#this is a post meant for like seven people phrased like it's meant for hundreds or more but i'm too lazy to rewrite it

[sergeifyodorov]

POLL RESULTS JUST DROPPED!!

My hockeyblr experiences are largely catered to my own personal tastes -- mostly Leafs, a little Penguins and Stars, one or two who post about Stevie Y and Sergei Fedorov. These are obviously not the only teams out there.

This study was designed to survey as much of hockeyblr as it possibly could, gathering data on which teams people like and to what degrees. There were five questions and a free space -- my attempt to ask people to rank the teams they enjoyed in three levels, from religiously followed to casually affectionate, and an additional couple of questions on love for players versus team. I received over 500 responses. Here are the results.

Yeah, yeah, you all want to know: The most popular team is the Penguins, by a long shot, then the Leafs.

Because my sample size (n = 523) is actually fairly small compared to the number of NHL teams there are, I find definitive rankings tend to be difficult. It’s also worth noting that, as a mainly Leafs blog, my numbers are definitely going to be skewed a little in favour of the Leafs.

Your Guys

These are the teams closest to your heart: the ship you go down with, metaphorically or, depending on how married your old men are, literally. For me, I picked just the Leafs.

The average respondent had 1.9 teams in this category. The most popular, by far, was the Pittsburgh Penguins. Below is a table of teams, arranged roughly into tiers by the number of respondents. Each team has the number of respondents in brackets next to their three-letter code.

I allowed people to pick as many teams as they would like; the average person picked 1.9 teams, but here’s a distribution of how many teams they picked:

4 people picked 0 “your guys” teams, and 2 people picked seven, nine, or ten each teams. Just about half of people had one main team.

I then wondered: what teams were people most likely to only follow? That is, if you hold [x] team in the closest part of your heart, are you more or less likely to also hold any other teams? Almost exactly 25% of picks were solo; I wondered if there was any correlation at all.

Only a little bit! Of the samples large enough to actually consider (so: nothing in that cluster at the bottom left, who all received fewer than 10 picks total, and a few of whom -- CGY, CHI, NSH -- received zero solo pickers), the most devoted fans chose the Sharks, the Bruins, and the Leafs. The fans who liked the most other teams chose the Avs, the Kraken, the Canucks, Panthers, Sens, and Ducks.

Probably a next step would be to look for correlations: if people are a fan of one team, are they more likely to be fans of another? THAT BEING SAID that’s a lot of regressions. Maybe keep an eye on that for the future, but I don’t know!!

Objects of Enjoyment, and Generally Nice

These two were successive tiers meant to distinguish teams that people like from the ones in the category above. I admit I probably could have phrased the questions better; I received several comments saying that they’d watch any hockey when they wanted to put a game on. The dynamics between Your Guys versus Objects of Enjoyment versus Generally Nice would best be described as devoted fan of versus casual fan of versus favourable opinion towards. 

As I said a few paragraphs back, people picked 1.9 “devoted fan” teams on average. Again on average, they picked 4.7 “casual fan” teams and 6.5 “favourable opinion” teams. Not all ratios are equal, though! Some teams had significantly more casual than devoted fans, and others still were much more liked generally than average.

I gave each team’s “devoted” count an index number of 1 and measured their casual and favourable count as a ratio against the index number. The teams assembled themselves into a few groups.

No Commitment

Arizona and Anaheim have decided to be soulbonded (Excel refuses to let them have different-coloured dots) and it took me three hundred million years to attempt to (and unsuccessfully) fix, so let’s ignore that. These teams all have a fairly high slope of interest -- a range of casual interest at about five times the pace of fervent interest, and good opinion at about ten times fervent interest. The Calgary Flames are an outlier on the entire graph, not just here. 

Casual Interest

I gave up on trying to colour teams according to their real colours shortly after the Anaheim/Arizona debacle. Please employ the legend. Nashville is included on all five graphs for reference. These teams all have a casual interest factor of about 3, and a favourable opinion factor of around 5; the same ratio as the casual fans of the teams in the first category to their fervent fans.

Saturated Market

These teams have a much lower ratio of hardcore:casual:favourable fans, at about 1:2:3. 

We Get It, Those Are Your Guys

Pittsburgh and Toronto; these teams have an almost equal ratio of all three categories.

...Whatever This Is

Every other category is defined by its ratios; this category is defined by its shape. While all teams have their rate of hardcore fandom set as 1, the other two tend to increase in a roughly linear form, without too much significant difference between the first interval and the second interval.

These teams, though (again, Nashville is for scale) don’t do that: they have a set increase between hardcore and casual, and a significantly smaller increase (or, in a couple cases, a decrease) between casual and favourable. This suggests perhaps some kind of divisiveness; if you’re not already in there, do you really want to get in further? Either that, or it’s something closer to what the Leafs and Penguins have: that is, a devotion. Like you’re in or you’re out.

Taking these values together

Because the casual:hardcore ratios are measured as indexes and not absolute values, they say nothing about the actual popularity of the team in question -- Calgary is one of the least popular, which is why I assume it’s so weirdly high up; small sample sizes lead to higher error values!

But we do have the absolute values, so we can measure them against each other.

If we consider the “In or Out” to be a category of its own while the other four are along more of a continuum, then we can absolutely see a correlation here -- larger fandoms tend to have more involved fanbases.

Players or Teams?

I also asked participants if their guys tended to be players or teams -- and if those they liked at a more casual level tended to be players or teams.

The results are… not particularly surprising.

On a hardcore level, people tended to prefer teams, although the variability was pretty slight. On a casual level, individual players were much more popular.

I also wondered if people who chose more teams in the hardcore fan question tended to do that because they prefer players.

On average, people who picked players on their hardcore level chose 2.1 teams. People who picked teams chose 1.7 teams. That’s definitely a difference!

Fun Shtuff

I got way more write-in responses on the hardcore player/team question than on the casual question, including this:

Three separate people answered “Minnesota Wild” for their guys and chose no other teams on any level. Hell yes. (One person also did this for the Kings.)

It took about 300 responses before the first Flames fan (at the hardcore level.)

On all three levels, the Seattle Kraken are really popular -- they’re in the top five in each.

What's Next?

If I were to update this survey, I would probably include a question about where all of you are from -- some people (like me) follow their hometown team, while some people most certainly don't (shoutout to the one person from Edmonton who dislikes the Oilers) and others still don't have a hometown team (shoutout to my brasilian + european + etc mutuals and everyone else!!)

Feel free to shoot me an ask if you want me to do anything else with this data -- examine a specific team, give actual casual fan/etc counts and total aggregate rankings, anything else!

[paradigmsofbrittaperry]

ik not everyone here follows me for my fics and not everyone who follows my fics follows me here, but this seemed the most convenient place to post this so here goes!!

basically, I think I’m going to put all of my current long projects on an official hiatus. the long story short is that I’m returning to work next week, move out and start college in a month, and will want to dedicate my free time to catching up with/meeting new people on campus. it feels reductive and shitty to say that it’s because I’m growing up, but that’s really the case here. it’s not to say that I’ll never write fic again - quite the opposite, since I’ve been enjoying writing shorter, more experimental things so much lately! but recently, things like plotting out RCOALS and turning my ideas into content have been bringing me less and less joy. I basically had to force myself to write the most recent chapter of RCOALS, at which point I realized I should take a break. once a hobby becomes a chore, it’s time to step back. I waited to formally announce this just because I hadn’t formally decided yet and was hoping that my motivation to write would miraculously return. it hasn’t, especially as my excitement for my job/school/seeing humans on a regular basis/etc. has increased. for now, this hiatus applies to RCOALS, this slope is treacherous (my nickjess s1 fic), the David Nadisones fic (which...I forgot about until very recently sooo), and my Annie/Rachel series (which hasn’t received an update in months anyway). RCOALS is the one that I think has the largest following of all fics mentioned, and for the past several months, it’s been my little baby that I’ve watched sprout legs and run (if that’s not too weird of a metaphor to use). writing it has genuinely brought me so much joy, and I think that comes across quite clearly in how it’s written, so I’d hate to push myself to come up with mediocre chapters that lack the love and passion that’s in those that came before it. my goal is, if nothing else, to write a new chapter before this November, which will be the one year anniversary of the first chapter. as for the rest of the projects, I’m just going to play it by ear and attempt to give them all some sort of conclusion, even if it means wrapping them up earlier than intended. with RCOALS, I don’t feel too bad about pausing it at this particular spot, since Jeff and Britta are finally together and have been for two chapters, so at least it shouldn’t be a massive cliffhanger. I know that the people who always leave comments and talk to me about my fics are very kind and understanding, so I felt like I owed you an official announcement instead of potentially months with no updates. I think this got very rambly because I’m not good at brevity (as I’m sure you know if you’ve read anything I’ve ever written) so the tl;dr is that my long fics are on an official hiatus as of right now, but I’m planning to give them all a proper conclusion when I have the time and motivation!! thanks if you read this far, thanks if you’ve ever supported my work, and thanks for understanding.

[ecoamerica]

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

[rotzaprachim]

Kalimat/كلمات

Yusuf al-Khaysani/Niccolò di Genova, 3.3k, teen, AO3 LINK

Yusuf translates medical texts for Niccolò from Greek and Persian into Arabic, and Niccolò spots the substratum of the ideas of the classical authors that he had once believed the basis of his own civilisation that he would go to the sword to defend, translated and passed down and sewn into a no longer foreign script. There are words Yusuf does not know how to translate. They will never, ever know all of the words. The prospect is thrilling. --- It takes Niccolò lifetimes to learn Arabic.

(I've tried pretty hard to make this at least historically feasible but I'm very sure this is just. Jam packed with mistakes. As is the Arabic langauge stuff- I got booted from the class due to dyslexia. I also hope the representation of Islam and Islamic culture is accurate.) 

Languages drop from Joe’s lips easily. Nicky struggles with survival phrases in lingua francas- What Hurts in Dari and Can you breath- nod yes in Swahili and How can we help in French, but Joe can easily lose himself in the sea of a new language’s words and come up swimming, not just stringing together sentences but swallowing poetry, drama, and music. In Ughyar, Bosnian, Zapotec, Spanish, Tamil, Sylheti, Albanian. The shelves of his books line their lives. That is important to Joe, that people be seen not just as they always seem to be in western news reports - as the bodies in the ruined city- but as poets. As storytellers. As humans who struck fire with language that will survive and burn anew.

Joe recites Khachatur Abovian to calm the fractured nerves of a former schoolteacher ripped from his home while he and Nicky rush to forge passports and visas for the teacher and his wife and his seven children to make new lives in America. In a post war displaced persons camp he speaks Yiddish, reads Sholem Aleichem and Avrom Sutzkever from paperbacks pulled from the fires and then decades later in the dust of Baghdad, Arabic and al-Sayyab. And he listens, listens even more than he speaks. He listens to stories upon stories of war and loss and human suffering with his ears and his eyes and heart and a clasped hand that says, I do not claim to know your pain but I have felt my own.

Nicky sets arms and delivers babies and administers vaccines and sorts endless boxes of quinine tables and bandages. He speaks with his hands, mainly, and his bedside manner is different from Joe’s. He learned long ago to keep lollipops in the right pocket of his jacket. The first language Nicky learned to speak was the sea and the second was the wind, and spoken words come to him slower, with less agility, blending into occasionally archaic jumbles. He means to ask an assistant for an antiseptic wipe at one point, has to dig through his mind through the piles of once vital vocabulary bleached useless by time, military jargon for battles lost nine hundred years ago and colloquial derja words for plants and crops gone extinct under the tides of modern monocropping, and comes up sputtering, asking if anyone, perchance, has a neckerchief?

The linguistic stumbling of an unlettered genovese sailor versus a middle class trader’s son who learned to love the written world on his mother’s lap.

It took Nicky a human life time to master spoken Arabic, in a few of her many varieties, with her tricky mazes of roots, more decades of listening and stumbling through conversations and gentle corrections than the average human mind could take before his own readujsted to the beauty of a world described through roots with all things connected to each other.

It took him another life time again to master fusHa, the complex turns of phrase and imagery and unwritten short vowells, and a brush and then pen always felt far more alien in his hands than a sword did. (Although the precision of a pen prepares him well for the precision of a scalpel, and that, perhaps, is the instrument with which Nicky writes history.)

A thousand years ago, in the same city who’s people Joe and Nicky will die again and again for to try and pull from the ruin, the man then Yusuf wrapped his hand around the hand of the man then Niccolò and guided him through this mysterious world of written letters. Alif-ba-ta-thaa and then nun-qaf-waw-lam-alif,

اسمي نقولا

For the first time, Niccolò wrote himself down.

The script contained other mysteries and hidden trap doors. The disappearing mem that could get swallowed by lam and alif and the mysterious shape-shifting ta marbouta and the categories of sun and moon letters that lent the marks on a page a tangible quality, the burning Mediterranean sole that Niccolò’s people marked their years by and la luna by which Yusuf’s people knew their own time by.

When they had reached their first truce in the battlefield and had to learn how to say things beyond various threats and claims of the name of God, they’d each had to remake the world in a new image, relabel everything they’d thought they’d known. Shams, the enemy man had said over and over again, pointing up, and Niccolò hadn’t known if he meant “sky” or “blue” or “above” or “God” or the color “blue.” Niccolò had drawn a line in the sand, the past running to the future and tried to map out the different tenses of his own language he didn’t fully understand himself, only knew how he’d use them in a sentence. He’d hatched an x in the middle for now, drawn two little stick figures and two blobby horses, us he’d said in zenaize, then future, right of the men, past, left.

“Ahhh,” the man who Niccolò now knew as Ana Ismee Yusuf, nodded. He stood up and pointed right. “Lelshar’.” To the left. “Lel’arb.” He smiled and Niccolò thought it might be worth dying, just to see again. “Si, si. Io capiscooo.” He stretched his syllables out in a deadpan imitation of a puffed-up Genovese noble, and Niccolò laughed himself.

Several lifetimes later and Niccolò tries to label his world anew again in writing. Yusuf writes out words in large, blocky script on pieces of scap paper, marks the harakat around the words carefully in red ink. He tacks باب to the door and سَرِير to their bed and even أنا to himself. He holds up a piece of paper to the sky outside, the sun blinding their eyes momentarily before they repair. الشَّمس, the first word. Yusuf even attempts to stick قِطّ onto Amira, the sharp eyed street cat who’s wormed her wait into their household. The scratches that earns him heal quickly.

It takes Niccolò far longer than he wants anyone to know before his mind properly started to see a word and see it as a word, something more than a collection of letters but a thing that existed, definitively, in God’s world. بَيْت, what he and Yusuf have now had in Basra, Palermu, Fustat. مُحيط, like the Mare Nostrum. فَتاة, a girl like like the sister he left behind.

And then the door was opened, and Niccolò could read, or at least, understand this process of reading for himself, and more than that, he could see this part of Yusuf, so crucial to the soul he nad come to love and this heart he now held in his own. Yusuf loved words, and books, and writing, he loved his Book as the word of God to his prophet and he loved his books as connection to the mother who had first taught him suras and his father who wrote in three languages, and, he had once gold Niccolò in the quiet safety of their bed, in the night, with the first boy he had ever loved, the other star pupil at their madrassa with whom he would lie composing lines of poetry under a lemon tree.

Niccolò thought of Yusuf reading in the small, cool courtyard of the house in Damascus that would for this lifetime be their home, his mouth moving silently in prayer as his fingers followed reverently over the verses. He thought of Yusuf moving elegantly through the world, his speech dry and witty or educated where his own felt blunt, trading jokes and barbs back and forth in the tea house and the market. But mostly, Niccolò thought of Yusuf writing, face still with all the steady focus and silent reverence of prayer, bent over a carved rosewood writing desk, the sunlight streaming in through the windows setting his curls on fire. And his hands, so strong, so reliable, moving unerringly across the page, line after line of the script that Niccolò once feared and mocked because he feared but which he now knew could contain all the beauty of the world.

He practiced by writing to the those he loved but no longer walked the world.

Oum, today sun bright. I see roses in market. I think of you, when I see roses in market.

Abba, in house of God happy I know you are, happy makes it me.

Maria, to read you will love, i know. Your son man now. Good i know. Peace to you.

Niccolò burned the letters in a fire and hoped God would make it so his 'aa'ila could read them. Yusuf and Niccolò were both young in the business of being immortal. They had not learned to shoulder the pain of it yet, so they faced the loneliness, together and alone. Niccolò thought that he saw the appeal of letter writing, then, imagined a world in which he could have written his family from the Holy Land, told them that no matter how many infidels he killed to cleanse this world for the Cross he felt no closer to holiness himself, told them that the one he killed and killed and killed again he had found holiness in, told his parents that their son died and died and did not die. That he missed home, the rocky shores and fishing villages of Liguria, but that he missed them more, because his family was his home, even if there were things about him that he hid in the darker parts of himself because he knew they would never understand.

His sister’s grandchildren- or maybe her great-grandchildren, he wasn’t quite sure- were still alive, probably, but there wasn’t a way they’d respond well to the idea of a relative who’d have been forty years past death even without war sending them letters written in the alphabet they’d been taught to hate, if they could read at all.

With the ashes of his letters, he lets his family go, and prays God looks kindly upon them, and shows them mercy, and grants them peace and understanding. Every century or so, he’ll check in, he vows, even from afar, because he owes Maria that much. He hopes her son or his son or his son has not wasted his life to die in a war on foreign soil like he did, or that her daughter or her daughter or her daughter has not been left a widow.

Yusuf’s family still lived in Tunis. His sister Maryam took over the trading business after his death and made the al-Khaysani family a great name and funded many hospitals and houses of learning. News of her death reached Palermu weeks after the burial, and it was one of the few times in their long, long lives that Yusuf had to walk for months alone, to process a grief as large as the world. He let the waves of the sea and the sand of the desert swallow him again and again, and when he did not die, he rose and lifted his head to the sky and swore he would make the world as good as she wanted it to be. In every city they go to with a cathedral or even a baked mud church Niccolò lights candles for Maria and for Maryam. Santa Maria, madre de dio, they’ll pick up one day, in a language centuries off from existing. You know she is named more times in our book than yours, Yusuf told him in one one of their many cycles of death and coming back, when Niccolò called out for her, bleeding out on the sand.

When Niccolò found Yusuf again they stood with their hands clasped at her grave outside the medina and then they prayed and set off again. New cities, new tongues, new people. To avoid suspicion, they alter the sounds of their names to match the sounds of the city. Yusuf and Naaqid. Giuseppe and Niccolò. Nikolai and Iosef. Every death is shorter.

Yusuf forges the documents and the names, barters and trades, even makes several seperate respectable fortunes as a merchant of cloth and then spices before even claims of pomegranates doing wonders for one’s health start to wear a bit thin and they have to fake their deaths again. He writes, and though home quickly becomes what they can carry, he keeps sheaths of poetry in tiny, perfect script in his saddlebag, recites long poems as they make camp in the desert. Some were written by and for men like them. Others Yusuf tweaks the gender of, chooses inta over inti. Every time they die they leave a generous waqf behind.

Niccolò takes care of the horses, and then he tries to take care of people. He learns as much of these strange healing arts of the east as he can from Yosef, and then from a doctor in Basra and a Jewish apothecary in the city of Fustat. It is not blasphemy to try to know the body, he is deciding, it is not sacrilige to try as hard as one might to save a life. At some point, the knowledge goes beyond what he can remember or what a diagram can tell him, and so it’s in Damascus that Niccolò decides, even with his previous failed attempts at the aliph-baa, to ask Yusuf to teach him how to read.

And he does. It takes time, years, before he can, before he feels more man than child with a pen in his hand and he does not smear ink across the page. And there are limits. He is never a poet. His language is always more practical than- and this is a word that will not exist for centuries but that colors his memories even still- than romantic. For him heart is a thing of muscles and chords that powers a life. He reads and takes notes on Al Razi far more than Abu Nuwwas or al Muttanabi. Ibn Sina’s Canon of Medicine astounds him just as Ferdowsi’s perfect schemes of monorhymes entrance Yusuf. His sentences do not flow into rivers like Yusuf’s do. They build squat, strong houses. They encode information that Niccolò can leave behind when he dies, only to return to a century later and find that have been added on to by scholars after him, the foundations for someone else’s palace. Sometimes, the things he thought were true are completely washed away in the flood of some new discovery, and he prays and begs the forgiveness of all those he caused unnecessary pain in his ignorance.

But even in his clumsiness, the power of words surges through. Yusuf’s words and his love of words surges through to Niccolò in the years of learning, until Niccolò loves words too, just as Niccolò’s love of the sea and her many tempestuous moods and promise of infinite freedoms filters through to Yusuf. Yusuf translates texts for Niccolò from Greek and Persian into Arabic, and just as with Mary and Maryam centuries ago on a battlefield, Niccolò spots the substratum of the ideas of the classical authors that he had once believed the basis of his own civilisation that he would go to the sword to defend, translated and passed down and sewn into a no longer foreign script. There are words Yusuf does not know how to translate. They will never, ever know all of the words. The prospect is thrilling.

And Yusuf’s love of words surges up into Niccolò’s love of Yusuf too. It took him about three weeks after their initial truce to realise the man was soft, which then took him a few decades to find more endearing than annoying. That he liked sweet things and flowers and goddamn useless hobbies like calligraphy and drawing complex borders of tulips and interlocking knots along the borders of his writing papers. And he knew he was a good poet, to his own ears, that he fit words together nicely. But being able to read Yusuf’s poems, even the unwritten snippets he leaves scattered around the house, often unfinished, is something else entirely. A glimpse into being seen, by the person who sees him best. But God above, he doesn’t think anyone alive has had their eyes compared to the beauty of the sea after the desert quite so many times, or wrung as many turns of phrase from the has the double meaning of عَيْن.

“The world,” he says one night as they sit and watch night descend softly upon the City of Jasmine. It’s a city to make even the woman who will come knocking at their door in a matter of decades feel young and insignificant, and even the colloquial name suits Yusuf’s pretensions annoyingly well. Steam from cups of tea curls into the evening air. The smells of horse shit and rosewater both on the air. The calm cradle of the evening after the maghrib prayer. “You see it …” He does not know how to end it.

“How, then, do I see the world, hayati?”

“You see the stars above a battlefield. You see the stars and then the fields that will grow again after the ashes are tilled into the soil. You see stars as gems, and the windstorms of the desert is the finest music, if you would believe your poems.

“And you are angry that I have seen the good in the world? I would not call the man who came to a foreign land to kill the infidel and came to spend a hundred years learning best to save their lives a man who does not see beauty in unexpected things either.”

“You are-”

He looks for a word, any word in his mind that has learned so many. Unchanging would not be right for the man who once killed him so many times and learned Greek and Latin to read him the words of the Apostles as they were written, who has accompanied him on pilgrimages to Antioch and the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. He has changed as much as Niccolò has. No, it’s something-

“You are looking at me as you look at your patients.” Yusuf reaches out and brushes back Niccolò’s hair. He kisses his forehead. A kiss from Yusuf, no matter how chaste or how many, still sends lightning through his body.

“As if you were ill?”

“No. You look with such focus upon the world, with so much kindness about how to help it heal.” For a time whose number has since gone beyond count, their hands interlink. “We cannot save the world, but we can save some, and by saving some, we can save the world. We will work to repair what is broken.”

“I have found the cause of your affliction.”

“What do you consider me afflicted by, Doctor Al-Zenowaizi?”

The word romantic is still more than six centuries out, although they’ll soon wander through Europe during the heyday of the romance, and Yusuf will even write a few himself in Occitan and Provençal. For now, though, the word carries the implications of Roma and the waning Basileion Rhomaion to the north, to the al-Rum rite of the Damascene churches he now celebrates the Eucharist in, the river of his faith turned down a different course. For now, though, the word romantic remains firmly in the future. No, it’s something else he thinks of.

“Hope. You have a most serious case of hope.”

“And what do you suggest as remedy, Doctor Al-Zenowaizi?”

Niccolò pulls him in for a proper kiss, long and deep and hot and sweet and bitter from the tea. He loses himself in the warmth of his body, his hands in the curls of his hair, and he thinks how blessed he has been by God that this is the man he has been destined to spend forever with.

“Albi, I do not think there is one. I think you have been cursed with an incurable case of hope.”

[imasimpforstevengrant]

Why do we like this clown so much?

Change the "we" for "I" and you get an usual tag I use whenever I post my content in Tumblr. And it sounds funny at first but whenever you start diving into that phrase, the deeper it becomes. So, I finally have decided to share my thoughts about this strange but wholesome attraction to this deeply flawed character. It's not something I usually do since I don't know how to write down my feelings properly and also in english so please forgive any typos (I'm from Chile so don't be surprised lol).

So...Why do we like this clown so much?

Why was it that a character precisely designed to scare and to disgust the fuck out of us ended up unchaining a series of feelings that shouldn't have taken place in a beginning?

Let's take a look at the background: Joaquin Phoenix was cast as Arthur Fleck/Joker in 2018. The first image of him as the aforementioned character revealed a deeply disturbed man. We knew the plot. A man driven to insanity after a brutal history of abuse, creating concern in people if the upcoming film would inspire real life violence. Incel violence and mass shootings, more specifically.

(the image in question)

As 2019 arrives, the two trailers generated so much hype that media needed to fuel its concern about it. Since it wasn't your typical comic book film, media basically bombed our minds making us believe this film was going to be a total disaster, an excuse to cause harm to others among other nonsense, as if the film would justify everything Arthur would do in the film, eventually. As the release date is closer, the film receives thunderous applause and unanimous praise from critics. At this, fans rejoiced and expressed impatience to watch the film.

October 5th.

People left the theaters amazed, shocked and genuinely moved by the inhuman treatment Arthur received in the film. The fear media tried so desperately to infuse in us with all the incel bullshit and such turned out to awake one of the most positive, best feelings in humans:

E M P A T H Y

The word that so gloriously cleared away any dark thoughts or actions not only proves media was wrong but it turned out to ridicule it in way nobody will forget: Hundreds of people advocating for mental illness, calling out to the kindness that could change a person's bad day and questioning how politicians and rich people are indifferent to social problems proved how much as a society we have changed in comparison with the one shown in the film.

However, since we are on Tumblr, I'll get straight to the point and try to explain why the fuck does this clown has us dying out of love and compassion (and lust).

I. Background.

As nurturing as we women are for a biological matter, we see a man deprived of a good job, is on seven different medications, working like a slave to sustain his ill mother, putting aside his own health and well-being to look for her, struggling to make his dream of being a comedian despite everyone stepping on him, underpaid and treated like a freak for a disorder he did not ask to suffer, which makes it impossible to be indifferent to all the horrible ordeal that eventually will reach the limit of what he can tolerate without going insane. It is impossible to not say or think, at least, that someone (even if it's just one person) should stand for him just as it is impossible not to feel the need to throw ourselves at him to shield him from people who hurt him or simply offer him our shoulder whenever he has had a bad day, specially when he learns he was sexually assaulted by his step father.

This horrid behaviour terrifies newer generations because they get a taste of what being a social outcast was like more than thirty years ago in comparison with today, where there's more acceptance and treatment for mentally ill people like Arthur. We see in him someone who could have been saved with a proper education and emotional support instead of descending into madness as a criminal. Others simply saw themselves being treated like him at some point in their lives and couldn't help but put themselves in his shoes.

II. Personality.

TRUTH BE TOLD:

There's something called "attraction by proximity". It is the explanation to the eventual love you feel whenever someone doesn't catch your eye at first terms of physical attraction but his/her personality does attract you. This happens to be the base of this situation. His shyness, introverted nature, tenderness and innocent desire to make people laugh and put on a happy face awake some kind of tenderness we cannot resist. This combined with the gloomy background increases our understanding (but not justifying) of the bad decisions he'll eventually take during the course of the film. This traces a line of harsh, almost hurtful contrast of the violence he shows later on the film. Once again, it is not justified in any way but it is certainly understandable.

III. Appearance.

Arthur Fleck is unconventionally attractive.

This happens to be a plus for most women. He is out of the male beauty standards (no abs, not too muscly or particularly tall), which makes him even more unique. It is precisely the fact that he's not a model one of the reasons women love him. He could easily be your man next door or your colleague or the guy you always see but never dare to talk for fear to bother him Because it's about proximity. Arthur looks like your common neighbour. He's not meant to be your typical desirable male protagonist at all.

... And yet.

Jesus Christ, he's so fucking hot I can't even---

It's not about how beautiful his green eyes are, his long slender fingers, his hair or his smile only. It's the charm behind it.

Another "magnet point" is the way he dresses. I know he's impoverished and his wardrobe tend to be repetitive but it is so unpretentious, so simple that is hard to not fall for. The modesty of the shirts, ironed trousers reminds us of a mature man deeply withdrawn into himself, love starved and longing to be seen and loved by others, like a war veteran who still fights the most important war: with himself. Is someone who needs to be listened and understood.

AND OF COURSE WHAT'S NOT TO LIKE ABOUT IT?

He's also brought back the old gentleman outfit, white shirts, red/yellow vest, red suit and elegant dancing moves and the retro style of the film boosts this attractiveness.

People keep comparing him with the previous interpretation of Joker (Leto's) whose costume appealed to young women with a tattooed, gangster, mumble rapper crazy-guy wannabe which didn't connect with the audiences (young people in general). This supposedly was to match or even have a sexy, tormented and desirable villain like Marvel's Loki. We all know how that story ended but it's the link for the next point below.

IV. Transformation

This is a particularly strong point considering how much we loved to watch the process of this weak, powerless, forgotten caterpillar into a beautiful and visible butterfly that will gracefully stir its wings for everyone to see its colours.

When Arthur transitions to the Joker, it's so cathartic to see taking revenge on those who wronged him (even when we're not supposed to root for him) like seeing his shyness fading away into a vivid confidence when dancing half naked in the bathroom, or witnessing him making way to make his name known to people in Murray Franklin's Show:

Adding to this newly gained confidence, there's another turn on: the way he walks.

At the beginning, his pace is hunched and limping, displaying his submission to violence, which makes the viewer more satisfied to see his broken yet beautiful soul turning the past pain of his existence into art: he lets music guide his moves as a way to tell the world he's a new man by cutting most of the sick, evil roots that harmed him, that he's invincible, that no one can stop him. Watching this cathartic display of euphoria was the most iconic scene in the film, following his speech at the TV and the inevitable meltdown that caused Murray's death.

Going to further appreciation, even his clown make up is beautiful. Why? Simple. The combination of colours, shapes and the intimidating glare just embellishes even more the character.

The dark blue triangles in his expressive eyes makes the light green colour to highlight, specially in dark backgrounds, giving the impression he's piercing your soul whenever he stares directly at the camera. Same can be said about the red smile and emerald green hair. They boost an already intimidating look.

The cold and warm colours paint a picture of a man full of intense emotions, mirroring it in a simple yet masterful artistic way.

Another interesting point is the way Joker dresses. Usually we had almost every single live adaption of this character in purple coat, hat, etc. But this particular version is not following any comic, which gives more freedom to creativity and once again, out of the standards of what we could have expected.

Red is a colour related to passion, action, love, strength, motivation and excitement. As for yellow, it indicates freshness, happiness and enlightenment and finally, green. Green is renewal, growth and regeneration. Colours that represent a new stage in his life, a mirthful chapter at last. We finally get to see our battered, always humiliated protagonist (or hero) descending into madness, but finally free from his repressed man who held his soul captive like a bird to fly away, to never come back. An insanity that despite being his downfall, turned out to be his ticket to freedom as he walks to the light in Arkham Asylum dancing at the end.

Ladies and gentlemen: behold the film nobody asked... But the film we fucking deserved.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk

❤️💚💛

[jocazep]

In the Whole Wide Train | Chapter 10

Author’s notes: Hi, remember me? Sorry about the six-month hiatus, but I’m back at it! And it gon’ get dark (even more so than before), so this is just me laying in the groundworks early... ENJOY~

Pairing: Curtis Everett x Reader (Jo, OFC), slight Edgar x Reader

Warnings: Major spoilers for SNOWPIERCER, dystopian society and its countless problems, mentions of forced abortions, language, violence, deaths, slow burn, eventual smut

Synopsis: Having grown up in the Front Sections of the Snowpiercer, you venture down the train when a rare opportunity presents itself, but the excursion quickly changes flavor when you arrive in the Tail Section.

Taglist: Now closed

Series Masterlist

Chapter 10 - Trading Secrets

Curtis couldn’t remember the last time he slept so well--it must have been before the train. There were no dreams, there were no nightmares, just deep, post-climax slumber as if the world around him has melted away--until the alarm blaring “oh-seven-hundred-hours” yanked him out.

He jumped up, but had to take a second before realizing where he was, as the rest of the revolters joined him, stirring awake and confused--the world outside was pitch dark.

“We’re traveling against time zones” Your voice sounded from behind--Curtis turned to see you walking up with a cup of hot water in hand, ”C’mon, need to make some arrangements before we push on.”

“Good morning to you, too.” He took your extended hand, stood up, and pulled you in for a quick kiss. You didn’t kiss back. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh nothing. Gilliam is looking for us is all.”

The truth of the matter is a little bit more complicated than that.

You woke up early. As a medical apprentice, you used to do that before you had important appointments, as it would clear your head and prepare for your day, but today you found no such effect.

Your eyes fixated on Curtis as he lay next to you, breathing in and out, but your head was a million miles away. What was last night? Was it just two people seeking solace in each other after the death of a mutual friend? Or was it the culmination of all those little touches and stolen glances and shared silences? Did it mean anything to him? More importantly, did it mean anything to you?

But then Mason entered your mind in stealth, slowly gnawing away in the back of your head, until you couldn’t focus on the inner debate between your commitment to your father vs. your--your what? Your responsibility? Your debt?--whatever it is you owe to the revolt.

So you push yourself up, and padded barefoot towards where Mason was being held captive.

“It’s about time.” Her unmistakable accent greeted you before your eyes could find her, “ah is that water?”

You didn’t respond, but dipped the mug in your hand lower so she could suck a mouthful of the liquid before you rescinded it.

“Any chance you can spare some food as well, my dear?”

“Not unless you want the fish they gutted before the fight.” You sat down next to Mason, and silence fell for a second.

“Well, I suppose we should make a de--”

“When did he send you to the tail section?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said how old were you when my father first sent you to the tail sections?”

“I must have been around...well, your age.“

“You don’t know how old I am.”

“You, Joanna Catherine Watt Wilford, are thirty-two years and some three odd months old.”

You stare at Mason in astonishment.

“I’ve seen your birth certificate. There was a time when Mr. Wilford thought about giving you to a foster family... After your mother passed away of course...” Mason took a pause, “But I thought you are here to warn me--”

“I am.” You kept your eyes straight ahead, “This is just my human interest story for the report.”

You tend to forget that for some people, there was a life before the train, since you had barely turned fifteen when your estranged father plucked you from the monotony of a privileged private school, into a monotony of the train.

But hey, at least you got to practice medicine and help people. Is that what I’m doing now?

“The report--that’s why I first went down there too, you know...He must see it as a rite of passage.” A smile threatens to break as Mason reminisced about her past.

“Was it..” You didn’t know how to phrase the question, but luckily Mason caught onto your train of thought.

“Oh dear, even more so. Mr. Wilford really turned it around. They were surviving on rats and vermin before the protein block assembly. When I first went down there... it’s as if all society had broken down. There was stories about this pregnant woman... And when they found out who I was, they chained me up and almost tore me to pieces. Imagine what they would do to you. ”

You had heard enough, “All right, here’s the deal. I keep you alive, you keep your mouth shut about me. Sound good?”

Mason nodded enthusiastically as you stood up to leave. “Just one more thing, what does Mr. Wilford want with Curtis?”

You did not look back, “Ask another wrong question, and my father will hear about it.”

Mason all but clasped her hands onto her mouth.

You were planning to sneak back and lay your head on Curtis’ chest, relive the little escape you two had before the day had to begin, but today luck just wasn’t on your side. As your turned the corner back into the makeshift dorm, soft crying and sniffling caught your attention.

It was Tanya. By the dim moonlight reflected from the snow, you could see her clutching a piece of paper and wiping tears from her face. By the time you realized it was the charcoal drawing of Timmy she was holding, it was too late to turn back.

Noticing the light shift, Tanya sat up and look at the person standing a few feet from her. You didn’t know what to do for a moment. You two haven’t been alone since you came clean about Timmy. In a letter no less, you coward.

“I didn’t mean to--”

Tanya lay back down and closed her eyes.

What was the rest of your sentence anyway? You asked yourself as you padded towards the infirmary section, sleep now the last thing on your mind. Didn’t mean to pry? Didn’t man to take Timmy? Didn’t mean to get so close to Curtis and the revolt?

You were pulled from the reverie by Yuna’s hand tugging your sleeve. Around you, the men were deep in discussion, figuring out how many people to station at each section.

Yuna slipped you a piece of paper torn from the small notebook you gifted her. On it she had drawn a picture of herself and Namgoong in the prison section, the many drawers colored dark and ominous. Yuna pointed to the drawers.

“It’s a little advanced for you but ok,” you took the pencil from her and spelled out the word prison, “Prison, it’s a place to hold people that have broken the law.”

Yuna didn’t seem to like that word. She wrestled the paper from you, pointed to the drawers again, and looked at you, waiting for a response.

“Jo?” You whipped your head back to the much less mystifying, but much more important meeting.

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

Curtis gave you an update, “Gilliam will stay behind, with 50 men stationed in the water section, then 15 men at each other section before our base,” Base is what you called the tail section now, “Grey will stay with Gilliam as well.”

“Nonsense, Grey will be much more useful to you than me.”

You shot a look at Gilliam as he chimed in, wondering if he really meant it.

“I think Grey should stay too. We are already a large pack as it is--”

“Don’t forget, Jo, we’re going ahead to take the engine,” Gilliam gave you a long look, “who knows what you will find there”.

Right. You bit your tongue and didn’t argue any further. Let’s never forget

“We were trying to decide what we should do about Mason.” Namgoong picked up the thread of discussion, “What do you think?”

“She’s injured, will only slow us down.” Grey’s voice was very quiet.

“I would rather keep her close than let her stay with the captured soldiers. Who knows what she’ll get them up to.”

“That’s fair, I can’t possibly keep an eye on her the whole time,” Gilliam agreed.

“Tanya’s doing a great job watching her.” *So that’s why she’s not in the meeting.*

“She didn’t want to come with us?”

“Of course she did, but--”

“I think Jo’s saying Tanya should go with you.”

The discussion wrapped up quickly after that, as dusk was threatening to break over the horizon. Your partners in crime stood up and went off--there were bags to pack, arrangements to make, and farewells to say.

You dragged your feet, hoping to spend a few minutes with Gilliam before setting off.

“Having doubts, dear?” Gilliam clicked by on his crutch.

“Before I first came down--”

“Perhaps it’s best you don’t tell me exactly what Wilford asked of you.” Sometimes you wish you had his ability to see right through everything.

“You don’t want to know?”

“I would be lying if I said I didn’t,” Gilliam chuckled, “But I’ve feigned ignorance too many times, even for someone my age. I’d like this occasion to be real.”

“Then...can I ask how much you know?”

“As far as I know, the revolt should have served its purpose after the water supply section.”

You nodded, “Do you ever ask yourself, why he always landed on culling?”

“It wasn’t just him, my dear.”

For the second time that day, you stared in astonishment.

“Perhaps you’re the only person with whom I can share this secret.” There were mini explosions happening in your head as Gilliam spoke, “No past revolt has gotten past the water section. Sometimes it was disorganization, sometimes it was survival instincts, sometimes just plain human greed. But every time, the necessary culling would take place, and the tail section would treasure its existence that was magnanimously gifted by Wilford.”

“Why did they settle?”

“The very first revolts that took place, was only six months into the train journey. Curtis was a little past seventeen, completely unaware, and Edgar, god rest his soul, was just a baby. The leader, he rallied enough people to fight. But every battle cost heavily on his side. Byt the time he got to the prison section, there were only a handful of adult men left. And Mason, who was also a surveyor at the time, managed to entice him with promises of a better life. He held out for a while, but eventually he chose the devil he knew.”

“Your point being?"

"My point being, there's only so much you can do at one given time. Learn to pick your battles."

---

You left Gilliam soon after, head still reeling from the secrets he confided, wondering if he ever regretted his past decisions.

“Hey...” Curtis snuck up on you, taking your hand. You jumped slightly, taken out of your trance. “Do you realize this will be the last time we’re alone for a while?”

“Yeah...?”

He pulled you into him, and caught your lips in a long kiss. You both stumble towards the steel walls of the train, eventually settling in a nook. Curtis dipped his tongue past your teeth, tangling with your tongue, one of his knee wedging between your legs, bringing back heated vignettes of last night. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your hips bucking against his thigh, your belly bumping up against his increasing hardness.

Curtis eventually lifts his lips from you, allowing you to breathe, while he latches onto the side of your neck. His hand roams up your belly, kneading your breasts, squeezing your side--

“Ow!”

“Shit, sorry,” Hard pause as he remembers your injury, “Is it getting better?”

“No, but I’ll live,” you answered, breathless, “when we get to the health section I’ll take a closer look.”

Curtis rest his head against yours, gulping for air, “This is your injury number three, huh?”

“Yeah, you are bad news for me.”

From the front of the section, someone called out, “Curtis, Jo, we’re doing the portrait!”

“You gonna be okay there?” You eyed his bulge.

“Yeah, just gimme a minute...”

The portrait took longer than you expected. While Painter took down your likeness in charcoal, Andrew was playing with the now captive Mason, asserting his newly-earned dominance over this once proud magistrate.

“I was hoping to talk about it earlier.” Curtis said out of the corner of his mouth as you all stood, eight half-frozen figures.

“I...enjoyed it?” You said, tongue in cheek, “Would recommend to a friend.”

“Funny,” Curtis couldn’t help the smile creeping onto his face,  “But seriously...”

“I mean...” You looked up at him, “If we both survive when this is all over...”

You were joking but the words hit home for Curtis, as he remembered Edgar. Will you both come out of this alive? He had always considered himself as someone with nothing to lose, but now...

You turned away as you noticed Curtis staring into the distance. Gilliam was standing in the front of the crowd that would stay behind, looking at you with his signature elderly smile, and something else just behind the glasses, a mutual understanding that this is truly farewell.

You found yourself running his words again and again in your head.

“The leader asked for running water, and a stable food supply. Wilford agreed, but asked the leader to help him maintain the balance in the tail section whenever necessary. A few months later, the protein blocks started coming in, a washroom was unlocked, and my secret phone compartment was installed.”

Taglist: @torntaltos @emmalbg @ajosieface 

[seavoice]

rewind

hey ever write something super weird that only you can understand (until you write the actual story that goes with it?) and impulse post it? hmm yeah :( but its ms levesque so 💖🥰 as usual link to ao3 in the title!

Death was cold, but so was winter, and that was the reason Hazel didn’t realise she was being trailed by it until it was too late. Not that it would have made much difference to her, really. Being as old as she was, she had been waiting for this day for quite some time now. And well. It was December anyway, a dead month if there ever was.

Still, if nothing else, Hazel should have been alert enough to realise who the footsteps belonged to before she looked up from her sketch, unprepared and caught off guard. She put her pencil down and rose to her feet. If she was to die today, clad in pyjamas and completely weaponless, she would do it on her feet at least.

Death looked as beautiful as ever.

Death also seemed content in coming through the door. For months after the quest to Alaska, hell, for years after the Prophecy of the Seven, Hazel had imagined this moment taking place in a multitude of ways, a hundred different scenarios. Thanatos — or maybe even Letus, his Roman form — would sweep in with the evening shadows, melted into the darkest shade of the largest trees. Descend from the heavens with his multicoloured wings. Just appear before Hazel one fine night on the Argo II, come to take her back to the rightful place in the fields of Asphodel, an eternity of forgetfulness. Maybe even done right this time.

Then she had outgrown the fear of her teenage years, outlived her first life by years and then by decades, and the scenarios grew kinder. More softer around the edges — death would come, but it came to those her age anyway. It came with heart disease and cancer and kidney failure, rather than bloodthirsty monsters, and it came at the end of a long well lived life. Maybe, she even dared to hope, enough time had passed that she would see the rolling green of Elysium instead of the colourless poplars.

But in no scenario did Death simply twist the doorknob to her house in New Rome and walk in with his kind eyes and grim brow.

In every scenario though, Hazel knew what would happen next, and she jutted her chin out defiantly, trying to ignore the burning in her eyes. She would die on her feet, and she would die with her dignity.

“Come for me at last?” Hazel tried to keep her voice as even as she could, but her hands shook despite her best effort to the contrary. “And over here I’d been thinking you’d forgotten me.”

Thanatos’s smile was cold, but not unkind. “That would have been to your credit, Ms. Levesque.”

It wasn’t a joke, but Thanatos’s eyes seemed to soften with his words.

“Many escape death,” he said. He didn’t say anything else, didn’t phrase it as a question, but it was clear that he expected Hazel to have something to say to that.

Hazel didn’t have anything to say to that.

Thanatos took the hint. He repeated, “Many escape death. But no one as well as you. I didn’t think my attention would have done any great favours for your case.”

Hazel hadn’t known that dying took so much time now. Thanatos had never been the type to loiter. There had been no kindly, infuriatingly pensive death gods at the site of her first death. Only her mother, pressed into Hazel, face in her hair and body wracking with suppressed sobs. She still felt the warmth of her mother’s tears, the broken echo of her apologies.

Decades of living a full life, a full second life, and the jagged edges of the first still managed to cut her up. Centuries apart now, and Hazel was older than Marie Levesque ever got to be, and she still missed her mother.

“But you’re here to take me now,” Hazel said. “I finally caught your attention.”

“I never thought you would have regrets,” Thanatos said. “Not after the life you’ve led. Eighty years is far more than most people get. Decades unimaginable to demigods, let alone children of the Big Three. You cannot tell me you have regrets?”

“No regrets,” Hazel agreed. Her hair was grey and she found new smile wrinkles in the mirror every day. She hobbled to her friends’ graves when she could, laid flowers on the family she had found, and then lost. Nico’s grave never went a month without fresh lilies, despite her brother being dead for over ten years now. She had lived long enough to hear her joints creak and her gait wobble. Long enough that her life had meant more than waiting for a monster to do her in. Long enough that it had been more living than surviving. “At least, not...many.”

Thanatos inclined his head. “I have heard that’s the best mortals can hope for.”

Greeted by death as a friend . Hazel guessed he had a point. Hazel might have been interrupted mid-sketch, and she would never get to say goodbye to the sweet Ceres kid who had inherited Arion from her. She would not get to visit her brother’s grave one last time or stroke her horse’s luscious mane and offer a goodbye — but a death in old age, a death heralded by the god of it himself...not many were as lucky as her.

A lump rose in her throat. No one had been as lucky as her.

In death at least, she would be reunited with her friends. Roman emperors, car crashes, heart attacks, vengeful monsters, cancers...it had picked them off one by one until it was just Hazel alone.

She nodded, tears welling up in her eyes despite her best efforts to keep them at bay. “I’m not — I don’t regret it. I’m ready. I’ve...I’ve lived a good life. Lives. I got more chances than I thought I would, Even...even unfairly , you can say.”

Thanatos didn’t say anything. He just met her eyes, expression unreadable. “”Fair” is the most useless word in matters of life and death, I’m afraid.” He raised his hand. “But regardless. We have spent too much time talking, Ms. Levesque. Far more than I ever spend with the souls I collect.”

Hazel nodded. “I’m ready.” She knew it was useless -- it didn’t matter to Thanatos whether she was ready or not. But it steeled her own bones.

She could feel his coldness seep into her own limbs, at once comforting and frightening. His hold was so icy it burned . She watched Thanatos’s form flicker like a dying candle, and with it, her own soul.

Hazel Levesque would die for the second time, face judgement for the second time, enter her father’s kingdom for the second time. She found herself floating away from consciousness and dying, dying, dying , closing her eyes—

//

She opened her eyes on a white sand bank. Beyond her stretched green fields. Elysium.

Elysium. Had she been judged? She couldn’t recall who her judges had been, what their verdict was. Elysium? You’d think she would remember getting sent to eternal paradise.

And then she saw the river separating her from the green fields of the blest. The Styx cut an angry line before Hazel, bubbling with broken oaths and shattered promises and discarded dreams.

She was on the other side. Not in the Elysian Fields like she had thought but instead…

She turned behind in recognition and sure enough, millions of poplars and grey shades dotted the scenery. The endless Fields of Asphodel, as dreary and terrifying as she remembered it.

Her heart sank. Asphodel. After it all. Asphodel? A second chance squandered and she couldn’t even remember the verdict. She raised a hand to her aching head, a hand that was unwrinkled and soft, and — unmistakably a thirteen year old’s .

Wait.

A shadow crossed her periphery. Hazel lifted her eyes to a flash of black iron, a Stygian sword raised as a torch. A young boy no older than thirteen was bundled up in a black overcoat several sizes too big for him, dark hair unbrushed and falling into his eyes.

Hazel was looking at her dead brother, a brother who looked several decades younger than when she’d last seen him, when she’d pressed a kiss to his wrinkled cheek in the New York hospital room.

Nico looked very much not old and very much not dead and very much like he didn’t know her yet. Not properly.

“You’re different,” he said, and had he ever sounded so young? His voice was cracking, and was that a zit above his right eyebrow? “A child of Pluto. You remember your past.”

“You’re alive,” Hazel said. Her voice sounded ragged even to her own ears. She longed to reach out and cup his cheek, hug him so hard that she would never let go. She had missed him so much.

But Nico didn’t seem to even know her.

“I’m Nico di Angelo,” he said, young in a way she didn’t remember. But those words she did remember, as if it were yesterday when she had heard them and not more than sixty years ago. Her heart sank further. “I came looking for my sister. Death has gone missing, so I thought…I thought I could bring her back and no one would notice.”

[theguardian6]

Assistance for Isis much better in Persia web 2 . in Europe when compared to inside Syria

theguardian.com

Sustain for Islamic Declare (Isis) among Arabic-speaking social media clients with Belgium, Britain, England and also the US is usually greater than in the militant group’s heartlands involving Syria together with Iraq, a global analysis associated with across 2m Arabic-language online posts has got found.

theguardian.com

In what exactly understood to be the primary arduous mass analysis of the with regard to and about the world’s largest jihadist organisation, Italian teachers found which in a very three-and-a-half month interval getting into in Come july 1st, content posted as a result of Arabic-speaking Europeans with Twitter and additionally Squidoo was more beneficial to be able to Isis compared to content posted within those countries over the frontline in the discord.

In Syria, Isis is dramatically melting away the battle meant for hearts and opinions with more as opposed to 92% of tweets, blog in addition to forum reviews hostile to the militants who have rampaged on the east with the region and western Iraq, confiscating large tracts of territory along with declaring the store of a christian declare.

The jihadist militants are notable for operating a good slick propaganda piece of equipment - managing via the internet distribution for you to systematically evade content manages, piggybacking popular internet conversations and galvanising thousands of global enthusiasts into growing your message.

Their projects look like having a consequence. Outside Syria, assistance for Isis, at all times a tossing amongst online communities, rises substantially. Forty-seven per cent from studied tweets together with posts from Qatar, 35% with Pakistan, 31% from Belgium and additionally almost 24% of posts because of UK and 21% from the YOU ended up classified as being supporting for the jihadist setup compared with just under 20% in Jordan, Saudi Arabia (19. 7%) and Iraq (19. 8%).

Dr Luigi Curini from Suggests from the Blogs, an agency set up simply by teachers from Milan Or even which is pioneering completely new forms of large-scale examination of online feedback, known as message exploration, says the research is actually wonderful evidence for ones proposition that to understand Isis up close is planned to be hostile to your potential customers.

Your team, including statistician Teacher Stefano Iacus, political scientist Andrea Ceron, and translators, found there seems to be moreover an intense battle flaming above Islamic State’s religious legitimacy.

Out from the vastly larger quantity of anti-Isis suggestions in the posts undertook studies, 1 out of some (32. 8%) criticises Isis for destroying Islam in addition to when using the faith as a include to get pursuing strength and other “private” pursuits.

One tweet stored by the organization at 23 September go through: “They are tyrants and have marred Islam. Everyday Isis will make Islam dress in your mask of a barbarous intimate monster. ”

Almost a third (29%) of anti-Isis reports expressed scary or simply outrage towards the group’s thrashing methods as well as a further 17% broadcast fears of the group’s hostility to help spiritual and political freedoms, the research found.

In the meantime, nearly all of the scaled-down global community with Isis proponents - making up just finished 20% of the 2m posts - championed the group designed for defending and “unifying” the global city involving believers and also spreading their trust.

Perhaps counter to help you western targets, solely 8. 3% associated with pro-Isis posts had been supportive of the crew for being an opposing forces of the western side.

Curini said it was nice thing about it this Isis had been massively attacked on line over its assert to be Islamic, because it demonstrated just how fragile their particular theological standing upright was among on the internet Muslims. “I’d be a little more worried if perhaps families, when they attack Isis, should they say a product negative about Isis, they talk just terrorism, or even assault … and they weren’t for the religious difficulty. ”

The fairly new science from sentiment study - the automated exploration with opinion - has been dogged from the difficulties of getting pc systems to understand a difficulties of natural speech.

A subtleties involving jokes, sarcasm, slang and general situation can show problematic for algorithms so that you can categorise and help make any nonhuman study of a collection of views prone to huge amounts of error. There is also a possibility of which sentiment is normally influenced by people who shout loudest and many frequently inside of a discussion, but this can be mitigated by way of gathering gigantic volumes of material.

The Italian company say they've got presented a number of innovations to relieve inaccuracies. Rather than routine a computer to understand that complexities of dialect itself, these people “hand train” an criteria to be able to acquaint this with hundreds of great and negative thoughts and the compact groups of words along with mini-phrases they are made from.

The team subsequently get the algorithm to see the likelihood of thoughts and opinions within the total amalgamation associated with articles or blog posts. The group say their fellow reviewed methods have got a 95%-98% precision speed.

Trawling for Isis-related words and phrases such as Syria, the caliphate, plus the name of the group’s leader, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, the power team have the ability to collect 3, 195, 000 open posts on social media marketing, 93% that originated from Twitter and the remainder coming from public Zynga pages, forums together with blogs. Posts of which did not specific any kind of clear opinion ended up being forgotten.

Form 1 July until twenty two October, the study monitored shifts around idea over some of the most extraordinary functions of Syrian conflict this year, such as Isis’s attack to the Yazidi fraction and the swift advance around american Iraq, this publication of video lessons showing the beheadings of hostages, your bombings of Isis roles by the YOU AND ME and a consortium from other Arab lands, and the duress within the Kurdish town with Kobani.

Violence generally seems to mobilise people resistant to the perpetrators, the study uncovered. The beheading involving British aid staff member Jake Haines concerning 13 September as well as the start of US-led bombardment associated with Isis positions in Syria upon 23 Sept were followed by massive anti- then pro-Isis reactions.

Curini talked about the apparent deviation inside opinions failed to necessarily show individuals were changing their opinions, but much more likely showed the mobilisation from revealed supporters or simply opponents following huge events. “The insurance plan increases, therefore you use the and you post far more issues, ” Curini said.

The organization also collected and additionally analysed around 95, 000 Arabic-language current information reports to do a comparison of the social media blogposts against. They noticed the news articles or blog posts to get hostile to Isis eight times from 10 and no record correlation between the a pair of, suggesting genuine and the most useful state-controlled media cant be found handling opinions via the internet. “By analysing web 2 . 0 we can see there isn't always this particular homogenous sentiment against Isis, ” Curini stated.

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[damnthoseyes]

Felices Los Cuatro

A/N: This is long af so..buckle up kids. This is a very on time submission to @cieloxcnco ‘s 1000 followers writing contest. Hope it was worth the wait. Spoiler: it isn’t. As always, please do let me know what you think.

Warnings: drinking (lots of), swearing, smut. You’ll live.

Words: 5k+

Si conmigo te quedas o con otro tu te vas, no me importa un carajo porque se que volveras

Four months, two weeks and two days.

Not that I’m counting.

Four months, two weeks and two days since I stood in the airport and watched the man of my dreams get on a plane. Without me. I begged and pleaded for more time but he had to go. He’d been in this country for years but visa regulations required him to go back home to reapply so he could stay.

I loved him. At least I think I did. But if I had, I would’ve gone with him, right? I should’ve dropped everything to be with him. But I couldn’t.

When he sat me down and told me what was going on, my heart broke. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. But when he asked me to go with him, for however long it would take, everything in me said no. So that’s what I told him. My family is here, my friends are here, my job is here; I couldn’t just leave.

By the time the day came around, I was ready to get on that plane with nothing. As much as I loved him and wanted him around, we came to the conclusion that we had to break up. Long distance just doesn’t work. If he decided to come back to me and our feelings were still there, we’d see what happens. Until then we were better off apart.

After a month, he had decided to stay back home and wasn’t coming back.

I felt like a shell of a human. I was upset, angry, regretful; one of everything in the negative column. So I did what everyone does. A couple of weeks of partying, sleeping with random guys and drinking myself to sleep got me nowhere (as expected), so I threw myself into work. Early mornings, late nights and migraines are just the distraction I need.

After one particularly ruthless day consisting of four pointless meeting, a never-ending inbox and the to-do list that just kept on giving, I got a message from a friend of mine telling me he was extremely bored at work and that if I wanted a drink I should come by. Said he could use the company. At that point I deserved one. Or twelve.

I walked into the restaurant, took off my jacket, threw it over a stool and slumped over the bar.

“How was work?”

I groaned loudly into my arms, keeping my head down.

“How bad was it?”

“Bad.”

“You poor thing.” The sarcasm in his voice was palpable. “The usual, babe?”

“Yes.”

He rubbed my head and shuffled some bottle around.

“Rough day at the office?”

My eyes widened when I heard this new, accented voice. I lifted my head and moved the hair out of my face, locking eyes with the man beside me waiting for an answer.

“You have no idea.” I glanced over at my friend pouring vodka into a shot glass and tipping it into a larger tumbler.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” His eyebrows were raised and his accent was making me weak. They always did.

I put my elbows on the bar and leaned forward. “If I start, I’ll end up complaining for three years. I think I’ll spare you.”

He smiled and looked down at his hands. “I feel that.”

“Didn’t have a great day either?”

“Not exactly.” He patted the stool in between us and I lifted myself into it, turning to face him.

“Wanna drink it away?”

He smiled and looked down as a tall glass on a coaster was placed in front of me. I mouthed a thank you and turned my attention back him, lifting the glass and taking a sip. He smirked, turned away and asked for a Jack and coke. “I’m Chris by the way.”

I extended my hand and introduced myself. He shook it and raised the glass that had just been put in front of him. We clinked and just started talking. I told him about my day, trying not to unload too much on a complete stranger. He told me he had just moved here and was meant to be having dinner with some friends but preferred the conversation he was having here. Less pretentious.

One drink turned into three, which turned into five and Chris wasn’t holding up so well. A friend of his came to the bar, telling him they were leaving and asked if he wanted a ride. He told them he’d be alright and wished them a good night. I have to admit, it felt kind of nice.

By drink number seven, it was obvious to both me and my friend that Chris had had enough. His speech was slurring, he was giggling at every little thing and what was coming out of his mouth could only be defined as complete nonsense.

“Time to take our little friend home I think.” The bar was closing and there were only a couple of people left in the restaurant so we would have to leave soon anyway.

I put my jacket on and helped Chris into his, said goodnight to my friend and stumbled out into the cold street. I asked him where he lived but he refused to give me an answer, saying he didn’t want to go back, that the night was young and so was he.

“You’re drunk, dumbass. I think the night is over.”

He waved a hand in the air and started clicking his fingers. “What’s that phrase? It’s not over until… the fat lady sings?” He smiled triumphantly, thrusting a fist into the air.

I raised an eyebrow and sang a note. “There, night’s over. Gotta go home now.”

He held my shoulders and looked me in the eye. “You’re not fat, it doesn’t count! Let’s find another bar!” He bit his bottom lip and stumbled as he tried to turn away. I barely caught him, stopping him from landing on the hard concrete.

I swore under my breath and got him upright, told him I knew a place and that he should follow me. We walked for 15 minutes to my apartment on the other side of the city. The cold air had sobered him up a fraction and his sentences were slightly more coherent.

“This is not a bar.” He whined when we stopped in front of my building.

“No, but I have booze. Come on.”

I unlocked my door and turned some lights on, ushering him in and locking it again behind him.

“Nice place,” he looked around, his mouth slightly agape. Small trinkets from my travels littered every flat surface that wasn’t a dining table or a bench. His eyes skated over photos of landscapes on the walls, snow globes by the TV, and the mini eiffel tower by the window, but the elephants on the coffee table caught his attention. “Who are these bad boys?”

I shot him a quizzical look and giggled. “Dante and Aristotle.”

He stopped playing with the figures and met my eyes. “Are you serious?” I nodded and he smiled, turning his attention back to the metal figures. “Where’d you get these?” His ringed fingers glided over the detailed indents, down the trunk and over one of the ears.

“India.” I hung my jacket by the door and went behind the bench, looking for some glasses.

He perked up. “What’s India like?”

“Amazing. Dirty. Colourful. Slightly dangerous. Beautiful.”

He stood up and tilted his head. “A mixed review?”

I shrugged. “I loved it there but it wasn’t exactly how it’s depicted in Bollywood movies.” I handed him a glass of water while he nodded knowingly. He smelt the top and pursed his lips, meeting my eyes. “Come on, you have to have something better than this.”

I shook my head slowly. “Chris, it’s super late and I have to work in a few hours. You won’t tell me where you’re staying and I’m not gonna leave you out in the street in the state you’re in. I’d like to get a tiny bit of sleep instead of babysit the drunk.”

He checked the time on his phone and his eyes widened. “Shit, how is it 1.30 already!”

“Magic. Come on, you can have my room.” He raised his eyebrows and smirked at me. I raised my finger and shook my head. “Not a chance.” I turned away and walked down the hall, turned on the light in my room and went over to the desk to get my pyjamas.

He walked past me, placed his glass on the bedside table and sat on the bed, bouncing a couple of times.

“Make yourself comfortable, love.”

He fell backwards and stretched his arms out. “It’s nice here.”

“Yeah, I like it.” I walked to the bathroom, removed my makeup and changed before walking back into the room to drop off my clothes.

Chris quickly got up and took my arm while I was tossing my outfit into the laundry hamper. “This isn’t right. You should stay here, I’ll sleep on the couch.” His accent got heavier as he spoke, the drowsiness evident. His hair fell into his face and he shook his head to the side forcefully.

“It’s fine. My couch is not the most comfortable place in the world, not appropriate for a guest. Trust me. Goodnight, Chris. Sleep well.”

He raised a hand and held my cheek, running his thumb along my cheekbone. “Goodnight, preciosa.” He kissed my cheek and I smiled slightly before closing the door behind me.

By the time I woke up again and got ready for work, he was still asleep. I left a post it note on the mirror in the bathroom saying “Coffee is in the pantry. Pain killers are in the first drawer on the left. Let me know if you can’t find anything” and left my number.

When I came home later that evening, my immediate instinct was to eat. Nothing like dealing with idiots to work up an appetite. My phone rang while I was making dinner, interrupting my musically induced daze. Throwing a tea towel over my shoulder, I went to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Chris!”

“Chris?”

“...from the bar last night?” His voice trailed off.

I paused enough to tease, trying to conceal my laugh at the desperation in his voice. “Oh right! Super tall, blonde, Swedish cutie, right?”

“Ha ha.”

I let out a giggle and ran my fingers through my hair. “Hi Chris.”

“Having fun there? I thought I called the wrong number.”

“Mehh, a little bit.” I couldn’t help but smile when I heard him laugh into the phone.

“What are you doing?”

I moved back over to the stove and stirred. “Making dinner. What are you doing?”

“Looking for somewhere to eat. And I think I just found a KFC.” He sounded so amazed.

“KFC? No! There are hundreds of amazing restaurants in the city and you’re gonna go to KFC?”

“It’s good though!”

I groaned as loudly as I could into the microphone. “No, Jersey! Find something else!”

He laughed so loudly I had to pull the phone away from my ear. “Ok, ok, listen, I found this bar, not too far from your place. Wanna meet me there in about an hour? I’ll buy you a drink, thank you for last night?”

I sighed and shrugged. “Why not?”

He texted me an address, I ate, got ready and headed out.

The bar was well lit with dark wooden tables and just crowded enough not to be annoying. Most patrons were focused on the football game on every screen spread throughout the room. The smell of beer was prominent. I was able to grab a table as a couple of people were leaving while Chris tried to get some drinks.

Just as he was getting closer to me, the room burst into angry screaming. Grown men shouting “that was a dirty tackle” and “that's gotta be a penalty” filled my ears and scared Chris half to death.

“You guys take football pretty seriously around here huh?” He placed my glass in front of me and sat down.

“Wait til finals season. This is nothing!”

He shook his head and smiled. We watched for a little while but the game was nearly over and it wasn't be long before most of the bar filed out and we could actually hear each other. He told me about his travels and I told him about the places I had been and where I wanted to go.

After about an hour, Chris suggested we go somewhere else.

“Where do you wanna go?” I asked when we got out onto the street.

He turned on his heel to face me. “I don't know. Know any places around here that play decent music?”

I looked around and got my bearings. “Depends. Do you define rock as decent?”

His grin was enough of an answer so I told him to follow me.

We could hear the sound of guitars flood the street as we rounded the corner. This place was dark, most of the light in the room illuminating the bar towards the back. The dance floor was packed with people headbanging and dancing to noughties rock. I looked at Chris who was smiling like he just found paradise.

“You cool with this?” I shouted into his ear.

“Fuck yeah!”

We pushed through the crowd to the bar and I leaned forward to shake hands with the bartender and kiss his cheek before asking for our drinks.

Chris stood behind me and leaned close to my ear. “Come here often?”

I nodded and tilted my head to reach his ear. “Here and there. It's a great place.”

He agreed and we made our way back through the crowd with our glasses. We drank, we danced, we tried to talk and before I knew it, it was 1am. I showed an inebriated Chris my phone and pointed to the door. He gave me a puppy dog face but shrugged and took my hand as we made our way out.

“Ok I love that place!” he near shouted apparently oblivious to the fact that the sound barrier was now gone.

I laughed and readjusted my purse. “It's a great place.”

He grabbed my shoulders and made me focus my attention back on him. “But the night's not over yet, nena.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm hungry. Wanna get something to eat?”

I dropped my shoulders. Tomorrow was gonna suck.

He smiled and took my hand, near dragging me down the street. We found a sushi bar that was still open, got a few rolls and walked to the city square. Sitting in the light of the street lamps surrounding us, we laughed as we tried to feed each other, soy sauce dripping down our hands. I took a sip of my coke in an attempt to calm myself down. My cheeks were starting to hurt and my breathing was out of control.

Our eyes met briefly while I screwed the lid back on. He sighed, dropped his head and focused his attention on the street in front of us. “You’ve gotta stop looking at me like that, nena.”

My eyebrows knit together while I examined his profile. “Like what?”

His long eyelashes fluttered. His perfect lips slightly apart while he tried to find the words. “With those amazing eyes in this light; and those beautiful lips…” He trailed off and sighed again, resting his hand on the side of my neck and running his thumb over my jaw. He leaned in closer, eyes focused on mine, darting to my lips and closing them before our lips met.

He kissed me slowly and lightly, pecking at my lips before pulling away and meeting my eyes. I looked for any signs of regret and found none. He smiled and leaned in again, covering my mouth with his. I took his bottom lip between mine and tilted my head slightly. His tongue found mine, working in complete synchronisation while his hand slid into my hair, holding me in place. My hands came up around his neck as I tried to push my body closer to his.

We pulled away from each other, completely breathless but still desperately pecking each other’s lips. He pressed his forehead to mine. “We should get out of here.”

I nodded hastily and he helped me up, disposing of what was left of our food and stumbling down the street, stopping every few steps and reattaching our lips.

We crashed through the door, slamming it into the wall. I tried to reach for it while I kissed Chris, finally finding it and throwing it closed before he pushed me backwards, my back colliding with the hardwood. He pulled off his jacket and threw it to the ground. His hands gripped into my hair, sliding down my neck to my sides as his lips moved down my jaw and collarbone, feverishly covering my skin in hot, open-mouthed kisses.

My hands gripped the hem of his shirt and pushed it up his torso. He pulled himself away from my chest and lifted his arms, letting me lift the material over his head and tossing it to the side. My fingers dug into his hair and pulled his head to the side as I desperately kissed his neck.

His fingers slipped under my jacket, over my shoulders and let it fall to the floor. His hands slid up my upper arms, forcing them into the air. He crumpled my shirt at my hips, untucking it from my jeans and pulled it off. His fingers clamped into the tops of my breasts, grazing over my skin and down my back until he reached the clasp of my bra, undoing it expertly. His eyes widened as he watched the black fabric slowly drag down my skin and land on the floor. He smiled and met my eyes before kissing me again.

His strong hands curved around my ass and lifted one of my legs around his waist, pushing his crotch in between my legs. His breathy moans spurred me on. He still tasted like whisky. His other hand gripped into my other leg and lifted me onto him, crossing my ankles around his back. He pushed against the door and turned us around. My nails crawled down his shoulders and back while I started another assault on his neck as he walked down the hall to my room.

The moonlight shone through the large window as he threw me onto the bed, watching my chest bounce on impact. He bit into his lip and placed a knee in between my legs, a hand coming up near my head as he lowered himself onto me, gently moving my hair away from his face before covering my mouth with is perfect lips.

My fingers worked to undo his belt and jeans, pushing them and his boxers down to wrap my hand around his cock. It felt thicker than I had imagined. As my hand slid down his length, my eyes widened. I broke the kiss and looked down, threw my head back into the mattress and knew I was in trouble.

He smirked down at me and held my cheek. “See something you like?” His accent was so thick, I could feel myself get wetter with every word. I nodded weakly and pulled on the back of his neck to bring his face back down to mine, my hand continuing to slide up and down his amazing shaft.

His hand gently worked its way down my torso to the top of my jeans and unbuttoned them, pulled down the zipper. He lifted himself back up and I kicked my shoes off before he pulled the denim down my legs. Leaning down, he kissed the fabric of my underwear and gripped the sides, sliding them off and kissing my inner thighs.

He kissed his way back up my chest and around my clavicle while his fingers slipped in between my folds. “Carajo, so wet mami.” I sighed loudly and let my fingers dig into his hair again. My grip tightened when he pushed two fingers into my aching core until I felt the cool metal of his ring on my entrance. He pumped and curled them slowly a few times before adding another finger.

I heard him swear under his breath against my skin before his tongue started to swirl around my nipple. My breathing was getting heavier by the second and I needed more. He pulled his fingers out of my entrance and sat up, licking my essence and maintaining eye contact. The sight alone was intoxicating.

I pulled my eyes away to turn onto my stomach, crawling on the bed until I got to the bedside table and found a condom. I threw it at him and he tore it open, sliding it on before positioning himself in front of me, pulling my legs apart. He aligned his now hard cock at my entrance and hovered over me, pecking at my cheek and jaw while he pushed himself into me.

My vision blurred slightly until he was fully inside and I held onto his shoulders for support. He pulled out almost completely and plunged into me again, a moan escaping my lips. He started a steady pace and thrusted into me, creating a good rhythm of the headboard banging into my bathroom wall.

I could feel my nails marking his skin. My walls suffocated his length as his grip on my leg tightened. My heels dug into his back as he continued to pound into me, groaning and murmuring my name right into my ear. The curve of his cock reached new places and as his pace picked up, I heard myself moan louder.

He pushed himself up and pulled out of me, his dick damn near glistening in what little light there was in the room. He lifted my legs onto his shoulders and aligned himself again. “Let me hear you, baby.” He growled.

I screamed his name repeatedly as he resumed his pace. His hands came around and squeezed my breasts, playing with them and focusing on my nipples every now and then.

“Cariño, I’m so close.” he grunted. “Are you?”

“Not yet, I need more.”

He spread my legs and started circling my clit with his thumb. I gasped loudly and gripped into the sheets. “Yes! Yes! Like that!” My hips started moving on their own volition, meeting his thrusts as I started to shudder. His other hand held my hip in place as he continued to plunge into me.

I held onto his forearm and told him I was gonna come, panting and shaking underneath him. He shook and moaned as he came seconds before I did. My walls clenched around him amazingly tightly. The room filled with profanities and each other’s names. Hot breath on each other’s skin. Evidence of my climax dripping down my leg as he pulled out, rolled onto his side and removed the condom.

“Well, that was-”

“Yeah,” he panted, cutting me off as he looked at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath. He turned his head towards me and lifted his arm over my head as I rested my head on his chest. His arm came down and rubbed my arm while I traced the diamond tattoo on his chest.

*****

The next couple of weeks were the most enjoyable I had had in awhile. I showed him around the city, taking in skyscraper views, walks by the river and hidden places only the locals know about. Chris was sweet and caring. He was willing to try new things and kept me in giggles. After work, he was there to take the edge off. Satisfying me in ways I hadn’t know since I’d lost the love of my life.

He had two speeds, he was either out and about or in bed. Spending the night in was a foreign concept.

I almost felt like a fog had cleared and everything seemed lighter but going days without seeing him didn't eat me alive. We both led busy lives. He was just fun to be around from time to time.

I yawned as I got into the lift and pressed the button for my floor. I undid my bun and shook my hair out, ready to re-tie it when the doors opened again. I rummaged around in my bag for my keys and looped them around my finger while I walked to my door.

The lights were on and a very tall man stood in the kitchen area, taking in a painting on the wall.

He turned as I closed the door. “I like what you've done with the place.”

I put my bag on the dining table and threw my keys aside. My mouth slightly opened while my brain tried to process what was going on.

His hands stayed in his pockets as he moved away from the bench, standing a maximum of five paces away.

“What are you doing here?” was all I could mutter.

“I still have the key. I'm surprised you didn't change the locks to be honest.” He smiled and I tried to keep myself from melting.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “No, what are you doing here?”

He raised his shoulders. “I'm moving back.”

I shook my head, still not able to get my head around it all. “What changed your mind?”

He took a step forward and sighed. “I don't belong at home anymore. It took me a while to get it but I belong wherever you are.”

My pulse was racing. I fought the urge to run into his arms. To touch him again. To kiss him. To go back to that familiar feeling.

He tilted his head to the side and looked me up and down before meeting my eyes. “Didn’t you miss me?”

I nodded slowly. “Like crazy.”

His lips curved into a smile and he took his hands out of his pockets. “Come here, baby girl.”

I dropped my arms and walked into his, my hands wrapping around his neck as he held me tightly. He smelt like sweet cologne and coffee. I exhaled slowly and reveled in the feeling. He pulled away, tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and kissed me slowly. His lips grazed against mine before pulling away. I couldn’t help but smile as I leaned in and kissed him again.

He pulled me flush against him while his tongue delved into my mouth, exploring every nook and cranny, our eagerness growing by the second. My hands dug into his hair and I started turning us around, walking backwards down the hall. He broke the kiss and bent down, lifting me into his arms, bridal style.

I giggled and threw my head back before reattaching my lips to his. He lay me down gently on the sheets and stood up straight.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” he murmured.

I sat up and clutched the front of his shirt, bringing his lips down to mine. We slowly fell backwards, hungrily running our hands all over each other.

*****

A few days later, I got a message from Christopher, asking me to come over after work.

I bit my lip in anticipation, forgetting for a second the situation I was in.

My heart thundered in my chest as I walked to his apartment. I knocked on his door and thought about turning around for the hundredth time. I was about to turn around when the door opened, revealing a very shirtless Chris.

He smiled and leaned against the doorframe. “Hola, preciosa.”

I shook my head slowly. “Fuckin thirst trap.”

He laughed and extended a hand, pulling me in and closing the door behind us.

“Can I get you anything?” He kissed the back of my hand and let it go, making his way to the kitchen. “Coke? Water? Vodka?”

I picked at my cuticles, keeping my head down. “Nah, it’s ok, I can’t stay long.”

“Quicky, huh?” I glared at him while he smirked. He shook his hair out and gave me a face I could only describe as one of the sexiest things I had ever seen. He stalked towards me and held my face, tilting it towards his. “Something wrong?”

I licked my lips. “We need to talk.”

“Uh oh.”

I took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “Listen, my ex came back the other day.”

His face fell and he swallowed. “Ok..”

“We-we can’t do this anymore.”

He held my cheek, his eyes focused on mine.

“I don’t wanna hurt you but...I love him.”

He exhaled and dropped his hand. “No me importa carajo.”

My brow creased as I squinted at him.

“You want me, baby, I know you do. You’ll be back.”

I raised my eyebrows and tilted my head. “Does it hurt, carrying that ego around all day?”

He laughed and put his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “What? It’s true though.”

I shook my head, trying to conceal the smile forming.

“Well, in the spirit of being honest, there’s something I should tell you.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and nodded. “Ok, tell me.”

“Umm,” he rubbed the back of his neck and looked at me. “I have a girlfriend.”

The shock hit me right in the face.

“Wow, ok.” I looked around the room, anywhere but at him.

“Yeah…” he trailed off. “But she’s not you.”

I finally met his eyes. The big brown orbs looked as ernest as I had ever seen them.

“Look, whatever this is,” he waved his hand in between us, “I don’t want it to end; and I don’t think you do either.”

I pursed my lips. He was right. As much as I loved the man, Chris was...irresistible. And amazing. And insatiable. And massive.

He stepped around me and circled me. “Listen, he doesn’t have to know about me, she doesn’t have to know about you. It doesn’t have to end.” He stopped behind me and slowly rubbed my arms, kissing the back of my head.

“But-”

“Don’t worry, nena. It’ll be fine.” His hands slid down my sides achingly slowly until they came to the hem of my shirt. “Everyone will be happy.” His fingers started lifting the hem. “All four of us.” He lips grazed the shell of my ear. “Felices los cuatro, baby.”

I sighed and turned in his arms, crashing my lips onto his passionately.

[bryonysimcox]

Cutting, calling, sticking, sitting, subtitling: Week 15, Spain

With future certainty and concrete plans nowhere in sight, this week’s blog post is in praise of the mundane. Seven days of everyday life.

When prepping for this blog entry, I started panicking. What’s the overarching message? The big-picture mood of the week or the lesson I’ve learnt? Well this week, there isn’t one. It’s been seven days of everyday life and I reckon that’s worth celebrating too.

We’ve been pitching for some exciting work this week.

I can’t talk about the specifics, but it’s heartening to be actually planning and quoting for real-life projects that could bring in real-life money and real-life experience. We pretty much work on Broaden as a full-time venture anyway (regardless of if it makes us money), so when prospective clients reach out to Broaden to ask us to do more of what we love, then that’s a bonus.

I guess that’s the beauty of filmmaking, it’s so broad and its potential is so great that it can be valuable for a whole lot of people. I also think in the coming ‘new normal’ as countries, cities and communities come to adapt life around Covid-19, that the role of video and online streaming will shift, and perhaps become a more central element in our lives.

I’ve also been working away at editing the video we started filming last week about Economics for a more just and equitable world. It’s starting to take shape, though there is a lot of refinement needed (I’ve cut 150 minutes down to 30 minutes but still have a fair way to go!). Working on this video is also bringing about a newfound challenge of how we make videos like this visually stimulating, when they predominantly feature digital interviews and we can’t film footage out and about due to lockdown. It’s forcing us to get more creative with motion graphics, which is no bad thing.

In what is the culmination of a longstanding project, we also interviewed Rich Evans about The Foundations in New South Wales this week.

‘The Foundations’ is a truly extraordinary project/place in Portland, a tiny town about two-hours inland from Sydney. I first discovered the project when I worked in Australia, and the company I worked for, RobertsDay, was involved in a masterplanning process. Portland was established around a cementworks which went on to not only be the driving economic force behind the town, but also the backbone of the community. It was a source of civic pride (cement from Portland famously went to Sydney amid the building boom, coining it the phrase ‘The Town That Built Sydney’), and also helped establish social infrastructure like the swimming pool that is still a celebrated destination in the little town today. Sadly, as the cementworks decreased in scale and eventually closed in the nineties, it had a huge impact on the town.

(images) Scenes from January 2019 when we started filming at The Foundations, Portland NSW.

Back at RobertsDay, I had the pleasure of working on the masterplan and placemaking work for the next chapter of the cementworks, and I immediately fell in love with the place. Not only was it this incredible place of industrial heritage, but the owners actually wanted to transform the site into something really special - a tourist destination, an asset to the community, and a revitalised part of the town. From its current state - fenced-off, closed, and perhaps even an eyesore, the owners wanted to introduce artwork, markets, community gardens, museum collections, fishing and camping, weddings, concerts and a whole host of other things.

It was obvious that there was a story about The Foundations that deserved to be told, and so in January 2019 George and I spent a weekend there, filming local residents, business owners, and the wonderful Rich Evans, ‘Chief Reactivation Officer’ from The Foundations. This was before we’d even launched Broaden, but we were passionate to use filmmaking to document the transformation that was taking place there. However, over the course of 2019, other things took centre stage in our lives and we never got around to editing the final film.

And so, in lockdown here in Spain, we decided it was finally time to close off this story. Just this week,we called Rich over Zoom and asked him all about how things have progressed since we last visited Portland. Rich is a larger-than-life character who had so much good stuff to report (an artist in residence, growing market attendee numbers, new custom-designed public furniture, and the renovation of a central historic building which involved the removal of 1000s of bees!).

In a strange way, I’d originally thought of this hiatus as a weakness for our film, but it now has added another facet to the story: giving Rich a chance to reflect on progress at The Foundations and show viewers how much is possible in the space of a year.

Making collages serves as respite for the mind.

I return to my collage practice as a meditative practice, and a restorative one too. It’s something I do when I want to clear my mind, and use a different part of my brain from the video-editing-zoom-calling-analytical-planning side of my brain.

That said, the last few paper collages I’ve made have felt like a bit of struggle, and I’ve felt rather uninspired. The collages are never meant to be a forced thing, but instead something visceral and playful, but in recent times they’d stopped being that.

Until this week! This week, inspired to make a collage for my mum’s birthday, I started getting my boxes of magazines and compiled sheets out, stuck my ‘Making Collage’ playlist on, and somehow just found my groove. Shapes and forms shouted out to me, and I was more preoccupied with the mood of the pieces than perfection and precision. I was drawn to more ambiguous textures and the way that they could be layered, and what started as one collage ended up being a series of three (the other two of which I’ll later publish this week).

(image) The collage I made for my mum’s birthday, ‘Flirtatious Textures’.

Whilst I’ve feel as though I’ve found my swing with collage-making again (and have been also considering embarking on some critical writing about my creative process using academic texts for reference), this week I had a piece rejected. I’d made it to enter into a competition, and when the rejection email landed in my inbox this week, the usual heart-racing pangs of inadequacy entered my mind. Not only had I lost money on the entry fee, but my work was ‘unwanted’. I’ve spent some time facing those demons these last couple of days and reminding myself that I make my work for ME.

So if that’s the cutting and sticking, and the zoom interviews were the calling, what’s the sitting and subtitling this week’s post refers to?

We’ve been doing a lot of sitting. Sitting and staring, sitting and watching the sun set, sitting and reading books, sitting and checking Instagram, sitting and feeling guilt for sitting, sitting and swatting mosquitoes away (it’s rather hot all of a sudden), sitting and eating crisps, sitting and calling friends, sitting and laughing, smiling, frowning, thinking.

(images, left to right) Everyday scenes from the cottage, cutting and sticking, and a lot of sitting (as demonstrated by George!)

It feels totally bonkers that as we face a global health pandemic, all I’m drawn to do (or able to do) is sit. And George and I have certainly discussed the guilt, lack of motivation, boredom and soul-searching that’s grown (and comes along with sitting!) in recent weeks. I’m not sure if there’s some grand benefit to all this sitting, but it has called for the enjoyment of many a good book, and also a good phonecall.

One of the most joyful moments (spent sitting!) this week was surely the video call I had for my Granny’s 80th birthday, between my mum, my brother, my aunt and my Granny herself. There were laughs and cheers, ridiculous filters used and lots of talk of birthday booze and plentiful cake. But after the call, there were also moments of reflection and of gratitude; that we are able to celebrate together (albeit digitally) for the momentous milestone that is my wonderful Granny’s eightieth birthday, as she sits alone in her house in Scotland, is a blessing. Of course, I would have loved to have seen her in person, but I am so bloody grateful that we can connect to her even if just through the airwaves.

Birthdays in May seem to be a common occurrence in my family, and this week saw my Mum’s birthday too. Again, there was a sense of loss that unsurprisingly, I couldn’t be with her due to coronavirus (a fact made worse by the fact I don’t think I’ve been with my Mum on her birthday for about five years), but we were also able to chat and videocall. And I was also able to go back through my photos, reflecting on wonderful times shared across the years.

(images, left to right) Looking back at memories with mum - as a child in a sling, on our trip to Sri Lanka in 2018, and at the exhibition opening of ‘Talking Sense’ where one of her sculptures was displayed at the Portico Library last year.

Access to computers and the internet, free time to sit and chill, and family who are safe and sound is not a privilege everyone shares. And I am so aware of that.

I continue to think of the inequalities this pandemic is highlighting, and the gaps it is widening. Access to the fundamental elements for a just and equitable life are basic human rights, and yet as BBC newsnight’s Emily Maitlis reminded us, 'The disease is not a great leveller'. If while I’m sitting this week, I can at least read, watch, learn and share ideas about how we can tackle these gaping inequalities, my sitting was perhaps not in vain.

As our fifteenth week on the road drew to a close, and looked ever less like life actually ‘on the road’, I decided to take on the task of subtitling The Hundred Miler.

Initially, the only motivation to create comprehensive subtitles for Broaden’s thirty minute documentary was so that we could enter foreign film fests. And even then, we’d have had it professionally subtitled if we weren’t looking for ways to save money!

And so I naively embarked on what was to become a two-day odyssey involving Artificial Intelligence transcript detection, manually correcting the script, learning about timecodes, downloading .srt files and working to integrate them with YouTube.

The long and short of it is that The Hundred Miler (which also hit a whopping 100,000 views this week) now has complete ‘closed caption’ subtitles which you can use and enjoy on YouTube! But more than that, through conversations with others I realised the importance of subtitles from an accessibility perspective, as a critical tool to help deaf and hard-of-hearing people, as well as those for whom English isn’t their mother tongue. It was a refreshing reminder that we exclude people without meaning to, but that we can also actively include them if we take certain measures.

So that’s it, Week 15 in all its mundane glory. To those of you who are still here, reading my reflections on these strange and tumultuous times, thank you. Maybe this week you’ve been cutting, calling, sticking, sitting and subtitling too, and for that, I salute you. 

[berniesrevolution]

JACOBIN MAGAZINE

When, exactly, did I start using the term “axe murderer” all the time? As in, “The President of Honduras is an Axe Murderer.” At first, I was just being flip and only threw it out there every once in a while, in private, to refer in a general sense to the successive governments that took power in Honduras after the coup. “The Honduran government is run by axe murderers,” I’d drop, but only with people who already understood what I meant.

But as Juan Orlando Hernández’s presidential campaign advanced over the course of 2012 and ‘13, I got more specific. I needed some kind of shorthand to try to capture his criminal bulldozing of the rule of law and to convey quite how villainous he was.

In public, I still held back my epithets, instead building my case slowly but clearly from documented evidence — although when he was inaugurated I did call him a “dangerous thug” in the Houston Chronicle. But during meetings in Congress, I was increasingly blindsided by the turnover among aides: every six months I’d meet with a new sea of twenty-six-year-olds who knew nothing about Honduras at all.

Over and over, I’d try to explain in a half-hour meeting quite how bad it was down there and who the US was supporting. Afterwards, describing those meetings, I’d groan to friends, “It’s zero to axe murderers in thirteen minutes.” Casting “axe murderer” out there, I flailed in the gap between the horrors I was tracking in Honduras, on the one hand, and my inability to get other people to understand what I wanted to communicate, on the other.

Despite all the atrocities, though, I never deployed the phrase in print. I’d already gotten letters threatening to sue me for character defamation from Miguel Facussé, whose Dinant Corporation was widely alleged to have murdered campesinos struggling for land rights in the Bajo Aguán Valley. Widely alleged, I am now careful to insert. So, let me clarify: The president of Honduras is an alleged dangerous thug. The president of Honduras is an alleged axe murderer.

Actual axe murderers in Honduras, however, don’t, as rule, use axes. When it comes to that, they are more likely to use machetes.

On March 13, 2012, Fausto Flores Valle, a radio host in the Aguán Valley, was riding along on his bicycle when assassins suddenly killed him with 18 machete blows. On March 5, 2014, a group of people ambushed María Santos Dominguez, an Indigenous activist with COPINH who had been vocally opposing a dam development, and attacked her with machetes, rocks, and sticks. When her son ran up to help, they cut off his right ear and part of his face. On May 4, 2014, Cándido Rodríguez Castillo allegedly raped a thirteen-year-old girl, then killed her, her ten-year-old sister, her seven-year-old brother, and their eighteenth-month-old baby brother, using a machete.

But those stories are about individual acts, in which you can see the axe/machete-wielder. They don’t capture the systemic way in which raw violence is countenanced, encouraged, and committed by the post-coup Honduran government as an institution, and directed especially at social justice activists, land rights defenders, the opposition, and journalists. They don’t capture the judges who let off their vicious drug trafficker allies; they don’t capture the illegally-appointed attorney general transferring out twenty-one prosecutors who had been pursuing high-level cases of organized crime. They don’t capture Hernández and his allies in the Honduran Congress abolishing the Commission for the Review of Public Security in 2013, with a green light from the US Embassy, as the president swept into office.

What’s going on in Honduras — the axe murdering — is collective, then. Yet at the top of that government sits a single individual who, to the best of my knowledge, has never physically killed anyone with an axe or a machete, but who bears enormous responsibility for what’s going on.

When the supposed “crisis” of children at the border hit the media in June 2014, Juan Orlando Hernández’s track record was suddenly a hundred percent latent; he was just Mr. Charm, with his glowing interviews. US senators and members of Congress quoted him like he was a heroic figure fighting the good fight against the drug traffickers, protecting his borders against human smugglers, and caring for the little children with nationalistic love.

(Continue Reading)

[46ten]

Henry Knox and Lucy Flucker Knox, part 2

Part 1 here, portraits of them here. 

WARNING: this is not the entirety of the content of their letters - only a very small part. In posting these quotes, I run the risk of leaving the impression that their communication with each other is all melodramatic neediness (or beautiful heart-aching romance, OMMV). I assure that this is a minor component of their letters to each other, but the part that for reasons of 1) language, 2) social conventions, 3) marriage dynamics, interest me the most on this blog.  

In reading a few other summaries of the character of Lucy Flucker Knox, there's a pretty consistent criticism that she's overly emotional - overwrought, anxious, needy. Accusations of this type happen frequently enough with women of the 18th century that I question whether this is an accurate description of individual women, or whether women felt free, or rather were encouraged, to express themselves in such ways as part of the sensibility culture.  We're bound to a significant degree by social constraints and expectations in our own culture (think the “Cool Girl" trope). 

It begins to wear me out to read of upperclass 18th century white women described as, “intelligent,” as though that would be a shocking thing.  These women were educated and typically well-read. The fate of this education was to be a worthy companion to a wealthy man (including assisting him with his career in all the ways that could be meant), manage his household, rear proper and dutiful children, and serve the kingdom/republic through the first three. But they were expected to be smart.

Complaining about letters just seems to be a thing. Which is better for making your wife feel guilty about NOT writing you: AH’s “I was extremely disappointed, My Dear Eliza, that the Mondays post did not bring me a letter from you. You used to keep your promises better. And you know that I should be anxious to hear of your health. If the succeeding post does not rectify the omission of the former I shall be dissatisfied and pained” OR HK’s “I am unhappy that I do not hear from you. Post arrives after post and no letters from her I love to distraction. I have made so many conjectures upon this subject that I am weary of them and shall not give myself the trouble to write them to you.”

The Knoxes were spending ALOT of time apart, and when one considers that they were still in the newlywed phase when war began for them, and only married three years (and much of that time spent apart) by the summer of 1777, I think it’s natural for Lucy to wonder if Henry’s affection/passion for her has faded, especially as she recounts that she’s heard of other wives who are with their husbands for the military campaigns, and yet Henry seems to never request for her to be near (largely because of deprivations that the other wives have experienced that he chooses not to write to her about for fear she’ll find it upsetting). This was compounded by the loss of her own family.   

There are so many great phrases in these letters. Lucy: “I imagine by this time you have almost forgot my very looks and, if perchance my name is mentioned, you cry what have we to do with women...why should I wish for his company who is indifferent, whether he lives at four hundred miles distance or not.” And Henry: “I have in every former Letter express'd the true genuine feelings of my heart in the most tender expressions of which I was capable.” Here’s a man engaged in Important Things (military matters) and clearly exasperated, but his reaction is not to rebuke her but to remind her that there is no more important matter to him than her. [See also my old post about manhood that has links to other posts about sensibility and emotional expressiveness. It’s hard to exaggerate the importance of being considered a “good husband” as a sign of one’s manhood and masculinity in this society.]

BTW. his convincing her of his “ardency” later yields four kids in four years.   

ca Jan1777 Lucy Knox to Henry Knox I am sick at heart, low spirited and almost indifferent whether I live or die. Had I no friends I suppose I should not take it so hard, but when I reflect that I have a father and a mother, sisters and Brother, and yet am this poor neglected thing, I cannot bear it. As for you, I love you. I underwent almost every distress for the sake of being yours, and you forsake me. My poor dear father I must never see again. When I reflect upon his excessive tenderness for me when a child, upon the thousand times he has helped me and prayed god to make me the comfort of his age, I am half distressed and yet believe me, dear Harry, I cheerfully remained the best of partners and would do it again and again to live to be with you. But this you refuse me. I have been confined to my room almost a week, have been alone most time, and have given myself up to the Horror of the situation.  

10Jan 1777 HK to LK Believe me my Love I live, move & exist only for you. In the greatest hurry and confusion of War, you are uppermost in my thoughts, my heart is yours altogether. My Country demands my poor pittance to endeavor to rescue her from Barbarity, Tyranny, & every misery consequent on an unlimited, uncheck'd power....My Lucy, I'm well asurr'd does not wish her Harry to be ignominiously inactive during this great contest, a Contest of Virtue with vice. My heart suffers pain, exquisite pain, in being separated from you. It sympathizes, feels & weeps with yours, & often pours forth a pious petition to the great author of all things to support & comfort you. Yes my Lucy our Love is I hope & perfectly believe mutual & will increase & in one degree to another untill time shall be swallowed upon eternity....

6March1777 HK to LK ...I knew not untill now (shall I call it weakness) how dear you were to me and how necessary to my happiness.  

18March1777 LK to HK It greaves me to think you are embarked in a cause so wretchedly managed. Farewell my dearest hope....Remember the sweet hours you have passed with [your Lucy], remember the thousand proofs of affection we have mutually received, and also remember that she loves you truly, sacredly.  

23 Aug1777, LK to HK ......When I seriously reflect that I have lost my father, Mother, Brother and Sisters, entirely lost them, I am half distracted. True, I cheerfully resigned them for one far dearer to me than all of them, but I am totally deprived of him. I have not seen him for almost six months, and he writes me without pointing at any method by which I may ever expect to see him again. ‘Tis hard, my Harry, indeed it is. I love you with the tenderest the purest affection. I would undergo any hardship to be near you and you will not let me. Suppose this campaign should be, like the last, carried into the winter. Do you intend not to see me in all that time? Tell me dear what your plan is.... I am more distressed from the hot weather than any other fears. You grant you may not go farther southward; if you should I positively will come too… 

I love you with a love as true and as ever entered the human heart, but from a difference of my own merit, I sometimes fear you will love me less – after being so long from me – if you should, may my life end before I know it – that I may die thinking you wholly mine. 

18Sept1777 LK to HK  I omited writing until this morning in hopes to have received something from you by the post, but to my great disappointment, I had not a line....I would write more had I time, but you have no reason to complain as in the last fortnight I have forwarded six or seven letters. 

6Oct1777 HK to LK I expect the post will arrive this day by which I shall have the happiness of hearing from my dear Girl. 

15Oct1777 HK to LK I have received your short Letter for Doctor Lulling, but am extremely sorry to observe that two posts have arrived here by whom I have not received a single Line. It is impossible that my Lucy should have known of the circumstances of the posts going from Boston, otherwise she would have written to the man who adores her. Nothing gives me half so much pain as not hearing from you by the same medium which other people hear from their friends in Boston. I mean not to complain, but hope you will not give me the reason for [it in] the future. 

29Oct1777 HK to LK I am unhappy that I do not hear from you. Post arrives after post and no letters from her I love to distraction. I have made so many conjectures upon this subject that I am weary of them and shall not give myself the trouble to write them to you.  

3Nov1777 HK to LK I have but ten minutes to write to her whom I love with all the power and faculties of my soul. ...I have received no Letter from you Since the 3rd ultimo altho I have written regularly by the [post] and as often by private hands as was in my power.  Write me the reason of all this my Lucy. 

6Nov1777 LK to HK My All in life, I wish to write my Harry a very long letter by this post, but it is not in my power. I was last evening [seized\ with that afflicting pain at my stomach...You again in this letter of the 22nd of October, acuse me of neglecting to write by three posts, and impute it to please or negligence. My pleasures, God knows, are very few, and neglecting you is a thing I never shall be guilty of. The reason of my not writing by these posts was that they brought no Letters from the army. I imagine by this time you have almost forgot my very looks and, if perchance my name is mentioned, you cry what have we to do with women. Out of the last sixteen months we have not been six weeks together, and it is now eight months since we parted, a circumstance which I dare say you never think of or you would some times mention it in your letters. But alas, what a change from the happy days I have seen. Begone my foolish tears, why should I wish for his company who is indifferent, whether he lives at four hundred miles distance or not.  We have a report that Genl Howe has met the fate of Genl Burgoine. If that is true, do you think you can content yourself to return to my arms. If you can, may god almighty soon place you there is the prayer of your unhappy wife. 

7Nov1777 HK to LK The happiness your Last letter for the 25th Ultimo gave me was almost infinite, after not having had a line from you for a month. Did you know what pleasure and satisfaction Your Letters did me, you would spend much of Your time in writing and send them when you had opportunity. That kind providence which brought us together did not do it before our souls were previously form'd for our mutual happiness.  ...I bless the day which heaven made You mine and I hope that providence which brought us together will give me an opportunity by a long connection of convincing you with a pure ardent affection how much I love and esteem You. 

25Nov1777 HK to LK (he's finally gotten her 6Nov letter) I am unhappy to the last degree that you should suppose in the least that my affection for you is diminished. My God knows how much I suffer for Your sake, how much anxiety I go thro. This you may rely upon my dearest Love that I have no other affection on earth that bears the least Competition with that I have for you, that my being in the service is part of that affection. I have said so much on this subject of my being in the army that it is impossible I should add any thing further on the subject. I am yours wholly and entirely, and Wish to have no other Love. The greatest happiness I have is the Contemplation of when I shall enjoy in the [illegible] of my lovely Lucy. Be assur'd, my dearest Girl, that no earthly object shall ever separate me from you after this matter shall be once happily settled. I shall by the Grace and permission of God see you this Winter when I shall endeavor to convince you with all my ardency, I am your affectionate Harry. 

2Dec1777 HK to LK ...I have in every former Letter express'd the true genuine feelings of my heart in the most tender expressions of which I was capable...In short, my Lucy, no man on earth separated from all that he holds Dear on earth has ever suffered more than I have suffered in being absent from you whom I hold dearer than every other object. I have told you this so often and with all the sincerity which God ever infused into the human heart. I am unhappy at the Contents of your Letter and am very sorry to say that unhappiness will still lay [with] me until heaven shall bless me with your society....[The Truth that he will call upon God to judge] is that there was never a purer and more ardent affection than what I profess for you, and that I carry this delicacy of affection so far as to be indifferent indeed to all the rest of your sex, even to a degree not justifiable by good manners. I wish you my dearest Love to reflect seriously on what I have written and believe it as seriously as part of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. But however much you have pained me I should be extremely unhappy to give you the least pain, but in one moment of inadvertence you have written [words] which will long be the source of unhappiness to me.  

Quotes from The Revolutionary War Lives and Letters of Lucy and Henry Knox by Phillip Hamilton

[ecoamerica]

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

[battlestar-royco]

But why did you consider AS0IAF overrated? No offence or smth, just curious.

None taken! Well, I mean “overrated” in the simplest sense of the word: AS0IAF is so mainstream because of the show, it’s like the first thing people think of when you say “fantasy,” the merchandise is everywhere, it fills up the fantasy section of every bookstore, and everyone references it as the best example of high/hard fantasy because of its “realism,” character moral ambiguity, and worldbuilding. It’s certainly a well-written series that I enjoy a lot, but do I think it is the most realistic, best plotted, best worldbuilt fantasy book with the best cast of characters out there? No. I don’t think there is a fantasy series that can fit all those criteria, but AS0IAF has become the standard when a lot of other series have equal if not better plot and worldbuilding and all that fun stuff.

My complaints are pretty similar to everyone else’s:

The books are way too long. Martin had originally planned a trilogy, then a five-book series, and now he’s projecting seven, but who honestly knows? I know we all complain about SJ/M’s editors but holy crap can this man write about inane stuff for hundreds of pages, repeat the same word on the same page two to three times, and use ten words to describe something that could’ve been written in three. It doesn’t help that the plot can be really glacial at times, especially when you happen upon a sequence of many unlikable/boring POV chapters.

I find the writing style awkward and heavy-handed. Sometimes he’ll use really awesome metaphors like “fingers of blood” or “crust of snow” over a riverbank but overuse them like 5 times in the same storyline. His characters also repeatedly use made-up phrases like “nuncle” or “must needs” to remind us that we’re in a ~medieval fantasy~. He also occasionally overwrites descriptions/symbolism to a nonsensical point. I recall him describing a rain of bloody rose petals on wind or something in a dream sequence, and I found it to be really extra. And don’t even get me started on the sex scenes; they’re all just awful and rarely necessary (describing genitalia as flowers, using onomatopoeia, etc).

One of the most iconic things about AS0IAF is how main characters die unexpectedly, but I don’t find the MC deaths to be particularly good for the overall reading experience. The MC deaths were probably innovative for the time the first books got published, but now we have a lot of shows and books with high stakes for the characters, so why are people acting like G/RRM is the only one to kill off a main member of a cast? Also, he wrote 5000+ pages in this world, and essentially asked readers to invest hours upon hours of time into his books, and he keeps on killing off characters that he purposely made us root for. As of AD/WD, there’s no payoff for all the horrible stuff that happens to the characters who were written to be our favorites. There’s reward for reading the books. It’s just nihilistic grimdark. (But I do think he’s going to give us some sort of hope/satisfaction by the time the final book is published, if he ever publishes it.)

The first books were published in the 90s, so there are a lot of really cringey racism/sexism/homophobia/ableism etc issues. For example, I think Dany’s storyline is not aging well at all. She was meant to be a figure of women’s empowerment by freeing slaves and becoming queen in the east, but it’s a classic White Savior narrative and there is not one Es/sosi (people of color who inhabit the eastern continent) POV in the books. The entire setting is super exoticized through D/any’s POV with oddly spelled names; characters with strong accents; and clothing, food, hairstyles, and magic a modern Western reader would find weird or disturbing. There are a lot of great meta writers on this site who discuss the Dead Ladies Club (women who underwent horrible suffering or were killed off before the start of the series to support men’s storylines), and a roundup post that counts all the female characters who have been sexually harassed or r*ped, plus all the instances of a woman being r*ped in the books. I don’t remember the exact number, but it racks up well over a hundred, maybe in the 300s. But people like to brush off all these issues because the worldbuilding is so strong and the bullshit “historical accuracy” excuse.

Hope that answers your question!

[iamartemisday]

Pepperony Week Day Five: Post-Civil War

Pepper had a list hidden away in a secret folder on her computer.  The title was a series of random letters and numbers achieved by closing her eyes and hitting eleven random keys.  Any hacker or burglar would write it off as junk and move on, or so she hoped.  Every couple of days she’d go into the folder and open the single file inside.

Reasons Why I Should Permanently Break Up With Tony

1: He’s completely unreliable.  He can’t shake bad habits and he can’t keep promises.

2: He’s full of himself.  Even when he’s saving people there’s this stink of arrogance like he thinks he’s owed something for it.

3: He hogs the bedsheets at night.

4: His idea of date night is making a Pepper sized suit and racing around the world.

5: David, the deputy director of R&D, is clearly interested in me and is a really sweet guy I’d be lucky to have.

6: He’s never going to stop being Ironman, which means he’s never going to stop risking his life, which means I’ll always have to fear for his life when he’s on missions.  

There was no point in rereading the list, she had it memorized by now.  The latest news report of Captain America’s prison breakout and subsequent disappearance as he and his accomplices went on the lam played outside Pepper’s door.  Interns and secretaries argued passionately about the proceedings, and from what little Pepper picked up, it seemed Stark Industries was evenly split between supporting Cap and supporting Tony.  She hoped no reporters would be asking for her opinion.  At this point, she had no idea what she would say, only that it would be loud and mostly censored.  

She hit enter, going down to the next line.

7: He signed government paperwork without consulting SI’s legal department even though he knows damn well we have the best lawyers in the country who would have weeded out any vague wording or hidden clauses and maybe prevented this massive shitstorm.  Or at least contain it.

She added a few expletives, only to delete them right after.  It was more effective and less painful than punching the wall, and better on her voice than calling him and screaming in his ear.  She sat slumped over, staring at the modern art piece above her couch.  Tony had scoffed the first time he saw it.  He thought it looked like a ten year old playing with MS paint.  Now that she thought about it, this painting was pretty basic.  Just a straight line on a white background.  She could do that in two seconds

An alert came up on her instant messenger and her heart stopped.  She had several hundred contacts, mostly business partners who messaged her daily for status updates.  Realistically, she shouldn’t assume it was Tony when there was only a one in three hundred chance she was right.  Except she was pretty sure most of the other two hundred and ninety-nine people with her info couldn’t activate her messenger remotely when she didn’t even have the app open.

TStark: Hey Pep!

Two words after a month of no contact with an exclamation point at the end.  Yup, that was Tony.

TStark: Sorry if you’re busy but I wanted to talk.

TStark: Nothing important, just thinking of you. :)

Smileys were new, though.

TStark: Okay, that’s not entirely true, a lot of important stuff is going on.  And you probably know most of it.

TStark: You probably want to yell at me.

“Bingo,” Pepper muttered.

TStark: That is absolutely fine.  You can scream your head off until I go deaf and I will take it.  I know I messed up.  I know I should’ve talked to you.  Believe me, it’s all I’ve been thinking about for weeks (okay maybe not all I’ve been thinking about but you know since we’re on a break nighttimes have been kind of lonely so…).

Pepper giggled.  Damn Tony and his charm even when he was trying to grovel.  He could drown a bag of puppies and crack jokes about it, and he’d still get a laugh out of her.  

TStark: I mean, if I were you I’d be on the phone laying into me for hours.  Of course, I could never do it as well as you.  Have I ever thanked you for consistently taking me down a peg every day for the past twenty years?

TStark: If I haven’t, let me give you a kiss right now.

There was a kiss emoji at the end of that comment.  In fact, there were several.  At least fifteen by Pepper’s count.  It made her think of his real lips, how full and pink they were.  The way his facial hair tickled her skin when they kissed.  The glorious beard burn she got when she spread her legs and let him-

“Ms. Potts, the deputy director of finances for you on line two.”

Pepper coughed, though there was nothing in her throat. “Thanks, Sylvia.  Would you take a message?  I’m in the middle of an important meeting.”

Tony had sent three more messages when she checked again.

TStark: Anyway, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to meet up sometime?  Not for a date or anything, just to talk.  I miss our talks.

TStark: Also Dum-E misses you.  I swear I caught him crying the other day over a picture of you.  It was weird, but I’m not one to judge.

TStark: We don’t have to go out.  We could eat at Chez My Kitchen.  I think I’ve finally perfected my omelet making technique.

‘That’ll be the day,’ she thought.  Her hands inched towards the keyboard, fingers burning and mind filling with words and phrases and things that simply had to be said no matter where they went from here.

One more message appeared before she could.

TStark: I just miss you, Pepper.  I miss you so much.

Her heart didn’t twist because it had been aching since his first ‘Hey Pep’.  She pictured him at his desk, or in his suit dictating to FRIDAY, eyes bloodshot and body ragged from life and supersoldier fists beating down on him.  He looked no better than she felt.  

Her list was minimized at the bottom of the screen.  Clicking on it, Pepper read it one more time.  Seven perfectly understandable reasons why they weren’t meant to be.  Why if she did meet him, they should part ways as amicable friends, ready to move on to a new chapter in life.  

By the time Pepper got to the last line, she was more convinced than ever that breaking up with Tony was the best thing for both of them… and so she scrolled down to the next page.

Reasons Why I Should Stay With Tony

1: Tony has done more to better himself than anyone I’ve ever met.  He’ll always have flaws, but who doesn’t?  And who else would work so hard to overcome their flaws even if they still make mistakes?

2: He cares so much about helping people, even when he pretends it’s all for an ego boost.  He’ll go to Hell and back to protect the world.

3: I drink milk from the carton when I’m too lazy to use a glass so I guess I owe him the sheets.

4: And having my own suit would be kind of cool even though it’s also terrifying.

5: David from R&D has awful hair and only ever talks about soccer.  I hate soccer.  I’d be bored to tears with him.

6: Becoming Ironman was the best thing Tony ever did and it made him the man I fell in love with.  The man I’ll always love.

Oh yeah, that’s right.  How could she have forgotten?

Pepper smiled and pulled the chat window up.

PPotts: I miss you, too.

[an-exotic-writer]

jungkook; i could’ve tried (to fix us)

❝roadtrip!au where we need to save gas money so we take a long, awkward, tension-filled car ride ►1914 words // scenario, pbd drabbles ♡ this was part of the drabble series ‘post-break-up drabbles’ but i found that i wrote a bit longer than what a drabble was for me so, a scenario instead!

If there had been other people besides your parents and Jungkook’s who completely adored the two of you together, it would be the friends that you share with him. Being with them half of the time you were in a relationship, they knew the both of you inside out including the traits when you were together. It would’ve been lovely if you two were still together but in this case... it’s about to get nasty and you can foresee it when you agree to go on a road trip with them.

Being college kids with the common goal to save money with maximum fun meant being squeezed into a van that fit eight people. That wasn’t what bugged you, honestly. You’ve been into a situation where seven people had to fit into a four seater car (each bump was horrible). So this was nothing. Until you found out who you’d be seated next to in the back.

Your sitting buddy was none other than Jeon Jungkook.

At first it made your blood boil but when you found out, which was the day itself that you got shoved into the back with no room to get out unless you want to find a way to bump the trunk or shove Jimin, Taehyung and Yoongi with full force to get out through their doors. It was hopeless and you’re stuck with tension running high in such a small confined space.

You pull your lip over your head and refuse to say a word that Jungkook does to you; which have been nothing but tiny pricks aiming to get you to burst. The breakup wasn’t... the best that it could’ve been but you were honest. And you’d like to believe you gave your all into a relationship that didn’t work out and it happens. With the way Jungkook was acting pissed you off, as if you weren’t once in love with him, spitting anything that could ease the pain he felt.

Taking things to your own hands, you put in earphones to plug out his voice and he scoffs, glaring at you, “Really? You’re gonna just ignore me like that? Go ahead then. Play that music as loud as you can until you go deaf,”

Remaining silent, Jungkook snaps his eyes away with a grumble: unbelievable.

Luck must’ve hated you and when everyone else decides to leave the van and keep it vacant so you’d be alone with... fuck. Your eyes barely register the sight until you notice your only company with you. The ding in your ears makes you open a message from Jimin?

‘y/n, don’t panic or anything. we stopped by for a quick break and also... for you and jungkook to work things out.’

There’s a sound of disapproval from you as you roll your eyes towards your side of the window where you link eyes with the same brown haired fellow texting you.

‘jimin, stop this. get back in the car.’

‘y/n please. the both of you still love each other and you know it. why are you doing this to yourselves?’

‘you know what? fine.’

You put your phone aside and look at Jimin through the window. Tugging your hoodie over your head, you smile at him before letting it drop the same time you lay your head back on the headrest as a sign you’re going back to sleep, no time for his bullshit. 

Your eyes flutter shut from the slight darkness guiding you back to sleep until you hear murmurings coming from.... Opening your vision to stare at the color of your hoodie, it seems like you’ve forgotten to put on a song from an auto switch off function embedded to your music player. You debate on showing him you’re not asleep, until his words you process past your earbuds hit you to your core.

“You know, I’d apologize the way I should’ve if I didn’t... get angry at you every time I see you,”

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

“I mean... you already look so happy without me and while I want to be happy for you if you were... I can’t,” An exhale. “Don’t get cocky, okay? Your jokes and puns sucked but... they were yours...”

“And the fact that you seem to have move on without me makes me feel like I should’ve done better at being a boyfriend than some dumb fuck who couldn’t seem to understand why you acted the way you did,” There’s a pause, before a deep breath. “You weren’t that great either, okay? You’d never open up to me for shit so whose fault is - ah, fuck...”

A sniff.

“I was doing so well...”

Fuck it.

“Not really,” You hear your own muffled voice as you pull our your earphones, pushing your hoodie back to reveal the worry in Jungkook’s eyes as he widens them. Hesitant, he looks away and clears his throat, wiping the emotion stinging his sight.

“What the hell?”

You show no sympathy... not now, at least.

“Hey, if you wanted a one man show and a sob story, all you had to do was just ask, I could go back to sleep-”

“You heard everything,”

“...well, technically, yeah,”

He stares at you staring at him.

“And?”

“...what?”

“What?” He mimics, only because he can’t formulate any proper sentences until the anger pushes him through.

“After all I’ve said, you have nothing to say to me?”

Your silence, drives his voice.

“I poured out my fucking heart out to you and you’re just gonna pretend like I didn’t say shit? How could you just-”

“I have things I want to say too, okay?!”

“Then why don’t you say them?!”

“I don’t know how!”

Jungkook falls quiet after that, as to you but when the sounds of his breathing cracks the train of thought travelling in your mind, you’re saying whatever and anything that seems to fall back into your throat whenever you thought kissing him would’ve been better than to tell him what’s wrong.

“I didn’t know how to tell someone I really loved that there are just some things I don’t quite love that they do in fear that they’d stop loving me if I said anything. So I thought-”

"Not saying anything at all was better?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you-”

“Did you even try?”

“I did!” It was a loud exclaim, until it grows soft, “...once. Then I got scared thinking I hurt your feelings so I didn’t anymore after that,”

He seems to see things from your perspective and his tensed shoulders comes down to match with the level of your eyes that stares at your feet. All this while when he thought you shutting him out was an act to show him you didn’t love him anymore, it had been the opposite. The cause being you loved him too much to hurt his feelings so you kept it to yourself to deal with it yourself instead. He can’t appreciate this entirely, though. Even if he wants to, it’s not realistically possible.

“...you know, as sensitive I am-”

“Which is very,”

“I know,” He cuts you off, to continue his initial sentence, “As sensitive as I am, you trying to tell me the things you didn’t like me doing would’ve helped our relationship. I won’t a hundred percent say I won’t do it again without a valid reason but we could’ve talked things out. And I... could’ve understood why you did the things you did,”

Jungkook takes the leap of faith to grab onto your hand laying between the both of you. He sees how you respond to his touch, allowing him to slip his fingers, lacing your own as if they never forgot what it feels like to hold someone you still love. Jungkook smiles at this, more so when you do and the little light of hope are in your eyes when Jungkook squeezes your hand to direct your eyes to him instead of your interlocked hands.

“I’d like to try again if you would,”

Your mouth opens and closes, the phrase with the message you’d want to get across already there but you don’t know if you should say it or not. Your hand grips onto his tightly and Jungkook squeezes back, urging you to - “Use your words, Y/N-”

“...it’s not going to be easy,”

“I think I can tell,” He lifts up your hands in a pair to see the red marks of you holding onto just a bit too tight. Loosening immediately, an apology follows, “Sorry,”

“It didn’t hurt,”

A brow raise.

“...okay, just a little,”

A moment to think comes around and mingles with the sounds of your breathing mixed with Jungkook’s to a less vexing atmosphere compared to when the road trip first took off. Jungkook strokes the back of your hand with his thumb, a habit he’s fond of doing and it makes your heart swell at the want for this to be a regular thing again. Swallowing the insecurities and straightening your courage, your voice is soft but Jungkook catches all the words.

“I want to try again,”

Jeon Jungkook, the number one ass says: “Sorry, what did you say?”

“You shit fuck-”What comes out as a reflex gets mustered over with a deep exhale and a louder statement. With more confidence this time.

“I said... I want to try again,” Your eyes trails up to Jungkook’s and he already has them on you. “I’ll learn to talk to you about... feelings and stuff,”

Jungkook smiles.

“And that would result to future arguments on how you shouldn’t eat all my cereal without letting me know,”

Now he laughs.

“I think cereal is the least of your worries here,”

"I was legitimately upset that you ate all my fucking Lucky Charms, you brat,“

“Okay, okay,” He scoots closer and tugs you by the hand, granting him the access to lean in with him invading all the space your eyes could possibly take in. You find that you wouldn’t have it any other way, anyway.

“We’ll learn how to communicate, tolerate and understand one another. Okay?”

You can’t trust your voice at this point, resulting in a nod.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Jungkook murmurs, lowering his lips down to yours and you gladly allow it. He kisses you like the apologies he cried himself to sleep ever since the both of you break up and he tastes like the change he promises when you feel it on your lips. He chuckles when your teeth clashes from smiling too hard. The crinkles around his eyes reminds you that you didn’t need the crescents when they were with Jungkook all along and the warmth you had replaced the Suns Jungkook watched rise while missing you during his time alone.

Now with an arm around your waist, forehead pressed to one another with a newfound path down a relationship with one another, Jungkook gently grasps onto your hand.

“Again,” You whisper to his lips, and he smirks, “Do what again?”

“...you really gonna make me say it?”

“Hm... I thought we agreed on-”

“Just kiss me again, will you?”

“All you had to do was ask.”

((”okay, back the fuck away from each other, kids.”

“we wanted you to get back together but not pounce each other in the backseat, jesus,”

“you can barely sit properly and you want to sin?”

“don’t fucking fuck in my van i’m warning you.”))

[180abroad]

Day 150: Communism, Art-Nouveau, and World War II

For our second day in Prague, we explored some of the highs and lows of Prague’s tumultuous 20th-century history: the Museum of Communism, the Alfons Mucha Museum, and the Memorial to the Heroes of the Heydrich Terror.  The three sites span the arc of Prague's New Town, so we also got to see more of the city's 20th-century architecture as we walked between them.

We started the day with a sweaty 15-minute walk to the Museum of Communism, just a block away from where we saw Swan Lake the night before. It wasn’t even 10 am yet, but it was already pushing 90 degrees and humid.

The Museum of Communism is a great stop for anyone interested in learning about the Czech Republic’s troubled history under Soviet influence. It is heavy on reading and light on actual artifacts, but it is a fascinating look into the history of Soviet communism from the perspective of a country that suffered under it firsthand.

And best of all, we could take pictures–meaning that we could skim through the exhibit while recording their text for later digestion.

The exhibit starts in the 1930s. Much like Poland, post-WWI Czechoslovakia was finally free after centuries of domination by the Austro-Hungarian Habsburg Empire. But the shadow of Fascism is looming on all sides. Intent on defending themselves from Hitler’s armies, the Czechs began a massive construction project to fortify their borders. Had it been completed, hundreds of fortified bunkers with overlapping fields of fire would have stretched across the German border.

These fortifications proved futile--not because of any design failure but because of a political one. Rather than send his takes to break through the Czech defense line, Hitler bullied the rest of Europe into forcing Czechoslovakia into giving up its borderlands to Hitler without a fight. Hitler claimed that the annexation was justified on the grounds that the inhabitants of these borderlands were ethnically German, despite the fact that the territory had always been politically Czech. (Not entirely unlike Russia's stance on annexing Crimea from Ukraine in 2014.)

The decision to give Hitler what he wanted was called the Munich Agreement, and it was signed by the leaders of Britain, France, and Italy. Note that the leader of Czechoslovakia isn't on that list--he had to wait in a Munich hotel room while his so-called allies signed away his country's defenses in a vain attempt to appease the unappeasable Nazi war machine.

Although Britain and France revoked their support of this agreement after Hitler inevitably annexed the rest of Czechoslovakia by force, many Czechs continue to resent them for what they call the Munich Betrayal. I can’t say that I blame them.

Five years later, Czechoslovakia was liberated by the Soviet army. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. The rest of the museum covers various aspects of life under communist rule. Food, medicine, and other essentials were scarce, working conditions became longer and harder, and freedom of expression was nonexistent.

Despite continual promises to the contrary, the Soviet-backed communist government nationalized one industry after another until there was virtually no legal private enterprise in the country whatsoever. Even simple transactions between individuals, like someone fixing a neighbor's door in exchange for food, were strictly prohibited.

Soon enough, the nationalized industries were struggling to pay their debts and keep up production. There were shortages throughout the country--people had money but nothing to spend it on. In response, the government enacted a series of currency "reforms." Savings and debts were devalued by 43%, and people had to exchange any cash they had for new currency, losing 80-98% of the value in the bargain depending on how much they had to exchange.

As a Soviet satellite state, the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic was made to join Comecon, a (retroactively hilariously named) protectionist trade organization run by the Soviet Union. Through Comecon, resources were taken from wealthier member countries and given to poorer member countries, and member countries could not trade with outside countries unless they did it through the Comecon organization. In Czech, the acronym for Comecon was RVHP, which inspired a joke that the acronym actually stood for a phrase that translates roughly as "rejoice, be merry, we have nothing, so let's share it."

Throughout the period of communist rule, propaganda was all-invasive. It was plastered on walls, shouted from public speakers, presented as journalism in newspapers, and even built into the skyline. Prague was chosen as the site for a massive stone monument to Stalin. It took ten years and billions of dollars to create--and it was blown up just seven years later during a rebranding movement under Khrushchev.

The bulk of the propaganda that wasn't focused on worshiping Soviet leaders was focused on idealizing poor, uneducated workers and vilifying the (rapidly shrinking) educated middle class.

In a stark, black-walled corridor, the museum tells the story of the Czechoslovakian military and police forces under communist rule. Despite being a supposedly independent country, Czechoslovakia's army was fully integrated into Soviet chain of command, with Russian generals in charge of every detail. Borders were tightly sealed, and 450 Czechoslovakian citizens were killed trying to cross the Iron Curtain. An additional 600 Czechoslovakian and Soviet soldiers were killed by people trying to escape.

And then there was the secret police, who used bribes, blackmail, and outright torture to create an army of informants. It was through these informants that such petty crimes as fixing a neighbor's door could be effectively policed and punished. If someone was suspected of hiding something, they were and their loved ones were beaten, drugged, and even executed. Forced labor camps once again sprang up throughout the country in a chilling echo of Nazi occupation. Fear and mistrust were the currency of Communism’s power.

In the 1960s, a new generation of Czech Communist party leaders began to adopt a more moderate, liberal stance. Censorship was eased, elections became more democratic, and limited trade with the West allowed department stores to fill with goods once again.

And the Soviets wanted none of it. Overnight, a Soviet army descended on Prague, and virtually all of the Czech Communist leaders were imprisoned or executed. A new Moscow-approved government was installed in its place, and for the next twenty-one years, things steadily got worse.

Finally, in 1989–days after the fall of the Berlin Wall–the dam broke. A student march that had originally been organized by the Communist youth to celebrate the defeat of Fascism turned into a protest against the ongoing repression of the Soviet-backed Communists. Tens of thousands of students were arrested or brutally beaten as they ran away. But unlike the Tiananmen Square massacre that had only recently occurred in China, the government’s actions only stoked the fires of resentment.

Working-class parents–the backbone of the regime’s support–were outraged by their children’s treatment and immediately joined the protests. Hundreds of thousands of people from across the country flooded Wenceslas Square each evening, and within days, the Velvet Revolution was complete. The Soviets packed up and left, and Czechoslovakians were able to vote in truly free elections for the first time in over 50 years.

(For better or worse, the again-newly independent country of Czechoslovakia was short-lived, breaking up several years later by mutual agreement into separate Czech and Slovak Republics. But that’s a story for some other museum.)

Having been run through the emotional gamut and in desperate need of additional caffeine, we decided to stop at a nearby café before going on to our next sight. But before the café, however, we followed a Rick Steves recommendation and peeked into the fabulous Municipal House that I mentioned in our last post.

The interior is stunning. Not gaudy, but colorful and vivacious. It was like stepping into a 1920s period movie.

We also noticed a sign indicating that the Slav Epic was currently on display at the Municipal House. We didn't appreciate what that meant at the time, but we soon would.

Our next visit was to the fabulously fun Mucha Museum. I didn’t know much about Mucha before visiting, but that says more about me than him. Mucha was one of the founders and basically the patron saint of the Art Nouveau movement. And tragically, we weren’t able to take pictures inside the museum.

Unlike the great painters of previous eras, Mucha was a commercial graphic artist. His best-known works were posters–advertisements for plays, beer, and cigarettes.

Some of his best known works are also the ones that launched his career: posters for the plays of actress Sarah Bernhardt, who fell in love with Mucha’s unique style after he made his first posters for her performance in Gismonda. He followed his smash hit debut with posters for Bernhardt's leading performances Medee, Lorenzaccio, and Hamlet--in which she cross-dressed as the titular protagonist.

(We couldn't take pictures inside the museum, but we could certainly take pictures of the postcards we bought.)

A recurring motif we noticed in Mucha’s works are nested circles, sickles, and other geometric patterns. Mucha was deeply interested in spiritualism and sacred symbology–he even became a leader of the Freemasons in Czechoslovakia later in life.

Since he spent time in Prague in his early life, Jessica and I can’t help but wonder if Mucha’s obsession with intertwining geometric shapes was in any way inspired by the city’s enchanting astronomical clock.

But there’s more to Mucha than poster art. After nearly a decade of skyrocketing fame, Mucha was dissatisfied at being essentially little more than a glorified ad man. He wanted to create something that expressed his spirituality. The culmination of this desire was Le Pater, a beautiful and hauntingly illustrated edition of the Lord’s Prayer. It was printed in miniscule numbers, and reproductions are still hard to come by.

We were able to see a copy opened to a dark and haunting illustration of a godlike figure looking down on a crowd of people prostrated and lapping eagerly from a flowing stream.

From then on, Mucha’s artistic vision branched in two directions. He explored traditional oil-on-canvas paintings, culminated in his masterpiece 20-canvas cycle The Slav Epic, which far too large and important to be kept in such a small museum as this one. He also continued his poster art, but instead of using his art to sell cigarettes and entertainment, he used it to sell a Czech national identity. Featuring traditional Slavic costumes and mythological figures, these works helped inspire Czech national pride and propel awareness of Czech culture into the heart of Western Europe.

Sadly, this effort was not appreciated by Hitler’s invasion force in 1939. Mucha was arrested by the military, and though he was eventually released, his health never recovered and he died shortly thereafter.

I have to say that I’ve become a Mucha fan. His art is easy to like and manages to inspires hope and optimism even when he’s dealing with the darker sides of human nature.

Our final major stop of the day was another site related to the Nazi occupation–the Orthodox church where Czechoslovakian paratroopers Jozef Gabcik and Jan Kubis made their last stand against an army of Waffen-SS troops.

It’s okay if you aren’t familiar with these two names. I wasn’t either. But you should be. With the help of British special forces and Czech resistance fighters, these two men carried out the highest-level assassination of a Nazi leader in all of WWII.

Reinhard Heydrich was Himmler’s right hand man, one of the chief architects of the Holocaust, and a personal favorite of Hitler, who called him the man with the iron heart. Even among the Nazis, Heydrich was feared and respected as a cold-hearted monster. In 1941, he was rewarded for his loyalty and ambition by being made acting governor of the conquered Czechoslovak territories. A brutal man, he quickly earned the nickname Butcher of Prague.

Heydrich saw the Czechoslovakians as a mongrel race--a mixed bale of wheat and chaff to be ruthlessly sorted into separate piles. Those judged to be "good stock" were to be sent to Germany for reeducation. The rest were to be put to work or shot. The land of Czechoslovakia, successfully emptied, would then be repopulated with good German settlers.

I was particularly struck when I saw the museum's set of stained wood chips. SS officers would hold the wood chips up against a person's skin, hair, and eyes to judge what racial class they belonged in, from Aryan birch to Nubian ebony. Something about the twisted combination of brutal simplicity and horrific absurdity just perfectly encapsulates the essence of Nazism.

In response to this oppression, nine Czechoslovakian paratroopers stationed in Britain were selected for a high-risk mission to assassinate Heydrich. Gabcik and Kubis lead the mission.

Things went wrong from the start. They were airdropped into Prague, which was over 50 miles from their intended landing zone outside the town of Pilsen (home of Pilsner-style beer). Undaunted, the paratroopers joined up with a local resistance cell and secretly began to organize for the assassination.

When the resistance fighters eventually figured out what the paratroopers' mission actually was, they desperately plead with their contacts in the Allied command to have the mission called off. If a Nazi governor was assassinated, the reprisals against the Czechoslovakian people would be cataclysmic. At least some members of the Allied command seemed swayed by their arguments, but they never got around to actually calling the mission off.

On the day of the assassination, almost everything went wrong again. The plan was for Gabcik and Kubis to ambush Heydrich’s open-topped car as it went around a slow hairpin turn on the road to his office in Prague Castle. But their machine gun jammed, and the backup grenade exploded outside of Heydrich’s car instead of inside it. A brief gunfight ensued, but in the shock of the moment the paratroopers and the Nazi governor emptied their pistols at each other without landing a hit. Gabcik and Kubis managed to escape, certain that they had blown the only chance they would ever get.

But what they did turned out to be enough. Heydrich had been more severely wounded by the shrapnel of the grenade than they realized. After an excruciating week of sickness and surgeries, Heydrich died of sepsis from his wounds.

The  reprisals came, and they were even more vicious than the Allies' worst fears. Anyone suspected of knowing anything about the assassination was tortured and executed, and two entire villages were wiped out on mere suspicion of hiding the assassins. In the end, around five thousand Czechoslovakians were killed in direct response to Heydrich’s death.

It was only in response to these atrocities that Britain and France decided to withdraw from the Munich Agreement, which we'd learned about that morning.

For days, it seemed like the Gabcik, Kubis, and the rest of the paratroopers might make it. They had been hidden in the crypt of an Orthodox church in central Prague, and despite the massacres taking place above ground, no one was talking.

But one man finally broke, deciding that the good of protecting the paratroopers wasn't worth the evil of allowing innocent Czechs to be murdered by the Nazis. This member of the resistance didn't know exactly where the paratroopers were hiding, but he went to the Gestapo and told them everything he did know. The other resistance members that he named were rounded up along with their families. One by one, they were tortured and executed until the Nazis were finally able to trace a bloody trail back to the church where the paratroopers were hidden.

After a two-hour standoff against an army of 750 SS troops, all the paratroopers lay dead, either by Nazi bullets or their own.

The informant, now a reviled traitor to his people, continued his work for the Germans until the end of the war, when he was executed as a traitor.

An ominous metal door leads from the museum into the crypt itself, where the last surviving paratroopers took their own lives. Today, it is filled with memorials to the paratroopers.

The alcoves filled with letters and handmade tokens of remembrance are a testament to the reverence that the Czech people hold for these heroes, regardless of the Nazi wrath their act of resistance incited.

Finally taking a break from the dreary topics of the day, we walked down to the riverfront and up the esplanade. We saw a ton of gorgeous old buildings, as well as the humorous and much newer “dancing house.”

Across the river, we could see the Prague Castle complex standing up on its hill.

We ended the day’s sightseeing with a walk across the pedestrian Charles Bridge. Built over 600 years ago, this bridge made Prague a nexus of East-West trade. Today, it is crowded with tourists, buskers, and trinket hawkers. But that doesn’t make it any less striking with its massive tower, lines of statues, and great views of the Castle Quarter across the river.

At this point we were just about dead on our feet. Especially Jessica, who had gotten basically no sleep up in the sweltering loft bed the night before. So we walked a few blocks over to find a less crowded spot, then called an Uber to take us home. We took a fair number of Ubers in Prague, and they were always a pleasant and affordable experience.

All in all, it was a bit of a depressing day, but in a good way. It’s important to know and appreciate the darker history of places. Not only does it make us more informed and vigilant citizens of the human race, it makes the beauty of places that much more meaningful in light of the ugliness that it has managed to outlive.

Next Post: The Slave Epic (and a Break for Beer)

Last Post: Prague–Old and Nouveau

[kathleenliz]

Seven Things People Need to Stop Saying to Persons with Disabilities.

I’ve had the idea for this post rolling around in my head for a few weeks now and today’s rainy weather is all the motivation I need to get it out of my head and onto the internet.

Being a person with a disability (vision impairment in my case) naturally comes with a host of challenges. Some of the greatest challenges I face revolve around people; not how I interact with them, but how they interact with me. I can be conversing with a stranger, getting to know a new friend or spending time with a loved one, feeling like things are going great. Then, something comes out of their mouth and my heart drops. I have to constantly remind myself that 99% of the time, people say insensitive things with good intentions, or out of pure ignorance to what they’re actually saying. I’m sure you are a good person who would never want to cause such a reaction in me or someone like me, so I thought I’d compile a list of well intentioned things you should never say to someone with a disability AND what you can say instead!

1. “You’re such an inspiration!” It’s become more and more common knowledge that this phrase isn’t kosher in the disabled community, but I thought I’d break it down for you incase you missed the memo. If you know me well, have thought deeply about it and actually can say the way I’ve lived my life has changed your perspective, that’s great! You can definitely call me an inspiration. However, if you just see me at Shoppers Drug Mart buying cotton swabs, please refrain from blurting this out. Basically what you’re communicating to me is that you believe that to have a disability is a horrible, unimaginable fate and the fact that I’m out in the world doing a normal thing must be a shear act of God. Maybe it is for me that day, but more likely it isn’t. Here’s a good rule of thumb as to whether to call a disabled stranger inspirational or not. If they are doing something that you would be nervous to do, disabled or not, they are inspirational. For example, when I was backpacking through Thailand, the adoration of peers meant a lot to me because they were acknowledging me overcoming challenges as I overcame them. The lady who cried in shoppers as I asked the cashier for help with the debit machine as I purchased my cotton swabs, did not see such a thing. What you can say instead: “I don’t know you well, but you seem to navigate the world with a great deal of grace despite things that might be challenging. I’d love to get to know you more.”

2. “I don’t even see you as disabled / I forget that you’re disabled!” I actually get this one the most from friends and family. On the surface it sounds like they are being noble and inclusive, but in reality I’m hearing something different. To me, it sounds like you’re choosing not, or forgetting to acknowledge a major aspect that makes up the mosaic of my identity. I am disabled. I may carry myself as if I’m not, but it’s still a part of me and informs my choices and reactions. When you run off without me where I can’t see you, apologize and play it off like you were being noble by not viewing me as disabled, you are distancing yourself from me being able to trust you with all of myself. What to say instead: “It’s so amazing to see the way your experiences, including your disability, have shaped who you are!”

3. “You’re totally like Daredevil (or some other disabled icon)!” I know you’re trying to be super encouraging with this one, but when you liken me to a disabled super-icon, I start to feel very small. I look at my failed accomplishments, my fears and my lack of gracefulness that my disability affords me and see how far I actually am from that ideal. The problem with society is they assume disabled people are either completely incompetent, or super human. Both are standards that I’m not willing or able to live up to. What to say instead: … just don’t compare me to anyone, that would be great.

4. Have you thought of glasses/surgery/eye of newt? Believe me, if you’re suggesting it, I’ve probably thought about it… like a hundred times. I and my family probably thought about it when I was first diagnosed, investigated it and figured out it wasn’t an option. Assuming you have some idea or miracle cure for me makes me feel that you’re oversimplifying my experiences, as if I haven’t thought of trying to change things. Unless you know me and my history in this area, kindly keep your thoughts to yourself. What to say instead: … nothing

5. “You don’t look blind / disabled!” Again, I know you believe you sound good saying this and I’ll admit I’ve taken this as a compliment before. It’s not so much for me that you shouldn’t say this, but for others like me. As mentioned before, the media isn’t the greatest at portraying disabled people. On the end of the spectrum we’re talking here, it’s some sort of out-of-touch, bumbling, possibly demanding old person dressed in mismatched fashion from three decades ago. We’ve all seen this person in real life too unfortunately, but for every one of them we see, I’d like to believe there’s at least three disabled young people trying to break this stereotype and I know I’m one of them. You can help by believing that someone like me is the rule, not the exception. What to say instead: “How you present yourself is really challenging the way I perceive people with disabilities!”

6. “My hairdresser’s neighbour’s nephew has a disability and is doing such-and-such. Isn’t that awesome?” This is often a tactic that someone who’s just met me employs to try and find some common ground. Unfortunately, it falls pretty flat. Often the person has a completely different disability and is doing something I have no interest in. Think of it like saying to a Chinese person “My boss’s accountant’s sister-in-law is Indian and they’re doing such-and-such!” See, they’re both Asian, but you know their experiences are completely unique. Also, maybe I have no interest in doing the thing they’re doing! Or maybe I don’t feel like I’m capable, which leads us into the shame spiral mentioned in #3. If I say I’m interested in doing that specific thing, such as having children or downhill skiing and you know a person with my disability who does the same, feel free to tell me so I can be encouraged and connect with them, otherwise it’s just out of place What to say instead: Only bring it up if it’s relevant to what we’re talking about.

7. “Let me help you with that!” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been going along, minding my own business and someone suddenly yells “WATCH OUT!!!” or “Let me help you ge through this construction/cross this street!” Usually this just succeeds in freaking me out and throwing me off so that I actually do trip on the thing you were so kindly trying to warn me about that I already knew how to navigate around, proving your point further. Truthfully, if you see a disabled person doing something, let them do it. If they are visibly having a hard time, ask them if they need help. If they say no, don’t be offended, even if they’re failing miserably at it. They may need to have at experience of failure to learn their limitations. If the person does agree to receive help, do it their way. I’ve heard of and been in far too many situations where a disabled person’s system is thrown off because someone thought they knew what they were doing instead of asking. What to say instead: “Excuse me, I’m just behind you and I’m willing to help you with anything if you need it.”