#or i mean ACT disinterested in what she's saying. he's very interested in violence done to tim. esp by his favorite weird big sister

[welcometogrouchland]

[ID in ALT] Steph and Damian doodle! This taps a bit into their pre-52 dynamic so that's what I was thinking design wise at first but I wanted to draw it w their more recent designs as well to stay hashtag current and topical, so you get both/a fusion, lol

[slashscowboyboots]

The Stars Are a Part Of Us: The Brains Of This Outfit

This my “Almost Famous” inspired groupie fic, with appearances by @awrestlinggirlwholoves80sbands (Celestia/Alessia), @sexcoffeeandrockandroll (Absinthe/Amy) and @no-stone-no-bone (Velvet), plus yours truly as Karen.  This is a pretty dark fic, with VERY mature themes and smut.  Cross-posted on AO3

Tag list @izzysdenimjacket ​ @no-stone-no-bone ​ @sexcoffeeandrockandroll @awrestlinggirlwholoves80sbands ​ @smokeandmirrorz ​ @sodalitefully ​ @roger-taylors-car ​ @lost-in-the-80s @whisperess33 ​ @shawolat​ ​@80snikki @rumoured-whispers

Warnings: Underage sex, drug use, drinking, implied violence.  18+ ONLY

1987

This must be her.

Izzy sat up straighter, watching as a short blonde shuffled toward the back of the bus, a huge bag on her shoulder and carrying a pillow in her arms.  She didn’t notice him sitting in the next to the last seat, and she flopped down on the one behind him, setting down her pillow and leaning against it, then rifling through her purse till she found a book.

Bella Donna. The most beautiful one of all.  She certainly was pretty, he thought, with her long blonde waves and huge blue eyes.  She dressed like Stevie Nicks’ runaway progeny too, all ruffles and lace and faded jeans, although instead of Stevie’s platforms she wore a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots.  

I’ve never seen a groupie play hard to get, he chuckled to himself.  She must be something else.  Watching her turn a page, he noticed her full lips pursing as she read the text.  He couldn’t make out what the title was, but he could see a long-haired bare-chested hunk and a bosomy babe spilling out of her bodice in a passionate clinch on the cover.  

Oh, shit, she’s reading romance novels.  Probably wants me to seduce her.

 Izzy didn’t think he was quite up to that.  

87 had been rough on him so far.  Getting busted on a possessions charge (thankfully, it hadn’t included a “with an intent to sell,” although that had been exactly his intention), sentenced to rehab and now on probation, with orders he continue to be piss tested on the road.

It was a miracle he was allowed to leave the country, but his lawyer (who was far too good to be in his pay scale, Izzy noted) argued that his client’s ability to earn a living shouldn’t be hampered by his arrest.  (The fact that his paying profession had led to his arrest wasn’t lost on him either.)  To his amazement, the judge had agreed, and Geffen, desperate to recoup their investment and make a little scratch before the band killed themselves, sent them with The Cult on a tour of Canadian hockey rinks.  Woo hoo.  

Just before the tour started, he and Niv were approached in a shitty dive by a curvy brunette introducing herself as Absinthe and claiming she was one of the Road Wives.  

“Heard of us?” she asked, coyly batting her eyelashes.

Izzy took a sip from his Coke and nodded.  Yes, he’d heard of all of them.  The Flying Garter Girls, the GTO’s, the Road Wives.  All conglomerates of groupies who traveled with bands and made life on the road even more colorful and chaotic.

“Of course you have.  It’s an honor to travel with the Wives.”

Izzy rolled his eyes and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke from his nose.  “And you’ve selected us, I suppose.”

Absinthe smiled, the contrast of her crimson pout with her white teeth and skin visible even in the dim light.  “We have.  Our leader Velvet has chosen Axl as her traveling companion.” 

Niven smirked, and Izzy raised his eyebrows.  “Has this already been decided?” he said quietly.

Those red lips formed a tight line.  “No.  Axl said to take this up with you.  ‘Izzy has the final word,’ he said.”

He took another drag, and she leaped at the opportunity to speak.  “There’s uhh, four of us, and Celestia has picked Slash, and I,” she smiled, and Izzy swore he saw devil horns poke out of her dark hair, “I settle down with no man, but I’ve spent time with your drummer and won’t mind repeating that experience.”

He flicked his ash from his cigarette, bored disinterest on his unsmiling face.  “And Duff is married.”

She swallowed, then nodded.  “Yes, Duff is engaged, and has cordially informed us he will not require our services.  Shame, there’s a tree I’d like to climb again and again.”

Izzy lit a new cigarette with the end of the first one and ground the butt out, then leaned forward on the table and said, “Shame, because I say no to the whole shooting match.”

The whites of her black-lined eyes became enormous.  “Wait, you haven’t heard who’s with you.”

“I don’t care who’s with me,” he said, in a quiet but firm voice.  “I’m on fucking probation and I don’t need any more headaches.  And I damn sure don’t need four chicks we have to babysit.”

“Hear her out,” Niven snickered.  “I gotta hear about the whore that wants you.”

Absinthe licked the front of her teeth.  “Bella Donna.  The most beautiful one of all,” she said softly.

Izzy shook his head.  “Nope.  I’m not traveling with anyone fucked up or underage.”

“She’s 21.  And she blows a gasket over drugs.”

Niven elbowed Izzy.  “She sounds right up your alley, mate.”

Izzy shifted in his seat, rolling the end of his cigarette in the ashtray as he chewed the inside of his cheek.  

“She and I went to school together, and we’re older than the other girls.  We keep them in line.  They will not cause you any problems on the road.  You have my word.”

Izzy slid his eyes to Alan, who shrugged.  “Canada’s cold, Izz.”

Absinthe smiled.  

He still wasn’t convinced.  “She doesn’t use?  Cause I’ve never heard of a groupie who didn’t.”

She shook her head.  “Reads us the riot act if we do.  She smokes weed every now and then, but I don’t even think she’s done that in the last six months.”  She batted her eyes, sensing his interest.  “Drinks the occasional beer, but she’s normally our DD.”

Izzy sighed, then downed the last of his Coke.  “All right.  One fuckup, and I don’t care what it is, if one of you broads even breaks a nail, your asses are heading home.  Put that in the tour budget Niv, four bus tickets back to LA if any of them get the hiccups.”  He stood up.  “I’m not joking.”

No, a seduction was not something he was up to.  Maybe a quick fuck when the bus got dark, if she loosened up a little.  Normally, groupies sucked you off as a way of saying hello, but this one had tromped on past him and buried her nose in a book.

Honey, is that any way to welcome your man?

He leaned over the bus seat, carefully studying her.  She wore a moonstone ring on one hand, a crystal ball set in a pair of hands ring on the other one, and gigantic sparkly hoop earrings.  He didn’t especially understand this Stevie Nicks fixation, but if memory served, she’d fucked her way through Fleetwood Mac and the Eagles, so as long as Rhiannon here didn’t wear a chastity belt, it was fine by him.

He tilted his head and asked, “Aren’t you going to say hi?”

Her eyes darted up from her page, then back down.  “Hi.”

He had another great view of the top of her head.  “Is this any way to act?”

She turned a page, her eyes not leaving her book.  “I wasn’t aware I was a bother.”

Since Izzy’s arrest, patience was not something he had large reserves of.  “Are you really going to do this?” he snapped.

Her eyes met his then, and he had a second to register how long her eyelashes were before he realized how irritated she was.  “Do WHAT, may I ask?” she growled, her voice hard.

Izzy was thrown, but he shrugged it off.  Maybe this is foreplay to her.  “Why aren’t you in my lap right now?  Daddy’s had a rough day.”

She went completely, utterly still, then asked, “What?”

A little voice in his head (something he heard much more frequently now that he was sober) told him something was off, but he blurted, “You’re my whore and I shouldn’t have to beg you to blow me.”

He watched her cheeks flush, then the sides of her neck, and he belatedly realized that this was someone you didn’t piss off.  To his relief, she didn’t reach into her purse, but instead slammed her book shut and gritted, “Who told you I was your whore?”

“Well, I see you two have met,” Absinthe said, smiling as she sat down next to her.

“She did,” Izzy said, tipping his chin up, not taking his eyes off the blonde.

“Amy Louise, do you mind telling me what the fuck is going on?”  She glanced up at Izzy.  “Are you telling people I’m ‘Bella Donna the wonder groupie’ again?”  Closing her eyes, she muttered, “Because you know how much I hate that.”

“Ahh,” Absinthe answered, “well, possibly.   But you really should get to know Izzy.”

Her eyes darted back to him.  “I’m good,” she snapped.  “I think I know all I need to know.”

“What’s the hell’s that supposed to mean?” he growled.

“It means what you think it means.”  She turned to Absinthe.  “You are going to stop calling me ‘Bella Donna’ or I am going to make you stop.  You got that?”

“Yes.”  Shoulders slumping, Absinthe stood up and walked back to the front of the bus.

Izzy watched as the blonde laid her forehead on her palm, then reached into her bag and lit a cigarette with trembling hands.  She looked up at him.  “Did you get that, Hoss?” she said in a tired voice.  “I’m not ‘Bella Donna,’ and I’m definitely not your whore.”

He nodded, then a small voice said, “Sissy?  Is that my Sissy?” A younger girl with brown hair sat down next to her, and she immediately hugged her, then laid her head on her shoulder.

“I love you, Sis,” the younger girl said.

“I love you, too, Celly Belly.”

“Who’s that?”

“That’s Izzy.”

“Hi, Izzy, I’m Celestia.”

“Hi.”

“Izzy, this is my sister, Karen.”

“We’ve met,” Karen said icily.

“Why don’t you like him?  He’s cute.”

Karen looked at her sister in horror.  “He’s a drug dealer.”

“Former,” Izzy said.

“And a junkie.”

“Also former.”

“He has a girlfriend.”

“Nope, she left me when I went to rehab.  For another guitarist with better drugs.”

“He’s cute.  You should bang him.”

“Celestia.  That’s not why you sleep with people.”

“Yes, it is,” Celestia and Izzy said in unison.

Karen rolled her eyes.  “That’s not why I sleep with people.”

“Have you talked to Steve?” Celestia asked.

Karen breathed out a sigh.  “No, not since he took up with that model.  Catriona.”

“Steve is an idiot,” Celestia said, lighting up a cigarette.  “I heard their record is multi platinum.”

“Yeah, they brought Mutt back.”  Karen said.  “When you sell that many records, that’s when the models show up.”

“Yeah.”  Celestia blew out a plume of smoke.  “Did you bring your hat?”

Karen crossed her arms and slumped in her seat.  “Yeah.”

 “Yay!”  Celestia squeezed her.  “ I know you don’t want to be ‘Bella Donna’ anymore, but I love it when you are.”  She looked up at Izzy, who was still watching them.  “I bet he could make you forget Steve.”

“I’m good.”  Karen tightened her arms and scowled.

“Sissy, please be nice to Izzy.”

“Why?”

“Because I really like Slash.  And Izzy will make us go home if we don’t behave.”

Karen looked at Izzy, then Celestia.  “You really want to stay?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Celestia?” a voice called.  “Baby, where are you?”

Celestia said, “I gotta go.  I love you, Sis.”

“Here,” Karen said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a handful of condoms.  “Don’t fuck him without one.  I don’t want any more doctor’s visits.”

Celestia tucked them inside her waistband of her microshorts, then kissed Karen’s cheek.  “I’m not going to get in trouble again, I promise.”  As she stood up, she smiled at Izzy, then squealed, “Slashy!”

Izzy lit a cigarette and smirked at Karen.  “Well, that was just absolutely fucking touching, but you twats are hitting the pavement the first stop we make.”

“No, we’re not.”

“Oh, yes, you are.”

Karen narrowed her eyes.  “That girl is 16.  Velvet is 17.  And you’re planning to take them into another country to have sex with them, which the last time I looked was a criminal act.”

“Not if we dump your asses out before we hit the border.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Well, you’re not.  I’m on probation and I don’t need this bullshit.”

“Yes, let’s talk about that.  You do realize any of these girls, myself included, though I wouldn’t, can at any time say, ‘He raped me?’   ‘He hit me?’  Now for anyone else in this band, that would be any given Tuesday, but for you?  You have a lot more to lose.”

Izzy’s eyes widened.  

“I mean, Absinthe told you I was your whore, and obviously that’s not true.  We’re liable to say just anything.”

He shifted in his seat, feeling a chill run down his back.

“Where are we stopping anyway?  McDonald’s?  There’s always a cop there with nothing to do.  Maybe he’ll have time for a damsel in distress.”

Izzy swallowed.  “What do you want?” he gritted, knowing she had the upper hand.

“You can show us ‘twats’ a little respect, for starters.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” he spat.  “Your ass is chapped because I was a dealer.”

“Hoss, don’t make me play my ace.  Cause I have four of them, and I ain’t on probation.”

He ground his molars together.  “What else?”

“We stay, and you provide us with basic human necessities.  A place to sleep, food, and shelter.”

“And?”

“Take us backstage.”

“That’s a given.”

She shrugged.

“Then what?”

“Then your band runs around with empty balls and everyone is happy happy happy.  ‘Cept you, you’re on your own with that.”  She crossed her arms.  “And I make sure no one is a headache.  You’ll never know we’re here.”

“Can I believe you?”

She directly met his gaze.  “Yes.”

“How do I know that?”

“I’m not a liar.  I’ve been honest about everything so far.”

Why didn’t I meet you first?  It would’ve saved a shitload of time.  “Why are you here?” he snapped.

“Because your band has a body count, Stradlin.”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“Todd Crew.  Slash shot him up, did he not?”

Izzy took a deep breath.  “He says he didn’t.”

“Do you believe that?”

“What I believe is none of your fucking business.”

“I heard he did, and Todd died in his arms.”

Izzy lit a cigarette and looked away.  “We, ah, we were all gutted when he died.”

“Well, my baby sister is sleeping with Slash, and I want to make sure that is an isolated incident.”

Izzy took a drag.  “It is.  None of us are on smack anymore.  Slash just drinks now, and I can’t do fucking anything.”

Karen met his eyes.  “You’ll forgive me if I’m not entirely swayed by your testimony.”

He shrugged.  Even though she was judgmental and unforgiving, he could see where she was coming from.  If he had a sister, he’d shit himself if she took up with Slash.  Or any of them.

She must be the brains of this outfit.  She hates us all.

Karen shot him one final filthy look, then dug a Walkman out of her purse and closed her eyes, resolutely shutting him out.

Izzy sighed, then his eyes landed a few seats ahead of him.  Duff had pledged undying fidelity to his fiancee and planned on recreationally drinking instead of fucking, and had already passed out cold, snoring loudly against the window.

I don’t have that option, Izzy bitterly thought.  It wasn’t even that he wanted to drink or raise hell anymore.  His rehab stint had opened his eyes to how close he’d skated to the edge, and just when he felt like he’d finally made it back to the land of the living, Todd had fallen into the abyss.

There’d also been the unspoken question, Is Slash going to be charged with murder?  The band had closed ranks and called all the lawyers, and in the end, no one was indicted.  Guns was already on thin ice for Axl and Slash’s separate arrests for statutory rape, and Izzy’s incarceration was the final straw.  The brass at Geffen was adamant: One more strike, boys, and your asses are done.

He titled his chin up and blew out a plume of smoke.  He hadn’t had many plans for this tour, but he had expected to spend it in the arms of a submissive woman.  Sex hadn’t been forbidden by the terms of his probation, not yet anyway, and he’d been, well, enchanted by the idea of a babe who didn’t get fucked up and yet was enthusiastic to do his bidding in the sack.  He could slap himself now for believing such a creature even existed.

He stole a glance at Karen, whose head had slumped forward.  Even in her sleep, she looked weary, beautiful but worn out.  He realized now, if Absinthe’s description was right, she was just a nice girl looking after her sister, and Celestia’s taste in men must be exhausting if Slash was any indication.  Izzy felt his ears growing hot as he thought about how aggressively he’d approached her, even though he’d been promised she was a sure thing.  Demanding she immediately hop on his dick wasn’t what he considered finesse.

Fuck, how am I going to get laid now?  That thought was punctuated by a hushed moan from Slash, and Izzy wanted to pound his head against the seat in front of him.  He’d just have to hope that somehow Canadian groupies were very willing yet went to church frequently.

Damn, woman, you’re sure you won’t change your mind about me?  I can be romantic if you want me to.

Can’t do much about me being a dealer though.  That ship already sailed.

He heard Karen stirring behind him, and turned to watch her stretch out and cover herself with a blanket.  Since he expected to be wrapped in her arms, Izzy had packed away his own covers, so he buttoned his denim jacket and crossed his arms, sleep mercifully arriving quickly.

[dorminchu]

Insult to Injury: The Director's Cut — Chapter 01

Note: All right, it's been a hot minute since I uploaded anything substantial in regard to this fic. So I'm going to try something a bit risky! I've archived Insult to Injury as you all know it, with the exception of a few errant reblogs outside of my control. But that's neither here nor there; I am very excited to present to all of you all the definitive version of this fic — the Director's Cut, if you will. ;)

Fandom: James Bond Characters: Madeleine Swann, Lyutsifer Safin, various OC(s) Relationships: Madeleine & OC(s) Warnings: Strong language, intense scenes of violence, general cynicism. Rating: M Genre: Crime/Drama Summary: A troubled psychologist desperate to escape her past criminal ties finds herself drawn into a far more insidious schism. [Post-Skyfall]

[Ao3 | FFNet]

— ACT I —

“Everything which is done in the present, affects the future by consequence, and the past by redemption.” — Paulo Coelho

— Episode I: A THOUSAND DETAILS —

In the sterile comfort of her office, Dr Madeleine Swann stared blankly at her computer monitor. The notification that her application as a psychologist consultant with the Médecins Sans Frontières had been sent six days prior blurred with lack of focus. The location of the mission in question was Conakry, Guinea. Her contract duration would last from the start of May to the end of August; just shy of two months away from now. There was an additional caveat:

All non-ECOWAS foreigners are required to have a valid Guinean visa and a vaccination card in order to be granted entry. Yellow fever vaccination cards are verified upon entry into the country at Gbessia.

Approval for the visa necessitated a seventy-two-hour window of clearance. And it would be at least four weeks until she heard back from the Human Resources Office—up to six if she were unlucky. She sat erect and the movement alone was enough to incite a sharp stab of pain into the back of her head. Through the window the sun cast a reddish glare, obfuscating the monitor and warming the nape of her neck. She shoved her face into the heels of her palms while the pressure in her skull abated to a dull throbbing.

Usually she made a habit of drawing the blinds. There were already enough odd complaints about her office being too cold and sterile passed along by the secretary. It had been a stressful enough week that Madeleine saw no reason to keep the shutters closed, so her clients might have something else to focus on besides four polished wooden walls and the analog clock.

What came off to most outsiders as a cool and direct manner of conduct was simply pragmatism. She had a laptop computer used primarily for sending emails. She recorded the bulk of her notes on patients by-hand and revised by means of portable recorder. She kept no photographs in her home nor office. The casual anecdotes she provided to her colleagues were ostensibly as droll as her taste in décor; though her efforts to blend in had largely gone unappreciated.

There wasn’t anything else immediate to review for tonight. She wished a curt good-night to the secretary before donning her coat and exiting into the crisp evening air.

⁂

It was only a fifteen-minute walk from the clinic to the flat. Above her head the clouds hung grey and pregnant with snow. By the time she had ascended the staircase and opened the door to her apartment her fingers prickled. Numbness seeped into her skin. She’d never much cared for the colder seasons.

“You’re back early,” said Arnaud—a fellow Sociology major from her college days. After graduating from Oxford, Madeleine had taken his offer to return to Paris and transfer over to the 8tharrondissement with the understanding that they would be rooming together. Her colleagues back then often referred to them as friends-with-benefits as Madeleine had showed little interest in dating before. After three years of cohabitation, her co-workers at the office wondered how she and Arnaud remained so cordial while balancing their careers and relationship.

“Yes.” Madeleine hung up her coat, noting that he had not yet changed out of his own. “I submitted my request with the MSF a week ago. If I am accepted I’ll be working as a psychologist consultant. In that case, I’ll be out of the country until August at least.”

“Well, you’ve never landed a position that didn’t suit you.” Madeleine smiled politely. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks.” She looked away from him towards the window. “You could open the blinds. It's very bright in here with the lights on.”

“There’s hardly much to look at when the sun is in your eyes. Isn’t that what you say?”

For the most part, Arnaud was easy to live with. Neither of them required financial support and he was of equitable social standing. Her relentless volunteer work did not always lend much time to get to know his inner mind. “It’s late. Are you going out again?”

“No, I got back first. And it’s fortunate. You looked awfully cold when you came in.”

“I can hardly control the weather. And you needn’t worry, I always carry a key on me.”

“Madeleine, we live together. It wouldn’t be right to avoid you. But you know, if I were going out to an unscrupulous club it would make for a pretty good story.”

“Hm.”

“And knowing you,” Arnaud continued, “you probably won’t be going out drinking. The sunrise disturbs you in the mornings, and you woke up before I did, at seven. I assume you’ve been busy all day. In just a few weeks you’ll be working that much harder. You ought to get some rest while you can.”

“So,” a little cooler, “you’ll be another mission?”

“Most likely.”

“All these countries must seem the same after a while.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. When was the last time you volunteered out of the country? 2011?”

Arnaud laughed. “Jesus, this isn’t a competition.”

“But it’ll give you something to talk about to your friends while I am away.”

Arnaud said nothing. Madeleine frowned. She went into the other room and began to change. He could not approach her in the same casual manner as his peers, nor dissect her outright. His life was one of prestige as well as privilege, and Madeleine could not foster any underlying resentment towards him for acting in his nature. The silence held, strained. Then Arnaud said:

“It’s always been important to you. That’s what should matter.”

⁂

In two weeks’ time she got a response from the HRO; the initial interview was scheduled shortly thereafter. By the middle of April she was making preparations to depart. Thanks to Arnaud’s tactic of avoidance she had little reason to tell him the details. No one would know where she was headed unless they broke inside her laptop and hunted through her mail. The situation in Guinea had kicked into mainstream awareness back in February for a week or so before gradually sinking back into obscurity.

Reports from several news outlets cited the emergence of an outbreak primarily affecting South Africa. Originating inland, a mysterious illness that revealed itself first with fever and spells of vomiting, then gradually ate away at the flesh of those afflicted and bore their bones and muscle, vulnerable to further rot. More emboldened journalists had taken to calling it the Red Death on account of this. Neither a cure nor a place or origin had been discovered.

The situation had not improved in the last two months so much as stabilised. Madeleine had been assured several times over email and electronic conference that those working in the field had already taken precautions, and she’d be instructed further on what to do upon her arrival. She was issued a few pamphlets and strongly advised to vaccinate before boarding the flight. Which she had done, but it was very kind of them to remind her.

In spite of Arnaud’s apparent disinterest, his last words to her before she departed had been: “Last year it was four missions. I'd never seen you so tired. I wish I knew what you’re trying to prove.”

After managing to get some sleep on the plane she touched down Conakry International Airport around mid-morning and contacted the Project Coordinator; a shorter man in his mid-forties with a photogenic smile and toupee. He clasped her hand in both of his clammy ones and said: “Very glad you've made it, Doctor. We need you on-site in twenty minutes. Make sure you are ready.” Her luggage was dropped off on the second floor of the Grand Hotel de L’independence, where she and the other MSF members would be rooming. The staff were polite enough, though their attention was fixed on the Project Coordinator.

Her room was spare and a little dingy, and the only means of fresh air came from opening the window and polluting the room with outside noise, but it was at least reasonably clean. A fine sheen of sweat was building on her skin. No reason to delay the inevitable.

Upon reaching Donka Hospital she met up with the rest of the team, most notably the Medical Coordinator, and the Psychosocial Unit. It soon became apparent that there were still not enough medical doctors to handle the influx of infected. An isolation ward had been established before the MSF’s involvement, but they were reportedly at full capacity; the workers in there were clad in full-body personal protective equipment. Another section of the grounds had been set aside and fenced off; rows of tents all lined up, reminding Madeleine distantly of a prisoner’s accommodations. No matter where you went the stench of rot always seemed to hang pervasively in the air.

She was paired off with another psychologist by the name of John Herrmann; American, around her age. He was of a friendlier disposition than she was used to, introducing her semi-formally to the rest of the group before adding:

“So, one thing you should know now, we’ve been having problems with the electricity on site as well as the hotel. There’s no running water either.”

“This isn’t my first mission with MSF. And I lived out in the countryside when I was small. I know how to look after myself.”

Herrmann smiled. “That’s fair.” He scratched his neck. “The mosquitoes are worse. Bug nets won’t help worth a damn. Make sure you close your windows at night, I had to learn that the hard way.”

“I see.” The humidity combined with the smell off-road were already becoming intolerable. But she did not want to appear so snobbish or weak in front of someone she would be monitoring for the next three months. “I won’t go any easier on you just because you are unaccustomed to the environment.”

 “See ,that’s the kind of attitude we need around here!” He clapped a hand on her back; Madeleine regarded him levelly until he relented. “Good to have you on the team.”

The other members on the Psychosocial Unit were as amicable with Madeleine as the situation permitted. None of them got on her nerves as much as Herrmann. His enthusiasm was never to the point of seeming false or obsequious, but he remained just enough of a go-getter to piss her off. After a week of monitoring them she came away with the impression that Herrmann was genuine. He had been consistently genial with the clientele and hospital staff alike, no matter the severity of their condition. She saw no reason to socialise with him outright. The most he ever noted about her mood was: “You’re pretty reticent for a psychologist consultant.”

“I’m here to do my job. That’s all.”

Herrmann shrugged. “I can respect that. We all deal with the situation in our own ways.” He paused. “I can see why the Project Coordinator wanted you. You’re handling this situation a lot better than I would have.”

“Thank you.”

“The workload must be insane compared to what you’re normally used to. I know it took me time to adjust—" he stopped as Madeleine threw him a look of confusion “—what is it?”

“Back home, I am usually referred to as what one would call a workaholic. Or didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Oh, hey, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“No offence taken.”

The higher temperature was not so bad as the humidity that slapped her in the face whenever stepping outside—according to the forecasts, it was only going to get worse within the coming months. There was no manner of ventilation or air-conditioning in the hotel so often times she had to draw the curtains and keep her hair back. She resigned herself by reminding herself that it was better than sleeping in a tent.

There wasn’t much time to be hung-up on much else besides her assignment. The members of the Psychosocial Unit all looked good on paper, but they betrayed their inexperience through a shared level of idealism towards the mission that Madeleine deemed ill-fated. She did not blame them. Young, perhaps fresh out of school, looking to make a difference in the world without truly anticipating the gravity of the situation. Their time spent observing the crises of the rest of the world through the lens of journalism and outside empathy could not compare with the experience of actually sitting down and listening to the stuff their patients talked of with prosaic seriousness.

It often sounded outrageous when Madeleine played back the recordings, taking down notes in the quiet, stuffy hotel room. Mortality was an expected outcome, and the implication of negligence by their government a common topic of discussion among patients. Most conversations were conducted in French or else by way of an interpreter, though the antagonism in the voices of these patients needed no translation.

There was a growing disparity between the narrative put into circulation by the news and what was happening in the field. According to several members of the MSF and the staff at Donka, the media blew the problem out of proportion. The people whose condition had kicked off the “Red Death” story had been subjected to long-term exposure. Most of the patients that came through were not in that same condition, but it created an illusion of immediacy that incited concern in the public eye and a need for donations. Government officials wanted to cover up the severity of the situation as not to detract from any potential business opportunities; until the MSF got involved, they were only employing the most rudimentary of safety procedures.

This latter revelation had shaken up the Psychosocial Unit considerably; Dr Herrmann had lost his patience with the Medical Coordinator. To this end, he’d apologised profusely to Madeleine afterwards though she would hear none of it. Whatever he felt about the situation was not necessarily invalid, but out of consideration for their patients, he would not bring it up again.

Herrmann never held it against her. So Madeleine busied herself in her own work. Whatever quiet camaraderie forged between the other MSF members was not her business. When pressed for advice, she would talk calmly, carefully with the rest of the team about what would be optimal but never overreach. In the sweltering nights and throughout the early morning, Madeleine would pore over her notes, listening to the passing automobiles and indistinct conversation carried over by civilians.

⁂

June crawled by. Currently the MSF were in the process of dealing with a new influx of internally displaced persons (IDPs) from the surrounding prefectures and villages, all of whom had to be tested and separated from those not stricken with disease. Thanks to the cooperation with the local civilians and tireless efforts on part of the medical staff and Medical Unit, there had been a forty-five-percent decrease in fatalities compared to the start of the year.

The atmosphere within the hospital was not improving. The topic of insurgence was the new favourite with patients. Allegedly there had been several attacks on neighbouring villages; a consequence of the lack of tangible progress coupled with deep-seated mistrust of government officials. Now the Force Sécurité/Protection, or FSP, had been brought on in collaboration with an additional Protective Services Detail (PSD) by the name of Kerberos, to ensure the hospital and surrounding property remained untouched.

Their Project Coordinator called them all in for the sake of reviewing protocol in the event of an attack. Outright criticism of the government’s method in handling the situation was discouraged. Madeleine was savvy enough to keep herself abreast of any controversy. For the rest of the Psychosocial Unit, she presumed they were either too naïve or willing to look the other way.

The only exception to this was the Vaccines Medical Advisor, Francis Kessler; a stoic older man with thinning hair and glasses. He and Madeleine had cooperated a handful of times beforehand, at the discreet behest of the Medical Coordinator. Madeleine had found nothing wrong with his conduct. A diligent worker, he acknowledged her judgement fairly but did not overextend his gratitude. Outside of his work he was straight-laced and reserved and wouldn’t be seen socialising with any of the younger MSF who all talked about him as though he were some out-of-touch stick-in-the-mud. As the situation in the hospital became more dire he would stay behind on-site, late into the evening. Whenever they had a break, he would disappear on calls. Once he came back late by only a few minutes and apologised to Madeleine.

“I was supposed to be sent home last month, but with the situation being what it is, I decided to stay on until things are resolved.” He did not sit down, his attention turned towards the path back to the infected ward. “It’s madness. We’ve already waited until things are too severe to think of bringing in a proper security detail—who the hell does the Project Coordinator think we’re fooling?” Madeleine ignored him. “Dr Swann. The Medical Coordinator tells me you’ve been involved in volunteer work for a while.”

“Five years, as of March.”

“Perhaps they would be more willing to listen to someone with your expertise.”

“I’m flattered. But it’s fortunate that I was not selected for my personal opinion.”

Kessler chuckled. “You’ll go far.”

Madeleine had no interest in pursuing this topic any further. “Who were you speaking to?” He froze up, didn’t answer immediately. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have been so blunt. But you leave often enough on calls, and it appears to be taking a toll on you.”

Comprehension dawned on his face, his shoulders relaxed. “Just my wife. This past month has been no easier on her. But I find that it can help somewhat, just talking to someone outside of this element.” Madeleine nodded stoically. “I’ve never seen you contact anyone outside of your unit.” Madeleine did not anticipate the conversation to take such a turn, nor did she wish to divulge much about herself. But she could not deflect as she could in the clinic back home, and Kessler seemed forthright enough to warrant a harmless response.

“I’m living with a friend. We graduated from college together.”

“And you keep in touch while you are abroad?”

“He tends to lead his own life while I am away.”

“That’s a great deal to ask of someone.” Madeleine inclined her head in his direction. This was not a man that emoted often; now the thin mouth was set, and the eyes behind the glasses disillusioned. “Few women your age would devote themselves to a thankless vocation as this. Not everyone is going to want to stick around until you decide you want to settle down.”

Madeleine’s smile did not touch her eyes. She hadn’t even mentioned the nature of her relationship to Arnaud. “We have an understanding, that’s all. Besides, I don’t bother him about his social life.”

Kessler shook his head. In a few minutes they were back to work as usual. By the end of the day, Madeleine resolved to let him dig his own social grave without further interference.

By the time July rolled around Madeleine found her mind snagging easily on technicalities. She became less tolerant of the Psychological Unit’s personal hang-ups with the lack of resources and lack of any obvious moral closure. Smell of rot and disinfectant permeated into her clothing and hair until she had begun to associate the smell itself with a total lack of progress.

She left the window to her hotel room cracked most nights, afraid to open it completely. Alone with her own mind and the recorder. The conversations now circled back readily to death and terrorism. An overwhelming fear of retaliation from looming insurrection.

Madeleine stopped the recording. She checked the time and cursed under her breath. Just past one in the morning. In six hours she would return to Donka Hospital and repeat the process. A month and a half from now she would be on a flight back to Paris. Her mind wouldn't settle on either direction.

Outside her window she heard the distant voice of Francis Kessler. He was conversing in German, from a few storeys down, but as Madeleine came over to the window she understood him clearly:

“…I’ve been saying it for weeks, and they dismiss me every time. These wounds are the result of prolonged exposure from chemicals. We’ve seen evidence of IDPs coming through, exhibiting the same symptoms as the PMCs we treated back in February. How we can expect to make any progress if the Project Coordinator refuses to bring this up? We’re putting God-knows how many lives at risk waiting for a vaccine that we don’t know if we need—and even so, it won’t be ready for another week. There’s not enough time to justify keeping silent….”

Madeleine closed the window carefully. She’d never been one to intrude on family matters.

⁂

When Madeleine exited her room the next morning, she found the Project Coordinator waiting for her in the hallway, along with the head of security from Kerberos and a couple Donka Hospital staff Madeleine knew by sight but not intimately.

The vaccines had arrived earlier than anticipated, around three or four in the morning. Several members of the Medical Unit had stayed on-site in order to determine if all had been accounted for and subsequently realised it was rigged. Thanks to the intervention of Kerberos the losses were minimal. Several doctors had suffered chemical exposure and were currently isolated from the rest of the IDPs to receive immediate medical attention. Others, such as Drs Kessler and Herrmann, had been less fortunate.

Now there was additional pressure from the hospital doctors and Logistics Team to begin moving the high-risk patients to a safer area. The fear that this story would circulate and any chance of obtaining vaccines would be discouraged could not be ruled out. So they would not be reporting this as a chemical attack, but as a failed interception of an attack by local terrorists, stopped by the FSPs.

“Dr Swann.” The head of security, Lucifer Safin, gave Madeleine pause. His accent would presume a Czech or Russian background but his complexion and eye colour invited room for ambiguity. The MSF on staff commonly referred to him by surname; perhaps Lucifer was simply an alias. What set him apart was his face. Gruesomely scarred from his right temple to the base of his left jaw, though the structure of his eyes and nose remained intact. In spite of the weather, Madeleine had never seen him without gloves. “I understand that you were one of the last to speak with Dr Kessler?”

His manner wasn’t explicitly taciturn, more akin to the disconcerting silence one might experience while looking into a body of still-water—met only with your reflection.

“Yes,” said Madeleine, “but that was nearly five days ago.”

“You were instructed to monitor him during that period by the Medical Coordinator?”

 “That’s correct.”

Safin glanced at the Project Coordinator. “I’ll speak with her alone.”

“Of course.”

Safin nodded. They walked down the length of the hall back to her room. His gait was purposeful and direct. He had a rifle strapped to his side. Madeleine tried to avoid concentrating on it. Her attention went to the window. She'd forgotten to lock it.

“Dr Swann.” The early morning light put his disfigurement into a new, unsettling clarity. Too intricate to be leprosy or a typical burn wound, it was more as if his very face were made of porcelain and had suffered a nasty blow, then glued together again. “What was the extent of your relationship to Dr Kessler?”

“I did not work with him often. We talked once or twice but that was all. I have my own responsibilities with the Psychosocial Unit. From what I could tell, he never made an effort to befriend anyone.”

“But you were asked to monitor Dr Kessler.”

“I was requested to do so on behalf of the Medical Coordinator. There were concerns that Dr Kessler was somehow unqualified to continue his work. In observing him, I had no reason to suspect he was unfit for the position psychologically.” Safin said nothing. “The only issue I could see worth disqualifying him for, was that Kessler and the Project Coordinator had very differing views on protocol.”

“He spoke to you about his views?”

“He expressed to me once, in confidence, that he did not understand the Project Coordinator’s hesitance to bring in a security detail.” Safin’s attention on her became sharper. “He also told me he’d elected to continue volunteering here past his contract duration, just to ensure the operation was successful. That was my only conversation with him outside of a work-related context. You would be better off asking the other doctors about this.”

“We have video surveillance in place on the Grand Hotel de L’independence. At around one in the morning, Dr Kessler exited the building and contacted an unknown party by mobile phone. Then, a minute later, you were at your window.”

“Oh, yes. I have been forgetting to close it. With so many longer days, it can be difficult to remember these things.”

“Your room was the only one to show signs of activity at that hour.”

“I was reviewing my notes from that day’s session. I heard a voice from outside, though not clearly. It was distracting me from my work, so I got up and closed the window.”

“Do you commonly review your notes in the early hours of the morning with an unlocked window?”

“I just wanted some quiet. I leave the windows open because otherwise I seem to find myself trapped with the smell of rotting flesh as well as humidity.”

Safin’s expression became easier to read, but not in a positive sense. This was not a man you wanted to be on opposing sides with. Madeleine kept any apprehension away from her face and her voice tightly controlled.

“Look. Without information about Dr Kessler’s lifestyle outside of the MSF, I cannot give you an answer in good faith. I was assigned to survey him. He showed no signs of dereliction in his work, and to my knowledge kept his personal views separate from his work. Whatever he said to me during outside hours was assumed to be in confidence. Many people say things to one another in what they believe to be confidence that they would not admit to otherwise. If I had reason to suspect he was unfit to work, I would have contacted the Medical Advisor immediately.”

Safin held her gaze. She did not dare avert her face. Then he said: “Thank you for your cooperation. The Project Coordinator is waiting for you downstairs.”

The rest of the day she spent in a different wing of the hospital. The Psychosocial Unit was cut down from four members to three. Another inconsequential day of thankless work that never seemed quite good enough. That night Madeleine laid back on her bed and watched the shadows on the ceiling stretch over peeling paint until daybreak.

When she’d arrived at the airport she could stave off her doubts with shallow, private reassurances. As long as you are here, you are just Dr Swann the psychologist consultant. Your father is many miles away and he won’t contact you again. No one else will come looking for you in a place like this.

With a guy like Safin around she was undoubtedly safer than she would have been with the FSPs alone.

Safer, but no longer invisible.

⁂

July brought hotter weather and brittle peace—the vaccines had finally arrived. The wing of the hospital that had suffered the terrorist attack was still closed and they had lost several more staff members wounded in the initial attack. Madeleine and the remaining MSF were encouraged by the Project Coordinator to take earlier shifts. Progress remained steady but there was no clear resolution in sight. The stench of rot imprinted into Madeleine’s senses to the point where she no longer consciously registered her own nausea. Discontent among the staff continued to bubble under the surface on account of the closed wing and bad press.

It couldn't last forever.

A week away from August. Just another humid morning at six AM. Madeleine rose and prepared herself mentally for the day ahead. Stress kept her mind working late into the night, but her position with the Psychosocial Unit barred her from working overtime in the hospital. She was overwhelmed with keeping up the pace, not yet to the point of exhaustion.

There was an inordinate of activity on the road outside as she got dressed and left the room. She put it out of her mind.

Outside the hotel she met up with the Medical Coordinator and a few members of the Logistics Unit. They spent about ten minutes standing idle in the humid air, too weary to speak. The streets were usually empty this time of day.

An unremarkable black Jeep pulled up. The Medical Coordinator opened the door and was about to step into the car when it happened. The Medical Coordinator’s head burst over the interior of the vehicle and Madeleine. The body slumped like a doll to the dirt. Madeleine wanted to scream but could not. She turned and found herself facing down the barrel of a rifle.

Around a dozen men with guns, sans insignia, circled them. The man who had fired addressed her harshly in French: “Where are the rest of the MSF? Why are they not at the hospital?”

“I don’t understand.” Madeleine could see another group of men approaching from the rear. A massacre, onset.

“We’ve been waiting for months for a solution, and you have been injecting us with a useless vaccine.” He aimed right at her sternum. “Your doctors gave them all false hope for months. Now the MSF have abandoned you.”

“You have been protecting them!” the insurgent roared, levelling his weapon. “All this time! You knew why they were here, and you allowed them to experiment on our families like dogs!”

The man at his left turned and fired. The insurgent fell dead. “That’s enough.” One of the men from Kerberos in plainclothes. A dozen more in military gear materialised as if from nowhere. “There is no need for additional bloodshed,” said the plainclothes. “Release them now or you will be shot.”

All around her at once, gunfire. Madeleine didn't wait to see who had fired first. She prostrated herself, hands clasped over her neck, breath clogged in her throat.

All sound ceased. Her head continued to ring. Her eyes were open but she did not process the colour staining her skin, on her clothes, the smell of it. She hadn’t been shot. Her heart hammered against her ribcage.

Heavy footsteps approaching. She closed her eyes awaiting the kiss of metal at her temple.

“Dr Swann.” Madeleine shrunk away instinctively from the gloved hand upon her forearm. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Another soldier pulled her upright. Sight of blood on dry earth briefly mixed up with blood spattered across wooden floorboards. Madeleine went limp. Ushered into the backseat of an unmarked Jeep, she could not stop trembling. Shoulder-to-shoulder with another man she recognised as head of Logistics, Peter Miller. The door slammed shut, jolting her back into her own body. Sound of the ignition set her into trembling. Miller’s naked hand materialised on her shoulder. His voice overtaken by the roaring in her ears. Madeleine bowed her head into her hands like a child, whispering: “Ne me tuez pas. Je n’ai rien fait. Je ne sais rien.”

[dutchdread]

What is Love? Baby don't hurt me.

This article sets out to define different types of love in a meaningful way, and argue why the specifics surrounding Aerith and Cloud makes it so that the commonly accepted romantic version of the emotion can't apply. __________________________________________________

Whenever you talk to anyone, it's important to be on the same page, and one of the most important parts about that is making sure that you're speaking the same language. I am sure we've all had moments where we were arguing with someone only to discover that you both believed the exact same thing, but that you simply used a different word to describe said thing.

"That's what I've been saying" "No, that's what I've been saying!" "Well what are we even arguing about then?!"

When that happens, you're not arguing about the topic itself, you're arguing about semantics, about language.

An argument about whether or not what Cloud, Tifa, and Aerith felt for each other would fall under "love" is a debate about language, not FFVII, and I am not here to have a conversation about language. Unfortunately, before I can actually have a conversation about FFVII, a conversation about language is apparently needed.

Love is an incredibly broad term, used to express what we feel about our family, our pets, our friends, our "lovers", and even our favorite songs, weather, and food. So why the hell do we ask "who did Cloud love" as if love is some singular binary system?

I can never prove that what a character feels isn't love, I can only assert that I personally wouldn't use the word "love" to describe said feeling, and explain why I wouldn't. When we ask "does Cloud love Tifa or Aerith", we are presupposing a concept of "love", and asking who it applies to.

"I pity you, you just don't get it at all, there is nothing I don't cherish"

But it applies to both, and it applies to Barret, and Marlene, and Denzel, and everyone. Because love is far too broad a term to start with, it's a catch-all. Instead of starting with a preconception of what love is, and seeing who has it, we should describe what people actually have, and see what their individuals shapes of love look like.

Even so, I will do my best to describe what I mean by romantic love, as opposed to a crush, or infatuation, or attraction, so that when I say "Cloud and Aerith don't (and can't) romantically love each other", that it's clear what that assertion means to me.

I'm going to tell you a story, a story that, admittedly, doesn't make me look good, but which will hopefully provide context for what I think love is and why.

When I was younger I wasn't the most popular kid, back then I assumed I was unattractive, as an adult I realize its because I was socially awkward as fuck (I was actually cute as heck if I do say so myself). However, by the time I got to highschool I had made a best friend and had managed to figure out and fake social conventions enough that I could at the very least solve my issues through humor instead of violence. The change from typical village kids to a wider pool of potential friends also enabled me to finally find people who were more like me. Even so, the whole social outcast part was still ingrained deeply enough in me that I was mostly putting on an act in front of people, saying whatever I needed to say in order to get a certain reaction, in order to be liked, rather than just being myself. I had had crushes before, when you're alone it's easy to really fall for someone, and hell, I was always a sucker when it came to love stories, but my childhood had basically left me too nervous that I'd say the wrong thing to ever actually say the right thing when I really liked a girl. However, generally being the life of the party left me with a string of girlfriends I didn't care too much about. Even so, I eventually met a girl that I was instantly smitten with, the most attractive girl I knew and somehow I managed to start dating her, and hell, I even thought I loved her. I dated said girl for several years, but without going into spoilers I'll just say that I left that relationship pretty jaded and and disillusioned with the concept of love. I felt like I had done everything I could and love in general was bullshit and was honestly pretty done with women in general. Ironically my new pessimistic attitude made me much more successful with women than I had ever been before, by that time I was known as someone who was fun to party with, and unlike the majority of people my age I was in incredible shape and still had all my hair. However, while I enjoyed my newfound popularity there was a part of me that really resented it because I realized that what women seemed to react positively to wasn't what I imagined love to be like and I hated that. I hated that when I used to be kind and filled with notions of "true love" no one was interested, but now that I was disinterested and clearly manipulative women seemed to throw themselves at me. During that time I basically stopped looking for a meaningful relationship and just decided to have fun until my life would, inevitably, fall apart.

Eventually though I got a girlfriend who I didn't deserve and was much too good for me. However, when I did I was no longer interested in building a relationship and I was pretty certain that it would eventually fall apart anyway like everything else. As a result I mainly cared about what I could get from her, I didn't act like a proper partner and I when I thought about "fixing the relationship" I was thinking mostly about what she could do to be a better girlfriend, honestly, part of me actually resented her for not being my ex. When talking about our issues the general terms were "I'll do this, but only if you fix that". Without going into details, the general gist is that we had a horrible start to our relationship and that affected everything that came after it.

Eventually though this girl who I once mainly saw as just another temporary part of my life became something more to me, she became a more complete person. I mellowed out, and started appreciating her more, I decided to get us to work on the relationship but the damage was basically already done. She'd given up on me ever wanting to settle down and had started distancing herself from me emotionally and eventually I became sick of fighting for the relationship by myself and we broke up. Afterwards, free of pressure, I sat back and l evaluated what I wanted in life, I thought about myself, and her, REALLY thought about her. The good parts, and the bad. And I realized that all the things I was annoyed about were honestly absurd. I decided I was going to fight for her, not just "try to fix the relationship" by figuring out what worked and what didn't, but I just decided I was going to properly appreciate her, be the best boyfriend I could be, and not ask for anything in return. And let me tell you, that change in mindset changed EVERYTHING for me. Within months I became absolutely smitten with her, when I first started the relationship I was honestly annoyed if we met up and didn't have sex, now just sitting on the couch under a blanket with her became the highlight of days, even the things I once saw as negatives became a precious part of the puzzle that made her her. My biggest regret in life is still that I couldn't be the person she made me back when I first met her. (and concerning looks, she is honestly so much more gorgeous than the ex it's not even funny, how did I not see that?). The point of all this is that love isn't automatic, it's not something that happens without your consent, it's the result of actions, of decisions. When you choose to take the time to look at your significant other, and soak up and appreciate who they are and what they do, when you put in the effort, that's when love grows. I've gone from being sick and tired of someone I had been with for years, to being absolutely infatuated with them, simply by making a decision. I could not have made that decision had I not been myself, that decision would have been false. Looking back, all those earlier girls I've been infatuated with, that wasn't love, I didn't even know who they were, I barely knew who I was. No matter how much passion I felt in the moment, no matter how much fun I had in the times we spent together, now I don't even remember their names.

Love isn't your heart beating faster, it's not that instinctive nervousness that comes with talking to a cute girl you just met. It's a complete and deep appreciation of a person, un understanding of who you are, who they are, and what that means to you. Love is what I feel for my brother, who is as much a part of me as my own arm, without whom I would not be me. Someone who isn't just another person in your life, but is a part of what you consider to be your life, without them your life could not be the same, because they're an absolutely crucial part of it. That doesn't happen in a week, because you can't really learn who someone is in a week, even if you could see all of it, you couldn't internalize it. You can always imagine living without them, because you were, just last week. There are people who meet their soulmates sure, and say they knew within a week, but had they never seen that soulmate again, they would not still be pretending they were "the one" years later, and if they were, their friends wouldn't be saying "that's love", they'd be saying "that's an unhealthy obsession". Cloud and Aerith barely knew each other, both when it comes to time, as well as to how much they actually knew about each other. Cloud had no idea of who he was or what was important to him in life, he was unable to be honest with others or even himself, so how would he ever be able to meaningfully make an informed decision to make the kind of emotional commitment that's the cornerstone of love? He didn't know himself, nor did he know Aerith, to whose feelings he was canonically oblivious and whose entire life was a mystery to Cloud. How can we say that Soldier Cloud is capable of knowing who he loves when he's not even aware of the the gigantic Tifa shaped area of his identity. Can Soldier Cloud determine what he values and why without the knowledge of what he's gone through in his life? Sure, but can Soldier Cloud make that determination for the real one? No. Soldier Cloud, and his emotions, have no relation to that of the real Cloud. The real Cloud must determine what people mean to him all by himself. And when it comes to real Cloud, it is pretty obvious who is the biggest part of his life, the person who defined it from the time he fell for her as kid, right through when he became a soldier to impress her, and up to and past the moment he started raising children with her. For Cloud it's pretty obvious who he has the deep personal understanding with, the girl who filled his sub-conscious, and was literally in his head with him, the girl who is stated to understand him best, and who has a shared story with him, having experienced both the good, and the bad, alongside him. Who was there with him when he was a child, who was there with him in Nibleheim, who found him when he lost his identity and gave him a new one, who was with him when Aerith died, who was with him when he broke, who was with him when he was catatonic, who was with him and helped him find himself again, who was with him during the last night underneath the highwind, who was with him at the end in the north cave, who he started living with afterwards, who waited patiently while he went to find himself, and welcomed him back with a smile. I am sure Cloud liked Aerith....but he LOVES Tifa.

[lastcrystalwitch]

4/15/2021

So the term Earth Angel found me. And I'm not particularly crazy about the term, but the meaning behind it is absolutely spot on with me. Its crazy that I'm finally finding articles and messages everywhere recently since I started working with messenger Gods and Goddesses. I've been receiving a ton of information about self growth. But a friend of mine called me and Earth Angel yesterday. I had to look it up. I'd heard it before, but it wasn't something that I was interested in because I thought it had to deal with Christianity, Jesus, Mary, and the heavenly pure spirit that makes up "God." or the , "Holy Ghost."

But an earth angel isn't someone who is Christian and follows Christianity, but instead someone who is bound to the earth, Gaia, and ancient natural energies that are in all living things. We attune with these natural energies and feel much more them, when they are by themselves in nature. This is where they go for themselves to recharge, and are overly sensitive to what others say and think about them. These individuals are highly critical and can even be very mean to themselves in a way that is not fair, when others judge them, make fun of them, tease them, because earth angels are sincere. I always try to live by the words, say what you mean, and mean what you say.

These people are easily misunderstood because they are not very common in their ways of thinking, and from the very beginning, Earth Angels go through a lot of shit early on to get their heads straight, and suffer through injustice at a dangerous obnoxious level, and can pick up coping mechanisms that are very unhealthy. But, all so that their soul is ready to help others who are suffering. They live through experience of their own suffering and are great at understanding energies and are the first to know when there is a "...disturbance in the Force." They have a severe passion for helping those who they love, and while Earth Angels don't like violence, or people who fight, they have a great respect for people who have had been through difficult situations because they can feel someone's energy completely and absolutely like they are experiencing the pain of others.

Earth Angels have the positive energy to send out love to the world, feels others problems as their own, cares immensely for others happiness, has the ability to accept others exactly the way that they are. When an earth angel sets their sights on you, and takes an interest in you, its because they see someone with a rare light, a rare soul. If and Earth Angel shows you love an affection they bind a part of their heart to you and you will have that bond and love with them for the rest of your lives. Earth Angels don't abandon people, nor do they forget injured souls. They often think of those that they want to help, and be with, and love.

But sometimes Earth Angels will understand when someone needs to change for themselves, and will give that person the room and tools necessary to realize their own priorities. They can encourage people to have what Tarot Readers call a Tower, moment. And ultimately want to be just a support system for you while you're going through some shit, and growing as a human, and learning life lessons. Earth angels can miss people to the point that it becomes an unhealthy level of stress, and need to find distractions so they aren't constantly worrying about the ones that they love.

The hardest lesson I have learned as an Earth Angel is this, "Everyone is growing and learning and changing at different rates. Just because someone hasn't learned a life lesson that you did, doesn't make them any less of a person. And many people take longer than others to learn lessons like, you cannot change a person, setting healthy boundaries, when someone pushes you away, its not your fault usually, they just didn't understand how I think and feel and communicate. Its hardest to realize that the path someone must walk down sometimes has to be done by themselves, and the Earth Angel just wishes that she could be a support for the person struggling with career, finances, feelings of guilt, anger and resentment.

An Earth angel can forgive, but getting back that trust, is like passing a class. You have to get your shit together and prove to them that you are worthy of their love when you misuse and abuse them. They'll never forget you though. In fact, they'll think of you quite often because they know you'll be happier if you love yourself and be a friend to your spirit. Your soul.

The sooner that people realize that being your own friend and being comfortable who you are, and doing good things to set you up for success is like feeding a pet on time every day the same day. You can learn to trust yourself to say and do the right things, and it absolutely is possible to feel happy. Yes it is. I know. I have that wisdom.

In DND, (Dungeons and Dragons) a tabletop game that is as unique as a fingerprint with those who play ... Knowledge is different than Wisdom. So, ask yourself, what is the difference?

Well, knowledge is information passed down from one person or animal or thing, to another. Basically it is, "He told me that the oven is hot. I trust him to tell me the truth, so I'm going to take his word for it and not touch the oven."

Wisdom is knowing for yourself, that the oven is hot. You touched it, you got burned, therefore you have that wisdom. You know. Not just because you were told, but because you experienced it yourself.

The crazy thing is about Wisdom and Knowledge is, it is just another level of personal experience. People experience things differently. That's why I find it so incredibly interesting to learn other peoples truths, and find out their stories, what they had been through, and how can I make this person happy.

Recently I went through something that scarred me very deeply. I am needing to withdrawal a little bit into myself, and just really give myself a hug because I have been through a lot, and I need to tell myself that everything is going to be ok. My heart spirit was injured, and this has caused me to feel hopeless at first, then sad and depressed, then just crying for others, to the point that people started really worrying if I would be okay. I had friends coming into check in on me, and ended up surviving.

But If I can't help someone, and they must go on their own journey for a while to get their goals, and priorities onto a healthy level, I realize that I can't be with them for this journey, as much as I really really really want to be there for them. But I think of them everyday, and I think about the good things, and how they made my soul happy just being around them. I felt recharged. And they made me grow as well, and question things that I never really had the initial knowledge to understand in the first place.

Tower moments are times in our lives when our personalities, or ways of thinking have to shift in order for us to grow. These life lessons that we as humans have to walk through, are ones that Earth Angels take pride in holding your hand and letting you know that they will always love you, care for you, and do their best to make sure that you know they won't leave you, and you are not alone. An earth angel can suffer and worry about a person more than that person is worried, and the most important qualities to a friendship to an earth angel are honesty, communication, and of course love. They are good at showing others Pure Love, what it is, and how to love yourself.

The love that they show, are understanding, accepting someone exactly the way they are, bringing happiness and joy to others around them. We get bullied because people don't understand that we are helping for the sake of helping.

Altruistic. "/ˌaltro͞oˈistik/ adjective showing a disinterested and selfless concern for the well-being of others; unselfish. "it was an entirely altruistic act" (borrowed from google dictionary)

Pacifism. pac·i·fism /ˈpasəˌfizəm/ noun the belief that any violence, including war, is unjustifiable under any circumstances, and that all disputes should be settled by peaceful means. "there remains a powerful undercurrent of pacifism" (borrowed from google dictionary)

That we really do feel good when we can make someone smile, or laugh. I myself am not very funny, and enjoy humor that is pure in form. I never liked trickery, or injuring someone's character to take personal pleasure in making someone suffer or feel better to make me feel better. That's not how it works with me. That isn't nice. Sincerity and doing what you say, and being honest with yourself and true to your heart are all qualities that we as Earth Angels like because it is just easier for our soul to be happy. Earth Angels are light workers, and ... "If you had a super power, it would be love." They use light energy to change the world and bring happiness and understanding to those around them. They experience pain and suffering on a larger scale than those around them because they wear their heart on their sleeve, and are easily hurt by those who ever try to hurt an earth angel. Earth Angels can see transformation happening to others, who cant see it, and usually choose to only share their highly intuitive thoughts with those who are very close to them.

Earth Angels can be very artistic. They have a natural ability to work with the arts and spread love and light through their art and their musical ability. Earth angels want everyone to understand each other, and want everyone to be happy. It is possible to have everyone on the same page. It is possible to have everyone be happy, using something called communication.

Opening up your heart when it has been hurt before and scarred is so hard for some people. But earth angels accept this pain and understand it because they bleed for their family and friends in a way that is hard to describe. They are so sensitive to those around them and how they feel.

All I am saying, is that I am 32 now, or 33. I think I'm 32. It changes every year, so I'm not too worried about it. hahaha

Earth angels can see layers of someone's soul by looking and speaking with them. They can tell the sadness and hurt inside someone, and instantly want to make them better. Earth angels are happiest when others are feeling happy, because they feed off of that happy, calm, content energy. And when an Earth angel is kept away from being able to recharge in an environment that is calm happy and content, like a forest or park, that person is more likely to feel overwhelmed, trapped, and stressed out.

Earth Angels shouldn't be confused with Christianity. Most Earth Angels are more prone to believe strongly in energies, what you send out comes back, kahrma, dahrma, and different planes of existence. Earth angels are better at making people feel better, because they truly feel real сочувствие, (seh*choos't*tiah) which translates sort of to empathy, and take great pride in being honest, truthful, and a good friend to others.

Earth angels from my own personal experience, are people who suffer for others, and are a good player two. They seek approval from other people quite often. Not because they can't think for themselves, but because they just want everyone to get along. These people are chameleons and can adapt to other peoples waves of energies and attitudes, in order to better understand someone. They are not trying to be unique and original, they already check those boxes. They just try to understand, provide aid, friendship and good mental health and love to those who are hurting. Earth angels are good to talk to if you need someone to listen to. They'll think about you all the time, and do little things for you to remind you that they care, and they hope you are happy. Earth angels use PURE UNBIASED LOVE AND AFFECTION to express themselves, and are very stern that you shouldn't use people.

Earth Angels kind of keep to themselves. Taking on other people's problems like their own can be very draining, and if you have the attention of an earth angel, they will cry over you, and look into how to help you (on multiple planes tbh) if you ever are suffering uncontrollably or super upset that its affecting your BA. (spirit soul energy) If you have the love from an Earth Angel, they will always love you no matter what, no matter how much you hurt them. They are understanding and extremely sensitive to many things. When Earth angels are injured in their BA, from someone hurting them intentionally, it is the worst thing that you can do to this person because it leaves a very deep deep scar. But they'll always love you, and they'll always listen to you and be there for you if you reach out to them.

Earth angels are said to be put on this earth to help others understand their soul's connection with the world around them and often remind and show others that there can be a very strong natural and grounding, warm hug energy from the earth, being outside, and the natural energies of the world around them. They are open to the world's energies and often seek out questions on a spiritual level, not to be confused with a religious level, as there is a very big difference between using tools to help you vs. adopting someone else's way of thinking. They like to think for themselves, but learn all they can from others. And they can be naturally good at learning other languages because they've made it their goal to understand and help others ... through understanding itself. One great way to learn about other peoples understanding is through Communication, Understanding, Listening, and learning healthy grounding ways to connect someone's BA, to their environment.

Earth angels are artistically talented but do best in careers where they can work closely with people in order to make them feel better, where they can have one on one connections with people. Earth angels are rare, and usually were people who put up with an unusual amount of pain growing up, and bullied, and who have suffered a lot, and just don't understand or like it when people are mean to others.

They're not perfect. Their not in human. They still have all the problems as someone else, but they know the more that you can understand what it is that is bothering you, the more Wisdom you gain, and the happier and more grounded you can be. Imagine being content and happy with yourself on a very very deep level. <3

I hope you have a good day. I love you, and hope today you do something to remind you to love yourself. I hope you smile today, and really feel it. *hugs*

[thesublemon]

on reviewing

Watched a documentary on Pauline Kael a couple nights ago. It clarified for me why I always find her reviewing refreshing and frustrating by turns. Refreshing because she doesn’t tend to treat genre or subject matter as something sacred. She will watch many kinds of movies with the same degree of curiosity and judgment. Her instincts about whether a movie is working, or lying, or doing something new are also often very on point.

But she falls prey to the two big things that I think make reviewing a flawed, sometimes maybe even useless endeavor. Especially if the goal is to accurately describe what a work is.

1) An inability, or disinterest, in modeling why artistic choices work or don’t. For instance, at one point in the documentary she complains about artists and critics equating repetition with lyricism, and states that repetition in movies simply annoys her because it feels like belaboring a point that she’s already gotten. But that complaint misses out on an opportunity to explore why people would think that repetition is lyrical, or why an artist would reach for it as a choice. And whether, once you’ve modeled what the goal of repetition actually is, maybe there are good and bad versions. If it were me, I would argue that when repetition is good, it doesn’t actually feel like repetition. It feels like riffing. The artistic impact comes not from reiteration, but from reframing—and if it does feel like reiteration, then it’s probably weak repetition. If I were to make a similar complaint about a movie, I might instead complain that a motif did not add or gain complexity each time it appeared. Or I might complain that an attempt to convey monotony by unchanging repetition did not feel worth it, because I didn’t find the underlying point insightful enough to justify the experience of slog. Whatever my exact argument though, the point is that there would be a curiosity and emphasis on what the artist was trying to accomplish. And a generosity about what they could accomplish. As well as a self-awareness about my own values (like “density” and “coherence”) and the fact that I judge works by those values. Without this sort of meta-level mindset, reviews seem to quickly descend into authoritative subjectivity. Kael was good at viciously panning things, but how can a pan help the artist make better work unless it’s accompanied by some sort of model or rationale? Why would an artist listen to your opinion unless you first prove that you understand what they were trying to do? Without a level that exists outside of the reviewer, a review runs the risk of simply being an exhortation to appeal to that reviewer’s taste.

2) A love of saying things that sound good, regardless of whether they’re actually meaningful. At one point in the documentary, Renata Adler, another writer, attempts a takedown of Kael. But ends up making the exact mistake that Kael does.

RENATA ADLER: [Kael] has, in principle, four things she likes: frissons of horror; physical violence depicted in explicit detail; sex scenes, so long as they have an ingredient of cruelty and involve partners who know each other either casually or under perverse circumstances; and fantasies of invasion by, or subjugation of or by, apes, pods, teens, bodysnatchers, and extraterrestrials.

Compare to Kael’s own style of evisceration. Here’s her on The Sound of Music.

PAULINE KAEL: What is it that makes millions of people buy and like THE SOUND OF MUSIC—a tribute to "freshness" that is so mechanically engineered, so shrewdly calculated that the background music rises, the already soft focus blurs and melts, and, upon the instant, you can hear all those noses blowing in the theatre? […] And the phenomenon at the center of the monetary phenomenon? Julie Andrews, with the clean, scrubbed look and the unyieldingly high spirits; the good sport who makes the best of everything; the girl who's so unquestionably good that she carries this one dimension like a shield. […] Wasn't there perhaps one little Von Trapp who didn't want to sing his head off, or who screamed that he wouldn't act out little glockenspiel routines for Papa's party guests, or who got nervous and threw up if he had to get on a stage?

Having read both pieces, I think both writers identify something true about their subject (Adler even makes remarks similar to what I’ve already said). But are the pieces useful? Or accurate in a more total sort of way? Kael had particular kinds of movies she loved, it’s true, and tended to be bad at self-criticism about whether her preferences actually indicated any sort of objective reality. But Adler’s criticism of Kael is no more interested in modeling than Kael’s reviews are. It isn’t interested in an evenhanded consideration of what Kael gets right and wrong and why. What unites Adler’s takedown of Kael and Kael’s takedown of The Sound of Music is that they want to be takedowns. They want to be stylistically rollicking reads that create the aesthetic experience of nailing something to a wall. But the thing about wanting too badly to make an argument “aesthetic” is that it becomes tempting to gloss over anything that would ruin the aesthetic flow. Adler devotes a long paragraph to identifying all of Kael’s tics, and the wall of text is certainly rhetorically effective at making you feel like Kael is some sort of dirty-minded one trick pony. But at the end of the day, it’s rhetoric. Not really argument. Similarly, Kael is so delighted to be able to use phrases like “glockenspiel routines”, that it gets in the way of saying anything more considered. Which isn’t to imply that I think the writers don’t actually believe what they’re saying. On the contrary, I think they hold their opinions powerfully and sincerely, and are trying to identify something wrong in their culture by singling out and drilling down on the sins of one thing in particular. But nonetheless, by caring so much about being good bits of writing—and they are good bits of writing; there’s something juicy and relentless about Kael that sticks with you—they end up empty on the level of argument.

These two failure modes highlight the central problem of reviewing, I think. Which is that reviews tend to be three things at once: ekphrasis, analysis and evaluation (which implies some sort of rubric of quality, whether personal, cultural, or “objective”). This is partly understandable, given that art is an abstract, experiential thing and therefore difficult to evaluate or analyze without some degree of ekphrastic description. It if was easy to say what a work was doing, the artist wouldn’t have needed to make art of it in the first place. So it makes sense that the process of making a work legible enough to opine on would have to trade in artistry itself. It makes sense that in order to show an audience what a work feels like, a review would have to poetically reproduce that feeling. Similar to the way that the translator of a poem needs to be a good poet themselves in order to make the meaning and experience of a poem accessible to an audience in a different language.

The problem is that ekphrasis, being expressive, is also necessarily subjective, and not primarily concerned with logic. Which on its own, is perfectly fine. I’ve written a ton of ekphrasis on this blog. I’m pretty pro-ekphrasis. When it’s done right, there isn’t much like a bulls-eye poetic description of a work to make you feel like you get it on a level you didn’t before. But when that sort of writing is also trying to say whether or not a work is “good”, the expressiveness frequently gets in the way. It’s easy to state or promote an opinion expressively. It’s harder to defend an opinion that way. In good faith, anyhow. Which results in all of these reviews that succeed in observing true or true-feeling things about art, and do so in a sometimes deliciously readable way, but don’t leave me with the feeling that the writer has any consistent or defensible take on how art works. I can’t help thinking that I much prefer reading writing about art that keeps its purpose siloed. So either a piece that tries to poetically explain how a work affected them, or an academic work that tries to argue for an interpretation, or something more philosophical that puts forth a theory of what makes things good and bad and explain why a work does or doesn’t live up to that. I don’t want this to be the case. I think writing that can blend those three modes together is some of the best possible writing about art. But the average reviewer is not really up to the task, despite the fact that the review is probably the most common and widely-read type of writing about art.

(None of which is to say that I’m free of sin these regards. One of the reasons I try to keep the tone of this blog casual is because I want to be able to be able to play with these different modes of writing about art. And see where and when and how I can get away with blending them. It’s a practice space.)

[manychocolatefactories]

About Violet Beauregarde, a gum-chewer (book)

The second/third bratty kid is Violet Beauregarde, formerly known as Violet Strabismus and (maybe) as Violet Glockenberry. Who is she? A girl who chews gum all day long. Third winner of the Golden Ticket, and the second child to find her demise.

The book makes some mentions about her physical appearance. It talks of her “fat hands”, of her “huge jaws”, “huge rubbery lips” and of her “great big mop of curly hairs”. In Quentin’s Blake illustrations, she has ginger hair and is wearing a T-shirt and long pants, giving her a tomboyish look. And all her clothes are shades of blue, of course.

Her most defining trait is her obsession with gum. When she presents herself, she begins with “I’m a gum-chewer”. She literally adores gum, to the point where she claims that she can’t live without it. She chews it all day long (except for the meals), and so ferociously that it’s difficult to understand what she says. Even when she stops to chew she keeps her gum close, right behind her ear, or on her bedpost (apparently, without a gum near her, she can’t feel “comfortable”. It’s basically her security blanket). Of course, such a sick obsession only adds to the grotesque and makes her quite revolting (and also makes us worry a bit about her mental state), but for many people it doesn’t seem to be enough to punish her.

So, some quick reminders: at the time the book was written, chewing gum was seen as a disgusting habit, and whenever children talked to adults while chewing, it was considered as a sign of disrespect. Which leads us to another side of Violet (because yes, in the book she isn’t just a “gum-chewer” and that’s all. No, there’s more to her).

 If Augustus Gloop was the incarnation of gluttony, Violet Beauregarde is the incarnation of rudeness and bad manners. She is always talking “very fast”, “very loudly”, and she always answer back to her parents in very nasty ways (If you ask me, I’d say that her jaws are going up and down almost as much as mine are just from yelling at me every minute of the day + All right, Mother, keep your hair on! Plus, she is a truly competitive girl.

After hearing that her “friend”, Cornelia Prinzmetel, had won the record of the longest chewing (three months nonstop), she decided to beat her, and thus went on chewing non-stop, just to see her “friend” humiliated and furious (which is apparently one of Violet’s greatest joy). We can also add that, if Violet stopped the gum for chocolate, it was only because of the contest Wonka created, only because she wanted to win. During her interview, she even brags about her previous chewing record while nobody ever asked her anything about it, assuming that it “may interest” the reporters. Violet in the book is definitively a prideful, ambitious, fame-hunting and attention-seeking girl. (Plus, it shows that the trope of two girls pretending to be friends while hating each other and acting as rivals is not that recent as we may believe.)

Her last defining trait is a simple but efficient one: she is a jerk. It’s clearly told in the book. It is said that before deciding to try to beat the chewing world record, she was only using one gum per day, and once this gum was finished she put it on one of the buttons of her lift (indicating that she lives in a tenement). And whenever someone got his finger or his glove stuck with the gum, Violet was there, watching and laughing. For her, the more annoying, the funnier.

 During the tour, she isn’t showing much of her personality. She just asks practical questions (Why are they laughing? + How can they see where they are going?). At one point she is called a “has-been” by Wonka, and at another “silly” by the narrator. Her obsession with gum is also shown when she is presented with the Everlasting Gobstoppers. Despite “gobstoppers” being in the name, she thinks at first that they are gums. (It seems indeed that she isn’t the brightest of the bunch).

As for her demise… When visiting the Inventing Room, Violet is super-excited to see Wonka’s new invention: a gum! And not any gum, a three-course meal gum! Of course, upon seeing it, what does she decide? To chew it. “As long as it’s a piece of gum and I can chew it, that’s for me.” She asks Wonka to give her the gum, which he refuses, explaining that there’s one or two things not quite well prepared. Violet just goes “to blazes with that!” and take away the gum from Wonka’s hand to chew it. In her defense, we could think that she interpreted the “one or two things not quite right” as “the taste isn’t exactly what we wanted it to be”, she had no clue it was a dangerous mutagen, but still, that’s a bratty way to act. Rudeness, impatience and forcibly taking away things from other’s hands.

When she starts chewing, Mr. Wonka screams many times that she has to stop, but she doesn’t care, too fascinated by the wonders of the gum. She even thinks that she knows better than Wonka: when he tells her that the gum is not right, she answers “Of course it’s right!”, placing her judgement over the one of a wiser adult (and the creator of said gum by the way). (Also, given how she treats her mother, we could think that Violet is constantly in conflict with the adults because she thinks that they don’t know anything, or that they always believe the wrong things, while she has the right and correct knowledge).

When the gum arrives to the blueberry pie phase, Violet starts turning blue (or, more accurately, a purplish-blue) and her parents shout at her, but she still doesn’t care at all. And we can note that she specifically doesn’t care about what her mother has to say (Oh, be quiet, mother, and let me finish!). She only starts to worry when her father starts talking, clearly showing here the discrepancy between the two parents. But it’s too late! After turning entirely blue (skin and hair included), she starts to swell up “like a balloon” until her body becomes an “enormous round blue ball – a gigantic blueberry, in fact – and all that remained of Violet Beauregarde herself was a tiny pair of legs and a tiny pair of arms sticking out of the great round fruit and a little head on top”.

After that, she is rolled to the Juicing Room, where all of the juice is squeezed out of her, before being “repaired” by the Oompa-Loompas. When she gets out of the factory, she is now back to her normal size, except that she kept the purplish-blue color.

 Now let’s go on with the parents.

Her mother is not at all on good terms with her. She is the opposite of Mrs. Gloop: Mrs. Beauregarde doesn’t encourage at all her daughter’s bad habits, always reproaching her to not be “ladylike” and always criticizing her. As a reaction, Violet always talks back to her and disrespects her. In the Inventing Room, when her mother advise her to not “do anything silly” (aka, take the gum), Violet answers “I want the gum, so it’s not silly.” (showing again how little she cares for her mother’s opinion, and how much she thinks of herself).

When she starts chewing the gum, there’s a sudden change with the parents Her mother starts saying that she is a “clever girl” while her father (and that’s the first time he is mentioned in the book) encourages her, proud that his little girl will be the “first person in the world to have a chewing-gum meal!”. What to say of that? Well, there are many different ways of interpreting that. The fact that he is not saying anything about her verbal violence and lack of respects shows that he isn’t the strictest or invested parent in the world. Plus, the fact that he is not mentioned up until his point (which means he doesn’t speak and doesn’t do anything of interest until now) makes me believe that he is a self-effacing man, or a distant father/husband. The only trait he shows here is his encouraging of Violet and his pride in her. Which makes me believe that he is the one that made her into such a competitive and prideful little girl in the first place

When their daughter starts transforming into a blueberry, Mrs. Beauregarde is the first one to react, with panic and horror. Mr. Beauregarde, much calmer, orders Violet to spit out the gum, but his daughter is too obsessed with the gum’s taste to listen. As the transformation goes on, both parents are struck with disgust and despair, not really realizing what’s happening (they repeat the same facts other and other) and looking for help (Call a doctor!). Once the transformation is done, only Mrs. Beauregarde speaks, but it doesn’t add much to her character.

The absence of words from Mrs. Beauregarde once the transformation is done may indicate that he is in a state of shock, which may give the impression of a weak man. Hence his previous silence and inactivity, that could be interpreted as disinterest and emotional distance, may very well just be the ones of a shy and meek man, unable or unwilling to fight with his daughter, submitting himself to her by only agreeing with everything she does. Take your pick.

 In conclusion, a little competitive jerk with some disgusting chewing habits, in eternal conflict with her mother, and with this mysterious shadow-man of a father.

Note that, if in the adaptations of the book, it’s her competitive side that will become her main trait, in the book it’s her chewing that is clearly emphasized, and that’s what makes her a “disgusting brat” more than anything. I personally agree with Dahl on that one: I’m not fond of gum-chewers. I often see chewing gum as something quite disgusting, I don’t know why, but it can sometimes give me strong nausea.

Anyway, we’re not here to talk about me, so let’s end this post here.

[ehyeh-joshua]

Attempt 5...

**Testing**

http://www.priestsforlife.org/magisterium/catechismonabortion.htm

Excerpts from the Catechism of the Catholic Church on Life, Abortion, and Euthanasia (#2258-2262; 2268-2279)

Article 5 THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT

CONTENTS

Fifth Commandment

Respect for Human Life The Witness of Sacred History Intentional Homicide Abortion Euthanasia Notes

You shall not kill. (54)

You have heard that it was said to the men of old, 'You shall not kill: and whoever kills shall be liable to judgement.' But I say to you that every one who is angry with his brother shall be liable to judgement. (55)

2258 'Human life is sacred because from its beginning it involves the creative action of God and it remains for ever in a special relationship with the Creator, who is its sole end. God alone is the Lord of life from its beginning until its end: no one can under any circumstance claim for himself the right directly to destroy an innocent human being.' (56)

1. Respect for Human Life

The witness of sacred history

2259 In the account of Abel's murder by his brother Cain, (57) Scripture reveals the presence of anger and envy in man, consequences of original sin, from the beginning of human history. Man has become the enemy of his fellow man. God declares the wickedness of this fratricide: 'What have you done? The voice of your brother's blood is crying to me from the ground. And now you are cursed from the ground, which has opened its mouth to receive your brother's blood from your hand.' (58)

2260 The covenant between God and mankind is interwoven with reminders of God's gift of human life and man's murderous violence:

For your lifeblood I will surely require a reckoning... Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed; for God made man in his own image. (59)

The Old Testament always considered blood a sacred sign of life. (60) This teaching remains necessary for all time.

2261 Scripture specifies the prohibition contained in the fifth commandment: 'Do not slay the innocent and the righteous.' (61) The deliberate murder of an innocent person is gravely contrary to the dignity of the human being, to the golden rule and to the holiness of the Creator. The law forbidding it is universally valid: it obliges each and everyone, always and everywhere.

2262 In the Sermon on the Mount, the Lord recalls the commandment, 'You shall not kill' (62) and adds to it the proscription of anger, hatred and vengeance. Going further, Christ asks his disciples to turn the other cheek, to love their enemies. (63) He did not defend himself and told Peter to leave his sword in its sheath.(64)

Intentional homicide

2268 The fifth commandment forbids direct and intentional killing as gravely sinful. The murderer and those who co-operate voluntarily in murder commit a sin that cries out to heaven for vengeance. (68)

Infanticide, (69) fratricide, parricide and the murder of a spouse are especially grave crimes by reason of the natural bonds which they break. Concern for eugenics or public health cannot justify any murder, even if commanded by public authority.

2269 The fifth commandment forbids doing anything with the intention of indirectly bringing about a person's death. The moral law prohibits exposing someone to mortal danger without grave reason, as well as refusing assistance to a person in danger.

The acceptance by human society of murderous famines, without efforts to remedy them, is a scandalous injustice and a grave offence. Those whose usurious and avaricious dealings lead to the hunger and death of their brethren in the human family indirectly commit homicide, which is imputable to them .(70)

Unintentional killing is not morally imputable. But one is not exonerated from grave offence if, without proportionate reasons, one has acted in a way that brings about someone's death, even without the intention to do so.

Abortion

2270 Human life must be respected and protected absolutely from the moment of conception. From the first moment of his existence, a human being must be recognized as having the rights of a person -- among which is the inviolable right of every innocent being to life.(71)

Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you. (72)

My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately wrought in the depths of the earth .(73)

2271 Since the first century the Church has affirmed the moral evil of every procured abortion. This teaching has not changed and remains unchangeable. Direct abortion, that is to say, abortion willed either as an end or a means, is gravely contrary to the moral law:

You shall not kill the embryo by abortion and shall not cause the newborn to perish .(74)

God, the Lord of life, has entrusted to men the noble mission of safeguarding life, and men must carry it out in a manner worthy of themselves. Life must be protected with the utmost care from the moment of conception: abortion and infanticide are abominable crimes.(75)

2272 Formal co-operation in an abortion constitutes a grave offence. The Church attaches the canonical penalty of excommunication to this crime against human life. 'A person who procures a completed abortion incurs excommunication latae sententiae' (76) 'by the very commission of the offence', (77) and subject to the conditions provided by Canon Law . (78) The Church does not thereby intend to restrict the scope of mercy. Rather, she makes clear the gravity of the crime committed, the irreparable harm done to the innocent who is put to death, as well as to the parents and the whole of society.

2273

The inalienable right to life of every innocent human individual is a constitutive element of a civil society and its legislation:

'The inalienable rights of the person must be recognized and respected by civil society and the political authority. These human rights depend neither on single individuals nor on parents; nor do they represent a concession made by society and the state; they belong to human nature and are inherent in the person by virtue of the creative act from which the person took his origin. Among such fundamental rights one should mention in this regard every human being's right to life and physical integrity from the moment of conception until death.'(79)

'The moment a positive law deprives a category of human beings of the protection which civil legislation ought to accord them, the state is denying the equality of all before the law. When the state does not place its power at the service of the rights of each citizen, and in particular of the more vulnerable, the very foundations of a state based on law are undermined. . . As a consequence of the respect and protection which must be ensured for the unborn child from the moment of conception, the law must provide appropriate penal sanctions for every deliberate violation of the child's rights.' (80)

2274 Since it must be treated from conception as a person, the embryo must be defended in its integrity, cared for, and healed, as far as possible, like any other human being.

Prenatal diagnosis is morally licit, 'if it respects the life and integrity of the embryo and the human foetus and is directed toward its safeguarding or healing as an individual... It is gravely opposed to the moral law when this is done with the thought of possibly inducing an abortion, depending upon the results: a diagnosis must not be the equivalent of a death sentence.' (81)

2275 'One must hold as licit procedures carried out on the human embryo which respect the life and integrity of the embryo and do not involve disproportionate risks for it, but are directed toward its healing, the improvement of its condition of health, or its individual survival.' (82)

'It is immoral to produce human embryos intended for exploitation as disposable biological material.' (83)

'Certain attempts to influence chromosomic or genetic inheritance are not therapeutic but are aimed at producing human beings selected according to sex or other predetermined qualities. Such manipulations are contrary to the personal dignity of the human being and his integrity and identity' (84) which are unique and unrepeatable.

Euthanasia

2276 Those whose lives are diminished or weakened deserve special respect. Sick or handicapped persons should be helped to lead lives as normal as possible.

2277 Whatever its motives and means, direct euthanasia consists in putting an end to the lives of handicapped, sick or dying persons. It is morally unacceptable.

Thus an act or omission which, of itself or by intention, causes death in order to eliminate suffering constitutes a murder gravely contrary to the dignity of the human person and to the respect due to the living God, his Creator. The error of judgement into which one can fall in good faith does not change the nature of this murderous act, which must always be forbidden and excluded.

2278 Discontinuing medical procedures that are burdensome, dangerous, extraordinary, or disproportionate to the expected outcome can be legitimate; it is the refusal of 'over-zealous' treatment. Here one does not will to cause death; one's inability to impede it is merely accepted. The decisions should be made by the patient if he is competent and able or, if not, by those legally entitled to act for the patient, whose reasonable will and legitimate interests must always be respected.

2279 Even if death is thought imminent, the ordinary care owed to a sick person cannot be legitimately interrupted. The use of painkillers to alleviate the sufferings of the dying, even at the risk of shortening their days, can be morally in conformity with human dignity if death is not willed as either an end or a means, but only foreseen and tolerated as inevitable. Palliative care is a special form of disinterested charity. As such it should be encouraged.

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NOTES

54. Ex 20:13; Dt 5:17.

55. Mt 5:21-22.

56. CDF, Instruction Donum vitae, intro. 5.

57. Cf. Gen 4:8-12.

58. Gen 4:10-11.

59. Gen 9:5-6.

60. Cf. Lev 17:14.

61. Ex.23:7.

62. Mt 5:21.

63. Cf Mt 5:22-39, 44.

64. Cf. Mt 26:52

68. Cf Gen 4:10.

69. Cf. GS 51 § 3.

70. Cf. Am 8:4-10.

71. Cf CDF, Donum vitae I,1.

72. Jer 1:5; cf Job 10:8-12; Ps 22:10-1 1.

73. Ps. 139:15.

74. Didache 2, 2: SCh 248, 148; cf Ep.Barnabae 19, 5: PG 2, 777; Ad Diognetum 5, 6: PG 2, 1173; Tertullian, Apol. 9: PL 1,371.

75. GS 51 § 3.

76. CIC, can. 1398.

77. CIC, can. 1314.

78. Cf. CIC, cann. 1323-1324.

79. CDF, Donum vitae III.

80. CDF, Donum vitae III.

81. CDF, Donum vitae I,2.

82. CDF, Donum vitae I,3.

83. CDF, Donum vitae I,5.

84. CDF, Donum vitae I,6.