#we are back in the era of writing a poem and posting it straight away haha.

[trickstersaint]

guilt, or; i imagine myself lady macbeth behind a confessional screen // january 23 2023

[lupinwritings]

Any peterick historical au would be great

Becuase I’m a history geek and love a good obscure au, I used a random number generator to pick a year between 1 AD and 1990 AD to set the scene for this and we got 333 AD. Hope Pete and Patrick enjoy the Roman Empire. (Also this was a really fun way to come up with a plot if you guys like this idea feel free to tell me to do it again).

Bit of context: same-sex relationships were accepted at this time and most people had relationships with both men and women. Pre-marital sex was also fine as long as it wasn’t with a married woman. Also, relationships progressed a lot faster at this point, this was still in the era of dating for a week before being engaged, if that, so yes, I know the timeline seems strange for a modern reader. Just go with it.

Pete looked up to the sound of hoofbeats. The horizon was just barely tinted blue with the first signs that the sun would be rising soon. It was rare that the small town got any visitors so the young poet was taken aback to see a well-dressed man on horseback stop by where he sat at the city fountain.

“Can I help you, sir?” He stood, realizing that this man, respectable as he looked, might not mean to do any good.

The man took a shaky breath, Pete could hear the way his cheap armor shifted with the effort this took before he dismounted. He stood a little shorter than Pete and looked quite a bit weaker at the moment. “I only need a place to stay for the night and possibly food or drink if you have any to spare.”

Pete extended his arm “tell me your name and then I will take you to the inn.” Pete got the sense this man wouldn’t have the means to pay, not that anyone else in this forsaken corner of the world did, but he was sure something could be arranged.

“Patrick.” He took Pete’s arm, holding his horse’s reins with his other hand. It was an unusual name, he also spoke with a foreign accent, Pete made a mental note to ask more about his history in the morning - well, later in the morning. When they got to the entrance to the small inn, which was usually used for housing people while constructions were done at home as opposed to outsiders, Pete took the horse’s reigns to take them to the small stables before rejoining Patrick at the doors “go on. Joseph won’t turn you away. You look like you need rest.” Patrick just nodded in response and walked inside. The door’s closed behind him and Pete was left standing in the dark again, it was a bit lighter than it had been before, though. Sunrise would come soon, Pete still had a poem to finish before the town grew noisy again.

-

It was midday when Pete wandered into the inn and smiled at Joseph, the young innkeeper who could use a long rest and a shave but besides that, was a decent enough person. Joe leaned over the small counter “did you hear? One of the emperor’s own came in half-dead last night.”

Pete just hummed “how is he?”

“Haven’t seen him yet but one of the girls checked to make sure he was still breathing within the last hour. No one knows what happened.”

“Could I check on him?”

Joe gave him a confused look “Peter… why?”

“Just - I saw him last night and he looked bad but also scared. I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

Joe nodded and sighed “alight, but if this goes wrong I’ll have your head. I don’t want another repeat of-”

Pete laughed and was already ducking behind the curtain that separated the lobby from the hallway of rooms before Joe could finish. Finding Patrick’s room wasn’t hard, it was the only one that was still occupied this late in the day. He slipped past the wooden door to see Patrick on the straw bed, his armor and tunics set neatly below the window, as was his sword. Pete had missed that last night but clearly, Joe hadn’t. “Emperor’s own” he’d said, must have been a soldier. Patrick looked up but didn’t move, his head dropping back onto the pillow when he saw who it was “I apologize for my lack of manners. It feels as if I will keel over if I do any more than lay here.”

Pete laughed “I know the feeling. Glad to see you made it through the night. I believe you owe me an explanation, though.” He pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down “who are you and why are you here?”

Patrick closed his eyes for a moment before answering “my name is Patrick, son of Avitus. My home lays south of Hadriani, laid south of. Well, I suppose you should know that Hadrian’s Wall has fallen, as will the northern front.”

Pete bit the inside of his cheek. Not a Roman soldier then, just a young man protecting his family from the northern Franks when the wall fell. “What became of your family?” He asked, afraid he knew the answer already. 

“They’re traveling ahead to Germania. I hoped to travel straight through the nights to catch up with them but it seems… I may have underestimated my injuries.” He tried to sit up a bit and hissed, laying flat again.

“Has the apothecary seen you?” Pete said, pitying this man who couldn’t be much other than himself.

Patrick nodded “this morning while I slept. I thank you and your town for the kindness you’ve shown a stranger. I do not think I ever heard your name.”

“Peter.” He stood up. When you are well enough to walk, have Joe direct you to my shop. I do not want this to be the last time I see you.”

“Oh I doubt I’ll be well enough to go off on my own for quite some time, but I will, as soon as I have the strength to do so.” And then Patrick smiled and Pete felt for a moment that he was back in Rome during his schooling, hiding his face when a group of pretty girls would walk past. He dipped his head before he left. He waited for a moment in the hallway to regain his thoughts. He was definitely looking forward to Patrick’s recovery.

-

It was several days before Pete looked up to see Patrick in the door of his home-based shop. “Ah,” he breathed, standing to walk over and take Patrick’s arm “how is our local celebrity?”

“In quite a good deal of pain, but I wanted to see you.”

There was a moment of silence before Pete offered his chair to Patrick “I’m honored.”

Patrick laughed softly and looked around the room “it seems that I should be the one who is honored. An orator?”

Pete sat down cross-legged in front of Patrick and shrugged “poet more often, but I do what is required.”

“Well then write me something, mister poet.” Patrick took Pete’s hand and smiled “or do you have too many young ladies waiting on your attention for that?”

Pete frowned “what gives you that idea?”

Patrick touched Pete’s jaw gently “don’t take offense, dear, I only mean to flatter.”

Pete scoffed and stood to tidy his work table “well your flattery is far from accurate. And no, before you ask, the women here are not blind nor are they stupid.”

Patrick stood and wrapped the one arm that he could comfortably lift around Pete’s neck “I fear I’ve caused you injury.”

Pete shook his head and rested his forehead against Patrick’s “no, if I have you I have all I need for the moment. Do I have you?”

Patrick smiled and kissed him “yes, dear. What makes you mournful, then?”

Pete leaned back against his table, one arm still wrapped around Patrick’s lower back “that once you are well you will leave again, and then what will I do?”

Patrick pushed Pete’s hair back and looked up at him “I suppose you’ll just have to wait for me to come back.”

Pete looked at him for a second “you’re… your family is in Germania, though. Should you not -”

Patrick cut him off by kissing him again “I will make sure they are settled and provided for and then I will return to you. I told you, I’m yours. I hope you did not take that lightly.”

Pete smiled and wrapped his other arm around Patrick’s waist “then I suppose I can stop paying the apothecary to delay your treatments?”

Patrick laughed and took a step back “I dearly hope you say that in jest, because I feel we could enjoy ourselves so much more if I was not in so much pain.”

Pete took Patrick’s hands to keep him from moving back much more “of course. I would if you asked me to, though.”

“I have no doubt that you would. I’d rather you paid her to hurry it up, though.”

Pete sat down on the chair and Patrick sat on his lap, wincing for a moment before his grimace was replaced by a smile “this whole thing is taking far too long. I am glad I can at least get out of bed now, though. It’s dreadfully boring just watching the shadows on the ceiling all day.”

Pete ran his hands up and down Patrick’s thighs, not really listening to the other man talk anymore “I’m sure it is, dear.”

Patrick huffed out a breath that reminded Pete for a moment of the night he’d first seen Patrick, how broken and weak he’d seemed “where’s your mind gone off to?”

“I’ll just miss you when you’re gone,” Pete admitted.

“You’re missing me when I haven’t even left yet? You’ll miss me twice as long when you do that. Just enjoy me while I’m here.”

“I intend to.”

I didn’t mean for this to be as fluff-filled as it was but I’m tired and have no self-control. Please show this one some love because I’d absolutely love to do a part 2! Just get this post to 50 notes and I’ll make a sequel. Also send me more prompts if you want.

[rizuno]

Write me a ficlet about Stiles finding random love poems/notes written on little scraps of paper stuffed in weird places, like between the seats in the Jeep, in the pockets of hoodie he swore he just washed so how could there be intact paper in there, in his shoes, under his pillow. Who is writing all these notes and how do they keep randomly appearing on Stiles person!?!?!

This is unbeta-d, and I am subjecting you dear reader(s?) to poetry written by me masquerading as English!Major Derek Hale. BASICALLY I’m SORRY ABOUT THE CRAP POETRY OK. also im really fuckin pissed off about the spacing of the poems but tumblr is adamant about pretending to not know what the fuck im trying to do when i try and reformat it i need to stop before i just delete this whole post in a fit of RAGE

For RachelBBY

Scraps

The first time it happens, Stiles doesn’t think anything of it. He figures he just wrote it himself in English and then forgot. It’s just a neglected scrap of paper hiding amidst other papers under his desk, sacrificed on the altar of a weekly allowance with everything else he throws out as he cleans his room. He only really glanced at it anyway, he was preoccupied with being pissed off at Derek for being Derek, thinks it said something about heartbeats and irregular spaces. So that was the incident, he supposes.

The second time he’s got his hand stuffed in the crease of Roscoe’s passenger seat in a desperate search for just one fucking quarter, just one, and withdraws a crumpled piece of paper instead. “How long has that been there?” Stiles asks himself as he de-crumples it to read it. He snorts. Obviously quite a while, it’s a poem, and Stiles knows he didn’t write this one, which means it’s circa the Scott/Allison Era.

you laughed

it was Tuesday

you didn’t know I was there

“Not half bad Scotty,” Stiles murmurs, not bothering to finish the rest of it as he tosses it aside and resumes the quest for one measly quarter cause he just wants a burger. Out of life, all he wants is to eat a burger right now. It’s not so much to ask? Right?

He bitches and moans to Scott about his inability to find a quarter and thus eat a burger, but forgets to ask him about the poem thing. The next time he sees Derek, Derek flips him a quarter with a smirk. “Oh, fuck you,” Stiles says, but pockets the quarter and eats him that fucking burger later that night, after they have all managed, miraculously, to not die. “Victory comes in all forms,” Stiles informs Scott sagely in between mouthfuls. So that’s the coincidence, in all its glory.

The third time has Stiles paying the fuck attention, because he’s digging around his back pocket for the quarter Derek gave him, and just as he remembers he spent it already, his fingers close around what must be a receipt. Stiles heaves a grunt of disgust, no curly fries for him then, and glances at the scrap of paper uninterestedly, out of habit, as his arm moves to toss it into the trashcan across the hall. And then he freezes. It’s not some forgotten transaction, it’s a fucking poem. What the fuck. Stiles unfolds the paper and reads the words in their entirety this time, standing in the middle of the hallway as other students stream around him as they head to class. It’s not very long, but it feels like Stiles takes several hours to read it. He reads it like it was meant for him. It must be? Right?

I think

you don’t think of me

all that often

but I think of you

quite often

I’m thinking of you now

I think of you in the morning

I think of you in my bed

at night

I wonder

if you’re thinking of me now

Stiles swallows. His mouth has gone dry. He feels like he just walked in on someone watching some really hot porn. He feels…intimate. He feels…like he’s now late for science. Stiles whirls around in a flail of limbs and pelts to the science lab. But that scrap of paper he doesn’t toss aside. That scrap he keeps. So there’s the pattern.

Stiles was sorta expecting the next one but he wasn’t prepared to find it lying on his keyboard; not there when he went downstairs to grab a soda and now there when he returns.

He tells himself his fingers are shaking with caffeine intake as he reaches out to unfold it, where it lays so innocuously.

He licks his lips, then reads.

I know you’re thinking of me now

will you think of me tonight

in your bed

with your own hands upon yourself

gasping

flushed

and undone

“Ffffuck,” Stiles hisses out between his teeth. There is no way he’s gonna make it to tonight. He’s got a really great jerk off session going, standing there right in front of his desk at 3:30 in the afternoon, pants only pulled down the bare minimum. He’s like feeling it, he is totally ready for this, ‘makes his knees weak’ orgasm he’s coming up on. And then of course, Scotty has to burst in freaking out about supernatural crisis 3B or 6A or whatever number letter combo they’re on now.

“Come on, man!” They both yell at the same time, Scott throwing up his arms and facing the wall as Stiles fumbles to stuff himself back inside his pants. Scott feels the need to ask why. Stiles rants that it’s the privacy of his own fucking room. Scott mutters something about how Derek thinks they need info. “Since when do you listen to what Derek thinks,” Stiles says petulantly as he tosses Scott a bag of Doritos and moves to sit back at his desk. Scott eats the chips on Stiles’ bed as Stiles furiously looks up shit to the best of his ability. The moment is already forgotten. That sort of awkwardness has happened before, and will probably happen again. Which come on Scott, werewolf, use those supernatural senses for once.  After Scott is gone Stiles wonders what four times means. Also he mourns the loss of one of the greatest orgasms he never got to experience.

He finds the next one two nights later, under his pillow as he stretches out on his bed. He’s so relaxed and he’s in bed at a decent hour. Derek did not manage to piss him off when they came across each other briefly earlier in the evening and Stiles is ready for some nappy naps. When his fingers brush the edge of the crinkled bit of paper the first feeling he gets is surprise. It’s quickly followed by a quick dip of excitement in his gut. He doesn’t bother to switch any lights on. Too much effort. He reads it by the light of his phone.

I whisper your name to myself

after you’ve left

it’s fairly pathetic

but then last week

you trapped yourself inside your own hoodie

so at least I’m not alone

And Stiles knows. “Derek,” Stiles whispers furiously. He chucks the paper as hard as he can away from him. Which, it being paper, isn’t that far. It flutters down to rest on the bed beside him. That fucking asshole has been laughing at him this whole fucking time. So that’s what comes after a pattern. Epic fuckery.

Stiles sees Derek first thing the next morning; he’s having like, a pre-game huddle with the Erica-Isaac-Boyd triumvirate in the back parking lot behind the gym. “Stiles,” Derek greets him, the hint of a smile on his lips. “You are pathetic,” Stiles snarls at him. Derek’s jaw clenches and his expression turns cold and distant. Stiles whirls around and marches off in righteous fury. Stiles has enough fucking going on in his life without that kind of shit. Stiles thought, he’d thought…it doesn’t even matter what he thought. He was stupid and a dumbass for thinking it.

So naturally he finds the next poem sandwiched in between the pages of this month’s Great English Novel during 3rd period of that day. Stiles isn’t sure when or even how Derek got it in there, but it certainly wasn’t after this morning. He almost doesn’t read it, doesn’t want to give Derek the satisfaction, but he’s Stiles. He must fucking know. He can’t not.

I dreamed of you

it was warm

and bright

and we were safe

you took my hand

and my heart blazed brighter

when I woke

I pretended that it was the future

and if I am patient

that it will be

any day now

“What,” Stiles whispers. His own heart is sinking fast within his chest. His hand clenches down on the poem. “It was all real,” He realizes out loud.

“What?” Scott whispers from the seat behind him.

Stiles whips around in his seat to face him. “Cover for me,” Stiles begs.

Scott doesn’t know what’s going on, but he doesn’t hesitate. “Go,” he says.

Stiles slips from the room, so preoccupied he doesn’t notice that he doesn’t trip or smack into something once.

Derek won’t be at his apartment. Instinctively, Stiles knows this. He jumps in Roscoe and heads straight for the preserve.

The burned out husk of the Hale house looks as tragic and decimating as ever, but that feeling is especially poignant for Stiles at this moment. He gives Roscoe’s wheel one last squeeze, for luck or bravery or whatever, and steps out of the jeep. He tries to repress a shiver as he looks at the charred and broken edifice before him and fails. This had seemed so much simpler, less complicated back in 3rd period. No, Stiles can do this, he absolutely can. He leaps up what’s left of the front steps and barges through the door. “Derek,” he calls.

A few moments of silence, and then a resigned sigh. “What?” Derek asks, voice flat as he materializes out of wherever he was.

Stiles waves the hand that has not once unclenched on the poem in Derek’s general direction.

“You’re serious?” He accuses.

Derek’s stone face takes on a look of frustration. “Yes, Stiles, I’m serious.”

“I…I mean…why?”

Derek sighs like it’s obvious. “I wrote you poems Stiles.”

Stiles seizes upon a detail he has the mental facilities to deal with at this moment. “Why poems though?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m an English Major, Stiles.” Which rude because, like,

“How was I supposed to know that,” Stiles says defensively.

They stand in silence. Derek doesn’t seem inclined to word anymore today and Stiles is furiously thinking.

“You wanna,” and his left hand, the one not still grasping the poem, makes an abortive movement towards Derek, “hold hands?”

After a moment, Derek uncrosses his arms and says, “Okay.” He reaches out, and then they’re holding hands, bridging a gap between them. It’s kind of…awkward. But it’s only awkward in that Stiles suspects feelings are present kind of way, because Derek’s thumb strokes gently along the back of his hand and Stiles feels kinda like, heart blazing or whatever.

“I think of you pretty often,” Stiles admits. “Like, a lot.”

Derek swallows. “Okay.”

BONUS:

First Poem

your heartbeats are

irregular spaces

I dwell there

and refuse to meet your eyes

when you glance my way

Second Poem

you laughed

it was Tuesday

you didn’t know I was there

I have kept it

for myself; that laugh

longing

for your real

and intransigent

presence

[revenjolras]

The 'RED’ exR AU nobody asked for:

Okay so Don’t Judge Me. I was tired and sat on the tube after a night shift - which can only be described as feeling like you are stuck between two planes of existence.

Here is how you can arrange Taylor Sw.ift’s album ‘Red’ into a tale of exR reincarnation!au.

Now not every song fits perfectly. Because Taylor didn’t actually write an exR reincarnation au with her music (someone should tho??)… But each song has enough lyrics to make my brain connect the dots.

Right so backstory: It actually all started with a song that’s not on the album (I’d Lie). On this post (which has inexplicably become one of my most popular posts ever xD)… When I was asked to do a sequel I felt it was only fitting to stick with the theme so I listened to some more Swift to find one I thought would work.

I ended up writing ‘Know You Better Now’ posted it to ao3. Based on the song ‘Everything Has Changed’ which served as a happy-ish canon era follow up…

“ All I knew this morning when I woke Is I know something now, I didn’t before And all I’ve seen since eighteen hours ago is green eyes and freckles And your smile in the back of my mind making me feel like I just wanna know you better, know you better now”

Now… It could have ended there but then one day I was heavily sleep deprived and existing only on some parallel dimension (the London tube) and I was listening to the album again and each song seemed to fit itself into this idea that despite getting together before the end… They do still die in the rebellion… But what if they were reincarnated with limited memories of the events.

Coming at it from that perspective ‘Red’s’ lyrics (which seriously guys are all already so exR) could be heard as both going through life with maybe very vague memories of their past life in general but really clear memories of each other and their relationship despite knowing they’ve never even met… And the feeling of it is so strong it’s hard to let go of and be in other relationships.

“Forgetting him is like trying to know somebody you never met. But loving him was Red.”

“Remembering him comes in flashbacks and echoes. Tell myself it’s time now gotta let it go. But moving on from him is impossible when I still see it all in my head. Burning Red.”

We follow up by circling back to ‘Everything Has Changed’… But different inspiring lyrics. It seemed important to tired me that there be symmetry in their actually getting together.

“All I know is we said hello. And your eyes look like coming home. All I know is a simple name. And everything has changed”

“Come back and tell me why. I’m feeling like I’ve missed you all this time. And meet me there tonight. Let me know that it’s not all in my mind”

So this is them meeting again for the first time and recognising each other instantly even though it seems impossible.

Next comes ‘State of Grace’. Which is them reflecting to themselves on re-meeting and how unexpected it was and resolving to make up for lost time.

“So you were never a saint and I loved in shades of wrong. We learn to live with the pain, mosaic broken hearts. But this love is brave and wild.”

“And I never saw you coming. And I’ll never be the same. This is a state of grace. This is the worthwhile fight.”

We move on to ‘Treacherous’. Which is them getting to know each other… physically… again =P. But also expressing doubts… Is this a good idea. They don’t really know each other now. Is it too fast? But also… Being kind of excited by that…

“I’d be smart to walk away. But you’re quicksand.”

"I can’t decide if it’s a choice. Getting swept away. I hear the sound of my own voice. Asking you to stay.”

“Your name has echoed through my mind and I just think you should know. That nothing safe is worth the drive.”

Next on the agenda is the first fight with ‘Stay Stay Stay’… Still in the honeymoon period of the relationship so even though they fight they make up pretty fast.

"I was expecting some dramatic turn away but you stayed”

"Stay. I’ve been loving you for quite some time. You think that it’s funny when I’m mad. But I think that it’s best if we both stay”

The thing is that they don’t really get to the route of their problems so this is probably (definitely) gonna come back to bite them later.

So we move on. Maybe through all this they have been finding the rest of Les Amis… So interlude fun chapter for ‘22’. Probably led by Courf because… Of course it would be. He just wants to have fun with his re-found friends.

Then obviously the inevitable happens. The little fights build up into a big fight … maybe Enjolras gets super busy … maybe R withdraws into himself… maybe they both just panic that neither is quite the same person they were in the previous life… or all the above but anyway… they break up!!! Angst-city from here onwards!

So we head into ‘I Knew You Were Trouble’… I feel like this one fits the least well unless you look at it as coming from a place of hurt and anger… So it’s not really the honest truth but rather bitter feelings. Maybe also looking right back to a time before they ever saw past their first impressions.

“And when I fell hard you took a step back. Without me.  And he’s long gone when he’s next to me And I realize the blame is on me”

“No apologies. He’ll never see you cry, Pretends he doesn’t know that he’s the reason why. You’re drowning”

So they’re apart and they’ve gone through being angry for the most part. What’s left is pain. So next comes ‘All Too Well’ which follows them trying to deal with not being together any more and pretending they’re fine which they really aren’t. Earlier in the story the memories described in this song would have happened so… Visiting family. Dancing round the kitchen etc

“Maybe we got lost in translation, maybe I asked for too much, But maybe this thing was a masterpiece ‘til you tore it all up.”

“You call me up again just to break me like a promise. So casually cruel in the name of being honest.”(psst this is R calling Enj for his stuff and being cruel as a defence mechanism because I’m tired of casual cruel Enj.)

So it moves on like that and slowly the pain becomes a dull ache and they start to think maybe they were too harsh to one another but they each believe the other is over them/better off without them. We have ‘I Almost Do’ here.

(so hard to filter these lyrics they’re all perfect)

“And I just wanna tell you It takes everything in me not to call you. And I wish I could run to you. And I hope you know that every time I don’t I almost do”

“I bet this time of night you’re still up. I bet you’re tired from a long hard week. I bet you’re sitting in your chair by the window looking out at the city. And I hope sometimes you wonder about me”

“I bet you think I either moved on or hate you ‘Cause each time you reach out there’s no reply. I bet it never ever occurred to you that I can’t say “Hello” to you And risk another goodbye.”

Enjolras is the first one to make a decision to try and reconcile. This is where ‘Holy Ground’ comes in. He finds himself outside the cafe where they first ‘re-met’ and it reminds him of all the good, but when he rushes off to find R he sees him with someone else and assumes he’s moved on (psst he hasn’t he’s still very sad) so he leaves. 

“I was reminiscing just the other day While having coffee all alone and Lord, it took me away Back to a first-glance feeling on New York Time Back when you fit in my poems like a perfect rhyme”  “ And I guess we fell apart in the usual way And the story’s got dust on every page But sometimes I wonder how you think about it now And I see your face in every crowd”

Just for fun you could dip into 1989 here and also have ‘I Wish You Would’ as that moment of realisation that they really do want to be back together. R would obviously be the one to instigate it now and Enj is so surprised to find him on his doorstep and they’re both a little scared (but also so happy =)).

“I wish you would come back. Wish I’d never hung up the phone like I did I… Wish you knew that. I’d never forget you as long as I live and I wish you were right here right now.”

“I wish we could go back. And remember what we were fighting for I… Wish you knew that. I miss you too much to be mad anymore.”

“2 A.M., here we are See your face Hear my voice in the dark  We were a crooked love In a straight line down Makes you wanna run and hide But it made us turn right back around”

So they make up and agree to take it slower this time and really get to know the people they’ve become rather than just the people they were before and so they arrange a coffee date and we round off with ‘Begin Again’

“And you throw your head back laughing like a little kid I think it’s strange that you think I’m funny 'cause he never did I’ve been spending the last eight months Thinking all love ever does is break and burn and end But on a Wednesday in a cafe I watched it begin again”

TLDR: I hate myself. I am deeply ashamed. But damn it. It fucking WORKS

[samarajournal]

Okay last time...

The thing that really bothers me with LP YouTubers rushing to defend Felix in poorly worded and misinformed responses is that they, along with a majority of their young fan base, do not know how successful activism really works. They do not know how social change is actually enacted, how civil rights has and is currently being fought for. But they are all quick to quote non violence, and everyone should love each other.  Or that we should be nice to our oppressors and have a dialogue with them. 

Let’s unpack that last notion right now. You see just from my personal experience, from my baby years of activism, if I talk to let’s say ten Trump supporters or KKK members, homophobic, or even biphobic individuals even if I talk calmly, politely providing specific examples with scholarly sources, I’ll be lucky if I get one individual to maybe sorta see my side of things. And even then there is no guarantee that they will actively work to dismantle that specific oppression system in the future. Why? Because ultimately, there is no incentive for the group at top of society (AKA white people, especially white straight cisgender males) to destroy a systems that supports and favors their survival and supremacy. If anything, dismantling this systems puts them at a disadvantage. To quote Jane Elloit:

“I was taught how to be racist at birth. I know how to be racist. I hate it.... I’m a racist. I was infected with racism at birth. I want to get over it. It us going to take me rest of my life to get over it, but I can do it, but I have to choose to do it.”

-Jane Elloit, Oprah Winfrey Show, 1992

The United States of America is a racist country. It was built, maintained, and thrived on racists actions and the oppression of a large portion of the population. And people that this country and the society was built for, white people, are taught and socialized to be racist. Racism, prejudice, and discrimination did not disappear with the Civil Right’s Act of 1965, the Stonewall Riots, or the election of former president Barack Obama. It hasn’t even really lessened, if anything hate crime has been on the rise since the 60s, it has only changed. I probably lost a lot of you in those last three sentences. You might feel angry, uncomfortable. Your probably writing sentences in your head to defend yourself. Good. Because confronting your inherent prejudice is not an easy task. Everyone is raised to develop biases, and we all have to fight every day of our lives to overcome them. You do that through your actions, constantly changing your mindsets, and constantly questioning every preconceived thought about people, society, cultures, ect. You will find fault in almost everything you see, you will begin to see stereotypes used in everything especially in the media, and in a lot of ways you won’t be able to guitlessly enjoy many of the things you use to.

Combating internal prejudices is a long, hard, and life long process. It is emotionally and mentally taxing, and you will be uncomfortable a number of times. Now back to my original point, acknowledging your privilege and prejudices is hard, and not everyone is frankly cut out for it. We as humans have evolved to actively avoid discomfort. So no matter how the message is delivered, people of a privileged class who have not have to think about their position and identity have absolutely no incentive or evolutionary drive to actually listen. 

An even just on a logical basis, if a majority of people are so willing to listen and for their minds to be changed. If Nazis, Neo-Nazis, and KKKs (all of which have been on the rise let me remind you) were so open minded, then why haven’t they. Why wasn’t Trevor Noah able to convince Tomi Lahren that BLM is not a terrorist group? Or why Yassmin Abdel-Mageid wasn’t able to persuade Jacqui Lambie away from her support of DJT’s muslim ban or enlighten her on what sharia law actually is? Or why does the comment section of this MTV Decoded video looks like this? If it’s like being in a class with a teacher you don’t like. You might hate them or the way they teach, but you better learn and pay attention if you want to pass the class. It shouldn’t matter how the message is delivered if the message is true. You should want to be a better, decent human, and me or others yelling at your shouldn’t really dissuade you if that were the case.

And quite simply there is a PLETHORA of resources: literature, scholarly research, speeches, think pieces, books, poems, you name it; some of which I listed in this post and can be easily found with a google search. Activists travel to college campuses all the time. They is literally no reason for anyone to go up to any marginalized person and ask them to educate them. NONE. So by that logic, a majority of people should be enlighten. They should understand the ins and outs of systematic oppression. They should be ‘woke’. But they’re not. I wonder why? No I don’t, because they don’t want to listen. And quite frankly I don’t care.

I don’t care what you think of me. I don’t care if you think if I’m abomination, call me a n*gger, think I’m inferior, ratchet, ghetto. All I care about if you are in a position of power to enact policy to enforce your prejudices, how to remove you from that place of power, and how fast you can run cause you will be catching these hands if you say this to my face.

So this brings me, finally, to my main point. What works. What causes change. Well children, there are a number of strategies that you can partake in to enact social change. One of the most popular forms is non violent protest. Is the best method? That’s debatable and quite honestly I don’t think so in certian instances but I digress. Non violent process can be effective when use correctly and without stop. The main power, which even Gandhi, utilized is a concept known as backfire, which is pretty succinctly described in Justice Ignited by Brian Martin. He describes it as “ an action that recoils against its originators. In a backfire, the outcome is not just worse than anticipated — it is negative, namely worse than having done nothing” . In his book he cites both the Rodney King Beatings and the Dili masscare, the latter of which is described in that same page.

“Although Indonesian troops occupying East Timor had committed many massacres in the 15 years before 1991, they received limited attention due to censorship. The Dili massacre, unlike earlier killings, was witnessed by western journalists and recorded in photos and video, and later broadcast internationally... The Dili massacre, rather than discouraging opposition to Indonesian rule over East Timor, instead triggered a massive expansion in international support for East Timor’s independence.”

Corporations, groups, businesses, and governments all have one thing in common: their image is everything and when backfire happens that image in irrevocably damaged. When this happens they trust, capitol, support, MONEY, ect. The is the goal of protest, it is put people of power in positions where they are damned if the do and damned if they don’t. In this case the best case scenario is to give into the prostestors demand or risk looking and brutal. That is what Ganhdi did with is Salt March, which you can find detailed here. 

 It is what Martin Luther King Jr. did. Although for a time he   try to change the hearts and minds of his oppressors, his main focus was uplifting his people, changing laws and policy, and making those laws were enforced. The Civil Rights Movements was the first instance of national civil unrest that was intentionally televised. The images of young Americans being hosed down, attacked by downs, killed, maimed, lynched seriously challenged America’s image as this morally superior, civilized country. And politicians knew it. And it was one of the majors factors that led to so many laws being changed during that era, and many of those unwillingly.

At the end of the day that is all we want. Minorities do not have time to worry about if our oppressors like us or see us as human. We know that answer. We know it all too well. We have bills to pay. Mouths to feed. And making sure our loved ones come home safe. ALL WE WANT IS EQUAL PROTECTION UNDER THE LAW AND THE DISMANTLE OF OPPRESSIVE SYSTEMS THROUGH POLICY CHANGE. That’s it. It would be nice if people saw me as a human being not in-spite of our differences but because of them. But at the end of the day it doesn’t matter. I don’t care. If at the end of day the person changing/writing the law is doing so begrudgingly and only because he doesn't want to seem racist, he is still doing it. And quite honestly, policy and law change is better done when the marganilazed are in power. History shows after law and policy in enacted the culture changes, for good or for worst.

Another strategy for social change is what ‘Punch a Nazi in the Face’basically does. It doesn’t have to be physical, but what this method entails is embarassing, blocking, and preventing problematic people from popularizing and enacting on their beliefs. I mentioned this before. But it is removing racists from political offices. It is making sure horrible people don’t have a platform to voice their opinions and gain support (looking at you CNN, Trevor Noah, and Bill Maher!). It is not fucking engaging them in debate! Basic human rights is not a topic up for debate. Inviting these prejudice ideologies to discourse is giving them the win. It grants them legitimacy. It tells them that you can disagree if people deserve to live or not. It is me saying ‘Climate change exists and their is a mountain of evidence to prove it’ and you saying ‘Well this person said that it was pretty cold last summer so....’. No! Sit down at the kids table and only come back when you have a substantial argument. 

Basically this method is barring prejudicial people are not unafraid to voice their beliefs. It is dragging them on the internet. It is getting racists fired for racist Facebook posts. It is completely and utterly ignoring them when they scream at the top of their lungs for attention. It making sure that they suffer social consequences for voicing their problematic beliefs, jokes, supporting stereotypes. And yes, it is punching Nazis in the face. For now this strategm in conjunctions with others seems to be working.

This is far from a comprehensive review on how to enact social change. But at least it points anyone of interested in the right directions. And I hope that it convinces others that talking, peace, love, and happinees are techiniques for a perfect world, rarely works, and are naive. I hope people stop wasting their time on trying to convince people that are never going to listen or change. I hope you uplift and empower those or are marginalized and vulnerable, instead to trying to convince the powerful that we deserve rights. We know we deserve rights, and we are going to get them when-either you agree or not.

[arheco-pro]

No Remains but Oeuvres remain

Joyful memoirs on reading Kazuo Ishiguru

A selection of my own

The author of a book I first recall fully enjoying was awarded, today, the Nobel Prize in Literature. Kazuo Ishiguru in 2017.

"who, in novels of great emotional force, has uncovered the abyss beneath our illusory sense of connection with the world"

I came across his name on a book review published at the university's magazine. That was over twenty years ago. The book is still around; I saw it recently while collecting my childhood remains at my parents' house. All aside my current reading regarding Student-ran magazines devoted to collect, preserve and publishing the Oral Tradition heritage. Profitability is one of the main objectives to achieve in order to persist amassing General Knowledge and Historical Sources.

Oral Tradition heritage, as noun, is all knowledge that has been preserved and inherited on the continent today named after Amerigo Vespucci. In current theories it stands as grounds of Freedom to Gather. On public places the People gather to listen to each other and share meaningful advice. People speak like this on that first book I mentioned. By doing so I can clearly visualise how a dinning table should look elegant and appealing; I read it late at night on a chit-chat with the characters. It was barely lit and rather whispers. We liked it. Very much. Yes.

Hence, Gladness was my emotion as I watched the announcement. And here is, as well, a due homage to all nerdy typists: I posted his name as Kazuo Izziguru; I guess my Soul beat was expecting a name akin to Iggy Pop or a Guru alike. I corrected once noticed; the first post remains as a Timestamp.

The years about reading as much

By the times I read Ishiguro's work I starved for words. The hunger was maelstrom. Much more was the appeal to read than it was for typing. Handwriting has never stoped. Afterwards we all succumbed before the mighty word-processor. Later on the Text Editor confused all and empowered those who much read on the screen.

So set your memories & History recalls in the middle of the 1990's decade. Mine remind me of many bookshops I visited and shopped at all across the city. After such a point, I do not recall where did I acquire the book of his authorship.

Nevertheless, I remember the joy of closing it for the last time. Those were the Coffee Times as well. Very well mixed indeed. Such was the way of my delight; such is the way I am meant to be. So I am. The book tasted as words meant to be chewed with a slow pace; into another space and time sphere. For dreams and affirmations still wander my mind up to date; plenty of those aroused by paragraphs trapped on paper. Just as the last drop of coffee encourages you to pursue, finishing a book frees you to start living it at its full.

Neither can I remember how long I enjoyed carrying it around; the goal those days was to apprehend as many meaningful readings as possible, as long as the pace remained pleasurable. Such grounding principle remains. Even the author can attest how different was the way of waving Art with words back then. However, letting such beauty come alive into your universe can only abide by your own time. Then again, read as much as feasible.

The Paper Reign remains nowadays. Hence, by then, the amount of books to carry around remained a parameter worth bearing in mind all the time. I bet many of us match the book's volume with length of time meant to be carried on. This was a book to enjoy anywhere. And so it was. Passages and scenes alive remain, as fresh as they were on such days. And so will do the joy of listening the very first time this year's prize was being announced. It all fits in a book many will regard as a weekend-reading.

For the first time in my life I learned the news as they occurred, and it happened to be about an author I knew about; even better: I had read a book of my selection payed for with my own income. Such was the case with coffee. Plenty of pages studied about the Gourmet Tradition, along with sufficient experimentation and self-financial investment, had lead to pin in the map a vendor with the required quality of my delights. The mix became a habit which remains rather ritualistic.

Rite scenes rewind my memories as these words are on the type straight after such a warm delight with the sole intent of them to be. Be them then. Be now.

A lecture to slow down

First joy, then surprise. It was my first time watching the announcement on real time; broadcasted via the Internet. By the time I read Kazuo's book such an achievement remained a fiction for the long_to_wait_for future. But such a rush of excitement does not belong neither to his book, nor to this article. In much we celebrate the Art of words. Today's laureate wrote in such a manner capable of inspiring many of us.

In my appreciation his style is rather a Feasible Fiction. It might be happening right as you read. Stylish and harsh, as required; moods mingle with atmospheres which depict more the characters' psychology than their acts do. For their acts rather depict prevailing manias of a meaningful life. A reading to slow down provides space and time apt for healing and replenishment; both mentally and physically. In such a manner, words mean more than mere sentences arranged in a knowledgeable array, but in a flow of emotions and awareness. By then not so many books have kept my attention delighted. But it made sense.

Empathy was an overall state of mind I experienced while reading. At times I caught my mind on an internal dialogue with either any of the characters or with the author. Those were the Literate Nights as well; certainly on paper. Computers were rather expensive, so I typed at the University's Computer Center and handled my paper_notebooks by night. Mobile communications were not a hazard to focus as they are nowadays; it all was limited to TV, radio and your reachable surroundings. Still, typewriting was falling on a clear oblivion. Now fellow words complice, lets wave a wave out of here.

Does a good coffee deserves multiple slow sips or long hot swallows? Since caffeine has a long lasting effect plenty of tales expect a type to bring them into life. Back then no computer was available at home; that gave me time to write on paper quick notes in order to gain reading time and focus. By then music was the sole potential distractor; but my uncle's example was good advice. Classical music at a comfortable distance.

A rencounter in Prague

Years later I found again his books in Prague, certainly in English as well as in Czech. This is a country where people enjoy learning and using foreign languages. And books abound.

Once again I am blocked from remembering where another book by Ishiguro came to my hands. But beautiful memories from those years flash back. Many books and authors more were now wandering my mind, as well as a broader taste of topics and styles had been rearranged within my preferences. Still, the good taste prevailed. By means of gained privileges several conversations got shared via Internet with authors from diverse mother tongue and preferred style and format.

These were the years of mobile computing. These were the very first years of the century; and we all were proud owners of portable computing and communications devices. Many books were being published in digital formats meant to be read on a screen. Whereas many claimed the death of the book, paper consumption for printers connected to a personal computer rose. Literature survived. Poetry Bloom.

Many of us got wounded on the Digital Transition; one rule prevails: become an early adopter As Soon As Possible. Another one withstands alongside: never underestimate the language of your handwriting.

Hence I wrote, plenty of pages. I received pretty notebooks from different sources; some as personal gifts, other from Literary events. I always wrote down whatever I noticed, letting go away many words arriving either late, or early. Calmness, clarity and peace of mind. Plenty Poetry Poped Op. And notebooks got lost as well; or for good. Fate in a well.

Ishiguro was among the authors I read by then. Certainly a book from a local library. Nor do I recall having shared an interview with each other. However, having met and read many authors over there assures me the Joy of Today ignites from acknowledging the prize was awarded to the Fine Art of Waving Words into Literature. Such is my taste.

The Years about reading & broadcasting

And there most be a good reason to let this story linger; or at least it seems so. How long does it take to deliver words worth awards? For some Poetry may seem as painter traces. But perhaps it was a hidden word which kept the poem trapped away from a paper; it just happened to yield a delightful meaning.

That was certainly the Semantic Era. It means making sense of it all. It actually is about abiding by the Laws of Life. Maieutics, ironically, was my method of preference. By the end of each day I closed the eyes; I gave myself into another mystery of our existencial nature. Hence happiness floated amidst a valley of questions.

It was a radio show which lead me into Literary events; and some authors dared to step into the studio. By so I can attest that publishing words in printed version is an entire different Art domain. Take a pause and imagine the role of silence in radio. Keep the waves in silence until solitude haunts you.

Abruptly fade in sounds of wonder.

'Is silence an enjoyable factor around your reading?'

The Joy of Today assures us Ouvres remain to be waved and sewn onto Beautiful Hardcovers worth collecting.

Long Live those devoted to a form of Fine Word Arts. Long Reads & Thanks to Nicanor Parra; 103 years old active writer in 2017.

But today, Respectful Reader, you are reading words born a week after the prize was awarded; one week old are the main ideas on it. Just because a calmed editing session is worth it. Just because, ironically, I found several typos and grammatical misbehaviours across the Nobel Prize's official website. All in all I consider starkly important to calm down, pay attention to the world, and revalue Time as an inherent element of our Artistic Understanding of the Universe; Einstein did.

Hence, fresh and aged words here are left for a pleasurable reading. A session left to your entire delight: the flesh of occasion's excitement, glazed with the age of a long awaited proof-reading.

Please bare in mind there is plenty of information about the 2017 Nobel Prize in Literature at the official Nobel Prize's webpage: https://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/

Dear Authors

These words were assembled the very same day this Nobel Prize was announced, originally published at. Publishing is even more important for the sake of Global Knowledge. Type and share.

[fitnesshealthyoga-blog]

New Post has been published on https://fitnesshealthyoga.com/the-first-time-i-had-sex-i-contracted-hiv/

'The first time I had sex I contracted HIV'

Image copyright Nathaniel Hall

Image caption A teenage Nathaniel Hall at about the time of his HIV diagnosis

The first time Nathaniel Hall had sex, he contracted HIV. He was 16 years old and had only recently come out as gay. Fear, shame and self-loathing caused him to keep his diagnosis a secret from his family for the next 14 years.

He “came out” for the second time in his life last year and took back control by writing a play about his experience. Nathaniel, a 32-year-old theatre practitioner from Manchester, hopes his one-man show will spark a conversation about representations of HIV in popular culture.

Nathaniel explains how he coped with learning he was HIV positive while he was still a child.

Image copyright Nathaniel Hall

Image caption “He told me that he had been tested and that he had a clean bill of health… at 16 you don’t really have the capacity to challenge that”

The ‘summer romance’ with an older man

I knew I was gay from around 13 or 14 but in 2003 it was a very different time. It wasn’t even an option in school. It was all secret… to sort of find out who else was gay.

And then this guy… I was 16, he was older than me – in his early to mid-20s. All of a sudden this older gay man gave me some attention and almost validated me – it was very intoxicating. So we started seeing each other.

That relationship didn’t last long; it was only a couple of months, really. It all happened in the summer – between school and college – a summer romance, as it were. And then we kind of went our separate ways.

When I told him [about the HIV diagnosis], I got messages from his friends – bearing in mind they were older than me – saying I was just a silly little boy and I was making it up and worse than that.

So I just really wanted him to get tested and get the treatment required so that he wouldn’t pass it on, because most infections come from people who don’t know they have the virus.

But I never found out whether he knew. He told me that he had been tested and that he had a clean bill of health… at 16 you don’t really have the capacity to challenge that.

Image copyright Nathaniel Hall

Image caption Nathaniel, pictured when he was a teenager and more recently, is now in long-term relationship

‘It felt like being hit by a bus’

I had just turned 17 when I got the diagnosis. I remember them being very, very kind to me in the clinic and I don’t really remember much else, other than getting the news. Then going back home and having to make this decision… I made the snap decision to go into my bedroom and close the door, instead of going and saying what had happened.

It felt like being hit by bus… because when I try and recall it, it’s almost a physical sensation of being hit quite hard. I remember crying. What I was told was very different to what you get told today.

It certainly wasn’t the era of the Aids epidemic… medication was around and they were good and improving, but I was told the prognosis was around 37 years. So to actually have a figure put on that at that age was quite a heavy thing to deal with.

I did have counselling through my college and did have support and I kind of thought I was OK until late last year when I had a bit of a breakdown.

‘I think that shame really controlled me’

I think shame is the big one… it’s really the only disease where there is a moral judgement attached to it and even – to a certain degree – a self-judgement.

I was gay… but you grow up in a straight world. You hear that you are morally wrong, or what you do is dirty and you should be ashamed of it. So I was becoming really acutely aware of that.

Then you hear those kind of warnings – “oh, you are going to be punished”. So it was kind of like those prophecies were coming true, right at that moment, and it was a very powerful – and that was the shame that I put on to myself.

When I was at school the only sex education we had about a gay relationship was a video that we watched in which a gay man was dying from Aids.

It was completely out of date and so these messages that I was getting – that I was somehow secondary or that what I was doing was wrong or immoral or whatever – they weren’t coming from my family but they were coming from all around me.

They sink in over time and then all of a sudden, I kind of became that stereotype. So I think that shame really, really controlled me.

‘I didn’t recognise who I was’

I think the key moment was when I was still up two days after a party and I had not really slept at all. I looked at myself in the mirror and I didn’t recognise who that person was.

I realised at that point that drugs and alcohol had… not necessarily taken over my life… but I had abused them in a way that was not good for me any more.

It was in no way a heavy addiction or anything like that but I was self-medicating through alcohol. I was just trying to get rid of this low-level anxiety and stress that had built up over the years.

I realised that if I didn’t do something about it then, it could escalate into a real and serious problem. Something had to change.

Image copyright Lee Baxter

Image caption Nathaniel in the First Time

‘They were sorry I felt I had to keep it secret’

I needed to tell my family. I had tried many, many times before but it never happened and never came out. So I started on the journey of making the play and I started to write stuff and make sense of things through my writing. Then I decided to write a letter to my parents and brothers and sisters.

I gave myself an afternoon to write everything down that I wanted to say. I told myself that I didn’t necessarily need to send it, I just needed to get it written down and then see how I felt about it.

But after writing it, I actually felt quite calm so I just put them in envelopes straight away and got them posted before I could change my mind.

I did it that way because I had tried so many times to say it and I couldn’t. And I also didn’t think I could do it four times in a row without just being an emotional wreck by the end of it.

The response was quite underwhelming, to be honest! It was a little bit like how I know a lot of gay people feel before they come out. This fear of what might happen but… everyone sent me text messages and called me and they were absolutely fine. They were just sorry that I felt I had to keep it secret for this long.

My mum came over the next day and we had a chat. My big thing was that they would be upset that I had not told them and kept this really big thing from them. But my mum said: “I’m just upset my son was struggling with this for so long on his own.”

It was the fear. There was some internalised homophobia that lots of gay men have and then this other layer of shame and the fear builds on top of that, and all of that is really powerful. Even if you have a really loving family, you struggle to tell them.

Image copyright Nathaniel Hall

Image caption Nathaniel is looking forward to the future

‘I used to wake up every morning with a knot in my heart’

It’s not like all of a sudden everything is fixed. But writing and working on the show has taken me to some difficult places and that’s been hard.

But I have felt a lot lighter and a lot more able to deal with things and some of the anxiety that had built up. I used to wake up every morning with a knot in my heart, in my chest.

I never used to think that it had affected me but after I told my family it released a little a bit and I thought, “oh my gosh, you lived with this almost crippling anxiety”. Every morning, the first thing I felt was fear in my chest, tightness – and I can feel it now as I’m talking about it.

But since I’ve gone on that journey, admitting about that breakdown and some of the bad choices I have made and making peace with that, I don’t need to be the perfect person I was trying to be – and that was very freeing and very liberating.

Told through a series of personal letters, poems, confessions and Nathaniel’s drag alter-ego, Sue, First Time is about growing up gay and HIV positive.

The play is part of a series of events at Waterside Arts, Sale to mark 30 years since the first World Aids Day.

Held in conjunction with the Greater Manchester PaSH Partnership (Passionate about Sexual Health), the weekend will also feature creative workshops, a gallery exhibition, free HIV testing and a “coming out” party to raise money for HIV charities.

As told to Paul Keaveny

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