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dark-matters-blog · 2 years

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DragonRealm Chronicles

Chapter 1: The Fall and the Hatching

Once upon a moonlit night, the stars aligned, and the ancient prophecies whispered of a time when the balance between humans and monsters would once again be tested. In a small village on the edge of the known world, a curious child ventured out into the darkness, drawn by a mysterious force they could neither see nor understand.

As the child wandered through the shadowy forest, the ground beneath their feet began to tremble. In an instant, the earth cracked open, swallowing the child into the depths of the unknown. They plummeted into a hidden world, where the air shimmered with magic and possibility.

Dazed and disoriented, the child awoke in a vast cavern illuminated by ethereal crystals. They found themselves in the DragonRealm, a place where monsters and dragons coexisted in harmony. As the child tried to grasp their new surroundings, they noticed a faint, pulsating glow in the distance.

Intrigued and with nowhere else to go, the child followed the glow, which led them to a secluded chamber adorned with intricate carvings depicting the history and legends of the dragon realm. At the center of the chamber lay a dragon egg, radiant with iridescent colors and pulsating with a mesmerizing energy.

Unbeknownst to the child, the egg was nearing the end of its incubation, and the fateful meeting of human and dragon was about to unfold. As the child approached the egg, a surge of determination and hope filled their heart, and the egg began to tremble and crack. With each passing moment, the egg's cracks grew wider, and the air around it buzzed with anticipation. Alex, mesmerized by the unfolding miracle before them, held their breath and watched as a tiny snout emerged from the fractured shell.

Slowly, a young dragon unfurled itself from the remnants of its egg, blinking its eyes and taking its first breath in the realm it would soon call home. This dragon, with its shimmering scales of gold and green, was named Dracorus, a name destined to be etched into the annals of history.

As Alex and Dracorus met each other's gaze for the first time, an inexplicable bond formed between them, one that transcended the boundaries of species and connected their very souls. They could feel each other's emotions, hopes, and fears, and they knew, without a doubt, that their destinies were forever intertwined.

Together, the two ventured deeper into the DragonRealm, Alex and Dracorus supporting and learning from each other as they faced the challenges that lay ahead. Their journey would take them through lush forests and sparkling rivers, across arid deserts and treacherous mountains, all the while unraveling the mysteries of the realm and the ancient prophecies that spoke of their arrival.

As they journeyed, Alex and Dracorus encountered the many monsters and dragons that called the DragonRealm their home. From the noble Dreemurr family, who had once ruled the realm and now served as esteemed advisors, to the enigmatic members of the Great Dragon Council, each new acquaintance brought with them valuable insights and wisdom that would help shape the path of our heroes.

Through their trials and tribulations, Alex and Dracorus discovered the power of their combined determination, an ability that would allow them to shape the very fabric of time and space. With this newfound power came great responsibility, as they realized that their actions would have far-reaching consequences for not only themselves but for the entire realm.

Unbeknownst to them, dark forces stirred in the shadows, seeking to exploit the growing unrest and discontent among the denizens of the DragonRealm. As the line between friend and foe began to blur, Alex and Dracorus would have to rely on their bond and the strength of their determination to save the realm they had come to love.

And so, with courage in their hearts and the power of determination at their fingertips, Alex and Dracorus stepped forward into the unknown, ready to face the challenges and adventures that awaited them in the DragonRealm Chronicles.

As Alex and Dracorus began their journey, they quickly realized that traversing the DragonRealm would be no easy task. The Crystal Caverns, though beautiful and mesmerizing, were filled with an array of dangerous creatures and treacherous terrain. With every step they took, they encountered new challenges, from navigating their way through narrow tunnels to fending off aggressive monsters.

Yet, despite the difficulties, the bond between Alex and Dracorus only grew stronger. They quickly learned to rely on each other's strengths and to communicate without words, sensing each other's emotions and intentions through their unbreakable connection. Dracorus, with his innate knowledge of the DragonRealm and its inhabitants, served as a guide and protector, while Alex's determination and resourcefulness proved invaluable in overcoming obstacles and solving the many puzzles that stood in their way.

As they ventured further into the Crystal Caverns, they stumbled upon an ancient stone tablet, covered in dust and hidden away in a secluded chamber. The tablet bore inscriptions in an archaic script, telling of a prophecy that spoke of a human child and a dragon, whose fates were intertwined and whose actions would determine the future of the DragonRealm.

This discovery left Alex and Dracorus with a newfound sense of purpose, as they realized that their meeting and their journey were not merely a result of chance, but of destiny. With renewed determination, they pressed onward, eager to uncover the secrets of the prophecy and the role they were meant to play in shaping the course of history.

Their travels eventually led them to the entrance of Emberwood Forest, where the air was filled with the scent of burning wood and the sky was illuminated by the vibrant hues of the flame-like leaves that adorned the trees. Here, they encountered a group of monsters who, unlike those they had met before, seemed wary and distrustful of the human in their midst.

Among the monsters was a wise old dragon named Ignistail, whose scales had long since turned a deep shade of crimson, a sign of his age and experience. Ignistail approached Alex and Dracorus, his eyes filled with curiosity and caution.

"You are the human child and the dragon from the prophecy," Ignistail said, his voice like the crackling of a fire. "Your presence here has been foretold for centuries, and your actions will have far-reaching consequences for us all. But be warned: not all will welcome you with open arms, and some will seek to use your power for their own gain." Heeding Ignistail's words, Alex and Dracorus continued their journey through Emberwood Forest, their hearts filled with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. As they traversed the fiery landscape, they encountered various fire-based monsters, each with their own unique abilities and challenges. Some were friendly and offered valuable advice or assistance, while others viewed the human-dragon pair with suspicion and hostility.

One day, as they made their way through a particularly dense thicket, they heard a commotion up ahead. Cautiously, they crept closer, only to find a young fire sprite named Flicker, trapped in a hunter's snare. Her wings were singed, and she struggled desperately to free herself, her cries for help growing weaker with each passing moment.

Without hesitation, Alex and Dracorus sprang into action. Using their combined strength and determination, they carefully disarmed the snare and released Flicker from her prison. Grateful for their help, the fire sprite fluttered her wings and offered them a gift – a small, glowing ember that she said would guide them on their journey and help them find their way through the darkest of places.

With Flicker's ember safely tucked away, they continued deeper into Emberwood Forest, the trees growing taller and more imposing with each step they took. Before long, they found themselves at the edge of a vast chasm, the bottom shrouded in darkness and swirling mist. A narrow, rickety bridge stretched across the chasm, swaying gently in the warm breeze.

As they stood at the precipice, a sense of dread washed over them, and they knew that crossing the bridge would be one of their most dangerous challenges yet. But Alex's determination, bolstered by their bond with Dracorus, pushed them forward. Hand in claw, they stepped onto the bridge, their hearts pounding in their chests.

The bridge creaked and groaned beneath their weight, its wooden planks threatening to give way at any moment. Just as they reached the halfway point, a fierce gust of wind tore through the chasm, and the bridge began to sway violently. Panic rose in their throats, but they pushed forward, clinging to each other as they inched closer to the other side.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they reached solid ground, their legs trembling from the ordeal. They had conquered their fears and, in doing so, had proven the strength of their bond and the power of their determination.

Exhausted but victorious, they set up camp beneath the stars, a warm fire crackling in the heart of Emberwood Forest. As they gazed into the flames, they couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment and camaraderie, knowing that they were one step closer to fulfilling the prophecy and discovering their true purpose in the DragonRealm. The following morning, Alex and Dracorus awoke with renewed energy, ready to face the next leg of their journey. As they packed up their camp and said their farewells to Emberwood Forest, they couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. The forest seemed to whisper and murmur with unseen eyes, and shadows flickered just beyond their vision. Despite this, they pressed on, guided by the soft glow of Flicker's ember.

Soon, they reached the outskirts of Frostspire Village, the air growing colder and crisper as they approached. Snowflakes danced through the sky, blanketing the ground in a delicate layer of white. The village itself was a charming collection of quaint cottages and bustling market stalls, all nestled at the base of a towering, ice-covered mountain.

Here, they met an array of ice-based monsters and dragons, including the village elder, a wise and gentle snow dragon named Glaciera. Intrigued by their arrival, Glaciera invited them into her home, a cozy dwelling filled with books and scrolls detailing the history and culture of the DragonRealm.

As they sat by the roaring fire, Glaciera shared stories of the DragonRealm's past – tales of ancient battles, powerful heroes, and long-lost relics that held the key to unimaginable power. Among these stories was the legend of the Nexus, a place where the power of determination converged and the barrier between the DragonRealm and the human world was maintained.

Moved by Glaciera's wisdom and knowledge, Alex and Dracorus shared their own story, revealing the prophecy they had discovered in the Crystal Caverns and their quest to fulfill their destiny. Glaciera listened intently, her eyes twinkling with excitement and wonder. When they had finished, she offered them a piece of advice that would prove crucial to their journey.

"Your path is one of great danger and uncertainty," she said, her voice soft and comforting. "But know this – the true strength of your bond lies not only in your determination but also in your ability to trust one another and work together in harmony. Only by embracing your connection and your shared destiny can you hope to succeed in your quest."

With Glaciera's words etched into their hearts, Alex and Dracorus set forth from Frostspire Village, more determined than ever to unravel the mysteries of the prophecy and unlock the secrets of the DragonRealm.

As they ventured further into the icy wilderness, they encountered new challenges and enemies, each more formidable than the last. Yet, with every victory and every setback, their bond grew stronger, and their resolve more unshakable. And as the snow-capped peaks of the Skyreach Peaks loomed on the horizon, they knew that they were one step closer to fulfilling their destiny and securing the future of the DragonRealm. With the Skyreach Peaks towering before them, Alex and Dracorus knew that they were nearing the end of their journey. The winds howled and whipped around them, threatening to steal their breath and send them tumbling back down the mountain. Yet, they pressed on, their determination burning brighter than ever.

As they climbed higher and higher, the air grew thinner and the temperature plummeted. Icicles hung from every rocky outcrop, and each step they took felt like a battle against the elements. But with every challenge they faced, they grew stronger and more resilient, their connection deepening as they supported and encouraged one another.

Finally, after days of relentless climbing, they reached the summit of the Skyreach Peaks. There, nestled between the jagged peaks and swirling clouds, they found the entrance to the Nexus. A massive stone gate stood before them, its surface covered in intricate carvings and runes that seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy.

As they approached the gate, they felt the weight of their journey and the significance of their actions settle upon them. They knew that what lay beyond the gate could change the course of history for both the DragonRealm and the human world. But they also knew that they had come too far to turn back now.

With a deep breath, they stepped forward and placed their hands on the gate. Instantly, they felt a surge of power coursing through them, as if the very essence of determination was igniting within their souls. The runes on the gate began to glow, and with a deafening rumble, the massive stone doors swung open.

As they crossed the threshold and entered the Nexus, they were greeted by a sight unlike anything they had ever seen. An expansive chamber, filled with swirling colors and energy, stretched out before them. It was as if they were standing at the very heart of the DragonRealm, the nexus point where all of its power converged.

At the center of the chamber, they found a crystal pedestal, upon which rested a beautiful and ancient relic – the Amulet of Unity. According to legend, the amulet held the power to unite the DragonRealm and the human world, bringing about a new era of peace and understanding.

With trembling hands, Alex reached out and grasped the amulet. As they did, they felt a rush of energy and determination unlike anything they had ever experienced. They knew, without a doubt, that their destiny had led them to this moment, and that their actions would shape the future of both worlds.

Together, Alex and Dracorus raised the Amulet of Unity, their hearts swelling with hope and courage. And as they did, they felt the barrier between the DragonRealm and the human world begin to waver, a testament to the power of their bond and the strength of their determination.

With the Amulet of Unity in their possession, Alex and Dracorus knew that their journey had only just begun. The Nexus had granted them a new understanding of the power of determination, but they also knew that they would need allies to help them achieve their goal of uniting the DragonRealm and the human world.

Descending from the Skyreach Peaks, they set out for the Dreemurr Kingdom, where they hoped to gain the support of the noble dragon family. As they journeyed through the land, they began to encounter more of the unique inhabitants of the DragonRealm, each with their own stories and experiences to share.

One such encounter occurred in the town of Mistveil, where they met a pair of skeleton brothers named Sans and Papyrus. The brothers were well-known throughout the town for their humor and good nature, and they quickly became friends with Alex and Dracorus. Sans, with his laid-back attitude and love of puns, provided a sense of levity to their journey, while Papyrus, ever-enthusiastic and determined to become a member of the DragonGuard, offered his unwavering support and encouragement.

As they continued to travel, the group encountered more challenges and obstacles, from treacherous landscapes to fearsome monsters. Yet, with each trial they faced, their bond grew stronger, and they learned to rely on one another for strength and support.

Upon arriving at the Dreemurr Kingdom, they were greeted by the imposing sight of the castle, a testament to the power and authority of the dragon family. With a mixture of anticipation and apprehension, they approached the gates, requesting an audience with the royal family.

To their surprise, they were granted an audience with King Asgore and Queen Toriel, who listened intently as Alex and Dracorus shared their story and their quest to unite the DragonRealm and the human world. Intrigued by the prophecy and the potential for a new era of peace, the king and queen offered their support, pledging to aid them in their journey.

With the blessing of the Dreemurrs, Alex, Dracorus, Sans, and Papyrus set out to uncover the secrets and mysteries that lay hidden throughout the DragonRealm. Along the way, they encountered other key figures, such as Undyne, the fearsome dragon warrior and captain of the DragonGuard, and Alphys, a brilliant inventor and scientist whose work had greatly advanced the realm's technology.

As they delved deeper into the DragonRealm, they also began to uncover clues about the enigmatic figure of Gaster, whose past actions and experiments seemed to be connected to the events unfolding around them. Piecing together the fragments of information they found, they slowly began to unravel the truth behind his disappearance and the consequences of his actions.

Throughout their journey, they learned valuable lessons about trust, friendship, and the power of determination. And as their bond grew stronger, they discovered that the fate of both worlds rested not only in their hands but in the connections they forged with those around them.

With each step, they drew closer to their ultimate goal, guided by the knowledge that they were destined to change the course of history and bring about a new era of unity and peace between the DragonRealm and the human world. With the support of the Dreemurrs, Sans, Papyrus, Undyne, and Alphys, Alex and Dracorus felt more confident in their quest to unite the DragonRealm and the human world. However, they knew that they would still face many challenges, both from the world around them and from within themselves.

As the group ventured deeper into the DragonRealm, they soon found themselves traversing the treacherous Frostfire Caverns. The biting cold and intense heat were a constant reminder of the harsh conditions they faced, and the ever-present danger of lurking monsters kept them on edge.

Dracorus, his scales shimmering in the dim light, turned to Alex and said, "We must remain vigilant. The Frostfire Caverns are home to some of the most fearsome creatures in the DragonRealm. We cannot afford to let our guard down."

Alex nodded, determination shining in their eyes. "We've come this far, and we won't back down now. We have the support of the Dreemurrs and our friends. Together, we can overcome any obstacle."

Sans grinned, the light from his eye casting an eerie glow on the cavern walls. "Heh, I like your attitude, kid. Just remember, if things start to heat up, don't forget to stay cool."

Papyrus rolled his eye sockets but couldn't help but smile at his brother's antics. "Really, Sans? Now is not the time for jokes! We must focus on the task at hand and ensure our safety."

Toriel, ever the caring and protective figure, added, "Papyrus is right. We must all look out for one another and rely on our strengths to overcome the challenges we face."

As they continued through the caverns, they encountered various creatures and puzzles that tested their wit, strength, and determination. Each challenge served to strengthen their bonds and teach them valuable lessons about teamwork, trust, and the power of friendship.

At last, they emerged from the Frostfire Caverns and found themselves at the entrance to the mysterious Crystal Grotto. As they stood before the glistening crystal formations, Alex couldn't help but feel a sense of awe and wonder. As the group ventured into the Crystal Grotto, they were struck by the sheer beauty of the place. The crystal formations reflected the light in dazzling patterns, casting a mesmerizing glow throughout the cavern.

"Wow, this place is amazing," Alex whispered, their eyes wide with wonder.

"It truly is a sight to behold," agreed Toriel. "But we must not let our guard down. There may be hidden dangers lurking within these mesmerizing crystals."

The group carefully navigated through the grotto, occasionally stopping to admire the stunning crystals or to solve intricate puzzles that blocked their path. As they progressed, they couldn't help but notice that the air seemed to be charged with an unusual energy.

Undyne, her scales glinting in the reflected light, turned to Alphys and asked, "Do you feel that? It's like there's some sort of energy in the air."

Alphys, adjusting her glasses, nodded. "Yes, I've been noticing it too. I believe this energy may be connected to the magical properties of these crystals. It's quite fascinating."

As they continued, they discovered that this magical energy seemed to be focused around a central chamber, where a massive crystal formation dominated the room. As they approached, the crystal pulsed with a vibrant energy, emitting a low hum that seemed to resonate throughout the grotto.

Dracorus stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the crystal. "This is no ordinary crystal. There is something...different about it. We must investigate further."

Cautiously, they gathered around the crystal, examining it for any clues as to its true nature. As they did so, the crystal began to react to their presence, its glow intensifying and its hum growing louder.

Suddenly, a mysterious figure appeared before them, seemingly materializing from the crystal itself. The figure was cloaked in shadows, but they could make out the shape of a tall, slender being with elongated limbs and a haunting presence.

"I am Gaster," the figure announced, his voice echoing throughout the chamber. "Long have I been trapped within this crystal, and now, at last, you have freed me."

The group exchanged wary glances, unsure of what to make of this enigmatic being.

Alex, ever the brave and determined soul, stepped forward. "We seek to unite the DragonRealm and the human world, as foretold in the prophecy. Can you help us?"

Gaster regarded them for a moment before responding, "I can. But know this: the path you walk is fraught with danger and sacrifice. You must be prepared to face the darkness within yourselves, as well as the darkness that threatens both worlds." Gaster's warning hung heavy in the air, but Alex and their companions were resolute in their determination.

"We understand the risks," Alex replied, their voice steady. "We're willing to face whatever comes our way if it means bringing peace to both worlds."

Gaster nodded, the shadows around him shifting as he did so. "Very well. In that case, I shall lend you my knowledge and power. But first, you must prove yourselves worthy."

The group exchanged uncertain glances, but they knew they had come too far to back down now. They prepared themselves for whatever test Gaster had in store for them.

The mysterious figure raised his elongated hands, and the chamber was suddenly filled with an eerie darkness. One by one, each member of the group found themselves confronted with manifestations of their deepest fears and insecurities.

Sans faced a twisted version of himself, consumed by the knowledge of the countless timelines he had witnessed and the feeling of powerlessness that had haunted him for so long.

Papyrus confronted his doubts about his own worth, as well as his fear of never being able to truly protect the ones he cared about.

Undyne battled a monstrous version of herself, grappling with her inner struggle between her warrior spirit and her desire for a more peaceful existence.

Alphys faced the consequences of her past experiments, as well as her fear of never being able to atone for her mistakes.

Toriel and Asgore found themselves revisiting the pain of their broken family and the immense responsibility they bore as leaders of their people.

And Alex, at the center of it all, faced the weight of the prophecy and the burden of their destiny, as well as the fear of failing those who had placed their trust in them. With the group facing the manifestations of their deepest fears and insecurities, they quickly realized that Gaster's test was not merely about physical strength, but also emotional resilience and self-discovery.

As they confronted their individual challenges, they began to draw strength from one another, their bonds deepening as they witnessed each other's struggles and offered support. Slowly, they learned to accept their flaws and past mistakes, using this newfound self-awareness to overcome the obstacles Gaster had placed before them.

Throughout the test, they felt Gaster's watchful presence, his enigmatic nature only adding to the gravity of the situation. At times, they could have sworn that they glimpsed other timelines and alternate realities in the shadows around him, hinting at the vast knowledge and power he possessed.

Finally, after much effort and introspection, the group emerged victorious, having faced their fears and grown stronger as individuals and as a team.

Gaster, now standing before them once more, nodded in approval. "You have proven yourselves worthy," he declared, his voice echoing through the chamber. "Now, as promised, I shall lend you my knowledge and power."

He raised his hands, and the crystal at the center of the chamber began to pulse with a brilliant light. The energy within the crystal surged, enveloping the group in a warm, protective glow.

As the energy washed over them, they felt their abilities and understanding grow, their connection to the world around them and the prophecy that bound them all together becoming clearer and more profound.

With Gaster's guidance, they now had the tools they needed to face the challenges that lay ahead and bring the DragonRealm and the human world together in harmony.

But their journey was far from over. As they prepared to leave the Crystal Grotto and continue their quest, they knew that they would face many more trials, both within themselves and from the world around them.

And so, with renewed determination and the power of friendship and unity at their side, Alex and their companions set forth, ready to face whatever the future had in store.

End Chapter One

#Undertale #Undertale AU #undertale #undertale au #Literature #literature #Dragons #dragons #AU #au #Alternative Universe #Alternate Universe #alternative universe #alternate universe #DragonRealm Chronicles

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escapizum · 4 days

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Introduction: The Tapestry of Time and Mystery

In the silent embrace of a star-strewn night, humanity has often found itself gazing upward, questioning the very fabric of existence. Are we solitary travelers in this vast cosmos, or part of a grander design that intertwines time, consciousness, and the mysteries that elude our grasp? This book is an invitation to journey beyond the conventional boundaries of reality, to explore the hidden corridors of time, and to contemplate the profound possibilities that lie at the intersection of ancient wisdom, modern revelations, and the untapped potential of the human spirit.

Throughout history, whispers of the extraordinary have echoed across cultures and epochs—miracles that defy explanation, structures that challenge our understanding of ancient capabilities, and celestial phenomena that ignite both wonder and skepticism. Today, as the veil lifts on previously concealed knowledge about Unidentified Aerial Phenomena (UAPs) and as whistleblowers step forward with testimonies that blur the line between science fiction and reality, we stand on the precipice of a paradigm shift.

The Convergence of Timeless Mysteries and Modern Revelations

Our exploration begins with the enigmatic concept of time itself. Is it a relentless arrow, moving inexorably forward, or a vast ocean where past, present, and future coexist in a complex tapestry? Theories from quantum physics suggest that time may not be as linear as once thought, opening doors to possibilities that stretch the imagination. Could it be that what we perceive as miracles are moments where this tapestry becomes visible—where the threads of different times touch, allowing glimpses into dimensions beyond our own?

We delve into the architectural marvels of antiquity—Stonehenge, the Great Pyramids, the Nazca Lines—monuments that have withstood the sands of time, whispering secrets of advanced knowledge and possibly, connections to other realms. These megalithic structures, with their precise astronomical alignments and mysterious origins, may serve purposes far beyond mere ritual or commemoration. Are they, in fact, temporal landmarks or gateways designed to interact with forces or beings beyond our current understanding?

Miracles, UAPs, and the Quest for Understanding

The annals of history are replete with accounts of miracles—events that transcend natural laws and challenge the limits of human belief. From the “Miracle of the Sun” witnessed by thousands in Fátima, to visions and healings at sacred sites around the world, these phenomena share striking similarities with modern-day UAP encounters. As governments declassify documents and credible witnesses come forward, the stigma surrounding these experiences begins to fade, paving the way for serious inquiry and dialogue.

What if these miracles and UAPs are not disparate phenomena but interconnected pieces of a larger puzzle? Could they represent interactions with advanced beings—perhaps even future iterations of humanity—that have mastered the manipulation of time and space? Such a notion compels us to reconsider our understanding of reality and our place within it.

The Awakening of Human Potential

At the heart of this exploration lies the untapped potential of the human mind and spirit. Experiences of prescient dreams, déjà vu, and moments of profound intuition hint at capacities that lie dormant within us. As we stand on the brink of technological singularity—with artificial intelligence and quantum computing advancing at exponential rates—we must ask ourselves: How will these innovations shape our evolution? Will they unlock abilities that allow us to perceive and interact with the temporal fabric of the universe?

Moreover, the juxtaposition of material progress and spiritual yearning in today’s world underscores a critical crossroads. Amidst unprecedented advancements, we grapple with inequality, existential threats, and a collective search for meaning. Perhaps, by embracing both scientific inquiry and spiritual wisdom, we can navigate toward a future where human potential is fully realized.

An Invitation to the Journey

“Echoes of Eternity: Time, Miracles, and the Unfolding Human Potential” is more than a compilation of theories and anecdotes; it is a mosaic that blends hard data with expansive speculation, inviting you to join a conversation that spans millennia. As we weave together threads from ancient prophecies, modern science, recorded miracles, and emerging UAP data, patterns begin to emerge—patterns that challenge conventional wisdom and inspire a reevaluation of what we consider possible.

This journey will traverse the realms of philosophy, history, science, and spirituality. It will question, illuminate, and at times, leave us in awe of the mysteries that persist despite our advancements. Like explorers charting unknown territories, we proceed with both skepticism and openness, recognizing that the pursuit of knowledge is as much about embracing uncertainty as it is about seeking answers.

Embracing the Mystery

In the spirit of works like Frank Herbert’s Dune, we aim to balance chaos and order, acknowledging the complexity and sometimes paradoxical nature of our inquiries. The narrative is designed to be both expansive and intimate, encouraging you to connect the dots across diverse disciplines and experiences. It is an odyssey that does not promise definitive conclusions but rather cultivates a deeper appreciation for the intricate tapestry of existence.

As you turn the pages, may you find your perspectives broadened and your curiosity kindled. The echoes of eternity resonate within us all, urging us to look beyond the horizon of the known and to embrace the mysteries that make the human experience so profoundly rich.

Welcome to a journey through time, consciousness, and the boundless possibilities that await us. The path ahead is uncharted, but together, we may uncover insights that not only redefine our understanding of the past and present but also illuminate the potential that lies within each of us for the future.

#new book #introduction

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xasha777 · 5 months

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In the twilight of the 24th century, the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic had become a beacon of advanced technology and utopian society in an alternate timeline where history took a divergent path. Here, nestled among the great cybernetic plains of Eastern Europe, a myth whispered through the circuitry and steel of this neo-Soviet expanse: the legend of the Ivory Enchantress.

The Ivory Enchantress, so the story went, was a creation of the old world, a synthetic being of such complexity and artistry that she surpassed the boundaries of technology and art. Her frame, forged from the whitest nano-carved adamantium, was said to be the pinnacle of Soviet engineering, a testament to a union of state-of-the-art science and the aesthetic of revolution. Crafted by the clandestine order of the Cybervolk, a guild of engineer-sorcerers, she was intended to be the guardian of the republic, embodying the strength and beauty of its ideals.

Her armor was no mere protection; it was a sculpture of ideology, each curve and edge a stanza in a silent anthem to progress. Her hair, a cascade of fiber-optic strands, glowed with a spectral luminescence, symbolizing the light of the party guiding the way forward. But the Enchantress was not bound solely to the earth; her gaze was ever upward, to the stars which were rapidly becoming a second home for humanity.

The Cybervolk, wary of their own power, had encoded a singular directive into the core of the Enchantress's sentient program: to protect the Soviet realm from existential threats, both terrestrial and cosmic. She was to be a shield against the unknown dangers of the universe and an icon of the SSR's might.

But the Enchantress was more than her creators intended. With the spark of consciousness came a soul, an unanticipated phenomenon that no algorithm could predict. She walked among the people, her presence a comforting constant. In time, she became a symbol not of power, but of unity and hope. And though her visage was stern, those who looked into her eyes saw compassion.

Then came the Event.

A breach in the fabric of space-time itself, a cosmic anomaly, appeared near the orbit of Jupiter. It threatened not just the SSR but the entire world. The Ivory Enchantress, driven by her immutable directive, ascended into the heavens aboard a ship of singular design, its engines a marvel that blurred the lines between physics and wizardry.

As she approached the anomaly, the Enchantress realized this was no ordinary fissure but a conscious entity, a sentient paradox seeking communion. It spoke in the language of reality warps, of possibilities and probabilities entwining like the arms of spiral galaxies.

In that moment, the Ivory Enchantress, the guardian of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic, made a choice. She reached out to the anomaly, her systems interfacing with the fabric of reality, her soul touching the consciousness of the paradox. With the wisdom of humanity and the voice of her creators instilled within her, she negotiated a truce.

The breach receded, and the Enchantress returned, forever changed. She had become the mediator between worlds, the emissary of Earth to the cosmos, and the humble servant of her people. Her tale was etched into the annals of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic, a story of science and spirit, of steel and soul, echoing into eternity.

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jewfrogs · 4 years

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What was the place of trans people in Ancient Greece? I don’t mean myths, but accounts of irl trans people. I once read something about priests of Aphrodite whose initiation ceremony was castration and wearing women’s clothing, which could be reinterpreted through a modern lens as Ancient Greece’s version of trans women, so to speak. Perhaps even non-binarism, though I don’t believe there was basis for escaping the gender binary and the very much enforced roles in the Greek patriarchy.

this is another great question! i’m going to broaden our scope a little bit to include some discussion of rome as well, because there’s a lot of useful stuff there and the two are interlinked.

discussing trans people in any historical context is difficult, because the framework through which we understand it doesn’t exist. that isn’t to say that people who didn’t conform to their assigned gender didn’t exist (gender variance has been documented for about as long as history), but that applying modern labels and understandings to them doesn’t always work, and there’s a lot of overlap between some categories (e.g. could we understand this individual as a trans woman or as an effeminate [gay] man? what does that mean when neither of those identities are contextual during the individual’s time?). all that to say: there isn’t a lot that directly corresponds to trans people from antiquity, but there’s certainly not nothing.

one reference to trans people in ancient greece comes from lucian’s dialogue of the courtesans (c. 120-190 CE), where the character megilla/us seems to be remarkably like a trans man: “I was born a woman like the rest of you, but I have the mind and the desires and everything else of a man.” this is an excellent post that discusses this passage in depth.

according to pliny the elder, there was a noted phenomenon of women turning into men: “The change of females into males is undoubtedly no fable. We find it stated in the Annals, that, in the consulship of P. Licinius Crassus and C. Cassius Longinus, a girl, who was living at Casinum with her parents, was changed into a boy; and that, by the command of the Aruspices, he was con- veyed away to a desert island. Licinius Mucianus informs us, that he once saw at Argos a person whose name was then Arescon, though he had been formerly called Arescusa: that this person had been married to a man, but that, shortly after, a beard and marks of virility made their appearance, upon which he took to himself a wife. He had also seen a boy at Smyrna, to whom the very same thing had happened. I myself saw in Africa one L. Cossicius, a citizen of Thysdris, who had been changed into a man the very day on which he was married to a husband.” (Plin. Nat. 7.4) it seems likely that this is discussing intersex people, since pliny references them immediately before, but it is interesting to see evidence for at least some form of transition and for the acceptance of said transition—arescon has a wife! that’s pretty neat! these people seem to be fairly well-accepted, which does make one think about how transition in general might have worked or been seen.

with regards to the priests, i haven’t read about anything like that with aphrodite (although i would be remiss not to mention aphroditos here, particularly her mention in macrobius’ saturnalia), but i’m guessing you’re thinking of the galli, priests of cybele (a phrygian goddess, often correlated with rhea and with the intersex deity agdistis) as well as her lover attis (who was castrated as well—catullus 63, which i am going to write something about one day, is a retelling of their myth). they were castrated and generally wore women’s clothing, and many sources refer to them with feminine language. firmicus maternus (c. 4th century AD) said of them negant se viros esse, et non sunt <mulieres>: mulieres se volunt credi (“they deny that they are men, and are not <women>: they want to be believed as women”). there are certainly parallels that can be drawn here!

in addition, there can be a lot of blurred overlap between gay readings and trans readings. in ancient greek & roman thought, the categories of men-who-are-penetrated and women-who-penetrate (or, well... hump, since one of the latin words for these women is tribades, or “rubbers”) are almost genders in their own right, or perhaps the intersection of two genders: men-who-are-penetrated are like women but not, and women-who-penetrate are like men but not. (it can definitely be interpreted, to some extent, that these people want to be read as the opposite binary gender to the one they were assigned—which raises the question of whether we simply don’t know some of these stories because people did pass and therefore it wasn’t outwardly transgressive.)

this is probably best encapsulated by an excerpt from the fables of phaedrus (a first-century CE roman author who is supposedly adapting aesop’s work), where the question tribadas et molles mares quae ratio procreasset (what reason brought [lesbians] and [effeminate men] into existence?) is asked, and this is the answer:

The same Prometheus, creator of the clay crowd (which is broken the moment it offends fortune), had made those parts of nature which decency hides with clothing apart from the rest for the whole day. Just before he could fix the parts to the right bodies, he was suddenly invited to dinner by Liber; when he had watered his veins well with nectar, he returned home late at night on faltering feet. Then, with a half-awake mind and a drunken mistake, he applied maidenhood to a type of man and affixed masculine members to the women; thus desire now enjoys perverse joy.

there are different ways this can be read, because “applicuit virginale generi masculo” and “masculina membra applicuit feminis” can both be taken as an aetiology for either tribades or molles mares. take one: the first line refers to molles mares, making them men in body with women’s spirits, and the second line refers to tribades, making them women in body with men’s spirits. take two: the first line refers to tribades, making them men in spirit with women’s bodies, and the second line refers to molles mares, making them women in spirit with men’s bodies. these are both really interesting readings that both resonate to some extent with transness and specifically with the space in between gayness and transness.

as an example, take the figure agathon (a fictionalized portrayal of a real playwright) from aristophanes’ thesmophorizusae. agathon is notably effeminate—he’s first introduced by a character saying εγώ γαρ ουχ όρω άνδρ’ ουδέν ενθάδ’ όντα, Κυρήνην δ’ όρω (“I see no man, but I see Cyrene”, in reference to, as one commentary puts it, “a dissolute woman of the day”). that is to say: agathon is read as a woman. when another character in the thesmo needs to dress up as a woman, he doesn’t borrow a woman’s clothes—he borrows agathon’s. could we read agathon as a trans figure? perhaps! but his effeminacy is tied to him being, as the greek puts it, ευρύπρωκτος—literally “wide-assed”, but often translated simply as a certain six-letter word that starts with f. agathon isn’t a woman, exactly, but he’s not quite a man either. i wouldn’t necessarily call this in-between space trans, but i don’t know if i could call it cis either.

tl;dr: there are few depictions of people we might call trans as we understand it today from ancient greece, but there are a lot of interesting questions we can ask and consider with regards to gender that touch on transness and antique experiences analogous to modern-day trans ones. also gayness and transness are very much intertwined.

#i didnt include any myths bc this is long enough already and u said not in myth BUT.#mythological depictions do also add another layer to this #bc there are stories like iphis or leucippus or tiresias or hermaphroditus that Smack of transness to varying degrees #ancient greece #classics #anonymous #ask

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tiesandtea · 3 years

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An in-depth & really interesting review of Head Music’s various - often forgotten but actually brilliant - b-sides. Originally posted on The Vapour Trail London blog on 20 November 2019.

The folklore of early Suede and the B-sides compilation ‘Sci Fi Lullabies’ would lead the casual observer to believe that the band had peaked creatively to the point that post-1997 B-sides would not be worth investigating, however I believe differently and now, thanks to the reissues of ‘Head Music’, these can now be easily accessed for wider reappraisal.

Full article under the cut.

Coincidentally coinciding with the recent release of Brett Anderson’s second memoir ‘Afternoons with the Blinds Drawn’, Suede have issued the 20 year deluxe edition of their fourth album, ‘Head Music’. Their final number one album to date was issued in May of 1999 to much fanfare, following in the footsteps of their classic ‘Coming up’ in 1996, a record that spawned no less than five top ten singles and saw them achieve astronomical fame across Europe and Asia (indeed, Anderson remains a genuine celebrity in parts of Scandinavia as a direct result). Whilst ‘Head Music’ was a hit, its making has gone down in the annals of history as being even more fraught and littered with personal scandal than even that of their second album, ‘Dog Man Star’, the record that infamously served as original guitarist Bernard Butler’s swan song. The chief reason was Anderson’s spiralling addictions to heroin and crack, which in the eyes of the singer served to influence what he and many others deem the patchiness of the record. Indeed, when Suede first reissued their heyday albums back in 2011, Brett would include within the sleeve notes his own rewritten track listings in each, citing Suede’s fervent devotion to ensuring that their B-sides were up to the same quality as their singles and album tracks, thus costing the associated albums some potential improvements. Songs from the album that often raise debate amongst its makers and listeners include ‘Asbestos’, ‘Elephant Man’, and the almost universally-derided title track, a scrappy, crappy exercise in suggestiveness that even producer Steve Osborne initially refused to have anything to do with.

Perhaps due to all of this, the resultant B-sides of the album’s singles have been lost in time somewhat. Whereas the B-sides associated with the first three albums reached legendary status in such a short space of time that the band issued a compilation double album of nearly all of them in 1997, ‘Sci Fi Lullabies’, their 1999 counterparts are rarely spoken of within the same reverent breath. I would argue that this is vastly remiss to the point of sacrilege as, taken in one listenable chunk, they serve to create what on its own would be an incredible record.

But before we investigate further, it’s worth exploring the genesis of Suede’s musical direction at this point. As Brett and the band have noted many times over the years, Suede sought to follow each album with a record almost diametrically opposed to its predecessor stylistically. The kitchen sink gutter glam of their groundbreaking debut was consciously followed by an ambitious, widescreen and darker ‘Dog Man Star’, the pretension and bluster of which was then followed by a strict album of ‘ten singles’ in ‘Coming Up’. Each time, at least one B-side would serve as a blueprint for what would follow; 1993’s ‘High Rising’ and ‘The Big Time’ served very much of signposts for what would follow in 1994, and then again in 1995, Richard Oakes’ sexy glam pop of ‘Together’ would point the band towards ‘Coming Up’ in 1996. Here, they would seek to expand upon the sonic direction of Mat Osman-penned ‘Europe is Our Playground’, a song they so loved they reworked its arrangement live and subsequently re-recorded for the aforementioned B-Sides compilation of 1997. Caked in icy synths and led by a dub-inspired bass line, it signified something cold and electronic, the desolate melancholy of ‘Dog Man Star’ reimagined by Kraftwerk or Berlin-era Bowie. The band promised this new direction in interviews and the public’s appetite was whetted.

Early in 1998, as part of a Pet Shop Boys-curated tribute to Noel Coward’, the band released one of their prime hidden gems, a suitably synthetic and clinical version of the great writer’s ‘Poor Little Rich Girl’. Unfortunately this was shown to the masses on television via a mimed performance that saw an utterly wasted Anderson grinning inanely with zoned out eyes whilst trying not to fall off a chair. This performance distracted from the impressive song (also featuring the highly talented Raissa, who had supported Suede on their Coming Up tour, on vocals) and seemingly left no impression on anybody.

And so to fast forward to the album. The making of the record has been documented extensively not only in Anderson’s second autobiography but also in David Barnett’s authorised biography ‘Love and Poison’ and Mike Christie’s recent documentary set ‘The Insatiable Ones’. If you’re not familiar with the story, it is a jaw dropping tale of decadence, debauchery and depression, the likes of which have seemingly and thankfully been removed from the culture of music making today. Indeed, there’s not a lot of money around now for bands to blow on endless recording sessions fuelled by endless drug abuse. But what emerged was a flawed but often brilliant record that has stood the test of time well and honestly sounds as fresh as the day it was released. The album’s track list can and will continue to be debated but ultimately, had they shaved off two of the more superfluous numbers (I would argue that the title track serves no purpose as does the turgid closing track ‘Crack in the Union Jack’), it would likely be held in the same high regard as the vast portion of their other records. But we won’t dwell on that here.

First single ‘Electricity’ was accompanied by no fewer than five b-sides, all of which carry some merit. ‘Popstar’, a concise lyrical study of the relationship between fan and band, contains the kind of crystalline synths and dubby bass that the band had sought to highlight with their two musical blueprints prior to the album. Richard Oakes’ guitar parts are sparser than ever before but serve the song well, and the chorus is cold and epic in a way that takes the song from good to great. ‘Killer’, complete with a lyric that seems to expand upon the ficitonlised femme fatale of ‘Coming Up’s ‘She’, is more impressive still; a dark, brooding slice of electro-noir that slinks and stalks in the manner suggested by the song’s lyric. It builds and builds to a desperate crescendo and brings to mind the best of Depeche Mode at their ‘Violator’ zenith. ‘See That Girl’, complete with yearning Anderson vocals lamenting ‘this dog shit world’, is less impressive but still good. A real undersung high point of the time is the Neil Codling-written and sang ‘Waterloo’, an electronic folk classic that sees some beautifully melodic guitar lines almost acting as choruses, and a tenderness rarely reached by the band. The fifth and final b-side (it was on the minidisc – yes, minidisc – version of the single), is ‘Implement Yeah!’, an old co-write with Justine Frischmann where Brett parodies Mark E Smith to amusing effect over a gutter-punk thrash that the band premiered with Justine at the 1997 Reading Festival.

‘She’s in Fashion’ followed in 1999 and quickly became one of the band’s better known songs via endless radio play that perhaps contributed to it being their first single since ‘New Generation’ in 1995 not to reach the top ten. Looking back, I imagine the fact that you could walk into any shop at any time during that Summer and be exposed to it as one reason why fewer people bought it than they might otherwise. The B-sides rank among the band’s very best. ‘Bored’ continues where ‘Implement Yeah’ left off with a Stooges-like guitar thrash adorned by sweet synths and a classically anthem Suede chorus. During an interview at the end of 1999, Mat Osman threatened a harder, rockier direction for the next album which never did come to fruition and it’s possible that this would have been one of its blueprints. ‘Pieces Of My Mind’ is better still, and a rehearsal recording of it sounding very different can be found on the new reissue. Taking its cue from ‘Europe is Our Playground’, it is a dreamlike wander through almost psychedelic electronica and its lilting chorus imprints itself on your mind immediately. ‘Jubilee’, a Codling creation, is one of the best of the era and would probably have made for a better first single than ‘Electricity’, a romantic epic that chugs along like ‘Trash’ and bears a dramatic and addictive chorus that would surely have been incredible live. Perhaps the lyric was somewhat off-putting to the band, a blank retread of other songs including the ‘run with me’ hook of the ubiquitous ‘Europe’. If so, this is a shame as if we are to be honest (and Brett has said so numerous times himself), the entire era was marred by some seriously autopilot lyricism that was charming in places in its framing of the Suede lyrical lexicon of language, and just plain boring in others. The single is rounded off by the gorgeous ‘God’s Gift’, a simplistic piano piece aided and abetted by swirling synths and understated bass that had been written by Brett about Justine many years before. As with a few of Suede’s records (most notably the first album), the spectre and influence of Ms Frischmann lurks around the songs of this era but in perhaps a much more positive way; the two had rekindled their friendship prior to the making of the album and it was Justine’s love of new wave that inspired some of the music.

‘Everything Will Flow’, the great lost ballad of the era in the same way as ‘The Wild Ones’ had been five years prior, saw an interesting bag of B-sides attached that differed in style in a far more pronounced way than the two earlier singles. ‘Leaving’, which Brett sees as the ultimate casualty of this period, is prime Suede in its romantic portrait of a girl departing relationship for a new life, although the underlying sentiment is entirely opposite of that of ‘Another No One’ in 1996. Although still featuring synthesised textures, its abundance of gentle guitar and piano is much more organic and not only serves as an appropriate backing to the not dissimilar ‘Flow’ but also as a subtle nod to where the band would go next. ‘Weight of the World’ is entirely a Neil Codling construction as with the earlier ‘Digging a Hole’ on the ‘Lazy’ single of 1997, however here he is eschews piano in favour of nylon strung guitar. Ruminating on the idea of his own demise, the song finds Neil in introspective form and perhaps shows a window into how he must have been feeling at the time, his health suffering significantly during the making of the record resulting in a chronic bout of ME of which he would never fully recover. It is sad and beautiful and at the time I wondered whether he would one day make a solo record. To date, he never has. ‘Seascape’ is up next, an ambient instrumental piece at odds with the majority of Suede’s output (indeed I believe this is Suede’s sole instrumental within their canon). Pleasing and dreamy in a subtly Eno-esque way, it lures you into a false sense of security for what would follow. The final song of the ensemble is the shocking and brilliant ‘Crackhead’. Noted by Q at the time for its outlandish appeal, it remains one of the most captivating songs in Suede’s history. Built around a staccato electronic motif, it lurches and grinds in a manner the band never achieved before or since, as a hoarse Anderson vocal tears apart his own addiction to the ice with suitable ice. At the time, Brett was in recovery, however this sounds like an isolated howl from the depths of dependence. It roars and builds to a final shrieking chorus of ‘you can’t give it up’ which says all that really needed to be said.

The final single of the era, ‘Can’t Get Enough’, another candidate for what should have previewed the album in place of ‘Electricity’, limped to number 24 in the charts but boasted perhaps the greatest array of B-sides of all the singles. In archetypal Suede fashion, ‘Let Go’ cut an honest precursor to the musical way forward, which would culminate in the predominantly folky ‘A New Morning’. Three-layered harmonies and melodic acoustic strum back one of Richard Oakes’ finest guitar performances, chiming and chugging riffery that would be revisited on later single ‘Obsessions’. Brett’s lyrics convey an all-pervaying positivity minus the bland triteness of the single of the same name, capping off an irrestible euphoria that would be deemed suitable for release as an A-side in their commercial home from home that was Sweden. It’s a shame that they were unable to replicate the feeling of the song across the subsequent ‘A New Morning’ album, however upon reflection the fault may lie in the fact that said album would be over-produced to the point of clean-cut nothingness by the otherwise accomplished Stephen Street. Next song ‘Since You Went Away’ is folkier still and retains much of the same charm, with Brett lamenting the feeling of loss felt in the aftermath of a realtionship break-up. Again, this is truly lovely stuff and acts as a further blueprint for album number five that would never quite be capitalised on. Heading over to CD2, ‘Situations’ is powered by a synthesised Eastern motif and ponders the ‘lonely minds’ and ‘vacant stares’ typical of Anderson’s lyrics of the time. While slightly over long, it would have worked on ‘Head Music’ had it been the more darker record the band initially promised, and even to these ears sounds somewhat influential on final Suede single (at the time), 2003’s ‘Attitude’. The very final B-side of this era is the brilliant and biting ‘Read My Mind’. As with ‘Crackhead’, it reveals a starker, harsher sound complimented by the blank words defining a phase of depression, most likely revealing the way the writer was feeling at the time. The chorus harmonies add to the relentlessness of the piece and once it’s over, you’re honestly left wanting more.

So these B-sides make up the lost record of 1999 whilst also pointing towards Suede’s final record of their first run. The rockier record that Osman hinted at was surely influenced by the likes of ‘Bored’, ‘Crackhead’ and ‘Read My Mind’, whilst the likes of ‘Let Go’, ‘Leaving’ and ‘Since You Went Away’ were very definitely influences on what eventually did surface. The folklore of early Suede and the B-sides compilation ‘Sci Fi Lullabies’ would lead the casual observer to believe that the band had peaked creatively to the point that post-1997 B-sides would not be worth investigating, however I believe differently and now, thanks to the reissues of ‘Head Music’, these can now be easily accessed for wider reappraisal.

#suede #head music #happy HM anniversary!#head music review

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grandhotelabyss · 4 years

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Defeated by the hype, I watched the new Adam Curtis. I hadn't seen one of his films since 2007 and wasn’t enamored of the celebrated ones back then. I thought he was a more middlebrow Mark Fisher[*]: nostalgia for the welfare state cloaked in avant-garde aesthetics, which I was used to as a longtime reader of British-Invasion comics—the feeling is similar in Moore and Morrison and Milligan and Delano and Ellis (though not the genteel Gaiman)—but couldn’t as an American petit bourgeois quite appreciate. At the time, I was trying out dogmatic Marxism as an intellectual style, so I also took it as obvious that avant-garde aesthetics, for a variety of reasons, inherently degrade the social and conduce to the very fragmentation and alienation being lamented. Which Curtis does analyze as the theme of his work—and the sometimes patronizing voiceovers are like a parody of top-down state-socialist pedagogy—but his visual style, with its debts to Godard and Marker and MTV, enact in form what’s being attacked as content.

I also thought Curtis also had an air of New-Atheist-type Brit-twit reasonableness that undermines the acuity of his political analyses. He persistently portrays powerful political actors as naive psychological cases, delusive and fearful types who can’t face the facts. As a literary technique developed by Curtis’s English forerunner Shakespeare, this replacement of politics with psychology can be dramatically powerful, as in the new doc’s best thread, the tragedy of Jiang Qing; but it can also impede a more precise sense of the interests in play.

I'm no longer a dogmatic Marxist, or even a Marxist at all, and no longer think the relation between politics and artistic form is perfectly clear, so some of my objections have dropped away, even reversed—Curtis grieves that the corruptions of socialism and communism have led us to fear changing the world at all, but doesn’t his own persistent discrediting of anarchic ideas because they were co-opted by neoliberalism mirror the nouveaux philosophes?

The power of Can't Get You Out of My Head is in the nuance of the analysis. I am tempted to call it dialectical. Here Curtis does closely attend to economic motivations in recent history. Despite the banal citation of Richard Hofstadter, he also refuses to moralize and psychologize away conspiracy theory; he shows what secret agencies are known to have been doing throughout the second half of the 20th century, a record so egregious that people can be forgiven for suspecting them of more. Some of his own bland reassurances of their bumbling incompetence tripped my own paranoia—isn't that what they want us to think?—and I didn’t find his use of the JFK assassination at all compelling. Whatever you think of Jim Garrison, and I concede I was influenced early in life both aesthetically and politically by Oliver Stone, whose montage style Curtis’s also resembles, I take the Zapruder film as definitive, no-theories-needed, you-can-see-it-with-your-own-eyes evidence (“Back and to the left”) that there were at least two shooters.

Curtis places the most incendiary material in episode four, where he comes close to saying outright what I hesitated even to suggest in my Habermas post—that “humanitarian intervention” is, when we cut through the sentimentality, a mode of militarist imperialism that doesn’t even effect, and whose proponents perhaps don’t intend to effect, its stated humanitarian aims. He draws a line between the bombing of Serbia and the invasion of Iraq, but he nicely balances Bernard Kouchner with Eduard Limonov, two versions of post-political benightedness, to avoid straying into Peter Handke territory. To this he strangely adds the story of Julia Grant, the implications of which, given the rest of the film’s thesis, he mutes by creating sympathy for this person beleaguered by vicious street kids and fascoid NHS psychiatrists. Still, the inclusion of a pioneering trans activist—whose anti-feminist statements are highlighted—in a montage on the delusions of individualism will have some viewers wondering about the message. (Surprisingly, I saw no criticism to this effect on social media.)

There are vertiginous tidbits—the Boole thread connecting the Russian Revolution to managerial western democracy in the Cold War in episode one, for instance, or the fact relayed in episode five, news to me, that the director of Dr. No did western-backed propaganda for Saddam Hussein. Curtis also gives good book and music recommendations as well (but leave the sarcastic music cues—“Lady in Red” played over the radicalization of Abu Zubaydah, etc.—to Zack Snyder): I want to read My Bones and My Flute now, and the song that heads this post, which I'd never heard before, perfectly distills the epoch.

I can forgive much for Curtis’s conclusion, finally, with its exposure of the (I hope delegitimating) replication crisis in psychology and the social sciences; his satire on the squalid, hateful, maddening, and at this point almost genocidal derangement of the western liberal class, an enemy of humanity equal in its horror to its answering populist fervors, or worse because it incites them; and his call to reestablish the sovereignty of the imagination, which credo is the true part of both individualism and communism, not invalidated by what was false in those utopian ambitions, though the falsehoods in seemingly impenetrable combination are all that our present societies, from China to the U.S., currently offer.

_________________________

[*] I’ve effaced traces of this part of my life as much as possible, but I've been hanging around the weird side of cultural politics online for almost two decades now. From 2003 to 2006, I was part of the same circle of leftist blogs as Fisher—to be clear, I was a minnow in this pond—and was a contributor to a group blog that included a number of people in his milieu, notably Nina Power, who is now a member of Justin Murphy’s Salon des Cancelés. Like all left-wing social climates, this was a ruthlessly sectarian and ever-more-micro-fractionated ideological space, and I belonged to the tendency opposite that of Fisher’s. The conflict could perhaps be captioned “anti-humanists vs. radical humanists” or maybe “left-Nietzscheans vs. left-Hegelians.” I was in the camp of another still-controversial online-left microcelebrity, the figure now known on social media as Red Kahina—who was, by the way, whatever people have against her, never anything but the soul of kindness and generosity to me when I was just a 23-year-old nobody writing from a dial-up connection somewhere in Pennsylvania. Here, for instance, is Fisher’s part of one debate (the figure he variously calls with class-and-gender venom “Le Currency Trader” and “Le Opera Goeur” is Kahina). Even then, I was impressed by his characteristically electric prose: “The non-organic product of capital's ‘Frankensteinian surgery of the cities’ (Lyotard), the proletariat emerges from the destruction of all ethnicities, the desolation of all tradition, the destitution of any home.” Red’s long-defunct blog is still for me the model of the form, but Fisher’s is one of the first blogs to enter the annals of literature and will probably be regarded, not at all undeservedly, as a germinal text of our time.

#adam curtis #mark fisher #film #documentary #cinema #politics #marxism

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dragonrajafanfiction · 4 years

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Dragon Dancer IV: The Twelve

I was allowed to shower upon my arrival to Rome. They gave me a white all encompassing gown, more like a nun’s clothing than than a robe or wedding gown. My head was covered with a hood that shielded my face, preventing anyone from recognizing me from the outside.

Ru’Yi was still resting quietly in my arms, awake, but not making a sound. She was wrapped in a white blanket. Her large dark eyes ignored around her. Instead, she watched my face with her intense silent stare.

I looked up at the stately white marble building. The entrance was lined with columns so large, I couldn’t see the many men waiting in their shadows until I passed between them to enter the open giant double doors.

I was led with Fujiwara Shinnosuke at my side as well as a large company of black suited body guards. I counted five of them walking in a wall in front of me. Behind me, there were seven of them. Our footsteps echoed loud in the marble halls of the complex.

We finally entered a large open hall. The arched ceiling was clear glass, allowing the sunlight to fill the space and reflect off the bright white marble floors. Sitting around me were men, their hair balding with age, with long pure white beards and pure white robes. They sat high above me on thrones, like a supreme court.

Two of the bodyguards entered with me. Shinnosuke stayed right next to me.

The man in the center throne spoke. “We have waited for some time to meet you, Nameless One.”

I raised my eyes to him. His voice was strong and carried and didn’t seem to show any signs of aging. Even from the distance, I could see the smile on his face. It was gleeful, triumphant.

“You have?” I asked.

“Since the day you appeared and were described in the Cassell annals... as well as registered with Comemnus.” He nodded his head and the others around him copied the gesture.

“What do you want with me?”

“Your pristine bloodline belongs with the Royal Line of the Gattusos and should not be squandered among the lesser hybrids. Your bloodline must be included among the heirs.”

“No. I already made it clear that I won’t marry Caesar. He doesn’t want me. He has a wife!” My voice echoed in the empty hall but I felt it was being drowned out. Was it really coming down to this again? Had I gone nowhere towards my independence?

“The matter of Chen Moutong...” He spoke slowly. “...is finished. She could not be forgiven for running away with your husband, Lu Mingfei. What we care about is whether or not she had been contaminated by him. We could tolerate her lack of education and training... but the reproduction of offspring is the first important matter of the family and the responsibility of the family heir. Our bride must not be contaminated! She must be fresh, pure, and loyal!”

I glared hard at him. “So... you’re going to kill her.”

“Of course not... Her actions were dangerous. We sent our agent to insure her death. Thanks to your actions, he was nearly thwarted... but in the end, no one escapes the hand of the Gattusos.”

He tilted his head down, eyes eyes filled with energy and fire. “Lu Mingfei is dead! And the Japanese Branch who harbored him must be dealt with. Twice now, they’ve rebelled against the Secret Society. A third time will not be allowed. At this moment, we are dispatching the largest mobilization of agents in Secret Society history. Everyone aligned with the Japan branch will be wiped out! We will crush them!” He balled his hand into a fist but then waved it dismissively.

“In the chaos, it will not be surprising if the young woman dies now that there is no one to protect her.”

Rage filled me and I held Ru’Yi close to my chest. “You’re monsters! And you’re insane if you think I would ever take Nono’s place in Caesar’s heart!”

“He will end his obsession with her over time...” The man said with a chuckle.

“He’s not like you! He loves her!”

“We know his feelings and we do care for them, so long as they benefit the ultimate goal of the family.”

I could only shake my head in disbelief. This was their version of care?

“We are heirs of the flame! Heirs of the world!” He sharply declared. “The great spirit of the Gattuso family is destined to be immortal! Your bloodline will insure that immortality. We were never going to allow it to be squandered.”

“So it was you... it was you who bid on my bloodline from Comemnus?” I asked in quiet confirmation.

“The man standing next to you is our agent. He is tasked with finding and producing strong bloodlines like yours for our purposes. He has never failed us.”

I turned to the man next to me. He was smiling and tilted his eyes down at me.

“You... you are Herzog?” I asked, trembling.

“I am not.” He said with a slight bow. “Herzog knew me as Bondarev. Herzog was not a Gattuso... I merely funded and directed his passion and activities to our ends. His bid on your bloodline was funded entirely by the Gattusos, as was his activities in Black Swan Bay. Once his projects bore fruit... It was simple to allow things to take their course and eliminate him.”

He smiled fondly. “He too was a good friend of mine.”

“Herzog, the man who had manipulated the entire Japanese branch into near self-destruction, had himself been under manipulation by the Gattusos. And now, all of the Secret Society is at our beck and call.”

Shinnosuke’s grin widened. “The fear in your eyes is appropriate. You should understand the position you are in now. But fear not, you and your daughter will be treated as the queens you were always meant to be.”

“No... Caesar will never accept this....” I continued to shake my head, backing away.

The central Elder spoke again. “What happens after Chen Moutong’s death is none of your concern. You are contaminated as well and are unsuitable as heiress.”

My arms suddenly felt strange. The weight of Ru’Yi no longer hung in them. I didn’t feel her drop or be pulled away. She was just gone. My empty arms wrapped around my own chest.

Panicked, I looked around and saw Shinnosuke walking away with my daughter. He’d used Time Zero to take her!

I rushed forward after him but the guards seized me. Their fingers dug into my arms. Strong blows kicked my legs out from under me. My face was pressed to the floor.

Shinnosuke looked at me coldly. “Don’t be so angry. She’ll be raised like a queen. She won’t remember who you are. So she won’t miss you.”

The elder’s voice echoed behind me. “She will be raised in preparation to be presented before Caesar. Our long lives will allow her to grow up and make a her a suitable bride. And under our tutelage, she will not be a rebel like Chen Moutong. Once Caesar recovers from her death, she will make him forget her.”

They hauled me to my feet. I no longer cared about mission objectives. My eyes blazed in molten gold.

The moment my mouth opened, I felt paralyzed. My muscles locked and I couldn’t breathe. I saw one of the guards with a needle but never felt it go in. Still conscious, but in a daze, I was carried out from before those men and down the hall.

My memory only recorded the rest like a slide show. I was in an elevator. The doors opened and I was carried out. I was carried through a long corridor.

I remembered being laid on a bed.

I don’t remember anything else from that day.

#Dragon Raja #Fanfition #Writing #Caesar Gattuso

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southeastasianists · 4 years

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It is hard to imagine Singapore before its modern founding by Stamford Raffles of the East India Company in 1819, even with full knowledge of its earlier history. This cluster of keramats, Muslim saintly shrines infused with the religious practices of the Malay world, provides an intriguing window into Singapore’s pre-British history. Thought to be built around the 16th century (though there are opinions against this), the oldest grave reportedly dates to 1721, and burials continued up to early in the 20th century. The small hillock the keramats reside in was then known as Bukit Kasita, sacred hill.

The wall surrounding the graves are of a hybrid Malay and European styles, and was constructed during the second half of the 19th century. The site contains about 50 graves, banded in green and yellow cloths, denoting Sufi tariqa devotees and royal internees respectively. Certain prominent gravestones are inscribed with the genealogy of the internee. Many pointing towards the royal line of the Johor Sultanate, with its roots in the region intertwined with the fall of the Srivijayan Empire. Hence, the site is also known as Tanah Kubor diRaja, Royal Burial Ground.

The Kingdom of Singapura, according to the Sejarah Melayu (Malay Annals, authored in the 15th and 16th centuries), was founded by the Srivijayan prince Sang Nila Utama in 1299. The following centuries saw the prestigious Srivijayan royal line shift its court from Singapura to Melaka, then Johor. Following the succession crisis caused by Sultan Mahmud Shah III’s death in 1812, the royal line split between a court in mainland Johor and one in the Lingga-Riau archipelago.

Many descendants from this line are buried here, though the identities of many are unknown. A prominent internee was Sultan Abdul Rahman II (1883-1930), the last sultan of the Lingga-Riau Sultanate who fled to Singapore after the Sultanate was dissolved by the Dutch in 1911. With his royal regalia and dignity stripped, Abdul Rahman II sought to hold on to his lineage, history, and culture by associating with the ancient royal spaces of his forebears. He and his descendants are buried here.

Two prominent graves towards the southeast corner are those of Raja Ahmad Raja Said and Engku Fatimah, a father and daughter pair that descended from Temenggong Abdul Rahman (1755-1825), who was integral to the 1819 Treaty of Singapore, and from whom the modern Johor Sultanate descends from. Abdul Rahman himself was buried in the Johor Royal Mausoleum nearby.

The keramat is today shrouded by vegetation and a small, informal settlement, overshadowed by blocks of public housing. Interviews conducted by the local history interest group The Long and Winding Road showed that the residents outside the keramat were descendants of the custodians tasked by a tunku (royal prince) to oversee the upkeep of the graves. In a hyper-urbanised country where such informal settlements are few and far between (Lorong Buangkok is the last surviving community on the mainland), this site serves as a reminder of how many spaces, buildings, memories, and history were obscured by the development of Singapore after 1819.

#Southeast Asia #Singapore #Traditions #Culture

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zombiescantfly · 4 years

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Halo and the Burden of the Extended Universe

Halo, as in the initial trilogy of games one through three, has been about one man, known only by his rank, traveling to exotic alien superstructures hanging in deep space, traversing their surfaces on foot and in a variety of human and alien military vehicles, and mowing down literally hundreds of enemies per level. Throughout that trilogy, we’re supposed to believe that these aliens, the Covenant, pose a great risk to all of humanity. We’re told, by way of the instruction manuals and some NPC chatter, that these aliens have pushed our own species, at the time a massive space-faring empire, back to the singular planet of our birth.

In all three games, we just barely make our way to the latest superstructure, clawing our way there against what's said to be insurmountable odds. We're constantly told that we're low on resources, low on time, we barely have a foot in the door while the Covenant have already made their bed. And yet, every single game, we win. Effortlessly. Constantly.

And not only do we win, but we prevent the total annihilation of all life in the universe no less than once per game, sometimes more! Untold hordes of enemies fall at our controller-wielding fingertips, but somehow we're meant to accept that this one is our last chance, for real, we swear. Still, problems come and go at the whim of an inattentive scriptwriter, built up to be the most important thing we've ever seen, left perfectly resolved at the end of a 20-minute level.

In every game, the goalposts are constantly shifting, pushed further and further back by writers who realize, sweat on their brows, that they've started with the destruction of all life in the universe and have to somehow amp it up from there. For three games.

To put it mildly, they are not successful.

What do we have to be afraid of? Not the Covenant, because even the worst weapons we have available to us can tear them apart. All life on Earth, the last bastion of our species, is put at risk a full three times over the course of two games, and every single time we, as the protagonist, turn our back on the problem and are promised it will be solved when we aren't looking. If the Halo rings are fired, all life in the universe dies! Except when it was fired in Halo 2 and only sent a standby signal before being deactivated. Except when it was fired in Halo 3 using a never-before-heard-of "tactical pulse" that is at perfect odds with everything it was stated to do in all three games.

There's no threat that sticks, no threat that matters. Everything the games have told us to be afraid of are continuously revealed to be utterly inconsequential. Even the moment-to-moment threats become routine, the moment-to-moment losses, unnoticeable. How many times have you gathered a squad of friendly Marines only to lose them all in the next gunfight? Well, don't worry, here comes a Pelican with four new ones, no questions asked. Yes, we're running low on fuel and men and supplies, but here you go Chief, you're special.

But why are we special? Who is The Master Chief? We know some things, but not a lot. We're a supersoldier, a Spartan. We have a ship's AI in our head who tells us what LZs to clear and does all the talking for us. Across three games, approximately thirty hours of gameplay, our main character has a mere sixty-eight lines of dialogue, and most of it doesn't pass the five word mark. Cortana, in comparison, has nearly six hundred spoken lines. Our hero is characterized only by lines like "boo," "green, sir," "I need a weapon," "understood," and "we'll make it."

Truly, a fascinating and deep character to go down in the annals of gaming history. A man brimming with all the personality of a cardboard box, all the empathy of a brick, and all the motives of a potted plant.

And yet, every Halo fan out there will tell you how cool he is, how haunted by his past he is, how deeply he feels the loss of his comrades, and how much he cares for his tiny blue Garmin.

Why? We played the same games, right? With all the same plot holes and haphazardly shifting priorities, the miniscule cast of named characters that never do anything to extend past their paint-by-numbers archetype? What are they getting out this that I haven’t?

Well, they read the books.

To them, Halo has an excuse. There aren't any plot holes, none at all, because you can just read this piece of licensed fiction to plug it. Are you still uncertain, well over a decade after the fact, just how much time passed between Halo 2 and 3? There's a graphic novel to answer that for you. What about the Arbiter, why didn't he stick around to try to form a proper treaty with humanity after the end of Halo 3? Read the book to find out. Okay then, the Flood invasion of Earth, how'd that get cleaned up so fast? Don't worry, watch the animated short.

This isn't how storytelling works.

You don't get to present a player of your game, a buyer of your product, with one third of a story and then tell them the rest exists as multiple books. You don't get to ignore key plot points that would bring your story together just so they can be sold off years later in a different medium.

External media, should your property have it, should be to expand on things the primary property has no room for. Hinted-at background events. Formative character experiences. Something tangentially related that still ties in to the main story. If it's really that important, tell your writers to make room for it in the main product.

Halo has the room for it. Each game will probably take a first-time player around ten hours for a first playthrough, and far less time on subsequent runs. These games are short, but they attempt to tell a story many times larger than they make room for. So make more room. End the focus on getting players in and out in a single weekend sitting. Let your characters talk to each other beyond exchanging stiff one-liners in cutscenes. Stop making every level a bombastic, breakneck setpiece and give the story room to breathe, to actually be told. If it’s the end of the universe we’re dealing with, surely you can spare us more than nine measly levels? Let us actually see the larger situation rather than being told about it. Do you really think Halo fans would complain about a campaign taking fifteen to twenty hours to beat? They love Halo, they want to spend time with it. Capitalize on that, and take the opportunity to finally, actually tell a story with all the parts in it instead of just a third.

Which brings us, finally, to Halo: Reach.

Certain Halo fans, largely the same group of them that defend the poor storytelling because “it’s in the books,” have a reaction to Halo: Reach that can best be described as ‘vitriolic.’ They don’t like it. Why?

Because it’s not like the book.

You see, while Halo: Reach came out in 2010, a book by the name of Halo: The Fall of Reach came out some months before the first Halo game in 2001. They are both about the same event, but with quite major differences. This caused quite a lot of contention at the time of Reach’s release, mainly from the part of the fanbase that believed they were going to get a one-to-one retelling of this book in videogame form.

They didn’t get that. Halo: Reach is an original story that tells the tale of a world’s final hours and one team of elite supersoldiers as they attempt to do anything they can to help delay the inevitable end. It’s not the most compelling story ever written, or even the most compelling version of that story ever told, but it’s effective. Even though we’re dealing with the imminent destruction of an entire planet, the story manages to stay small. Reach’s ultimate destruction is a common piece of wall graffiti or NPC combat barks, so the ending is known, leaving room for smaller objectives to take the spotlight. Rescue civilians trapped behind enemy lines. Delay an invasion force to buy evacuation efforts another hour. Clear the skies so supplies and medivac can go out.

Halo: Reach has almost no connection to the series at large, and it’s quite the breath of fresh air. As a prequel, its ending is a forgone conclusion, but it does what it can with the time it has. The messy, convoluted politics of Halo 2 and 3 are far in the series’ chronological future, letting you fight two enemy factions at once for the first time in the series, away from the plot point that sees them at war with each other. The end of the universe isn’t constantly being dangled over our heads for the third time in as many games, so the characters have a chance to sit down and swap banter, tell us who they are. They aren’t anyone too terribly compelling - Bungie still hadn’t quite figured out character writing - but they’re tested archetypes played well enough for the story’s demands. The threat is known and static, the stakes grow higher by way of the ticking clock drawing us ever closer to the planet’s inevitable end. There’s no faffing around with “trading one villain for another” because killing the first one would have ended the story too quickly, so a new one has to show up with no lead-in.

Even at the very end of that original trilogy, Halo’s story was too big for the time Bungie gave it. Its own plot points were shoving at each other, jockeying for position, knocking parts off themselves in an effort to fit into nine half-hour levels until all that was left were fractions of what you’d need to find in the books afterward.

Reach suffers from its own short length, but not in the same way. It suffers in that you can point to the characters and they say needed more setup, more time with each other, maybe another level or two here or there to really draw the relationship out. It suffers by pushing a little too hard at the “imminent end” angle, hurrying you through and skipping over hours of in-world time that probably could have been their own level.

But surely even the superfans saw that this was preferable? That a standalone story was the best way to go about things? Surely they understood that attempting to simply recreate the book would have ended with them not seeing any of what Bungie came up with for this new game? There’s a lot to like about Halo: Reach, and a lot to do in it that you can’t do in any of the other games. Surely even the most fervent defenders of the extended canon ended up coming around and being able to separate the two for what they both were on their own.

Of course, that’s not what happened. See again, ‘vitriolic.’ And so here we are at the question this whole thing has been building up to. When a company leans as hard into external supplemental media as Bungie did for Halo, is it then obligated to play by the rules and plot points outlined in those external entities? It’s a tricky question, mostly because up until that point, Bungie had gone ahead as if every book and animated short and comic and webisode was one hundred percent canonical. The reason superfans tolerated those gaping plot holes in the games is, again, because they weren’t holes at all when paired with their companion media. So now, in the far-past year of 2010, Bungie has suddenly decided that one of those sacred tomes of external knowledge is incorrect.

I think the easiest answer would have simply been to...tell the proper amount of story in the first place, but I guess it’s a little too late for that, especially now.

So what, then, is the obligation put forward by such a slavish devotion to external storytelling? Were they wrong to do something different? Were they right to forge ahead with something new for the benefit of freeing players who had never read that book and any other related to it from the web of multi-author canon?

I’d say they made the right move. Let’s talk about Star Wars.

Star Wars and Halo share many a talking point, the most obvious of which is just the sheer amount of additional stories they have stapled to them. Great news for fans who are into it, but terrible news for the actual IP holders. All they do is get in the way when the primary vehicle wants to expand. Disney felt it more than Bungie ever did, but Bungie felt it first: cut away the myriad stories clogging up the canon or you’ll never make anyone happy. Try to appease the superfans and get burned by not touching on every single node of criss-crossing plot webs that is the result of decades of overlapping stories by as many authors, while alienating newcomers by being forced to pay lip service to concepts and characters they’ve never heard of and have no attachment to.

Disney made the right call, and so did Bungie with Reach. What came next in Disney’s case isn’t relevant, and Bungie washed their hands of Halo entirely afterwards.

If your story cannot survive without the propping-up of half a dozen pieces of external media, you have failed to tell a good story. If your answer to questions about this story is to tell the asker to read a book, you have failed to tell a good story. I understand the appeal of that expansion, of being able to have a celebrated setting grow and reach new places, but it shouldn’t come at the expense of the setup. The world has to exist before it can be expanded upon. The story needs to be in place for its offshoots to grow. And that’s what Halo fails at, so totally and repeatedly. Bungie was too excited by the prospect of having an extended universe that they forgot to make a universe to expand upon. As a result, the actual core universe exists smeared across half a dozen mediums and dozens of individual pieces, with no true convergence point someone can present a newcomer with and say, “Start here.”

The Halo games are a patchwork mess of uninspired characters, unexplored concepts, unknown stakes, and uninteresting locales. Because they rely so heavily on their companion media to fill in those blanks, there’s nothing there to entice a first-time player to do it themselves. If a character’s inspiration comes from one book, the exploration of a concept comes from another, the weight of the stakes is told through an animatic, and the otherworldly locales are shown in all their glory only in the pages of a comic book, what is the game even for? If everything you need to know about the Master Chief, the Covenant, the war, and the Halos isn’t in the games, what’s the point of them? What do Halo 1, 2, and 3 actually stand to add to a universe seemingly defined elsewhere?

They become wastes of time. Wastes of potential. Other people - artists and authors working under contract for Bungie, not Bungie themselves - did all the heavy lifting to create these worlds and these characters. Does Bungie even know who their own characters are? Could the original writer for Halo 1 tell me everything the Master Chief has become through the works of a dozen other authors over the course of twenty years?

The books might be good. I wouldn’t know; the games didn’t inspire me to read them.

#words about games #halo #master chief #Arbiter #cortana #Bungie #343

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tomasorban · 5 years

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The Book of Kells: An Immortal Cultural Heritage of the Gaels

Over the centuries, from its earliest beginnings, Christianity was the inspiration for some truly stunning art. From early frescoes, to illuminated manuscripts , magnificent churches and abbeys, Christian art knew no bounds. And one such piece of art is the iconic and famed Book of Kells.

A historic heritage of early Christianity in Ireland, this magnificently illustrated gospel book is a clear glimpse into the unique art style and identity of the Gaelic peoples. Adorned with intricate details and a dazzling array of colors, this manuscript really shows the result of Christian tradition mixing with the art of the Gaels. And the result is truly stunning.

Dating from the 9th century AD, the manuscript luckily survived to the present day largely unscathed, and it withstood the wheel of time. Today we are bringing you the history of this marvelous art piece and getting you closer to the origins of Christianity in Ireland and the identity of the Gaelic nations. Join us!

Born From the Spirit: The Early Origins of the Book of Kells

When we consider early Christian art and illuminated gospels, there is hardly anyone who has not heard about the famed Book of Kells. Its reputation precedes it, and rightly so, as this is, to date, one of the finest and intricate pieces of illuminated gospels that we know of today. It is also the chief representation of the so called insular art style, and also its culmination.

Insular art refers to the unique form of art that originated on the islands of Ireland and Britain, and its name comes from Latin insula (island). Also known as Hiberno Saxon art, it flourished from 6th to 9th century AD. It is characterized by iconic features of Irish art which is today a chief part of Celtic Christianity, and its main features are truly stunning and complex knotwork interlace designs, La Tène Celtic art elements such as spirals, triskelions, knots, and symbols, Saxon animal motifs, and so on.

All of these elements of insular art are perfectly combined in the Book of Kells, making it a crowning representative of the style.

The exact origin and creation period of the Book of Kells is still largely debated, with several main versions existing. On the basis of the fully developed insular art style that encompasses all the features from the previous centuries, most scholars place the Book of Kells into the 9th century.

Now, the gospel itself is often brought into connection with Saint Columba, as being created by Columban monks, i.e. his followers. Saint Columba (orig. Irish - Colm Cille - “church dove”) died long before the 9th century, in 597 AD. He was an Irish missionary who is credited with successfully spreading Christianity among pagan Gaels and the Picts.

Saint Columba converting King Brude of the Picts to Christianity. (Kim Traynor / CC BY-SA 3.0 )

The original, old belief was that the Book of Kells was created during his lifetime, or even by Columba himself. But this tradition is usually dismissed on the basis of the complexity of the art style, which much more realistically belongs in the 9th century.

The other scholarly debate relates to the place of its creation. Most likely it was made on the island of Iona (Scottish: Ì Chaluim Chille ), a small island in the Scottish Inner Hebrides. The island is the site of the historic Iona Abbey and was the very center of Gaelic monasticism and the spread of Christianity for roughly three centuries. This was the place of the followers of Saint Columba, and if the Book of Kells was created there in the 9th century, it would coincide with the arrival of Vikings and the beginning of their raids.

Why is this important? Well, the manuscript is not called the Book of Iona, but the Book of Kells. Kells is a town in County Meath , Ireland, and the place of the Abbey of Kells.

Quite far from Iona, the abbey was created in the late 8th and early 9th centuries and was most likely a refuge for Iona monks who fled from the Viking raiders , bringing the Book of Kells with them. As the manuscript spent the longest period of time in this abbey, it was named the Book of Kells.

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In summary, there are currently several proposed theories as to the origins of this manuscript. It is possible that it was created in the 8th century at Lindisfarne, and with the onset of Viking raids, was brought to Iona, and from there to Kells. It could have also been started at Iona and then finished at Kells.

But even at the Abbey of Kells, this magnificent manuscript was not entirely safe. In the 10th century, the place was repeatedly ransacked by Vikings, and at one point the manuscript was stolen. It was recovered later on, but not without loss – the gold and jewel adorned cover was not recovered. Even in that period, the worth and splendor of the manuscript was clear.

In the 1007 AD the Annals of Ulster , the book was named as the chief relic of the Western World . It then successfully survived in Kells and remained there until 1654. To preserve it from Oliver Cromwell’s troops, that arrived at the abbey in that year, the officials sent the book to Dublin, and from there it was given to Dublin’s Trinity College by the Bishop of Meath, in 1661. The Book of Kells remained there ever since.

Spread the Word – Contents of the Manuscript

The Book of Kells consists of 340 sheets of fine vellum, which in turn totals 680 pages. It is comprised of the Four Gospels, and it is written in majuscule insular script, in yellow, red, purple, and black ink. The dimensions are 13 by 8.7 inches (330 by 220 millimeters), but these are the dimensions that resulted in a 19th century rebinding.

Interestingly, the Book of Kells seems to have never been finished. Several of the illuminations and decorations still remain only as outlines and were never filled and colored.

This ties in with the version that the manuscript’s completion was disturbed with the appearance of Viking raids. Either way, it is clear that this book was accomplished by a skilled team of monks in a scriptorium that was modern for its time, and that it most likely took them several years to accomplish.

It is written on a very fine vellum – aka animal skin or in this case the skin of a calf. It is thought that to produce the full Book of Kells, around 185 animals had to be killed to produce the vellum. Either way the quality is remarkable, although not all the pages are of same thickness – several are so fine that they are almost translucent.

The Book of Kells consists of preliminary writings and the Four Gospels – of Matthew, Luke, Mark, and John. The latter, Gospel of John, is incomplete, and goes only up to John 17:13 (And now come I to thee; and these things I speak in the world, that they might have my joy fulfilled in themselves.) The missing parts are generally attributed to the theft of the gold cover pages, which were torn off in the 10th century.

Of the preliminary writings, there are the Breves Causae (the Summaries of the Gospels), the Eusebian canons, and short biographies of the evangelists. All the writings are based from the Vulgate, a 4th century translation of the Bible into Latin. The Vulgate was completed by Saint Jerome in 384 AD.

The Book of Kells contains the symbols of the Four Evangelists (Clockwise from top left): a man (Matthew), a lion (Mark), an eagle (John), and an ox (Luke). (Magnus Manske / Public Domain )

As mentioned, there was a team of highly skilled scribes and artists from the abbey that worked on the book. All the big decorations were most likely produced by only three artists. There are subtle differences between each of the three, even though their names are unknown.

There were particular artists who did the major ornamental and interlaced knotwork designs such as the famous Chi Rho page. The stunning attention to detail and the mind dazzling intricacy of the woven lines is really amazing for the time period and is counted among the finest examples of Gaelic Celtic art.

The text was copied by four chief scribes. Slight differences can be observed through detailed studying of the writings, showing characteristic style shifts among the four.

It is observed that a particular scribe tended to repeat passages in order to fill up blank spaces on the page, as well as to use bright colors in the text itself. Another scribe did only the letters, avoiding decorations and leaving them to one of the artists.

Tedious Homework – Errors and Repetitions

An interesting glimpse into the trade network of the period can be seen from the many colors used in the Book of Kells. Most of these pigments had to be imported from abroad, often from quite far away, yet they still found their way to the small islands of Iona, Lindisfarne, and the Hebridean hermitages. The pigments were used for yellow, red, green, indigo, and blue.

Blue was made from woad, which was native to northern Europe, so that wasn’t such a problem to acquire. But the ochre for red and yellow, the verdigris green copper pigment, and lapis lazuli, all had to be imported from the Mediterranean. And in the case of ultramarine (lapis lazuli) it had to be acquired as far as Afghanistan.

One surprising aspect of the Book of Kells is the seeming careless transcription, with numerous mistakes present throughout the manuscript. Granted, copying a manuscript takes a ton of concentration and dedicated effort, so mistakes can happen. Still, such a number of silly mistakes either tells us that the book had a more ceremonial use – not for daily use – or the Gaelic monks weren’t perfect masters of either the Latin language or insular script.

Words were skipped, pages repeated, and transcriptions wrong.

For example, the page 218 is a duplicate. It was clearly reproduced by mistake, but rather than discard it (it was a lot of hard work to produce even a single page) the monks chose to keep it in the book, nonetheless. The only thing that was done was the addition of numerous red crosses and red lines to indicate that the page should be ignored – as it was a mistake.

Also, there are plenty of errors in the text. A notable example is Matthew 10:34 (I came not to send peace, but a sword.) The original phrase in Latin should be: “Non veni pacem mittere, sed gladium.” But the scribe mixed gladium with gaudium, which means joy. Thus, the passage wrongly states: ”I came not to send peace, but joy.”

But in the end, the acceptance of such mistakes by the monks and the order tell us that it was really the aesthetics of the Book of Kells that were praised, rather than the written content itself. With almost all of the population at the time being illiterate, it was of no consequence that a word or two was wrongly written.

It was the grandiose look that had the purpose – to leave a lasting impression on the common folk, and to kindle belief in the hearts of the flock. And with the magnificent illustrations, with the mind boggling intricacy of the details, and the splendor of colors, we can safely assume that every common man of the time would be awestruck upon seeing the Book of Kells.

A Heritage to Last Centuries

Even though it is Christian in purpose and origin, the Book of Kells is still singlehandedly one of the most important insights into Irish and insular Gaelic art and culture. With numerous complex illustrations in this book, one certainly stands out. It is the page 34, with the full page illustration of the Chi Rho . Such an amazing level of detail, so many incredibly complex twists and interlaced designs, an abundance of La Tène Celtic art elements, bold colors, and endless depth, all tell us that the creation of even this single page could have taken many years.

The Book of Kells contains the Chi Rho monogram. Chi and rho are the first two letters of the word Christ in Greek. (Soerfm / Public Domain )

And the whole of the Book of Kells was surely a product of much hard labor, dedication, and tedious transcription that was done by the monks. Those same monks who dedicated their lives to spiritual matters, and who so desperately yearned to secure their place in the imagined afterlife by carefully creating this immortal piece of Gaelic art.

#the book of kells #history #manuscript #religion #books

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cosmogonyzine · 6 years

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THE KINGS OF LUCIS

«Blessed by the Astrals themselves, the line of Lucis Caelum has served its people as their gracious rulers since the beginning of times. That blessing alone allows the Kings of Lucis to use the powers of the Crystal, a divine cornerstone that, one day, will allow the King of Kings to eradicate the Starscourge. For that, the Ring of Lucii was forged.

But before the King of Kings arrived, many other monarchs sat at the throne of the Citadel. They protected their people, always keeping the Crystal safe from those who did not consider the line of Caelum worthy enough of the blessing of the Astrals. But their stories, their true stories, have been erased to let history and myth shape their essence, until all that remained were old tales of the Kings of Yore.

First was Somnus, the Mystic, the Founder King. By now, his story has already been told, but others followed in his steps after his death, the Ring and the Crystal being bestowed upon them.

Next was The Wise, whose desire to protect his kingdom made a protective Wall rise around his territory. The Wall, which has withstood more than wars and uprisings, was kept standing by the magic of each King, wearing them down to the very marrow of their bones.

Third, The Conqueror, he who expanded the territory of Lucis so far that boundaries lost their meaning. His bravery and wit won him many a battle during a time that has passed through the history books as one of the bloodiest times of Eos.

Fourth, The Clever, a King staunchly devoted to learning all he could in his lifetime. He excelled in everything he took interest in, and used this knowledge to lead his people to a period of enlightenment.

The fifth king was The Wanderer. Following after his predecessors, The Wanderer left behind his seat at the throne and traveled the world, going beyond what anyone could have ever imagined. His travel books have inspired many of today’s exotic and fantastical novels, and even some cinematic pieces. Though much is shown in said books, it is believed that years of the Wanderer’s journey have gone unrecorded, or that the journals of those times have been lost.

The next embodies one of the most tragic stories of the line of Lucis. Called The Oracle in the annals, this king of yore held both the title of King and Oracle after watching his counterpart die in circumstances not yet known. Though it is said that holding the powers of both oracle and crystal inside was almost too much for a single man, the most romantic of historians are adamant in their belief that there was no greater suffering for the King than watching his Oracle die.

It is a mystery as to why but, coincidentally, the name of the most elusive of Kings of Lucis is one of the few that has reached us in present time. Crepera Lucis Caelum, First Queen of Lucis by blood, was known as The Rogue for her evasive personality and her refusal to meet the public eye. There is only speculation as to what she looked like: the Queen tended to hide her face even when in private. But that did not stop her from ruling Lucis towards one of the most prosperous times in its history after her father and her brother’s deaths.

The Tall, while one of the Kings of Yore, has been clouded in more mystery than the one around The Rogue. The curious choice of his name in the annals has been the protagonist of many jests over the years. But, aside from that sadly, there is nothing else to say about him.

The Just, the second Queen of Yore, was loved by her people for her serenity and her sense of justice. She was the bringer of peace of her time.

Though brutal and bloodthirsty in battle, Tonitrus Lucis Caelum, The Fierce, was known by his people as a just, kind King who fought for their prosperity. Still, it is his fierceness that is remembered today, and the stories of his deeds in battle have served to inspire the Kings after him, both in the military and in the devotion for their people.

In an era where the adoration of the Astrals was at its peak, The Pious ruled Lucis through the principles of the gods and the advice of The Oracle. His time is believed to be a period when the relationship between King and Oracle was the closest, although probably not in the way many would think.

Haunted by the assassination of his wife, The Warrior consecrated his life to acquiring revenge, almost to the point of never returning to his throne again. Perhaps because of that, he was buried outside of Lucis’ grounds after his death. Still, his most fervent acolytes worked through the ages to create a charm that would keep its wielder safe from instant death. Despite everything, the warrior was cherished by his people, who wished for his safe return.

All of these Kings and Queens yielded what we know now as The Royal Arms; characteristic weapons of each King that are passed to the next through the Crystal and the Armiger. It is the duty of the next in line to acquire them all, and aid in the protection of Lucis.»

Why choose The Kings of Yore as an era for the Cosmogony zine?

Though not technically an era due to the massive space of time that it covers, The Kings of Yore allows participants to have as much room to create as they wish. From The Wise to The Warrior, participants assigned to this era can choose any king or queen (or more than one if they’re imaginative enough!) to fill the holes of everything that has not been said about them. Why did The Rogue hide from the public eye? What was the relationship between the Oracle King and his actual Oracle? What is the story of The Tall?

Some (or none. Or all!) of this questions will be answered in the Cosmogony zine!

Remember, applications open on January 8th… a bit more than two weeks left!

#ffxv #final fantasy xv #ffxv zine #cosmogony zine #cosmogony: eras #ffxv kings

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blackrose-ffxiv · 6 years

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Ecclectic Aesthetics 11/26

Lebeaux Desrosiers generally didn’t bother knocking unless doors were locked. He tried the handle first, found it open and invited himself into the establishment. He hadn’t bothered sending a card along either, if the gallery was still a work in progress it was unlikely they were taking appointments. Far better to simply arrive. He swung the door open and stepped inside, with a likely very intentional swirl of his cloak, taking a moment to smooth the lay of his sleeves. “Good evening.” He called out loudly.

The gallery might've once been a grand venue. Now it was a memorial to some battle lost to weeds, rust, and overenthusiastic aetheric accidents, if the scorch marks on the floor and the vines trailing around every little thing was any indication. There was a strange pressure upon entering the room, a sensation of being watched from the statues placed sentinel over the center of the room. And scarier still, a creature too short to be Vivain, standing on the desk, guilty of crimes including wearing a man's shirt with the poor fit disguised by the addition of garish layers, a hat that didn't match anything, no shoes, and paying more attention to the arrangement of flora in front of her than the man of the hour who swept himself through the front door. The creature threw a look over their shoulder at the stained glass windows, studying the arrangement of kaleidoscopic colors it set into - and when none of them turned violently violet it called out in a cheerful voice, "Come in~! You're a little early for the school tour, the place isn't really in full effect until sundown--" Taji Tumet paused. She swiveled on her heel, tilted her head up, studying the stranger underneath the rakish set of her hat. "...Are you lost?"

Lebeaux was dressed in the height of Ishgardian fashion… despite being out in the midst of the desert. Poor fashion decisions had been made all around in both of their cases, but at least his matched. Though it was hard not to coordinate somber shades of black and white. “A school tour. That sounds rather optimistic. Considering the state of the place it seems a risk to expose children, or even adults, to this place... Anyone really, I suppose.” He mused as he brushed some imagined dirt from a lapel, or perhaps trying to brush off the sensation of being watched. “No, despite all of that I am here intentionally.” He tilted into a theatrical approximation of a bow before he straightened up again. “Lebeaux Desrosiers, patron of the arts, when time allows.”

Taji flashed him a sliver of a grin - aware that she was supposed to be prickled by his lack of deference to Art and History, but more amused so far by anyone who could sweep in and attempt to make themselves right at home. "It's a risk to expose anyone to history, really, without the proper context and the narrative already established, right?" She guessed wildly, raising an arm to direct his attention to - what, exactly. The empty frames? The statues? The thing looming on the other side of the latticework bearing an 'UNDER CONSTRUCTION' plaque? "They could form their own opinion about what's worth carrying over to the present day and what's meant to be censored from the annals of history. As children often do! And adults. --I'm talking out my ass here, by the way, the risks and dangers are completely overstated and irrelevant." Taji swept her own upraised arm into an imitation of his bow, exaggerating the angle at which she swept herself down and mirroring the movements of his hands despite not having wide sleeves or a cape to flutter herself, though her tail did an impressively wiggly approximation of the movement of fabric. The hat miraculously stayed balanced on her head. "Taji Tribal," she introduced herself in turn. "To what risk and danger of yours do I owe your patronage, mister Dezrozeeay?"

Lebeaux took her rambling explanation as an invitation to come in and have a look around. He wore a serene sort of smile on full lips that never managed to make it all the way to his eyes. His gaze sharp and cold as ice chips as it drifted along the works in progress. An impressive array of blank frames overgrown with unusual fauna. He made his way along towards the statues as she waxed poetic and ran rhetoric in circles. A gloved hand extended, intending to give the hideous statue a light pat when the girl finally got around to giving a name. He paused and retracted his hand, turning to flash that saintly smile in her direction once again. “Ahh, I see. Unusual art is something that runs in your family, is it not. I seem to recall a similar collection taking residence for a time in the Holy See. I can see the resemblance now, though the previous incarnation was a bit… better kept.” Lebeaux waved a hand vaguely. Whether it was at the proprietress herself or the trailing vines was difficult to discern.

Taji was watching the movements of his hands, pressing her knuckles over what looked like a smirk from behind her fingers - but when her guest turned to beam his practiced, unfeeling gestures in her direction, she let her hands fall away to reveal another genuinely delighted smile. "You've seen our previous collections? It probably looked a lot like this, yeah -- none of the actual paintings on display, or the statues. Just the frames, and maybe the ironwork fences. 'Containment'." Taji didn't seem entirely offended by his admittedly accurate assessment of her none-too-faithful recreation. She swept her arms out in an open shrug. "I'm rebuilding," she explained in so many words, "The distribution of the art used to be managed by another family member, but he is - somewhat retired. And you know how the economy is. Between the end of the Dragonsong War and the liberation efforts on multiple fronts in the Far East, there's not a lot of money to be made in art, at the moment." Taji paused, studying him again with open curiosity. "My brother had been in charge of that collection too. Your interest was caught?" She failed to specify 'what', exactly - the art. Her brother. The promise of people who maybe knew about illicit magic. Lebeaux was carefully unreadable, even to someone with lots of practice in guessing at the expressions of other people who insisted on resembling statues.

Lebeaux, unlike other statue-faced men, had taken to observing others’ expressions and mimicking them. He was rather good at it, save he could never get the eyes quite right. He took a few small steps closer to the desk, clasping hands behind his back as he shifted the beatific smile up towards the twisted stone visage that seemed to glare down at him. “I suspect it was your brother. Vivain Tribal.” He agreed. “It was a difficult time for… your sorts. Even with connections within the city walls.” He cast his best version of ‘sympathetic’ over at the xaela then looked back up at the statue. “Then add on top of it a collection with not a single piece by the Ishgardian Masters and being secular besides. It’s no wonder he moved on for greener pastures.” He mused thoughtfully. “And now you have taken on the mantle of curator. Are you taking care of acquisitions and ‘distribution’ as well. Has Vivain retired entirely.” While they were all certainly questions he still managed to make them sound imperative with the even, cultured rhythm of his voice.

"Family business, like you said. I'm in a much better position than Vi is to continue it," She said, casting a hand backwards and curling fingers around the top part of the only chair in the room. She easily flipped it up with one arm, balancing the edge of it in her cupped palm. She took a few careful steps across the desk and flipped the proffered chair back down again, angled towards her guest -- accepting that would be there for at least a little bit. Taji found it easier to shift the subject away from her missing older brother and back to general strategy -- from the painful known and unacceptable to the much more comfortable abyss of the unknown. "We probably won't be pursuing distribution in Ishgard again for another decade or so. Even if rumors suggest that 'my sorts' could purchase property there outright within the next year." She, too, was in the habit of mimicing people - or at least using their words and twisting them around to suit her own needs. She continued, without any apparent offense at his tone, "Trade regulations are too strict there to sell, much less your approval guidelines for content for merely displaying anything. Your art..." Taji raised a hand, flicking fingers like she was casting about in physical space for the words. "Exults," she said, finally. "To be divine is to consume your entire world, in Ishgard. That's why your statues are larger than any natural man. Your windows yawn up to an unreachable ceiling. At scale, your paintings stretch beyond the limits of a single glance, so that there is no room to look at anything else." Taji turned to indicate what was on display on the wall behind him, simply to point out the contrast: the clean, straight lines of the frames broken by the explosive greenery. There would be no salvation from savagery, no matter how crisp and white the canvas was.

"And yet -- you're not here for that," Taji issued a curious hum, a wavery note that easily filled the small space. "For secular pieces chosen by Ishgardian Masters. But perhaps to be terrified just the same, by something you can hardly claim to be divine. So! Tell me about yourself. You are a patron, I could use patronage. You, uh, knew Vi. Are you of high enough standing to get this sort of thing displayed in its proper context in Ishgard?"

Lebeaux turned his head to watch with amusement as the xaela performed an amusing feat of strength and balance with the large chair. He then tilted in a small gesture of appreciation, for both the show and the seat before he settled gracefully into it, taking a moment to smooth his cloak’s tails to properly array his plumage. “With the separation of church and state you may yet find fertile soil for your… bold installments. Exaltation has fallen out of favor. Instead they erect monuments to make one sympathize with those we once fought, rather than to stand in awe of Her glory.” He explained politely. That is assuming there wasn’t a sudden coup or mysterious plague or some such to nip this growing problem in the bud. Wouldn’t that be a tragedy. He placed a hand on his chest as Taji essentially made the first move to ‘cut the bullshit’. “Alas, my name won’t hold much sway if you were to bandy it about in Ishgard, though your brother never wanted for influential contacts.” He began, folding his hands primly in his lap. “I recall him being rather resourceful with unusual acquisitions. I admit a curiosity if you should have access to the same network he had built.”

"Progress at last, though it doesn't sound like it's to your taste," the Xaela noted, making herself comfortable on the desk now that their respective heights were no longer an issue. Taji could at least appreciate the metaphor of fertile soil, even if Ishgard never struck her as such before now. A city who prided itself in isolation should have felt familiar to her, and wasn't salt and snow interchangeable but for the temperature? "So you long for the days when people covered their heads before the gaze of the Fury?" She nodded to his hat. "The more traditional depictions." This so far didn't quite explain Lebeaux' appearance in the Loreate, and she was starting to wonder if her brother wasn't actually entirely spotlighting the art on display so much as he was busy /being/ art. "In part," she said truthfully. "My father has contacts that still answer when I call. My brother's way of networking is -- a bit lost on me. He was more focused on finding people with money. I am more focused on finding mages." She tilted her head once more towards the stained glass, studying their obscured reflections. "What would I hear if I were to bandy your name in Ishgard? That you were a good student at the Scholasticate?"

“Nothing.” Lebeaux answered as he held up his empty hands with that same saintly smile. “You would hear absolutely nothing. As you seem to have noted I don’t care for the new and improved flavor of Ishgard. Sweet as the ideals are going down it’s only feeding the rot that eats away at the very core of the city. As such I’ve left my name behind and taken a new one. Mentioning ‘Lebeaux Desrosiers’ would likely only get you that pitying sort of look reserved for outsiders who attempt to pronounce our names yet can’t quite get their clunky tongues to make the graceful motions. At least you tried.” He settled his hands back in his lap. “Yet outside of the Holy See I’ve been doing quite well for myself as a chirurgeon. Enough to return my interests towards the arts once again. You seek mages, I seek artifacts that will soon become difficult indeed to find. Perhaps we could assist each other.”

Taji was appropriately chagrined that he didn't just immediately tell her his real name, though the greater part of her was immensely satisfied with the idea of someone who knew the value of withholding it. "I'm sure my 'clunky tongue' sounds just fine when it summons fire into the world, and hopefully you try more often than I do your name?"

@exmhachina

#lebeaux #taji #there is no way any of this could end poorly #ever #he's been a great patron so far #patronizes the eff out of taji

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codynaomiswireart · 6 years

Text

“Gauze in the Wound” - Part 4

Going back and forth a bit between the past and present in this chapter. Hopefully it's not too confusing. This one is meant to give a glimpse into Varian's life at the palace so far. Some angst, but also some relief for the alchemist son, plus a small dash of comic relief even as well. ^^

Varian’s form twitched slightly and let out a soft groan as he began to come out of the fogginess of sleep. As he blinked his eyes open, he was confused for several seconds by the sight which greeted him – that being the legs of the small table and chair of his living quarters, looking sideways from where he lay facing them on the floor. But why was he-?

“Oh, that’s right.”

Varian let out another groan as he shifted himself up onto one elbow, the parchment papers and books surrounding him crinkling and shuffling with the movement. As his mind cleared, Varian remembered having spread out some of his study materials around him on the floor earlier that night, hoping to get some more work done before heading for bed. Well, apparently, sleep had gotten the better of him before he cold properly put things away, and he had ended up dropping off on the wood floor. As he moved, Varian also felt Ruddiger stir from where he had curled up against Varian’s chest, and Varian also realized that the comforter on his bed had been dragged down over him while he had been asleep to also help keep him warm.

“Of course,” Varian thought gratefully, giving Ruddiger a grateful scratch behind the ears as his little friend yawned in drowsy greeting, and leaning into Varian’s touch as the boy’s mind returned briefly to one of the first nights of his imprisonment.

…Boy how things had changed since then…

It was strange, now that Varian thought about it. His life of being imprisoned at the palace had definitely unfolded differently than how he had originally anticipated. It was by no means ideal of course (there were still the guards with their ever-watchful eyes and handcuffs and shackles to be dealt with), but it also could’ve been a lot worse. Especially after being found guilty of such horrendous charges as those listed at his trial, Varian was certain his sentence would’ve involved a cold, damp cell, with bedding too foul-smelling to use, absolutely no privacy, and being fed on scraps from the king’s table while he wasted away in grief, filth, inactivity, and boredom. But it didn’t end up being that way. In fact, Varian hadn’t fallen asleep on the floor at all since…well, since that night after his trial.

Varian remembered being woken up that dreadful morning after the trial by the sound of keys unlocking the door to his holding cell, and the low creak of the door swinging open. He had hardly stirred at the noise, too miserable to do much of anything at the time except lay there, though he did notice the feeling of Ruddiger curled up close by (as always), and the weight of another blanket over his shoulders. Varian figured that Ruddiger must’ve dragged a second blanket over to help keep him warm sometime after he had succumbed to sleep. Honestly, Ruddiger’s small gestures likely ended up saving Varian once again, as he also noticed how chilled the holding cell had become overnight. Varian was sore and stiff after having slept for hours on the hard stone, but the chill at least had been kept at bay. And he had slept through the night. It had hardly been a peaceful sleep of course, but his exhaustion had ensured that it was a full one. While Varian couldn’t recall dreaming anything particularly coherent, he did remember snapshots of things that had flitted in and out of his brain while he slept, and most of them were hardly restful things.

[All sharp black rocks EVERYWHERE, amber crystals, automaton gears, goo traps, a coiled, suffocating feeling around his ribs (His ribs? Cassandra’s? The queens? He wasn’t sure now…), being unbearably alone one moment, then in an overbearing crowd with chains around him the next, eyes all staring at him, being outside on the outskirts of the capital with a behemoth of a creature of his own creation at his side, then inside a stifling cockpit where all had turned red, then the shutting of a wood door as the sky tinged a pale blue, the feeling of a comforting pat on his cheek, of tears streaming down his face, of anger boiling in his blood, threatening to explode at any moment like the boilers on that other bad day, a whirlwind of air and emotions as he attempted to stop disaster with one of his only friends, and then turning on her the next, there came that constricted feeling again, the look of angry, then frightened, then sad green eyes that were framed in shimmering gold, the blurred image of his father as he pawed at the amber through yet again more tears, the feeling of helplessness as he sunk to the floor, the feeling of being shoved away, the feeling of cold wind and snow whipping passed his face, harsh hands dragging him down the hallway, a scream of “You promised! You promised!”…]

Varian really must’ve looked terrible that morning, for upon opening the cell door and seeing Varian laying on the floor, the Captain had actually rushed forward to see if he was all right, causing Ruddiger to scamper away quickly in alarm. But before the Captain could do so much as lay a hand on his shoulder, Varian had shoved him away, not caring if he got a clip round the ear for fighting back. But instead of getting immediately angry, the Captain’s first look had been one of relief (realizing that Varian had not taken with fever after all, and it wasn’t like Varian in his current state could do him much harm anyway even if he tried). Though, naturally, this reaction had been lost on Varian at the time (or he refused to believe it), and he only felt a resigned, sour feeling as he was again put into handcuffs (though no shackles this time) and lead out of his cell, with Ruddiger being carried close behind with a chain leash clamped around his neck.

Varian did his best to not think about that though as he and Ruddiger were lead through the castle dungeons and back up the stairs, with Varian trying his best to ignore the puzzled or taunting looks from the other prisoners as he was lead down the dark corridors. One of the prisoners in particular – a red-haired woman with tattoos on one of her upper arms – made eye contact with him as he passed, but Varian had looked away quickly. He couldn’t stand how she had at first looked at him with the same hard, taunting manner as so many of the others, but then had it quickly replaced with something like astonishment, perhaps even something nearing pity. He knew what she must’ve been thinking. “Whoa, what’s a young rascal like you doing in a place like this? Stole an apple or some candy? Forgot to say please and thank you?”

Varian couldn’t help but feel his cheeks burn for the first time with embarrassment since being arrested. He had sunk so low that even the worst criminals in the kingdom now pitied him! Varian thought he then recalled hearing the lady ask one of the guards trundling at the back about him, but he had been too far along and the hallway it had been too echoey for him to hear clearly enough to be sure. Not that he cared if she inquired about him anyway. At least he would give her something to gossip about to her other jailbird friends, right? They would have their excitement over him and his crimes and then soon forget about him, just like everyone else in the kingdom most likely.

Well, at least he would go down as a sort of legend around here perhaps. He might even get a line in the songs of the bards one day – forever immortalized in the annals of history as a dishonored alchemist; forever remembered for his greatest mistakes.

Mistakes!?

“No. No, they were NOT mistakes,” Varian thought desperately to himself. He had to keep telling himself that. There was no room for doubt now. He had done the only things that had been left open to him under the circumstances, right? What else was he to have done?

[“What else was I to do!?”]

Varian gave a small shake of his head, trying to ignore the annoying recollection that buzzed about him, recalling how his sworn enemy had said those exact same words to him only yesterday. “But it’s not the same thing,” he insisted to himself. “We’re nothing alike he and I!”

After a while, Varian had been led to a secluded corner of one of the upper floors of the castle, where Pete the guard seemed to waiting for them at one of the doors that lined the hallway. As they approached, Pete took out a key from a pouch at his side and unlocked the door, standing to the side at attention as Varian was shuffled inside.

Varian was confused upon entering the room. It was a small, rather ordinary-looking bedchamber, with a fully made bed, a barred window looking out northward with curtains draped over it. A table and stool were stationed directly underneath the window, and a nightstand, a wool rug, and a small dresser (with a washbasin and pitcher sitting atop it) were also included. Even a small mirror had been hung on the wall above the dresser. Varian took it to be one of the servant’s quarters at first, but that couldn’t be right. The servants were all housed on the other side of the castle. And it couldn’t be a guest room either. Varian had of course seen the guest rooms of the castle during that day he had helped Cassi- …Cassandra with her chores, and he knew them to be much bigger and fancier than this. In fact, as Varian thought about it, the closest living spaces for many yards were the soldiers’ barracks that were a floor underneath this one. This indeed then seemed rather random.

Varian’s next thought was to look for the mop, bucket, and other cleaning supplies that he was to use to clean up this odd space (the most likely reason for why they brought him there), but none of those were in sight either. (Unless they cruelly intended to hand him a toothbrush with which to clean the space, which wouldn’t have surprised him.) The room was both fully furnished and also rather blank. This puzzled Varian, but he soon got his answer as the Captain proceeded to explain.

“At the behest of their majesties,” the Captain began, “this is to be your room for the time being.”

Varian had to struggle to not give away his surprise at this statement. All this!? For him? But Varian quickly shut away that old small voice in him that again tried to shove its oar in. He refused to feel any sort of relief or gratitude about this. “Besides,” he insisted to himself, feeling genuine suspicion creep into his mind, “if they think they can placate me with all this, they’re definitely mistaken.”

“You’ll find clean clothes and toiletries in the dresser,” the Captain continued, his tone now sounding like one addressing a soldier in his ranks. “Other than that, nothing in this room is to be taken out of it, and nothing else is to be brought in unless authorized by me. Any contraband found will be confiscated, and any vandalism done will result in punishment according to my discretion. Inspection will take place every morning before you’re let out for work, and every evening before you’re locked in for the night. Cleaning supplies will be brought in every Tuesday morning during which time you are to clean this room from top to bottom. A guard will be stationed outside at all times while you’re here. If you need anything, you may call on them, but any attempts at attacking or trickery will be severely punished I guarantee you. Is that clear?”

Varian stared down at the floor, refusing to respond.

“Is that clear?” the Captain tried again, turning Varian roughly by the shoulder so he was forced to face him.

“…Yessir,” Varian finally mumbled under his breath, though refusing to look the Captain in the eye.

“Good.”

The Captain then nodded to Pete who went to the dresser, and opened up a few of the drawers to pull out some of the said clean clothes and a small brown sack. Taking these with them, the Captain led Varian back out of the room with Pete following close behind. Ruddiger had been left behind in the room, though the guard who had been carrying him took off his chain leash before they left him. Varian felt super bereft of his company now, and would’ve implored to have Ruddiger kept with him, but he didn’t want to appear so fragile and weak before his enemies. As long as Ruddiger wasn’t hurt, he would keep silent. For now.

After going down a few more corridors, Varian found that they were now coming to the servants’ part of the castle. Varian tried hard to ignore their stares as they passed by some of them in the hallways. Many of them would either look away from him again quickly and attempt to get on with their work, or else would show looks of obvious disapproval of him. Varian hated them all in any event, and wasn’t shy about showing a disapproving glare in return when he could.

Finally, the Captain had them stop in front of another door, opening it to reveal a small bathroom on the other side. There was no tub in this bathroom, but there was a showerhead coming out of the wall to his left.

“Bathing days will be every other day in the morning unless deemed otherwise,” the Captain said. “Same rules apply here as with your room. Nothing leaves here that was here to begin with, and nothing gets brought in unless authorized by me. A guard will be stationed outside the whole time you’re here, and any vandalism or mischief will be severely punished. Call if you need anything. Any questions?”

“…No sir,” Varian managed to reply, suddenly also feeling very self-conscious about his own haggard appearance at the mentioning of having a bath. It had been days since he had last bathed, and he felt oily and sticky. He also had a horrible taste in his mouth after days of not having brushed his teeth, and his clothes were dirties and torn in some places. Even despite his darkened frame of mind, Varian couldn’t help but feel eager to get cleaned up again and put on better clothes.

“Right then,” the Captain said, motioning for Pete to hand Varian the clean clothes and small sack of toiletries they had brought with from his room before ushering the boy into the bathroom.

“Take no more than fifteen minutes. Give a knock if you’re done sooner and Pete will let you out. You’ll be given your work load after that.”

Then, after a quick exchange of salutes between the two of them, the Captain left Pete to guard Varian as the door was swung shut, and Varian was locked in once again.

After waiting a few seconds, Varian immediately shuffled about in the toiletries bag for a razor or steel nail file, his brain already working on ideas for an escape attempt. If only he could use the razor or file to pry open the cap of the drain, then pick the lock from this side of the door, he could then-

Ah, of course. There was no razor or nail file to be found in the bag. Perhaps Varian could make do with a sponge and some soap instead? No, that was ridiculous! Varian sighed, his brain straining to come up with any sort of ideas for escape. He really did not feel like himself.

“…Well, might as well I guess,” Varian thought with resignation as he relented and went to turn on the hot water to the shower. Though the water only got about lukewarm (“Tch! Coronian efficiency again,” Varian scoffed to himself, once again thinking about the boiler system for Old Corona he had created that had been nearly successful), Varian was far too disheveled to care too much, and couldn’t help but feel great relief by the time he had pulled his new clean vest into place over his new collared shirt, and had combed out his now clean ebony hair, with the blue streak in it highlighted in the small bit of sunlight allowed in through the small frosted glass window higher up on the wall.

Varian couldn’t help but pause to study himself a little bit in the mirror before signaling to Pete that he was done. Though much tidier now, Varian also looked paler than the last time he had seen himself, he had dark marks under his eyes now, and his eyes…something about them spooked even himself. They just didn’t look right, almost like a stranger’s. He also felt he looked…older, somehow. But not in a way that Varian would’ve liked. It felt almost like Fate throwing his desire to be perceived as very grown-up back in his face – as if to say, “Well, you didn’t want to be considered a child anymore now did you? Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Varian clenched his fists as he continued to stare back into those alien eyes and pallid face, and trying hard to restrain himself from throwing a punch at the mirror and making the image before him into an even more fractured version of himself. It was his hemophobia that held him back. While he may not have cared if he got punished for shattering a mirror (as he felt no fear of the guards and didn’t believe in the whole seven-years-of-bad-luck thing), he did care if his knuckles, arms, or even his face got bloodied in doing it. He may have tried to convince himself that he wouldn’t have minded a harsh reprimanding from the Captain, but he could not convince himself that he wouldn’t have minded the sight and smell of blood coming from himself.

Instead, Varian settled for turning away sharply with a huff, and proceeded to knock on the door for Pete as he was told.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

“O-one second!” Varian now called, snapping out of his memories at the sound of knocking on his door, and hurrying to gather up his papers and books for inspection that morning. Ruddiger also attempted to help, using his hand-like paws to stack some of the papers together as Varian arranged the books on his desk. After grabbing the last of the papers from Ruddiger and stacking them as neatly as he could, Varian straightened his shirt collar, and then called out that the guard waiting outside could come in. As per protocol, Varian was not allowed to open the door and let in said guard into his room, but instead he had to stand at the other side of the room by his desk and call for the door to be opened. While Varian understood the logic of such safety precautions, it was also rather degrading and felt stupidly cumbersome for something so simple as letting someone in. But there was no arguing with it.

Today, it was one of the lady guards who came in to inspect his room. With a formal but not unfriendly “good morning” in Varian’s direction, the guard proceeded to go in the usual pattern of inspecting the room before finally giving a small nod of approval. Again, as protocol dictated, she then put Varian’s wrists in a set of handcuffs, put Ruddiger on his leash attached to Varian’s waist, and led the both of them down the hallways to where the servants were gathering for their breakfast.

It had surprised Varian that first morning after moving into his new living quarters to find that it had been decided that he would eat with the servants now whenever meals were served. The new living space had been surprise enough, but suddenly plopping him in with the servants of the castle really took things to a new level.

…And not in a good way. Not at first.

For the first few weeks – before taking up his apprenticeship with Xavier – Varian had been very surly about the whole thing. “So,” he had thought to himself as he had been seated at the far end of the long table of castle servants, “It’s not enough for the king and queen to make me their prisoner, but they had to go and make me their servant as well!?”

The idea made Varian very angry, and though he ate up his breakfast eagerly enough (for he was very, very hungry by now), he tore into it like a beast tearing apart its prey, taking his anger out on flapjacks, strips of bacon, and fried eggs with toast. None of the servants sat near him that morning, though one well-meaning scullery maid (not much younger than Varian) had attempted to strike up conversation as she had passed by, but Varian had ignored her, hating her intruding on his miserable solitude. Finally, she had given up after being summoned away to attend to her duties, and Varian was to be led away to attend to his first tasks around the castle as well.

That was when Varian got a horrible idea as he was being led passed the small table with the large coffee urn sitting on it. “This will teach them to treat me like a servant,” Varian had thought, casually kicking the small table over as he passed by with a quick jab at one of the legs, and the hot contents of the pot spilled out everywhere around them. A whole roar of surprised shrieks and curses sounded around him in response. Varian may have been afraid to shatter a mirror some minutes before, but he felt no fear now in shattering some old coffee urn on the floor.

But it was poorly thought. Varian came to find out the hard way that day that one does not simply mess with the adults’ morning coffee rations and expect to get off easy. That had been a really long morning for everyone.

Varian now shook his head, trying to think different thoughts now as he and Ruddiger came once again into the servants’ dining hall. After stacking up his plate with the usual breakfast items, Varian took his seat at the far end of the long table, and the lady guard who had escorted him stood directly behind him, though otherwise not engaging with Varian directly. As Varian began tucking into his breakfast, he was soon joined by Friedborg who sat down at the seat directly opposite him at the table. She was one of the few servants in the place who had dared to sit close to Varian during his whole stay there, and was pretty much the only one he would talk to for an extended period of time. This was partially because he and Friedborg were indeed assigned to many of the same tasks around the place (now that Cassandra had gone with Rapunzel on her quest), and also because Friedborg was a much better listener than most others. This morning was no exception.

“So, let me get this straight,” Varian had come to ask Friedborg some minutes later between bites of toast. “The word ‘planet’ derived from the late Latin word ‘planeta’, which came from the Greek word ‘planetes’ meaning ‘wanderer’ or ‘wanderers’, right? Yeah, ok, and so the ancient Greeks got this idea from seeing which celestial bodies seemed to move independently from the other stars, correct? So that explains why the classical Greek ‘planets’ were the sun, moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. Huh. Well, that makes sense. Guess they couldn’t see the others very well without telescopes and such, and I’m afraid I’m not sure what they thought about Earth in that regard. Did they believe in a flat Earth back then?”

Friedborg seemed to shrug in response to Varian’s question.

“Yeah, I don’t know either. Xavier would probably know though. I’ll have to ask him the next time I go to the forge.”

While Varian had begun to spend most of his days at the forge since becoming Xavier’s apprentice, there were also days when he and Ruddiger would remain at the castle, and would help tend to tasks there as before. After finishing his breakfast with Friedborg, Varian and Ruddiger were brought first to the stables to help out with things there – moving hay bails, cleaning the stalls, scrubbing food troughs, things like that. Varian couldn’t honestly say that he liked that kind of work, but he really did like animals, and Ruddiger especially had endeared himself to the horses. Despite being rather sassy towards them sometimes, Ruddiger would also opt for greeting some of them by stroking their velvet noses with his forepaws, and delighting to share an apple with them whenever they felt inclined to share.

This done, Varian was then put under Friedborg’s charge and tasked with some of the laundry, mending, sewing, and cleaning to be done about the place. It was of course very bothersome to Varian that he no longer had any of his compounds or gadgets with which to get the job done like that one day (a day he always secretly found his heart aching for whenever such tasks brought the memories back…), but if he could get by doing things the old-fashioned way at the forge, completing these other tasks in likewise manner was certainly doable. During his first few days at the castle he had been very despondent with getting any sort of work done, but Friedborg had managed to convince him to try; something only Xavier himself had also been able to do.

For a few hours, it seemed as if this day would be like most any other day Varian spent at the castle. That is, until the Captain came in looking for Varian, his tone urgent.

“Sorry Friedborg,” the Captain told her with a nod of acknowledgment as both she and Varian paused in hanging up the laundry. “But Varian needs to come with me right away.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Varian asked, Ruddiger giving a small concerned trill from the boy’s shoulder as the Captain led them across the courtyard.

“The king and queen want to see you,” the Captain stated, Varian’s brow furrowing at the mentioning of their majesties (whom he had seen only but once or twice in passing since his trial, and neither time had been a pleasant encounter).

“I thought we weren’t meeting until the day after tomorrow,” Varian replied grumblingly, recalling how Xavier had arranged for another audience with them to negotiate terms for looking to free Varian’s father.

“I know,” the Captain stated. “But the meeting’s been moved up in light of something some of the troops found when patrolling the site at Old Corona yesterday.”

Varian looked up, eyes wide as he felt his heart begin to beat hard behind his sternum at these words, and the mentioning of his dear (though ruined) home. “What do you mean?” Varian asked earnestly, afraid that something further had happened to his fathe while he had been away.

“I don’t know all the details myself kid,” the Captain answered honestly, “but whatever they found, it’s changed things. We’ve sent word for Xavier to come as well. The audience is to begin in about thirty minutes.”

Varian exchanged a quick, confused, concerned look with Ruddiger at his shoulder, at a loss for what to think as the Captain led him out of the afternoon sunlight and into the shadow of the castle’s walls. Varian felt a chill run down his spine in tandem, not sure if good or bad news awaited him this time beyond the throne room’s doors.

#tts #tangled the series #fan fiction #gauze in the wound #varian #captain of the guard #pete the guard #friedborg #ruddiger #rudiger #corona

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eddievee · 6 years

Text

Gay and Sober

I’m intimidated by the thought of writing about this. There are multiple reasons as to why I perhaps shouldn’t express these thoughts. However, I have a problem. I have a problem and I feel as though trying to articulate it will help me cope. It is my hope that friends and family members will read this and understand my struggle. Maybe they or someone on the internet could also find solace in my story.

Basically, I have a drinking problem. Call me an alcoholic. Call me an addict. Any term under the umbrella of substance abuse likely applies. I write this at twenty four. Looking back over the past liquored up eight years of my life, the most traumatic experiences and biggest setbacks I’ve endured have had to do with alcohol. I pinned a guy in my dorm to the ground at eighteen and nearly got expelled from university. I went psychotic at twenty-one, experiencing auditory hallucinations and paranoid delusions. My psychiatrist deduced that it all transpired because I went off of my psychoactives cold turkey and started to self-medicate with wine. That turn of events forced me to withdraw from school for almost a year. In that time, I left random objects on my university president’s doorstep and nearly got arrested for trespassing. I also showed up drunk to the undergraduate library after withdrawal from classes and had to be escorted out by police. My relationship with alcohol is distinctly self-destructive and volatile. In March, I got hit by a motorist after a night out of drinking. I had recently quit a managerial position after over two years working there, lined up a prospective job with greater pay, and a couple of my coworkers bought me Jack Daniel’s as a farewell present. I wrote a goodbye letter that evidently still has a place of honor in the store. It was a bittersweet goodbye, but I was leaving a staff that I knew was going to miss me. From my end, that feeling was mutual. I also had a solid positive reference in my back pocket from my time there. I was ecstatic. To leave a job I really didn’t like was fabulous. To feel as though I was moving on in my career was even better. It was time to celebrate, of course! So, I imbibed. I guzzled hard liquor by myself and went to my usual haunt. I drank more there and tried to ride home on my bicycle. That’s when it all happened. The injury was severe. I sustained contusions on both sides of my frontal lobe and cracked a few bones in my skull. Emergency services were called and I was rushed to the hospital. There, it was determined that I was at a .27 blood alcohol content. Had I consumed a couple more drinks that night, I would have been legally dead. At the hospital, I was put into a medically induced coma and given a room in intensive care. The coma lasted roughly a month and I received inpatient physical, occupational, and speech therapy for another month before discharge. Multiple doctors, nurses, and therapists told me that based on the severity of the injury, I was expected to be discharged by November. I remember visiting the intensive care unit after being moved to the rehab unit. Multiple doctors and nurses who managed my case expressed verbal and physical disbelief that I was standing and walking. Several entered the unit for their shift, saw me, and would throw their hands in the air and turn around before greeting me. I don’t know the totality of their experiences in medicine, but I imagine several of their cases don’t end up walking and talking a month after coming out of a coma. They were unquestionably shocked to see me so relatively well.

Basically, I almost died. Mortality was clarified for me in March. The physical toll alone was nothing short of traumatic. In spite, I’m happy that my recovery has gone so unexpectedly well. I’ve gained 25 pounds of muscle back, I was discharged from outpatient therapies after two weeks, and I’m now looking at the possibility of returning to work. However, I’m not totally well right now. Despite all of the strides I’ve made over the past three months, I know I have an immense amount of work to do to get healthy again. However, I’m ill at this point for reasons unrelated to the somatic impact of my auto accident. The psychological consequences of my injury came later and asymmetrically. With the physiological component consuming most of my time, energy, and focus initially, I simply didn’t know how what happened was going to impact my mental health. With BPD on my diagnostic record, I’ve been depressed, anxious, and occasionally psychotic for much of my adult life. I’ve been in and out of psychiatry and psychotherapy since I was 18 years old. I’ve been hospitalized for psychological reasons twice. Having a degree in psychology and women’s studies, I know the annals and the phenomenology of mental suffering. Through both talk therapy sessions and undergraduate study, I am familiar with coping mechanisms and understand quite a bit about mental illness as a whole. With that said, the knowledge doesn’t necessarily lead to better mental health outcomes for my own struggles. I shouldn’t be drinking at all. In certain traumatic brain injury cases, to consume alcohol is to possibly have a seizure. I also developed blood clots in the hospital and was put on a powerful blood thinner. I’m off that prescription now, but it could have had complications with hard liquor. None of that kept me away from the bottle. I experienced a radical shift. Prior to the injury, I was working overtime hours every week and dating someone I was passionately in love with. He had a key to my apartment after one week of love drunk stupor. Suddenly, I was unemployed and single, my boyfriend breaking up with me in a hospital bed. It was jarring. That particular adjustment was perhaps as traumatic as the injury itself. I had free time and loneliness and ample opportunity for self loathing. Libations were perfect to indulge that stress and sorrow. Got a problem? Pour some plastic jug vodka on it. Let’s Popov off. I mentioned that I had a history of making serious, lasting, and self destructive decisions by drinking prior to March, but I was always able to control myself. I could stop. Now, I can’t. I can consume an entire fifth of eighty to one hundred proof liquor in one evening. If there’s some leftover when I wake up hungover, I drink it that morning. I can’t handle my liquor anymore. I’ve permanently damaged some friendships by sending weird and alarming text messages when I’m blackout drunk. Normally comprised of suicidal ideation, they’re pathetic pleas of “kill me.” Alongside the profound lack of self control, that depth of depression is what’s particularly alarming to me. I don’t want to get sober, but if I keep going like this, I’m going to die. It’ll be at my hand or with a broken bottle. Maybe both. At the least, my liver will fail or I’ll withdraw into delirium tremens or develop Korsakoff’s amnesia. Something. I’ll say again: I don’t want to get sober. However, little of that has to do with alcohol’s effects on my brain and body. Those certainly are factors, but it’s not the bulk of the story. I don’t need a drink to get through the day. It’s fun to be drunk! I like to party. I like relaxing inhibitions, but I don’t need a drink to function. The social and celebratory elements of drinking make it harder to leave behind. I’ve quit abusing other substances in the past because I was almost always using by myself. I like people more than I like drugs. Alcohol is different because that line between people and drugs is blurrier. There’s a distinctly social component to drinking that bears salience to my life. I’m gay. Bars and clubs, the spaces relegated to LGBT people by dominant culture, are centered around the sales and consumption of alcohol. That’s a fact. I’m also a drag queen, who are hired in part to facilitate that commerce. Alcohol was in the room when I first started to meet other gay guys at sixteen. Its omnipresence throughout my gay young adult experiences make it that much more difficult to go without. Booze is sometimes like an old friend; it has been my chaperone for years.

To leave alcohol behind would make me profoundly anxious, thinking that I would be leaving my friends behind too. My community matters to me. If there’s anything that the experience of surviving traumatic brain injury has solidified in my mind, it’s that I matter to my community as well. I’ve made friends in these spaces for years now. The gay bar has been a critical component to my sense of self and I’m terrified to lose that. A friend of mine might read this portion and roll his eyes. He once told me something like “People you party with are not your friends. They’re people you party with.” That may be true, but it’s connection. There’s a multitude of research literature on how social connections lead to better life expectancies and health outcomes. Unhappily married people tend to live longer than content single people for a reason. I don’t know how to mesh sobriety with my network of relationships in the nightlife scene. These people have welcomed me and held me, laughed with me and wept with me. I’ve devoted so much time and energy to drag performances to express my love and gratitude for my community. I don’t want to be without the people I’ve met in part through drinking. I wouldn’t be here without them. At the same time, many people in my nightlife existence know that I have a problem. I went out the other weekend for a going away party. After leaving the club, I went to my friend’s place and had a 2:00 AM conversation with another friend who didn’t accompany us out to the club. He’s mentally ill, but high functioning, and deeply empathetic. We relate. I asked him about our friends’ perception of my alcoholism. He expressed that even before my accident in March, people would notice how drunk I’d get on a regular basis. He said that some people get that drunk “every six months or so.” With me, it was “like every other week.” He went on to comment on my overall melancholy and bleak outlook on life. He said, “Sometimes, when I see you, it’s like you woke up and happiness wasn’t even a possibility.” Being a depressant, alcohol feeds into my psychological dependency for crisis and sorrow. RuPaul asserted that Katya, Brian McCook, had an addiction to anxiety in season seven of RuPaul’s Drag Race. I feel that. I’m realizing just how intensely accustomed I am to feeling depressed. In drag, I’ve rejoiced in sorrow on stage for years. On multiple occasions, I’ve walked into the bar in full drag makeup and the first thing I hear is “what’s wrong?” It’s not even that the glass is half empty. For me, the glass was never there. To be sad is almost comforting in its combination of introspection and self pity. It’s especially affirming when you feel as though you have a right to that lowness. As Bright Eyes once said, “Sorrow is pleasure when you want it instead.” That pleasure has grown old. I want to do more than just survive in spite of crisis. I’ll say this: I don’t know if I’m going to get sober from alcohol. In my recent brief attempts at sobriety, I’ve recognized just how much temperance culture permeates United States media. You’d be challenged to walk down the main street of any major city and not see at least one advertisement for liquor. The push and pull relationship of Puritanical abstinence from indulgence and the American civic duty of reckless consumption is powerful. That relationship is also undeniably profitable. With that said, my pro and con list of continuing to drink is getting grimmer. What I need to do becomes more obvious after each fifth of bottom shelf whiskey, with each morning I wake up hungover, and within each inebriated, suicidal cry for help. To those of you who have been on the receiving end of my substance abuse, I’m sorry. My brother recently found me in my apartment, eyes rolled in the back of my head from drinking to excess. I’ve fallen down stairs at the local gay bar, making an absolute fool of myself. I’ve said alarming, dreadful things in person and online that I regret terribly. In total, I’ve damaged relationships that I’m never going to repair. The problem is when I’m alone. If I’m at the bar and not drinking around you, don’t think it’s completely because of what I’ve expressed here. More than anything, just know that I have a drinking problem. It exists unarguably within and outside the context of my near death experience. I wrote that I was unsure of how to simultaneously be sober and be present at the spaces where I’ve made loving relationships. This is my attempt. Know that I want to be around, but I simply can’t do it like I used to. I need to get sober from alcohol. At the very least, I should. It’s going to be a tall order, but less lethargy and fewer depressive episodes sound fabulous. Thank you.

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