Agriomantra, is its own curse. These Mediterranean gems invite us, human beings hopelessly obsessed with their grace, to explore them, to trample them, and to ruin them. Luckily, the village of Kavousi seems to have kept Agriomantra on the down-low, passing it on generation after generation like a village heirloom. I have never been to the fabled Santorini, but I think I can confidently say that I had a breathtaking and authentic experience that would have put the touristy island to shame.

I found my way back through the cave into the calm company of Agriomantra and started swimming back towards the beach. I watched each stroke as my arm slid into the crystal-clear water, again and again. The gentle waves were like Poseidon’s nudges of encouragement and the alternating warm and frosty currents were like physical manifestations of his wisdom, advising me that, no matter the hot or cold times, I should never take this beach, these friends, or this experience for granted.

As I approached the shoreline, I could see Katis in the distance feasting from a large glass bowl. Through the translucent stained-glass, one could easily see the red and green hazes and tell that it was a ginormous Greek salad. After I got out and dried myself, I scrambled away from the beach into the gorge looking for some relief. I found a small rock protrusion that offered me privacy from the beach party, but the goats swarmed the sides of the cliffs like archers around a battlefield. That day, I proceeded to #1 in front of nearly 20 goats on both sides watching me unwavering interest. It was a first, and I hope it is also the last. Shortly afterwards, I observed that the welcoming arms of Agriomantra could easily be climbed by scaling some rocks further inland. The cliffs were steep but I felt like I could finesse my way around some sharp corners, especially since I was now wearing my Adidas Ultraboosts. Here in Greece where most activities take place outdoors, I have felt a strong disposition for climbing natural scenery. By climbing these rocks, I was able to take a picture of Agriomantra from a bird’s eye point of view, the stereotypical beach picture which I am sure my friends and family would enjoy. As I turned around to face north, I faced the vast, deep navy, and windy Aegean. I sat on a rock and got completely lost in my thoughts as the wind inundated my face, wondering if Aegeus ever shared the same dumbfounded wonderment thousands of years ago when he waited for Theseus to return home from Crete.

In the middle of this week after a hot work day, I was hanging out with David in his room since Weston and I don’t have functional air conditioning. Just from my experiences and observations, the winds in North Eastern Crete seem to come from the north during the day and from the south at night. It’s an interesting phenomenon that I probably would never have noticed if not for our shitty air conditioner. So, before we sleep, we have to step outside to survey the wind and temperature, then specifically select certain windows to open for the night. 

David proceeded to ask whether I would be down to sleep on Azoria for the night. With my current air conditioning crisis, I approved without hesitation. Not surprisingly, when we went to ask Weston ten minutes later, he jumped on the bandwagon. We went to the local supermarket to buy water and supplies. Keep in mind we had to buy enough water for three people, accounting for the night and the following seven-hour workday. We proceeded to buy two bottles of wine and 18 liters of water - that’s 20 liters of fluid that we had to take up to the mountain. It was about to be a dreadful hike until Jerry, a local Scottish man, offered us a ride up in his Jeep.

In hindsight, we picked a terrible location to pitch camp. Irini had started a new trench and the soil on the side seemed fresh and soft. We judged the book by its cover and did not realize that the soft silt layer was only about two centimeters thick. The rock hard cobble fill below was not an easy terrain to sleep on and I would find that out later on in the night. We took a few trash bags and ripped them open, creating tarps for each of us to sleep on. I even used a trash bag as a sleeping bag, which was warm but the terrible breathability made me reminisce my bed back at Tholos. Indeed, our setup was quite trashy (haha).

However, before we slept, we did two more things. First, we went to Haggis’ tree and gazed down at Mirabello Bay. Professor Haggis hangs his orange Arcteryx backpack under the same olive tree every day. It oversees the D trenches and is one of the only locations on site that has shade during lunch. The leaves’ green pigments were slowly darkening as the domesticated olive tree continued to turn feral over the centuries, a lengthy metamorphosis that I will never be able to fully witness in my lifetime. Sitting from that tree, I could see all of Kavousi, Pachia Ammos, and Agios Nikolaos. The lights of Kavousi and Agios Nikolaos glowed brightly like stars in the Sahara Desert on a clear night. The lights never stopped twinkling in red, blue, yellow, green, and all the colors you could imagine on a Byzantine mosaic. The night lights of Kavousi showed the outline of the tiny village and it stuck out in a sea of darkness like a complex constellation. The voices and music from Maria’s tavern drifted into the mountains and hazed into a comforting muffle, which I think is best described as the hum of civilization. Some freighters on the waters in the distance had flashing green lights as dim as a dying cigar. With my arms over the railings, I felt like Gatsby standing on West Egg, ogling at the lights from Daisy’s house. Apart from the outline of mid-Northern Lasithi, the waters seemed completely empty like an endless Tartarus. I could now see what frightened sailors for generations and gained a newfound appreciation for the ancients who had the courage to venture into the unknown. One can be lonely anywhere, whether that be a big city like New York or an ice field like Antarctica. If I go out to sea in the future, I have always pondered if the solitude and emptiness could possibly ever conceive a sense of peace and tranquility for me.

Second, we took some time to lie down on our tarps and stargaze. David often sleeps in the olive grove when he’s drunk, and he tells me: “Paul, you can see the Milky Way at night, so you should come sleep with me in the olive grove.” I didn’t believe him until I slept up on Azoria that night. As my pupils dilated and grew accustomed to the boundless darkness, more stars began to appear randomly on the black canvas. The Milky Way formed before my eyes. Constellations by Jack Johnson got stuck in my head. David was right, you could see it all. As an excavator helping Professor Haggis collect data and build a narrative for Azoria, I realized that, apart from pragmatic reasons why the Minoans might have settled on this hilltop, this was simply a really nice place to be both day and night; the view of the Bay of Mirabello during the day and the stars at night were hard to beat. I also saw my first shooting star that night. 

Then, the next thing I knew, I woke up and the stars were gone. The deep black was replaced with a soothing light amaranth. I could hear the bees buzzing and, somewhere in the distance, a goat let out a loud bleat followed by the gentle chimes of its bells. I got up and sat next to David and Weston in silence, appreciating the morning view of Kavousi. On the slopes, the trench masters’ 6:30 a.m. truck swerved up the hill. Minutes later, when the engine stopped in the parking lot, I got up from my schist stone seat and trotted down the slope - back to the B trenches, back to reality.

[hopefulfestivaltastemaker]

June 14, 2020

My weekly blog post. Topics include Nikola’s hydrogen trucking, returns to civilization scale, progress urbanism, the rhetoric of crisis, and woke culture in the Bay Area.

Nikola and Hydrogen Trucking

Last week the well-hyped trucking company Nikola had their IPO. As of Tuesday, the company was valued at $26 billion despite not having pulled any revenue yet.

I have long been a skeptic of hydrogen for transportation but have been gradually revising my views in a more bullish direction. The release of the Toyota Mirai is another event that surprised me, showing that hydrogen was at least technologically ready for the mass market in a way that I hadn’t expected.

As a transportation fuel, hydrogen suffers from several major drawbacks. It is much less efficient than battery electric vehicles. Fuel cells are expensive (moreso than lithium ion batteries). Hydrogen presents all sorts of logistical challenges, which are much easier with electricity and hydrocarbon fuels. The main advantage of hydrogen over electricity is range, but for passenger cars that is becoming less relevant.

Over the road trucking is another matter, and it is unclear if battery electric trucks will ever be feasible. Hence hydrogen emerges as a plausible low emission alternative to diesel trucking.

I do try to pay attention to market conditions and take them into account in my own analysis. Investors can be wrong, of course, and it is impossible for anyone, including investors, to forecast technology trends with great precision. But Nikola’s valuation represents a kind of collective wisdom that should be paid attention to.

I will now go back to wondering why dimethyl ether hasn’t taken off.

Returns to Civilization Scale

Last summer, I spent two weeks at the Santa Fe Institute. I have long been interested in SFI’s work, especially the scaling work of Geoffrey West and Luis Bettencort and how it applies to cities. Indeed, Bettencort’s The Origin of Scaling in Cities is one of my most important influences in how I think about the topic.

While at SFI, I drafted a survey of how the urban scaling laws might apply to world civilization as a whole. At the time I did not attract much interest from SFI staff or other program participants. I link it here, without a clear sense of what I am hoping to find from doing so. There are a number of points that I might discuss further at a later time. Several points in the paper have not aged well or otherwise no longer reflect my current thinking, but I am posting it in its form as of last August.

I don’t claim the paper is well-written, but I do think it raises some important and under-explored questions. Unfortunately the project stalled out last summer and I have been uncertain whether and how to move it forward.

Progress Urbanism

Last week, I posed a question in the Progress Studies Slack group about whether there could be such a thing as progress urbanism, and if so, what it might look like. My basic premise was understanding and designing cities as engines of progress.

One reply was this.

I’m interested in understanding what factors contributing to urban progress can be decoupled from cities. That could be critical in fostering progress in other environments, like rural areas, online communities, or even space colonies.

I found it quite interesting. It hints at an understanding of urbanism (which may no longer be the right word) that takes as the defining characteristic the interpersonal interaction that it fosters and abstracts out the rest. Under this conception, a city is a physical manifestation of the urban process, and there are potentially many other manifestations.

The Politics of Crisis

Palladium Magazine ran a piece this week on the political rhetoric of crisis. Like most Palladium articles, it is worth a read.

A few years ago, there was apparently a collective decision among climate activists that, henceforth, climate change was to be referred to as “the climate crisis”, or some other comparably dramatic term such as climate emergency or climate catastrophe. Even though I consider climate change to be a serious issue that demands a serious response, I have avoided the change in terminology.

The word “crisis” is meant to connote a state of affairs that is far enough outside of normal operating conditions as to call for a suspension of ordinary ways of doing politics and business. In the case of environmental politics, the ordinary way is to build coalitions around solutions that fit into the current socioeconomic milieu, such as carbon pricing, clean energy R&D, energy efficiency standards, and so forth.

“Climate crisis” is the favored phrasing among a cluster of activists who see the proper response as to overturn the current socioeconomic milieu and replace it with a highly socialized system that greatly restricts individual consumption. Such changes are to be accompanied with equally dramatic rearrangements in the distribution of wealth and race and gender relations.

I suppose I am fundamentally conservative in the sense that I see the current system as working reasonably well, and where it is not, the proper response being reform rather than revolution. One could accuse me of small-bore thinking. I prefer to think of it as remaining grounded in reality.

Woke Culture: What is Happening?

The last few weeks have, among many other things, brought a spotlight on what, for lack of a better term, can be called “wokism” and its destructive effects on national discourse. I have neither the ability nor the inclination to keep up with everything that is happening. Just two recent examples of things I observed are Matt Taibbi’s review of “newsroom revolts” and other institutional purges, and Sam Harris’s recent podcast attempting to bring some reality-based thinking into discussions of policing and criminal justice. Both come from points left of center politically and expose a growing fissure between the hard activist left and the old guard left with its traditional commitment to open discourse.

I have never had a position of great influence or any formal training in political science, but I did spend two years (2016-18) in the Bay Area hanging around the periphery of the nation’s social elite, such as it is, and one thing I would like to do someday, before it recedes too far into the past, is write a detailed account of my experiences there. Part of what has held me back is that my experience was not generally good, and it would be difficult to present a complete and honest account without burning some bridges that I would like to remain standing. Still, the experience was important in shaping how I see the world now. And I think that more ordinary person observations of a situation can shed some light into aspects of a culture that professional pundits and academics will fail to see.

Anyway, I have seen quite a few commentaries likening today’s social justice drama to McCarthyism, the Maoist Cultural Revolution, or the Reign of Terror. These comparisons have some merit, reinforced by numerous stories circulating on social media of academics and other professionals being forced out of their jobs for alleged wrongthink, but much like images of police brutality, they tell a highly skewed story at best. If anything, Versailles court etiquette is a more appropriate historical analogy.

Among what Richard Florida terms the “creative class”--people in media, arts, politics, software, academia, etc.--in the Bay Area, insecurity is a defining aspect of life. Rents are a major financial burden, home ownership or raising a family is out of the question for most young people, job security is rare, and most business relationships are strictly transactional. There is a culture of near perpetual side hustling and job networking, because you know the current job won’t last long and even if it does, it will not offer a path toward advancement.

Wokism enters this milieu as a set of rules for social protocol and status competition, and it serves several important functions. In an environment where social standing is a scarce good for which there is fierce competition, commitment to social justice doctrine is a price of admission into polite society, not unlike the way a college degree is required for professions that will never use the knowledge learned in college.

The conception of the social justice warrior as a fanatic is large wrong. The social justice warrior is a striver, fighting in a highly competitive environment for the status needed for tenure, a promotion, invitation to the right parties, etc. The state of affairs could perhaps be likened to an intellectual Malthusian catastrophe among an overcredentialed population.

As will be obvious to anyone with passing familiarity of urban progressive politics, the ubiquity of social justice doctrine does not translate in any meaningful way into policy. Yes, Bay Area cities have their diversity, equity, and inclusion boards, proclamations, and so forth. But the make no progress toward reducing poverty and homelessness, and the ordinary business of municipal government--passing out goodies to homeowners, unions, and legacy businesses--continues unimpeded. The paranoia of some commentators in conservative media, that the Democratic Party is radicalized and will implement some grand socialist vision if elected, is laughable to anyone who has seen it govern up close.

One of these days, I would like to fill in the story with some names and dates. We’ll see if that ever happens.