#she really is a poet i misjudged her

[jorgecrespo]

YOUR TAGS!!!! no because SAME i’ve literally been in the gc letting it all out so i don’t do anything drastic here but godddddd has it been fucking HARD

SHE MADE AN ALBUM ABOUT A RACIST SHE DATED CAN ANYONE HEAR ME I FEEL LITERALLY INSANE I'M GOING CRAZY PUT ME IN THE ASYLUM HELLO HELLO HELLLLOOOOOO????????????

[thegentlesurvive]

The Albatross, wise men, Elton John, dead poets, and the destruction of reputation

Whenever someone says “Wise men once said,” I feel the need to look up who wrote it first. If Google search results and the absence of it in Bartlet’s Familiar Quotations (fifteenth edition, at least) are to be believed, Taylor is probably the wise men in “The Albatross.” The closest thing I’ve found to “Wild winds are death to the candle,” is “Candle in the Wind” by Bernie Taupin (lyrics) and Elton John (music), originally written about Marilyn Monroe (and in later versions, Princess Diana), who died young after she “lived your life like a candle in the wind […] Your candle burned out long before your legend ever did.”

It is

1) funny that Taylor calls herself a wise man while essentially talking shit about herself from the perspective of her detractors, and

2) interesting to me because, in the warnings, our narrator is being described as the wind, not the candle being burned out. By the end of the song, however, the albatross metaphor is subverted, and the albatross is the hero. If we reverse that first warning, too, it turns the narrator/Taylor back to the candle, at risk of being extinguished by the wind (in “Candle in the Wind,” that is to say, extinguished by the pressures of fame and the way we treat celebrities).

There’s also a loose (undoubtedly unintentional, but fun) connection to some historical tortured poets.

In Elton John: The Making of Goodbye Yellow Brick Road (2001), Bernie Taupin said:

“I think the biggest misconception about ‘Candle In The Wind’ is that I was this rabid Marilyn Monroe fanatic, which really couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s not that I didn’t have a respect for her. It’s just that the song could just as easily have been about James Dean or Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain. I mean, it could have been about Sylvia Plath or Virginia Woolf. I mean, basically, anybody, any writer, actor, actress, or musician who died young and sort of became this iconic picture of Dorian Gray, that thing where they simply stopped ageing. It’s a beauty frozen in time. In a way, I’m fascinated with that concept. So it’s really about how fame affects the man or woman in the street, that whole adulation thing and the fanaticism of fandom. It’s pretty freaky how people really believe these people are somehow different from us.”

Lyricist Tim Rice added:

“It’s not just the fact that it’s about Marilyn Monroe, because Marilyn died about forty years ago now nearly, yet the song’s still—well obviously it’s got the Diana connotations now—but it’s about all people who were misjudged in their lives. It’s a song about unfairness and the destruction of reputation. And a lot of people, I think, can—even if they haven’t been through that themselves—they can understand it in their heroes.”

[ldaoec]

Devin.

I really never hated her. But, it does strike me as funny, when I read her message— I am poised for catty. I am ready for something that is going to hurt, or, ore likely, make me really fucking angry. Which, is a good thing, because the best poems come from the biggest rage, and I am quite the poet, or, haven’t you heard? But, she is maverick. Or, maybe, maybe I am wrong, and she is just a saboteur, secretly hating my poetry, and, thus, attempting to rob me of all material— now I see her, for what she really is. Or, maybe not. Because, she seemed very sincere when she told me she was sorry, and all I could really think, as I talked to the flesh and bone, the reality to the fiction, or part-fiction, because we did meet, and I am an impressive judge of character, so that— you either changed a lot, in three years, ir I was wrong —just once. Which, I mean, is possible. Because, I am struck, for a moment, that you show more sympathy, and empathy, and compassion, in three texts than he has shown in three years. And, so, maybe we do have it wrong, after all. Maybe, he and I should be enemies. Maybe the real tragedy in all of this is that you and I were not friends. Because, he asked me if I had permission to post poetry my about him. And, in, that moment, if I am being honest, I really did reconsider calling of the war. Some things are worth blowing up, on the principal of the thing. Which, like… you get that, right?

Kiwi Foster © 9/25/21

I hate these poems. I hate, hate, hate these poems. I decided to post them all, and post them (for the most part) in the order in which I wrote them. But, I hate these poems. I tell myself that being willing to believe, and open to the idea that I misjudged the pair of them, being willing to allow them to read my poetry, despite how horribly invasive it felt, is not a sign of weakness. It’s strength. It’s working towards reconciliation, and that’s what I twisted myself into knots those two weeks to do. I don’t think I was wrong about either of them. And, maybe this wasn’t some very target totally insane, bizarre, sociopathic couples… kink I somehow got caught in. All I know, is that the person I thought he was would absolutely do this. The person I was convinced she was, based off of what he told me about her, before they dated, and the afternoon I met her— she would absolutely do this. And, the people they both tried to convince me they were… wouldn’t. Decent, sane, rational people wouldn’t do this. I can only draw my conclusions based on the evidence provided. And, while someone can talk a beautiful talk, their actions— both of their actions— that is what tells me who they are. “But you’re writing the poetry.” I am. And, I sincerely hope they’re reading it. But, I’m not emailing it to him. I’m not posting it on her wall, on Facebook. I warned them not to read it, and that— that is who I am. As for the pair of them— they were both exactly who I thought they were.

[cantcomeupwithacreativename]

The Experiment Chapter 6

"Will F/L/N Y/N please report to the office?"

I ignore the 'ooooohhhhh she in trouubllleee's' and head down.

"We've decided to transfer you to 1 A. One of our previous students decided the hero course is not for him, and someone from general studies is going in, however, Aizawa refuses to re-teach the new kid what he's already taught the others, so we need to transfer someone from 1 B in, and since you were already being considered, you're the perfect candidate." The little rat grins at me. Who the hell is Aizawa? I've never heard of him.

“Ok. Sounds good.” I figure there’s no point in fighting it, the alternative is expulsion. As I’m walking over to the door, the rat speaks again,

“Oh, you’ll be moving classes now, so go get your stuff. We figure the faster the transition, the smoother." What am I supposed to do about my friends?

"Can I say bye to everyone?"

"Of course." He says a grin on his little rat face.

Great, now I have to reintroduce myself, and avoid questions, and explain my quirk all over again. One the bright side, I'll be with that Momo girl… she was super pretty. Oh, and that jackass blonde kid, and that bitchy two toned.

On my way back to my old class, I plan out what I'm going to tell Monoma. Poor kid, they don't get him like I do.

I sigh and push through the heavy door.

"Hey, what was that about?" Kendo's face is knitted with concern once she sees my expression.

"I have to transfer classes. To 1 A."

The classroom is silent. Vlad king looks disappointed. He loves all his students and had grown quite attached to them, as he did each year.

"No, you can't leave us for them!" Monoma said, betrayal flashing in his eyes. "You can't leave me…" he whispers to himself. 'Not for those 1 A brats, who, like everyone else in his life, believed he couldn't be a good hero. They insulted us, called us worthless, and now they think they can take you away? His first friend he's had in a long time?'

"We can still hang out during lunch and after school and stuff Monoma, I'm not dying."

But he wasn't listening to me. He looked like he was having a flashback. 'Does she think they're better than us? Is that why she's leaving? Because I'm not good enough? But, I'm just as good as them, we got in on the same test… there's really no difference, just letters. I'll show those bastards how good we are. That will prove to her that we're the same.'

Tetsutetsu was a bit disappointed too. He enjoyed having such a tough girl in class. You fought those bullies! It wasn't a crush, per say, more of an admiration for your spirit.

2nd person

On the other hand, Pony was glad you were being transferred. Not in a rude way, no, actually quite the opposite. She remembers you fighting those jerks, and knows that if you are in class 1A, you can ride off the wave of fame from that villain attack. The more famous you are,,, the easier to become a pro.

But not that you would know this.

Back to Y/N

I wonder what these new kids will be like. They can't all be selfish jerks.

Outside of the 1A door, I hear a muffled voice say,

"A new student is being transferred in, in Mineta's place." Footsteps alert me that he, whoever he is, is approaching the door. "Come in." He says as it opens. Oh shit, it's that teacher who caught me fighting. I step through the door, which is conveniently wide, easier for my wings to get through.

"Hey, I'm F/L/N Y/N. Uh, I'm from 1B and my quirk is Raven."

"Good. Sit behind Midoriya, Midoriya raise your hand." He said, sounding sleep deprived. A green haired boy raised his hand, and I walked over there. In front of Midoriya, was the jerk. As I walked by, he scoffed and said,

"The fuck's wrong with your face." I ignored him. He didn't deserve my answer. Behind my seat was Momo. Oh good, I get someone nice. Next to me was a guy with a black bird head. He looked me in the eyes and said

"Ah, a fellow creature of darkness." He looked so dramatic as he said it, like he was a stabbed poet. He must have been talking about my wings and I didn't know what to say, so naturally, I said,

"Ok." He seemed satisfied with my answer, and he turned back to Mr Aizawa. Behind him, was the two toned jerkface who wouldn't let me sit with him. He looked at the scars on my face, his face blank, and then looked away. What a weirdo.

"Copy down these notes." Mr. Aizawa said before pulling out a yellow sleeping bag and slumping down. Wait, What?

"Yeah, he does that," says a guy with pointy bangs, "we've gotten used to it by now." I nod in acknowledgement, and look down at my paper. Fuck. Small problem. I can't read. I know my name, and how to write it, but other than that, I never learned. Kei read me the textbooks out loud, and the acceptance letter was verbal. Vlad King read the notes out loud as he said them. Oh my god. I'm in high school and I can't read. This is horrible, people will find out, I'll be kicked out of UA for being stupid. Momo tapped me on the shoulder.

"Are you ok? Is Midoriya's muttering bothering you?"

"What? Oh, no." I hadn't even noticed. As I listened closer, I realized he was saying the notes out loud as he wrote them. As I listened, I pretended to look up at the board and wrote my name over and over as I listened. Perfect.

The lunch bell rung, and the class filed out. The green haired boy, Midoriya, walked towards me, a smile on his freckled face.

"Hi! I'm Midoriya Izuku! How does your quirk work? Does it have to do with those splotches on your skin?"

"Nah, they're burns. My quirk is pretty self explanatory," I said, widening my wings for emphasis. "Oh, and I can do this," I hardened my wings and shot the blades out within seconds. His eyes went wide as they pinned his arm to a wall. A brown haired girl ran to his side.

"Deku are you ok??" She looks like she's worried enough to faint.

"You shouldn't use your quirk so recklessly!" A blue haired guy with glasses started scolding me.

"Chill out, he's fine." I said as I started to walk away. I heard a faint snort from the back, and when I turned my head I saw the blonde bastard staring me down.

"You got a problem?" I said, loudly for everyone to hear.

"Yeah, you better not be thinking you're better than me!"

"Hey man, chill out," a red haired guy grabbed his shoulder and he turned and glared, then shrugged him off a couple seconds later, but he didn't continue his speech to me. He stomped out of the room, backpack slung around one shoulder.

"Sorry about him," the red haired guy said, rubbing his neck,"he can be a little-"

"Bitchy?" I interrupted.

"Um, yeah…"

"Badass." I heard a whisper from the side of the class. When I turned my head, a yellow haired boy winked at me. The green haired boy, Deku, or whatever was gaping at me. He looks like a pushover.

On my way out, after a few other kids, I heard the yellow one talking to a pink girl. I didn't pay attention until I heard my name.

"I bet 5 dollars she'll sit at our table." The yellow one said.

"No way! She'll totally sit with Todoroki! You see those marks?" There must be an invisible person in this class, because there were floating clothes.

"I think she'll sit with Deku, he seems to like her." That pink girl said.

"I hope she sits with us, she's so manly! Though Bakugo doesn't like her…"

"Kirishima, Bakugo doesn't like anybody but himself…"

I ignored them and walked out.

I could feel a couple eyes on me as I walked into the lunchroom.

"Oh." I heard from a couple people in 1A as I sat down with Monoma, Kendo and Tetsutetsu.

"So, how's the famous class 1A. Do you have any dirt on them?"

"I don't know. They seem normal. The teacher sucks though."

"So they're not as good as everybody says?" Kendo looked disappointed in my answer.

"No. Nothing special. " I said.

"So what's the deal with my spot? Do they have a new person yet?"

"Nah, they said they're gonna wait till after the sports festival to see who can earn the spot." The silver haired boy spoke for the first time. "I'm excited to shove it to those 1A bastards."

"What's the sports festival?"

All three stared at me.

"It's a competition between classes of U.A. haven't you seen it on TV before?"

"Um, no," I said, shifting my wings uncomfortably, "I've never had the chance with all my training." Usually I'm a good liar. Strange.

We ate, and the bell rung again, signaling the end of lunch.

"Bye guys, see you later!"

After lunch, it was time for basic hero training.

"I AM HERE!" The large man yelled. It's Allmight. This would be so cool if I actually gave a fuck.

"Everybody suit up and meet me in field A!" He said as he pushed the button that sent the rack that holds the hero suits out of the wall. Everybody in this class has different quirks, so I get to see the new costumes! This is exciting!

After walking out of the locker room, I spot Deku, that girl, and a suit of armor. I walk over to them.

"Holy moly Y/N! You look amazing!" The girl says. I must've misjudged her, she seems nice.

"Thanks! You look great too!"

(Sexy)

"Though not entirely appropriate for a high school…" this came from the armor. Oh, it must be the mean one under there.

(Baggy)

"Though not flashy enough to stand out amongst the others.…" This came from the armor. Oh, it must be the mean one under there.

(Normal)

"Who's your favorite hero?" Deku asks, his eyes shining.

(Sexy)

"Midnight."

(Baggy)

"Hawks"

"Awesome! Did your costume take inspiration from hers/his? Mine is based on my favorite hero Allmight! He's so cool and I want to be just like him!"

"Yeah, it did."

"Ah, I see. Taking inspiration from your favorite hero is admirable. My costume is based off of my personal hero, Ingenium! I misjudged you! Tenya Iida!" He said while bowing.

"Yeah, I also just like wearing stuff like this." That jerk's not going to slutshame/ make anyone feel bad about their style anyone on my watch.

"Hey you! Scarface!" Both me and the boy with the split colored hair turned around.

"NO NOT YOU YOU ICY HOT BASTARD! THE NEW GIRL!"

(Sexy)

I walked over to him. I could see the yellow haired boy staring at my costume with a light blush on his face. The red haired one was quickly looking away to pretend he wasn't staring. I was honestly kind of surprised. It's probably just because there are only a few people with skimpy hero costumes. He's not actually interested. I don't have a curvy body. I'm only a(n) (A,B,C,D) I guess the fishnets and garters did their job. I don't have big hips or thighs. To be honest, I do have long legs. I stand at 5'7'' I'm eye level with Bakugo normally, but in these heels I stand about 5'9"

(Both)

I walk over to Bakugo, who's glaring at me the whole way. Once I reach him, I try to embarrass him as much as possible. If he's gonna call me scarface, I can make fun of him.

(I was thinking boots like these, but they can be whatever you want.)

https://m.ericdress.com/product-11509725.html?currency=USD&gclid=Cj0KCQjwhvf6BRCkARIsAGl1GGjf9TV6-_c2gPz3-hTjYFiEffFIIwLPzQuBk5YSN8KYq1rZnRd6WkMaAqD-EALw_wcB

(Baggy)

"Same pants!" I say, glancing down at his legs.

[Optional:Baggy]

My hero costume was sweatpants, a jacket, and a sports bra. Mind you, it was a full coverage bra, that made sure I was covered and safe. I would have worn something loose, but I couldn't for 3 reasons. 1) I needed to be able to fit my wings through the back and move them easily. 2) I couldn't wear a loose shirt while flying or it would tear off. 3) A loose shirt would be easy to grab during a fight.

I also wore sleeves to cover my arms, and weighted knuckle gloves. (gloves with hard stuff in the knuckles to make a punch hurt more)

(Sexy)

As I got to Bakugo, he said

"You better not be looking down on me bitch!" Which I thought was ironic, because I'm taller than him.

"It'd be hard not to. I'm taller than you." I lean in real close to intimidate him, but he freezes, and then as if shaking off a thought, frowns and yells,

"That's because you're in stripper heels you whore!"

"They aren't stripper heels, they're platform boots. Moron." Redhead stares wide eyed, as if he's expecting a bomb to detonate any second. I suppose in a way, it is.

"WELL HOW DO YOU EXPECT ME TO KNOW THAT!!! I BET YOU CANT EVEN FIGHT ME!! WEAKLING!! I'LL KICK YOUR ASS!!"

"Do you want some Zoloft or something? I can get you some." I really can, Kei knows a couple dealers, having made a few runs for extra cash. She mostly cuts contact with the shady stuff though.

"NO I DON'T WANT YOUR DRUGS YOU SHADY WHORE! FIGHT ME!!!"

"Hey bro, calm down! Let's make a plan for winning and proving we're the best at UA!" The redhead said, clearly trying to diffuse the situation.

"Stay out of this shitty hair!"

"TIME FOR CLASS TO START!" A booming voice yells. "THIS WILL BE A PARTNER ACTIVITY, SO PAIR UP! REMEMBER TO CHOOSE WISELY, TO BE THE BEST HEROES, ONE MUST WORK WELL WITH OTHERS!" Ha, looks like the Bakugo kid did not like that last part.

"WHY YOU LOOKIN' AT ME?!" He yells at Allmight.

People began to pair up, Uraraka and Deku, Bakugo and Kirishima, etc. The girls were crowding the split one, and the bird boy came over to me.

"Would you like to be my fellow partner of darkness in this activity?"

"Sure," I said.

"There are 30 of these sandbags hidden around the facility as hostages. There are also 20 of Ectoplasm's copies scattered around. They won't always be near the hostages. Once down, a copy will stay down. It is not required to fight any of the clones. Attacking anybody but the clones is prohibited. The team to rescue the most sandbags wins. You have 8 minutes to make a plan with your partner. Starting… now."

“What's your name?” I said. It's probably something emo or edgy af.

“Tokoyami Fumikage.”

“Ok, what does your quirk do?”

“This is dark shadow. He fights.” he said as a black mass with yellow eyes emerges from his back.

"So, you could fight clones while I look for hostages… but then we wouldn't be able to help each other… and my quirk's not very good at fighting."

"If we both go everywhere together we'll rescue less people, separating would be more efficient...but then what if the other finds someone? Maybe someone could

"I think that we should work together. We should set up a base and we can bring the bags there." I said. He nodded.

"Everybody line up! It's time to begin!" We did

"Ready! GO! PLUS ULTRA!" He shouted and we scrambled to the door. Someone jumped in through a window, her tongue hanging out.

Once in, I found myself in a maze. There were 4 hallways to choose from. I ran down the closest one, Tokoyami in close pursuit. I turned a corner to find a wall and a sandbag on the ground. This is easy. With no villains in sight, I pick it up and the door slams shut. A person shimmers into vision, one of the clones, because he's in Ectoplasm’s costume. He pulls out a knife and makes a jab at me. Tokoyami bangs on the door, but it's metal. I can easily move out of the way, because I live on the streets, and there are homeless drunks who will stab you, so Kei taught me how to dodge, grab their wrist, break it, and slam their head into the nearest surface. Unluckily for the clone, that was an iron door. It melts and leaves a button on the ground. I push it, and it opens the door.

We run a bit more, turning and twisting through the cemented labyrinth, until we find a clone. It has a few hostages, a big one and a small one. It must symbolize a kid. This clone just pulls a knife and slits the bigger bag open, the sand pouring onto the floor. I freeze. It grabs the small bag and holds a knife to it. He must not have a quirk because he hasn't used anything yet.

[thirdmagic]

i was going through some files and stuff and found a profile and my room lines for an older david alt i wrote up around two years ago, and i read it over and decided that i still like it so i’m going to dump this here and run away

My Room Lines

1 There is only one, in this world or any other, who I truly serve. Oh, but don't take this to mean you don't have my full cooperation. Rather, it would be more suitable for you to treat me as I were a general in your army, or a military advisor, more than a Servant. I would be more useful to you this way, rather than a single individual solider.'

2 For you, the leader of your army, to be staying in your room, bored, while your troops go off to work and make war... Master, such situations never lead to anything good, you know? It's a terrible waste of valuable time. Come, now, let's be off. There is a great deal to be done.

3 This is quite the role reversal for me, actually. You're like me in life; the head of a great and powerful army, and me, a soldier in the midst of the battlefield that you survey. It seems I've taken the role of your Joab, in fact... perhaps in the end I'm really meant to serve much more than to lead.

4 I will serve you, of course, to the best of my abilities. But I have no intent to stay silent, or go along with it blindly, if you act incorrectly. ... Of course, I do not expect you to act flawlessly at all times, either-- in your position, one often has to make difficult choices. Just keep it in mind.

5 (Archer David) Yes, yes, I know that other me is here. Please, don't remind me. Honestly... what's he doing, that stupid old man? Running around in the body of our younger self... does he miss our youth so much he's trying to recreate it? Delusional old pervert, that's what he is... don't trust him, Master. That he is a useless, frivolous slacker makes him seem harmless, but he's much worse! He's cunning and duplicitous and-- why are you laughing?

6 (Sheba) Ah, this woman-- I know of her. As a fellow monarch like her, and her rival, I respect her. As Solomon's father, I am wary of her, and hope she did not lead his heart astray. There will be some time before I can accept her into the family. Though, that said, if this is any indication of his taste in women-- well, now! Not bad at all.

7 (Avicebron) A great poet and philosopher, and a wise man. But one whose soul was deeply troubled, and who struggles with actions that have soiled his hands. But I won't disrespect him with my pity. All I can say is that I understand. True wisdom, after all, brings the heart a great deal of trouble.

(Bonus: I wrote this profile way before Atlantis/Olympus happened so I guess these don’t really work now but) 

8 (Solomon) ...  Master. For both our sakes. Please, do not urge me any more to talk to the boy. I realize you mean well, but nothing good will come of it. More than for myself, I've no doubt he'd rather I keep my distance. There is no room for me to interfere in his new life. -- And that's all I have to say on this topic.

9 (Goetia) So this is the... ah, creature? Who possessed my son's body and went around doing all sorts of undignified things in it to ruin his reputation... Hm? Why am I not angry over the attempted incineration of humanity? Well, I'm a little cross over that, but as long as he understands and takes responsibility for these actions, it's fine. It's not for me to judge him. But the other thing is just disrespectful and irresponsible! To mar Solomon's good name with actions he didn't even commit!

Likes Good food, good drink, and a warm, comfortable bed. Even though I am a spirit now who has no need of them, it's such simple, physical needs that are all I need to be satisfied. ... Oh, what other physical needs I enjoy? Haha! Now, that's something I'll tell you about when you're older.

Dislikes There once was a certain man who served me. A skilled and strong warrior whose resourcefulness and cunning I relied upon, and he, giving in to his bloodlust and self-interest, had betrayed me. You do not need to know the details, but I cannot and will never forgive him, and so, swear you one thing: that I will never act towards you as he did towards me.

Holy Grail I have no single wish, but I do have things I desire. None of these are things I would ever ask of the Grail, however. Many of these things are... just daydreams, and the rest are meaningless if I don't achieve them on my own.

Event I've heard that you've landed upon a rare opportunity; don't waste it. We must go see to it at once, Master.

Summon Ruler-Class Servant, David. I have answered your summons. Now, then, we have no time to waste. You have an important task ahead of you, and my intent is to ensure it comes to completion.

Bond

1 Hm. You're a fair bit more young than what I'd expected of the last remaining Master tasked with the world's salvation... I mean, in this era, it's unusual for people your age to take upon such heavily responsibilities, isn't it? Yes, you clearly require all the assistance I can provide.

2 You know, even if I was a king in life, you needn't treat me now as if that were still the case. After all, I have no country to rule over. Before I am a king and before I am a heroic spirit, I am a mere instrument of the Lord's will. And now, I fulfill my duty in this world by aiding in your cause.

3 You're like me, aren't you, Master? A young person, perfectly average, perfectly humble, thrust into the hands of destiny and put into an overwhelming role of massive responsibility. I said you're young, but truth is... I misjudged you. Whatever child you were once is gone. When I look at you, I see the eyes of a soldier, one worthy of being called a true warrior. How do you feel about it, I wonder? Are you angry? Sad? Frustrated? Does it pain you? I see you keep fighting, but is it with reluctance, or do you humbly accept that responsibility and put personal feelings aside, whatever they may be?

4 I apologize for my callous remarks earlier, Master. Oh, don't misunderstand me. I meant what I said. But I should not have been so callous and spoken so freely, and-- well, maybe I was really thinking of myself more than you. But what I said of you as a soldier and a warrior was the truth. You should take pride in your journey and all you've done to this point. As a Master, you have nothing but my respect and loyalty.

5 Master, do you know what makes a Ruler, in this system? Not simply a saint. An impartial, just person who can cast true judgment and perform their duty with no personal desires to get in the way. Don't you find it strange? To cast in this role a hedonistic king such as I, I who have fallen to my personal desires at the expense of my duty? And yet the generations after me, the world itself, all depict me as a righteous and pure man, an impartial judge. That is the man is who they all know me as. It's ironic. It's so ironic I don't know if to laugh or cry. But you know, I should like to do my best to be this sort of person, if I am to honor my descendants as they have honored me.

Profile

Default King David prefers to be summoned in the form of the young shepherd he was when he defeated Goliath, but here he's been summoned from the prime of his life the King of Israel. A great and powerful king who has brought about peace and prosperity through years of conquest and war, he has accomplished much within his reign.

Bond 1 Height & Weight: idk, taller than archer david, less twinky though, higher weight too Series: FGO original Source: The Bible Region: Israel Alignment: Lawful Neutral Gender: Male The skill 'Harp Of Healing' has been lost permanently in this form.

Bond 2

A brutal warrior and an eloquent poet. A just idealist, and a ruthless, coldblooded pragmatist. A dutiful king, devoted to God above all else, and yet a hedonist weak to material comforts and attractive women. A shrewd and cunning businessman who's always attentive to all goings-on around him, and an unfocused slacker who would happily spend all day up to afternoon lazing off in bed. Such is the sort King that the shepherd boy David became; a man full of many such contradictory traits coexisting within him. The earnest shepherd boy who defeated Goliath has since matured and wizened into an experienced warrior and become a true king, and with it, it seems as if his heart has hardened. His personality is aloof and distant, and rarely does he show anything of the carefree, friendly shepherd he prefers to be summoned as.  

Bond 3

Among David's many actions as king, one of the most famous would be the incident of his adultery with Bathsheba, wife of Uriah of Hittite.

In order to cover up their affair and Bathsheba's resulting pregnancy, David attempted to persuade Uriah to lay with her again after returning from war. Upon failing, he would order his men to leave Uriah behind to be killed in the battlefield. 

For this crime, David's family would have a divine curse placed upon it. Much of his later life would be marked by tragedy.

The child Bathsheba conceived from their affair died after only a few days, and his son Amnon would sexually assault his half-sister Tamar. In revenge, Tamar's full brother Absalom would conspire with his fellows to kill Amnon, and this act would have him be exiled by David in his grief. 

He would return only to lead a rebellion and attempt to usurp the crown, which drove his father out with his armies for three years, and in the final battle to retake the throne, he was killed by Joab, the commander of David's army and his right hand man, against David's explicit orders to spare him.

Bond 4

The Lord's Anointed A

A form of Charisma that applies the skill of Divine Protection towards the leader's army and allies. The skill of Divine Protection has been lost to this David when he had a divine curse placed upon him, but in exchange the protection can be applied to all allies outside of his blood family.

Curse On The House Of David EX

A crystallization of the curse placed upon David's family line directly by God. An embodiment of the path of bloodshed that has led to much success and victory as a ruler, yet a great deal of personal loss. The Servant container allows him to re-purpose this curse into a lethal weapon; the amount of power it grants him correlates to the damage it also automatically inflicts upon him, though the limit is that it cannot exceed what he himself cannot survive and it will ensure to keep him alive.

David himself, for his part, does not consider the self-inflicted damage neither penance nor some form of terrible suffering; rather, he stoically accepts it as a natural, unavoidable consequence.

Bond 5

Sacrifice NP description, too lazy to copypaste

Interlude

It's impossible to get any true answers about his feelings on the best of times. He finds is as difficult to understand his own heart as he does the hearts of others, and any moment he allows himself to be truly open only ever comes on his own choice and his own terms, often with great reluctance even then. Any question of his feelings that he does not want to speak of will be met with a distant, emotionless non-answer through which only a little bit of the truth slips through the cracks.

But it perhaps speaks of a certain immaturity still remaining that he is quick to express his emotions very openly and loudly the moment he does choose to open up. In spite of how he looks, he's actually very earnest and sensitive, and cries easily when upset. He'll talk about his feelings very beautifully and poetically in the heat of the moment, and afterwards go right back to closing himself off completely again and pretend nothing happened.

This all makes him sound terribly troublesome, but he's a loyal, dedicated Servant to any Master he finds worthy. It's not difficult to win his appreciation and respect so long as the Master is genuine and does their best to be righteous-- it's his full trust that's another matter entirely.

[ourcorny]

charactersssss (a constant wip)

annie morris … twenty-five. currently haunted by her paintings and doodles. how embarrassing! waitress, artist, medicated for an illness she doesn’t has. is actually just from a bloodline of cursed female creative types. more info can be found @tghluck. (fc: mary elizabeth winstead)

edward ainsley … sixteen years old, is actually fifty-seven, vegan vampire. utterly disliked by his vampiric peers due to his being turned into a vampire in his youth, rendered sixteen years old for life. has a tendency towards alcoholism in order to silence his cravings for blood since he deems vampirism altogether unethical. more info found @pastytwat (fc: craig roberts)

robbie moore … fifty. always one of those too big for his own boots kinda guys – one of the ‘i’m jumping ship as soon as hit eighteen’ types. that’s what he did, and that’s when he absolutely fucked it. ran his mouth too loud for too long and ruined any chances he had anywhere he went. robbie is a writer but his unwillingness to compromise with his work leaves him unable to find any real place in the industry. an absolute self publishing expert. to pay the bills he’s an english teacher but there’s no real passion for it. he came back to his hometown after struggling his way around the country and settled down in a marriage with his high school sweetheart that turned sour quickly. the pair never had children and were heading to a painful divorce when his wife passed away suddenly. years down the line and he’s still trying to wrap his head around it. jesus fuck this guy. (fc: marc maron)

tara shaw … thirty-four. owner of SHAWSPB, an independent publishing company ran (run? past tense…? it’s confusing) by one tara shaw, someone who needs to work on her social skills. as it seems, you can actually only reject so many people so many times before it bites you in the ass. more specifically (and more accurately), you can only reject so many people so meanly after you fire the companies’ reader because they’ve let one too many trashy reads out of the slush pile and you have to start wading through the heaving thing yourself. opening manuscripts seemed well and good and safe enough because all you’d be facing is words that were crappy in a worst case scenario, until late one night, you stumble upon something that a sour faced rejectee (yes, one that landed themselves with a personalised handwritten and very specific rejection from the woman herself) gets their pages in the pile. tara opens it and finds that it’s no story at all. it’s a string of nonsense – words that don’t exist, script she’s not sure she’s ever seen before, but transfixed on the page, tara shaw reads the thing front to back and the second she puts the papers down is hurtled into the space time continuum, left to float around in there til something grounds her back into the real world, when or wherever that is. it’s an act of karma, or something, and whenever she lands she pukes her guts out because that’s what that kind of thing does to the human body apparently. (fc: natasha lyonne)

genevieve walsh … seventeen. was made fun of in year six for choosing to go to an all girl’s catholic secondary school, her classmates saying that she would end up a lesbian. she did, though it was unrelated to her formal teaching. very unrelated. she has too much going on and is too moody for her own good. extra info can be found @genegrieve. 

morrigan kenny … age unknown. bringer of the apocalypse. wanders earth with her way too long hair (it collects twigs and mud) looking for someone to spend the rest of the end with.

alex … thirty-odd (undisclosed actual age) years old. she is yet to learn to do her taxes, and is for all intents and purposes: a con-woman. arguably not an ethical profession, charging the old and the gullible for exorcisms and that of a supernatural variety while having no knowledge of the subject. but a girl’s gotta make a living — volunteering yourself for stand up gigs at the same place night in night out with little to no compensation doesn’t provide much. she’s a kind person, if you ignore the conning, and is decent to talk to. will give away any information. whoops. (fc: jenny slate)

lou webster … seventeen. modern prophet. refuses touch with good reason (skin on skin means she see the other person’s skin melting off, right to the bone). regularly sees the end of the world and it gives her stomach aches. (fc: natalia dyer)

liv o'dell … twenty-nine. screaming messy would probably win the lottery (the luck of her) if she ever tried it, multiple time accidental murderer. makes no sense. is rude. is annoying. has a surprisingly sweet daughter (kitty). more info @heavyroads 

betty cloverfield … a twenty one year old motormouth who can’t hold down a single thing she’s meant to. she happens to have recently induced some type of magenta sensitive dissonance in her sensory processing that she can’t shake. it’s speculated by many that she’s taken one too many poppers and it’s taken its toll. (fc: kat dennings)

aiden ryder … seventeen years old. the angstiest, quietest idiot with four fully charged portable chargers to hand at any moment you will ever know. heavily associated with @optimistsclub​ (fc: jack kilmer)

mert james ... 21. a children’s author, the writer and illustrator of the BEWARE GIANT CREATRUES series. he has many reasons to not want to leave his house and most surround the obvious images conjured in the phrase hatemyself1999 — hate myself (explanatory) and 1999 (dexter ‘mert’ james’ birth year. also self explanatory once you know this fact). all that said, he does in fact leave his house. teaches drums to kids. none of them practise and it makes him insane. in a running circuit of bands where none of the members are committed. that, or he’s misjudging their commitment and giving them nothing when they do in fact care and then he is the dick. music snob, deadpan snarker, karma houdini, middle child syndrome, world of cardboard, can’t get away with nuthin, i coulda been a contender!

lazyguts / victoria ... suicide/eating disorder mention. i’m writing her through ages 17-19 and here’s the brief overview/context: lazyguts lost all of her friends the year before she went off to university as a result of her total withdrawal [causes being a) her brother attempting to kill himself (he survived but it’s very confusing to grieve a hypothetical especially when you’re not supposed to talk about it) and then b) her already struggling with food issues getting worse worse worse. these two things alone are not the reasons as no one else explicitly knows about them, but the adverse effects of these things combined make her difficult to be around/hard to maintain a friendship with her. all very tragic, but still happens. uno].going to a uni where she doesn’t know anyone seems like the best move. she does. she makes friends with a girl called olivia and they become mad close very quickly. this lasts maybe two months until lazyguts starts locking herself away in uni room and doesn’t see much of anyone at all. she has to drop out on mental health reasons just before the end of her first year. she moves back home and lives miserably and very solitary. she and olivia have long lost touch by this point. a few months later she sees an in memoriam post up on olivia’s social media from some of olivia’s friends saying how tragic the loss is, etc/ olivia had killed herself. the post had said something about a project for the close friends of olivia and she tentatively sends a message despite having never really known the girl. anyway, after quite a few ‘exaggerations’ and then a few straight up lies, she ends up super into the friend group of olivia’s based on the lie of being a long-time friend of hers. she’s not sure why the lie comes out nor why she keeps it going. it’s something to cling onto so she does. best way to put it is she’s very dear evan hansen about it, lying lying lying lllyyyinng. eventually she’s caught out but we’re not there yet (fc: odessa a’zion)

dale knox ... 30ish. painter/decorator. info literally not ever written out before. he’s lovely and in a constant state of stress! affiliated with @fullyfungi (fc: aidan turner)

lenny gata ... 26. lonely funeral poet. followed by a select few of the unknown dead #irl after an accidental latin spell read out at a graveside (not her fault, literally not her fault - she read this out in good faith). caught ignoring them/walking them to their homes depending on the day. (fc: aubrey plaza)

millie matthews ... 17. half part antichrist. the other half is her twin sister (#MISSING). currently, unfortunately, sadly, disappointgly, worryingly, being tracked down.

more tbaaaaaaaa thank you thank you

[rumir-has-it]

Head cannon Joans secretly a massive dork

I hope this works for your headcanon, I kind of went a bit off track and made it about Jecily as well

Rupert and Amir invite Joan to some fancy thing at the palace (as a guard or as a guest, it works either way)

They mention that they’re getting some well-known poet as entertainment

And Joan freaks out because it turns out this dude’s her favourite

He’d perform in the street near her house and she’d watch him whenever she could get away from helping her father

And the way he spoke inspired her to follow her own path in life

So she’s ranting about this to the boys and she’s got this massive grin on her face because she’s had no one her age to talk to this about before

Cecily’s somewhere nearby and she hears Joan so goes to investigate and watches from the shadows, thinking about how dorky and cute Joan is

So she pretends to like the dude too to try and relate to Joan

But she doesn’t know a whole lot and so Joan looks at her a bit weirdly and thinks Cecily’s making fun of her

Later on, at the fancy thing, Rupert mentions some book that he’s read and Joan’s like “I love that book!” and they start freaking out about it together - like a little mini book club

Cecily’s there, obviously, because she’s a lady and she’s watching from the other side of the room - her former and her new crush talking passionately about something (she still finds it adorable)

This time she decides to actually read the book so she can talk to Joan about it

And she actually really enjoys it

So she goes to Joan all excited like “oh my god this book is so good!”

Then Cecily, Joan and Rupert make themselves into an official book club, meeting once a week to talk about different books

Cecily doesn’t always participate but likes to sit back and watch Joan get excited (massive grin, laughing, letting her guard down)

One day, Amir interrupts to fetch Rupert for some sort of royal business and Cecily and Joan are left alone together

And Cecily smiles sweetly and says “you’re a massive dork, you know that?”

And Joan’s all flustered but Cecily interrupts before she can form a sentence

“It’s one of the things I love about you”

And Joan just stops and stares

Because she’s not used to being admired, and she’s never been complimented for being herself

And so she mutters out a “thank you” with a small smile

And they continue talking about that week’s book

Which develops into talking about their childhoods and their other interests

And maybe Joan realises that she misjudged Cecily all those months ago

And she smiles to herself

[doctorbonzo]

Doctor Bonzo Book of the Month (October 2020)

“Talking to Strangers” by Malcolm Gladwell

              I was really excited to read this book, which was recommended to me by a 4th-year medical student who I met at a conference in Portland, OR earlier this year. The concept of the book, as it was presented to me, was that we (people in general) don’t do a good job of communicating with other people that we don’t know, especially if they’re from different backgrounds than the ones we come from. In other words, we don’t know how to talk to strangers. I have definitely been on the receiving end of this over the past 15 years since I graduated from residency; there are times when I felt like I was from a different planet than my coworkers.

The concept behind the book was proven within the first few pages of the book; it became obvious to me that Malcolm Gladwell was a “stranger,” and my difficulty relating to him might impair my “communication” with him (communicating in the sense of receptive language/hearing what he is saying to me, the reader). The first passage that caught my attention was when he said, “I suspect that you may have had to pause for a moment to remember who Sandra Bland was.” For personal reasons, there are only 5 other deaths/murders in recent years—those of Trayvon Martin, Tamir Rice, Philando Castile, Ahmaud Arbery, and George Floyd—that have had a similar personal impact on me as the death of Sandra Bland. I mean, she was one of the main sources of the “Say Her Name” demand that we often saw from the movement for Black Lives. It’s difficult for me to relate to a world where people don’t remember who she is. If Gladwell remembers her, but suspects that his readers don’t, then that makes me wonder if this book was written for people like me.

Also early in the book, Gladwell frames the death of Sandra Bland as a “two sides” issue, which I feel is ridiculous (“Each side was right, in its own way”). Anyone who watches the video of Sandra Bland’s encounter with Brian Encinia and comes away with any point of view where Encinia is “right,” is absolutely a “stranger” to me. He also described the deaths of several other unarmed Black people in a way that disturbed me, such as saying that Freddie Gray “fell into a coma” as opposed to saying that he had his spinal cord severed. Again, I continued to read thinking that this book might give me some point of view that I had not considered in my communications with people from different backgrounds. After all, he ended his first chapter with a statement that I wholeheartedly agreed with: “If we were more thoughtful as a society…[Sandra Bland] would not have ended up dead in a Texas jail cell.”

 Liars

              I really enjoyed this key point of the book. Gladwell presented several historical examples of difficulty knowing when people are lying or not. From CIA agents who didn’t realize that Cuban spies had infiltrated their ranks, to Neville Chamberlain not realizing that Adolf Hitler was a genocidal maniac. These were examples of people whose lies went undetected; he also presented some good examples of people that society believed were lying when they weren’t. The most prominent example of that was the case of Amanda Knox who, I must admit, I thought was clearly guilty the moment I saw her making out with her boyfriend outside of the crime scene of her roommate’s murder. I live my life trying to give people the benefit of the doubt—innocent until proven guilty—but behavior that I deem atypical or bizarre often leads us to assume the worst about people. In some portions of the book, Gladwell presents situations where artificial intelligence/computers that can’t see a person do a better job than attorneys and judges at guessing when people are guilty. However, he didn’t mention Bias as one of the reasons for misjudging people once you can see them.

 Default to Truth

              The book mentioned a concept of the “Truth-Default Theory,” in which we assume that people are telling us the truth until enough doubts are introduced about them that we can’t explain away. Gladwell mentioned triggers that can “snap us out of” the default to truth but I was surprised that, by page 85, he still had not mentioned Bias as one of these triggers. It’s stunning that he doesn’t see Bias as a key barrier to our ability to communicate with or relate to strangers. The sections on espionage had “won me over” after the aforementioned disconnect re: Sandra Bland, but this is when I started to get the feeling again that our perspectives just weren’t aligned.

 Sexual Assault

              This is when Malcolm Gladwell just lost me; I think I will never be able to “talk to this stranger” about issues related to sexual assault and pedophilia. He seemed to offer up too many excuses for my comfort level when it came to understanding how sexual abuse runs rampant in certain situations. In the case of Larry Nassar, he seems to absolve Michigan State because even the parents of the abused women were fooled. He said that parents weren’t trying to protect financial interests, but we know this isn’t necessarily true; there are plenty of parents that care more about their kids’ success than they do about their kids’ safety, even if it is subconscious. Just look at the recent issue in my hometown, Savannah, GA, when parents refused to press charges after their 8-year-old son’s travel football coach repeatedly struck their son in the head for not playing well.

              Gladwell also gives the leadership at Penn State a pass with regards to their handling of Jerry Sandusky, and I had the impression that he thinks they were treated unfairly. He spent a lot of time trying to poke holes in the testimony of Sandusky’s victims, at one point raising doubt because former victims came to visit him later in life. I have seen people sexually abused by parents and siblings—in situations where the family members admit they did it—who still keep close contact with their abusers and even forgive them. That doesn’t mean that the abuser shouldn’t still be punished or scrutinized. Ironically, he is proving that he doesn’t know much about certain strangers, as there is no way he has spent a significant amount of time talking to sexual assault victims.

Victims of trauma all respond differently, which is one of his main points in the book (see the Amanda Knox section). Someone not remembering specific details, like the month or date that the abuse happens, doesn’t mean that it didn’t happen. Also, this book did not spend enough time discussing the easiest, indisputable point of the Penn State fiasco: a grown man should not be showering with children…period! One of the administrators involved said that Sandusky should have worn swim trunks. Are you kidding me?! How does Gladwell have any sympathy for people with this kind of decision-making? I just sensed too much of a vibe that Gladwell gives people a pass for not protecting victims of sexual assault. He spent a lot of time later discussing the link between alcohol and sexual assaults on college campuses during the section about Brock Turner. Like his views on Sandra Bland, I think we just have completely different points of view that will be difficult to reconcile, because he sounded like a rape apologist to me.

Suicide

              Now, I found this portion of the book to be completely fascinating, and I can imagine myself referring back to this section in the future. He describes a concept that I was previously unfamiliar with, known as coupling. Completed suicide is often coupled to “very specific circumstances and conditions,” which conflicts with the idea that if someone really wants to die by suicide, they’ll find a way to do it. As was the case of the poet Sylvia Plath’s death by suicide, intentional carbon monoxide poisoning (by placing the head of the victim inside of kitchen stoves) was a major problem in London during the 1960s. It was a relatively painless way to die without leaving behind too gruesome a scene (relatively speaking, of course; the death of a loved one is always terrible). Interestingly, as town gas was phased out and it became almost impossible to die in this way, the suicide rates dropped significantly.

              Gladwell also mentioned the Golden Gate Bridge, which I didn’t realize has been the site of the most suicides in the world since it was first built. For decades, advocates have encouraged San Francisco and/or California to build barriers or nets to prevent people from jumping off the bridge, but there has been push-back. Some opponents of suicide barriers argue that people will find another way to die, while Gladwell does a remarkable job of describing how this is not consistent with the historical evidence in support of coupling (see above). Of the 500+ people who were prevented from jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge in a study conducted over 30+ years, only 25 of them later died by suicide. The whole “motive + opportunity” thing applies not only to crime, but also to people who suffer from depression severe enough to lead to suicide.

 Policing

              After the Sandra Bland issue that I described above, I had a feeling that Gladwell’s policing commentary would be problematic for me. His foundational ideas were solid, and he described several studies that I was unfamiliar with. He provided compelling evidence that extra policing does not improve the safety of communities. In fact, society’s views of certain cities, or even certain neighborhoods, as unsafe are not accurate; police officers’ views of the most dangerous and violent blocks often don’t match up with actual statistics. Although he argues against more overall policing, he seems to advocate for more focused policing in areas that truly have higher rates of crime.

Gladwell describes one study as a “miracle,” but it sounded like a nightmare to me. In Kansas City, they focused their energy on a small, high-crime area known as District 144. The police used any excuse they could to stop people who looked suspicious between the hours of 7pm – 1am. Gun-related crimes were cut in half, but Gladwell didn’t mention all the innocent people who were pulled over, harassed, and traumatized. He comes off to me as an absolute “stranger” who doesn’t know how to communicate with African Americans like me if he couldn’t see how much of a nightmare this sounds like. Gladwell ends this section describing the police officers being in “constant motion,” and describes 948 vehicle stops in a 200-day period of time, resulting in 616 arrests, 532 pedestrian checks, and 29 guns seized. Are you kidding me?! More than 500 pedestrian checks?! You don’t see a problem with that?! This idea sounds a lot like the “Stop and Frisk” behavior in New York City during the Michael Bloomberg era. Also, he doesn’t say what the arrests were for, so I have no idea if they made the community any safer. Finally, he was oblivious to the fact that his stats meant that >300-400 people were stopped for no reason whatsoever.

I wonder if Malcolm Gladwell has ever been profiled by police. Has he ever felt the humiliation of being yelled at and treated like a criminal because you were trying to ask a police officer for directions? Has he ever had a police officer point a gun at him? I’m going to go out on a limb and say no based on his view of policing.

 Sandra Bland

              Similar to his introductory comments on the Sandra Bland case, the final chapter of his book (titled “Sandra Bland”) was very upsetting to me. He repeatedly says things that I can’t relate to like, “…we have decided that we would rather our leaders and guardians pursue their doubts than dismiss them.” Speak for yourself! I would rather the police dismiss their doubts about me as a law-abiding citizen instead of pursuing the idea that I’m up to no good. Gladwell did highlight something that I was unfamiliar with called the “Reid Technique,” which is a disgusting training program used by 2/3 of police departments in this country. However, similar to the sexual assault chapter, I felt that he passed the buck and blamed Brian Encinia’s behavior on the poor training that he received. He believed Encinia’s lame story that he actually feared for his life.

              If he led off the book with this entire Sandra Bland chapter, I doubt I would have finished the book. At one point, he said that Sandra Bland was “mismatched,” or that she looked like a criminal to Encinia even though she wasn’t one (he said that Encinia was “terrified” of her). I don’t see how anyone who watched that video could come to that conclusion. Gladwell has an obvious Eurocentric point of view that does not match up with my life experience. Her behavior was clearly annoyance at being pulled over, and Encinia did everything he could to provoke her; when she lit up a cigarette to help her relax in the situation, he made up a law so that he could assault and arrest her. The fact that Gladwell doesn’t see this, and the fact that he never mentions her race as a potential contributor, means that this book wasn’t written for people like me.

              In the last few pages of the book, I had difficulty determining if Gladwell was being naïve or dishonest. He actually states that Encinia was empathetic to Sandra Bland because he asked her “What’s wrong?” The question was clearly said in a sarcastic and provocative way if you watch the video. Gladwell believes the officer’s assertion that he was frightened by a “dangerous woman,” but he doesn’t try to explain why he would escalate things and become argumentative if he was so afraid of her. The author also tells the story of a young Black man playing basketball in Ferguson, MO who was profiled by police and accused of being a pedophile with no evidence. He describes it as a “mistake” and portrays this police behavior as police officers’ attempts to find a needle in a haystack. He does mention innocent people caught up in the middle, but never mentions that they are mostly Black and Brown people!

Finally, on page 337 out of 346, he mentions in the footnotes that “there is significant evidence that African Americans are considerably more likely to be subjected to…stops than white Americans.” That it took him this long to get here and that he doesn’t see racial bias as a major barrier in “Talking to Strangers” epitomizes my problems with this book. He concludes that Sandra Bland’s death happened because society does not know how to talk to strangers. He never considers that these deaths happen because of racism, or because power-hungry people in positions of power abuse their authority. Until he sees that the problem in the Sandra Bland case began with anti-Blackness as opposed to a faulty police manual, then I doubt he’ll ever get it. On the last page of the book, he said that Sandra Bland unfairly became the villain of the story in the end. Maybe that’s the case in his whitewashed world, but in the eyes of the people I know and love, Sandra Bland was a beautiful soul who had her life snuffed out too early. She was a martyr, and the blame for her death rests on Brian Encinia. Rest in power, Sandra Bland.

As for you, Malcolm Gladwell, your writing style grabs the reader’s attention, you have a way with words that makes it easy to fly through your book. I’m sure I will reference your section of this book on suicide in the future...but I doubt I will ever read another one of your books. You’re just too much of a stranger to me.

{FIN}

[mind-reader1]

Queen of Hearts (Ch.4)

Drake x MC (Emma Barnes)

TRR AU: What would happen if Emma loved Drake but had to marry Liam?

Catch up here

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2105

Summary: Someone’s learned Emma and Drake’s secret before the court even knows. What will this mean for them? Liam and Emma make an agreement before their announcement to the press and drunk Drake tries to be romantic. 

Note: NSFW coming next chapter!!!!! 

Chapter 4: Adore You (Miley Cyrus)

I love lying next to you

I could do this for eternity,

You and me were meant to be in holy matrimony

God knew exactly what he was doing

When he lead me to you

When you say you love me

Know I love you more

When you say you need me

Know I need you more

Boy, I adore you,

I adore you

Drake's eyes flew open and he sat up to find Maxwell in the doorway. Emma groggily opened her eyes at Drake's sudden movement.

“Shit.” She saw Maxwell's shocked face and realized they were still in their underwear.

“Maxwell. I need you to listen.” He had turned to run but stopped, his hand hovering over the handle.

“It's not what it looks like.” Maxwell kept his back turned while Emma and Drake got dressed.

“Really? It looks like you're naked in bed with Drake even though you're engaged to Liam.” Emma groaned it was exactly what it looked like.

“There's more to it than that Maxwell. I'll tell you everything if you promise to keep it between us.” Maxwell bit his lip and turned around.

“Liam is my friend Emma, but so are you and Drake.”

“I'm going to go,” Drake said awkwardly, slipping out past Maxwell.

“Take a seat, Maxwell.” Emma sighed before recounting the events of New York.

“I'm so sorry I brought you here Emma. I never meant for this to happen.” Emma let out a small chuckle as she wiped stray tears from her eyes. She grabbed Maxwell's hand and squeezed.

“Don't be Maxwell, you couldn't have known. Besides, you introduced me to the greatest love of my life, for that I'll be forever grateful, but maybe you could get into the habit of knocking rather than barging in?” Maxwell gave a small chuckle and pulled her into a hug.

“We're at the palace now. If I can do anything to make it easier let me know.” With that, he left her alone to collect her things.

As she approached the palace, Liam fell into step beside her.

“We should discuss what we're going to tell the court, the press will be here in an hour for a press conference.” Emma nodded.

“Now that my name is cleared we're happy to announce our engagement.” It wouldn't come as much of a shock to anyone, in fact, it had been the question on everyone's mind once her name had been cleared.

“That's perfect.” There was no enthusiasm in his voice though, he was still hurting.

“Olivia is on to us. She cornered me in my room last night.” Liam nodded.

“We do need to make some effort of looking like a happy couple in public.” Emma winced at his icy tone.

“Liam.” She stopped and grabbed his hands. He looked down at her and she saw just how much he was still hurting.

“You're my friend and I care for you deeply. I can't do this if we only pretend to be happy for the cameras. I cherish our friendship and I don't want to drive a wedge between you and Drake, he's going to need a friend.” Liam gave her an apologetic smile.

“You're right. I'm asking a lot of you and Drake, and if all you ask for in return is my friendship, I can definitely do that.” Emma reached up to cup his cheek.

“Thank you, Liam.”

They got everything inside and barely had enough time before the press were ready for them.

“Welcome back your Majesty, Lady Emma.” they both smiled and waved to the press.

“Thank you. It's good to be back home.”

“I'm going to ask the question that's on everybody's mind. You've broken off your engagement to Lady Madeleine, where do you and Lady Emma stand?” Liam looked at Emma who gave him an imperceptible nod. They knew this moment would happen.

“King Liam and I are engaged.” The press was stunned into silence for a moment, once the shock wore off everyone's cameras were flashing and the questions were coming at them rapidly from all directions. Liam held up his hand and the press immediately stopped.

“In addition per Cordonian law, Lady Emma will be the newest duchess of Valtoria!”

“That's quite an honor and a large responsibility. Do you feel you're ready to take on such a roll?” Emma stepped up to the mic and put on the smile she reserved for the press.

“I know that some may have their doubts, but I love Cordonia, I will honor the people and do what is best for them.”

“Well, we certainly look forward to seeing what you do. Thank you, Lady Emma, your Majesty.” With one last wave to the press, they entered the palace.

They had just finished the press conference when Hana and Drake came around the corner, Maxwell in tow.

“I told you we'd find them here,” Drake said.

“What's going on?”

“We're home in Cordonia. What better way to celebrate than by going to a beer garden!” Maxwell was practically bouncing with excitement.

“Hana has been looking at the menu for the past two hours and still hasn't decided.”

“There's just so much to choose from!” Liam chuckled.

“Well, I have meetings the rest of the day. If you wait until this evening I can accompany you.” Liam said.

“I'm sure we can find something to occupy ourselves for a few hours!” Maxwell bounded off to do God knows what and Hana wandered off, continuing to stare at the menu.

“Guess it's just you and me, Barnes.” Drake took a step closer but kept his distance as the palace was buzzing with staff.

“I guess so,” she took another step towards him.

“Lady Emma!” They jumped apart and looked up to see Constantine approaching.

“I was hoping I could borrow some of your time.” Emma gave Drake an apologetic look.

“Of course, King Father.” She followed him to a dining room of the palace where Queen Mother Regina was waiting. He apologized for the scheme against her and discussed her duties as the newest duchess of Cordonia. It was awkward, to say the least, but a necessary evil.

By the time the meeting was over, her friends were ready to go to the beer garden. They all laughed and drank, it felt like old times, they were able to forget their troubles. Everyone was dancing on tables, Emma even got Drake to dance with her. It was a rare sight but Emma had never had so much fun in her life. It was late when they returned to the palace, Emma didn't have too much to drink but Drake clearly had.

“Psst, Barnes.” Drake stumbled up to Emma as they walked in. Emma couldn't help but smile, he was trying to whisper but failed completely.

“How about I give you a tour of the palace?”

“I've seen it, Drake. We all live here.”

“No, no. A secret tour.” Emma stifled a laugh.

“What does a secret tour entail exactly?”

“I can't tell you because then it wouldn't be a secret.” Emma playfully rolled her eyes, it felt good to have fun after everything that had happened in New York.

“Okay, Drake. I'll go on this secret palace tour with you.” He grinned and laced his fingers with hers.

“Follow me.” Everyone went to their rooms while Emma and Drake snuck off to the Grand Ballroom. Drake pointed out a small difference in the molding then revealed a childhood story. As Drake recalled the story Emma could see it so clearly, baby Drake getting competitive with his friend. He tried to lean against the wall but misjudged and began falling, he caught himself and tried to play it off but he looked ridiculous. Emma smiled shaking her head, she would have so much fun giving him shit for this later.

“This way.” He slipped out into the hall and Emma followed confused when he stopped halfway.

“It's a hallway.”

“That's not what I wanted to show you. Look!” Drake dragged her to the window and pointed out. It was a view of the palace wall, not even a pretty fountain, it was literally just a wall.

“This is the best, best view in the palace.”

Emma suppressed a giggle and nodded.

“It really is something Drake.”

“It's just so beautiful and it reminds me of you because Emma...uh Barnes, you're beautiful.”

“I like drunk Drake, your inner poet comes out.”

“I'm not drunk, Barnes. You're just blurry.” Emma rolled her eyes.

“Thank you for taking me to this romantic spot Drake, I'm glad it makes you think of me.”

“I've wanted to show you this since I realized I had feelings for you, Barnes.”

“You're pretty sweet when you want to be Drake.”

“I'm glad you think so.” Suddenly Drake frowned.

“Wait. Shit. This wasn't the right window. It's this one.” Drake grabbed Emma's hand and tugged her down to a different window that had an equally boring view.

“Not to sound ungrateful, but was this the secret? I didn't think windows could be a secret.” Drake frowned shaking his head.

“No...no. There's more.” he looked around and then his eyes lit up, it was like a lightbulb had gone off in his brain.

“Over here.” He stopped outside of a door.

“This is Kiara's room.”

“Why do you know where Kiara's room is? Why are we here in the middle of the night?” A hint of jealousy crept into Emma's voice. Drake grinned.

“You're cute when you're jealous.” he tapped her nose.

“We're not here to talk to Kiara though, we're here to prank her.” Emma's jealousy melted away into amusement.

“This is a whole other side of you. Drunk Drake needs to make an appearance more often.”

“C’mon, Barnes.” Drake snuck into her room and then stood there.

“Okay, what's the plan here?” Drake shrugged.

“You brought me here without a plan?”

“I didn't plan this far ahead. What should we do?” Emma whispered into Drake's ear and a grin broke out on his face.

“That's a great idea, Barnes!” They got to work flipping over every piece of furniture they could, a harmless little prank.

“Let's get out of here before we get caught.” They slipped out of the room and moved on with the tour. Drake brought her into a grand library, books in every direction, old frescos painted on the ceiling.

“Wow.” Emma slowly rotated and took in the full beauty of the room. Drake strolled along the shelves, running his hand over the spines. Drake's shoulder bumped a pillar and Emma began to hear a series of clicks and whirs before a panel in the wall swung open.

“This way Barnes.” He led her into an old stone passage.

“Where does this lead to?”

“Nowhere. I used it as my secret hideout as a kid. Whenever I wanted some time to myself I would come here. Nobody knows about it, not even Liam.”

“Why show me then? Why not keep it your little secret?”

“I figured with everything going on, you might want a break. You can come hideout here whenever you want Emma.”

“You called me Emma again.”

“I guess I did,” his eyes lit up again, “that was the secret! Your name. This is cooler though.” He gestured at the passage around them.

“You should still tell me the secret though. You call everyone by their first names but me. Why call me, Barnes?”

Drake sat down, his eyes kind of staring off into space.

“I didn't want to like you, I didn't want to get close to you when you first got here. You're you though, after that, I was trying to hide how I felt about you. It just kind of stuck I guess, now it's our thing. Reserved for you and me. It feels weird calling you Emma.” He chuckled.

“Thank you for telling me, Drake.” He grinned.

“Thank you for coming on the exclusive Drake Walker secret tour, this concludes it.”

“I'd give it two stars,” Drake looked genuinely hurt, “I'm teasing Drake. Five stars. It was perfect.” Drake bowed and lead her out of the passage, making sure to close the door behind them. He escorted her to her room and stopped, swaying slightly.

“Maybe next time I can give you a tour of my room. An exclusive tour.” Drake's eyes widened as the realization of what she meant hit him.

“Why not right now?” He leaned in and Emma could clearly smell the whiskey on his breath.

“You're drunk Drake. You're the one who said you wanted our first time to be special, we should hold off.” She gently put her hands on his chest. Drake sighed.

“You're right. I'll see you tomorrow, Barnes.” He gave her a soft kiss and stumbled away to his own room.

Emma was exhausted as she collapsed onto her familiar bed at the palace. Despite everything that had happened on the train, Emma had a nice end to her night.

Tag List: @princesstopgun @choicesyouplayandmore @leelee10898 @speedyoperarascalparty @brightpinkpeppercorn @indigo39 @furiousherringoperatortoad @agent-bossypants 

[josieandthepussycatsofficial]

George Zimmerman admitted at his 2012 bail hearing that he misjudged Trayvon Martin's age when he killed him. “I thought he was a little bit younger than I am,” he said, meaning just under 28. But Trayvon was only 17.

...

People of all races see black children as less innocent, more adultlike and more responsible for their actions than their white peers. In turn, normal childhood behavior, like disobedience, tantrums and back talk, is seen as a criminal threat when black kids do it. Social scientists have found that this misperception causes black children to be ''pushed out, overpoliced and underprotected,'' according to a report by the legal scholar Kimberlé W. Crenshaw.

That's why we must create a future in which children of color are not disproportionately caught up in the criminal justice system, a world in which a black 17-year-old can wear a hoodie without being assumed to be a criminal. Creating that social change, however, has proved difficult. And that's partly because the concept of childhood innocence itself has a deep and disturbing racial history.

By understanding this history, we can learn why anti-racist strategies have hit some surprising limits, and devise tactics to confront or even avoid those roadblocks in the future.

The association between childhood and innocence did not always exist. Before the Enlightenment, children in the West were widely regarded as immodest beings who needed to be taught to restrain themselves. “The devil has been with them already,” the Puritan minister Cotton Mather wrote of babies in 1689. They ‘go astray as soon as they are born.”

In some religious traditions, children, as much as adults, were understood to bear original sin. Benjamin Wadsworth, a powerful Colonial-era minister, described children in 1720 as “sharers in the guilt of Adam” who have a “naturally sinful and guilty state.”

Enlightenment thinkers had different ideas: John Locke suggested that children were blank slates, and Jean-Jacques Rousseau portrayed them as connected to nature. The poet William Wordsworth imagined children as holy innocents who could lead adults to God. Rising forms of Christianity de-emphasized the idea of original sin.

While earlier generations had viewed children as miniature adults, 19th-century sentimentalists increasingly identified innocence as the single most important quality that distinguished children from their elders. By the mid-19th century, the ideas of childhood and innocence had merged. From then on, innocence defined American childhood.

But only white kids were allowed to be innocent. The more that popular writers, playwrights, actors and visual artists created images of innocent white children, the more they depicted children of color, especially black children, as unconstrained imps. Over time, this resulted in them being defined as nonchildren.

“Uncle Tom's Cabin,” one of the most influential books of the 19th century, was pivotal to this process. When Harriet Beecher Stowe published her novel in 1852, she created the angelic white Eva, who contrasted with Topsy, the mischievous black girl.

Stowe carefully showed, however, that Topsy was at heart an innocent child who misbehaved because she had been traumatized, “hardened,” by slavery's violence. Topsy's bad behavior implicated slavery, not her or black children in general.

The novel's success prompted theatrical troupes across the country to adapt “Uncle Tom's Cabin” into what became one of the most popular stage shows of all time. But to attract the biggest audiences, these productions combined Stowe's story with the era's other hugely popular entertainment: minstrelsy.

Topsys onstage, often played by white women in blackface, were adultlike, cartoonish characters who laughed as they were beaten, and who invited audiences to laugh, too. In these shows, Topsy's innocence and vulnerability vanished. The violence that Stowe condemned became a source of delight for white theater audiences.

This minstrel version of Topsy turned into the pickaninny, one of the most damaging racist images ever created. This dehumanized black juvenile character was comically impervious to pain and never needed protection or tenderness.

...

But black activists did not acquiesce to this power play. From the first moments when Topsy devolved into the pickaninny, African-Americans worked to counter the libel that their kids were not vulnerable and not really children. In 1855, Frederick Douglass made exactly this point in “My Bondage and My Freedom” when he asserted, “Slave children are children.”

In the next century, key players in the civil rights movement made childhood innocence central to anti-racist causes. In 1939, the psychologists Kenneth and Mamie Clark introduced the “doll test,” in which black children, when confronted with their own preference for white dolls, burst into tears. The Clarks' findings hit a nerve in part because they used symbols of innocence, dolls and sobbing children, to display the effects of racism. The Supreme Court leaned on these doll tests in its Brown v. Board of Education ruling, which outlawed segregation in public schools in 1954.

The next year, Mamie Till juxtaposed the bloated, pulverized body of her murdered son Emmett with a photograph of him as a smiling schoolboy. The lynchers had defined Emmett as a sexual threat, but his mother made America see him as a kid.

In these cases, black activists captured the political power of childhood innocence, which had previously supported white supremacy, and repurposed it for a civil rights agenda. But there's a catch. As the poet and feminist theorist Audre Lorde wrote: “The master's tools will never dismantle the master's house. They may allow us temporarily to beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change.” This is exactly the case with anti-racist uses of childhood innocence.

The Clarks, Mamie Till and others used childhood innocence to make important political gains, but their use of the “master's tools” ultimately could not erase the racial connotations of childhood innocence itself. And so studies continue to show that black children are seen as less innocent and more adultlike than their white peers.

...

It's time to create language that values justice over innocence. The most important question we can ask about children may not be whether they are inherently innocent. Instead: Are they are hungry? Do they have adequate health care? Are they free from police brutality? Are they threatened by a poisoned and volatile environment? Are they growing up in a securely democratic nation?

All children deserve equal protection under the law not because they're innocent, but because they're people. By understanding children's rights as human rights, we can begin to undermine the political power of childhood innocence, a cultural formation that has proved, over and over, to be one of white supremacy's most potent weapons.

[tillymint7]

Melissa Gordon 👏🏻💕 (I still have a few names to add to this post and images)

Melissa’s is an American painter currently working in Berlin. Her work is really interesting and thought provoking it concentrates on the idea of gesture and what a gesture is. Melissa explains that gestures is the thing that exists between the index and the icon, the moment of transition between the idea and the finished painting. 

Gesture is the back bone of Melissa’s practice. She talks about her work in such a poetic and articulate way. The icon also made me think of movie icons. In someways paintings become icon’s they almost have their own personality like film actors they become encapsulated and etched into history. Film is a running thread throughout Melissa’s work. Melissa talks about painting coming into existing it is almost a catalogue of its birth. 

Melissa talks about the gesture being the space between the poet and the actor. In which she explains that the poet creates, but often does not perform, whereas the actor performs, but does not create, meaning that the gesture is the bit that exists in the space between, which she describes as a look or the movement of a hand that allows the narrative to come alive.

Melissa uses a mixture of methods, mediums and disciplines her painting are creates using photography, silk screen print, painting, found objects, surfaces, architectural structures these structures then become part of the spaces that they inhabit, the structures themselves are almost sculptural.

Melissa paintings stretch beyond the canvas to installations. She talks about the structures dissecting the room, some parts seem to create a kind of negative or positive visualisation of a maze. An internal or external reflection. Almost existing and becoming part of the architectural space itself, bleeding from one to the other like the fluidity of the paint.

Melissa sees the paint as a metaphor for water and the water is a metaphor for women. She talks about how women throughout history are often described as leaky vessels or cracked pot unable to be contained often clogging up machinery and causing disruption. Melissa’s work is allowing the painting to break free from the canvas and the reach out into the atmosphere without the limits of their containers.

She talks about her earlier photography work existing on imaginary surface of glossy paint, which causes the images to seem disembodied or floating on the surface. They are disconnected, but still contained by the canvas, which in turn is contained by the architectural structures, which is contained within the room so really her current work is also about reaching out and expanding, but this also reminds me of my work bursts out into the space around me. Melissa talks about containers and layers, which is a very similar language that I apply to my own work. Layering ideas, collaging images and footage, multiple contexts, containers and meanings. It’s why Im drawn to a multidisciplinary practice.

Melissa talking about containers and water reminded me of a quote by Yoko Ono. I became obsessed with this quote last year. The quote ended up become part of my prints: ‘We are all water in different containers, so let's evaporate together.’ We are after all are one race the human race. We all consist of over 80% water we are all ruled by the moon. Weather we like it or not we are all one with the world around us. It always try to remember that the more detached we are from our environment the more broken we become. We are everything and everything is us and our reality is merely perception. 

Melissa prints are silk screen prints, which she calls Female Readymades. They consist of sections of work surfaces and found objects. The objects themselves are printed true to life. The prints depict cleaned surfaces, work spaces, floors and brush bristles. Melissa describes them as reminiscent of crime scene photography. They almost look like they are back lite like an X-ray or a film negative which once again ties in the subject of film and documentation. 

Melissa used fencing, warning tape, signs, clothing, chains, ropes, which to me all talk of boundaries limits and restrictions. Representative of women's constant struggle to be accepted in a male dominated world. A women with something to say is often cast aside. Labelled as emotional, sensitive (although emotional and sensitivity are positives in my eyes) crazy, bossy, bolshy, aggressive, controlling, loud, manipulative. Where as a man would be described as strong minded, ambitious, forthright, knowledgeable, a leader, confident etc etc. This toxicity is engrained in every facet of our society so no wonder women crack. Theres no wonder we feel trapped and contained. As Melissa says let's become the water and break free. Any form of oppression will create a inevitable response.

There is a constant daily feeling of being misinterpreted and misjudged. I know I deal with this struggle. Societies expectation of what a women is allowed to be has lead women (including myself) to constantly apologise and constantly edit and doubt what we are allowed to say, which in turn leads to low self esteem, low confidence and self doubt. We are capable of doing anything if we just allow ourselves to believe in our own ability to be ourselves. 

Melissa uses space is such an interesting way, she talks about the space between or the gaps between, which funnily enough is also the name of a piece of work I made during lockdown and is the way I see my observational videos and photos as spaces in time, the gaps where Im most in connection with the world around me. Like the gestures the moments I capture are of chance observation where the lines of existence are blurred and interruption from reality I feel like those are gaps that connect everything. Like the gaps that connect Melissa painting. I find it interesting that she sees these painting like sections of film which are records of reality. I also find so much beauty in unintended marks that are permanently recorded her work is such a beautiful visual interpretation. 

Melissa’s work is a tongue in cheek take on an abstract painting not intended to be merely decorative like most Abstract painting could be perceived. Melissa’s work explores documentation of the unintentional. Her prints remind me of the ghost prints I use the get from my lino cuts or press prints. I actually used to layer them too. Strangely enough I also collect marks and stains from paint like records of matter creating patterns. I love the look of organically formed impression. I also created a slippage piece during the first lockdown that ended up moving from painting to photography. The work itself no longer exists in the same form it was photographed in because initially it was juts a record of the process. Like Melissa says it is a gesture that I see as site specific. It's a gesture to me that could not be truly replicated again unless photographed so I suppose it could be seem as a way of preserving or containing its creation.

Melissa also talks about her interest in film being linked to her paintings and prints. The painting themselves resemble stills or negative with the gaps on the wall being the places where gestures lives.

Melissa’s Female Readymades were inspired by the under representation of female artist and the speculation about the authorship of Marcel Duchamps ‘Fountain’ by Elsa Von Freytag - Loringhoven and xxxxxxxx. Her works talks about this idea that many female artist authorship for their work was stolen. It’s still happening to this day. Funnily enough, I did an essay on Duchamp's work Estant Donnes, in which I discussed the speculation surrounding the fountain and it’s authorship. I think it is really important for female artist and artists in general to keep writing about these things. 

I though it was really interesting that Melissa used a photograph taken in Marcel Duchamp’s studio, which depicts the fountain being hung. Melissa saw this as a rather aggressive thing for Marcel to do. She disgust its disappearance and that fact that Marcel did not calm authorship for many year. Melissa didn't seem to think there was any evidence, but after my research during my essay I actually think there is quite a lot of information out there and I don't think its merely speculative either, there are some really interesting detailed published papers that really made me think. 

Melissa said something really interesting. she said that was should let the history speak for itself and I completely agree. The more people research these works and others like them the more these artists will be recognised and come to light within the wider community.

Melissa was really helpful in both the Q&A and the one to one. She suggested some really I nteresting artists and books for me to read. As well as a feminist discussion and reading group. 

Recently been suggested that maybe I should concentrate on one thing, which I appreciate the advice very much, but I really don't work like that. I don't think like that either. My work may be perceived as a globular house by some or confusing and unclear by others. Melissa even said it doesn't have to be tidied up, which I thought was a good analogy, we digest and tidy up what we are thinking and what we want to portray. I don't like to be put in a box or contained so why start now. I just have to share what I want to share in a thoughtful way. I was thinking about this in the context of my instagram account. To me is not a collection of works, but more a display of progress and documentation so maybe that is also the work?

Why should any artist drop things that interest them. In my opinion it all adds to their practice. To become more palatable to a viewer is to become a product designer not a fine artist. If my work appears confusing it is probably because Im still simmering. As Rory always says it will all make sense in the end and I think it finally is. The Meaning and connections take time. I like my grainy over saturated photographs. I feel they are fitting in our existential world. I also enjoy blurry distorted close up images and videos. Reality isn't perfect. 

I also spoke with Melissa about water being a running theme in my work and talked about Hydro Feminism. I looked this up straight after the one to one and I was blown away. The movement of solidarity for people across bodies of water. I will have to add this as a separate Tumblr entry. I have far too much to add about it. This subject is so interesting and so apt to my practice. 

It was an absolute pleasure to meet Melissa. Im really looking forward to following her work. She has an exciting installation planned where she will be recreating the interior wall of both Elsa Von Freytag - Loringhoven and Jenny xxxx apartment walls. The viewer can walk through their passed living space. As an installation artist this really speaks to me. The floating walls are like a ghost of their passed and viewer is almost existing between dimensions of reality become part of the past and the present, which is a running theme in my work too. Its absolutely brilliant. I really look forward to seeing it coming to fruition.  

[weeklyhumorist]

I’m the Guy who Makes the Fake Crowd Noise at Baseball Games, and Yes, I Have Been Secretly Inserting Rupi Kaur Poems

Hey guys,

I’ll start by saying that being a sound mixer is not as glamorous as the worst part of the Oscars makes it seem. Some of my recent “gigs” have included sitting in front of a crackling fireplace for 10 hours and filtering Michael Barbaro’s nonsensical pauses out of interviews, the auditory equivalent of draining salt from the sea. So, as you can imagine, I jumped at the chance to create fake fan noise to accompany the dystopian human cut-outs in baseball stadiums. At first, I was doing a “good job,” but then I had a better idea; I decided- let’s show those sound editing guys how to really “steal focus from the things people actually care about”! I played maniacallaugh.wav and then downloaded the audiobooks of Rupi Kaur.

Like all menaces to society, I started small. It was the bottom of the 5th, and after their third out, the Cardinals left a man “stranded” on base. “Aww, shucks!” said the voice of a child. “Booo!” grumbled an inebriated male. Then, from amidst the general discontentment, a serene, ethereal proclamation: “fall/ in love/ with your solitude.” Boy, what a rush! I hadn’t felt that alive since playing the wrong track for Ashlee Simpson.

Once I got a taste, I couldn’t stop. “Let’s go Pirates!!!” screamed the “crowd” at the beginning of a home game. “C’mon ‘Buccos!” cried a local. “your name is/ the strongest/ positive and negative/ connotation in any language/ it either lights me up or/ leaves me aching for days,” said Rupi, truly articulating the experience of rooting for a team that’s 4–16.

The game began, and soon the opposing coach got mad at the referee over a perceived misjudgment. “Grow up!” screamed a fan. “Play the game!!” yelled another. Rupi cleared her throat, hydrated; “a lot of times/ we are angry at other people/ for not doing what/ we should have done for ourselves,” she declared. “Yeah!!!” cried the peanut guy.

At a certain point, however, Rupi began to go against the general sentiment of the crowd, focusing less on the statistical minutiae of the game and more on its implications for the human condition. When a Pirate managed to “steal” second base, he was met with enthusiastic approval from the crowd. Rupi, on the other hand, found cause for concern: “you have so much/but are always hungry for more,” she chastised the runner. “stop looking at everything you don’t have/ and look around at everything you do.” The player blushed, looking back at first base with remorse.

As my experiment continued, I began to lose control, and soon my work was causing controversy among the public. It turns out that Rupi Kaur poems are somewhat of a millennial dog whistle; people were watching the same game but having very different auditory experiences. If you’re a quarantined 20-something who’s been watching baseball with your family, you’re probably familiar with the following exchange:

“Nice hit, Trout!” says Dad.

“Succinct metaphor, Rupe!” you cry.

“He’s out!” cries Dad.

“She’s melancholic yet introspective!!!” you scream.

“Wow,” says Dad. “I like the crowd noise. It’s like you’re there!”

“I agree!” you say, “if by there, you mean perched on a rock overlooking a forested valley, a brisk autumn wind biting your cheeks as you contemplate the closure of a chapter in your life, a chapter that’s setting like the sanguine sun before your eye-

“[Your name],” he says. “What the fuck are you talking about!?”

“Dad,” you say. “It’s poetry!”

“NO,” he yells. “It’s BASEBALL. We should have never sent you to [liberal arts college]!!”

Of course, you were both right. Which is why I’m coming clean; I don’t want to drive a wedge between American families during this difficult time. Intergenerational conflict is bubbling throughout this nation, over important topics like unemployment, healthcare, WAP, who ruined the world; the last thing we need to be arguing about is subliminal Instagram poetry. I could even see this issue taking up important airtime in this fall’s political debates (Kamala is the only one who hears it). I know I’ll suffer personal and professional consequences for coming clean, but I’ll sacrifice my well-being for the comfort of the American people, just like the players themselves.

Now that we’ve reached the Scooby-Doo unmasking moment, there remains only one question: Why did I do it? Was it a mental break? A desperate call for help? By way of an answer, allow me to emulate my favorite poet, a prolific author with a gift for profound brevity;

sometimes, in life,

you just want to watch

the world

burn.

I’m the Guy who Makes the Fake Crowd Noise at Baseball Games, and Yes, I Have Been Secretly Inserting Rupi Kaur Poems was originally published on Weekly Humorist

[junker-town]

The Assassination of Arsenal Football Club by the Coward Helios

Photo by Harriet Lander - Chelsea FC/Chelsea FC via Getty Images

Sure, it might LOOK like Chelsea women beat Arsenal, 4-1, but that’s only because they unfairly invoked the powers of the sun.

When Graham MacAree, SB Nation’s editor in chief, and I arrived at Meadow Park to watch Arsenal take on Chelsea in the women’s division, we stood by the barrier surrounding the field after entering from the right side of the main stand. He is a Chelsea fan, and I am an Arsenal fan. He bought the tickets for my birthday, and I was sure going in that Arsenal, the best team in the league, would win easily.

While I was comfortable with the prospect of watching the game from there — this is before we were told you could not stand by the barriers but had to be in the stands proper — Graham squinted while trying to look at the goal by the North Terrace and complained that from our vantage point the glare of the sun would make enjoying the game difficult. It was at this moment I should have known who the true enemy would be.

In Plato’s Republic, Socrates criticized the poets for their depiction of the gods. For him, the gods were perfect beings in body and behavior. The gods of Homer and Hesiod resembled humans in that they lied, were vain, selfish and frivolous, and therefore not true gods. They were a corruption of the godly ideal. Socrates’ gods were the source of good but not evil, while the gods of the poets could be just as flawed and malicious as ordinary human beings.

In the same book, Socrates makes a distinction between the visible and invisible gods. The likes of Zeus, Hera, and Athena were invisible. They were the gods of the civilized world who cared about human life and might manifest themselves to people when they wished. Visible gods were gods whose presence was etched in the heavens forever — they are everlasting. These gods were celestial objects like the moon, the planets, and the sun, which Socrates calls the “child of goodness.”

If Socrates’ sun is akin to goodness, then it was replaced by an imposter when Chelsea’s women beat Arsenal, 4-1. A perfect being would not have interfered. It was rather the sun god of the poets, Helios in particular, the coward, who decided to tip the scales in a simple football game. For reasons unknown to us mortals, he made sure Arsenal suffered a heavy defeat on the day I visited.

The evidence is in Sam Kerr’s goal, Chelsea’s second. Kerr is known as one of the best players in the world but hadn’t scored since moving to Chelsea, and there was nothing about her play before the goal that was particularly threatening. At one point, she even miscontrolled the ball with her knees. Then a long cross from the left wing came into the six-yard box, a cross the goalkeeper should have easily collected. She didn’t, and it floated perfectly into the far post for Kerr to head in.

#BarclaysFAWSL account: OPENED ✅@samkerr1 is up and running for @ChelseaFCW #ARSCHE pic.twitter.com/1eT1Wg9h9c

— Barclays FA Women's Super League (@BarclaysFAWSL) January 19, 2020

At first, it looked like the Arsenal keeper, Manuela Zinsberger, misjudged the flight of the ball. But Graham and I were standing right behind her goal throughout the first half. It was not a mistake of judgement. She was blinded by the sun.

When the ball was high in the air, Zinsberger couldn’t see it. She was looking in the sun as she tried to track it, which comes with the obvious painful consequences. It is why she stuttered about as the cross came in, knowing the ball must be somewhere close but being unable to see exactly where. And when it did appear, it’s too late. Kerr got her first goal not because of anything she did, but because of the spiteful god of the sun.

In myth, Helios is rarely portrayed as behaving badly. Maybe because the sun was naturally associated with goodness as the bringer of life, or maybe because Helios was eventually replaced by Apollo. In most of the stories in which he is involved, however, he resembles the exalted god of Socrates more than a god of the poets.

The most famous story of Helios involves his son Phaeton. Phaeton, in a bid to prove he is the son of a god, asks his father for a favor. Helios promises to do anything his son wants. The boy asks to drive the god’s chariot. Since a god cannot take back a promise, Helios reluctantly abides by the deal and tries to instruct the boy on how to properly drive the sun around the Earth. The horses, quickly realizing the son was not the father, run out of control and Zeus is forced to kill the Phaeton in order to prevent the destruction of the world. Accidentally setting up your son’s death is bad, but all Helios could really be blamed for was loving Phaeton too much.

The cruelest thing he did came after he disclosed the affair of Aphrodite and Ares to Aphrodite’s husband Hephaestus. In an act of revenge, Aphrodite, the goddess of love, makes Helios fall in love with Leucothoe while he was courting another woman, Clytie. Clytie, becoming jealous, spreads the rumor of someone defiling Leucothoe, word of which reaches her father, who then buries his daughter alive.

Clytie believes the elimination of her competitor would win her Helios’ love again, but he hates her instead. He shuns her, refusing to allow the light of the sun to fall on her. She wastes away in sorrow, always turning her head toward the sun in hope of a glance. After her death, she is transformed into a heliotrope, which follows the sun throughout the day.

Though he is generally shown being better than the rest of the gods around him, Helios is still capable of cruelty. If he was a perfect being, the height of goodness, hatred would be an emotion beneath him. Even if we didn’t have the story of Clytie to look at, a fair assessment of Arsenal’s match against Chelsea would be ample evidence for his capacity for cruelty.

Two of the four goals Chelsea scored came from the left side, where the keeper couldn’t see because of the sun. They were the second and third goals, which put the game beyond the Gunners.

Just as with Kerr’s goal, Sophie Ingle’s incredible volley lost its shine (editor’s note: LOL) because of the simple fact Zinsberger had a hard time gauging where the ball was. In high-level sports, every millisecond counts in order for a player to be effective. That Zinsberger constantly had to hesitate before trying to make a save was fatal to Arsenal’s chances. Rather than turning away from Arsenal, leaving the team to shrivel up in the shadows, Helios turned his blinding glare to the team and its goalkeeper, allowing their weaker opponents (editor’s note: LOL), Chelsea, to put the game beyond doubt.

Helios’s final bout of hatred came when Chelsea scored their fourth goal. Arsenal had been dominating the ball and creating chances, and the goal came against the run of play to deny all hopes of a comeback. As Chelsea were celebrating, the sun went behind the south stand. I looked at Graham and laughed. If I had a bow and arrow at the time, I would have shot it toward the coward in charge of our solar system. Coincidentally, if there could be any coincidences in that game, Arsenal scored their only goal in the encroaching darkness of late afternoon.

As we walked out of the gates and away from the stadium, I wondered whether I had done something to incur Helios’ displeasure. Arsenal were top of the league going into the game, and no one would have imagined they would get beaten by Chelsea in that manner. The only change from all of their games and the one I watched was I was present. I had come to enjoy the exploits of Vivianne Miedema and Kim Little. Had I brought the wrath of the sun upon them?

But to blame oneself for the cruelties of a god is egotistical. It’s to assume I am the sun around which the worlds revolves around. It’s to also forget Helios is one of the gods of the poets. He is not a perfect being, and no matter how well he is written of, he still retains the capacity for maliciousness. He doesn’t need a reason, nor would those reasons be available to mortal men like myself. Maybe Chelsea had called on him for help. Maybe he was angry at being made insignificant by Apollo. All I can do is speculate.

As Graham and I went home and he boasted about his team’s victory, I thought of a scene from the video game God of War 3 in which Kratos, the protagonist, finds the wounded Helios in the city of Olympia after knocking the god from his chariot. Helios pleads for his life but eventually Kratos rips off the god’s head and begins to use it as an enhanced flashlight.

When I was young and first played the game, I thought the scene was too brutal and unfair to Helios. Now, after watching Arsenal improbable defeat to Chelsea, aided by coward Helios, which is the only sensible explanation for the defeat, I dream of being able to defeat the god in the same way. Then I could use his head to light the way forward for Arsenal’s eventual league title.

[tavoriel]

"turn your wounds into wisdom" for made-up fic title

Turn Your Wounds Into Wisdom

Having a jetpack makes exploring easier, except for when it makes exploring harder because you misjudged where a rocky outcrop was and flew into it and hit your head.

Peebee helpfully shouts “RYDER’S DEAD!” in horror.  A little more helpfully, Drack motions for Peebee to stay where she is and lumbers over to where Ryder landed.  He doesn’t say anything, just carefully watches her take stock of her injury and catch her breath.  When she moves to stand, he holds out his hand for support and she takes it.  His observations have satisfied him, and he’s relaxed considerably.

“Sorry, I was trying to get to the… I didn’t see the…” Ryder starts to say, but he closes his eyes and shakes his head, he isn’t annoyed.  “Thanks,” Ryder settles on.  “Helmet did its job.  I’m okay!”

“Ha!  Knew you were tougher than the rock,” Drack says approvingly.

This feels suspiciously like a mentoring moment, or at least an opportunity to learn.  It sticks out to Ryder how nonchalant Drack has been about the whole thing, and that fits things she already knows about krogan.  “Your people have a really practical outlook about pain, right?” she tries, respectfully and curiously.  “Turn wounds into wisdom, that kind of thing?”

“No,” Drack says.  “Well. Yes, all of that poet stuff; but we also yell at the rock for being in our way.”

Ryder laughs, but Peebee says, “Well, okay… let’s yell at it.”

And they do.

[literarybex]

A Year in Reading: Some Analytical Surprises

A while back Amanda Nelson over at @bookriot shared a spreadsheet she made in order to track her reading.  Now, I am not an analytical person, but I decided to try it out.  See if I could learn anything interesting about my own reading habits that I maybe didn’t already know.  

In 2016 I tracked every book I read, started but never finished, listened to on audiobook; marked down the date finished, if the author was a man or a woman, their nationality, POC, genre, etc.

Things I already knew: 

1) I read a lot of books from the US.  Understandable as I live in the USA, I am from the USA, I read English and the majority of books from the USA are written in English.

1a) The second most common nationality is the UK.  Also because of the ‘written in English’ thing, and because I’m a bit of an anglophile - did my semester abroad in Canterbury, generally love 19th century British literature, British period pieces and comedy, etc.  

I also reread the entire Harry Potter series the beginning of last year.

2) I prefer to read women.

I don’t have anything against male authors, and, obviously read them too, but I tend to gravitate toward women authors, especially in specific genres: romance, mystery, scifi.  Often because there tend to be sex scenes in genre fiction and, as a woman, I find men write terrible sex scenes.  Women do too, but with far less frequency.

3) I get through non-fiction easier when I’m listening to the book.  I don’t retain as much as when I physically read a book, but I actually finish non-fiction on audiobook way more often than reading.  Even if it’s something I’m interested in, like nature writing, or a memoir, I almost never finish the book.  I am currently half-way through two nature books: one on narwhals, another on octopuses - two of my favorite sea creatures, two very well written and researched books, but I’m still stalled.  I get busy reading fiction and don’t think to pick up the non-fiction again.

Things I didn’t know/surprised me:

1) The female to male author ratio is more unbalanced than I imagined.  Of the forty, or so, books I started reading in 2016 31 were written by women and only 8 were written by men.

Now, seven of these books are J.K. Rowling, but still that reduces the first number to only 25.  That’s still a huge difference.

2) The male to female protagonist ratio is a lot closer than I imagined.  I always thought I gravitated toward female protagonists, but last year I read 11 books with a male protagonist; 17 with a female protagonist; 10 that had protagonists of both genders; and 1 other (robot).

This really surprised me.  Especially since many of the books I listened to were women comedy writers/actors/tvwriters’ memoirs.  Despite the 9 women’s memoirs/personal essays I either listened to, or read (exception: I Am Malala), the m/f ratio is still really close. 

3) I read a lot of New Books.  In the past I have been known for rereading books.  As a teenager my sisters used to marvel, asking me how I could read a book when I already know what happens.  It was never about finding out what happened, it was about revisiting old friends, seeing new details I maybe missed the last time through (I’m a fast reader, sometimes I skim), and really appreciating the writing (see, I’ve always been meant to be a writer).  I reread Little Women so many times I started skipping to my favorite parts.  In the 8th grade I read The Westing Game about seven times in a row.  I’d finish the book, flip it over, and begin again.

But this past year I read 31 new books compared to the 9 re-reads.  One reread was for the Library book club: I Am Malala, the other was The Secret of Chimneys the great Agatha Christie - geo-political mystery romance that I reread after watching the TV adaptation of the novel into a Miss Marple mystery and the wild liberties the writers took.  The rest were Harry Potter.

4) I don’t love Book Club as much as I thought I would.  My degree is in English: I love talking about books; it’s in my people’s DNA.  But almost every book I read for the local book club I just hated.  And I hated the discussion.

Before you start telling me it’s a point of view thing, that isn’t it, entirely.  I have discussed many books I didn’t like with friends and in literature courses and wound up leaving the discussion with a better understanding of the novel, what I didn’t like about it, and what I’d misjudged.  But the discussions of the books I haven’t liked at book club are the ones I’ve left feeling even more vindicated in my profound dislike.

Ok, it is a point of view thing.  I notice specific things when I am reading.  I look for certain elements.  I break down and analyze a novel while I am reading it.  I process information in a specific way.  A way that is different from, it seems, most of the people who attend this specific book club.  The things I find I really hate about the books I’ve read with them: they all love.  And the other way around: the things they hate, I often like.

4a) But I like the @vaginalfantasy Book Club very much - this is how I know it’s just that one book club I’m not interested in.  I like the way Felicia runs VF - she does a good job of keeping them on track.

4b) I think I need to start my own book club.  Who’s in?

5) I only read 7 POC authors last year.  Like male/female authors it isn’t something I think about when I choose a book.  I choose what book to read based on my interest level in the story/content.  Of the seven books I chose only three of them on my own, without anyone suggesting it to me.  That’s startling.

1.Why Not Me? by Mindy Kaling, 2. Suck it, Wonder Woman by Olivia Munn, and 3. You Can’t Touch My Hair by Phoebe Robinson were all books I sought out on my own.  But the others were either recommended to me by friends, or read only because of a book club.  4. The Twentieth Wife by Indu Sundaresan was for VF book club.  My friend Amy recommended 5. Year of Yes by Shonda Rhimes.  My friend Cooper mailed me the book his sister wrote: 6. to the strangers, from far away by Bailey Tamayo.  The only borderline exception is 7. I Am Malala: it was a reread.  The first time I read it, it was my choice, this time it was because of Book Club.

5a) They’re all women.

6) I have no interest in tracking the number of pages I read.

7) I LEFT OUT A BOOK!

While writing this post I was scrolling through my Bookstagram for a picture I might use in this post only to discover nowhere on any of my lists in 2016 did I include Emily Carroll’s brilliant graphic novel Through the Woods.

I read this back in March and it was amazing.  The art is wonderful, and the stories are delightfully spooky.  It was a real delight to read.  I would recommend it to anyone and everyone, especially if you like things a little dark.  You yearn for the cautionary tales of Victorian children’s stories.  You hate what Disney has done to Grimm and Perrault and Andersen.  You just love Joan Aiken’s children’s books The Wolves of Willoughby Chase, Black Hearts in Battersea, and Nightbirds on Nantucket.  Or you’re a huge fan of Edward Gorey, then you’ll like this GN.  It’s a damn good book.

8) I LEFT OUT TWO BOOKS!

I never do this, guys, I’m serious.  My lists on Tumblr are of every book I read that year, I swear.  No matter how bad, how short, what genre it is, I swear I’ve included every book.  Maybe I was more thorough back when I was writing an essay about every book I read?  I don’t know how I missed not one, but two books.

Forgive Me My Salt is a book of poems by Oregonian spoken-word poet Brenna Twohy.  It is her first book, I believe, and you can find her performing many of the included poems on YouTube.

I don’t often go in for poetry all that much, but @brennatwohy speaks to me.  Our experiences are not the same, but I understand her greatest themes: anxiety, stress, shitty boyfriends, first dates, loss, love, rising again.  Her poetry is beautiful and interesting and I just love her commentary.  She makes me feel less alone.

[gtwoytli]

Missy + William

Dear Missy,

It’s rainy in Seattle. I know that’s nothing new to hear, but today, it feels as if the precipitation is taunting me. Like every pitter patter of the raindrops are trying to draw out tears I’m not ready to shed. I feel heavy but so indefinitely light. As if the wind could knock the life right out of me. This is quite a selfish letter, I have gathered, since it’s supposed to be one dedicated to you, and all I can do is talking about myself. The truth is, I miss you. You and I both know, I’m no poet. Hemingway’s work would still be estranged to me, and I probably wouldn’t know who the hell Dickinson was if it weren’t for you. So I’ll try to make this sound beautiful and delicate, but there’s nothing to romanticize here, there’s no one I want to talk to, but you. I want you to know I still collect the daily paper, and highlight words I can’t articulate, only to define them later. I still feed Kimble the organic carrot spread from Ralph’s (even though it’s seven miles away). Mrs. Bordeaux still asks about you every couple of days, her amnesia seems to be getting worse. And Missy, my angel, I still wait up for you. I seldom cry, no, rather, I seldom keep you in my mind long enough to loose control of my emotional fixation on you. I’m not one to nag, but you could’ve said goodbye before you left. Just a simple, “I’m not coming back!” , Would’ve been less painful than uprooting everything I’ve ever known for the past four years. Idaho, Kansas valley, and even Sundance? At least know I know it was all just a big joke to you. Misjudge me not- I’ve made my peace with your decision, for it has now become mine. I’m cutting you away Missy, though my heart longs for you more than ever. You deserve to find happiness, happiness I could never give you. And if you’ve found it, well, I guess it was all worth it, for you anyway. It’s easy to enjoy your absence, I just think of all those dishes you never washed, and the bills you conveniently forgot to pay. The copious amounts of porn you snuck under our bed, because clearly I wasn’t enough to satisfy your needs. Kimble doesn��t mind your leave either, in fact, I think he’s taken quite a liking to it. It’s not like you would spend much time with him to begin with. So, Missy, good riddance- but also, Carpe Diem. I hope life is everything you ever dreamt it would be. As for me, I’m okay and I wish you a fond adieu, really I do. However, every now and then, on days like today, in Seattle it rains. Not the subtle downpour, rather the kind that scares the living shit out of Mrs. Bordeaux. And I sigh and remember the days you would jump up on the kitchen counter, pan in one hand and hammer in the other, amplifying the racket until we had both laughed so hard I was certain one of us would choke on our unjustified, thundering cackles. Mrs. Bordeaux insisted we move out immediately, and Mr. Bordeaux had to gently remind her, she isn’t and never has been the leasing owner in our building. So you’d blame the uproar on Kimble and we had to give him away to your Aunt Karrell’s for a couple of months. I’d cry because I missed him so much, and you’d just grab my hand and kiss me without a word, until Kimble was home, safe, until you fucked up again. Those were the days that made this whole shit-show worth it, Miss. And I didn’t mind, because you were you, and I loved you, more than I could ever comprehend. And I hope on your worst days, whether it’s sunny, or rainy, or whatever, wherever you are, you remember those days too. I painted over the red heart on our mailbox, it’s white again. Same as when we bought it. I’m leaving your tea set behind, Incase you ever decide to come back, not that it even matters. The house is for sale, We’re leaving Seattle. Washington, for that matter. Sayonara, Missy.

With deep regret, William.

PS: I read on The Pacer, that three barks from an overly excited dog means “good bye”, so I suppose Kimble fares you well too.