#image of my crazy old man which i often reflect upon

[carco5a]

does anyone want to look at my favorite metal gear solid comics panel with me on this fine morning. here it is

thanks for looking at it with me. stay safe out there

[seekfirst-community]

The following reflection is courtesy of Don Schwager © 2023. Don's website is located at Dailyscripture.net

Meditation: John, the beloved disciple of Jesus, tells us that Jesus did many signs in the presence of his disciples. John recorded seven of these signs to strengthen our belief that 'Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that believing you may have life in his name' (John 20:30-31). Jesus' first sign took place at a wedding reception in the town of Cana, which was very close to Nazareth in Galilee where Jesus grew up. What does this sign tell us about about Jesus? And what is its significance for us?

From skepticism to belief

John locates his account of Jesus' first sign by telling us that it occurred on the third day (John 2:1-2). What is the significance of the third day? This is three days after skeptical Nathaniel's first encounter with Jesus. Philip had encouraged Nathaniel to "come and see" for himself who this Jesus was. When Nathaniel met Jesus, Jesus did something out of the ordinary. He revealed something personal about Nathaniel that only Nathaniel would have known. And then Jesus made a claim: 'You shall see greater things than these.' And he said to Nathaniel, "Truly, truly, I say to you, you will see heaven opened, and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of man" (John 1:50-51). Jesus in so many words told Nathaniel, 'You don't just have to believe my words, what I am saying here. I am going to perform signs that will back up the truth of what I'm saying and prove that I am who I claim to be.' If someone makes that kind of claim to you, you are going to closely watch whatever he does to see if he can make good on the claim. You want to find out if he is genuine or just an imposter or maybe deluded and crazy.

Turning failure into blessing

Three days later Jesus takes his disciples to a wedding reception and there he does something quite out of the ordinary, right in the middle of the celebration - and during a very embarrassing moment for the bride and groom. When Jesus' mother presses Jesus to do something about the situation, Jesus seems to put her off. But she knows her son very well and understands that Jesus will handle the situation that way he thinks best.

Why did the wedding party run out of wine in the middle of the feast? Perhaps Jesus contributed to this embarrassing failure by bringing a group of his disciples to the feast at the last minute. But Jesus had a purpose in turning a wedding feast fiasco into a blessing beyond reckoning. He wanted to bless a newly-wed couple and all those at the wedding banquet as well. Everyone received in abundance the best of wine. John describes Jesus' first public miracle as a sign. It is more than simply a demonstration of his power to change nature. It is a sign of what he has come to do - to transform the lives of all who will believe in him.

Bridegroom of the new Israel

Why did Jesus pick an ordinary wedding feast in a little out-of-the-way town to perform his first sign and to launch his public ministry? A wedding feast in nearly every culture is a very big event, often the biggest celebration that people experience, because it brings families, neighbors, and sometimes the whole town together. For many people it is the happiest and most memorable occasion in their life.

For the people of Israel, the wedding feast had a special spiritual significance as well. It came to symbolize God's special relationship and covenant with the people of Israel. The Old Testament describes God as the Bridegroom of Israel and presents his covenant relationship with the people of God as a spiritual marriage (Isaiah 54:5; Jeremiah 3:14; Hosea 2:16, 19-20). One of the most powerful images of heaven is the wedding banquet (Revelations 19:7-9). The Bible ends with the invitation to this marriage feast. "The Spirit and the Bride say, 'Come'" (Revelations 21:17).

So when Jesus chooses a wedding feast for his first sign, he is giving us a hint about something that will become more explicit when John the Baptist describes Jesus as the betrothed bridegroom of his people (John 3:29). In the other Gospels Jesus also alludes to his role as the bridegroom of the new people of Israel (see Mark 2:18-20; Matthew 9:14-15; Matthew 22:1-14; Matthew 25:6) when he invites both Jews and Gentiles to share in his heavenly banquet at the end of the age (Luke 13:29).

Changing water into wine

What is so special about Jesus changing water into wine? Any good winemaker knows how to take a watery substance such as grape juice and turn it into wine. First you wait for the grapes to grow and mature. Then you pick the choicest grapes for the best wine you want to make. You crush the grapes into a mush. Then you add some water, yeast, and sugar. You allow this mixture to ferment over a period of several weeks. During that time you skim off the solid material until you are left with pure liquid - wine. Wine must be slightly aged to be drinkable - white wine must sit for half a year, and red wine for a full year. Some of the most famous wines are aged for many years.

Jesus didn't turn the water into a fruity grape juice, or into ordinary table wine. He instantly produced the finest and most expensive of wines - a fine vintage wine that would normally take years to age. He didn't produce just enough wine to satisfy the embarrassed bride and groom and guests. He produced 120 gallons! Abundance indeed. The instantaneous turning of water into wine shows Jesus' supernatural power to transform natural things - what is physical and material - into something of a higher order. He has the same power which God possesses - to create, transform, and change creation itself.

The gift of abundant life

If Jesus can change water into wine for an embarrassed wedding couple, how much more can he change us through the transforming power of his Holy Spirit. John tells us that 'all who received him [Jesus], who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God; who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God' (John 1:12,13). Jesus gives us abundant life. This sign at Cana points to his power not simply to improve the quality of our lives but to change and transform us to be like him - people of joy, peace, and love who do not fear death, but who know and experience even now the taste of eternal life - the life of God's kingdom. He gives us everything we need to live as his disciples - as sons and daughters of God.Jesus blessed a nameless couple in Cana, not only with his presence, but with his power. He will bless us as well, not only with his presence, but with his healing love and life-changing power.

Let go of pride and fear

What might hold us back from allowing Jesus to change and transform us? Perhaps you feel that your faith is weak, or that you are unworthy to receive God's favor and gifts. Perhaps you struggle with anxiety or despair because your life feels hopelessly out of control. Jesus knows our struggles and weaknesses better than we do. And that doesn't stop him from offering us freedom and transformation through the gift and working of his Holy Spirit.

Paul the Apostle reminds us that God chooses to work in and through fragile and cracked vessels, such as us, to reveal the power of his glory and love. 'We have this treasure in earthen vessels, to show that the transcendent power belongs to God and not to us' (2 Corinthians 4:7).

If there is anything holding you back from trusting in Jesus, let it go - give it to Jesus. Let go of fear - fear of losing your life. Let go of pride - wanting to always be in control and get things to go your way. And let go of unbelief - the stubborn refusal to accept Jesus on his own terms and to deny that he has the words of eternal life. Be like Nathaniel and choose to follow the master - to the wedding banquet and beyond, to even greater things.

"Heavenly Father, you have revealed your glory in our Lord Jesus Christ. Fill me with your Holy Spirit that I may bring you glory in all that I do and say."

The following reflection is from One Bread, One Body courtesy of Presentation Ministries © 2023.

the last shall be first

“Anyone who sees his brother sinning, if the sin is not deadly, should petition God, and thus life will be given to the sinner.” —1 John 5:16

Many have not had Christmas because they have not repented of sin in their lives. We should petition the Lord for sinners and life will be given to them (1 Jn 5:16). Through the Lord’s forgiveness, they will be given Christmas just before the season ends. The devil thought he had robbed them of Christmas. However, by prayer, we rob the robber and give many people another opportunity for Christmas.

On this third last day of the Christmas season, go to Confession and invite others to join you. For so many, the Sacrament of Reconciliation is the key to Christmas. Many people are spiritually still in Advent. They need to obey St. John the Baptizer’s call to repent (Lk 3:3). We are called to be ministers of reconciliation, to encourage others to get the specks out of their eyes, after we have removed the planks from ours (Mt 7:5). The Lord has “entrusted the message of reconciliation to us. This makes us ambassadors for Christ, God as it were appealing through us. We implore you, in Christ’s name: be reconciled to God” (2 Cor 5:19-20).

Two days from now, on the last day of the Christmas season, let’s help others have their first day of Christmas by going down together into the waters of the Jordan and repenting of our sins.

Prayer:  Father, give us a full Christmas even if we start Christmas on the last days of the season (Mt 20:14).

Promise:  “The Lord loves His people, and He adorns the lowly with victory.” —Ps 149:4

Praise:  St. Raymond of Peñafort lived almost 100 years. His eventful life included studies in both civil and canon law, plus two years leading the Dominican Order. He was the pope’s confessor and promoted the Sacrament of Reconciliation.

Reference:  

Rescript:  "In accord with the Code of Canon Law, I hereby grant the Nihil Obstat for the publication One Bread, One Body covering the time period from December 1,2022 through January 31,2023. Reverend Steve J. Angi, Chancellor, Vicar General, Archdiocese of Cincinnati, Cincinnati, Ohio April 12, 2022"

The Nihil Obstat ("Permission to Publish") is a declaration that a book or pamphlet is considered to be free of doctrinal or moral error. It is not implied that those who have granted the Nihil Obstat agree with the contents, opinions, or statements

[danddymaro]

Addiction | Old Snake x Reader

An Ending to MGS4 that ends in happiness for our good boi Snake

Fixed/Edited

BTW: Let’s shift the events around and pretend he went to go talk to Big Boss Before Meryl's wedding.

Thoughts are italics in quotations = 'Example'

Flashbacks are in italics = Example

Word Count:  2225

Addiction

From betwixt the snug place of his lips, the smoke in which he took pleasure from was snatched, aggressively pulled out in a single motion,

"Snake," A familiar male's voice said in a harsh whisper, sounding frustrated and disappointed all together, "Just what in the world do you think you're doing!?" Otocon added with the same tone of exasperation.

Silently, Snake's blue eyes drifted right to see the bespeckled brunette male giving him a half-hearted glare, his entire expression full of annoyance as he glared onto the man that seemed many years older than what he truly was.

"You know you shouldn't be smoking," Hal said while shaking his head in the same disapproval, making sure to exaggerate a low dragged out sigh, "Honestly...Snake, you'd think that at least today you'd make an exception." He added.

'Today...' David started, 'Today is a special day... for not just me, but for her too,' He thought while grunting, knowing just what the other man meant, feeling guilt weigh down over his shoulders as he recognized his selfishness.

With a dull gaze as a response, Snake returned the look back to his long-time friend, 'I know this already...don't think I don't,' He silently told the man while pressing his lips together tightly.

Tearing his eyes from the hardened dark chocolate orbs, David then trailed his oculars down to the discarded nicotine as it now lay on the floor, a small, thin line of smoke still rising from its end, a gentle flicker of a red spark still visible as well.

He could pick it back up. After all, it was salvageable, but even so, his reaction remained prolonged.

He stared at it for a few moments before he closed his eyes to rid himself of the tempting image.

"You will end up smelling like burnt ash and tobacco. I don't think she'd like that," Otacon continued to speak, convincing him to make the right choice.

Dropping his shoulders, Snake nodded in defeated agreeance, knowing it to be true.

After a few silent minutes passed, he then gave a frustrated sigh and stepped on it, crushing it under his shoe and making sure it was put out by the stomp.

"yeah yeah," David grumbled, because he was well aware of the fact and had already mentally kicked himself for it.

"I know you're nervous," Hal then said with a soft, understanding smile rising, "it's understandable," he said while placing his hand on his friend's shoulder, "But you should do it for her. " He added, truthfully, also being concerned for Snake's health.

"Now come on, " Emmerich said with brightened brown orbs, "It's about to begin," he reminded the other male, his index finger tapping the little face on his watch as an exited grin overtook him.

Having spent almost his entire life in battle, it wasn't like he could fit into the normal world with ease. He couldn't just chuck himself into an easy everyday life as simple as that, no matter what anyone tried to tell him.

He'd been told to live his life, to enjoy what bits he had left and to salvage it the best he could, but he hadn't the least bit of an idea as to how to do so,

'how? ' He wondered helplessly, uncertain as to just how he could go on so simply.

What could a man that's known nothing but battle do in the normal world?

He couldn't go back to his family as other soldiers would often do, because he had none. He had no mother, father, brothers, or sisters, to fall back to. 

Heck, he didn't even have a damn dog to go back to and run toward at the end of the day.

All in all, he had nothing. So, he couldn't just join into the masses of civilians and blend in, because it just hadn't been in his plans.

He'd never thought that far along, and for a long time, he'd thought there was nothing there for him.

But of course, life had its crazy, little surprises, especially one he'd never anticipated... 

"Marry me!" She said out loud, her voice rising with plea, the sudden proposal stopping his movements entirely. 

His steps came to a complete halt, and the foot that had almost touched the ground stayed suspended for a moment, hovering over the placement by just a centimeter.

He then took two slow breaths before he placed it down to the Earth, turning to the woman with confusion, his brows knotted together to show a visibly painted look of dumbfoundedness,

"wh..what?" He breathed, almost inaudibly as he tried to comprehend what he'd heard.

 He was certain that it was just his old age playing with him.

 He just knew it was the only explanation as to why he heard her say the words because it was just unfathomable to him,

'I must be hearing things,' He thought to himself, deflated at the sudden realization that dawned upon him.

Dementia; he probably had dementia.

He'd thought he had just a bit more time before then, but it seemed that he wasn't lucky enough, and surely the old age he presented himself with had finally fully beaten him,

"What...what did you say?" He asked slowly, staring at her with furrowed brows.

She took a step forward, inching herself closer to him with anxiousness, seeming uncertain on coming near,

"Did...did you not hear me?" She squeaked, face turning beet red, seeming mortified at the fact that she had to once again repeat herself.

" Perhaps... but I could have been mistaken." He grumbled, watching her continue to move closer to him.

Slowly, and tentatively she stepped forward, soon standing three feet from him, staring up at him with a harsh swallow, a small lump gliding down her throat before she spoke yet again,

"I...I...I said ...I ... I said ... will you marry me..." she repeated with strain, sounding much smaller the second time around, losing all the sense of confidence she'd previously fueled herself with.

"Marry you..?" He repeated, still at a loss.

At her side, he noticed she held the white bouquet full of flowers tightly bound within her hold, and it was the same bunch that Meryl had thrown up in the air not a few moments ago.

When she realized just what he had been staring at, she held it up with a rather quirky smile, " I think this kind of means I'm next, and I don't see anyone better around," she said while raising both her brows to dance up and down until he turned away from her, not in the mood for the show of playfulness,

"Huh?!

- What! Please don't go!" she cried out, rushing after him, soon managing to stand before him, her arms widespread to stop him from moving past her,

"I'm being serious!" She declared, looking up at him with frantic (e/c) colored eyes, "You have to believe me!" she added, continuing on with her story.

She reminded him of the fact that they'd met before. It had been a while back, an event that had embedded itself deep within her heart, even if he'd forgotten,

"Because..." She started, " Because I've thought of you every day after that," she confessed. "And then I spoke to Hal, and he brought me here, he told me that now...Now was my chance to tell you. " She confessed to him.

She'd waited years, pinning for the man through each and every one of them, waiting for the day she'd one day stand before him again.

And it all began to make sense by then, why Otocon seemed so insistent on him joining the ceremony, despite his own refusal to show because he'd had other plans in mind, all of which didn't include infecting everyone with his miserable air.

"I'm not exactly meant for romanticism, " he told her. " And even if I were..." He trailed off, keeping his eyes drawn away from her, his words dying out as he let her fill in the blanks.

Even if he had been willing to take the risk, to suddenly go off and get hitched to some strange woman he just vaguely remembered,

his life was draining, and all in all, he had nothing to offer her.

"You're better off with someone else... " he said lowly, " someone who has the time," he added with the same dejection, moving to leave her behind before she stopped him again,

"Wait," She said with a stilled breath.

Her two hands both grasped his, stopping him and effectively holding him back. The soft, warm palms of her two hands enveloped his own hand which was much rougher and less dainty, " Let's at least try?" she said with hope,

"I already know," She told him, " I've already known about your condition...but still..." She went on, daring to step closer, " Still... Even then, it doesn't change the way I feel, and, in fact, It just fuels me to want to be with you even more, " She admitted.

"It's sudden, I understand, but at the very least, give me the opportunity to come closer to you." She tried to compromise,

"If you begin to feel the same way I do...then... then we can make something of it. " She told him, slowly convincing him with the lovely stare of her pleading, (e/c) colored eyes.

He reflects back to her proposal far more than he cares to mention because it had been the moment his life took a complete turn, going from muted grey and black to cheerful, colorful vibrancy in every step that she accompanied him in.

And it all lead him to where he was now, standing before her, dressed properly and prim, left awestruck at her beauty, moreso than he typically was, reminding him that perhaps his luck wasn't so bad if it had somehow aligned their lives together.

she held his hand in hers as she slid the silver band onto his finger, the smile she wore on her red painted lips never faltering, not once losing its lovely show of fulfilled happiness, because she couldn't be any more joy-filled, something everyone commented on.

- There wasn't a happier bride in the planet.

Her cheek was then pressed to his chest, her nose scrunching up as she let out a soft sigh, not sounding angry, but he knew she wasn't all too pleased either,

"You were smoking..." she said softly, closing her eyes slowly as she let her body be led by his slow movements.

He wasn't a dancer, and she wasn't either, but nonetheless, they rocked together, bodies pressed close as their friends watched the couple's first dance together.

"I can smell it on you," she added with a small sound of exhaled air produced from her nostrils.

She hated loving the scent, the smell of smoke making her think just of him and nothing more.

"I was nervous," he said in defense, his response making her giggle softly,

"Don't tell me you want out already?" she asked him, drawing back slightly to look up at him, saying it in a joking manner, but even then he could hear the uncertainty in her voice. 

"Because I think it's a little too late for that," She reminded him.

"...Do you?" he asked her back, and he watched her shake her head in denial,

"Of course not silly," She said earnestly.

And he loved what followed, what always came after she looked up at him,

"I never would," She breathed, her gleaming eyes soon straying down to her wedding band, lovingly eyeing the silver piece, " David, I loved you then..." she started sweetly, her gloved hands sliding up from his chest to his cheeks, " and I love you now..." she reminded him, rising up on her already heeled feet.

His paled blue eyes closed, his mouth melted onto hers before she brought him the tender heat of their plumped goodness.

His two hands then fell over her hips but didn't stop to land on them, instead, they slid around her, his arms taking complete hold of her during their loving connection in an embrace that spoke more than words ever could.

"I'll love you always," she managed to murmur between their mashed mouths.

A squeal of enjoyment left her as he squeezed her tightly within his arms, loving all the attention he fed her.

She lived for it; Blossoming beneath his rays of affection.

"David..." she said again, drawing back, her eyes brightened with a type of light he knew existed only when he stared at her, because the woman adored him, something he'd always found to be unbelievable, yet a bliss.

He'd gone days without the death stick, days which later turned into months, and finally years.

He'd gone the rest of his breathing days without so much a thinking of them, but not a single one of those passing dates did he resist her, always caving in to her, even in their darkest days.

By then he'd found out that there was something far more addicting than nicotine, and it was the sweet flavor of her lovely lips, the warmth of their tender press, and much more the dedication behind each one that she let graze him.

All in all, she became his one fixation, the one thing he couldn't ever dream of living without.

[shadowynnn]

star-crossed | part one |

star wars

pairing: ben solo/kylo ren x reader x general armitage hux

soulmate au

a/n: Due to names having significance in the soulmate aspect of this fanfic, the reader will have a name designated to better coincide with the soulmarks I have planned for each person. :)

~~~

“When you turned me down and said you had big plans for your birthday, Sol, I expected something a little more...I don’t know...big?”

Upon hearing your partner’s familiar voice, you rolled out from beneath the X-Wing you had been tinkering with and peered up at his hovering figure.

“I decided to fix up your precious X-Wing out of the goodness of my heart and this is the thanks I get, Dameron?” With a roll of your eyes, you attempted to keep the smile his words brought at bay as you sat up and unwrapped the bandanna tied around your thigh to wipe away the sweat threatening to pour into your eyes from hours of work. “You’re welcome, by the way,” you added, a smile finally breaking its way through as you quirked an eyebrow at the man, silently savoring the way his mouth twitched at your previous use of his last name.

“I just can’t believe you’d rather spend your special day with my starfighter instead of me.” Poe shook his head, faking a pout as he outstretched his hand towards you. “I mean, I really thought we were getting somewhere after our last mission together-you got a little smudge there, by the way” 

You wiped at the grease spot Poe had mentioned before taking his extended hand and letting him pull you to your feet. Your face scrunched up as your partner’s words brought up memories of the Kowakian ape-lizard. It had seemed to take weeks before you had finally managed to erase its scent from your mind and his reminder brought the pungent scent rushing back.

“Don’t go acting all bruised on me now, Poe.” You gave your partner a pointed look, throwing the memories of that mission far behind as you plopped yourself down on a nearby tool bench and took a long swig out of your canteen. “You know I don’t like celebrating my birthday.”

You meant the words in a casual manner but felt your demeanor fall as thoughts you had tried to push away by tinkering on Poe’s starfighter came tumbling back. Images of that terrible night rushed through your mind in swift flashes of fire, smoke, and blood. Nearly five years had passed but you could still hear the screams of the dying and feel the heat of the flames as they ravaged the temple. But worst of all, you could still clearly picture the boy whose name was slowly etching itself across your chest as he had begged for you to join him. And while you never dared mention the thought out loud, you couldn’t help but think it was all because of you.

As if sensing where your thoughts had tumbled, you felt a hand lightly brush across your bare thigh. Following his line of sight, you watched as Poe’s fingers gently trailed across the sweeping black letters that had appeared over your past birthdays.

With a soft sigh, you brushed Poe’s hand away in order to wrap your bandanna back around your leg and hide the other source of resentment for your birthday.

“It might not be him, you know. There aren’t enough letters to be-”

“But it is.” You shook your head interrupting Poe before he could finish his thoughts, a sharp bitterness in your tone. You were quick to soften though when you noticed the downward tilt of his lips. You hadn’t meant to direct your resentment towards him. He was just trying to help, after all. You were just frustrated at the cards fate had played you and the yearly reminder it brought. You were supposed to be counted lucky that you had two soulmates, but you didn’t see how anyone would think you were blessed. Ouf of the billions of souls in the universe, you had been given two people you could never be with. “I don’t know if it’s a soulmark thing or the bloody Force that tells me so, but it’s him. I’m certain of it.”

“Well, my offer still stands if you ever...you know...get a little lonely.” Poe’s eyebrows waggled as he gave you a knowing smirk. He may have not known about the other name etching itself on your body, only General Organa-er Leia as she had repeatedly told you to call her-knew about that one, but he was one of a very few select people who knew about the one you kept hidden with your trusted bandana and often jokingly offered - at least you were pretty certain it was a joke because lately, you had been more unsure - for the two of you to get together until he found his own soulmate, whoever the poor soul might be.

“Oh, keep dreaming, Dameron.” You tried to throw Poe a cutting glare as you promptly kicked him in the side, but you could only keep your smile at bay for a few seconds before it snuck its way through. He might have driven you crazy at times, but he always knew the right thing to do or say when you started slipping back into one of your darker, reclusive moods. No matter how alone you felt at times, Poe was always there to remind you he was there for you.

“Is there a reason you're here, or did you just feel like pestering me again?” You then asked after kicking him once more for the snide comment he muttered about your smile. “Unlike you apparently, I have work to get done, you know?” 

“Your ‘work’ will have to wait,” Poe answered. “General Organa’s assigned us another mission and while she wished it could have waited until after your birthday - which reminds me that she says happy birthday, by the way - we can’t afford to push it back. We need to leave as soon as you’re ready to.” 

“What’s the job?” You ask, your curiosity piqued at the way Poe seemed to straighten back up as he remembered why he came to find you in the first place. It had been a few weeks since you had last been able to leave the Resistance base and you were just itching to get away. It would also serve as a very welcomed distraction.

“A piece of the map’s been located.”

“Are you serious?” Your whole body froze and your earlier excitement suddenly faltered at his words. So much for that distraction. “This isn’t a joke, right? Because if it is, I swear Poe-” 

Poe shook his head interrupting you before you got yourself too worked up. “The General received a message from an old acquaintance on Jakku. We’ve got to go pick it up before the First Order also catches wind of its location and beats us to it.” 

“So, it’s finally happening.” You muttered softly more to yourself than in response to Poe as the weight of what this mission meant began to sink in. “I mean, I always thought we’d be able to, but still...” You shook your head in disbelief. “To think that we might be able to find him after everything that happened.” 

“Are you going to be okay?” Poe asked when your words trailed off and laid a hand tentatively on your shoulder. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. The general would understand, especially with your history...”

“No, no, I’m good,” you replied as you jumped down from the table, suddenly restless and eager to move as a million thoughts started flowing through your brain. “Can’t have you going off on your own, anyways. God knows how much trouble you’d get in without me.” You attempted to throw Poe a smile but the way his brows softened made you realize that he could see right through it. “Trust me, Poe, I’ll be fine.” You cupped one of Poe’s cheeks briefly with your hand as you spoke, in an attempt to reassure him as much as yourself.

You gave him another smile, this one just a bit less pitiful than the first one, before patting his cheek gently and running off to your room to get dressed and ready for the mission before he could argue any further on the matter and before you could talk yourself out of it.

~~~ 

The surface of Jakku was quiet as you and Poe quietly made your way to your destination. The only sounds to be heard were the distant rumblings of the village’s animals and a stray windchime tinkling in the wind. 

Despite the peaceful setting, you couldn’t help but feel on edge as you strayed close behind Poe, your hand hovering over the blaster attached to your belt as your eyes scanned the scene around you. It couldn’t be this easy. After years of searching for Skywalker and the map to lead you to him, it couldn’t be as simple as flying into the village and walking out with the map as this.

But there wasn’t another ship in the night sky and all was at peace on the surface below. You couldn’t make out another soul outside beside you and Poe and even the animals were calm in the pens. 

Upon finding the house of the man you were here to meet, Poe knocked quietly, his dark eyes studying the desert around you as you waited. A few seconds later, a hand pushed aside the curtain and motioned you in. You followed the commands quickly, eager to get out of plain sight and slipped inside the lighted hut while BB-8, Poe’s loyal droid, stayed outside to keep watch.

“Lor San Tekka?” Poe asked as the braided curtains came to a close behind you and the two of you got your first good look at him.

While he was along in age, his face was also wizened in a way which showed he had seen and been through much in his long lifetime. His hair, a bright white, was a stark contrast to his tanned skin, but it was his eyes which caught your attention the most. You could see a sadness in them, a deep mourning for some loss and a startling reflection of your own.

San Tekka nodded his head, moving to sit in one of the empty chairs while motioning for you and Poe to do the same. Once you were all seated, he reached inside his robe and brought out a small, leather sack. 

“This will begin to make things right,” He spoke softly, placing the sack in Poe’s hand and closing it. “I’ve traveled too far, and seen too much, to ignore the despair in the galaxy. Without the Jedi, there can be no balance in the Force.”

His eyes turned to you as he spoke about the lost order, somber eyes staring deep into your own with an understanding that startled you.

He knew. 

Somehow he knew, but you didn’t understand how.

“I can’t.” You shook your head furiously, panic rising in your voice as your hands clenched and unclenched in your lap. “I’m sorry, I just can’t, not after what happened.”

A sad smile filled his features as he reached to take your hands in his and calm their restless movements. 

“Try as you might, young Rhodair, you cannot forgo your destiny. The Force will always be a part of who you are and who you will become.”

You opened your mouth to argue his statement. The Force may always be a part of you, but you would be damned if you ever continued your Jedi training. The order may have been good, but it had only brought you trouble and grief. You would never be a Jedi now, not after everything that had happened. 

But before you could explain any of this, BB-8 interrupted, frantically beeping about an unknown fleet of ships entering the atmosphere as he rolled into the hut.

“We’ve got company.” 

You exchanged a nervous look with Poe, your old thoughts fading away as the growing predicament took priority. Although none of you dared to speak, you all knew whose ships were on their way. It was only a matter of time before the First Order had caught wind of the same tip you had and made their way here. You were just lucky you had managed to be a few minutes earlier.

Your hands slip out of San Tekka’s grip as you swiftly follow Poe out of the hut, a new fear rising up deep within you. You were no stranger to fights with the First Order, but you had never experienced one when you were so disadvantaged. It didn’t matter that you had the best pilot in the Resistance fleet with you, the two of you could never stand alone against an entire fleet of First Order soldiers.

Several of the other villagers were beginning to become aware of the coming ships when you made your way back into the open air. Growing shouts of surprise and warning were heard throughout the village around you. The previously quiet animals grew restless and filled the air with anxious squawking and braying. 

Poe took out his quadnoculars and began scanning the horizon to your east, his dark brows furrowing at what he saw. You couldn’t see what was coming in the dim light, but knew it couldn’t have been good based on his reaction.

“You have to hide.” Poe turned to San Tekka, his face twisted in concern as he handed the quadnoculars to you.

You felt your heart speed up as you saw the number of ships coming your way. There were at least a dozen that you could see at the moment and you didn’t doubt each ship itself held a dozen or two of stormtroopers with them. There would be at least a hundred stormtroopers in the village in a matter of seconds and all you had were yourself, Poe, BB-8, and a few scraggly villages. It was going to be a massacre unless you could think of something fast.

“And you have to go!” San Tekka responded leaving your stomach twisting as you spun around to face him startled at his words. You couldn’t leave them at a time like this. It would be impossible for this small village to be able to hold its own against the trained soldiers of the First Order and would no doubt be slaughtered when they found what they were searching for was no longer here. “Go! You must return the balance!” San Tekka added, pushing you and Poe in the direction of your ships when neither of you made a move to do what he had said. “I’ve done all that I can do. Our hope rests in you now!”

You didn’t want to leave the man but saw little choice. While the thought tore you up inside, you couldn’t sacrifice your help for the map. If you stayed and the First Order got their hands on it, then what hope was left for the Resistance and those who still believed in it? As awful as the thought settled in your stomach, the village had to be sacrificed for the good of the universe.

Exchanging a knowing look with Poe, the two of you took off in the direction of your ships. 

The quiet village quickly erupted into the chaos of a battlefield around you as the stormtrooper transports landed. Sounds of blasters filled the air as the little village tried their best to fend off the elite soldiers of the First Order, but dying screams were quick to follow as the shots hit their mark. 

You did your best to ignore them as you tore after Poe towards your fighters. In the back of your mind, you knew the First Order would be here even if you weren’t but you couldn’t help but feel guilty about their presence nonetheless. This village was innocent, it’s only crime housing a piece of Luke Skywalker’s map and they were paying with their lives.

Shaking your thoughts away, you scrambled inside your fighter. You needed to stay focused on the mission, on the importance of the map Poe had in his jacket. That was all that mattered at this moment. It held the only hope the universe had at this point.

Your fingers flitted over the buttons and screens in front of you, hurridly trying to bring the ship around you to life. But just as you felt the familiar rumble of the engines starting beneath you, you were jarred forward as it was hit. Glancing behind you, you found a few wandering stormtroopers.

“Shit!” You mumbled as your fighter was hit once more causing the engines to sputter a few more times before coming to a stop. 

Casting another glance at the approaching enemy, you saw them fall when Poe quickly took care of them, but his own fighter was starting to catch fire. You grumbled a few more curses as you clambered back out of your ship to assess the state of your X-Wings. You had just fixed his ship and now it was probably going to be scrapped or lost completely.

Your cursing only grew as you took in the state of your own. It would take hours for you to at least be able to get it back in working order, precious time you didn’t have at the moment. As your frustration grew, you gave your shot X-Wing a swift kick. You didn’t think this day could get any worse.

“You take this. It’s safer with you than it is with me.” You spun around thinking Poe was talking to you, but his attention was towards BB-8 as he offered the small robot the map. “It’s safer with you than it is with either of us.” 

BB-8 was quick to disagree but upon Poe’s determination it still begrudgingly took the map and locked it away. 

“Go on, BB-8, we’ll be fine.” You encouraged the bot when it looked to you despite Poe’s urges for it to leave. 

You didn’t like the idea of parting ways with BB-8, or the map for that matter, but knew it was your best bet at this point. With both of your ships completely shot at the moment, you would have to stay hidden to not only stay alive but escape capture as well. But upon glancing back at the battlefield, you felt your luck already beginning to run out. Your ships weren’t hidden and it wouldn’t be hard for the First Order to realize Resistance members were still on Jakku with the map. With that knowledge, you knew they would sweep the planet and kill anyone in their way until they found you. What BB-8 now held was that important to them and to you. Just as the villagers’ sacrifice was important, so would be your own.

“Don’t worry buddy, we’ll find you when this blows over.” You gave the small robot a reassuring pat on the head, hoping it was unable to see the worried state you were in. Glancing between the two of you once more, BB-8 let out a series of nervous beeps before taking off into the desert.

With the fighting starting to quiet down, you swiftly made your way to a nearby patch of grass to hide and watch the scene unfolding before you. The remaining villagers had started to surrender upon realizing their ultimate defeat and were being rounded up by gunpoint towards the center of the village. You found San Tekka among the survivors and shuddered at the slaughter that would undoubtedly take place among the First Order realizing they were moments too late.

The stormtroopers seemed to be waiting for something as they finished up rounding the villagers, though you were unsure as to what it might have been. It didn’t take long for your curiosity to be sated when another ship landed amongst the others, but you shuddered upon looking at it. This one was different. With the imposing vertical wingspan, you knew it belonged to someone of importance.

Deep down you knew who was aboard that ship before you saw them walk out, knew that it was only a matter of time before you were forced to face him again, but the reaction upon seeing his dark figure striding out was still inevitable.

Your entire body froze, a soft gasp escaping your throat as your eyes locked onto him. Visions of that night flashed before you once more, aided by the heavy smell of smoke and fire around you. 

Everything you had tried so hard to bury away came rushing back with a sudden ferocity you nearly cried out, only barely able to stop yourself with a quick hand to your mouth. You could hear his voice as he had begged you to join him, feel his hands as they had caressed your face, and then see his face through your tears as you had broken both of your hearts with just a few words.

“Sol?” You could barely hear Poe’s soft cry over the roaring in your head. “Sol? What’s wrong?”

Poe’s gentle hand against your cheek startled you causing you to nearly cry out again, but caught yourself just in time as you recognized the man beside you as only your partner.

“...I’m fine,” you managed to mumble out, breath heavy as you struggled to relax. “Just give me a minute.”

“You’re crying.” 

It was a simple statement and you saw his face soften dramatically despite the situation around you. You reached up, shocked to see Poe was right as you felt the wetness on your cheeks. You had been crying.

“I’m fine,” you mumbled out again, desperately wiping at the tears and hating the weakened state it put you in.

It didn’t matter that he was here, that you had to face him again after so many years. All that mattered was BB-8 getting the map to safety and you not getting caught. You couldn’t freak out now, couldn’t lose control of your emotions now when yours and Poe’s lives depended on it. You needed to straighten yourself up, but one quick glance in his direction and you were back in the past again.

Poe opened his mouth to debate the matter. He may have not known what was going through your head and upsetting you so much, but he did know it must have been significant because you always had such a tight lock on your emotions. 

He never got to voice his concern. Upon seeing your startled reaction to the scene unfolding before you, he quickly pushed aside his concern and turned just in time to see the dark figure from before cut down Lor San Tekka. And before he or yourself could stop him, his hand was at his blaster as he tried to kill the dark figure who had just slaughtered San Tekka.

A hand immediately stifled your mouth as you watched Poe’s idiotic move in horror, able to do nothing about it without exposing yourself and making the situation worse. Poe’s blaster shot only made it halfway to its target before it and Poe were frozen. 

Poe struggled against the invisible bonds of the force, clearly shocked at the display of power. You tried not to be too angry at him, he was ignorant to the power of the force, but you still couldn’t believe he thought he could take down the dark figure with a surprise shot. 

Your thoughts began to scramble at Poe’s capture, the only coherent thought was about how much of an idiot he was. You knew you needed to do something, anything to start formulating a plan on rescuing Poe without your capture as well, but your eyes kept falling onto the dark figure before you and all ability to focus and think fell apart. You were completely helpless.

It wasn’t until you saw them dragging Poe away that the weight of the situation began to kick your brain into overdrive. If you didn’t do something now, you would lose Poe. But what? What could you manage to do against a troop of First Order soldiers and the man from your past?

But before you could worry too much, you noticed the stormtrooper approaching him from the side and then the sharp point in the direction of where your ships were at. Someone else had found them and now they knew Poe wasn’t the only Resistance fighter on the planet.

You slinked further into the shadows when both men suddenly turned in your direction. And then Poe, noticing this exchange and the men heading in your direction, started struggling against his captors causing you to curse the man once again. 

The troops picked up their pace when your location was verified by Poe’s actions and you swiftly took your blaster in your hands. You weren’t going down without a fight, you weren’t going to be forced to face him again without a fight.

But despite your determination, you only got off a few rounds before the blaster was knocked from your hands and you were forced to your knees. You struggled against your captors, cursing and kicking as you were dragged out of your hiding spot and into his view. 

You told yourself not to look, to not give him the satisfaction of seeing your face, of knowing it was you, but you couldn’t do it. You could feel his eyes on you, almost hear the soft intake of his breath at the shock of your presence after all these years.

You looked up at him from the distance and felt the sharp tug at your chest from the mark which laid there. His eyes caught yours quickly and despite the mask which kept his face from you, you could still see and feel the reaction your sudden presence pulled. 

Once again, you felt the sharp tug at your chest, a cruel reminder of just who this man before you was before you felt the biting sting of the butt of a gun against the back of your head and everything went black.

~~~

part two  |  part three

[thesilverheroineproject]

Kate Zambreno’s Heroines is a hard book to read. Every page is a reckoning with the unbearable phallocentrism of Writing as An Institution, and for the reader who’s also a marginalised, struggling writer and/or female, it’s a memory trigger. There’s a thread running through Heroines that memory-work is political. That the literary canon is “a memory campaign that verges on propaganda, that the books remembered are the only ones worth reading.” It’s impossible to review the book dispassionately. Zambreno’s style invites personal recollection; it’s affecting, and in order to get what she’s doing with this book one has to be able to feel it.

Heroines is part literary criticism, part literary history, part memoir, part feminist polemic. In its form and in its writing, Heroines is what the author is trying to rescue and reclaim: to use Zambreno’s favourite words, it's messy, girly, and excessive. It’s also sharp, finely-structured, and meticulously (voraciously) researched. Heroines grew out of Zambreno’s blog, Frances Farmer is My Sister, or more precisely, the blog grew out of ideas for a book. In an interview with The Rumpus, Zambreno talks about her earlier plans to write a fictionalised notebook titled “Mad Wife”—and is comprised of many things, but is most clearly made up of equal parts rage and reflection.

Zambreno began blogging after her partner took up a university job in Akron, Ohio, and the early sections of Heroines record much of what Zambreno finds stultifying and destabilising about being The Wife in a new place: “I have become used to wearing, it seems, the constant pose of the foreigner.” Like Helene Cixous in “Coming to Writing”, Zambreno begins to form an invisible community—communing with the women writers and the “mad wives of modernism”—a community borne out of invention, yes, but also need. The brutal honesty with which Zambreno recognises her particular condition—“I am realising you become a wife, despite the mutual attempt at an egalitarian partnership, once you agree to move for him”—is both disruptive and comforting to the reader. Here is a truth alongside other truths and someone is finally speaking it, but here is the truth and we must now face it.

At the end of reading Heroines, I had accumulated about 17 pages of handwritten notes. Heroines brought into clear view for me names that had only circulated vaguely around my head from an undergraduate survey course in Modernism in Literature. Perhaps my professors had mentioned Zelda Fitzgerald and Vivien(ne) Eliot’s writing, but then why didn’t I remember any of it? The result is that I read the early sections of Heroines with a kind of numb shock. As Maggie Nelson writes in her blurb for the book, “if you didn’t know much [about the “wives” of modernism], your mouth will fall open in enraged amazement.” Vivien(ne) and Tom’s troubled and troubling marriage; Vivien(ne)’s writing cast aside, T.S. Eliot the writer winning the Nobel Prize a year after her death—after he left her, after he hid in bathrooms allowing his secretaries to calm his “mad” wife, after using her lines, her typing services, and disregarding her worth as her writer. Vivien(ne) with her female maladies, staining the bedsheet red. Zambreno tells us of what Vivien(ne)’s brother said to Michael Hastings, the British playwright who wrote Tom & Viv: “Viv’s sanitary towels always put a man off.”

Dear reader, I read that and saw red.

These “wives” of modernism didn’t just suffer at the hands of various men, including their husbands, but were also negated or ignored, made invisible or an object of derision by other women, particularly women writers like Virginia Woolf who had to slay their own demons both in life and on the page. Woolf, who so memorably and wittily describes Vivien(ne) as “this bag of ferrets … Tom wears around his neck”. Zambreno writes: “I think of Viv as the mad double Virginia both identifies with and wants to disassociate herself from.” And this is perhaps also something that infuses Elizabeth Hardwick’s critical writings of other women writers.

Hardwick’s essay on Zelda Fitzgerald in Seduction and Betrayal is curiously committed to omitting the recognition of gender and patriarchal norms; she talks of Zelda and Scott as being twins, and how “only one of the twins is the real artist”, seemingly complacent in her acceptance of the accepted notion that F. Scott Fitzgerald was the real artist while his wife was merely mildly talented, but more of a dilettante. It seems like a neverending senseless loop, this question of artistry, genius, and legitimacy: only a real artist like F. Scott Fitzgerald would be acclaimed; thus, because F. Scott is acclaimed, he is the real artist. Nowhere in this interrogation does Hardwick devote much attention to how phallocentrism structures the creative output of men and women, and how it structures how those works are received. As Zambreno points out, even while Hardwick seems sympathetic to Zelda’s situation, she seems keen to distance herself from that kind of “mess”, to render a particular form of female experience as sick, perhaps, and dysfunctional, and therefore something to be pitied but not common or predictable or in any way relatable.

But then I think of Linda Wagner-Martin’s biography of Zelda, and how she writes that “Zelda’s crack-up gave [Scott] both alibi and cover.” If men’s wives are officially mad—diagnosis confirms it!—then men are never to blame. Badly-behaving, outright misogynist husbands can be forgiven, excused, comforted, and indulged. But as Zambreno points out through all her meticulous research of these ignored and sidelined women, all Zelda wanted to do was whatever she needed to do at the time: write, using her own life—herself—as the material. This made the Real Writer of the marriage, the husband, really, really angry. Scott tells Zelda, “You were going crazy and calling it genius.” Hardwick seems to buy this assessment in her essay. Zambreno explains: “In a way, Hardwick’s essay reads as an elaborate defense of the supreme rights of (male) artist.” Wagner-Martin, in her biography: “The irony of the Scott-Zelda relationship from the start, however, was that Scott regularly usurped Zelda’s story.”

Heroines is thus also a meditation on writing and the act of creation: whose lives count as “material”, and who gets to use and shape the material into the story? Whose hand guides the words? When it’s women who are mining their own lives for both material and meaning, it’s all-too easily seen as easy, lazy, unreflective, unworthy work. “The self-portrait, as written by a woman, is read as somehow dangerous and indulgent,” Zambreno writes, and asks, “Why is self-expression, the relentless self-portrait, not a potentially legitimate form of art?” For me, these questions bring up attendant questions about writing and accountability, about how the need to create can be an almost-parasitical hunger that feeds on people’s lives, even (or perhaps especially) their own.

Zambreno takes exception to Toril Moi’s aversion to a certain type of women’s confessional writing in Sexual/Textual Politics, where Moi dismisses it as a kind of “narcisstic delving into one’s own self”. Yet these are questions that trouble me, and I can’t oppose them as clearly as Zambreno does, to see all objection to narcissism (or even the use of the term narcissism) as a form of censorship that attempts to silence women’s writing. Clearly the fact of sexism structures how writing and publishing operate as an institution, and Zambreno certainly makes a fine case about just how openly and covertly patriarchy attempts to silence women’s voices that do not fit its image of “good woman”.

But I also wonder about the dangers of looking inward, the idea of the self that might harden and become its own kind of hegemony. The danger when one starts to believe that one’s condition doesn’t reveal a particular human condition, but is the human condition. Can looking inward feed upon itself so thoroughly that it, does, in fact, become a form of narcissism? Where you’re so attuned to your own pain that you’re unable to recognise the pain of others, or worse, imagine that your pain is the pain of others?

I recognise that a big part of Zambreno’s project in Heroines is its effort of reclamation: as such, she tells the stories of the neglected, abandoned, derided writers and writer-wives of literary history in order to project a different, erased history. As such, her perspective is clear and focus is sharp: these women are rescued from formerly patriarchal narratives and given new forms of being in the pages of Heroines. Still, all of these women are white, and most of them come from a background with roots in bourgeois respectability, and so I recognise that while another story is being told, the whole story is, perhaps, still unclear.

Heroines is a record of how these women were wronged, and it’s a necessary intervention into both literary history and criticism, but we don’t hear anything about how these women may have used their class and social position and their whiteness in order to get ahead, how they may have exploited other people, people who were economically, politically, and socially positioned as middle and upper class white women’s lesser others. (I think of Toni Morrison’s 1989 interview in Time magazine, quoted in Nina Power’s One Dimensional Woman, where Morrison talks about the old-boys network and the “shared bounty of class.” Although many of the women writers Zambreno writes about were often deprived of independent income, and some even fell into poverty, I still wonder about the class networks and social connections that may have worked in their favour, even when patriarchy stood in the way.)

As such, these women tend to come off uniformly victimised, wholly victims of patriarchy and nothing else. And while I recognise Zambreno’s need to record instances of “girl-on-girl” crime, it also makes me somewhat uncomfortable—as though all writing by women, then, is somehow necessarily above criticism. This is a grey and complex area, obviously, but I can’t help but wonder if this lets women writers off the hook a little too easily. Criticism from other women critics can often stem from internalised sexism, no doubt, but other forms of criticism take to task certain forms of confessional writing by women writers because it stays silent on issues of race, class, and sexuality, or worse, considers those issues unimportant in relation to one’s own work. Zambreno writes:

"This idea that one must control oneself and stop being so FULL of self remains a dominating theory around mental illness, and, perhaps tellingly, around other patriarchal laws and narratives, including the ones governing and disciplining literature."

This is certainly true, but I would rather not see it as an either/or option: either write, FULL of self, or suppress the self and suffer. The problem of writing the self is that the self can become all-encompassing, preventing the writer from hearing the stories of others. Being full of self can work as a form of self-care and self-preservation, and this is necessary, but sometimes the self needs to be shattered open into recognising and accepting other possibilities. So there is a danger, perhaps, in not interrogating statements like “The subaltern condition of being a literary wife,” when literary wives may at least get a stab at writing and giving voice to their thoughts on the page, while the true subaltern (may speak, write, shout, scream) and remain unheard by ears that are trained only to listen to the voice of the self or voices that sound similar to the self. There is a form of power in writing, despite how it’s received—and perhaps this is a power that is all too conveniently ignored by those of us who do write.

And Zambreno does exhort her girl readers/writers to write—“to write and refuse erasure while we’re living at least”—and is ecstatic about the proliferation of Tumblrs, blogs, and Livejournals by girls and young women that are at turns “emo, promiscuous, gorgeous, dizzying, jarring, irreverent, cinephilic, consumed, consuming, wanting, wiity, violent, self-loathing or self-doubting”, to quote just some of her adjectives, I’m also wondering about the attendant tyranny of these forms of social media and blog platforms that demand and require the personal. If we’re writing on the internet we’re using some if not most of this technology, and all of us are daily exhorted to share, divulge, like, favourite, promote, or take a gpoy or a selfie.

While it’s true that many subvert the rules of engagement on social media and blog platforms—by posting deliberately unappealing selfies, for example, or selfies of the ungroomed self—the internet is also run by corporations who try to exploit, in increasingly covert and “creative” ways, users’ personal information. And the young, pretty, wayward girl is now profitable data in a still (still!) sexist society. So much of girls’ writing online, like in the case of Marie Calloway, is (still!) used against them. One thinks about the problem of encouraging girls to write and also to be responsible and accountable to themselves and to each other; the problem of how to use oneself and one’s loved ones as material or content with care in a culture of increased surveillance, especially when the technology we use for writing and performing is also the technology that enables the surveillance and scrutiny.

In her earlier works of fiction O Fallen Angel and Green Girl, Zambreno gave us devastating yet finely-wrought portraits of girls in distress—portraits of acute suffering, where the girl in question (Maggie in O Fallen Angel, Ruth in Green Girl) is unable to consider the world outside of her because she is, in some ways, trapped inside. This, I think, is a testament to Zambreno’s intelligence and artistry—and a cultivated sense of empathy—and also a searing portrait of the fractious and unstable female self and its relation to mental illness. An important theme in Heroines is the institutionalisation and medicalisation of women—how the same misogyny that brings about or catalyses the splits in self in the female subject is the same misogyny that is applied to treat and “cure” it, and it is in these passages that Zambreno is particularly acute, sensitive, and moving. As she points out, language is itself complicit: “I’ve always found the language of borderline personality diagnosis, a label assigned to women almost entirely, compelling in that it’s an identity disorder which is defined almost exclusively by not actually having an identity.” Zambreno writes about always having had a “tremendous fear of being institutionalised”—and relates this to how works and canonised:

"(She was institutionalized, as Mad Woman, as Bad Wife, and he was institutionalized, as the Great American Author.)"

Institutionalisation is also a memory campaign, where the man-artist is generalised and the woman-artist individualised. I’d like to think of Heroines as a cure for this wilful, institutionalised amnesia. It’s a book that has lodged itself in my mind and likely to stay there for a long time, despite, or maybe even because of some of my problems with certain sections of the book. It seems fitting to let Zambreno have the last word:

"Fuck the canon. Fuck the boys with their big books."

[tipsycad147]

Planetary Magic 7: Saturn, Karma and Protection

by Christopher Penczak | Jan 13, 2014

Saturn, the last of the ancient planets, is perhaps the most maligned astrological force at play in our life. The medieval astrologers called it the Greater Malefic. It was known as the planet of death because during the dark ages, the life span of the average person was around 30, close to the twenty-nine and a half year cycle of Saturn moving through the twelve zodiac signs. In actuality, Saturn is the planet of karma, limitations and discipline, now associated with the Saturn return, an approximate thirty year cycle in our life that often forces us to confront our past lessons and gain their wisdom before entering a new cycle. Ever notice how people seem to go a bit crazy around thirty? Culturally we think its about entering a new age bracket, but it has a lot to do with astrology. For those who are aware, it can be a great period of learning and growth. For those who struggle and rage against it, and even those who don’t, it can be a period of trials and frustration. In the astrological cycle, one is not fully an adult until the end of the first Saturn cycle.

The planet is the last of the inner planets, the last traditionally visible planet known to the ancient astrologers. The remaining planets are the modern, outer planets. So Saturn represents the limit, the end of the known realm and the last thing we can see clearly. The rings of Saturn are beautiful, perfectly ordered chunks of ice and rock. Saturn’s gravity maintains the discipline and perfection of the rings. Rings too, represent limits, bindings and boundaries. Initially the ice and ice covered rocks were without order, and Saturn came in during the formation of the solar system to bring order to the chaos of this debris. That is the power and function of Saturn, to bring structure, order and limits.

Like Jupiter, Saturn has an intricate Moon system, with ten Moons in all. It’s largest Moon, Titan, is the size of Mercury. As Jupiter is second only to the Sun in gravitational power, Saturn is second only to Jupiter, making it a “heavy weight” in terms of spiritual power. Like Jupiter, Saturn is a spiritual teacher. Jupiter is expansion to Saturn’s power of contractions. They are the first of the spiritual planets, or the upper octaves of the personal planets. Saturn is considered the upper octave of the Moon, both tied together through the concept of karma. The symbol of Saturn is a cross on top of a crescent Moon.

Spiritually, Saturn is associated with both the root chakra and the crown. As the ruler of the root, Saturn relates the earth element, the physical world and all the trials and limitations that come with being in the world. As the ruler of the crown, Saturn represents the resolution of karma, and the move into higher consciousness. Saturn is the teacher, but unlike Jupiter, it is a taskmaster teacher. My teacher, Jan Brink of Unicorn Books in Arlington Massachusetts describes Saturn in such a wonderfully helpful way. Saturn is like the small still voice within. When you listen to it, everything is fine. When you don’t, Saturn manifests whatever you are ignoring in your life, usually as a challenge that you are forced to face. The metal of Saturn is traditionally lead, because it represents the weight of the responsibilities we carry.

Magically, Saturn is the power of manifestation. It brings things into form, both our karma and our intentions, if they match our spiritual path. Saturn is the master of discipline, named after the Roman version of the Greek Chronos, the Titan associated with the harvest and reaping both rewards and consequences. Saturn is often like our Father Time and Grim Reaper archetype mixed into one. In the Kabalah, Saturn is associated with the sephiroth of Binah, and linked to the divine feminine, cosmic goddess and destroyer. Saturn is the power of the primal and ancient ones in any culture – the first gods, the Ancient Father and Mother.

The sign of Saturn is the earth sign Capricorn, the mountain goat, and because the Sun enters the sign of Capricorn at the Winter Solstice, a time traditionally associated with the birth of the divine child in many cultures, Saturn is also linked with the divine child of life and rebirth. Saturn has many divine faces. It matters not which one we listen to, as long as we listen to that small voice of guidance before it becomes the landslide.

Saturn can be called upon for magic involving protection, since it binds and limits. Use it to bind and limit any harmful energy directed to you. It is not the power of the warrior’s protection, such as Mars. It is the power to simply neutralise, inhibit and banish harm. If harmful energy is like a bullet, Mars protection dodges, deflects and counterattacks. Saturn simply robs the bullet of momentum, grounding it.

Saturn can be called upon in ritual to make your karmic “lessons” more clear to you, to understand the repercussions of your actions. Saturn rituals are great for understanding what is occurring in your life, and why. The sephiroth of Binah translates to understanding. Call on Saturn to understand your current challenges.

Use this planet’s energy when you have chaos in your life, to bring order and structure. Use it to gain discipline to complete a goal or maintain a program. I’ve used Saturn’s energy to keep on exercise and diet routines, when needing discipline. The power of Saturn is well known in the eastern yogic and martial art traditions.

Saturn can be used in any spell requiring a manifestation on the physical plane, in particular this energy resonates with some prosperity magic, if you have earned the boon through hard work and responsibility, and for magic involving getting promotions, climbing a social or corporate structure, using authority and wielding power. Keep in mind Saturn also reminds us of the repercussions of all our actions, so in keeping with the Wiccan Rede and other magical axioms, “do what you will and let it harm none.” Saturn will teach you responsibility if you do not use its powers responsibly.

•METALS: Lead, Pewter, Zinc

•MINERALS: Apache Tear, Bone, Calcium, Coal, Coral –Black, Diamond, Garnet, Hematite, Howlite, Jasper –Brown, Jet, Obsidian, Onyx, Quartz –Black, Salt, Serpentine, Tiger’s Eye – Blue, Tourmaline -Black

•PLANTS: Aconite, Amaranthus, Barley, Beech, Beets, Boneset, Burdock Root, Cactus, Carnation, Clematis, Comfrey, Cornflower, Cramp Bark, Cypress, Datura, Dog Grass, Elm, Fern, Fleawort, Garlic, Heart’s Ease, Hellebore, Hemlock, Hemp, Horsetail, Irish Moss, Ivy, Knotweed, Laurel, Lobelia, Low John Root, Mandrake, Mastic, Morning Glory, Moss, Mullein, Myrrh, Nightshade, Onion, Orris Root, Pansy, Patchouly, Pine, Poke Root, Poplar, Potato, Quince, Rue, Scullcap, Shepherd’s Purse, Snakeweed, Solomon’s Seal, St. Joan’s Wort, Tamarind, Tobacco, Tonka Bean, Walnut, Witch Grass, Witch Hazel, Yew

In particular with Saturn herbs, I highly recommend checking a good medical herbal book before ingesting any. Learn which herbs are poisonous, since one of the magical signatures of Saturn is toxicity. Saturn was known as the planet of death once, so unless you literally want to learn that lesson, don’t ingest any.

The best day to do Saturn rituals is Saturday, which is, of course, Saturn’s day in the magical days of the week. Only fitting that the traditional last day of the week is the day of Saturn. Typically Saturn is a night of fun and partying for many in the western world, before the day of worship on Sunday. This night is reminiscent of the Saturnalia, the Roman festival at the Winter Solstice, in honor of Saturn. As a festival of merriment, things are turned upside down, and slaves were often waited upon by masters. Normal societal rules were reversed.

The yearly Saturn period, at least for those in the Northern Hemisphere is the last 52 days of the Zodiac year, from January 27 to approximately March 21. This timing gives us again the image of Saturn as old man winter. Your personal Saturn period is the 52 days before your birthday, signifying an end to one year, one cycle, before beginning another. This is an important time to reflect spiritually on your life, and release all that doesn’t serve you. Yogis say that it is terribly important to maintain a daily spiritual practice, avoid gossip and live with the highest integrity, but that advice can be given for the entire year.

Try this Saturn ritual when you are confronted with the confusion of life’s problems and seek to know the reasons why. Simply anoint yourself with myrrh oil when standing before your altar or other magical work space. Draw the glyph of Saturn, the cross with a crescent, looking much like the lowercase letters t and h combined, and ask with heartfelt honesty, by the power of Saturn, to have the lessons of the situation revealed to you, with clarity and understanding. Burn or bury the paper with the glyph and then listen. The answer may not be immediate, and may not come through the typical mystical means, but it will come. Listen to your friends and family and seemingly random messages that might have significance. Listen to the small still voice within, and find your answers.

Next: Uranus and Revolution.

Resources:

* A Salem Witch’s Herbal by Laurie Cabot. Celtic Crow Publishing.

* Archetypes of the Zodiac by Kathleen Burt. Llewellyn.

* Astrological Magick by Estelle Daniels. (Samuel Weiser)

* Astrology From A to Z by Eleanor Bach. Evens and Company.

* Cunningham’s Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs and Cunningham’s Encyclopedia of Crystal, Gem & Metal Magic, by Scott Cunningham. Llewellyn.

* Lifting the Veil: Practical Kabbalah with Kundalini Yoga by Gurunam. Rootlight Publishing

https://christopherpenczak.com/2014/01/13/planetary-magic-7-saturn-karma-and-protection/

[shima-draws]

Here it is...the AU I’ve been hinting at lately!!

It’s called Tied Dimensions! I’d give you a basic summary but it’s all already written out below, so you can just read that and get the gist :’) I just think the whole concept is super exciting so.

Read and enjoy!! (It’s from Keef’s POV btw)

My world ended about two hundred and fifty years ago.

We call it World’s Terminus. An unexplained phenomena that plunged the world into darkness and terror, without any prior warning. Nobody saw it coming. Therefore, nobody was prepared. There isn’t much one can do when the world begins to fall apart around them, except run and cower and hide—that is, if you can even make it that far.

I’m what comes after World’s Terminus—what remains of humanity from our planet’s collapse. Billions of people were wiped out from the incident, and the rest were left to rebuild society and start anew. Not that it was easy, considering everything important had been destroyed in the turmoil.

The one really sad thing about my existence is that, even though the world’s population is alarmingly low and needs all the life it can get, I was abandoned. Cast out. Not needed.

I live at a dingy old orphanage on the edge of a broken town, along with the rest of humanity’s unwanted. We’re a gang of angry, depressed misfits who curse what our world has come to, and wonder where it all went wrong. Not that we’d be able to change the outcome, anyway. It’s way too late for that.

This world no longer has any color, not that anybody alive remembers what having color is like. Everything green died, the sky turned a murky gray and all life seemed to be sucked out of the ground like a vacuum. There are still a few artifacts left behind of the world that was before World’s Terminus—but I’ve never seen them. They’re kept in the highest places in society, where the rich and elite live clinging on to the edges of their sanity. Old photographs, paintings and images from the past, the only things left in this world that still have color.

Not that everything has turned completely monotone, of course not. But anything that was once vibrant has none of that brilliance anymore, leaving us in a town full of grays, blacks and browns, and not much else. I have no idea what the color red looks like. Isn’t that utterly tragic?

I spend my days ostracized by the bullies of the orphanage, and ordered around by our so-called caretakers. None of them are kind people, so I’ve learned to do what I’m told without complaint or face beatings.

Any hope I might have had towards escaping this godforsaken place vanished years and years ago. People don’t want to adopt children, they’re too busy figuring out how to survive, how to keep their heads straight on a planet that hasn’t seen the sun in over two-hundred years. Our skies are always gray now, our whole lives are gray. What a boring, dull color.

I’m almost eighteen now. In a few months, I’ll finally be able to break free and cast off, off to some place that doesn’t reek of death and sadness, and at least try to find a place for myself in this world. I’ll no longer have to bow down to the obligations of the people who have raised me, and I won’t have to ever see the twisted, ugly faces of my peers who think they’re everything, when they’re actually nothing.

On the days where I feel more alone and angry than ever, I sneak out the back window and go exploring through the ruins of World’s Terminus.

Not much has happened to our planet after it came to an abrupt end, so things have stayed in tact quite well over the centuries. Old buildings from years and years ago still stand, and it’s in these buildings I like to poke around and see what I can find. The place I frequent most often is the old school building, a couple miles away from the orphanage.

Whenever I walk through the dusty halls and abandoned classrooms I feel this strange sense of nostalgia wash over me, and I desperately wish I could have had a normal life, attending school and making actual friends. My “brothers” and “sisters” at the orphanage don’t count. I’m not sure what having friends is like, but whatever relationship we happen to share is definitely not that.

It’s on one of these days when I come back from my adventures that everything I knew gets turned upside down. Literally.

There’s a visitor at the orphanage, which rarely ever happens at all. That’s the first sign that something is up. Secondly, and much to my immense shock, this stranger is dressed in the strangest clothing I’ve ever seen, and—there’s color. Some weird hue I’ve never seen before, except maybe reflected in the shadows of my eyes. Purple…that’s what I’ve been told what color my eyes are. Or, at least, dark purple.

The stranger’s eyes light up upon seeing me, and I only have moments to take in his short black hair and healthy skin tone before he grabs my hand and shakes it eagerly.

“You’re Keith, right? Keith Kogane.”

He tells me he wants me to participate in a special project with him. Doesn’t really give any more details than that, even when I ask him who he is or where he comes from. The only thing I manage to get is his name—Shiro. Takashi Shirogane, but his friends call him Shiro. So this guy has friends…

Needless to say I’m skeptical, I mean, who wouldn’t be? This isn’t some sort of fairy tale where I’m the chosen hero who gets tossed into a grand adventure trying to save a princess or some bullshit. This world doesn’t work that way. It’s too dreary and lifeless for something that magical to happen to me of all people.

In the end, though, my curiosity wins over my suspicions, so I eventually decide to go with him.

If this turns out to be some sort of plot to lure me out and kill me, fine. It’s not like I have much to live for, anyway. I’ve just been biding my time until something happens—either I die from some tragic accident or finally get out of that hell house of an orphanage and try to make it on my own.

To my confusion, Shiro takes me to the old school building. A sense of apprehension builds up in my gut, telling me that this might be a murder attempt after all. Should I make a run for it?

“I’ve chosen you because you’re special, Keith,” Shiro explains as we weave our way through the halls, kicking up dust as we go. Oh, great. Not this bullshit again.

“You have an ability that not many other people have. That’s why…” He pauses to let out a soft laugh. “Well, you’ll see in a bit. I don’t want to overwhelm you right away.”

We reach the door to the courtyard, where we come to a halt. I gaze at the taller man curiously, with his sharp eyes and strong jaw, and wonder who the hell he is. Maybe he’s just crazy. Maybe he’s some elite bastard who went off the rails and decided to abduct a teenager to play games with him.

Shiro grabs the handle of the door and pulls, which is obviously stupid because these doors open outward, so you have to push them—

A weird click sounds. Shiro jiggles the door handle and, suddenly, slides the door to the right.

What. The fuck? Since when did it ever do that?

“Alright, here goes.” He gives me a smile and with a final tug, pulls it open.

I step out onto the other side of the courtyard door. What I find there is something that immediately brings me to tears.

More colors than I’ve ever seen before in my life greet my eyes. They bloom and blossom and explode in such a vibrancy that it makes me dizzy, crowding in all around and putting pressure on my skull.

The courtyard is teeming with life—grass sways in the wind, there’s the sound of laughter coming from somewhere off in the distance, and an enormous tree rustles above my head, scattering leaves here and there. I look up and see the sun for the first time, blinding and dazzling, so very bright.

It all sort of happens too quickly for me to process, so after instantaneously bursting into tears, I have to crouch down and bury my face in my knees. It’s too much. Too much information, too many colors I don’t know, it’s so vibrant and beautiful—

“Is that Shiro’s pet project?”

“Hey, n—what did you do to him, Shiro?”

Shiro sounds apologetic and slightly panicked. “I didn’t think—he’s overwhelmed. It’s too much for him to process. I’m sorry, Keith.”

“Aw, the poor thing!”

“Well yeah, if you bring him in from a world with no color to this he’s gonna freak out, dude. Sensory overload, you know?”

“Matt’s gonna kick your ass for this.”

“Keith, are you alright?”

My head is pounding and the world as I know it is swaying in front of my eyes, but I nod. Yes. I’m more than alright, I just—

“Hey, take it easy there, man. It’s a lot to take in, right?”

A voice sounds right next to my ear, melodical and soft. I can’t help but peek through my fingers a little.

Sitting in front of me is the most gorgeous human being I’ve ever laid my eyes on. And maybe that’s biased, coming from me, but it’s the truth. Sun-kissed skin and dark brown hair, a mischievous expression and lanky but strong limbs, and once again the weirdest clothing I’ve ever seen are what makes up this mysterious yet beautiful boy that has come into my midst. And the most astonishing thing of all are his eyes, a couple shades darker than the sky. I don’t know what color they are, but I think it’s my favorite now.

The boy tilts his head and beams at me, flashing a pair of pearly white teeth. Around him his friends all smile down at me, bursting, bursting with color. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more breathtaking.

This is…this is…

“Welcome to our world, Keith!”

This is World’s Variegation.

AND THAT’S IT!! TIED DIMENSIONS :’)

To sum things up: Keith lives in a world after the apocalypse, where there is no life, no meaning, and no color. One day Shiro shows up to the orphanage he lives at and takes him into an alternate dimension through the courtyard door that is teeming with life and color, things Keith’s never seen before, so he sorta has a breakdown and gets suuuuper overwhelmed. Like Lance said. Sensory overload it’s too much for his brain (which usually only sees dark colors and shades of gray) to take haha Keith learns that he is a Traverser, someone who can travel between dimensions, or rather what he calls World’s Terminus and World’s Variegation (I know the definition usually refers to plants, but I mean the definition as in “diversity of colors” so yeah haha). Shiro has chosen him to take part in the TDP, Tied Dimensions Project, which serves as a basis for research on both worlds and their connection to each other. However!! Like all of my AUs there’s a big secret behind the research and exactly why Shiro brought Keith to the other world. Throughout all of this Keith jumps back and forth between the dimensions every day, since he legally still belongs to the orphanage and has to go back. He starts to discover what LIVING really means with the help of all of Shiro’s friends, and starts falling in love with Lance. He gets to experience what the world could have been like if World’s Terminus never happened, and does all these amazing things he would have never even thought to dream of before...

Anyway yeah that’s the AU!! It’s really fun to think about and have Keith experience all these new and exciting things and just get overwhelmed about it all the time but his friends are like “It’s okay, we get it, just take a second to sit down and relax and chill” and it’s. NICE

SO YEAH HOPE YOU ENJOYED //JAZZ HANDS 

[projectalbum]

Radio songs. 189. “Green,” 190. “Out of Time,” 191. “Automatic for the People,” 192. “Monster,” 193. “New Adventures in Hi-Fi" by R.E.M.

For R.E.M., signing to Warner Bros Records meant reaching more people, in the U.S. and abroad. It meant a bigger promotional push behind their albums.

It meant an exponential increase in their touring schedule, to the point where all four were pretty burned out by the idea after being on the road for most of ’88-’89. But for me, it was a move that meant my favorite music in existence was allowed to sprout from the fertile loam of commercialism.

If you’ll remember from my previous post, it was a compilation of songs from the WB era that first made me a fan. And it was the first few albums under that banner that made R.E.M. superstars, i.e. a band established enough that I would be aware of them growing up. It’s hard for me to grasp the amount of R.E.M. saturation that existed from roughly ’88 - ’94. By the time I was humming “What’s The Frequency, Kenneth?” and “Orange Crush” in high school, it was 2005 and the band’s incandescence had faded to the soft, respectable glow of “Dad Rock.” They were hipper than the Billy Joel & Electric Light Orchestra discs that they had replaced in my repertoire, but as far as my peers were concerned, barely. 

The first Christmas after I had announced myself as a fan brought, in shiny happy gift wrapping, Green (#189) and Out Of Time (#190). A veritable Mandolin-apalooza: in the campfire folk trance of “You Are The Everything,” mournful character study “The Wrong Child,” and midnight hippie spiritual “Hairshirt” that are scattered through the mix of Green, and powering the über-hit that secured their legacy, “Losing My Religion,” on Out Of Time. My relationship to those tracks has dipped and risen through the years— I was much less open to strange acoustic explorations back then (or in the case of “LMR,” its overfamiliarity), so I tended to skip them. I grooved on the electric menace of “Turn You Inside-Out” and the poptimism of “Untitled.”

“World Leader Pretend,” in which all the band’s instruments, including Stipe’s voice, seemed tuned to a lower register than ever before (now THAT’S some counter-programming to the bubblegum of “Stand”), has become a God-level composition in my mind. It’s gained some resurgence recently, seen as a pointed critique of the venal and power-hungry who are obsessed with controlling geopolitical barriers. "I raised the wall / And I will be the one to knock it down,” the protagonist intones, and yeah, “the Wall” has a connotation for current events in 2018, as it did 30 years ago (roughly a year after the album’s release, Berlin’s concrete schism was demolished). But I hear the divided self in “World Leader Pretend”: the man erecting the walls of his own isolation chamber, shoring up his fragile ego against outer pain, denying the possibility for connection. "I decree a stalemate, I divine my deeper motives / I recognize the weapons / I've practiced them well, I fitted them myself.” In other words, I hear myself.

Fortunately, he concludes that it’s within his power to level these barriers he's constructed, and I feel I can learn the same lesson. There’s a triumphant slide guitar in the bridge, an iconically Country-Western flavor that the band returns to on one of the most indelible tracks on Out of Time— the descriptively-titled “Country Feedback.” Heartache on an epic scale, deliberate, hypnotic tempo but bubbling like a volcano, the words a stream-of-consciousness chant over Peter Buck’s searching electric guitar and Mike Mills funereal organ. “It’s crazy what you could have had,” Stipe laments, his voice rising, and then, “I need this. I need this.” Is it the confession that he needs, or the connection slipping away from his grasping fingers? He’s called it his favorite song in the band’s canon; they’ve performed it with Neil Young providing the wailing guitar counterpart, like a Dead Man end credits song that never happened, and there’s a clever mashup on the Unplugged set that bowled me over (I’ll mention it when I get there).

The acoustic arrangements and sonic experimentation continued on Automatic for the People (#191), with a purge of the bubblegum (“The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite” is a notable exception, but for a goof, it’s gorgeous.) Much has been made of the album’s apparent preoccupation with mortality and loss. For sure, there's the straight-forward teen suicide deterrent “Everybody Hurts,” predating It Gets Better by a couple decades; “Sweetness Follows,” about the steady, plodding journey through mourning, and the peaceful plateau you can reach; “Monty Got A Raw Deal,” a steely Western ballad inspired in part by the tortured, bisexual film actor Montgomery Clift. But it’s a hopeful album, not a dour slog.

To me, the common thread is The Past: that personal history that’s less about the agreed-upon facts and more about the feelings tied to events, coloring your reminiscence. “Drive,” the darkly insinuating opening track, takes inspiration for its rhythmic Beat poetry vocal from David Essex's “Rock On,” a song that Stipe might have heard as a teenager, one that itself looks back a further 20 years to the birth of rock n’roll. Add the string arrangement by rock royalty, John Paul Jones of Led Zeppelin, and it’s nostalgia brined in nostalgia.

We’re looking at the reflection of the old photograph as caught by the passing streetlights: several layers of removal from the events. But in looking back, our feelings strike us clearer than whatever life we’ve built for ourselves in the interim; we’re still dwelling on whatever innocence we think we’ve lost. "I have seen things that you will never see / Leave it to memory me,” are the parting words of a person at the end of their life in “Try Not To Breathe” (often in the running for my favorite R.E.M. recording). "I will try not to burden you,” they promise, holding in secrets of a time gone by in hopes that the listener will forge a new path.

“Find The River,” which draws the book to a close with accordion and harmonizing voices, is another in a line of R.E.M. songs drawing on the river as a symbol of lost harmony. In youthful exuberance, there was “Nightswimming,” but "The ocean is the river's goal / A need to leave the water knows,” and time moves inexorably forward. The past feeds into the unfathomable depths of the future. Automatic for the People draws its title from the slogan at a soul food joint in the band’s hometown. It’s that sense of their own history, 8 records in and on top of the world, that merges with their innate creative restlessness, compelling them to shoot off in a new direction.  “I have got to leave to find my way."

This fuels their mission statement with each album since the WB era began: “Let’s write songs that don’t sound like ‘R.E.M. songs.’” If Automatic is self-reflective, Monster (#192) is about adopted personas. The sound of a middle-aged Art Rock band pretending to be a 20-something Glam Rock band, adding more neon and guitar distortion and posturing than you can shake a Mott The Hoople at. “What can I make myself be? (Faker!)” 

The video for “Crush With Eyeliner” furthers that sense of playful irony: the band members pushed off to the corner of the bar as a new generation, from a different cultural background, expresses the song for them. The entire radioactive orange LP kind of encapsulates every messy teenage feeling I've had since high school. I'm still a "faker," pretending to sing this song. And looking good doing it. (Though, full disclosure, the first time I did karaoke I went with “Bang and Blame.” I don’t mind telling you I nailed it.)

Monster is marked by the most prevalent sexual overtones in R.E.M. canon, as if they were embracing that self-aware Rock Star trope. It’s hard to get more on the nose than the title “Star 69,” but “I Don’t Sleep, I Dream” wins the prize with “Are you coming to ease my headache? / Do you give good head? / Am I good in bed?” As the public debated Michael Stipe’s sexuality, he parried the question in the press and played with his image in the lyrics. The topic of his “Crush” is gendered “she,” giving hetereos like myself plenty to appropriate for our own impossible Cool Girl daydreams— never mind that it’s an ode to his friend Courtney Love. “King of Comedy” addresses a legion of Rupert Pupkins getting their big shot by whatever means necessary, but it also contains the lyric "I'm straight, I'm queer, I'm bi,” a few years before he revealed publicly where the needle pointed on that dial for him. “Tongue” is a lilting, falsetto performance: piano-driven cabaret written for a female protagonist lamenting her inconsiderate lovers. More masks for a closely-scrutinized celebrity to find freedom behind.

New Adventures in Hi-Fi (#193) felt as appropriate a title as any for my first year at a university— trading my hometown for a cinderblock dorm-room, starting down my career path with all the film courses they’d allow me to sign up for. The road-grit guitars, open road expansive sound, Stipe’s tour-shredded front man vocals: the album is alternately weary and electrified. Choruses and riffs fit to fill a stadium (as many basic tracks were recorded at live soundcheck) beside intimate 3AM tour bus confessionals. I scored this huge chapter of my young life with the strutting, T. Rex glam of “The Wake-Up Bomb,” arena-ready choruses of “Bittersweet Me” and “So Fast, So Numb,” felt inspired by the dreamlike inscrutability of “How The West Was Won and Where It Got Us” and darkly-reflective poetry of “E-Bow The Letter.”

I’m not overly surprised to hear that this LP didn’t hit with the same impact as the previous ones— it’s always felt like an acquired taste that I couldn’t impart to anyone else. “You haven’t heard 'Leave?’ Ah man, it’s over 7 minutes long, and there’s a constant siren loop in the background! But trust me, when you hear the acoustic riff from the opening interlude reprised by double-tracked electric guitar, the goose pimples will be visible from space.”

Where Monster boasted the straight-arrow torch song “Strange Currencies,” the hushed, surrealistic “Be Mine” seemed as if it emanated from my own bruised heart. "I'll be the sky above the Ganges / I'll be the vast and stormy sea / I'll be the lights that guide you inward / I'll be the visions you will see”— it’s a cross-spiritual devotional that funnels the tenets of world religions into a promise for total intimacy. I would pay top dollar for the raw footage of Thom Yorke’s guest interpretation. 

Despite the public’s anemic response, the band’s estimation of Hi-Fi’s strengths is justifiably high. It’s an accomplished, energetic record that shows every member playing at his peak. It’s now frozen in history as the last document of the band as a foursome. In the next entry, I’ll delve into the CDs released after drummer Bill Berry retired and R.E.M. dramatically changed gears, rocketing into the 21st century.

[keanu-reevesblog]

The Best Way To Get Started Is To Quit Talking And Begin Doing.” – Walt Disney

This straight-to-business quote comes from the man who created the happiest place on earth – and a multibillion-dollar empire. Click here to tweet this inspirational quote.



2) “The Pessimist Sees Difficulty In Every Opportunity. The Optimist Sees Opportunity In Every Difficulty.” – Winston Churchill

When it comes to success quotes by famous people, Winston Churchill’s inspirational words of wisdom always make the list. Click here to tweet this quote.



3) “Don’t Let Yesterday Take Up Too Much Of Today.” – Will Rogers

Will Rogers was an American actor, cowboy, columnist and social commentator who believed in keeping forward momentum. Click here to tweet this quote.



4) “You Learn More From Failure Than From Success. Don’t Let It Stop You. Failure Builds Character.” – Unknown

When you replace ‘lose’ with ‘learn’ in your vocabulary, the thought of failure becomes less daunting and lets you focus on growth. Click here to tweet this.



Click the link button below to sign up for my daily quotes email that includes many more of my most popular inspirational quotes, delivered to your inbox daily. It will empower and motivate you to take action, create success, and enjoy life – no matter how tough it gets.

5) “It’s Not Whether You Get Knocked Down, It’s Whether You Get Up.” – Inspirational Quote By Vince Lombardi

Vince Lombardi was an American football hero who’s uplifting words frequently make it onto Top 10 Inspirational Quotes lists. Click here to tweet this quote.



6) “If You Are Working On Something That You Really Care About, You Don’t Have To Be Pushed. The Vision Pulls You.” – Steve Jobs

Steve Jobs truly captured some of the wisdom of life in this statement. Do that which you are passionate about and your work will feel effortless.



7) “People Who Are Crazy Enough To Think They Can Change The World, Are The Ones Who Do.” – Rob Siltanen

I believe this is one of the best quotes to live by because it reminds me to think without limits and never doubt my wildest thoughts.



8) “Failure Will Never Overtake Me If My Determination To Succeed Is Strong Enough.” – Og Mandino

There’s a special place in my heart for these inspirational words. They remind me of my unwavering determination to become a motivational speaker.



9) “Entrepreneurs Are Great At Dealing With Uncertainty And Also Very Good At Minimizing Risk. That’s The Classic Entrepreneur.” – Mohnish Pabrai

This line always puts a smile on my face because it alludes to the excitement of not knowing what to expect but seeing a possible life-changing outcome.



10) “We May Encounter Many Defeats But We Must Not Be Defeated.” – Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou was one of the top civil rights activists and embraced a spirit of positive thinking and sheer determination.



11) “Knowing Is Not Enough; We Must Apply. Wishing Is Not Enough; We Must Do.” – Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

This piece of wisdom is one of my favorite quotes for students. It reminds us to apply what we learn and take action toward success, rather than waiting and hoping.



12) “Imagine Your Life Is Perfect In Every Respect; What Would It Look Like?” – Brian Tracy

The exercise mentioned in this excerpt of my personal development philosophy is one of the keys to gaining clarity for what you really want in life. Start with a clear vision of your ideal life and happiness, then work backward to achieve it.



13) “We Generate Fears While We Sit. We Overcome Them By Action.” – Dr. Henry Link

I love this pairing of quotation and image (below). Before we act, our imaginations often run wild, but when we move forward we often find the path ahead far less daunting than the horrifying version we had created in our minds.



14) “Whether You Think You Can Or Think You Can’t, You’re Right.” – Quote By Henry Ford

Truly a quote to live by, the American captain of industry, Henry Ford, made this proclamation while reflecting on his life. He is still one of the wealthiest figures of the modern period. Ford also said, “Failure is simply the opportunity to begin again, this time more intelligently.”



15) “Security Is Mostly A Superstition. Life Is Either A Daring Adventure Or Nothing.” – Life Quote By Helen Keller

Helen Keller is the author of this thought-provoking quote about life. I love her adventurous spirit and all or nothing attitude!



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16) “The Man Who Has Confidence In Himself Gains The Confidence Of Others.” – Hasidic Proverb

In this powerful Hasidic proverb, we learn an ancient truth that still holds up in modern times. The power of self-confidence is just as strong today as it was a long time ago. You can still change the thoughts of others by changing your thoughts about yourself.



17) “The Only Limit To Our Realization Of Tomorrow Will Be Our Doubts Of Today.” – Motivational Quote By Franklin D. Roosevelt

F.D.R. famously alluded to the impactpositive thinking can have on the world, stating that our doubts, or our self-limiting beliefs, were the only restraints on the possibilities of the future.



18) “Creativity Is Intelligence Having Fun.” – Albert Einstein

Albert Einstein authored this encouraging and uplifting quote. In just five words, he captured the essence of his intellectual philosophy and inspired others to embrace the creative process.



19) “What You Lack In Talent Can Be Made Up With Desire, Hustle And Giving 110% All The Time.” – Don Zimmer

Professional baseball player and coach, Don Zimmer dedicated 65 years to the sport. The wisdom he left behind implies that will power and dedication are just as important as ability. Again, alluding to the concept that success is formed in the mind before it is manifested in reality.



20) “Do What You Can With All You Have, Wherever You Are.” – Theodore Roosevelt

At number twenty, we have one of the most famous quotes about life by Teddy Roosevelt, who served as President of the United States from 1901 to 1909. A true optimist, he believed in the value of always giving it your all, no matter what you have or where you are.



21) “Develop An ‘Attitude Of Gratitude’. Say Thank You To Everyone You Meet For Everything They Do For You.” – Encouraging Quote By Brian Tracy



22) “You Are Never Too Old To Set Another Goal Or To Dream A New Dream.” – C.S. Lewis



23) “To See What Is Right And Not Do It Is A Lack Of Courage.” – Confucius



24) “Reading Is To The Mind, As Exercise Is To The Body.” – Brian Tracy



25) “Fake It Until You Make It! Act As If You Had All The Confidence You Require Until It Becomes Your Reality.” – Brian Tracy



26) “The Future Belongs To The Competent. Get Good, Get Better, Be The Best!” – Success Quote By Brian Tracy



27) “For Every Reason It’s Not Possible, There Are Hundreds Of People Who Have Faced The Same Circumstances And Succeeded.” – Jack Canfield



28) “Things Work Out Best For Those Who Make The Best Of How Things Work Out.” – Positive Quote By John Wooden



Related: Sales Quotes to Motivate Your Team to Sell More Effectively in 2019

29) “A Room Without Books Is Like A Body Without A Soul.” – Marcus Tullius Cicero



Download My Free E-Book of Motivational Quotes to Live By

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30) “I Think Goals Should Never Be Easy, They Should Force You To Work, Even If They Are Uncomfortable At The Time.” – Michael Phelps



31) “One Of The Lessons That I Grew Up With Was To Always Stay True To Yourself And Never Let What Somebody Else Says Distract You From Your Goals.” – Michelle Obama



32) “Today’s Accomplishments Were Yesterday’s Impossibilities.” – Robert H. Schuller



33) “The Only Way To Do Great Work Is To Love What You Do. If You Haven’t Found It Yet, Keep Looking. Don’t Settle.” – Steve Jobs



34) “You Don’t Have To Be Great To Start, But You Have To Start To Be Great.” – Zig Ziglar



35)  “A Clear Vision, Backed By Definite Plans, Gives You A Tremendous Feeling Of Confidence And Personal Power.” – Brian Tracy



36) “There Are No Limits To What You Can Accomplish, Except The Limits You Place On Your Own Thinking.” – Brian Tracy



Need a Bit of Motivation?

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Motivational Quotes For Leaders

My best quotes about business success have been inspired by the world’s best leaders. Whether you’re an entrepreneur, business owner, or manager, here are 20 leadership quotes to help motivate yourself to peak performance.

Remember that true leadership is about striving to become better in all areas of life and empowering everyone around you to become the best versions of themselves. Always focus on improving your leadership qualities as well as others around you.

20 Success Quotes For Inspirational Leaders

Here are 20 of my favorite inspirational quotes for business leaders. If you find them to be particularly motivating, please share this post with your friends.

37) “Integrity Is The Most Valuable And Respected Quality Of Leadership. Always Keep Your Word.”



38) “Leadership Is The Ability To Get Extraordinary Achievement From Ordinary People”



39) “Leaders Set High Standards. Refuse To Tolerate Mediocrity Or Poor Performance”



40) “Clarity Is The Key To Effective Leadership. What Are Your Goals?”



41) “The Best Leaders Have A High Consideration Factor. They Really Care About Their People”



42) “Leaders Think And Talk About The Solutions. Followers Think And Talk About The Problems.”



43) “The Key Responsibility Of Leadership Is To Think About The Future. No One Else Can Do It For You.”



44) “The Effective Leader Recognizes That They Are More Dependent On Their People Than They Are On Them. Walk Softly.”



45) “Leaders Never Use The Word Failure. They Look Upon Setbacks As Learning Experiences.”



46) “Practice Golden Rule Management In Everything You Do. Manage Others The Way You Would Like To Be Managed.”



[briemund-tarthbane]

30 Day OTP Challenge - Briemund Edition

Day 11 - Wearing Kigurumis

“Do we really have to wear this?”

“Oh, darling, not that again. You know we really do.”

“Gods, that’s so ridiculous.”

“It’s not! People in Japan wear them all the time.”

“We’re not in Japan, though, are we?”

“Come on, love, don’t be like that. You look so cute in it! I knew you would.”

“Of course you did. Still, I don’t wanna wear it.”

“Why not?”

Brienne lets out a heavy sigh before gesturing at their reflection in the mirror, both dressed in brown bear kigurumis, he with his hood over his head. “I’m too old for this shit, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t think you are. Like I said, people in Japan wear it, even though they’re mostly young girls,” Tormund concedes with a shrug. “But it’s for the Hardhome kids!”

Every year Tormund visits the Hardhome nursery to spend a few hours playing with the children beyond the Wall, just to bring a smile upon their faces, and in a couple of days he is taking someone with him for the first time, which he thought was a good idea. At least it was a different way of spending a day, making a bunch of little people happy, or so he said. Brienne is still feeling a bit awkward about it, but she does not really want to let her ginger boyfriend down.

“I know,” she sighs again. “I’m sorry, love. I’m just feeling ridiculous in this onesie...”

“I know how you feel,” Tormund wraps a comforting arm around her shoulder. “Trust me, I felt just like that the first time I did this. But when you see all those kids laughing with you, having fun with you, you just wanna do it as often as you can.”

She was impressed at his words. They make child care seem so easy. She is still uncertain, however. “But that’s the point: you’re so damn good with children! I’m not entirely sure I am.”

“Bullshit! I’m sure the’ye gonna love you, Brienne. But if you’re still unsure, we can go see them just this once. If you don’t feel alright, then you don’t have to go next year. What do you say?”

The amount of consideration the redhead man shows her always catches her off guard. She considers his offer for a few moments, and, after recognizing she cannot say no to him, especially when he looks at her with those hopeful green eyes of his, she replies with a resigned smile, “Well, I think I can try. For you.”

Tormund’s hands cup Brienne’s face and gently presses his lips to hers. “Thank you, my love. It means a lot.”

“No problem,” she smiles shyly, feeling herself blush. She then takes another look to the mirror, contemplating her image. “I have to admit, though, this is very comfortable and warm.”

“I know, right?” he agrees, his hands running his hand across the soft fabric.

“I’m surprised you managed to find one in my size. You know, with me being tall and all...”

“Me too, to be honest, but… I may or may not have somebody buy them in Japan,” he admits sheepishly.

“By the Seven, you’re crazy!” the blond woman laughs.

“Well, they have pretty much all the sizes. If everything goes wrong, we could use it as a pyjama for when it gets too cold.”

“I happen to enjoy the warmth your body brings, Tormund, but that’s a good idea.” She brings her hand to his chest and caresses it, while he laughs at her remark, covering her hand with his own. When his laughter dies, she asks, “How did you know I would agree with that?”

“I had a feeling you wouldn't refuse my invitation,” the bearded man winks.

“Yeah, right,” she shakes her head. Damn this man for knowing her too tell. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“What?”

Brienne hesitates for a couple of seconds before confessing, “I used to wear a pink unicorn kigurumi when I was little. With a blue horn.”

Tormund raises his eyebrows in feigned surprise. “Pictures, or it didn’t happen.”

She quickly leaves his side to look through one of her drawers, fetches a photo album, opens in a certain page and hands it over to him. Once he sees the picture, she is sure his laughter shakes the walls of their room.

“Hells, Brienne, you look utterly adorable here,” Tormund compliments. “And you making a fuss about the bear kigurumi.”

“I told you I’m too old for that, did I not?” Brienne states, half embarrassed, half flattered. She glances at the photo again, affectionately. “And thanks, by the way. Glad you like it, because I loved sleeping in it.”

“I do. Seriously, you look pretty. I should’ve bought you the unicorn I saw online. Spoiler alert: that will be your birthday gift.”

“No fucking way!” Brienne chuckles. “One kigurumi is more than enough. And oh,” she threatens with a serious face, even though her voice cannot hide the mockery, a finger on the tip of Tormund's nose, “if you tell anyone about my unicorn onesie, I will cut your balls off.”

She knows that he knows her well enough to know she is capable of doing just that. He hugs her again, bringing her body flush to his. “Not a word, my dear.”

[theolddarkmachine]

Kingdom- Prologue

Gajeel has had the dream about dying for the blue haired girl for as long as he can remember. Which is weird, since he’s never met anyone with blue hair in his life. 

Levy has always loved myths and legends. So much so, in fact, that she was currently getting her master’s in mythological studies.

What neither of them realized was that they were living a legend all their own.

AKA the one with a knight, a princess, and a curse that keeps bringing them together just to pull them apart.

Would y’all believe I actually wrote this before when I said I would? I KNOW I’M SHOCKED TOO! Honestly, I just got super excited lol This is just the prologue, and I’m kinda hoping to get Chapter 1 up by the end of this week when this was originally going to happen. Also, I’m not gonna do a set deadline this time since clearly I can’t stick to them. I’m going to post at least once a week on this one, but I think I’m just gonna update whenever it’s done as opposed to on a certain day. (This is good because maybe I can work out more than one update a week this way. WHO KNOWS THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS!) Anyway, LET’S START THIS JOURNEY SHALL WE?! (Also sorry for such a crap summary? I have no idea how to explain this one without giving too much away lol Don’t be shocked if you see that change.)

********************************

Once Upon A Time

If you asked the people of his kingdom, they would tell you that King Dreyar was a kind and just king. Where many kings in bordering lands ruled their kingdoms with cold disregard to those considered beneath them, Fiore’s king listened to his subjects. He believed a king whose people were suffering while he sat on his throne was no king at all. Yes, he was a well respected king, which was why when the rumors that the King had an illegitimate daughter started to spread, they were widely disregarded by his people, for King Dreyar loved his wife, Queen Kearia Dreyar. What his people didn’t know that he had a first love.

As a prince, Makarov Dreyar was of the rambunctious sort. It seemed as if it were everyday that the young man would go missing from the castle just to be dragged back by his guard Metalicana to receive his lashings from his father. The servants often gossiped amongst themselves, wondering if the prince was a bit thick in the head, or if he just got some sick satisfaction out of driving the king crazy. They tried fruitlessly to get Metalicana to tell them. They’d bribe him with extra portions of dinner, offered him money, and on the odd occasion offered him a daughter to be his future wife, and yet Metalicana kept tight lipped about what it was his charge was doing when he disappeared from the castle. All they could get out of him was that he answered to the king and Prince Makarov alone.

What the servants didn’t know was that even the king himself couldn’t get Metalicana to tell him where the prince ran off to. The knight had been the youngest to come through the ranks, becoming a part of the royal guard at the tender age of 17, and was often referred to as the Iron Dragon. He was used to being regarded with contempt and fear, and yet the prince had welcomed him as an equal. While it may have only been because Metalicana was the only other person the same age as Makarov in the castle, it led the knight to pledge his whole allegiance to the prince.

This meant that everyday when Makarov slipped out of the castle with his horse and rode to the forest on the outskirts of town to meet with the blue haired girl named Ileana McGarden, the Iron Dragon would wait until as late in the day as he could to go and bring him back. Everyday the knight would ask the prince if it was worth the beating he received, and each day the prince would simply respond that love was worth any punishment.

This continued until just before Makarov’s 21st birthday, when his father fell gravely ill. The ailing king’s final wish, was for his son to marry Lady Kearia Blackthorn of Vistarion and to see his son take over the throne. The day before the wedding was the only time Metalicana did not bring the prince home.

***

Ten years later, the Iron Dragon was killed, leaving behind his son Gajeel to be raised by the King. He followed in his father’s footsteps, becoming Makarov’s most trusted knight by the time he was 18 years old.

“Do you wish me to come with you?” Gajeel asked, his wild black hair falling over the black iron of his armor that mimicked his father’s. His mouth was set in a scowl that the king was all too familiar worth. He really was just like his father.

“No, Gajeel, I can do this alone,” Makarov said dismissively as he pulled his cloak on over his own armor. He’d received the message from an inky black raven, which could only mean that it was from the oracle, and she preferred to meet alone.

“But sir,” the knight started to protest before the king raised his hand to silence him.

“Even your father didn’t keep such a tight leash on me, my boy,” he chuckled. “If your old man could trust me enough to let me meet with the oracle, you can too. Besides, don’t you ever take a break?” It was a rhetorical question. He of all people knew that Gajeel didn’t ever take any time off. Gajeel laughed humorlessly.

“Fine, but your better let the queen know that this was what you wanted before you go so if you get killed she knows it wasn’t because I didn’t try.” This elicited a bark of laughter from the king. Fucking smartass, he thought to himself as he pushed his way through the door, letting it shut behind him and ending his conversation with the knight.

***

It was impossibly quiet in the forest as Makarov tied his horse to a tree just outside of the clearing he knew the oracle would be waiting for him. He’d learned quite some time ago to not bring his horse any closer, and he had the scar through his eyebrow to remind him just in case he ever forgot. Carefully stepping through the trees and trying his best to avoid making too much noise, he finally reached the clearing. There was a 50-foot radius that had been cleared of any forest and left nothing but a twisted metal stand holding a black marble basin. Standing at the basin, was the oracle. Her skin was a pale, almost translucent white and her silver hair glittered in the moonlight and fell down the back of the simple black dress that hung loosely from her body. A milky film covered her eyes, leaving her blinded, though Makarov often wondered if that were true. At the current moment in time, he’d swear she was staring right through him.

“Makarov,” she greeted. Her voice echoed around them, filling the space and suddenly making him feel small.

“Oracle,” he said back, stepping further into the clearing until he was in front of her and the basin she stood at. Without another word, she reached her hands towards him and gently place them both on his face.

“It’s good to see you, old friend.” A small smile touched her lips. At least, Makarov thought he saw a hint of a smile. He’d never actually seen her show any emotions in all the years he’d known her.

“What is it you need to show me?” Her hands fell away from his face and returned to either side of the basin. A ripple caused the surface of the black liquid inside it to dance.

“Death.” The single word she uttered was electric and the forest around them rustled with a sudden gust of wind. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen death in his future, and yet an ominous feeling had started to work its way through his body. There was something different about this time.

“Whose death?” The question nearly choked him as he forced it out. She started to slowly pass her hands over the liquid, causing the black to fade away into a pearly white.

“Your daughter’s,” she whispered as she looked up from the liquid, her stare cutting him to the bone. Ice started to run through his veins as he struggled to breathe.

“I... I don’t have a daughter,” he struggled to say. Try as they might, he and the queen had been unable to have a child. It weighed on them both but he was able to bury himself in his work as king. Not to mention Gajeel was like a son to him. But they did not have any children.

“You do, Makarov,” the seer’s voice said forcefully as she slammed her hands down on the sides of the basin. Suddenly, he was transported back to that day all those years ago when he had seen Ileana for the last time. The memory caused a sharp pain of sorrow to erupt through his chest as he saw Ileana crying in his arms. The vision melted away as his past self leaned down to kiss away her tears. A tear fell down his face and landed in the liquid before he even had the chance to realize it was there.

“Show me,” was all he said, his voice breaking slightly.

The oracle returned to waving her hands over the deep basin between them, causing the liquid to start to spin into a milky white whirlpool. Makarov watched intently, mesmerized by the swirling liquid that spun faster and faster. Colors started to bleed from the outside edges of the basin and suddenly, it came to a stop with one crystal clear image reflected in the surface. The face of a blue haired young woman with honey colored eyes stared back at him. He felt himself reach towards the image, unable to look away from the woman’s image in the basin.

“She looks just like her mother,” he managed to breathe. His chest was throbbing with pain as he took her in. All this time, and he’d never known. Reaching his hand forward, his fingers ghosted across the top of the liquid, barely disrupting the surface. The touch caused image to fall away, leaving nothing but the inky black liquid it had originally been. “Who knows about this?” Makarov demanded. His tears had dried and his eyes now burned. The seer returned his glare with her own blind one. She placed a hand on the side of the basin and paused as if she were listening to someone speak.

“No one yet,” she finally said, her hollow voice echoing through the forest around them. Makarov was infinitely aware of the final word. The sound of it sent a shot of cold fear unlike anything he’d ever felt down his spine. There was a finality in that word. Someone would find out about the blue haired woman in the forest, and they would kill her.

What neither the seer or the king noticed, was the pair of purple eyes that watched them from the shadows.

**********************

[gingerxxale]

Nakama & Shame

I think anime kinda made me disillusioned to friendships. To those who already watch anime often, I think you may already know what I’m alluding to – the unearthly dedication and support to one’s friends (sometimes even enemies) because you believe in the good and growth in them. The incessant self-sacrifice in order to induce safety and/or happiness for a loved one; someone cherished so innocently, so purely, that there is no romantic tie. Just an unpolluted friendship, a bond that is so strong, all the evils of the world – EVEN DEATH – cannot break you apart.

But maybe this perspective isn’t exclusive to anime; maybe it’s even a character trait embedded in Japanese culture.

I walked into a ramen shop in Boston about a month ago and saw this written in huge, white letters upon the burgundy wall over my head:

NAKAMA [n.] A person that shares your destiny for whom you would sacrifice your life; Its meaning is too entangled to be “friend” but it is also too deep to be just “companion.”

If there’s an entire country who really embodies this notion (no matter how small or large), that’s pretty awesome.

Under the font, were drawings of manga-esque characters with their backs turned to the customers but their fists in the air. As usual, upon seeing these kinds of images, I had an immediate feeling of camaraderie and hospitality – inspiration even.  

So I was curious.

After researching a bit online (for about five minutes), nakama may actually just be a fictional trope in Japanese television – actually given its deeper meaning from the legendary anime One Piece – but Japan is famously known for its low crime rate, its unarmed officers, its friendly strangers who will fasten a young man’s tie because it’s undone and he’s headed for an interview, and they want him to succeed! So will gladly aid in his looking sharp without needing to be related to this person in any way. Then they’ll wish him the best of luck and pray he gets the job! As if they knew him. As if they were family. So even if nakama is a fictional concept, it seems there is an innate goodness instilled in the Japanese people that obviously gave root to the concept of nakama. An innate, unrelated goodness we haven’t really grasped anywhere else (that I’ve been exposed to at least).

And whether it be instilled in Japanese tradition or simply an injection to their entertainment, I love that I grew up with this idea of nakama. Though this mentality has (I’ll be perfectly honest) made me lose a few friendships here and there, it’s definitely kept the right ones closer and stronger for longer than I expected or felt I deserved. My most valuable friends have respected and even reflected my personalized form of nakama because of the familial relationship it had inevitably created between us.

I was exposed to anime at quite a young age, and I was re-exposed to anime at the crack of dawn of every morning as my brother snuck out of our bedroom to watch reruns of Dragon Ball on the Cartoon Network; the early hours were a safe haven for a relatively violent and bloody show of foreign origins despised by most parents but loved by some teensy children (such as ourselves).  He used to take out our most recently purchased bag of pita bread and pack of American cheese from the fridge and would nibble his way through the end of each – until we had nothing left to use for our family breakfasts during the weekends (reflecting on this now, I’m sure this drove both my mom and dad a little crazy).

Now, I often credit my having an older brother for a lot of my toughness and a lot of my disconnect with the common American young lady – my best friends in school were mostly boys. We were always playing Pretend. Dreaming we were magical creatures climbing trees and burning down buildings was a lot more fun than being a part of the local girl-gang in my opinion (which I was also a part of. But I picked my shifts). I owed this early exposure and exercising of a speedily-expanding imagination to my older brother and to the shows he didn’t let me watch.

The shows I only watched while hiding behind the couch and peering over the cushions with my little fingers hinged on the edges of suspense. Clawing through the fabric – just to watch Dragon Ball without him knowing; without him catching me and demanding that I leave (because apparently I was deemed too young for such mature content). Despite him being only two years older than me and like… eight. If he ever did spot me, I’d have to not only be yelled at (mind you, while my parents were sleeping in our tiny apartment in Los Angeles which struck a whole other type of fear through my 3-foot-frame) but I would also have to sink to the floor and stare at the wall for the next two hours – behind the couch, listening to the show instead. Painting the scenes in my head as I had to imagine they were on the TV screen because my evil, older brother claimed I was too immature to see it.

* I will have you know, this was the final power trip I allowed him to have over me. The future was bleak for my older brother, but bright for my unrelenting defiance and eventual overthrow of his tyrannous nature. Bullies are not to be tolerated. *

But I was just so damn curious. Like what could be so amazing, so interesting, that it pulled my brother out of his bed at 5 am every morning like clockwork to eat cold bread and cheese and sit two inches away from the TV screen for the next two/three hours??

It had to be thee coolest thing ever.

So I risked it all. I risked the deportation back to my bedroom, the hellish fire that could awaken my sleeping parents, their hellish fire after being woken by their son’s hellish fire which would then be redirected to me as the source of his hellish fire that had woken them up in the first place.

It all didn’t seem worth it. (But it was).

I couldn’t wake up as early as him every day, but I always made it out to see at least the concluding hour of Dragon Ball/Dragon Ball Z those mornings. I did it so often, that eventually, my brother refrained from fending me off with a foam baseball bat or a stick. Maybe he understood that I was his little sponge whom he could influence and make awesome, rather than the rabid gerbil he made me out to be that ejected out of our mother’s womb for the sole purpose of ruining his life. My seat placement beside him was a promotion. I had graduated to soft-plaything; something that could still be tormented and abused, but should no longer be feared.

I didn’t understand why he liked cold pita bread and American cheese so much, but that seemed to be the Snack of Kings. And I had just been promoted. Beggars can’t be choosey, y’know?

This development in our sibling relationship was also when I discovered my severe case of lactose-intolerance. So in a way, anime’s role in my life was more than just a didactic ruling of friendship and sibling-warfare, but also a court hearing for prospective-allergies.

After discovering my intolerance of yellow-American cheese, my mom introduced my small intestine to goat milk, goat cheese, and an array of goat-rather-than-cow related products; it was a comparatively smelly alternative lifestyle-change that I remember enjoying. I also was not a very picky kid – but again, I saw myself as a trampled vagabond of the streets – so I took what was give to me without question.

But I was a sanctified vagabond. I had made my way from the nosebleeds to the courtside all on my own, a product of my own resilience and ambition. And I thought I was incredible. Like… I wasn’t even old enough for this show. My older brother said I wasn’t allowed to watch these things, and yet here I was… him petting my head and eating cheese while I ogled skyward toward a sizzling, 90s, television filled with awkward screaming, high-voltage blasts and decapitated heads. I was taking it all in and I was loving it.

And one of the reasons I loved it was because Goku (who’s literal growth we have avidly followed from Dragon Ball to DBZ and onward) had a son that he fought alongside. Like how cool would that be?! His son, Gohan, was around my brother’s/my age, depending on the episode, and was being taken out on missions?! Like what?! The amount of TRUST that Goku not only had in his son but in his comrades taking care of his son was powerful. He had enough faith that his son could help him – the greatest Super Saiyan in the world – “fight crime,” defeat enemies, purge the universe of evil!

But also knew when to tell Gohan to like back the f*ck up cause he was 6 and had little to no training. And that was dope.

I was six. I could be great. I could have friends bigger and better than me (which I already did ‘cause I was the shortest kid in my class and still am at the bold age of 22) but friends who still believed in me in spite of that! I could be everyone’s equal. The grown-ups would see my latent potential, the bold energy I harbored, and pay no mind to my age. They would look at me and expect greatness; not because my father was their friend nor because my father was great, but because I was their friend and I was great.

They would do anything for me. Even give up their life for me? Whoa.

The episode that is engrained in my memory most was my brother’s favorite – we re-watched this scene countless times once YouTube became a thing on the internet and a mighty weapon for internet babies like us to digest.

Gohan turning Super Saiyan 2 for the first time.

Mostly I just remember Android 16’s head bouncing around on the dirt, and his dreary eyes looking up as he drawled… “Gooooohaaaaaaan. Let it gooo…” in this deep, robot voice – but let’s remember why 16’s head was rolling around at everyone’s feet. Because he had just pounced on Cell’s back with the belief that he still had a bomb lodged inside his body and was ready to self-destruct – to sacrifice his own life in order to save his comrades. Comrades now, but enemies not so long ago. Hell, Android 18 was going around bustin’ everyone’s asses and suddenly she’s marrying Krillin – goes to show that bad guys have can have a lot of good inside them (and if you’re marrying Krillin… you have a lot of good inside you).

But alas, 16 no longer had a bomb inside his body, and therefore Cell blasted him to bits and kicked his skull aside like it was the neighbor-kid’s deflated soccer ball. This is where 16 recites his epic speech of encouragement:

“It is not a sin to fight for the right cause… It is because you cherish life that you must protect it… I know how you feel, Gohan.” Despite being an android.

And then Cell stepped on his face and his head exploded – but! With all the coils, gadgets, chips, and metal – out came a lot of blood; and that was very humanizing to me. That things that bleed – animals, humans, and apparently androids – we all have a quality that bonds us, a frailty and an appreciation for life that unifies us. We are all unified by the blood in our veins. Despite being just an android! Gohan was right! 16 did love life, and he gave it up because he loved his friends even more and wanted them to enjoy the rest of their existences.  It’s an abrasive scene, but thanks to my older brother, Andrew, one I’ve seen a million times nonetheless.

And due to the power of emotions! Gohan crosses the threshold and reaches Super Saiyan 2.

With glistening tears in his eyes.

It reminded me of the samurai – avenging the death of a loved one. Pride. Brotherhood. Bonds. Protection. Justice. Self-sacrifice… Nakama.

And then came Naruto.

This could easily mark the end of my existence. I lost my youth at the mere age of 12. Cause if Naruto doesn’t traumatize you for life, then bless your soul – nothing else can, my child.

Masahi Kishimoto intended the first arc of Naruto Uzumaki’s adventures to be his last as well. That single manga was illustrated for the notoriously heart-wrenching plot movement of Squad 7 facing Zabuza, Demon of the Hidden Mist, and the orphan Haku. (Let’s not get too into this though cause that’ll just tear me up in seconds).

Transformed into an anime, this plot movement was the first for many of us to watch. And very quickly were we faced with the complex of sympathizing for the enemy, maybe a little too much.

Zabuza Momochi, a rogue Shinobi of the Village Hidden in the Mist is known as one of the most dangerous ninjas of the land. Very unexpectedly, we learn he also practically raised an orphan child named Haku on his own, training him as a swordsman to defend himself. Haku has a special ability that people in his village feared; therefore, people like Haku and Haku’s mother were summarily executed. So Haku’s mother taught him to keep his ability a secret – until her own spouse discovered their secret and murdered her. Haku lost control in response to this, kills his own father and the rest of his village and is then found by Zabuza Momochi…

In this first arc, Zabuza is hired as an assassin that inevitably clashes with Squad 7 (our protagonists), and we’re obviously rooting for Squad 7 to survive! We want them to win. The lead character, Naruto is in Squad 7! Clearly we like them the most. Then why is it that every fan of the show immortalizes Zabuza and Haku?

Because we see a bond between Zabuza and Haku. When Haku appears in the mist to sacrifice his safety in order to keep his caretaker safe – that act changes everything.

As of yet – there is no strong bond holding together Squad 7. Yeah, Naruto and his comrades fight their hardest, and one of them almost to the death; they have to utilize the teamwork they’d been avoiding for so long – but that’s not nakama. The bond of love between an assassin and his conditioned apprentice, though? THAT was nakama.

You see that moment, that presentation of empathy, love, and care for something other than themselves made those characters greater – unselfish, forgiving, merciful and kind to someone outside of them – making them stronger than any of the adored members of our beloved Squad 7. Their pasts, their wrongdoings, their sins I won’t say meant nothing… but they suddenly meant much less. Because we just witnessed their humanity, and much more than their humanity – selflessness.

In fiction – we frequently equate the enemy with negative qualities. They are the enemy, therefore they must carry no virtue. They are all evil.

But a person who steals bread, inspired by the love for their starving children… A person is risking their life, reputation, and future with an evil act in order to protect/save others.

Self-sacrifice is the greatest sacrifice is it not? And great self-sacrifice I imagine should be the hardest decision to make. The amount of bravery and inner-peace needed to execute such a choice… is impressive. I am grateful to have never been placed in the predicament where I must choose between my life and another’s. Would I have the strength to give up everything for someone I love? Could I make that decision? I have no idea, but I can tell you that when I see a mother sacrifice herself for her child, or any adult jump in front of a child they are unrelated to who is in harm… there’s something magical behind that choice. There’s a passion, a power of emotion that exceeds the brain and is pure heart – which may be stupid – but it’s selfless. And altruism is admirable if not the most admirable.

Nakama is a purely altruistic act, and though I cannot say I’ve ever felt that I would give my life for my friends in a moment (which seems like nakama-extremism), I know I sacrifice a lot for my loved ones, even when we are not blood related. I donate a lot, I believe in people a lot, I offer plenty of my time which in my opinion… is giving my life.

But a lot of people do not understand this idea of nakama and are very quick to judge it, if not feel unsettled by it; it is not clinginess, it is not desperation; it is just empathy, faith, and affection but it does not take away for someone’s love for themselves – at least it shouldn’t. It is there only to make you stronger.

So maybe that’s why some of our most evil characters in popular culture are incredibly strong. Enemies in fiction aren’t always 100% made out of Satan-Squeeze. We do see some humanity in our antagonists here and there. But there’s a weird, religious, consecration when a bad guy “sees the light” and decides to suddenly “go green and be good.” So it almost seems like… there really is no adversary… cause… in an instant, they’re absolutely cleansed. So… if everyone can be saved, than that means everyone is made of goodness. And then what a relief that is! What a belief that is! Ahhhh what a happy, spiritually satisfying ending ☺.

This brings up the complicated character development between Naruto Uzumaki and Sasuke Uchiha. (We’re diving into murky waters, my friends).

Sasuke Uchiha was my favorite character from the moment I laid eyes on him, but he has probably one of the most tragic pasts I’ve ever had the honor of absorbing. Born of the Uchiha Clan, Sasuke was raised among some of the most intelligent, perceptive, and valuable ninja-warriors of Konoha. Their trademark is the Sharingan – a powerful dōjutsu (an eye technique) that augments a ninja’s insight and hypnotism against their rival… basically. Sasuke lives a pretty normal and happy childhood, constantly idolizing his older brother Itachi and striving to be just as strong and helpful to the community as his brother has been. Then we discover Itachi has had undisclosed motives for a long time. Abruptly, he unleashes… going on a rampage, slaughtering the whole entire Uchiha clan, including his and Sasuke’s parents… but leaves Sasuke alive and alone.

So Sasuke’s mission practically from birth becomes to avenge his clan, locate, and defeat his brother.

But then he meets Naruto Uzumaki and Sakura Haruno who seem to veer him from the path of self-destruction and revenge. He finds a family he once lost amongst Squad 7 and its hilarious but unsurpassable sensei, The Copy Ninja, Kakashi Hatake (who, for lengthy reasons, also attains an eye with the clan’s Sharingan). There is a bond growing between all four of these characters, an empathy, a pure caretaking quality that was not there when they were up against Zabuza and Haku.

But inescapably… we lose Sasuke to the dark side (and let’s just leave it at that for now).

One of the worst things that can probably happen to you as a human being (aside from an audience member) is seeing your favorite character go bad. Yeah sure it’s kinda cool and they become even edgier than they once were, but there’s nothing cool about seeing someone you believed to be your best friend go rogue and forsake the home you built together because suddenly you and your friendship mean absolutely nothing to them… That always sucks.

But according to nakama, you have an unbreakable bond… yet you see the goodness being sucked out of your nakama’s soul… does that mean that you give up on the friend who has given up on you? Do you turn your back on the criminal your best friend has now become?

One of my dad’s favorite movies is Seabiscuit. He’s definitely a big fan of the comeback-kid and always tended to root for the underdog. His favorite quote in the film became one to live by in our household. It was when Chris Cooper’s character was asked why he kept trying to fix this horse that had injured its ankle. It was a racehorse. With an injured ankle it had become useless. And to that he responded,

“You don’t throw a whole life away just because it’s banged up a little.” Beautiful.

So when your BFF goes all homicidal on the townspeople… what do you do? Well, because of anime, I don’t think I’d ever be able to completely hate them. Even if I had the responsibility of killing them… the nakama between us would still exist despite their death and my being the cause of their death.

I am not quite sure that this is a good thing. You see… sometimes… I do believe we need to lose friends, and we shouldn’t keep raising excuses for why it’s okay that they’ve truly begun to suck as people. It is their fault. You have tried. You’re now beginning to work yourself to the bone defending an ego that apparently doesn’t even want your defending.

The fatal flaw of nakama: difficulty knowing when to let go.

But the problem that I feel most people face, is letting others go too easily. I watch my acquaintances releasing friends like breath out of their lungs sometimes, and the stories I hear of them being suddenly dropped from a friendship are staggering… I think people have forgotten how to be brave, and forgotten how to be there for our buddies when they need us the most and evidentially become the most difficult versions of themselves to deal with. It is hard being a good friend – if anyone tells you otherwise I can confidently state that they are wrong and probably have a lot of interpersonal issues as well. But it is hard being there when someone needs you, especially when they need you more than that one time when they got the news.

I credit this rude awakening to my emotional intelligence, my time spent being introspective and aware of the people and the world around me – to my understanding and my empathy. Because I know I’ve “strayed-from-the-path” before, I know I’ve hit concrete walls and sulked in the pitfalls of depression, and more often than not was abandoned by my friends rather than finding them waiting for me to wake up on the other side as a new person. And I’ll tell you what – I got used to the abandonment, but I never accepted it as a viable approach. So every time a friend of mine hit the concrete walls or were in the jaws of anxiety and stress, I was always sitting cross-legged with my head cocked to the side, my ears wide-awake, and a smile in my pocket for when they were ready. ‘Cause I knew that’s what could’ve helped me. I knew that support meant something to people. I was showing my friends in pain that they had a cheerleader, and I was going to be rooting for them until they’d come back to Earth. And did I learn this from the air? Did I think of this approach by myself? Ruminating on it, anime and manga trained me to be a good friend before I even had a friend to be good to.

But what about when they don’t come back to Earth? And what if it’s because they refuse to? When do you let go, and does letting go mean ‘stop loving?’

That’s when things get complicated.

But nakama still doesn’t lose its value.

My BFF is a homicidal freak now, right? Okay. So it appears that I’m head of the defense force that is meant to take my ex-BFF DOWN TO THE GROUND… those characters that suddenly just flip the switch and delete every memory they have had with that person… that’s great and all, and I’m sure a useful tool when you’re in the business of saving lives (you’ve essentially deleted your bias towards a person who is now your enemy) but that doesn’t feel very human to me. Like we just discussed above, you’ve also given up on someone. And the idea of giving up on someone does not exist in anime. Unless it’s a supporting-role who had a hand in poorly raised one of our vindictive protagonists. But they always feel shame in the end anyway, and the protagonist has the inner peace to forgive them because of their understanding, their love, and at the root of it – nakama.

So how and why did nakama appear in manga and anime? Where did it come from and why is it still so prevalent in Japanese culture? Could it be a reaction to something rather than an intrinsic value?

What if nakama was in some way a response to shame? That if you did not behave this way towards your comrades (for example fellow samurai) you would then be identified as a coward, unwilling to risk your life for your brethren. Therefore you have brought dishonor to you family. Dishonor on your cow! (as per Mushu) and shame upon your head. An ultimate, sin according to the ancient culture, inducing suicides throughout the empire.

So could the innocent idea of nakama have been born from the embarrassment of shame? And is that why western society does not grasp this value… as a value? /how do we experience shame and do we value it?

What is our idea of shame? I’ll tell ya, it usually doesn’t stem from how we treat other people:

Someone cheated on their spouse? Yeah well it happens.

Someone keeps cheated on their math tests? Shame.

A person is corrupt in the workplace? It’s terrible, we hate it but… what’re we gonna do, it happens.

A person comes out as gay. Shame.

A human who likes a unique style of music. Shame.

A human who was raped. Shame.

A teenager who isn’t athletic like their parents. SHAAAME.

You see, we treat shame as a form of social acceptance, and by that I mean, if you do not meet the criteria of the put-together citizen, you should be ashamed of yourself! During the Edo Period of Premodern Japan, if you were a Samurai and could not uphold Bushido; “the way of the warrior,” the moral code of that culture; shame was brought upon you. But their moral code was often in the pursuit of benefitting other people.

The eight rules of bushido code are as follows:

Righteousness Heroic Courage Benevolence/Compassion Respect Integrity Honor Duty and Loyalty Self-Control

These laws outline the responsibilities of samurai; to be deeply honest with yourself and your neighbor, to not only find opportunities to help your neighbor but to create those opportunities when they do not arise. Understanding that true strength does not come in proving your strength. Staying true to your word and being aware that you are the judgment you sleep with at night. Decisions you make and how these decisions are carried out are a reflection of who you truly are.

For, “you cannot hide from yourself.”

But it appears that our in-vogue moral code dictates that you must hide from yourself because if you are different… you are a deviant. Its standing does not rely on our treatment of others but more on our ability to conform to a certain standard of acceptable normalcy. Not too weird but not too common. So our code just seems to be self-imposed and self-inflicted. We don’t seem to really value how we treat one another but how well we mold to one another. I think the last time I was taught that being kind to others was a code to live by was in kindergarten, when I learned, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” Pretty much, treat people how you’d wanna be treated. And then of course “keep your hands to yourself.” * thumbs up *

But after that… I dunno… there wasn’t much stress on the ethical upbringing of our population, of our citizens. Do we really not care that much? Yeah sure, I took ethics in college, I took several courses in Sociology and Philosophy and studied the Ethics of Documentary Filmmaking… Literature can often times be a nice bridge into empathy as well… but these were all choices. I was not obligated to take any of these classes… which means… a lot of people don’t. And won’t. And even if they did/do, college may have been a late start to have these discussions.

We are raising a population of Narutos that will not chase after their Sasukes. Generations of children that believe hurting someone is an okay practice if that person hurt them first and feel no shame afterwards. That reflecting fire proves your strength rather than dousing it and turning your cheek and being a bigger person. The way we’re going, everyone is going to want their fire to be larger and brighter than their enemies’ and their friends,’ igniting an egotistical flame that’ll just burn down city hall… thanks guys.

Hot-heads are generally looked down upon in Japanese entertainment. They’re a source of humor and the butt of everybody’s jokes because they’re assumed to be quite immature and stupid. They are nothing like their leaders; they lack self-control and respect, empathy, and awareness. In these shows, characters have certain codes to live by that are very similar to the samurai’s bushido, and if you’re not striving for that admirable way of life… something seems to be wrong with you:

The way of the ninja in Naruto.

Saiyan Culture’s emphasis on pride, honor, strength, and honesty.

And even in shōjo manga like Mermaid Melody and Special A, there is a camaraderie between our main characters that is so strong, any outside force cannot defeat it. You see these stories do not have to revolve around intense, dramatic plots entrenched in suspense and guided by their twists and turns. The characters set in a village ravaged by demons are quite the same as characters trying to survive high school. They are inspired by their peers; peers who neglect them, hate them, terrorize them, love them… they want to grow and become stronger because of their peers.

There is a constant theme in anime about weakness and how weakness is looked down upon, but not in the overtly-masculine way that you may think. It is not that weakness itself is shameful, but that one’s inability to protect their loved ones is shameful. Characters are often tormented by their guilt for feeling like deadweight, like an anchor, being incapable of protecting their best friends and their families. So they are motivated by their pain, their rivals, their nakama all in order to evolve and grow into someone stronger – and a character’s strength is measured by how well they can protect other’s.

What an incredible notion. Measuring strength based on your selflessness and your ability to love.

If I have to lose friends because they do not understand nakama… because they find weakness in it, they’re missing out on a tool that builds up only the toughest and the bravest. It hurts, but it must be endured and it must be accepted by people like myself. Those friends I will lose are luckily few, and are not guided by the same light that guides the characters I’ve admired since my childhood. And people like that cannot inspire themselves, nor will they be able to inspire others.

I am an endless fire lit in perpetuity by the sensation of my nakama, and I will continue to be fueled by this heat, inspired by every day and every night, because I have people I care for and people to live for. My ability to love can break the bank – and I can thank my evil, big brother for that.

- Ashley Beroukhim

11.24.17

[the-tales-of-horror]

The Disappearances of 1998

Original Link By el902

It had indeed been a dark and stormy night when my life would begin its decent in to hell. The poignancy of that almost amuses me now. The thunder had been growing in ferocity and volume all evening. By eight-o-clock, Stuart, our Big Bad German Shepherd, feared by little boys and girls all throughout the neighborhood for his ferocious looks, was cowering underneath the bed I shared with my wife, Sally. Stuart, though mean-looking, was a giant ball of love and tenderness, and he was a coward in a storm.

Sally and I had been on the front porch, both of us a few beers deep in the six pack I'd picked up on my way home from work. The air was hot and stagnant, nearly thick enough that I could imagine having to cut my way through it. All day the storm had been building, the clouds coming in from the east, tumbling and growing fatter with each passing hour. Thunder started rolling as the sun set around seven, and Sally and I watched the lightening with respectful awe. We'd discovered in our first year of marriage that we were both junkies for a good storm.

In that silent calmness between us, a million little things were spoken with the occasional glance and locking of gazes. Not very often we get to see a good one, huh George? her eyes asked, after a terrific explosion of lightening crackled through the sky. It's not as electrifying as you, love, but it's almost as awe-inspiring to watch, I answered back with no voice, knowing that even though she might not hear all the same words in her head, she got the meaning. Thunder boomed magnificently, followed very shortly by another impressive display of lightening, and around nine pm the sky opened up and what seemed like every drop of water that had ever existed was unleashed on us. The wind picked up at once, blowing so mightily that all of our empty bottles were knocked off the small table between our chairs.

Sally, looking slightly alarmed at the rate the storm had progressed all at once, asked me, "Should we get the furniture inside, George?"

We stood in unison, having decided at the same moment that our storm-gazing was done for the night. I bent to gather the empties and thought on her question.

"Don't think so," I finally decided. "The winds aren't supposed to pick up too much. The worst will probably be over in twenty minutes or so, then it'll just be the rain."

Sally opened the door and held it for me, and I went in, pausing to peck her on the cheek. At the age of forty six, her giggle was still that of a girl's.

That evening on our front porch plays out before my minds eye as vivid as though I were walking back through that night, a spectator this time instead of participant. I hear Sally's girlish giggle, and Stuart's yip from further in the house as he hears us coming inside. I see the small green bin on the kitchen floor, where I set the empty beer bottles with the rest of our recycling. I see the clock on the microwave, it's dull green numbers reading eleven past nine. Outside the tempest was raging, the sound of the gales of rain impossibly loud as they slammed against the side of the house.

The lights went out. I bumped my hip against the counter and muttered half-hearted curses. It hadn't really hurt that bad.

Lightening flashed through the windows, illuminating our small kitchen. I stepped back in shock upon seeing the look on my dear wife's face until the light danced away again, leaving us in darkness.

Stuart howled, not his usual warbling growl that spilled out of his throat when he was truly spooked, but a high-pitched, whining howl that planted gooseflesh all along my arms and neck.

Lightening again, and I braced myself to see that look on Sally's face again, the terror that had pulled her skin so taut that, in the storm's crazy light, made it look as though she were wearing a cruel mask of herself, with it's jaw hanging open so wide it was unnatural, its eyes bulging out from its sockets. Fear and bewilderment thundered through me, turning my stomach so violently that I was sure I'd upend the beers I'd drank, and it came to a frightening head when, where Sally was supposed to be, there was nothing.

Darkness. "Sal! Sally, where'd you go!" My heart thudded. Had she fallen? I wondered frantically. "Sally, where are you?"

Another bolt of lightening. The electricity flickered on and off, on and off again, and finally stayed on. All the sounds of the house could be heard even over the gales of wind and rain; the refrigerator motor humming back to life, the beeps of the microwave, the low steady thrum of electricity finding its rhythm again.

The unreality I felt in that moment is every bit as vivid to me now. There was the kitchen counter, there was the front door, there was the linoleum, but there was no Sally. What felt like long, hideously drawn out moments of fear had passed in under half a minute. Now you have a wife, now you don't.

I screamed myself hoarse for an hour, travelling through our small house over and over, eventually bracing the cutting wind and rain and circling the yard, first the front and then the back, my bellowing scream barely rising above the wind.

When the door slammed shut behind me, I stood, dripping, soaked and not feeling it, shivering but unaware of it, and looked vacantly into the house. The last image of my wife flashed behind my eyes and helpless, hot tears bubbled up at once, the unreality letting me go just enough for the fear to catch its hold on me.

The mask of terror. The lightening. And finally, the disappearing act. My wife vanished that summer's night, seemingly in to thin air. I still hear her laughter; feel her hair slip across my cheek in the night, as she tosses and turns with the discomfort of the coming of arthritis. I see her in the kitchen, humming as she washes dishes, slowly swaying her hips back and forth as her mind is lost to The King, ever her favorite. I still have the ghost of my wife, and the ghost would accompany me over the next eight months of growing hell, but I never would see her again.

The storm raged all night. At some point, Stuart found me sitting on the kitchen floor and nuzzled his head under my limp hand. The telephone was on the floor to my right, the line dead. No neighbors had answered their doors. No car dared brave the coming flood that was gathering in the street. No authorities could be notified of the impossible disappearance of my Sally. I fell in to a troubled sleep, wherein the wind sounded like laughter, and every bellow of thunder brought blackness that seemed to stretch ever outward, encompassing everything in sight, until there was nothing left.

+++++++++++++

Sheriff Ruud was a young man with hard eyes. He stood half a foot taller than me at six foot one, and though time hadn't even begun with chip away at his skin or hair or bones, the impression you got just by sweeping a glance over his almost boyish looks was that he'd been everywhere, he'd seen everything, and not one damn bit of it had affected him. His voice was deep and pleasant, and he asked only a few questions as I recounted the previous evening to him.

I like to superimpose an image of myself over this memory. In it, I am standing straight and tall, my voice does not waver, and I state the facts with certainty and only passing worry. Of course she's alright, this version of myself seems to feel. She wandered off in wanderlust for the storm, perhaps wanted to watch the lightening a bit more. Maybe she wandered too far, and was afraid to come back through the storm, so she slept at a neighbor's. This version of myself even has a small smile at the corner of his lips. Women, that smile says. Aren't they just the damnedest things?

In reality, I stood facing Sheriff Ruud clothed in the same flannel and jeans I'd worn the night before, which were still damp. My face, I am too sure, was long and haggard with the absence of sleep, my hair ruffled and unkempt. My back was hunched as though worry itself had taken solid form and bent me over, wracking through my bones in a constant flow. Though I had no reflection to see myself in, the pity in Ruud's eyes was tell enough that I looked like absolute hell.

"Did you hear the door?"

I shook my head. "Not that I could've, Sheriff. Storm was raging louder than you could believe on this side of town." I remembered how easily I'd heard the low thrum of electricity when it kicked back on, but put that thought aside.

Ruud nodded. "I stayed at a buddy's last night, just a few blocks over. It got real bad, real fast. I didn't want to risk driving that old pickup of mine."

I nodded. "I searched for hours, Sheriff. Hours. Everywhere. Immediately. Believe me, I didn't waste no time."

The young Sheriff nodded in understanding. There was no doubt written in the scarce lines of his face; no twinkle of disbelief in his hazel eyes. As insane as I sounded, he took my story for truth, or at least appeared to. She had simply disappeared. Now you see her, now you don't. Now you have a wife, now you have the ghost of her.

Sheriff Ruud took my statement and denied my offer for coffee, and was gone within thirty minutes. Not much later there was another cruiser on the street, and I sat and watched as two officers joined Ruud to knock on doors

In the week that followed I learned that there were three other disappearances. Next door, the sweet young family of four had become three, the youngest daughter having vanished from her seat on the couch without so much as a sound. Across the street, the Baldwin's lost a son to the storm, a boy of only four. Next to them was the now-empty house of Mrs. Sydney Montana, who wasn't discovered to be missing for four days, as she'd lived alone and there was no one to worry for her absence.

In total, four people disappeared that night, in the very concentrated area of my street. There were rumors of abduction. The papers screamed of the possibility of a serial killer. Both sets of parents, in the weeks that followed, demanded the head of one Mr. Judd Heathrow, the 'creepy' bus driver who little Alison, before her disappearing act (Now you have a daughter, now you have a ghost), would complain about daily during the school year. They did not take in to consideration that my wife was forty six, not a child, and that were he the pervert they thought he was, my Sally would not have fallen in to the category of victims they claimed him to have.

For weeks I withered. I'm old now and I was old then. Fifty had been kind to me before I lost my love, but the years, which seemed previously to have been held on a shelf by my ever protective Sally, crashed on me all at once without her strong arms there to protect me. The only time I thought of food was when Stuart reminded me that he was still alive, still there, and hungry, and I would try to make myself eat, but I hardly managed to. My clothes begun to hang on my tired old body. My face was covered in the salt and pepper whiskers that Sally had never liked, but she wasn't there to force me to shave. I sat on the porch, in the bright heat of morning until the cool blanket of night fell over the sky, and I convinced myself that she would return. Poof, and the ghost is gone, and here's Sally again, her graying hair pinned behind her ears, as she'd worn it for the better of fifteen years. There's a basket in her hands. "Went to pick some blackberries from the old trees in Mrs. Haggerly's feild, George. Want one?"

I don't like to admit it, even now, but if what happened on the night of August twenty-first, seventeen days after the disappearances, had not happened, I might have just gone on withering until all Stuart had to eat was the meat from my bones.

The fathomless depth of loss was rivaled only the the sheer panic that night brought. That night, two things were made clear to me.

My Sally was gone. She would not reappear, not even her corpse. Her soul had departed this world, and god alone knew what happened to her body.

And:

The storm had brought terrible things to our neighborhood that night. Things that there are no words for, though I will try. Demons of such cruelly unbelievable evilness that this world should not have held them. The storm had brought evil to us, and the evil did not intend to stop at a few meager disappearing acts.

[newflanagansonthebloch]

Day 7, April 13 Hoi An and My Son

We wake up early again (Kerran is getting used to it!) and are impressed and surprised to find a comprehensive breakfast spread on the ground floor of our hotel. I tried a Vietnamese pancake, enjoyed the roasted tomatoes everywhere else in the world seems to serve (among other stuff) and Kerran has his typical feast. My arms are a touch sore from the lifting we did two days ago but my legs are fine from the 30miles of riding.

At 8 we met Hoai and a new driver (who was no Huy!) and drove about an hour from Hoi An toward My Son temple, eBay some refer to as Vietnam’s answer to Ankor Wat. This is a Hindu temple complex belonging to the Cham Dynasty. The Cham Dynasty was a powerful matriarchal kingdom that predates the Vietnamese in this area. The temples date from around the 4th century but we’re continuously built upon over time by subsequent rulers. The Cham ultimately were pushed out of Vietnam in the 13th century, well before the French discovered these abandoned temples in 1885.

After passing through two reddish brick arch ways you board a golf cart like shuttle (but bigger) further showing how far this is from anything else. A few years back Hoai tells us that you wakes this long path and there was no road. Now, Kerran and I are far from lazy, but with burning sun on our backs we are incredibly grateful for the electric car. Sweat is easy to come by here!

In the early 19th century after the French discovered this space, together the french and Vietnamese studied this place and captured photos. During WWII, the franco-Vietnam war and of course the Vietnam war, fighting and bombs further destroyed the site. Bombs from the American war topped a 28 meter tower. Today there are remnants of nearly 40 buildings at different stages of reconstruction. Where possible they will rebuild building to look as they appeared in the original photos captured by the french. Of course by then much was ruined as well. It’s interesting because you can also walk in these ruins. It’s also interesting that the bricks are held together by a glue made from nearby trees, and these have held for centuries!

My Son is situated in a beautiful lush mountainous area. The scenery alone is stunning. We choose to skip the traditional dance offered in an outdoor theatre—we’re melting.

We head back toward Hoi An for a day of exploring the old city. Our first stop is back at A Dong Tailors as we promised Huong that we’d be back as early as possible. I try on my dress and we take it in a bit more and Kerran his suit. He’s so pleased that he is moved to order three more casual shirts. It’s so impressive that both our suit and dress were started around 6am and finished at 10am. Huong asks us to come back between 4-5pm for what she hopes will be finishing touches.

Around the corner from the tailor Kerran and Hoai grab a famous Bahn Mi from the “Bahn Mi Queen.” I have a bite and can’t deny that it’s delicious—it has tons and tons of food inside like hm and meat and chili sauce and aioli and vegetables and more items than I can name. We walk through the old quarter and I order ice cream for lunch at the cargo club where we’re permitted to all eat upstairs overlooking the river. It’s so incredibly hot I can’t possibly fathom eating anything else. Across the river where the night market now sits, Hoai tells us that just a few years ago was hardly anything. Rapid growth has occurred due to tourism. However it’s imperative that all buildings in this area are constructed or refurbished in the same style to maintain the historic look and feel of this UNESCO World Heritage site.

After a quick lunch we head to the sites of Hoi Ann’s old town. Here you purchase a UNESCO ticket that affords you entrance to up to five monuments within the city. We cross the small Japanese covered bridge which dates back to the 17th century and joins the historic Japanese and Chinese sections of the city. Monkey statues guard one entrance and dogs the other. There is a small temple adjoining the bridge which was not built by the Japanese, but later by the Vietnamese. Inside are pictures from the 1700s and later when the french came. The french nicknames this city Fai Foo because those are the Vietnamese words they used to ask “is this the city?”

We then visit our first ancient house. A niece of the man who currently lives here shows us around and informs us that the house was originally constructed in 1780 and has housed 8 generations of her her family. 80 columns hold up this house and sit on top of marble to avoid damage from both humidity and termites. We don’t linger long here as the whole family seems to be selling something. The architecture has influence from Japanese, Chinese and Vietnamese styles.

Later we visit a second home, the Tan Ky home which is about 200 years old. Here you can see how high the river has flooded the homes each year—well above my head. The family moves all its belongings to the second floor during the rainy season through a kind of trap door. You can also see photos of the generations of families who inhabited this home and you walk right through tot he river side.

We also have an opportunity to visit two different Chinese Assembly halls. Each hall is from a different Chinese province and thus reflect slightly different styles. The first is the Cantonese assembly hall, or temple really. The giant dragon sculpture in the middle foyer is the standout here. There is an even large more impressive multi dragon mosaic sculpture in the back!

The second assembly hall belonged to the Fukien or Fukien people. It opens up to a beautiful garden adorned with flowers and even a model of the Great Wall. This temple dates from the late 17th century and was completed in 1757. Three main alters are found inside, the middle of which includes Fujianese mandarins. There is also an alter for the god of prosperity and one for the goddess of fertility surrounded by many midwives. This hall, like the last, features a replica of a merchant boat which honors all those who do not come back from the sea. Hoai also informs us that many Vietnamese share the same last names. Anyone of Chinese descent often has the last name Minh and even has an image of china on their government ID. Hoa’s ancestors are from both Vietnam so his license has an image of Vietnam.

At this point we have used all our tickets and are drenched in sweat from the heat. It’s early afternoon so we make our way back to the hotel and take a short swim in the hotel pool. We honor Huong’s request and are back at the tailor before 5pm for final fittings. We have a few final adjustments to make (bringing Kerran’s shirt out a bit, adding buttons to his suit, and making a last minute change to the hem of my dress.) It’s crazy how fast they do this! 10-15 minutes later the clothes magically reappear perfectly. After bidding farewell to my Hoi An Tailor fairy godmother Huong and A Dong Silk we pick up Kerran’s dress shirts down the road at Be Be Tailor.

After this we head back toward the river for our final Hoi An dinner at Morning Glory. This restaurant is named after the typical vegetable dish served here which is basically just spinach and garlic. The service is pretty bad here but the food is good. I order Banh Xeo which is a hybrid of a pancake and a make your own spring roll. I got the traditional Cao Lao for dinner and Kerran got the (better tasting) mackerel. People sweat by Cao Lao, a meat and noodle dish topped with fresh greens, wontons and spice, but it’s not my favorite of the trio. We end there meal with bananas drenched in coconut cream. We wander a mile or so back to our hotel and stop at the tourist stalls for a needed purchase: Kerran gets a defective Nike shirt for $9 and I replace what I’ve been calling my “beach or travel pants” for 12 bucks. The 15 year old pair was overdue for retirement...plus I stained them with mouth wash on the way here!! After our successful shopping trip we packed up our things and called it a night in Hoi An.

Ps there are also beaches here but we just didn’t manage to get there this time!

[benwvatt]

interrupted

This is for @quantum-oddity because she’s a huge reason I even got into Hamilton and I hope she sees this and it can cheer her up in some way! Also, thanks to my wonderful beta @beliza-fryler for proofreading and finding mutual love in OUAT/Enchanted/Hamilton with me ((:

Fandom: Hamilton

Characters: Alexander Hamilton, Eliza Schuyler, Washington, Adams, Jefferson

Rating: PG-13??

Genre: Angst, then fluff

Warnings: Fighting in a relationship, mention of periods

Word count: 2.7k

As the age-old grandfather clock in Washington’s oversized office ticked hopelessly, Hamilton fidgeted more in his seat. The meeting had been estimated to be one of the longest ones of Washington’s term, encompassing both the cabinet and any invited guests involved in the political world, but it had only been forty-five minutes and Alexander was already a little stir-crazy.

The founding fathers had been called into a meeting in order to discuss possible future American presidents, after Martha had suggested the idea with a twinkle in her eye. Everyone knew she missed Washington while American leadership took a toll on his health. Some nights Washington left the office only a few minutes before Hamilton did, walking into the parking lot and barely retaining his honorable composure while he got into the car.

While at the meeting, Washington retained a commanding presence at the head of the table, watching like a hawk as Adams and Jefferson debated loudly and without restraint. Hamilton felt uncomfortable not speaking up when so many of his colleagues were, especially when Jefferson could usually elicit a brash response from Hamilton just by opening his mouth. Honestly speaking, Hamilton couldn’t envision himself as the President. He knew he wouldn’t fare well under that much pressure and judgment, with every failed move maximized and every success undermined.

Only a few minutes earlier, Adams had quietly announced he would run for president after Washington left, resulting in a loud scoff and a mutter from none other than Thomas Jefferson. Both Washington and Hamilton remained silent while Jefferson stayed seated and began to poke fun at Adams.

“As if you could get there. Why don’t you complete your vice-president checklist first?” Jefferson may not have hoped to run for president yet, but he could only laugh at the prospect of a man such as John Adams becoming a future American leader. “As of right now, I believe there’s only one thing on it. It reads ‘do something with my life’”.

Adams tried to stand up taller and reddened. Breathing deeply, he started talking before he stuttered over his words multiple times and his phone rang (quite loudly too, as the marimba ringtone resounded above the disputes of the meeting) just when he had begun. Awkwardly, Adams excused himself from the room, insisting that his wife Abigail was on the other end and she was despondent over news of their son and his misbehavior.

After Adams had left, Washington looked uncomfortably around the large office, seeing men filled with the craze of competition and a roomful of polarized opponents. “Well, with John out of the room, we may as well take a break. Please leave the room for fifteen minutes and return afterwards. I do hope you can behave better when you reenter, for the sake of yourselves if not for this nation,” he announced, in hopes of calming the room.

Hamilton breathed a sigh of relief as he clicked number one on his speed dial and called Eliza. She was the only person keeping him grounded in the political hurricane of confused shouts, allied teams, and complicated demands.

“Hello? Where are you?” Eliza sounded upset and forgotten behind the false tone she had adopted after being a Senator’s daughter for years.

“Betsey, it’s me.” Alex was delighted to hear her voice after a difficult day at the office.

���Of course it is.” Eliza’s voice on the other end of the line reflected a cold, physical distance standing between the Hamiltons. “Why aren’t you home?”

“Washington wanted –”

“What else does he want?” Eliza’s coldness was irregular, and Alex began to pace nervously in the hallway.

“Excuse me?” Alexander hoped she wasn’t serious.

“What hasn’t he taken from us already?” Eliza sounded empty, the only reason she was being so confrontational. On any other day, she would carefully approach the subject before asserting that President Washington and the job he provided for Alex was hurting the Hamiltons.

“Just let me finish,” Alexander snapped. He hated being interrupted; it meant he was being walked all over. “Washington wanted to discuss, between everyone, the possibility of any of us running for president.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re thinking of running,” Eliza was drained of her normal kindness today, and only the exhausted, unamused words were left.

“And why not?” Hamilton was tired, and he certainly didn’t need the one person he depended on to discourage him even further.

Truth be told, Hamilton knew he didn’t want to be president. He preferred having a job to support his family, not to tear him away from it. With that in mind, however, Hamilton knew that his demanding work as a treasury secretary had kept him awake and away from home for weeks now. He hit the home button, checking the calendar app while Eliza shouted discouragements against his possible presidential term. Alex knew he’d already heard every one of her complaints and – yep, right on schedule – it was her time of the month as well.

After checking the calendar, Hamilton tapped on the green, flashing bar to return to the call at the top of the screen and pressed his cell phone to his ear.

“And another thing – you don’t even listen when you are home! Sometimes I think you should just get your own place so we’d quit bothering you from your real work.”

Eliza meant the last sentence sarcastically, but Alexander could feel it jolt in his bones. He shivered without cause. Leave it to Eliza to remind him of long nights when he returned to a lonely apartment, wallpaper peeling and bills piling up.

With Mother dead, Father gone, and Alexander desperate to live for just one more morning, Hamilton knew those years well. Isolation became the only thing he could depend on for so long. When he had next to nothing, Hamilton had singled out his sole option between the human need to fight or flight. There was no running away when there was nothing to leave behind.

Alex shook the image out of his mind, picturing his home and family, but nearly hung up as Eliza’s voice angrily droned on. His ears burned in frustration and his knees locked in defense, ready to bear the burden of a long lecture. James Hamilton, his late father (or so he hoped), had taught his son all too well.

“Anyways, I’m sure Jefferson’s done arguing by now.” Eliza remained firm in her anger towards her husband as she jumped to a seemingly obvious conclusion.

“How did you –”

“He’s Jefferson.”

Although Alexander would have ordinarily found the remark funny and perhaps even endearing, today it only annoyed him. He hated it when she interrupted; it meant she thought she was right.

Alexander felt as if he had dealt with enough of his wife’s loud complaints. He’d called expecting a greeting and was met with discourse. It was time she heard an outburst from him. “I’d say goodbye, but you don’t deserve it,” he retorted, trying to hang up and missing the button pathetically.

“I’d say farewell, but I really hope you don’t.” Eliza’s voice was clipped and sarcastic as she ended the call. Silence replaced the shouts in Alexander’s head.

Hamilton, for the first time in years, felt speechless. It was as if his conversation with Eliza had stolen all of his good intentions and crafted phrases, twisting them into ugly surges of emotions he had bottled up for too long.

There were still four minutes left until Washington’s meeting began again, so Hamilton sat down outside the grand doorframe and fidgeted with his phone. He had nobody to turn to; all of his colleagues were here at the office, and his family would take Eliza’s side. Alexander even debated on whether or not to text Angelica, but the eldest Schuyler sister would likely usurp Eliza in anger and frustration.

Finally, he settled upon music. Alex hit play on a movie soundtrack written by Lin-Manuel Miranda (dubbed the king of writing in the Hamilton household, which Alexander disproved of). Without any earbuds, he lamely turned the volume down and held the phone close to his ear.

One song later, Hamilton walked into the meeting room and began to speak. Jefferson and Madison groaned preemptively, knowing how long Hamilton’s speeches could stretch. They had often begged him to apply the term ‘less is more’ into his writing, but Alexander always refused.

“Washington, sir, I do not plan on running for president. I am content in my current position as treasury secretary and I’d very much like to remove myself from this meeting. May I?”

The words sounded foolish coming out of his mouth. The argument with Eliza sapped his knowledge and replaced it with defensiveness. Hamilton couldn’t feel anything but the weight of last night, spent typing away in his office until 4 AM. Alexander spent two-and-a-half hours dozing off on his mousepad, while Eliza had spent the night alone. Nobody but his family could heal this hurt, a raw wound born from Alex’s own selfishness that Eliza had worsened.

Hamilton trudged into the parking lot, hardly awake and turned off to the wandering thoughts of what his coworkers would think. On the way home, he stopped at a pharmacy for pads, pain-relievers, and flowers. Alex hoped Eliza still liked daisies, because he couldn’t find any of her favorite sunflowers on the sterile store shelf. Pulling into the driveway, Alexander felt ashamed of himself. He swallowed a headache pill without any water to dull the pain.

Eliza was laid out on their bed, curled up in Alex’s old Kings College shirt and crying a little. She looked faded and more upset than she had been on the phone. Alexander felt as if he was seeing her up-close, more so than he had in the last three months. Her face was tired, with faint laugh lines crossing around her mouth, and Alexander knew she didn’t laugh as much nowadays.

Alex coughed and Eliza rushed over to greet him. He supposed it was a reflex, because she stopped abruptly before throwing her arms over him and giving him a kiss. Was it normal to miss someone who was right in front of you?

Eliza rolled her eyes, remembering why she was angry, and sat down at the edge of the bed. An old episode of Friends played on their television, and Eliza was clearly more focused on Ross and Rachel than she was on Alex.

“I’m sorry, and I’m a fool, and I’m here for you,” Alex murmured, knowing years of political writing didn’t help construct an adequate apology. He didn’t need to make any revisions or read over his work in his head. These were rough drafts of what he felt.

“I’ll bet you are,” Eliza said. Her words were defiant but her voice shook in the air.

“I brought you stuff,” Alexander offered.

Eliza turned to face him. “The great treasury secretary Alexander Hamilton uses the word ‘stuff’ in conversation with a mere pedestrian like Elizabeth Schuyler? He must be dumbing himself down for her.”

Alexander winced upon hearing her words, attacking the man he had worked so hard to become. She rarely used her full name unless something important was at stake. “Look, Betsey, I’m so sorry.”

The laugh track from the television halted as Eliza pressed the mute button, her hands trembling slightly. Turning her eyes to the ground, Eliza noticed a cheap plastic bag hanging from her husband’s thin fingers. “What for?”

Betsey only used this tactic when there was too much to apologize for all at once.

“I’m sorry for working late again. I know I haven’t been home very much, and the days I have come I’ve dropped into bed after you’re asleep and I’m gone by the time you wake up. It’s not fair to you, or to the kids, and it hurts everyone around me,” admitted Alexander, with a touch of exhaustion in every word.

He hated leaving his family like this, collateral damage of his own work ethic.

Eliza’s face softened and she walked closer to Alex. “Oh, I know.”

She motioned for him to sit down next to her on the flowery bedspread and rested her head on his shoulder. Alex smiled softly and rested his head upon hers, putting his arm over her and muttering. A natural writer, Alexander sometimes couldn’t help himself and dictated what he felt aloud.

“She is forgiving, erasing, loving, holding you close until your burst seams seal enough to keep you together. She cares too much to lock you out, choosing to slip you a spare key under the welcome mat. She is the best of wives, the best of women, the best of everything I know.”

Alexander spoke sparingly, not needing pages and pages to express how he felt toward his wife, but it was enough. Eliza traced his cheek with her finger and turned to him, throwing her arms over his shoulders slowly.

“What stuff did you bring?” For the first time in hours, her grin graced the room.

Alex blushed and crossed his fingers. “Um, I assumed it was your monthly, because I checked the calendar app and everything, so I, uh, stopped at the pharmacy on the way home to get you stuff to help and I hope you like it all because they had all these different colored bags of pads, and they didn’t have sunflowers so I got daisies and I got the medication, I think, but with the changing medical world today, you never know.”

His tirade of a sentence rambled on and on, but Eliza waited until he was done and pressed a hug to his chest. She knew he hated being interrupted; it meant nobody was listening. Alexander’s chest heaved as he took a relieved breath.

“Okay, first of all, I am on my period.” Eliza was used to telling Alexander, after being married for years and having told him even when they were dating. “It’s just that…well, mine came late this month.”

Alexander didn’t know how to react. He and Eliza had become distant anyways as a result of his work, so he just said he was sorry. Eliza’s eyes shone when she smiled back at her husband.

“I never really told you, but I was sick the week my period was supposed to come,” Eliza admitted, knowing that Alex tended to overreact whenever any of his family fell ill. The Hamiltons knew it went back to his mother’s yellow fever, and usually dealt with illness on their own.

“And?” For once, Alexander didn’t know how to connect the dots.

“Well, I was throwing up and my period was late, so I just jumped to conclusions.” After having a few children, Eliza was used to the warning signs. “So when my period did come yesterday, I was kind of disappointed. I know we already have a few kids, but I was just…hopeful. And I realized that I was ready for more kids while you’re still running around, yelling at Jefferson and pulling all-nighters like you’re still in school.”

“You’re ready for more kids?” Alex’s voice resounded in the bedroom, surprised and unsure.

Eliza shifted uncomfortably on the bedspread, biting her lip. “Yes?”

“I’m with you.” Alexander may have been shocked by the news, but he was ready for change in his life. “’ll make time, I promise. I can come home earlier, and ignore Jefferson, and even write less.”

Eliza’s eyes softened as she smiled, her hand twisted nicely in his. “You’d really do that? What about Washington? And the presidency issue?”

“I never really wanted to be president anyways,” admitted Alex, grinning at his wife. He loved the easy contentedness that their talks inevitably came to. “Now, can we just stay here and watch?”

There was a time and place for everything, and the Hamiltons knew it. Alex liked the ring of laughter in their room that day, as the curtains fell over the dying light from the windows and Eliza fell asleep on him. Alexander said goodbye to empty parking lots and exhausting commutes home. He welcomed the satisfying days to come and breathed a sigh of relief. Betsey was all that he would ever need.

[brinazzle]

1

As an executive coach, I’ve been helping successful leaders achieve positive lasting change in behavior for more than thirty-five years. While almost all of my clients embrace the opportunity to change, some are a little reluctant in the beginning. Most are aware of the fact that behavioral change will help them become more effective leaders, partners, and even family members. A few are not. My process of helping clients is straightforward and consistent. I interview and listen to my clients’ key stakeholders. These stakeholders could be their colleagues, direct reports, or board members. I accumulate a lot of confidential feedback. Then I go over the summary of this feedback with my clients. My clients take ultimate responsibility for the behavioral changes that they want to make. My job is then very simple. I help my clients achieve positive, lasting change in the behavior that they choose as judged by key stakeholders that they choose. If my clients succeed in achieving this positive change—as judged by their stakeholders—I get paid. If the key stakeholders do not see positive change, I don’t get paid. Our odds of success improve because I’m with the client every step of the way, telling him or her how to stay on track and not regress to a former self. But that doesn’t diminish the importance of these two immutable truths: Truth #1: Meaningful behavioral change is very hard to do.It’s hard to initiate behavioral change, even harder to stay the course, hardest of all to make the change stick. I’d go so far as to say that adult behavioral change is the most difficult thing for sentient human beings to accomplish. If you think I’m overstating its difficulty, answer these questions: • What do you want to change in your life? It could be something major, such as your weight (a big one), your job (big too), or your career (even bigger). It could be something minor, such as changing your hairstyle or checking in with your mother more often or changing the wall color in your living room. It’s not my place to judge what you want to change.

• How long has this been going on? For how many months or years have you risen in the morning and told yourself some variation on the phrase, “This is the day I make a change”? • How’s that working out? In other words, can you point to a specific moment when you decided to change something in your life and you acted on the impulse and it worked out to your satisfaction? The three questions conform to the three problems we face in introducing change into our lives. We can’t admit that we need to change—either because we’re unaware that a change is desirable, or, more likely, we’re aware but have reasoned our way into elaborate excuses that deny our need for change. In the following pages, we’ll examine—and dispense with—the deep-seated beliefs that trigger our resistance to change. We do not appreciate inertia’s power over us. Given the choice, we prefer to do nothing—which is why I suspect our answers to “How long has this been going on?” are couched in terms of years rather than days. Inertia is the reason we never start the process of change. It takes extraordinary effort to stop doing something in our comfort zone (because it’s painless or familiar or mildly pleasurable) in order to start something difficult that will be good for us in the long run. I cannot supply the required effort in this book. That’s up to you. But through a simple process emphasizing structure and self-monitoring I can provide you with the kick start that triggers and sustains positive change. We don’t know how to execute a change. There’s a difference between motivation and understanding and ability. For example, we may be motivated to lose weight but we lack the nutritional understanding and cooking ability to design and stick with an effective diet. Or flip it over: we have understanding and ability but lack the motivation. One of the central tenets of this book is that our behavior is shaped, both positively and negatively, by our environment—and that a keen appreciation of our environment can dramatically lift not only our motivation, ability, and understanding of the change process, but also our confidence that we can actually do it. I vividly recall my first decisive behavioral change as an adult. I was twenty-six years old, married to my first and only wife, Lyda, and pursuing a doctorate in organizational behavior at the University of California, Los Angeles. Since high school I had been a follicly challenged man, but back then I was loath to admit it. Each morning I would spend several minutes in front of the bathroom mirror carefully arranging the wispy blond stands of hair still remaining on the top of my head. I’d smooth the hairs forward from back to front, then curve them to a point in the middle of my forehead, forming a pattern that looked vaguely like a laurel wreath. Then I’d walk out into the world with my ridiculous comb-over, convinced I looked normal like everyone else. When I visited my barber, I’d give specific instructions on how to cut my hair. One morning I dozed off in the chair, so he trimmed my hair too short, leaving insufficient foliage on the sides to execute my comb-over regimen. I could have panicked and put on a hat for a few weeks, waiting for the strands to grow back. But as I stood in front of the mirror later that day, staring at my reflected image, I said to myself, “Face it, you’re bald. It’s time you accepted it.” That’s the moment when I decided to shave the few remaining hairs on the top of my head and live my life as a bald man. It wasn’t a complicated decision and it didn’t take great effort to accomplish. A short trim at the barber from then on. But in many ways, it is still the most liberating change I’ve made as an adult. It made me happy, at peace with my appearance. I’m not sure what triggered my acceptance of a new way of self-grooming. Perhaps I was horrified at the prospect of starting every day with this routine forever. Or maybe it was the realization that I wasn’t fooling anyone. The reason doesn’t matter. The real achievement is that I actually decided to change and successfully acted on that decision. That’s not easy to do. I had spent years fretting and fussing with my hair. That’s a long time to continue doing something that I knew, on the spectrum of human folly, fell somewhere between vain and idiotic. And yet I persisted in this foolish behavior for so many years because (a) I couldn’t admit that I was bald, and (b) under the sway of inertia, I found it easier to continue doing my familiar routine than change my ways. The one advantage I had was (c) I knew how to execute the change. Unlike most changes—for example, getting in shape, learning a new language, or becoming a better listener—it didn’t require months of discipline and measuring and following up. Nor did it require the cooperation of others. I just needed to stop giving my barber crazy instructions and let him do his job. If only all our behavioral changes were so uncomplicated. Truth #2: No one can make us change unless we truly want to change. This should be self-evident. Change has to come from within. It can’t be dictated, demanded, or otherwise forced upon people. A man or woman who does not wholeheartedly commit to change will never change. I didn’t absorb this simple truth until my twelfth year in the “change” business. By then I had done intensive one-on-one coaching with more than a hundred executives, nearly all successes but a smattering of failures, too. As I reviewed my failures, one conclusion leapt out: Some people say they want to change, but they don’t really mean it. I had erred profoundly in client selection. I believed the clients when they said they were committed to changing, but I had not drilled deeper to determine if they were telling the truth. Not long after this revelation, I was asked to work with Harry, the chief operating officer of a large consulting firm. Harry was a smart, motivated, hardworking deliver-the-numbers alpha male who was also arrogant and overdelighted with himself. He was habitually disrespectful to his direct reports, driving several of them away to work for the competition. This development rattled the CEO, hence the call to me to coach Harry. Harry talked a good game at first, assuring me that he was eager to get started and get better. I interviewed his colleagues and direct reports, even his wife and teenage children. They all told the same story. Despite his abundant professional qualities, Harry had an overwhelming need to be the smartest person in the room, always proving that he was right, winning every argument. It was exhausting and off-putting. Who could say how many opportunities had vanished because people loathed being pummeled and browbeaten? As Harry and I reviewed his 360-degree feedback, he claimed to value the opinions of his co-workers and family members. Yet whenever I brought up an area for improvement, Harry would explain point by point how his questionable behavior was actually justified. He’d remind me that he majored in psychology in college and then analyze the behavioral problems of everyone around him, concluding that they needed to change. In a mind-bending display of chutzpah, he asked me for suggestions in helping these people get better. In my younger days, I would have overlooked Harry’s resistance. Mimicking his arrogance and denial, I would have convinced myself that I could help Harry where lesser mortals would fail. Fortunately I remembered my earlier lesson: Some people say they want to change, but they don’t really mean it. It was dawning on me that Harry was using our work together as another opportunity to display his superiority and to reverse the misperceptions of all the confused people surrounding him, including his wife and kids. By our fourth meeting I gave up the ghost. I told Harry that my coaching wouldn’t be helpful to him and we parted ways. (I felt neither joy nor surprise when I later learned that the firm had fired Harry. Evidently the CEO had concluded that an individual who actively resists help has maxed out professionally and personally.) I often call up my time with Harry as a stark example that, even when altering our behavior represents all reward and no risk—and clinging to the status quo can cost us our careers and relationships—we resist change. We’re even defeated by change when it’s a matter of life and death. Consider how hard it is to break a bad habit such as smoking. It’s so daunting that, despite the threat of cancer and widespread social disapproval, two-thirds of smokers who say they’d like to quit never even try. And of those who do try, nine out of ten fail. And of those who eventually quit namely the most motivated and disciplined people—on average they fail six times before succeeding. Compared to other behavioral changes in our lives, smoking is a relatively simple challenge. After all, it’s a self-contained behavior. It’s just you and your habit, a lone individual dealing with one demon. You either lick it or you don’t. It’s up to yo —and only you—to declare victory. No one else gets a say in the matter. Imagine how much harder it is when you let other people into the process—people whose actions are unpredictable, beyond your control—and their responses can affect your success. It’s the difference between hitting warm-up tennis balls over the net and playing a match where an opponent is rocketing the balls back at you. That’s what makes adult behavioral change so hard. If you want to be a better partner at home or a better manager at work, you not only have to change your ways, you have to get some buy-in from your partner or co-workers. Everyone around you has to recognize that you’re changing. Relying on other people increases the degree of difficulty exponentially. Let that last sentence sink in before you turn the page. This is not a book about stopping a bad habit such as smoking cigarettes or dealing with your late-night craving for ice cream. Nicotine and ice cream aren’t the target constituency here. It’s about changing your behavior when you’re among people you respect and love. They are your target audience. What makes positive, lasting behavioral change so challenging—and causes most of us to give up early in the game—is that we have to do it in our imperfect world, full of triggers that may pull and push us off course. The good news is that behavioral change does not have to be complicated. As you absorb the methods in the following pages, do not be lulled into dismissiveness because my advice sounds simple. Achieving meaningful and lasting change may be simple—simpler than we imagine. But simple is far from easy.