#(his speech on the Day of Dignity and Freedom was just... so very moving

[harri-etvane]

Because we have dignity and we will not allow our freedom to be taken away from us. Because we have to protect our freedom in order not to lose our dignity. Because we know and remember one of the important wisdoms we learned long ago: how important it is not to be afraid, how important it is to fight. - Volodymyr Zelenskyy

#volodymyr zelenskyy #volodymyr zelensky #володимир зелеиський #servant of the people #(his speech on the Day of Dignity and Freedom was just... so very moving #as ever) #endlessly thinking about the arthurian legendary vibes of these images tbf #also endlessly thinking about the way he uses 'we' in his speeches #that instant connection

[damselofblueroses]

Bambi, Prologue

You are my Bambi, girl, I am your candy, tell me what are you waiting for?

Summary: As an archaeologist who works on the Ancient Greece, you were on the verge of excavations' session. While you have been preparing your team, you learned that your institute decided on your team has to work with another team as they wanted the outcome as a collaboration. The head of other team was your biggest rival, a scumbag in your eyes: Byun Baekhyun.

You two were supposed to work together for three months, in a Greek Island, Chios.

Could you manage to not kill Byun Baekhyun for three months?

Content: AU, heavily Greek mythology, enemies to friends.

Warnings: Well, the story contains NSFW/Smut, please minors do not continue.

Note: This story will be four or five chapters if I will not change my mind in the meantime. It is inspired by my major; however, I do not have a complete knowledge on archaeology, I am a historian. If I will make a technical mistake, please let me know. I am willing to receive any kind of feedback; you are more than welcomed to drop a message.

Prologue

The Mid of April, Sejong Institute, the Department of Archaeology

“Could you give me Bulfinch?” you asked to your teammate. “I have to check the layers of the Underworld.”

“Here you go.” Junmyeon gave the thick book to you. While you were searching for the details in your mind, Junmyeon was dealing with the plan of construction.

You have been knowing each other since the last 10 years, working together was nothing but natural as breathing for both of you. Junmyeon was older than you and supposed to be superior to you, however he decided to pursue a career not in the field, but in the library, you became the leader of the archaeological team of Sejong Institute.

“Indy,” Junmyeon called you by your nickname. You automatically lifted your head, your nickname became your Pavlovian weakness, sometimes you forgot your real name. “Be a good girl and pass me the cookie jar.”

You wholeheartedly laughed at his face expression and threw him his favourite chocolate cookie.

“Do you want a cup of coffee?” you asked, stretching your body. “My battery is literally going down; let’s grab an americano.”

“Only if you buy me a carrot cake.”

Junmyeon had a sweet tooth, as he opened the package and swallowed the cookie just without even chewing.

“Okey, big boy.” you smacked his shoulder, standing up. “You are goddamn lucky for having that fast metabolism, you know.”

“My darling girl, I work out in a fucking routine.” he grinned like a 5-year-old boy. You really loved to see his cockiness. “My body ratio is not a heavenly gift; I gain every muscle with tears and blood.”

“What kind of god can reward you, shitty dandy?” you chuckled. “You are a walking blasphemy.”

“Still better than you.” Junmyeon pulled your hair by laughing.

“You are definitely right.” you lolled your tongue out of your mouth. “Come on, move your bloody but peachy butt!”

Actually, you were shy, quiet but quick to make sharp remarks. However, Junmyeon was more than a teammate; he was the closest one to a brother for you, you have been always so relaxed when you were with him. The outcome of your friendship was the freedom of speech, you could be vocal as much as you wanted. Junmyeon was never offended by anything you would say, the same applied also to you. You were his dear sister, your families became friends because of you.

You could not imagine your life without Junmyeon.

“What do you think about the digging session?” you asked to him when you were waiting in the line. Junmyeon was trying to select his dessert, carrot cake was already forgotten.

“Well, you will be the team leader, that is sure thing.” he huffed. “Most probably they will ask you who do you want in your team, and you will not name me if you want to live.”

“You are the last one who I am going to choose when it comes to work in the trenches.” you smirked. “Who wants a cry baby in the field?”

“Oh.” Junmyeon turned you, shooting a dirty look, which only led you to bite your upper lip in order to prevent bursting into laughs. “You need a brain; those muscular tough babies cannot figure even how to use tools out.

“But they do not run away when they see a bug.” you could not help but start to laugh. “Do you r-

“Shut the fuck up.” Junmyeon covered your mouth with his hand. “You are banned to talk about that incident from now on. Ever.”

“But,” you took his hands off you, tears forming in the edges of your eyes due to the memory you remembered. Junmyeon gave you a deadly stare, but you could not help. “You were running over the hill because you came across to a spider in your trench. Didn’t you give up on becoming Indiana in our first digging session?”

“No, I preferred to protect my own dignity.” he shook his head, then he also burst into laughs. “Jesus, I hate spiders and one Indy is enough for the family.”

“At least you learned that X never marks the spot before quitting.” you murmured, then pointed what you want to him. “Blueberry muffin, Jun. It looks yummy.”

“At least you learned that rolling in the dirt is not for the people who has a class.” Junmyeon ordered two americanos, one blueberry muffin and one red velvet cake. “Jokes aside, there are some gossips. Did you hear any of them?”

“Damnit, yes.” you exhaled and pinched the bridge of your nose. “The Executive Board is thinking to build a collaboration between us and Sunkyungwan people.”

“Yeah.” Junmyeon sat down on a chair, helped you to settle yourself. “And if they do, you know who is going to be the other team leader, right?”

“Do not tell me.” you covered your ears with your hands. You knew, you already heard the possible name, however even the possibility was giving you nothing but headache. “That’s why I asked your opinion. If that bastard will be my fucking colleague for Chios, I think I will pass this session”

“Hell, over my dead body.” Junmyeon aggressively grasped his little fork. “I know how much you guys despise each other, but this is your fucking career. Do not even dare to think you can turn your back to an opportunity.”

“But, Ju-

“No.” he was firm as fuck. “If they will give you the excavation of Chios, you will be fucking happy and you will accept their fucking propose. Chios will be the icing of the cake for you, you always want to lead an excavation in the Aegean.”

“You are right.” you knew when the occasion called to not push Junmyeon’s limits. Career came first, the rest is not important was his mentality. “You are right, but I really do not draw myself working with him.”

“Ignore him. You do not have to see him every day, ditch him in the field, goddamn.” Jun chewed a mouthful bite of his cake. “I do not want you to be facing with the Board, standing for no ground. If they will manage to build the connection, Sunkyungwan will appoint Byun Baekhyun as the leader for sure.”

You did not answer his god-fucking-damn-it prediction, but even thinking about it made you want to puke.

You vividly remember Byun Baekhyun, a fucking tease, and a smartass, from your bachelor years. You were not the type of people who could easily hate someone, but you hated Byun Baekhyun since the first day you met. He was a cockhead and dandy, he was a real scumbag, always so full of himself, underestimating everyone and their abilities, thinking he was the star of the universe. To your dismay, both of you were accepted from same university for your master and you had to endure his presence till he accepted the offer of Sunkyungwan.

You never tell this to Junmyeon, hell, he would not spend even a second to kill you if he would learn this, but you turned the offer of Sunkyungwan just because of Byun Baekhyun’s acceptance.

You hated him to the bits.

And you really did not know what the heck you were going to do if Sejong’s Executive Board was going to approve the collaboration. You looked at Junmyeon, he certainly was not going to let you to turn the offer down, and this time you could not hide the fact from him.

You grunted inside of your brain.

The Beginning of May, Sunkyungwan, the Department of Archaeology

Byun Baekhyun was happy.

More than happy till now.

He just stormed into his room, trying to register the news.

You? Were you really going to be his fucking colleague for fucking three months?!

He remembered you very well, and he was %100 sure of there was no person in this universe, he despised more than you. He even could not endure to share same atmosphere with you. He always wanted to fuck your attitudes out of you since he met you.

And was he really going to see your fucking face for three months, in an island?!

It had to be a bloody joke. A bloody plot on Baekhyun.

“I said,” he screamed when he heard his door was opened. “I do not want to see anyone!”

“Even an old friend?” a kind voice asked, Baekhyun immediately turned to the door.

Junmyeon was there, smiling to him. Baekhyun was startled, he was definitely caught off guard.

“Hyung?” he murmured. “Junmyeon Hyung?”

“Yeah.” Junmyeon’s smile widened. “May I come or not?”

“JUNMYEON HYUNG!” Baekhyun forgot you for a second and threw himself onto Junmyeon. He loved Junmyeon very much, enough to forgive his close relationship with you. “Welcome!”

Junmyeon smiled and hugged to Baekhyun but averted his eyes from him.

There was a plan in Junmyeon’s mind since years, and he had the chance of making it true after the news of collaboration. He averted his eyes also from you because he did not want anyone to understand his real intentions about you and Baekhyun.

Junmyeon smiled to Baekhyun.

#baekhyun fluff #baekhyun x reader #baekhyun smut #byun baekhyun #baekhyun #exo baekhyun #baekhyun fanfic #baekhyun angst #exo series #exo fanfiction #exo x reader #exo fanfic #exo smut #exo #exo fic #exo imagines

[acquariusgb]

9/11 Hillary POV

It’s a sad day today as we remember 20 years since 9/11. Here is an extract from Hillary Rodham Clinton- A woman living history by Karen Blumenthal, talking about the events from that day.

September 11, 2001, was to be another historic day: First Lady Laura Bush was to testify about early childhood education before one of Hillary’s committees. It would be an unusual First Lady meeting. Hillary put on a bright yellow suit for the event.

She was on the phone with Ann O’Leary, her legislative director, when the first plane hit the World Trade Center. Initially, they thought it was an accident—until the second plane hit. At that point, O’Leary said, Hillary was sure it was a terrorist attack.

By the time Hillary arrived at work near the Capitol, a third plane had crashed into the Pentagon, and police were evacuating her office building. She met some of her nervous staff outside, where she tried to assure them that they would be okay and dispatched them to a staffer’s nearby home.

By then, police were trying to clear traffic, and Hillary got back in the car. One of Bill’s former advisers, Gene Sperling, happened to be nearby, and she offered him a ride. While the radio reported the grim news, Hillary frantically dialed her cell phone. First she tried to reach Chelsea. Now twenty-one and a Stanford graduate, Chelsea was staying with a friend near Union Square in Manhattan before she was to go to England for graduate school. Her mom knew she often went for a jog at that hour of the morning.

Hillary couldn’t get through. Next, the senator from New York dialed officials at the Federal Emergency Management Agency to ask about their response to the crisis.

“It was like watching her move back and forth from each role in her life minute by minute,” Sperling said. “Then suddenly, the radio announcer starts screaming, ‘Oh my God, the World Trade Tower has collapsed; oh my God, the World Trade Tower has collapsed,’ and suddenly the whole world came to a stop.”

The images of planes crashing into the towers had been horrible beyond words. But then the buildings came crashing down, killing thousands of people and remaking the famous skyline. Especially in New York City, people would look to their elected officials for assurance about their security and safety. Hillary was now on the front lines.

With so much still unknown, Hillary scrambled to get as much information as she could and to touch base with her family. She called Bill, who was in Australia for a speech. He was watching the destruction on television and wanted to know if Chelsea was okay. Though she didn’t know for sure, Hillary told him that everything was fine and not to worry.

Around the time that Hillary was calling, Chelsea had been in her friend’s apartment trying to reach her mother, but she couldn’t get through, either. Feeling an overwhelming need to reach her mom, Chelsea ran out to look for a pay phone, but there were long lines at each one. She returned to the apartment, and when her friend came back home, they followed the mayor’s advice and headed uptown.

Near Grand Central Station, people were panicking, yelling “Fire!” and “Bomb!” and running away from the terminal. Though there was no fire, Chelsea and her friend were frightened and crying. “For a brief moment I truly thought I was going to die,” she wrote later.

Chelsea was near Fiftieth Street and Madison Avenue when her mother finally got through. Just hearing her voice, Chelsea burst into tears.

After their conversation, Hillary called Bill again to tell him Chelsea was safe.

She also called Giuliani and the New York governor. She and the other New York senator, Charles Schumer, spoke with President Bush, getting his assurance that the federal government would help with the rescue process and New York’s rebuilding.

That afternoon, now wearing a more appropriate black suit, Hillary joined other senators at the Capitol Police headquarters, where they gathered to be briefed by Senate leaders. As the sun was setting, Hillary joined several hundred members of Congress on the Capitol steps. The leaders of both the House and Senate pledged their support, and called for a moment of silence. As they started to walk away, some members began singing “God Bless America,” tentatively at first, and then louder and stronger. When they finished, many lawmakers hugged. Hillary, the New York Times reported, was teary.

CNN sought her out for an interview just before President Bush was to speak to the nation. Hillary said she would stand behind the president—and she had strong language for the attackers: “Our country not only has to retaliate directly against those who perpetrated this attack, but we have to make it very clear that we cannot permit any state, any government, any institution, or individual to pursue terrorist aims that are directed at the United States or any country,” she said.

She said she expected many countries to unite behind the nation. “It’s not just an attack on the United States,” she said. “It’s an attack on everyone who cares about freedom and dignity and justice and humanity.”

After spending much of the long night on the phone, she joined the Senate the next morning to approve a resolution condemning the attack. That afternoon, she and Schumer flew from Washington to New York on a special Federal Emergency Management Agency plane. All other flights had been grounded the day before, after it was clear that four planes had been hijacked. (In addition to those that crashed into the World Trade Center and Pentagon, a fourth plane came down in a Pennsylvania field after passengers fought back against the hijackers.) On September 12, theirs was the only plane in the air, outside of Air Force fighters. At New York’s LaGuardia Airport, they boarded a helicopter to tour the damage.

The site of the World Trade Center was still smoldering and smoky as they flew over. As rescuers desperately searched for survivors below, Hillary could see the twisted girders and shattered beams where two stunning and enormous buildings had once stood.

“The TV images I’d seen the night before didn’t capture the full horror,” she wrote later. It felt like she was looking into “the jaws of hell.”

#hillary clinton #bill clinton #chelsea clinton #the clintons #book quote

[mollymauk-teafleak]

A Wedding in Paris

Trigger Warning: Light mentions of setting appropriate homophobia, alcohol use

“What’s a marriage anyway? Rings and a promise and a priest. And, the way I see it, two out of three requirements makes a good enough substitute for me. The law doesn’t want us so I say we don’t want it.”

Lucian and Stephen spend their first day in Paris, the first day of their new lives.

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Please leave a comment over on Ao3!

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Stephen had been nervous about Paris.

It was his first step outside of England, the first of a headlong sprint that was going to take him even further than he’d had the free time to read about in books. Paris was meant to be a gentle start, just a hop over the Channel, within three day’s reach of the country he’d grown up in all his life, but it had still frightened Stephen to imagine. A new city, a new soil, a new tongue. A new him, supposedly, a Stephen Day who wasn’t a justiciar and wasn’t alone but now had to find out where he fit into the world, starting with Paris.

It had taken him all of a day to decide he really, really liked it.

That day had consisted of waking up in a very expansive, comfortable bed, made all the more comfortable and slightly less expansive by the fact that he was sharing it with all six feet of his lover. Then he’d padded around the lavish hotel apartment he’d been too exhausted to take any notice of after yesterday’s boat ride, in  a mix of wonderment and apprehension, until Lucien had woken and summoned him back to bed with a crook of a finger and a smile. Not all that different from his fonder mornings in London.

But then there had been bright sunlight, walks along boulevards familiar enough to Stephen that he could relax into the excitement of the chatter around him in unknown, lyrical languages, the smells of herbs he couldn’t name coming from the street stalls, the bright fabrics and colourful buildings. Then there was a park, open space and the smell of fresh cut grass and summer flowers, a museum with paintings from far away and long ago that Stephen felt he could fall forwards into, a patisserie with cakes that looked like perfect sculptures and tasted like heaven. Even the ether felt different, like rich velvet, less fettered by smog. There were smiles, laughter that made his jaw ache, a heart lighter than he could remember.

And through it all, more than anything else, there was Lucien. At Stephen’s side and smiling as he stared like the dumbstruck tourist he was, walking a few paces behind with a proud, patient chuckle while Stephen surged ahead to see something new, lounging beside him and explaining the ways in which French fashions differed to British fashions with each example that passed by. He indulged his little witch completely and for once Stephen didn’t argue or allow himself to become embarrassed by it, the cakes tasted too good for him to recoil at Lucien happily buying him as much as he could eat. It brought that smile of satisfaction to his lover’s sharp features, the warmth in his eyes that their troubles in London had made rarer than either would like.

And there were the touches.

The first time it happened, Lucien casually placing a hand on Stephen’s arm as they walked, he’d frozen in place. For a moment, he’d forgotten where he was, certain they were still in England and even a simple, friendly touch like that would get them spat at in the street. Lucien had taken his hand away quickly with an apologetic, understanding expression, endlessly patient with Stephen’s anxieties, willing to go slowly. Stephen appreciated it, his heart hammering in his chest until the next delight chased it away.

But then, sitting in the park, Lucien had made to reach for Stephen’s hand, stopping only at the last moment when he caught himself. His quick amber eyes had noticed and, for a moment, the fear jolted through him, a sour, metallic taste on his tongue. But only for a moment, the sugar and fresh air rushing back in and, with it, a sense of giddy courage. They were in the shade, dappled by the leaves overhead, and no one was looking their way.

And if they were, what of it? Lucien had promised Stephen a life of freedom. He’d told him they’d go places where everything about Stephen- his magic, the fact that he liked men- wasn’t something to be hidden and ashamed of. And every other impossible thing Lucien had promised was apparently true, so why not this?

So he’d joined their hands together, threading his fingers through Lucien’s larger ones until they knit together naturally. Not a manipulation of the ether, not a spell, just the honest scrape of rough, callused skin against his lover’s, scar brushing against scar, fingers slotting perfectly into the gaps between hair dusted knuckles. It had been Lucien’s turn to jolt in surprise but, God, the look he’d given Stephen put every wonder they’d seen into the shade.

Possibly that look, possibly the wild and welcome sense of freedom, possibly the fact that Merrick knew of a wine bar that didn’t close until one in the morning and served the most delicious ruby red burgundy and a very reasonable price, possibly a combination of all of these factors decided how Stephen’s first day in Paris ended.

Which is to say, piss drunk and dancing with his lover in an empty Parisian street at half past two in the morning. And happier than he could ever remember being.

“Lucien!” he cackled, clinging to him for dear life as he spun him around in what a waltz might look like through a haze of wine, “Lucien, I’m going to be sick!”

His lover laughed, finally letting them stop, moving into a slightly less disorientating four step that neither of them could really keep up with, “I thought you practitioners could hold your alcohol better than us mere mortals?”

“Not when it’s this much alcohol,” Stephen snorted, tilting his head back to watch the stars lurch drunkenly across the velvet blue sky, “God, Lucien, this place…”

“I know,” Lucien purred, catching him in the pool of gas light coming from a streetlamp, letting Stephen slump bonelessly against his chest as they swayed in a lazy circle, “This is what it should be like, my love. This is how you’ve deserved to live your entire life.”

Stephen giggled, loose limbed and loose lipped with the weight of the sweet wine on his tongue,  “No one cares...I’m dancing with my lover in the street and no one cares…”

Luien’s cheeks were a little red too, his speech a little slack and grin overly wide, but he was a few glasses down on Stephen, “Well, we can still get arrested for disorderly behaviour and waking the neighbours.”

“I see,” Stephen hummed with exaggerated seriousness, face still pressed to Lucien’s chest so it came out a little muffled, “We should be inside then so we can be as disorderly as we wish.”

“I like the sound of that,” Lucien chuckled, half dancing and half dragging Stephen to the door of their hotel which they’d been wonkily aiming for when they’d started their impromptu waltz.

Getting through the lobby with whatever wine soaked dignity they could muster took a few moments when Stephen stumbled on the steps and Lucien couldn’t remember his own name briefly when the front desk asked but eventually they staggered up the stairs to the apartments they were calling home until they could book passage further into Europe.

Fortunately they didn’t have to fumble with the key in the door, the French helpfully built their door knobs in brass and he sent it swinging inwards with a thought, unfortunately just as Lucien swept him up to kiss him against it. The two of them burst into helpless laughter, sprawled on the mat, giggling like children.

“Get off me,” Stephen managed to get the words out, through the laughter and the fact that shy of two hundred pounds of muscular lordship was resting on him, “I can’t breathe, you great lump…”

“Some poorly timed romance on my part, I apologise,” Lucien laughed, finding his feet and pulling himself up, snagging Stephen on the way up.

“Oh,” Stephen’s eyes glittered in the pale moonlight, the only thing keeping the apartment from complete darkness, “Well...don’t let this keep you from trying again.”

Lucien seemed to take that as a personal challenge, not letting his lover find his feet, just sweeping him into his arms and carrying him straight to the canopy bed. With a few assists from Stephen, bending the ether to shove an ottoman and curl the corner of a rug out of their path, they made it with no broken necks or barked shins.

“Did I tell you the ether feels different here?” he found himself murmuring, once they’d toppled into the pool of silk and down, his mouth doing that thing where the wine rather than his brain made it move.

“Hmm?” Lucien had collapsed next to him, looking like a scarecrow that had been dropped from a height. A scarecrow dressed in Hawkes and Cheney’s finest, “Don’t recall. Tell me anyway. I like when you talk about magic, your eyes light up.”

Stephen reddened until he was probably a similar colour to the wine they’d been drinking but he held his hands up above himself, backing them against the rich muslin of the canopy. He twitched his long fingers as he spoke, like he was stroking something.

“I work with my hands so it feels different to me. It feels richer, like I’m moving my hands through honey rather than water, like it is back home. It...drags on me, like it’s alive and it’s touching me as much as I’m touching it. Like the difference between velvet and cotton, you know? You just want to dig your fingers in and see how far it goes. I bet if Esther was here, she’d say it smelled different too and I’ll ask Saint if it sounds different…” he trailed off, glancing to the man lying beside him, realising that Lucien was gazing at him with an expression warmer and more adoring than anyone he’d ever given a magical lecture to.

“Did my eyes light up?” he asked shyly, mouth cocking into a smile.

“All of you does,” Lucien purred, looking at him the way Stephen had looked at the paintings and artefacts in the museum, like he was something precious and masterful, like the whole world around them and dimmed and Stephen was all that mattered, “This is just...this is everything I wanted for you, my love.”

“To eat my own body weight in cake twice over?” Stephen hummed,

The jesting tone was a little flat and shaky but he needed some way to blunt this. Because if Lucien kept talking like this and looking at him like that then he felt me might cry. Because they were alone in a beautiful place and everything was changing, because he loved this man so much and he loved him back and light could be as overwhelming as dark. You could drown in honey as easily as blood.

But, as ever, Lucien was the one who was unafraid. They lay practically nose to nose but it still wasn’t close enough apparently, he reached over to hold his cheek. His palm was cool from the chill night air and Stephen leaned into it instinctively.

“To be somewhere you can just be your incredible self,” Lucien murmured, keeping their voices low even though they were alone, just because the words were Stephen’s and no one elses, “Magical and powerful and mine.”

Stephen turned and pressed his lips to the centre of that slightly roughened palm, “Thank you. I know I’m going to be saying that a lot from now on and it’s never going to feel like enough but still. Thank you so much.”

Lucien kissed the bridge of his nose, running his thumb over his cheekbone, protective and comforting, “And I will always reply that you don’t need to thank me. You came with me, that’s more than enough.”

Stephen melted under the touch, sighing softly, finding a way to relax even beyond what the drink and dancing had already accomplished, “And it only gets better from here?”

“The further we get from England, the less anyone will care,” Lucien promised, fingers moving up to tease the tighter curls at the edge of his hairline, “In China I’ll be able to take you to dinners, kiss you in the street, introduce you as my partner to my fellow traders, brag shamelessly about my talented, handsome shaman…”

Stephen groaned, though he was betrayed by his lopsided grin of incredibly endearing goofiness, “Wonderful...though I like being called your partner.”

“Well,” Lucien patted his cheek and let him go, apparently too drunk and tired to engage his neck muscles, “I’d rather call you my husband but not even Shanghai allows me that.”

This certain kind of moment happens often between two people with more wine in their bloodstream than sense in their head, that one of them will casually blurt something without realising the magnitude of their words, their runaway mouths jumbling up the filing system in their head and confusing the one labelled ‘deeply personal thoughts’ with ‘casual conversation’. People said in vino veritas, Lucien recalled, though the more succinct phrase that snapped his eyes open and froze him in place when he realised what he’d said was ‘complete fucking stupidity’.

Stephen was watching him with wide, golden eyes, no expression but naked surprise, “You’d marry me? If we could?”

Lucien wasn’t often caught on the back foot, even around Stephen. His little witch could count on one hand the amount of times he’d seen him blush as he was now, the amount of times he’d seen his mouth twist into the shy, vulnerable smile of a much younger man who’d been through far less in his life.

“Well...of course. Honestly, if we lived in a different time, I’d have done it long before now. Pretty much as soon as I got the slightest inkling you’d actually have me,” the blush deepened as he spoke and, God, Stephen would have been lying if it wasn’t damn endearing to see his lover’s cold, angular features having to deal with embarrassment.

Lucien caught his expression, laughing exasperatedly and dragging Stephen closer, “Oh fuck off, is this really that much of a surprise?”

Stephen giggled, wrapping his arms around Lucien in turn, “That I could land one of the most eligible bachelors in England? Somewhat...oh heavens, would that make me Lady Crane?”

That set them both off again, gripped by helpless laughter, giddy on wine and fantasy.

“I think you’d be Lord as well?” Lucien snorted, the idea of his radical little witch having a title too funny for words, “Or Lord Consort which even you have to admit is an inherently fuckable title.”

“Well, you’ve got me there…” he snickered, rusty curls falling into his eyes, “Stephen Vaudrey….”

Thinking if he was in for a penny on emotional vulnerability, he may as well be in for a pound, Lucien shook his head, “Actually, if we’re indulging ourselves completely, I’d ask you to keep your name. And, if you’d be so kind, extend it to me?”

Stephen’s jaw dropped, “Pardon? Did I hear that right?”

Lucien shrugged lazily, managing to haul himself up into something more like a sitting position against the bolsters, “Come on now, darling, like I’m going to cling to the surname of my abusive father and brother when I could join a loving family of people with actual integrity and honour.”

Stephen scrambled after him, resting his head on Lucien’s chest, gazing up at him adoringly, “That’s...I don’t even know what to say, Lucien.”

Lucien pushed that wayward hair back, his heart thudding at putting that expression of bewilderment and love on Stephen’s face and wanting to admire every inch of it, “So you wouldn’t mind spending the rest of your life with Lucien Day?”

“I’d do it in a heartbeat,” Stephen said emphatically, turning into his hand the way a cat being petted would, “And I will. No matter what the law says.”

Lucien seemed to consider that a moment, an amusement dawning in his grey eyes, the kind of idea that could only happen when one was a little bit drunk and madly in love clearly taking root. His mouth quirked upwards at the end.

“Fuck the law then,” he grinned, “Marry me. Right now.”

Stephen blinked, clearly missing a few pieces of the puzzle, “Excuse me?”

Lucien lurched to his feet so suddenly that Stephen was left to fall face down into the space he left behind with an ungainly yelp. He turned onto his back to see Lucien straightening his lapels, trying to shake out some of the rumpledness in his suit from their raucous evening. He deftly untied his cravat, somehow managing to force hands that had held several wine glasses over the last few hours to handle the knot expertly. Then he held out his hand to Stephen.

“Your leg please, sweet boy. This can be the something new, I only bought it today, and borrowed too as I’m lending it to you. I’d say your suit can be your something old, given the state of it, as I’ve pointed out many times. Don’t think you’re getting out of Paris without some new clothes by the way. And blue…”

“Our tattoos have blue in them,” Stephen grinned at him as he complied, shivering a little as Lucien pushed up the leg of his worn trousers, “You’ve lost your mind completely.”

“It's this or we become pirates and enter into matelotage, my love,” Lucien hummed, tying the lace around his thigh in a decent approximation of a garter, “And the journey across the Channel made it clear you get seasick far too easily for that.”

Stephen wrinkled his nose, he’d had a near constant sour taste in his mouth for the entire trip, “Granted…”

“What’s a marriage anyway?” Lucien hummed, kissing Stephen’s knee before letting him go, “Rings and a promise and a priest. And, the way I see it, two out of three requirements makes a good enough substitute for me. The law doesn’t want us so I say we don’t want it.”

“Spoken like a true smuggler,” Stephen gazed up at him, feeling like he could float.

Lucien flashed him the kind of grin that made shivers run up his spine, as he slid the magpie ring he’d had made to fit Stephen’s from his finger, “Now I know we already did this part but why not...take mine and I’ll have yours, if you don’t mind…”

His hand felt naked without the ring but Lucien’s larger one lying in his palm was a solid certainty, still warm from his lover’s skin. Stephen clutched it like a talisman, a delighted, bewildered laugh bursting from him as Lucien pulled him to his feet. The two of them stood facing each other like they were before an altar, framed in the enormous bay windows that lay the glittering entirety of Paris out before them. Neither man gave it a glance.

“Now, I’ll do my best to remember how it went at Leo’s though the wine might not be helping,” Lucien frowned as he thought, “Although, having said that, I was drunk for that wedding too.”

“Which one?” Stephen grinned teasingly, “The one years ago or the one last month?”

“Both,” Lucien hummed, taking Stephen’s hands in his own, enveloping them safely in his own, “Now…”

Stephen tilted his head upwards, taking a breath and focusing on Lucien’s face. Something inside him fought through the burgundy fog and the giddiness and the fear of those emotions that felt too big to hold, something whispered focus, this is important, you’ll want to remember every second.

Lucien slid Stephen’s ring back onto his finger, fitting it perfectly where it had sat since last December, “I, Lucien Vaudrey, take thee, Stephen Day, to be my completely unlawful but much devoted and adored husband to have and to hold from this day forward. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, when you’re vomiting over the edge of an ocean liner or in health, so on and so forth and whatever…” he clearly abandoned the traditional vows and his eyes softened with sincerity, “You are the person who woke up my heart when I’d rather forgotten i even owned one. You’ve saved me, you’ve made me a better man and you’ve put so much trust in me. All I can do is swear to you that I am yours, completely and utterly. For whatever it's worth to you, my love.”

For a few moments, Stephen couldn’t speak or move or do anything but stand in place with his eyes fixed on Lucien’s and wonder what the hell he’d done to deserve the place he stood in now. He only realised how long he’d been struck dumb when Lucien stifled a chuckle and pointedly cleared his throat, prompting Stephen to scramble for the ring and nearly drop it, managing to get it onto Lucien’s finger.

“Um, okay, ah…” he shook himself, “I, Stephen Day, take thee, Lucien Vaudrey or Crane or Fortunegate or Day or whoever the hell you want to be, I’ll take every single one of you as my unlawful husband and I’ll do it gladly. I’ll take you for better or worse, though God knows we’ve had plenty of the latter. For richer, hard to do in your case, or poorer, even harder to do in my case. In sickness and in health and whatever else the world wants to throw at us because I swear, you are the best thing in my life and nothing is taking you away from me now. Thank you for helping me see something worthwhile when I look in the mirror, thank you for being that little bit more stubborn than me, thank you for...everything. For the whole damned world. I don’t know what I can do to pay that back but I can promise you I’ll try.”

“You can start by kissing your husband?” Lucien’s voice was rough and thick and if Stephen didn’t know his lover better, he’d say there was wetness on his eyelashes.

Not that he had time to properly take note before he threw himself into Lucien’s arms, kissing him hard enough that he would have buckled if he was a shorter man. Instead they met and melted into each other, kissing hard enough to bruise, hard enough that there would be aching jaws to go along with aching heads the next morning.

And outside of the window, Paris still glittered, gaslamp stars in their cobblestone sea, the Seine the path to the rest of the world that lay beyond. All of Europe, all of Asia, wherever they wanted to go was waiting.

And it would have to wait. Because tonight all that mattered was each other.

#a charm of magpies #stephen day #lucien vaudrey #kj charles #some drunken shenanigans

[argumentl]

The Freedom of Expression Ep 1 - Haruna Fuuka files lawsuit against internet slanderers

*with Kaoru (K), Joe (J), Tasai (T) , who is a journalist writing for the newspaper Tokyo Sports, and Kami/god.*

Kaoru: Hi, this is Dir en grey's Kaoru. Have you heard of 'The Freedom of Expression' somewhere before?

Joe, Tasai : *noding*

K: I've a feeling we've done this before...

J: Thats right, yes...Its not a feeling, we actually did.

K: We are reviving the show we did on the radio station InterFM from 2015-16, on youtube this time.

J: Awesome

*applause*

J: I was really happy when I was first told about the revival.

K: I was also surprised *laughs*

J: Its not that you were made to revive the show though, right Kaoru?

K: The suggestion just came at me.

J: Oh really, like 'How about it?'

K: Like, 'Wanna tryy?' 1*

J: Ah, in a Kansai accent?

K:Yes yes

J: Like, 'Lets tryyy'..kind of thing...it started like that *laughs*

K: Yep

J: We did quite a lot (on InterFM). We even did a special edition

K, T : Yes, we did

J: We even made stickers

K: Brazil!

J:Yes

T: Ah, the live broadcast..at the Olympics

J: It was Dobashi san...Bishbash Dobashi san.

T: It would be good if we could do another live broadcast at this year's Tokyo Olympics.

J: On this You tube channel?

T: Yes *laughs*

J: A live broadcast might be a bit difficult legally, as for the Olymipcs *T laughs*

K: Um, thats *shhh*

J: Oh, its a secret!' *K laughing*  Maybe if were are asked by Tokyo Sports..?

K: Yes yes...So, as to the freedom of expression... 

Kami/god: Wait, wait, wait..I've come down too.

J: Oh, Kami?

K: He's saying it from himself *laughs*..I thought he would come if we beckoned him though.

J: Thats what usually happened. He was the kind of god that would come down after we called him, but now a god that comes down on his own accord.

K: Wasn't he like that before too? Should we keep him in reseve a bit more?

J: He'll want to appear, we can't help it?

Kami: You were forgetting about me!

K: We are not forgetting you!

Kami: You musn't forget your god!

*laughing*

T: We are not forgetting you!

Kami: Its not good!

J: You are always in our hearts.

T: Yes, he is.

Kami: Yes, thats it..you have to think like that.

J: But, you are not in the studio today, kami?

Kami: Oh..um, im just getting off a night shift..

J: A night shift?!

K: Ah, but it was like that before..

Kami: Right.

J: You are doing night shift work again? *Tasai laughs*

Kami: yes, thats right.

K: That was a while ago wasn't it, how many years ago?

J: Oh, is this the night shift season?

Kami: No, its..

T: You worked for ￥1000 per hour right?

Kami: Yes, yes...my hourly rate has risen a bit though. They were telling me 'Take a rest, take a rest', so my income dropped.

J: Ahh, its what they called a 'reformed working style', right?

Kami: Right

J: Its tough for you too, Kami.

Kami: *laughs* Yes it is.

K: He's the same as ever...  so lets get started.

J, T: Please

K: Ah, by the way, Tasai san, as well as Bishbashi Dohashi san, wasn't there another person before (at InterFM)?

T: Yes..a beastly guy *K laughs* An old aquaintance of the listeners', a guy called Monster Hiranabe.

J: Its a strange story, but once when a certain celebrity died, Hiranabe-san called me up, and asked me if I had known the deceased guy...as soon as I said that I hadn't known him very well, he hung up on me straight away!

T: Thats awful!

J: He is awful

T: This very guy, Hiranabe, even got a promotion from the manager.

J: Eh? Promoted to what?!

T: To Director

J:Eh?! Really?

K: Is that okay??

J: No, it'll be terrible!

K: Right, lets move onto the main news...I'd like to get deeper into the concept of 'The Freedom of Expression'.

J: Right, so Haruna Fuuka has filed a lawsuit againts those who engage in 'internet slander'.

A tweet stated 'Both her parents created a failure'.

On Jan 14th, 18 year old Haruna and her mother filed a lawsuit at Yokohama district court demanding ￥2,654,000 in damages from a person engaged in spreading falsehoods which have damaged her dignity.

On the acknowledgement that these tweets went beyond what was deemed acceptable by society at large, on Nov 1st the internet provider was ordered to make public the persons name and address etc.

Haruna has been tweeting since the age of 9, giving her opinion at random about society's problems, and creating a stir. She now has over 200,000 followers and is fighting 10 years of slander. Kaoru, what do you think about this?

K: Well..I mean, naturally, you'd feel like that..

J: Hmm, but I don't know the details but..the name of the defendant has been withheld...well, its a common problem that as a person speaking in the public eye, you are going to get criticism along with praise...like a 'fame tax'.  That said, how far do you go before honour is damaged? On SNS, you are of course free to express yourself, you can write what you want, but the issue is what constitutes damage to honour. This might be a very difficult area in which to draw a legal line, but on the other hand, if you don't draw a legal line, things may escalate out of control...Kaoru, what do you think?

K: Well for example, if banter between friends is written down...controlling that...Its best not to look at whats written in the first place.

J: Ah, the person in question right? By the way Kaoru, its a strange question, but do you search for yourself online?

K: No, not really. I hear things, the office staff will tell me.

J: Oh, if anything is being said?

T: In the world of fame its quite true, that even if 98 or 99 opinions out of 100 are good, the one negative thing will stand out.

K: Well, yes, its the bad things that..

J: On the other hand, from the writers'  perspective at Tokyo Sports, how far are you willing to slander someone? You could write an article in a good or bad way..

T: Of course balance is important, but of course, if the courts want to complain to us, they can call us, and start an exchange, but in the case of slanders on the internet, its like, who do you complain to? So, if you ask celebrities, they will say Tokyo Sports slander is better than anonymous online slander because at least they can complain to our face.

J: Mm, absolutely. Just how far do we protect these tweets, these freedoms of expression? Its difficult.

K: Are these really 'expressions'?

J: Well, esentially, yes. When you say 'tweets' you think of nonsense, but really its media expressing things, or artists expressing things..

K: Yes, yes, you can get a sense of individual expression.

J: And this especially has the power to influence...

K: Yes, and people get swept up in it.

J: I think this is universal, but at the moment I think Japan is bit like a geyser, people will rush towards any incident and some will start complaining, I mean, I think its important to say what you feel, but its complaining without trying to solve anything, only satisfying yourself.

K: Thats it

J: Its sounds strange to say, but it ends like masturbation. If it turns into something towards a soloution its ok, but just creating thoughtless slander to satisfy yourself is questionable.

K: So its often said, if you continue the conversation only looking at the bad things, it can't be helped. There are also good people out there..you know, put more importance on those people. How to put it...its like we said before, if you focus too much on that one out of a hundred, its kind of rude to the other 99.

J: I see. Still this person has over 200,000 followers and its said she has been fighting slander for ten years.

T: She's always been a bit of a talking point online. I'll just search for her.

J: I also have Instagram, I do stuff to do with societal problems on The Dave Fromm show's youtube channel, and whenever I upload about it (on IG), my followers decrease!  *everyone laughs* Outrageously decrease! Im serious, despite getting so far, that channel updates every week, and with every update my followers decrease. Maybe people hate reading about societal problems..*to Tasai* What did you find?

T: So for example there was that thing recently about regulating gamers to 60mins per session, she had quite a few things to say about that, playing vs learning etc.

J: I see..Young people do complain, well you can't really tell here, but on the other hand, young people these days, i know they would hate us old guys talking about this, but young people apparently have three main taboos. The first is talking about sex, they dont follow this, the second is politics, they don't follow this either, and the other one is, they don't like being made to talk about the kind of things that they really need to be talking about...there seems to be this kind of trend. So i think in this way...theres a chance Haruna is getting right to the point of this. But certainly, applying the law in a way that recognises infringement/damage to honour by way of personal utterances has the potential to lead to restrictions on the freedom of expression. Its a difficult play off, isnt it?

T: Yes, it really is

J: Obviously, when it comes to race, or racial discrimination, there has come to be rules concerning hate speech and so on, but how far can you regulate one-to-one slandering, or..how far can you protect the person being attacked? Should the country or the judiciary decide this? Its difficult.

K: Kami, what do you think? Are you there?

Kami: Well, I hear slanders towards me all the time *everyone laughs* Like, god tells lies, god is useless, or even that there is no such thing as god!

J: Ahh, i see. They deny you!

Kami: Yes, thats it. If I care about those things, I lose!

J: Do you search for yourself online?

Kami: I do. *everyone laughs* ..and whenever I do its only ever those things that come up.

J: Ah of course...Kami, you have an exceptionally good handle on social media  dont you?

T: He's great

Kami: Ive got a good handle on it.

J: Do you use an iphone?

Kami: I have two.

J: God has two iphones! Thats brilliant.

Kami: Yep, I have two...im not allowed to use them while im working.

T: Does he have a contract? With his address and such?

J: I can't tell whether he's great, or whether he's not so great...

Kami: If i care, I lose...I prefer them to hate me, rather than to be indifferent to me.

K: Kami, what do you think about playing computer games for one hour?

Kami: If the kid is good at it, they should keep doing it.

T: I see, i see.

J: Ohh not sure about that. That seems a bit out.

Kami: No, i really think so. Skilled kids can carry on playing.

K: Should unskilled ones give up?

Kami: Yes, they shouldn't do it...When they play all day, and they just can't clear the level..that kind of kid.

K: Its a waste of time right?

Kami: Exactly, its a waste.

J: They should do something else?

Kami: Yes

K: You should quit if you have no talent for it?

Kami: Yes, yes, its talent.

J: Well, just getting off a nightshift must be tiring.

K: For us too, you know, we should try not to say 'stop it' too quickly...we have to keep it interesting.

Kami: It was interesting though, I was listening.

T: Oh thank you.

Kami: But don't tell lies about me.

T: If you thought it was interesting, you should write about it on your social media.

Kami: Yeh, everyone pretends on social media anyway, they won't know its me.

K: Well, that was the first episode of 'The Freedom of Expression' but, should I ask how it was..? *laughs*

J: But, being together again after a while was refreshing..

K,T: Yes, thats right

T: Im happy.

J: So am I.

K: Well, so we started in this vein....Tune in next time to see how it goes.  So this time, only this camera, theres nothing here *gestures behind*, but if lots of people watch, we could go different places, increase our cameras. I still don't know about your fee, Joe.

J: Eh?! What do you mean? It says here my fee will stay the same!

K: I might have to lower it *laughs*

J: *coughs* You're only lowering mine?...But everyone please subscribe.

K: Yes please. Please look forward to next time. Thank you very much.

1* They are saying 'How about this?' in a Kansai accent, how to translate that??

#dir en grey #the freedom of expression #kaoru #薫 #tfoe #tfoe01

[pamphletstoinspire]

Saint Anthony, The Miracle Worker

June 13th - Today is the Feast Day of Saint Anthony of Padua. Ora pro nobis. (Pray for us)

He is one of the most famous saints of the Church, known universally as the super-competent manager of the celestial “Lost and Found” department. (“Tony, Tony, come around; something’s lost and can’t be found” is a prayer whispered by millions.)

For those of us accustomed to this familiar relationship, however, it may come as a shock to learn who Saint Anthony of Padua, O.F.M. actually was. For though he only lived 35 years, Anthony was renowned during his lifetime for his forceful preaching and expert knowledge of scripture – and for his miracles.

So well regarded was he, in fact, that in all of the 2000-year history of the Church, Anthony was to become the second-most-quickly canonized saint, after Peter of Verona. Anthony was canonized by Pope Gregory IX on 30 May 1232, at Spoleto, Italy, less than one year after his death.

Fernando’s Life Plans, Changed

Fernando Martins de Bulhões was born in 1195 to an aristocratic Lisbon family and initially joined the Augustinians at the age of fifteen. He was the guest master for their abbey containing the famous library at Coimbra, when his whole world suddenly changed.

Franciscan friars had settled at a small hermitage nearby; their Order had been founded only eleven years before. News soon arrived that five Franciscans had been beheaded in Morocco; the King ransomed their bodies to be returned and buried as martyrs in the Abbey.

Inspired by their example and strongly attracted to their simple, evangelical lifestyle, Fernando obtained permission to join the new Order, upon his admission adopting the name ‘Anthony.’ He then set out for Morocco; however, he fell seriously ill and on the return voyage his ship was blown off course and landed in Sicily. When he found his way to northern Italy, Anthony was finally assigned to a rural Franciscan hermitage, due to his poor health. There he lived in a cell in a nearby cave, where he spent much time in private prayer and study.

ANTHONY THE HOMILIST: One Sunday in 1222 a number of Dominican friars visited for an ordination and a misunderstanding arose as to who should preach. The Dominicans were renowned for their preaching, but had come unprepared, thinking that a Franciscan would be the homilist. Anthony was entreated him to speak whatever the Holy Spirit should inspire him with; his homily that day created a deep impression and began his career as a speaker. By 1224, St Francis of Assisi, founder of the Order, entrusted Anthony with the theological preparation for his priests.

Anthony focused on the grandeur of Christianity in his homilies and when a few years later he was sent as the envoy from the Franciscans to Pope Gregory IX, the Pope commissioned his collection, Sermons for Feast Days (Sermones in Festivitates). Gregory IX himself described him as the “Ark of the Testament.”

ANTHONY THE MIRACLE WORKER: The stories of Anthony’s 13th century miracles make fascinating reading for today’s Catholic. Despite their obvious folkloric tone, it is the miracles’ utter originality that impresses most. One comes away thinking that such astonishing occurrences can only be fairy tales — or the special kind of reality that seems to envelope the saints. As there are far too many miracles to recount here, we’ll focus on three of the most famous:

THE KNEELING MULE: The teaching of the Real Presence was disparaged in northern Italy during the 1200s, as the gnostic heresy of the Albigensians had spread from France. One day, Anthony was publically challenged. “The heretic stood up and said: ‘I’ll keep my beast of burden locked up for three days and I will starve him. After three days, in the presence of other people, I’ll let him out and I’ll show him some prepared fodder. You, on the other hand will show him what you believe to be the body of Christ. If the starving animal, ignoring the fodder, rushes to adore his God, I will sincerely believe in the faith of the Church.’

“The saint agreed straight away. God’s servant entered a nearby chapel, to perform the rites of the Mass with great devotion. Once finished, he exited where the people were waiting, carrying reverently the body of the Lord. The hungry mule was led out of the stall, and shown appetizing food. The man of God said to the animal with great faith: “In the name of virtue and the Creator, who I, although unworthy, am carrying in my hands, I ask you, o beast, and I order to come closer quickly and with humility and to show just veneration, so that the malevolent heretics will learn from this gesture that every creature is subject to the Lord, as held in the hands with priestly dignity on the altar”.

God’s servant had hardly finished speaking, when the animal, ignoring the fodder, knelt down and lowered his head to the floor, thus genuflecting before the living sacrament of the body of Christ.”

THE LISTENING FISH: The story takes place in Rimini, a port on the Adriatic near Padua. On a Sunday morning, the Saint found the fishermen there not at Mass. He began to preach to them and met only with ridicule. Anthony then stood at the edge of the water, looked in the distance, and proclaimed so that everyone would hear:

“’From the moment in which you proved yourselves to be unworthy of the Word of the Lord, look, I turn to the fish, to further confound your disbelief.’

“And filled with the Lord’s spirit, he began to preach to the fish, elaborating on their gifts given by God: how God had created them, how He was responsible for the purity of the water and how much freedom He had given them, and how they were able to eat without working.

“The fish began to gather together to listen to this speech, lifting their heads above the water and looking at him attentively, with their mouths open. As long as it pleased the Saint to talk to them, they stayed there listening attentively, as if they could reason. Nor did they leave their place, until they had received his blessing.

ANTHONY & THE BABY JESUS: Anthony was welcomed by a local resident in an Italian town where he was to preach. His host gave him a room set apart, so that he could study and contemplate undisturbed. Soon, however, his curiosity about his famous guest overcame him and his host peeped through Anthony’s window. What he saw there has been immortalized in almost every Catholic Church in the world. “A beautiful joyful baby appear in blessed Anthony’s arms. The Saint hugged and kissed him, contemplating the face with unceasing attention. The landlord was awed and enraptured by the child’s beauty, and shocked when, after a long time spent in prayer, the vision disappeared; the Saint called the landlord, and he forbade him from telling anyone what he had seen. After the Saint passed away, the man told the tale crying, swearing on the Bible that he was telling the truth.”

SOMETHING’S LOST AND CAN’T BE FOUND: An incident in the university city of Bologna is the origin of the Saint’s fame as a finder of lost items, people and spiritual goods. Anthony possessed a book of psalms with valuable notes and comments for use in teaching his students. A novice who had decided to leave the Order stole the prized psalter. Anthony prayed his psalter would be found or returned. The thief was moved to restore the book to Anthony and return to the Order. The stolen book is said to be preserved in the Franciscan friary in Bologna.

THE FAME OF ST. ANTHONY SPREAD GLOBALLY with the former Portuguese Empire and with the diaspora of 19th and 20th century Italian emigrants. Stories of the Saint’s interventions are reported, therefore, from the four corners of the earth:

In Siolim, a village in the Indian state of Goa, St. Anthony is always shown holding a serpent on a stick . This is a depiction of the incident which occurred during the construction of the church wherein a snake was disrupting construction work. The people turned to St. Anthony for help, and placed his statue at the construction site. The next morning, the snake was found caught in the cord placed in the statue’s hand.

THE GRAVE OF SAINT ANTHONY OF PADUA: Anthony was proclaimed a Doctor of the Church on 16 January 1946, and his Basilica in Padua contains his mortal remains.

By Fr. Francis Xavier Weninger, 1877

St. Anthony, who derived his surname from the city of Padua, in Italy, because he spent many years there in preaching the Gospel, was a native of Lisbon, in Portugal. He received, in holy baptism, the name of Ferdinand, and was very piously educated by his parents. No sooner had he become acquainted with the dangers of the world, than he, in the fifteenth year of his age, to be safe from temptation, went into the cloister of the regular Canons, which is not far from Lisbon, where he also made his religious vows. As, however, he was disturbed too much there by the visits of his friends, he went, with the permission of his superiors, to Coimbra, into the monastery of the Holy Cross. To this house came, one day, five friars of the Order of St. Francis, who were travelling to Africa to preach the Gospel to the Moors. They suffered martyrdom, however, soon after their arrival there, and their holy bodies were brought back to the monastery of the Holy Cross, at Coimbra, and solemnly interred in the church attached to it. Antony, hearing how fearlessly these martyrs had preached the true faith and had suffered for Christ’s sake, conceived an intense desire to preach the Gospel to the heathen and to give his life for the word of God. Hence, he determined to enter the Order of St. Francis, that he might have an opportunity to gratify the wishes of his heart.

After much hardship, he was at length, when 20 years of age, received into the Order, and after his novitiate, he obtained permission to sail for Africa and preach the Gospel to the Saracens. Scarcely had he arrived there, when God proved him by a severe sickness, which exhausted all his strength, and forced him to return to Spain. The ship, however, in which he embarked for home, encountered contrary winds, and instead of going to Spain, was driven to Sicily. No sooner had he set foot on land, than he heard that St. Francis, the holy founder of his order, had called a general chapter at Assisium. He immediately went thither, in order to receive the blessing of the Saint, which was cheerfully given. When the assemblage dispersed, not one among the superiors was found willing to be burdened with Antony, who was greatly enfeebled by his long illness, and moreover, was thought to be not quite sane. The Father Provincial of the Roman province was at last moved with compassion, and sent him to a house called Mount St. Paul, which was situated in a wilderness. There St. Antony lived a most austere life, performing the most humble labor, and occupying all his other time with prayers and holy meditations.

After passing several years in this manner, he was sent with a few other religious to Forli to be ordained priest. The guardian of the monastery requested the Dominican priests, who had also assembled there, that one of them should make an exhortation or deliver a short sermon. As they all excused themselves from so doing, he said, more in jest than in earnest, that brother Antony should speak to those assembled. Antony obeyed, and delivered so eloquent a sermon that all were astonished at his knowledge and ability, as, until now, they had deemed him one of the least gifted. Not willing that his extraordinary talent should any longer be hidden, St. Francis himself had him ordained priest, and gave him a double employment, namely, to instruct his brethren in theology and also to preach. The duties of both functions were discharged by him, with great credit to himself and an indescribable benefit to others. He converted the most hardened sinners by his sermons, and among others induced twenty-two murderers to do penance and change their wicked course of life. The heretics he convinced so thoroughly of their errors, that they could not withstand him, on account of which he was called the “Hammer of the heretics.”

Many of them he converted to the true faith, among whom was Bonovillus, who had denied the substantial presence of Christ in the Blessed Sacrament. Not able to reply to Antony’s arguments he requested the following miracles. Having starved his ass for three days, he was to bring him food at the same time that Saint Antony should come with the holy Eucharist; and if the beast, before touching his food, should fall down before the Blessed Sacrament, he would believe the Saint’s words. At the appointed time, the Saint arrived with the Blessed Sacrament, accompanied by many Catholics, and addressing the ass, which was held by Bonovillus, he said: “I command thee, in the name of thy Creator and my Saviour, whom I, although an unworthy priest, carry at this moment in my hands, that you come, in all humility, and pay Him due honors.” Bonovillus, at the same time, threw down the animal’s food and called him to come and eat. But without touching the food, the ass fell down on his fore knees, and bent his head. The Catholics rejoiced at this incontestable miracle, but the heretics hid their heads and Bonovillus was converted. At Rimini, the chief seat of the heretics, he ascended the pulpit; but as no heretic would come and listen to him, the Saint went to the sea-shore, where just at that time many of them were standing, and called to the fishes to hear his words, as men would not be instructed. And behold! suddenly a great number of fishes raised their heads out of the water, as if to listen. Speaking for a short time of their Creator, he blessed and dismissed them. This miracle caused the heretics to listen more attentively to St. Antony and to follow his admonitions.

At another time, he made the sign of the cross over a goblet filled with poison, and drank it without being harmed. The cause of his doing this was that some heretics promised to return to the true Church, if he would drink the poison and not die. A perpetual miracle was the fact that, although he preached only in one language, yet all his hearers understood him, no matter what might be their nationality.

Who can count all the miracles God wrought through this Saint, or who can sufficiently praise the wonderful gifts with which he was graced? More than once it happened that at the same time when he was standing in the pulpit to preach, he appeared also in the choir and sang the lesson of the daily office of the Church, which was pointed out to him. He prophesied many future events and knew by divine revelation many secrets of the heart. There lived, in a French city, a writer, who publicly led a most immoral life. St. Antony resided for some time in this city, and as often as he met this man, he bowed very low to him. The writer, on perceiving it, was greatly incensed, as he believed it was done by the holy man only to deride him: hence he reproached him with menacing words. The Saint, however, replied: “Be not surprised that I show such respect to you before others. I have long prayed God for the grace to die a martyr, but it has not been granted me. You, however, will receive this honor, and therefore I evince such particular respect for you.” Although the writer laughed and made a mockery of this prophecy, yet the future showed that the Saint had spoken the truth. After the expiration of some time, this immoral man made a voyage to the Holy Land, in company with the Bishop of the city. On arriving there, he was seized by the Saracens, who demanded of him that he should deny his faith. He, however, remained firm in confessing it, and after having been greatly tormented, he suffered the death of a martyr.

St. Antony was as undaunted and fearless in punishing the wicked, when circumstances required it, as he was famous by the gift of prophecy. At that period Florence was governed by Ezelinus, who, among other cruel deeds, had executed 11,000 men of Padua, part of whom were in his service and part in garrison at Verona, because the inhabitants of Padua had rebelled. Nobody dared to oppose this tyrant in the execution of further barbarities but St. Antony, who had sufficient courage to go to him, and representing most powerfully his inhuman conduct, threatened him with the just wrath of the Almighty and the torments of hell, in case he repented not and abstained from, his tyranny.

During this menace flames of fire darted from the countenance of St. Antony, as Ezelinus afterwards related, which so thoroughly frightened the tyrant, that he fell trembling at the feet of the Saint, and most earnestly promised repentance. As he converted this and many other sinners by admonition, he moved others , in a different way to do penance. Many said that he had suddenly appeared before them at night and exhorted them to repent. “Rise quickly, said he at such times, and confess the sin by which you have offended the majesty of God.”

I should hardly know where to end, were I to relate all that St. Antony did to convert sinners, or how many future events he foretold. I will mention only a few more facts, from which the conclusion may be drawn that, as the holy man appeared in different places at the same time, so also, by the power of God, he was miraculously transported, in one moment, from one place to another. The father of St. Antony resided at Lisbon in Portugal, as treasurer of the royal revenues, the duties of which office he discharged with fidelity and integrity. One day, he was requested by some gentlemen in the king’s service to advance them some money out of the king’s treasury, making a verbal promise to return the same in a short time. The pious treasurer, who neither feared deception nor danger, gave them what they asked, without taking a written receipt. When the time arrived at which he had to deliver his account, he asked the officers for the borrowed money, but they denied having received any. This perfidy grieved the kind man deeply, and he knew not what to do. Seeking refuge in fervent prayers to God, he received help in a miraculous way through his son, who resided at that time in Italy. At the time he was to appear before the royal judge to be sentenced to return the missing money, his holy son suddenly appeared in the room, and addressed the officers in the following manner: “This kind man, my father, has advanced you, upon your request, a sum of money out of the royal treasury, on such a day, at such an hour, in such a place, as is well known to you. I warn you to return it to him and to indemnify him; otherwise, divine vengeance will strike you, and you will be heavily punished.” The guilty men were not less astonished at the presence of the holy man, than at his menaces and the revelation of their wickedness. They immediately testified in writing how much each of them had received, promising at the same time to repay it in a short time. No sooner was this done, than the Saint disappeared from their view.

This pious treasurer was in still greater danger at another time. He was accused of having committed murder, and sentence was to be executed on him and his servant on the following day. Antony was at Padua; but God revealed to him what had taken place at Lisbon. The Saint asked permission of his superior to seek some recreation out of the city. Hardly was he out of the place, when, like Habakuk, he was carried by an angel through the air to Lisbon. He went to the judge and represented his father’s innocence. Finding, however, no willing ear in the judge, he repaired to the grave of the murdered man, commanded him to rise, and leading him to the judge, he requested of him to say if his father was the man, who, with the aid of his servant had assassinated him. The risen man replied distinctly: “No: it was not he.” The Judge requested that St. Antony should demand of him the name of the real murderer: the Saint, however, replied: ” I have not come to bring death to a guilty man, but to rescue the innocent.” Upon this, his father and his servant were released, and Antony was carried back to Padua by the angel.

After this wonder-working servant of God had filled all Italy and France with the fame of his miracles and conversions, God revealed to him his approaching last hour. He repaired to an isolated spot, and having prepared himself for his end, he returned very sick to Padua, received extreme unction, recited the seven Penitential Psalms, and his usual prayer: “O Glorious Lady, &c.” The divine mother appeared to him with the child Jesus, and the Saint conversed with them most lovingly until his pure soul went to the abode of the blessed. This took place in 1231, when he was hardly 36 years of age. They desired to keep his death concealed from the people for some time, but the little children proclaimed it by calling out in the streets: “The Saint is dead.” Thirty-two years later, when his holy remains were raised, his tongue was found entirely incorrupt. St. Bonaventure taking it in his-hand, said: “O blessed tongue, which always praised God and taught others how to praise Him! Now we have evidence how great thy merits were before God!”

The Saint is generally represented with the divine Child, as He appeared to him and embraced him. The lilies are also dedicated to him as an emblem of his unspotted innocence and purity. It is well known that this Saint is invoked when things are lost or have been purloined. Countless occurrences show at this day that the intercession of this Saint is powerful at the throne of the Almighty.

By: Beverly Stevens

#st anthony

[uzumaki-rebellion]

“Stark’s New Intern” Chapter 20

"Welcome to your life There's no turning back Even while we sleep We will find you acting on your best behavior Turn your back on mother nature Everybody wants to rule the world

It's my own design It's my own remorse Help me to decide Help me make the most of freedom and of pleasure Nothing ever lasts forever Everybody wants to rule the world"

Tears For Fears – "Everybody Wants to Rule The World"

Erik watched Maria down a shot of tequila and squeeze a sliced lime into her mouth. He sipped on a glass of ginger beer and watched the festivities aboard Le Sirene, Stark's 456-foot-long custom-built yacht. Scalloped sides, silver and turquoise accents and large glass facades gave panoramic views inside the interior. Sailing off the coast of Malibu, the balmy air and fresh smell of seawater relaxed Erik.

Stark spared no expense to wine and dine the interns. Everyone around Erik were in various states of good humor, ecstatic thoughts of the future, and varying degrees of sobriety.

Athena accepted a job with a completely different company in Paris.

Giselle would start a mid-level position in Stark's New York offices.

Valentina accepted a generous package with Stark in Los Angeles under the thumb of Janine.

And Maria…she had two top Stark Industries choices. Stay in Los Angeles with Valentina, or take an opportunity to work for Stark in D.C.

Only fifteen percent of the interns were offered jobs with Stark. The fact that all off his female friends received the careers they worked so hard for pleased Erik to no end. He was also looking forward to being right next to Tony. As soon as Happy from security gave him his new clearance, Erik had access to offices and buildings within the Stark sphere of influence.

Once he was removed from the interns, Erik spent two weeks shadowing Pepper Potts. She informed him that she would guide his transition into more of a junior assistant role. Erik liked Pepper's directness. She wasn't a fun person to hang around. Her tight lips and tight ass personality hid a core rooted in needing to keep the world around her extremely organized. Erik recognized the signs of obsessive behavior. He had it too.

Pepper was easy to read and she seemed to be irritated with Erik's relaxed stance around Stark. She dug into him during a lunch meeting the two of them shared.

"You need to be the one to keep Tony grounded. He's really just a big kid in a candy store and even though he is brilliant, he is also very brash. Impulsive. The key to doing the job right is to keep the riff-raff away from him and make sure he stays focused on the task at hand. He doesn't need another sycophant. Everyone wants a piece of him, so don't be afraid to be rude or abrupt. You and I will be in direct contact and I will be in charge of your itinerary with Stark daily. Any changes that need to be made go through me first."

Pepper always regarded him with a bit of detachment and triple-checked his work often. After two weeks of realizing that Erik was more than capable of handling Tony as her junior, she let up a bit. Just a tiny bit. Erik had to adjust to how he would stomach those other looks she gave him. Looks that always made it seem like she pondered how he was in Tony's orbit. This Black kid with the genius I.Q. and Oakland attitude. So many overly pedigreed interns and Stark chose Erik above all of them. A guy not even out of his teens yet.

Erik also learned another little tidbit about Pepper.

She was annoyed with Devika.

Maybe not annoyed…more like jealous.

The two women maneuvered around each other professionally. But more than once, Erik caught Pepper giving Devika catty looks when she was in Stark's inner office. This piqued Erik's curiosity even more, making him want to know what type of relationship Devika really had with Tony. It made Erik's stomach hurt sometimes to think that his boss had been with his girl in that way.

His girl.

Erik's eyes swept over to the open bar on the yacht's third deck as Devika picked up a champagne flute and tipped the glass against one of the female interns next to her. Prior to coming on board the luxury boat, Erik spent the afternoon with Devika at a café looking for an apartment for him. A basic one-bedroom in a decent neighborhood close to work was averaging three thousand a month.

Money wasn't a problem. Stark made good and gifted Erik with a hefty players fee from the poker game. Erik sent portions of his winnings to his relatives and banked the rest. He could afford a fancy apartment or even a condo himself if he wanted. But spending the night with Devika made him want one thing: to be with her.

He whined to her about having to spend a grip of money in a hotel and hinted that he would look for a roommate situation to ease him into a new living situation. He already had his belongings in her apartment and they were now sharing a bed. He wanted to stay with her during his fellowship. But she was concerned about Tony finding out about them. He was too chickenshit to ask outright if he could live with her hoping she would suggest the idea herself. She didn't.

Erik watched Pepper approach Devika and as the two women spoke to one another, he moved to the other side searching for the man himself. Jazzy tunes were piped in throughout the yacht and Erik tried to go where he last saw Tony.

A wet kiss on his cheek caught him off guard and Giselle's face came into view as she slid around him.

"You're real quiet tonight. Everything okay?" she asked.

"I'm good. Just looking for Boss Man."

"I never got a chance to properly congratulate you on your fellowship. Stark was right about you. From Day One. You were the man to beat."

"You haven't done so bad yourself."

"New York, baby!" Giselle squealed. She closed her eyes and did a little happy dance, "They loved my work with the Expo and I was a good fit for his team out there. I am over the fucking moon. I am going to kill out there."

Her eyes glinted with endless possibilities and Erik caught a glimpse of Tony walking toward him.

"Stevens."

Giselle slipped away from him to join a raucous group dancing in an open space. Tony handed Erik a glass of champagne.

"You missed my grand going away speech," Tony said.

"No, I heard it. I was just up here. Taking it all in."

"This is just one of the many perks of doing what I do. Showing appreciation for everyone giving their best."

"Do you ever get bored with it? I mean, all this," Erik said glancing around at the grandeur and all the decadence.

"Not really. When I was younger, I used to get bored…not with the money, but with the same packs of roving cliques. Money is never boring. Rich people? Yes. Money? Never. I just learned how to spend my money well and surround myself with interesting characters."

Erik drank from his glass and Tony moved closer to him.

"Pepper says you are ready for the big leagues. It's going to be quite a shift from being an intern."

"I can handle it."

Erik followed Tony around the ship, and as the night progressed, he longed to be alone with Devika and just watch a corny movie. She flitted around, and the yearning grew in his heart. It was a new feeling for him. Wanting a one on one. Athena and Giselle were open to him having a goodbye tryst with them, but he wasn't interested, and that shocked him. Turning down exceptional pussy? An abomination in his previous life, but now…

The black sheath dress Devika wore shimmered with tiny crystals at the hem. And she wore the heels that he loved fucking her in. Her hair was tucked into a loose bun on her head and she decorated her forehead with three dark green bindis. He followed her to the starboard side of the yacht and her eyes looked startled to see him come upon her as she stared at the dark water below them.

"Hey," he said, allowing his shoulder to bump into hers.

"Hi."

"You look nice."

"Thanks," she said. Her eyes darted behind him to make sure they weren't being watched.

"I'm on my best behavior, don't trip," he said giving up a bit of space between them.

"I needed a little break from the action," she whispered, folding her hands on the railing she leaned on.

"Pepper and you have been chatty Cathy's."

Devika's eyes narrowed at the sound of Pepper's name.

"Devika, be honest with me. Did you and Tony-?"

"No."

Her tone was curt. But her eyes were soft.

"I didn't cross the line with him. Not all the way. I was…I was really young when I took this job. I was also really good at it. Tony took a shine to me, but it was just an excellent working relationship in the beginning. But shit happens. Late hours. Last-minute trips to exotic places. Billionaire crowd. Working for him is both surreal and astounding at times. The people that he has on speed dial? You would be shocked at who I have called up out of the blue for him."

She took a deep breath and exhaled.

"I had a huge crush on him and he has always been attracted to me. We've had dinners together that had nothing to do with work. There have been times when I could've allowed us to cross the line, and I didn't. Then I met my fiancé and my life changed. Pepper is in love with Tony, and she hates that he still feels something for me even though there is nothing between us."

She turned and looked at Erik.

"I had an emotional connection to Tony and I ended it for the sake of my career. My dignity too, I guess. I look at Tony as a boss and a friend. Pepper hasn't found a balance for her feelings, and we sometimes butt heads."

"Does he still want something with you?"

"I don't think so. He was happy when I first got engaged. Maybe it was a relief for him."

"Does he feel anything for Pepper?"

"I don't think so. She treats him like a child. It annoys him a lot. I think it's why he blows her off a lot. But she is good at what she does so he puts up with her scolding. What's it like for you working with her?"

Erik looked out at the water and gripped the railing with his hands.

"Annoying as fuck. But I'm used to people like her. She doesn't like that I'm not invested in the gig as much as she thinks I should be."

"If you're not invested, why do it? You should go to M.I.T."

Her words made his chest hurt.

"You don't want me around?"

"This has nothing to do with me. God, I hope you didn't take the job just to be around me."

She laughed but then stopped when his face stayed neutral.

"Erik, seriously, you took the job for your future career, right?"

"I have a lot of reasons to take it. You were part of it too."

"Oh…Erik…"

Her eyes dropped away from his.

"Devika…"

"You have to make life choices that benefit you and your dreams."

"I'm still figuring that out, but you're a big perk."

She reached out and rubbed his arm.

"You are so sweet."

"I'm not trying to be sweet, Devika. I'm tryna be your man."

The words not only shocked her, but they made him tumble back from the railing. The champagne had him loose-lipped. Too loose.

Her eyes regarded him with quiet understanding.

"So sweet," she said.

He watched her lean away from him as if she were leaving him. He grabbed for her hand and pulled her toward him.

"You heard what I said, right?" he asked.

"I did."

"You like me, right?"

"I do."

"I wanna be with you. Not just friends."

"We should slow down."

"What?"

His neck tilted to the side.

Hours earlier they had been in her bed and she had whispered crazy things in his ear that made him feel invincible and so grown up. Was she playing him for good dick?

Two weeks of sharing her home together, making him feel like they were a legit couple, and she was standing there telling him they should slow down. He tasted sour spit in his mouth and the muscles in his stomach felt tight.

"You need to focus all your energy on being the best you in your new position. Don't get caught up with me and lose track of your future."

"Caught up?"

He could barely get the words out of his throat. Her words sounded like she was patting him on his head like he was a cute puppy that she no longer wanted to play with. He felt his lower lip tremble and he stepped further away from her.

"Erik…"

"I gotta get back to Stark. I'll see you later."

He felt a little wobbly as he searched for Tony. Once he found him, he stayed by the man's side and finished the evening on his motorcycle by the pier the yacht was docked at. Instead of returning to Devika's condo, he took a room at a Hilton hotel and drank up the liquor inside the minibar.

His cell phone rang and when he checked it, Devika left several messages for him. He called her back at three in the morning after a good hour of sleep.

"Where are you?"

"A hotel. West Hollywood."

"Why?"

"Why? You told me not to get caught up—"

"Erik, you know what I meant."

"I heard what you said."

"Come back here."

"Why should I?"

"Let's talk—"

"We're talking now—"

"Get over here."

"Why?"

"I want you here. Your stuff is here."

"I'll get my stuff later."

"What I said to you earlier…I wasn't trying to be mean. I was being honest with you."

"I don't want to slow down."

He could hear an exasperated sigh in her voice.

"Erik, I'm trying to make you see what I wish someone had told me when I was younger. I'm not trying to hurt you."

"I want to be with you. We get along. You know that. Tony won't find out about us—"

"We need to talk in person—"

"It's late. I'll come over when I check out."

He hung up.

Lying on the hotel bed nude, he stared at the walls.

An hour ticked by.

"Fuck."

He jumped up and put back on his silk shirt and slacks. Throwing on his dark biker's jacket and helmet, he hopped on his motorcycle and roared out of the hotel parking lot.

The highway was quiet as the sky lightened. When he reached Devika's condo, the pink and orange morning glow made him feel easier in the chest.

She answered the door after his third knock dressed in one of his sweatshirts and nothing else.

"Let's talk," he said.

She nodded and he leaned forward to kiss her lips. Her mouth was eager to have his and they took their time with slow drawn out smooching in the doorway. He lifted her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist.

Suckling his tongue, Devika made him feel that what he needed most was for her to be in his corner. He held onto her ass cheeks to keep her pressed against him, and when she finally released his lips, he had her panting. He slipped a finger down her ass and let it rest against the cotton of her underwear. He could feel how damp she was, her slick saturating the panties. He rested his forehead on hers.

"Tell me your mine," he whispered.

She traced the fingers of her right hand across the back of his scalp sending tingles up his back. His lips touched her lips again and he looked into her eyes.

"Tell me," he demanded.

He walked into her condo with her still wrapped around him and kicked the door closed.

"I'm your man. Say it."

The bass in his voice made her eyes widen. He sent his fingers down into her panties and stroked her swollen vulva.

"Devika, say it…."

He unfastened his pants and pulled them down with his underwear.

"Devika."

Sliding her sticky panties to the side, Erik lifted her up and guided his dick inside of her. She whimpered as he fucked her standing up, her face pressed against his face, her arms laced around his neck.

The squelching sounds coming from her pussy made Erik give her hard strokes as he lifted her up and down his stiffness. She still wouldn't answer him and just gave his ears thrilling moans and yelps from the pleasure he gave her.

His calves began to strain from standing in one place and holding her weight so he spun around and jammed her up against the door. Pressing her into the solid wood, he drilled into her hard and fast, his aggression needing release. She refused to give him what he wanted and it aggravated him.

"Devika…"

"Erik!" she screamed.

Her eyes rolled back in her head and he felt her pussy contract up and down his dick. He reached up and grabbed her throat, his fingers squeezing and pushing her head back. The throbbing in his dick made his back hunch up.

"I want you!" he shouted releasing into her, his head dropping onto her chest as his legs trembled.

He groaned when he felt another sudden wave of semen spurt into her and it made him drop her down to her feet. He faced her with wrinkled clothes and semen still dripping from his tip. He kicked his feet out of his pants and Devika took his right hand and led him to her bedroom.

They made love until Erik was too exhausted to do anything more than stroke her hair as he held her in his arms.

The unspoken was made manifest.

He was going to live with her and she let be known by her loving that she belonged to him.

The world at that moment was his.

Chapter 21 HERE.

###

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#Stark's New Intern #Killmonger Fanfiction #Killmonger Fanfic #Tony Stark #Black Panther Fanfiction #Killmonger Smut

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Messiah Moon on the Run

▲ World Anti-Communist League Rally at the Budokan Hall, Tokyo, Japan in September 1970. It was sponsored by the IFVC (International Federation for Victory over Communism). The Freedom Leadership Foundation is the American affiliate of the IFVC.

___________________________________________

Moon fled from Korea to America in December 1971. There were fears for his life in Korea. In 1978 he fled to London to escape Donald Fraser’s investigation. Years later, when he was not succeeding in America, he moved many assets, and Japanese members, to South America.

___________________________________________

Allen Tate Wood:

September 1970 – Japan “Mr. Kuboki [President of the UC in Japan] and I got along nicely, speaking as well as we could through an interpreter, usually Miss [Young-Oon] Kim, who had arrived for the [WACL] conference [in Tokyo]… Kuboki told me that President Park [of South Korea] was one of the sponsors of the conference. He also told me that Moon was in some fear of the Park regime and that there was even talk that he was marked for assassination, for religious oppression was the order of the day in the new South Korea. One of the aims of the conference, said Kuboki, was to reassure Park that his aims and Moon’s coincided.

I could hardly doubt that Moon’s strategy had succeeded perfectly. His political aims were perfectly enmeshed in his religious goals…” From his book, Moonstruck, page 112 In the 1970s there were growing problems for Moon in South Korea. Various Unification Church leaders were arrested for tax evasion at Il-Hwa, etc. and at least one was jailed [Nansook Hong’s father]. (ref Prof. Sontag’s book Sun Myung Moon) Moon fled from Korea to America.

On December 11, 1971 Sun Myung Moon and Hak Ja Han arrived in Los Angeles from Korea but were refused entry, and had to fly on to Toronto. The reason seems to have been that Moon was suspected of being a communist. (Perhaps due to his 1944 arrest in Seoul by the Japanese authorities who discovered Moon had been active with communists in Tokyo in 1941-1943. Moon had other communist friends up until 1950 when he fled to South Korea.)

Evidence that Moonies Jump-Started the North Korean Nuclear Program that Now Threatens the US

▲ Sun Myung Moon and Hak Ja Han in Toronto. Also in the group were Won-bok Choi, Young-whi Kim and Mr Ishii (head of UC business in Japan)

December 12-18   Moon and Hak Ja Han in Toronto, Canada (while visa sorted)

Franco Famularo (Canadian National Leader): “In 1971, True Parents journeyed to the United States to begin their ministry there, but U.S. officials initially denied Father entry. Suddenly the Canadian family, which had fewer than a dozen members at the time, learned that True Parents would be arriving in Toronto [on December 12]. Although Father would explain the spiritual significance of visiting Canada, the practical purpose was to obtain a visa for entry into the United States.

Father’s visa situation was resolved on December 17. The following day, he and his party departed for Washington D.C.

In 1976, Father said the following to an American audience: “… vividly remembered my arrival in America on December 18, 1971…. I did not have a visa to enter America from Korea, so I came to Canada instead. Our members in America were very persistent in asking the State Department, “Why won’t you issue a visa to Father?” Ironically, officials kept telling them that I was a communist, so I was undesirable in this country.” (True Peace October 2014 page 24)

______________________________________________

April 1978 – from a newspaper report by Diana Patt, Washington, DC: Unification Church tried to keep Mr Nixon in power during the Watergate crisis Mr Fefferman claimed he did not know why Mr Salonen, head of the Freedom Leadership Foundation as well as of the Unification Church in America, had said the Watergate Project could help improve the standing of the Unification Church with the South Korean Government.    But a speech by Mr. Salonen, which appeared in New Hope News, a Unification Church publication, read as follows: “When Father came to the United States his primary purpose was to do things to make him influential in Korea. The Day of Hope tour and specially the rallies in support of President Nixon were far more significant due to the impact they had in Korea than their impact here… If it was important in Korea and if it helped to bring the government and our church close together then it was more important than anything else.”

In 1978 Moon flew to London under a false name to avoid a Donald Fraser US Government Investigation subpoena

Robert Boettcher: “Bo Hi Pak, as ever the quintessential Moonie, intended to serve as a shield for Moon. Fraser’s volumes of interviews, KCFF files, financial records, and intelligence reports were highly damaging to Moon’s image. But he must not allow Fraser to drag Master into the hearing room as he had been. If necessary, he would be the sacrificial animal at Fraser’s pagan rite. That would be his ultimate act of service to God and Moon. Pak would lay down his very life to avoid having Master degraded by public interrogation.

With so much evidence pointing to Moon, however, Fraser reluctantly concluded he should be questioned. After the ordeal with Bo Hi Pak, he dreaded the prospect of going through something worse with Moon. Moonie intransigence had caused the investigation to spend much more time on the Moon organization than planned. Other important matters were not getting the attention they deserved.

Moon’s lawyer, Charles Stillman, turned down Fraser’s request that Moon be questioned informally by the staff. Stillman then made a counteroffer. Moon would consider a request to meet informally with Fraser and the other Congressmen on the condition they come to his estate on the Hudson, and that they conduct the meeting “in a manner befitting the dignity of a spiritual leader.” Fraser was not at all interested in making a pilgrimage to Belvedere for an audience with the new Messiah. The subcommittee had already issued a subpoena for Moon, and Fraser was prepared to use it. He informed Stillman that Moon had two weeks to agree to answer questions voluntarily. If he still refused, Fraser intended to serve the subpoena. Moon would then be required to appear as a witness at a hearing scheduled for June 13.

Two days before the two weeks were up, on May 13, 1978, Moon flew to London on the Concorde using a false name. Like Tongsun Park two years before, he skipped the country when things got hot.

Bo Hi Pak was furious over Fraser’s suggestion that Moon’s exit had anything to do with the subpoena deadline. The Reverend Moon had long planned to carry his personal missionary work to Europe, Pak insisted. The reason for going at that time was to officiate at a mass marriage of 180 church couples in England. As for the subpoena, Master would fight it in the courts when he returned. Moon might consider accepting the subpoena under one condition: that Fraser also subpoena Pope Paul, Billy Graham, Oral Roberts, and the heads of the Baptists, Jews, Methodists, and others. Moon never returned for the announced battle. He remained abroad, in England and Korea, until November 1978, one week after Fraser’s investigation ended.

Fraser was not the only one closing in on the Moonies. The Korean Cultural and Freedom Foundation had been barred from soliciting contributions in New York after 1976. The State Social Welfare Board had discovered that less than 7 percent of the funds collected by KCFF for the Children’s Relief Fund could have been used for that purpose.”

From Gifts of Deceit by Robert Boettcher, pages 320-321

__________________________________________

The Mysterious Death of Robert Boettcher in 1984

Donald M. Fraser’s house was attacked by an arsonist just after his investigation into the Unification Church. It was only saved by good fortune.

The house of Mr Justice Comyn was destroyed by arsonists just after the UC lost a massive libel case in London…..

http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/United_States_Congressional_investigation_of_the_Unification_Church

United States Congressional investigation of Moon’s organization

#Fraser Committee #Sun Myung Moon #subpoena

[mygalfriday]

All’s well that ends well to end up with you

{ao3}

The sun is just beginning to peek over the London skyline and creep its soft pink rays across the floor when Aziraphale slips from Crowley’s bed. Knowing how much the Crowley likes to sleep and how utterly unbearable he can be when woken before he’s ready, Aziraphale navigates the bedroom as quietly as possible.

Quite uncharacteristically, his clothes are scattered across the floor without much care. There had simply been no convincing Crowley to let him fold them properly and put them away. To be fair, Aziraphale hadn’t really tried very hard to convince him. Such as task would have involved far less kissing as they stumbled toward the bed and…well. Aziraphale quite likes kissing. Especially when it includes Crowley.

Unwilling to endure the petulance of a sleep-deprived demon, Aziraphale decides not to forage for his things and instead scoops up the nearest article of clothing - which happens to be Crowley’s dressing gown draped over an armchair in the corner. He slips it on and ties it at the waist. It fits a little too snug but a small smile tugs at his mouth at the intimacy of wearing something that belongs to Crowley. He rubs a fingertip over the black silk sleeve and casts one last fond glance over his shoulder.

Crowley sleeps sprawled on his stomach, one arm outstretched as though reaching for Aziraphale in his sleep. His lips part slightly as he breathes, his cheek pressed into the pillow. His freckled shoulders are bare and the sheet has bunched around his narrow hips. There are red marks along his exposed throat, lasting evidence of Aziraphale’s mouth. All the worry lines and prickly defenses have disappeared from his face. Crowley looks as carefree as he had the day Aziraphale had met him in the Garden, as though one night has erased six thousand years. He looks, Aziraphale muses, like a painting. The rising sun setting his auburn hair aglow and tinging all his lovely bare skin a warm shade of pink.

His heart full of wonder that such a creature would want him, would love him as fiercely as Crowley does, Aziraphale turns away with a secret, besotted smile and slips silently from the room. The kitchen is his first stop. They’d had quite a meal at the Ritz last night, celebrating their newfound freedom from the pressures of Heaven and Hell, but after what they’d got up to after their meal, Aziraphale feels peckish again. A cup of tea and a few of those biscuits Crowley keeps around for him will do nicely.

He has been to Crowley’s flat before, of course, but he never stayed long and certainly never overnight. It hadn’t felt safe. To be quite honest, Aziraphale hasn’t felt truly safe since the Arrangement began. He’d always been convinced discovery was right around the corner. Some nights he’d simply paced his shop and wrung his hands, wondering how he would protect Crowley when the time came. And now here he is, roaming barefoot throughout Crowley’s flat with a cup of warm tea cradled in his hands. The irony of feeling safe inside the home of Hell’s best demon is not lost on him but Crowley has never been a threat to Aziraphale. Even in the Garden, he’d known that somehow.

His aimless exploration of Crowley’s flat eventually leads him into the atrium. He’s only ever seen Crowley’s plants in passing before and he breathes out an excited hum as he steps inside, surrounded by vibrant green plants of nearly every variety. There are Chinese evergreens and English ivy, and even Saint Helena Heliotrope - which he’s quite sure has not been grown anywhere since sometime in the early 19th century.

Gently petting one brilliant leaf, he murmurs a delighted, “Hello there. Aren’t you beautiful?” The plant seems to tremble at his touch, leaning almost hungrily into his hand and the quiet praise. Aziraphale beams. “He takes such good care of you, doesn’t he?”

At this, the heliotrope droops a little. The tremor of leaves sounds like a complaint.

Aziraphale tuts. “None of that now,” he murmurs. “He’s all bark, you know. Showing affection is difficult for him so we must be very patient, mustn’t we?”

The plant straightens at this gentle admonishment, the leaves perking up a bit in reply.

With a wide smile, Aziraphale offers it another gentle pat. “Very good, you lovely thing.”

He takes another turn about the room, cooing over the succulents and giving the philodendron a bit of encouragement, before he finally wanders out and across the corridor, finding himself standing in Crowley’s office. Unlike the atrium, this room is just as stark and cold as the rest of the flat. Aziraphale briefly considers the prospect of shopping for new furniture with Crowley to make the place a bit more inviting, a bit more…them and has to shove such thoughts aside before he gets ahead of himself. It’s been one night and he’s already mentally redecorating.

Steady on, old bean.

Tossing a wistful, admiring glance at the da Vinci portrait on the far wall, Aziraphale moves further into the room and runs a hand over the back of Crowley’s chair. Really, more of a throne — his sweetheart does love to make a statement. Aziraphale pushes the chair back and settles into it, placing his teacup on the desk. Crowley doesn’t have many books but he’s rather hoping there’s something here in his office to read as a way to pass the time. Knowing Crowley, he could be asleep for days before he gets hungry enough to stumble out of bed.

Sliding open the top drawer and hoping to find a secret stash of cheap romance novels or even a wayward copy of National Geographic, Aziraphale instead blinks down at a scattering of black and white photographs of himself and Crowley. All of them have been taken at a distance and at various points throughout history, long before the humans had even invented cameras. There they are feeding the ducks at St. James Park, watching rehearsals at the Globe, and sharing an umbrella outside of Aziraphale’s favorite little patisserie in Paris.

There’s something troubling about the photos, almost voyeuristic in nature. Aziraphale frowns, stroking a fingertip over Crowley’s profile in one of them, and wonders where all of these strange photographs had come from and why Crowley had them stashed away in his desk.

Which is just how Crowley finds him moments later when he comes skidding into the room like something half-mad. The wild, panicked look in his eyes fades the second he spots Aziraphale standing behind his desk but it’s quite clear that he’d been under the impression Aziraphale had gone. Though his heart aches to reassure Crowley he doesn’t plan to go anywhere, Aziraphale only smiles, allowing Crowley the dignity of rearranging his expression into something a little less stricken.

“Good morning,” he says warmly. “Sleep well?”

Crowley only grunts, running a hand through his rumpled hair. There’s a crease on his cheek from his pillow and he still looks a bit rattled as he saunters into the room. It’s only then that Aziraphale notices he’s barely dressed, wearing only a tight pair of pants — no trousers or shirt anywhere to be seen. His long, lanky legs and bare chest are on full display. Beautiful. Aziraphale licks his lips, forcing his eyes not to wander before he realizes he doesn’t have to anymore. After last night, there are no more secrets between them.

His gaze drifts.

Catching his stare, Crowley smirks. “Morning, angel.” He pauses when he reaches the desk, scrutinizing Aziraphale’s face. Perhaps looking for permission or trying to discern if his affections are still welcome in the light of a new day. Whatever it is, he must find it in Aziraphale’s smile because to the angel’s delight, he bends to press a soft kiss to his mouth. As Aziraphale hums and savors the sweet-sleep taste of him, Crowley strokes a fingertip over the collar of the dressing gown. When they part, he murmurs, “Suits you.”

“Hardly,” Aziraphale replies, blushing. “But you made certain my own clothes were quite difficult to find.”

Crowley doesn’t look even a little bit guilty, perching lazily against the edge of the desk. In fact, he looks rather proud of himself. “Just didn’t want you going anywhere, angel.”

“Well, no chance of that, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale reaches out a hand and cups his cheek, rubbing his thumb tenderly over the snake tattoo at his temple. “You’re quite stuck with me.”

Though he looks pleased to hear it, Crowley isn’t the sort for sentimental speeches. At least not yet, anyway. Eyes warm and soft, he leans in for a kiss instead and Aziraphale has no choice but to sink into him with a sigh of quiet, giddy contentment. This belongs to him now — this intimacy, this longing finally met, this demon he has loved from afar for centuries. The thrill of it, still so new, makes him dizzy.

Crowley’s hand wanders across his shoulder, bare where the dressing gown has slipped amidst their embrace. Touching a reverent fingertip to the bite mark there, still a vivid red against the pale of Aziraphale’s skin, he asks, “All right?”

Warm all over under his attentions and the memory of exactly when Crowley had bitten him last night, Aziraphale breathes, “Oh, tip-top, darling. Perfectly perfect.”

Crowley looks only marginally less poleaxed by the endearment in the light of morning, avoiding Aziraphale’s affectionate gaze by leaning in to nose at his cheek. “Yes,” he murmurs, as though safe without eyes on him. “You are.”

Aziraphale blushes, his heart thrilling at the smallest hint of sweet nothings from Crowley. As he stares over Crowley’s shoulder and tries to hide a smile, his eyes fall on the photos still scattered on the desk. Remembering his curiosity, he says, “I was looking for something to read and I found those. Where did you get them?”

Crowley turns, following the line of his gaze. “Oh. Gabriel had them.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck and avoids Aziraphale’s expectant stare. “I nicked them on my way out. Turns out they’ve been keeping an eye on us all along.”

“Well… I’m quite glad I wasn’t aware of that.” Aziraphale grimaces, imagining the nightmarish panic it would have induced. He probably would have agreed to run off to Alpha Centauri just to protect Crowley and who knows if poor young Adam would have had the courage to stand up to Lucifer without a couple of hands to hold. If Aziraphale had known about the existence of these pictures, the Earth might very well have been destroyed. Unsettled by this, Aziraphale turns to frown at them. “But…why take them, my dear?”

With a sniff and a careless shrug, he says, “No reason.” And then, as though sensing Aziraphale’s disappointed stare weighing heavily on him, he sighs and waves a hand he probably intends to look careless. “Oh, you know…thought I’d add them to my collection, that’s all.”

“Collection?”

Gritting his teeth — possibly to hold in something sentimental on the tip of his tongue —  Crowley lifts a hand and snaps his fingers. A long, slender black box appears on the desk beside the surveillance photographs. It looks full, the lid on top askew and the mysterious contents beginning to peek out over the edges. Crowley gestures at the box wordlessly.

When Aziraphale glances at him, his cheeks are a bit more full of color than usual. The sight of Anthony J. Crowley, suave demon extraordinaire, blushing is so distracting that it takes Aziraphale a moment to register the words coming out of his mouth. “Open it.”

Hesitantly, Aziraphale reaches out a hand and lifts the lid off the box. And blinks.

Inside is a diverse conglomeration of paraphernalia — mostly photographs and all of them featuring Aziraphale, either alone or with Crowley. Aziraphale reaches out, sifting curiously through them. He moves aside a black and white polaroid of himself standing outside the bookshop sometime in the 1950s; a sepia-toned photograph of him and Crowley posing in their suits and top hats just days before their argument over the holy water; and another Crowley had taken on his mobile just a year or so ago, a closeup of Aziraphale’s face when a butterfly had landed on his nose in St. James Park, his smile wide and his eyes creased with laughter.

There are even a few miniature portraits from the days before the humans had invented cameras. Other little trinkets are nestled inside the box as well, theatre ticket stubs and wine corks from bottles they’ve shared, a few brittle envelopes with handwriting Aziraphale recognizes as his own, and a very old advertisement for the first showing of Hamlet.

Taking it all in, Aziraphale feels a lump begin to form in his throat. Crowley has been hoarding little mementos of their time together. And for quite a while by the look of things — long before the Arrangement even began. Aziraphale spots an oyster shell sitting atop a stack of photographs, thinks fleetingly of Rome, and his trembling hand gently sets it aside as he sifts through more their memories.

Standing beside him but refusing to look at either Aziraphale or the box on the desk, Crowley crosses his arms over his bare chest and frowns into the middle distance. Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale notices that his cheeks and the tops of his ears are still flushed. Crowley doesn’t say I love you the way others might. He may not ever say the actual words but Aziraphale hears it when he shows up at the bookshop with tickets to a new play Aziraphale mentioned wanting to see once. He hears it when Crowley orders dessert even though he barely eats any, just so Aziraphale can have a taste. He hears it when Crowley says things like little demonic miracle of my own and we can go off together. And he hears it right now, staring at their whole relationship tucked tenderly into this little box.

With an achingly fond glance at his dear one, Aziraphale plucks a shard of sea glass from Crowley’s collection. Admiring the way it catches the light, he asks, “Might I inquire when-”

“That weekend we holed up in Vladivostok and worked on our reports to Heaven and Hell together.” Crowley risks a glance at him, finds Aziraphale watching him intently, and makes a noise like he’d very much enjoy turning into a snake and slithering away. “It was the first time we’d spent more than an evening together and I…wanted something to remember it by.”

Aziraphale thinks briefly of the tattered, singed volume of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies and Crowley sitting in a pub drinking himself into a stupor. His heart tightens and swells in his chest as he whispers, “A souvenir.”

Caught, Crowley looks away again. “Yeah.”

Rubbing his thumb over the glass, smoothed and worn down by waves and time, Aziraphale asks delicately, “Weren’t you afraid all this might fall into the hands of…the wrong sort?”

Crowley shrugs. “Kept it in the safe with the holy water but…” He sighs, lifting his head and finally really looking at Aziraphale for the first time since the box made its appearance. “Yeah. All the time.”

The sea glass grows warm in Aziraphale’s palm and he curls his fingers around it, swallowing. And it feels like the glass is in his throat, cutting sharply on its way down. “But it didn’t stop you.”

With a sniff, Crowley pokes at a photograph of the two of them dressed as Brother Francis and Nanny Ashtoreth, Warlock cuddled between them and beaming at the camera. “Couldn’t bear to part with any of it.”

Aziraphale bites his lip, the deep well of tenderness within that has always been for Crowley rising up to war with the sharp disappointment he feels at his own cowardice. “You’ve been so much braver than I, my dear.”

Crowley lifts his head from inspecting the contents of the box and frowns. As if he truly doesn’t hold it against him. He really is so much better than he’ll ever believe he is. “I didn’t have anything to lose, angel. You did.”

Carefully depositing the sea glass back into the box, Aziraphale turns to Crowley and shrugs the dressing gown up over his bare shoulder. Crowley follows the movement with his eyes, looking faintly disappointed, but Aziraphale won’t be distracted. “You can’t possibly believe I was afraid of losing anything but you.”

“You-” Crowley blinks at him, mouth opening and closing soundlessly for a moment. “What?”

With a patient sigh, Aziraphale reaches for his hand. “I tried to keep my distance for you, Crowley. Not because I was afraid of Falling or earning Gabriel’s wrath. Because I feared what hell might do to you if they discovered us.” In his grasp, Crowley’s hand trembles and Aziraphale squeezes his fingers, rubbing his thumb soothingly over one of Crowley’s sharp knuckles. “It was never fear for myself that kept me from you.”

“Angel.” Crowley breathes out unsteadily, a hushed reverence in his voice that Aziraphale has only ever heard in the prayers of the devout. Until last night, at least. Crowley is nothing less than worshipful when they’re in bed together — a strange contrast to the blasphemy dripping from Aziraphale’s lips when Crowley touches him.

“I’ve always been so afraid for you,” Aziraphale confides in a whisper, his breath washing warm over Crowley’s cheek as they stand together. “Forgive me, my love, for pushing you away to keep you safe.”

Crowley squeezes his amber eyes shut, swaying forward to press their foreheads together. His slender hand wraps around the back of Aziraphale’s neck to keep him close, his fingers digging in tight like everything will slip away if he doesn’t hold on with all his might. “I really don’t deserve you.”

Keeping his eyes open — all the better to admire him with — Aziraphale smiles fondly and points out, “Says the man who risked complete annihilation just to hoard a few keepsakes in a shoe box.”

Crowley scowls, eyes blinking open to glare weakly at him.

Aziraphale keeps smiling, lifting a hand to stroke his sharp cheekbone. “I believe it’s safe to say we deserve each other, my dear. For better or worse.”

Turning to nuzzle into Aziraphale’s touch, Crowley presses a kiss to his palm and raises an eyebrow. “That sounds a bit like marriage vows, angel.”

“Does it?” Aziraphale hums thoughtfully, watching Crowley through his lashes. “Well, it has been six thousand years, after all.”

Crowley makes an incomprehensible noise in the back of his throat, lips parting wordlessly. “What - uh, what happened to going too fast?”

Tracing a fingertip over Crowley’s jawline, Aziraphale replies honestly, “I suppose I’m not afraid anymore.”

“No.” Crowley wraps an arm around his waist and as he gathers him close, Aziraphale feels a soft, careful kiss pressed to his temple. Like he’s something precious. A treasure to be tucked safely inside the box on the desk, right alongside old letters and photographs. As though he’s something Crowley doesn’t want to forget. “Neither am I.”

With a hopeful grin, Aziraphale leans back just enough to look into his eyes. “Might I take that as a yes?”

Crowley huffs out a laugh, his face softening the way it had as he’d slept - like all the stresses of Heaven and Hell have been lifted from his thin shoulders. “It’s been yes for a long time, angel,” he murmurs.

“Oh, lovely,” Aziraphale says, just before their lips meet.

As he melts against Crowley with a happy sigh, he smiles broadly into their kiss —giddy at the very idea of adopting such a human custom. Nothing thrills him more than the notion of belonging to Crowley and publicly declaring that Crowley belongs to him too. Perhaps they could even invite some friends.

Anathema and Newt would surely attend and Madame Tracy, of course. Though Crowley might balk if she insists on bringing Sergeant Shadwell. He’d been a bit tetchy about the man when Aziraphale had told him the story of how he’d ended up getting discorporated in the first place. But surely the children could attend. And Warlock, of course. It simply wouldn’t be a proper wedding without their godson.

Oh dear. Perhaps they have gone a bit native.

Well. In for a penny, in for a pound, as the humans say.

Aziraphale breaks from Crowley’s warm, devouring mouth with a gasp. “I forgot something.” At Crowley’s soft noise of protest, he smiles and assures him, “Only for a moment, darling.”

Under Crowley’s watchful gaze, Aziraphale slowly slips the ring from his pinky finger for the first time in six thousand years. His hand looks strange without it - naked and vulnerable. No matter. Aziraphale suspects he’ll have another ring to wear soon enough.

“Angel,” Crowley begins, brow furrowing. “What-”

“I believe a ring is customarily presented along with the proposal.”

He takes Crowley’s hand, waiting patiently for approval. Crowley swallows audibly, his eyes wide. His hand trembles in Aziraphale’s reassuring grasp. After a long moment spent staring at the ring and then another moment studying Aziraphale, he finally clenches his jaw. And then he nods, once.

Pleased, Aziraphale slides the ring onto his finger.

And it fits.

The angel wings wrap snugly around Crowley’s ring finger and somehow, impossibly, the ring looks right there. As though it had never really been Aziraphale’s ring at all. It had always belonged to Crowley all this time and Aziraphale had just been keeping it safe until the proper moment. It’s a keepsake Aziraphale is only too happy to part with. “Look at that,” he whispers, smiling. “It suits you.”

Crowley stares down at his hand, at the ring on his finger, and blinks again. His throat works as he tries to speak but for a long moment, he manages nothing but a wordless noise of bewilderment. “Right.” He clears his throat, still staring at the ring. His voice comes out hoarse and unsteady as he asks with a drawl, “So… how do humans usually celebrate an engagement?”

Properly enamored with the sight of Crowley wearing his ring, Aziraphale beams. “Oh, with crepes, I should think.”

Crowley laughs, startled and fond and genuine. “Crepes,” his intended promises, his eyes warm and mischievous. “After we celebrate my way.”

“Your wa - oh.” Aziraphale yelps as Crowley grasps him by the sleeve of his dressing gown and tugs him emphatically in the direction of the bedroom. His new ring glints in the morning light, bright against the black of Aziraphale’s borrowed robe. Stifling a chuckle, he stumbles after him and agrees, “Yes, dearest. Definitely yours first.”

And as they tumble back into bed together, entwined and grinning, the rest of eternity promises to be very good indeed.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #gofic #my fic

[madame-coquette]

Under the cut: you will find a lengthy, yet concise summary of the historical life and rule of Louis XVI. 

*** While this is not a mandatory read - it is interesting and will be referenced in most threads outside of the Modern AU, ( which must be requested to write in. ) Some knowledge may benefit you to know if you don’t have a good base in the history of the french revolution. I may add to this as I gain more sources and insight into the King’s personal life. ***

Name: Louis Auguste de France

Other Names: Louis XVI ||  Citizen Louis Capet ( Before Execution ) 

Titles: Duc de Berry ( Given at birth ) || Dauphin ( After his father died ) || King of France ( After his grandfather died )

Birthday: 23rd of August 1754 || Reign as King lasted from May 10th 1774 - September 21st 1792

Died: January 21st 1793 || Execution By Guillotine

Religion: Roman Catholic

Family Ties: House of Bourbon

Siblings: Louis XVIII Comte de Provence, Charles X Comte d’Artois, Élisabeth de France, Louis Duc de Burgundy ( Died at 9 ), Clotilde de France, Xavier Duc de Aquitaine ( Died at 1 ) , Marie Zéphyrine de France ( Died at 5 ), Marie - Thérèse de France ( Died at 2 ). 

Parents: Marie-Josèphe of Saxony & Louis the Dauphine of France

Spouse: Marie Antonia Josepha Johanna || ( French Version ) Marie Antoinette ( Second Cousin, Once Removed. ) 

Biography: 

Often passed over in favor of his older brother Louis ( Duc de Burgundy ) because he was more outgoing, handsome & intelligent. Tragically, he died at 9 & favor was shifted to the new future Dauphin. Louis Auguste was by all accounts a healthy but painfully shy & reserved child. He was equally as bright as his brother excelling in: Latin, History, Geography, Astronomy. He was also fluent in English & Italian. ( Louis liked to wrestle with his brothers & hunt with his grandfather. ) His special interest was in locksmithing & this was encouraged by those around him as a worthwhile pursuit even in his childhood. The subjects he was taught by the Duc de la Vauguyon additionally included: Religion, Morality & Humanities.

Louis married Marie on May 16th 1770 when he was just 15 and she was 14. By the time the two were married to form the French & Austrian alliance: the defeat of France, in the 7 years war had already made the French public view the new Dauphine as an unwelcome stranger to the country. 

The couple only met 2 days before their marriage, and for this reason the marriage was cordial but very distant in the beginning. Louis was shy & also afraid of being manipulated by Marie for stately purposes --- this made him act coldly towards her in public. They did eventually foster a fondness for each other & their marriage was consummated in 1777.

( Louis XVI & Marie Antoinette’s reputations were damaged because they did not produce heirs in a traditionally ‘ timely manner ‘. ) 

After gentle prodding from Marie’s brother, Joseph II --- Louis began to take his conjugal duties seriously and Marie fell pregnant, eventually giving birth to 4 live-born children. ( Marie suffered 2 miscarriages and Louis - by all accounts - consoled her each time. ) Louis XVI also ‘ adopted ‘ six children additionally, though they were never granted royal status.

Louis took the throne in 1774 at age 19 after his grandfather died. By then, there was already resentment among the public for the royal family, lots of government debt incurred before he was installed as monarch, and so much responsibility that Louis himself did not feel ready & prepared to take on.  

Louis XVI’s indecisiveness & lack of firmness - though grounded in the idea he wanted to be liked & loved - ultimately, led to part of his downfall. ( It should be noted Louis Auguste DID genuinely attempt to be a good and just king, the circumstances that line up before his assent to the throne were too vastly stacked against him. ) 

Louis reinstated the ‘ parlements ‘ & put a more experienced advisor in place to ensure that things were fair and on the up and up. Louis also signed the Edict of Versailles || Edict of Tolerance that allowed Non-Catholics to have the legal right to practice their faith(s), as well as restore legal/civic rights and status to them. This overturned the Edict of Fontainebleau which had reigned as law for a little over 100 years. While the Edict of Versailles didn’t claim freedom of religion - it decriminalized the practice of other religions and helped ease tensions based on religious differences in the country.

Radical financial reforms were a steadily growing need in the country because of the mounting debt ... the nobles refused to instate the necessary laws ultimately culminating in further dissatisfaction among the public and stoking the flames of the oncoming French Revolution. The publication of ‘ Le Compte - rendu au Roi ‘ -> ‘ The Records of Accounts for the King ‘ further ruined the monarchy’s reputation by publishing propaganda that was full of fictitious & inaccurate budgets meant to make France look more financially stable than it was. When the true extent of France’s debt was revealed: the common man & many nobles alike were shocked and disgusted, the nobility outright rejecting the reforms necessary to begin to rectify the scenario. 

Finally, the country’s finances reached an appalling low --- and Louis was forced to use his absolute powers to force reforms, though they could only be maintained for more than 2 - 4 months maximum before he would be forced to revoke them. He closed down the french parliamentary system. The royal treasury was also unable to sustain the reforms imposed because it was in a crippled state as it was. 

 After much abuse from the the First & Second Estates ( after Louis reinstated the Estates-General ) the third estate decided unanimously declared themselves the National Assembly. Soon after Louis lost control of this newly formed legislative body - the revolution was underway and officially began with the Storming of the Bastille on July 14th 1789. 

Louis Xvi’s Palace de Versailles was stormed by an angry mob on October 5th 1789. This was done in an attempt to kill Marie --- the now much hated symbol of frivolity to the French public. After the Marquis de Lafayette diffused the situation - the royal family was forced to move themselves to the Tuileries palace in Paris. 

While plenty of key figures besides the king and queen attempted to gather strength to restore the former absolute power of the monarchy --- it would ultimately fail and many of these secret supporters either retracted loyalty to the crown under threat of death, or met grisly ends by the hands of the public & new governing body. Louis, finally realizing the danger he and his family were in and wanting to regain control of France - helped Axel von Fersen ( a rumored lover to the Queen ) plan the royal family’s escape to gather forces and gain protection by Austria. After a series of setbacks, missteps, poor judgements, indecision, and assorted other issues behind the scenes - the family was caught and returned to Paris ( Tuileries Palace ) on June 25th 1791 and placed under highly monitored ‘ house arrest ‘. It didn’t help that before they left, Louis left a manifesto denouncing democracy and asserting his authority as king by birthright. Many of his subjects felt torn and confused, though remained loyal ... until this incident in which the revolution was known to be imminent. 

All in all, the call to arms fell on inactive deaf ears amid among other foreign monarchs, making the response woefully lackluster and this ultimately sealed the fate of the French aristocracy. On August 10th 1791, the people once again stormed the palace Louis and his family resided in forcing them all to take refuge with the Legislative Assembly. 

Louis was officially arrested on August 13th 1792. 

September 21st 1792 - the former Third Estate’s new government body the ‘ National Assembly ‘ announced France a republic and abolished the monarchy altogether. All of Louis - Auguste’s titles were taken and he was referred to as Citoyen Louis Capet. While many members wanted the gratification of executing the former king --- the fact some had backgrounds in legal work felt due process a necessity. An agreement was reached that there would be a trial for Louis before the National Convention. 

Several charges were brought against Louis while he was being tried, though there were only three questions that mattered to the assembly: 

1| Is Louis guilty ?  

2| Whatever the decision, should there be an appeal to the people ?  

3 | If found guilty: what punishment should Louis suffer?

On the 26th of December 1792, Louis responded tot he charges: Not Guilty. At this time, behind closed doors - he had already accepted his fate & knew that he would be found guilty. He was reported as wanting to hold his ground so that he might still be viewed favorably and as a good king to France. 

Voting took place & after an uncomfortably close call - Louis was sentenced to death by the majority of one vote: his own cousin, the former Duc d’Orleans, voted to have his cousin executed immediately. After an unsuccessful attempt at swaying the decision - the King’s council was resigned ( read as: ‘ forced ‘ ) to allow the execution to proceed. 

On Monday, January 21, 1793 --- The ( Former ) Sun King was executed by Guillotine at age 38. This happened on the Place de la Révolution. By most reputable accounts, Louis faced his death with resignation and dignity. He gave a small speech before hand and was stopped before he could complete it with a drum roll that signaled the Guillotine was ready. 

After the execution, his body was taken to Madeleine Cemetery where he was given a small secret funeral service and then buried in an unmarked grave, head between his feet and covered in quicklime. 

The cemetery closed in 1794. 21 years later, Louis XVIII had his brother and sister in law exhumed and reinterred in the Basilica of St. Denis. From 1816 - 1826 a monument honoring the King and Queen was erected in the same area the former cemetery and church occupied. It was named the ‘ Chapelle Expiatoire ‘. 

#• Le Tendre Soleil Se Lèvera Á Nouveau. • ( Louis Auguste || Louis XVI. ) #• You Can't Play My Cabinet Like A Harpsichord ... • ( NPCs. ) #• Why Do Americans Think They Know It All ? • ( OOC Historical Rambling. )

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Athazagoraphobia (Part 19)

I have finally reached a point where I don’t have to look up at the other tabs to spell Athazagoraphobia.

“I am your princess and I am telling you to let my father out.”

The female guard, who Azula has come to know as both Yoka and the prison’s leader, crinkles her nose. “Do you forget what the world has come to? Your title is null. Your demands have now power.”

It hits her in double, because the woman reminds her very much of Bujing. Perhaps  her birthright no longer holds weight but blackmail always has stock. “Let him out of his cell or I will personally inform each and every one the inmates of exactly what has become of the outside.”

Yoka’s shoulders go rigid.

“You said it yourself, my title is null. So are your laws.” She feels the parasites simmer beneath her skin, seemingly with her growing aggravation. It brings her a new and great sense of unease to think that they might be syncing up with her psyche. She swallows and pushes on, “I’ll speak with that man first.” She points to a particularly fussy inmate.

Yoka chews on her lip, muttering something about never letting another outsider in. “I’ll bargain with you, Azula.”

“State your proposal.” Azula folds her hands in her lap. “You’ve kept me waiting this long. What has it been? A week now?”

“We’ve kept you and that needy old hag fed for a week.” Zekyul comments.

The parasites stir within her head. “Li is...was an esteemed royal advisor. She’s still an elder, speak well of her.” She lets a brilliant blue flame flare up in her palm., all the while wondering when she had grown so fiercely protective of the woman.

“I will release your father, but it won’t only be from his cell. If he wants his freedom, then he can find it in the outside world.”

Azula keeps her expression carefully blank. She gives a drawn out sigh. She had been planning on departing soon anyhow. “Fine, but I will take supplies as well.”

“No more than a third.” Yoka says. “We have more mouths to feed.”

“I am aware.” She won’t let the world nor the parasites turn her savage. “I just need enough to sustain us until we reach the port.”

Yoka extends a hand and Azula shakes it. “Zekyul, show Azula to the food reserves. I will get your father and inform him of our agreement.”

“Let me speak to him about that.” Azula says quickly. “He’ll take more kindly to me.”

.oOo.

The sun glares down upon her, it is a particularly smoldering day. “Are you sure that you don’t want to stay in the prison?”

“I told you that I will take care of you until my time expires, princess.” Li insists. Azula is glad for her loyalty.

She watches her father squint against the sun. How long has it been since he has seen the light? He grins, “the world welcomes me back.”

She does’t point out the macabte perfume of burst boils and blood. The rancidly sweet odor of the infected. “We shouldn’t stay in one place for too long. The parasites are around, I can sense them.”

“Sense them?” Ozai questions.

Li nods, “we’ve been out here long enough to tell when a predetor is about. Azula has always been good at detecthing them. I has kept us alive.

Ozai smiles, “the strong can adapt.” She notes his unspoken praise. “Though I did expect more strenght from this nation; more than just the two of you and those lowly guards.” If the delapadation all around him distrubs him, he certianly doesn’t display it. “I’m sure that we’ll come across more on our way to Capinal City square.

“Father, the square has been overrun by the infected. Li and I just came from there.”

“Where were you headed?”

“To find you…” she pauses. “And to get to the port.”

“The port?” He asks as they continue to walk along.

“We were going to take a ship to the tribes.”

“The Water Tribes?” He furrows his brows. “What fool’s idea was that?”

Azula swallows and with burning cheeks and an awkward cough confesses, “it was mine, father.”

“You wanted to run?”

“We can’t rebuild our nation if we aren’t alive to do it. I was thinking…” she trails off, trying to come up with an answer that would saciate him. “...we’d go to the tribes to recover, build our strenght, and accquire a few weapons and soilders.”

Ozai considers. “Yes, I can see the use in that. I shouldn’t have doubted you’re ability to strategize, though for a moment I thought you were losing your touch.” In an instant, it hits her that the last time she had seen him was when he’d left her behind with a false crown. “If the tribes are in the same state as our nation, we can simply take them over.”

Azula’s stomach sinks furter. She isn’t sure if it is as the thought  of the tribes lacking sanctuary or that her father is still fighting a war that is long over. She lets them fall into a tense silence that is lost on Ozai. She lets the man revel in his newfound freedom. Perhaps his boldness will fade when the novelty wears off. Hours of quiet--which she excuses to him as trying not to draw hosts and parasites to them--leaves her room to think of nothing but the throbbing in her leg. She wants to ask her father to carry her like Shinu used to when she complained of an ache in her leg. Her crutches catch in a small crater and she stumbles. Li helps steady her. Feeling foolish for not having paid attention, she chances a look at her father who offers her only merciless indifference. She thinks that he might have scoffed.

It deters her from asking if they can rest for a moment. But Li, seeming to have picked up on her many moods and subtle displays of distress says, “my old bones can’t take much more of this walking. Can we stop for a bit, princess?”

One cross look from her father has Azula shaking her head, “we should get somewhere secure before taking any pause.”

Though she can’t think of a single place between their current location and the port that could offer even minimal protection from the hosts and the parasites.

“What exactly does this infection look like?” Ozai asks.

Azula points to a gaggle of hosts. “They are completely feral.”

“They’re gathering.” Li points out.

“They must be feeding.”

“They eat human flesh?” Ozai asks.

Azula shakes her head. “They eat a person’s spirit energy and make room for the parasite spirits to take it over.” A cry rings out, accented by the unrelenting whispers and echoing between crumbling buildings. “We should move on, they’re drawing in more of them.”

One of the hosts turn around. And one after another they all mimick the first, until each of them stare at the trio with their glassy eyes. Among them she sees a few newly infected. Near the center of the hoard is a host so new that its skin has not yet begun to decay. Azula is certain that it is the woman who had screamed.

“Do they always do that?” Ozai inquires.

“No.” Li says. “This is irregular behavior, usually they attack.” She pauses and watches  each of the hosts tremor. The contortion ripples through them one after another like an undulating wave. “I’ve never seen them do this.”

“I have.” Azula notes. “Before we left the palace.” They could very well be staring at all three of them, but Azula gets the sense that they are only staring at she and Li.  

One of them breaks from the crowd followed by another and Azula’s breath catches in her throat. She would know those green eyes anywhere, the Fire Nation doesn’t have many half breeds. Even through the infection, Shinu keeps his half blood spouse.

They are in different stages of decay; Shinu lacks an eye and part of his nose has fallen away. His jaw hangs slack, a spill of tongue flaps around in the breeze. While the half blood only has matted hair and pockmarked skin. Regardless of decay, they are ripe with silver-blue tendrils. And their eyes. Azula’s stomach lolls. She can see him there, existing as only a small agonized fragment. She can’t imagine that it will be long before his eyes go glossy and he drifts from his lover.

“Let’s go.” Azula mutters. “Before they decide to attack.”

When no one protests, she leads them into the closest alley. It is just about as foul as she expects, uninfected bodies lay in slumped heaps, decorated with squirming piles of maggots. If not for her crutches she would be swatting flies left and right, instead they assault and aggravate her. Her nose bunches up in both disgust and discomfort. It is just distracting enough for her to step on a stray entrail. She doesn’t look down to see exactly what one it is. Weeks ago she might have stopped to vomit. Her father is a different matter; she pretends to take no notice to save him his dignity.  

She hustles to get out of the alleyway but halts in her tracks at a figure hunched over and eating one of the fetid corpses. Goosebumps rise on her flesh when it strikes her that no whispers accompany this body. It is human.

It. He looks up. His head is turned but she only needs to see his profile. “Ruon?” She says softly.

She almost asks him what he is doing, making a meal of a rotting body. She supposes that there aren’t very many food options around. She carefully stoops down and opens her pack, fishing out some stale bread. “Here.”

“Oh, Agni, it hurts.” He wheezes, ignoring her offer entirely. “I need to make it stop.” His speech is so garbled that she can’t make it out. He cups his head in his hands. When he looks back up she understands. She understands and she follows in her father’s footsteps. The entire left side of his face has rotted away, exposing jutting bone and muscle tissue.

Azula realizes that he hadn’t been feasting at all. He was ripping and tearing flesh from the cadaver and pasting them onto the spots of his face that have rotted away. “It doesn’t stop hurting.” He informs.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so disturbing if she knew that he was just a mindless husk. She supposes that, in some way he is. She sees no tendrils writing beneath his skin nor embedded in his eyes. She can’t sense them anywhere on him and his remaining eye is weeping and bloodshot. It expresses a degree of pure torture that only a human can convay. But he has been reduced to only that torment. She sees on him the insanity she’d seen in the mirror before she’d smashed it.

Maybe a part of him is still around because he reaches out and takes her hand before choking out a gurgly sob. “Help me.” He rasps. “Fuck, just make it stop.”

By all indications, she believes that the spirits have left his body, but the infection left in their wake still courses through his body.

“Please…”

She swallows, body shaking. She doesn’t want to look him in the eye, but she should at least offer him that dignity. She takes a deep breath before taking his request. In one swift sweeping arc and a flash, his body lies motionless atop the one he had been ravaging. A thin trail of smoke rises from the hole she had put in his chest.

She rises and wipes her eyes, “welcome to the outside, father.”

#Avatar #Azula #Lo & Li #Ozai #Fanfiction

[thebrierpatch]

Beyond the end of the tunnel Loureiro, the shoemaker who loved books and wines, and I were looking for a restaurant that sill served lunch late in the afternoon. It had poured during the day. Since it had just stopped raining, off we went, sailing the narrow and winding streets of the small and charming village at the foot of the mountain that houses the monastery. Heavy clouds left the sky dark, so lamps were lit earlier than usual. We were talking cheerfully and idly, as two friends who are happy just to be together, while we diverted from the puddles formed between century-old cobblestones. When we arrived at the restaurant, we found Carlo, a friend of ours, there. We were baffled. Not by a long shot was he that self-reliant, well-kept, handsome man we knew. We had met him less than a month ago, and he had seemed to be fine. On that day, he was just the opposite of the man we knew. He was downcast, hunched over, sullen; he seemed a specter of himself. He greeted us as joyfully as his heart was capable of at that time. Invited us to sit at his table and have a glass of wine with him. I asked if he would have lunch with us, but he said no. He had no appetite, and that had been going on for days, now. He added that his life had been turned upside down at a moment’s notice. Carlo had a good job; he worked for a multinational company, at its headquarters, located in a big city not too far, only about a 1-hour train ride. A week ago, when he arrived at work, he was told by a director that the company was redefining the job structure. Some positions had been eliminated, amongst which, his. He couldn’t even return to his office; his personal belongings had already been put in a box, which was given to him at that moment. His severance pay would be deposited into his bank account the following day. After a few days, his wife of 10 years told him the marriage was over. She had fallen in love with someone else, packed her belongings and left. He said he had reached rock bottom. Life was dark and, worse, there was no indication of any light that would be lit. I immediately tried to cheer him with a well-known speech for overcoming hardships, “it’s time to bounce back to surface”. He said he did not have the strength to overcome the problems he had and rebuild his life. This is when Loureiro surprised us by saying: “For now, it is best for you to remain at rock bottom. It is not time to bounce back.” I looked at the shoemaker with censoring eyes, as if asking for mercy for my friend. Carlo was surprised, and he even thought that it was a joke, clearly untimely. Loureiro started to develop his reasoning: “The world only falls apart when the soul is unbalanced.” “If he reached the bottom and bounces back now, he will return to the same stage he was at, or worse, nourished by sorrows and desire for revenge to transfer to others the reason of his fall.” I interrupted the cobbler to argue that not doing anything at this moment could encourage the same gloomy feelings or trigger a process of sadness and depression. The shoemaker shook his head and explained: “Rock bottom can be seen as sordid by many people; however, if you take time to pay careful attention, you will see it can be embraced as a place of silence and quietness, suitable for reflection and meditation. The perfect chance for one to understand the wrong choices that took him there.” I interrupted him once again to say it was ludicrous to believe one would reach rock bottom willingly. Carlo looked at the as if I had spoken for him. The shoemaker did not lose composure and was educational: “This is why it is dangerous for Carlo to return to the surface now. He would like to return like he was before, with the misperception that others had pushed him into the pit he is in. The storms exist to correct the course of sailors who do not know how to navigate.” “Before the tempest, the sea becomes rough, the wind foretells a change in the weather and the sky, from afar, signals with heavy clouds. It is up to each one, captain of their own ship, to keep the course or change it. Wrecks happen to those who do not know how to read the signs. However, experiences with wrecks shape the best sailors; life is a school that shapes great masters.” He made a pause and added: “As long as one is willing to learn from it.” “To go rock bottom is always a choice of those who fell”. “To accept this reality is the first step to remove resentments and the feeling of victimization, both of which delay evolution. While the person believes that the person responsible for their suffering is somebody else, they will not start the process of transformation, healing and freedom from the jail they had placed themselves in.” “Everyone has the same conditions of reaching plenitude, which is translated by achieving happiness, peace, freedom, dignity. Understanding the fall is learning what movements were wrong, and, from then on, to do differently and better. It is allowing the flourishing of virtues that are still seedlike in the core of the self.” He looked at Carlo with sincere compassion and said: “You can interpret rock bottom as evil from others, or an infamous conspiracy of the universe and yearn to bounce back with the aura of a super-hero. In fact, this is the most common and childish wish, moved by pride and vanity, and dreams of vile revenge and transient, inconsistent power.” He waited for the server to open the bottle and fill the cups. Sipped a little wine and continued: “However, at rock bottom, one can start building a tunnel. Not to escape reality, but in search of new, previously unimaginable possibilities. To come back to the surface at the same spot, to rebuild life on the same pillars, with the same old pattern of being and living, is to perpetuate stagnation through a different outfit. One must know the possibilities that lie beyond the end of the tunnel for an effective, true transformation. Otherwise, we will live the curse of Sisyphus, from Greek mythology. His curse was having to roll a huge stone up a hill only to have it roll down again as soon as he had brought it to the summit. An action constantly repeated and doomed to failure. Rock bottom must be the beginning of the tunnel that will lead to an unknown light, in a way different from before, with true inner evolvement.” “It is time for humility and determination, two valuable virtues. Rock bottom, because of its silence and quietness, is the ideal place for one to face oneself in a perfect mirror, without the distortion caused by the masks we create for social acceptance, far from the characters we have invented to support the shadows of pride and vanity, without escaping the responsibility for their own happiness, without the shallow distractions whose only purpose is to postpone the important task of knowing who we really are and triggering major transformations.” “The person who knows who they really are brings to themselves the power of life, are capable of overcoming the harshest difficulties. On the other hand, a person who does not know themselves will always be frail, vulnerable to the smallest disappointments, and will require the gimmicks of illusion. Self-knowledge allows them to understand their abilities and the virtues they already possess and make good use of them. They also acknowledge the imperfections that still exist and the virtues that are yet to blossom, instruments essential to evolution. Humility and determination are the winds that propel the crossing in search of the hidden treasure, waiting to be revealed, for the sake of the person and the world. If we know how to read properly the map of life, we will realize that rock bottom is the loving permission for one to start a journey to a wonderful and unknown world, so far and yet so close, the heart itself, the essence of self and the sacred seed of the universe.” I complained, annoyed and unbelieving, with Loureiro for being harsh with our friend. Carlo agreed with me, said he did not deserve to be treated like that, stood up and left. The cobbler kept his countenance serene and, in face of my inquisitive gaze, shrugged his shoulders and said: “I know I was harsh with him, but I did what I thought was best. Without transformation there is no evolvement. Truth can be a whip that causes wounds and hurts or a balm that heals and liberates. It all depends of the feeling of he who says it. I did it out of love.” Months passed by with no news of Carlo. One day, we were having lunch in that same restaurant when we were surprised by his arrival. He was very different than in the two prior moments of his life. He was not the well-groomed corporate executive or the stooped man who had reached rock bottom. He had an informal elegance and was more handsome than ever. He was wearing a well-trimmed beard, jeans and a nice shirt, tennis shoes and, most importantly, an indescribable smile on his face. He opened his arms when he saw us and asked to sit at our table. I mentioned the fortunate coincidence of us meeting at the same restaurant. He said it was no coincidence. The owner was an old friend of his who, upon his request, told him we were there. It was important for him that we meet at the same place, because the previous meeting had been a cornerstone in his life. He had to thank the shoemaker for his firm words. With teary eyes, he said that at that same time other people also spoke to him, all of them with good intentions, but their words were too sugar-coated, but barren. He acknowledged that the discourse he had of being a victim made him frail, sad, and led to stagnation. The firm rhetoric of the cobbler had awakened him from the slumber of apathy and lack of responsibility. If that was his life, it was up to him to write his own story, according to the possibilities of overcoming hardships with his own efforts. With no guilt, because he acted according to the level of awareness he had at the time, but with the commitment to do differently and better from then on. Only by doing so could he take the lead of his life. To become an adult is not only to get a job and get married but to reach maturity. He said that at first it was very difficult, but later he realized that the abandonment he felt was, in fact, the fantastic chance he had to take control of his own life, which was always delayed because he blamed others for his failures and disappointments. He accepted it was time to be sincere with himself or he would not leave the childhood of existence. He added that it may be comforting to feel victimized, but that makes the person a coward and prevents their growth. Maturity is accepting responsibilities for the choices one makes, learning from them and moving on, day-by-day, with a different, better way of being. Next, he said that because he had been working at that corporation for many years, he had set mechanisms through which much of what he had to do was distributed to other people, and therefore he was made redundant. In fact, subconsciously, he was responsible for his being fired by showing that the position he had was not necessary. The opposite would likely happen if he had gone further and made himself essential. He also said he had become too laid back about his marriage. At some point he gave up the effort of keeping alive the flame of affection that had bound him to his wife; therefore, it was natural that she became uninterested in maintaining their relationship and a gap was created that had to be filled. Truth be told, both cases were cycles he should have ended in a more honest way whether to himself or to others. Deep inside, the pain he felt was because of the wound to his pride, for being rejected by his wife and fired by his company. Once he became willing to work that in himself, he understood that what he felt was rock bottom was, in fact, the beginning of the tunnel that had led him to a search he had never thought of before. Instead of bouncing back, as he originally had thought, he found a new place where there was much more light. He said that in this process, the more he came to know himself the more he, and everything around him, would transform. Interests, wishes, choices became different. What was previously essential did not make sense anymore. He said that he had always been into motorcycles, so he decided to open a small shop in the garage of his home. There, he met a young woman who also loved bikes, and they started dating. The relationship and the business were still crawling, money was still short and limited, but the bike rides they took on weekends were long and pleasant. He said he had never felt so free and light. He lived more and more according to his essence, and that made him happy. Differently from before, every day now he woke up excited with life. Even if all went wrong, he had learned the unlimited possibilities of survival, he has understood the immeasurable power he had within, and now he knew that he could start over as many times as necessary. Reaching rock bottom had, in fact, been a blessing. Carlo called the waiter and asked for the menu, he would have lunch with us. He was hungry. Hungry for life, he added. We laughed. He took the opportunity to thank the cobbler for the previous conversation. He said he felt the arguments the shoemaker used were somehow surrounding him. He only had to open the curtains to see them more clearly and let them in. Loureiro agreed: “Yes, it is like they were dormant within you, and our talk woke them up. Otherwise, it would still take time for them to mature in the subconscious mind and only then would you become aware of them. This is how we expand our level of perception and change our life.”. Carlo said that all that seemed a sorry ending has revealed to be the beginning of a beautiful journey. Loureiro smiled and concluded: “Even though it is not a rule, at times, depending on the behavior of he who hit rock bottom, a tunnel is open that allows one to go beyond. Beyond oneself. This is when the first portal of the Path opens. The indigent turns into a walker. Everything changes. For good.” Kindly translated by Carlos André Oighenstein Other texts by the author at www.yoskhaz.com/en

#yoskhaz in english #words #thoughts #memory #time

[eng-solomons]

Poetry

Eulogy To A Hell Of A Dame

In Charles Bukowski's Eulogy to Hell of a Dame there are repetitive themes of meaninglessness, suffering, loss, abandonment and importance. Such themes contribute to ones understanding of the poem as all the themes resonate deeply with human emotion. As Bukowski writes, you almost feel his pain which opens newer view points. 

I both agree and disagree with the themes of this poem. The author speaks about the insignificance of life and the pain from being ‘abandoned’ by the loss of a loved one. He dilutes this pain with alcohol. I agree when discussing themes of how meaningless life is. After some brief thinking, we only have one life and life always ends the same way, death. With that in mind, the question “does any of this really matter in the end?” key words; the end. To answer that, no, nothing really matters in by the end of life but enjoying and living a good life is still important for human wellness. I disagree with the ideology of abandonment when a loved one passes away. It feels selfish to think about it as abandonment, instead their life should be honored and respected for whatever influence they had. I also disagree with drowning out thoughts and emotions through substances as it only relieves pain temporarily. Although life is meaningless, living in suffrage does no good for anybody. 

My favourite line from Bukowski's poem reads “you were the only one who understood the futility of the arrangement of life; all the others were only displeased with trivial segments, carped nonsensically about nonsense;” This quote outstands the rest as it highlights the significance of critical thought over blind followings. The author uses words like ‘futility’ to describe life and describes how we just aimlessly go on with day to day life with no thought;  ‘carped nonsensically about nonsense’ 

When reading this poem, the theme of loss struck a chord in me. The author describes a person of great significance to him and how losing said person left him empty. Similarly to when my grandmother passed away in ‘08, I too experienced an immense sadness consisting of random waves of tears and a heavy heart. The author makes an effort to escape such pain through alcohol. I could not do the same but I did bottle up the feelings in attempt to let the feelings drown themselves out. 28 years and Bukowski still reminisces of her which really defines janes significance to him. While its only been 12 years, my grandmother still crosses my mind and I ponder about how different things would be if she were still here today.  

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Let America be America again

A recurring theme in both texts is ‘harsh truth.’ In Langston Hughes poem, he addresses America's claim to be free when it is really far from. Hughes speaks from two points of view in his writing, a proud American and one who sees true colours. Obama does the same in a different style. Obama discusses why Biden is the ideal candidate to lead the country while he also addresses trump's immaturity for the role of presidency.

When Obama mentions the North Star, he refers to the Declaration of Independence; all that it stands for and how it will guide the nation to brighter days. Hughes refers to this subtly in a section that reads, O, let my land be a land where Liberty Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, But opportunity is real, and life is free, Equality is in the air we breathe. When he writes these lines, he writes what the document stands for, or at least what it should stand for. Both Obama and Hughes outline the fact that what needs to be done is right in front of us, it's merely a matter of making the necessary changes. 

Both pieces share common tones yet they are quite different. Hughes' poem is very emotional and heartfelt while he addresses the lack of freedom in America. Obamas speech had common themes as Hughes but with a more optimistic and aspirational approach. While Hughes only touched changes near the end of his poem, Obama focused more on correcting decisions now before current worldly situations escalate passed correction.

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Letter to The Flag 

Favourite Line: 

A black woman that outlives her adolescent son in this country practices a culture that lacks equal rights for blacks and we love to say that black don't crack mean while y’all shatter our melanin like glass (2:47)

The reason this line outstands the rest is because of how a simple change of context completely changes the meaning of a phrase. ‘Black dont crack’ has always been a line to compliment black individuals but through this context, it's a message of awareness with systemic brutality as he follows up by saying ‘mean while y’all shatter our melanin like glass.’ Similar ties can be drawn to Langston Hughes poem Let America be America Again. Hughes addresses how America claims to be a free nation for all but is in fact an oppressive state for black individuals. At the end of the spoken word, the speaker claims that he pays a pledge to your flag as he believes that he doesn’t belong to a nation that doesn't accept him just as Hughes repeatedly states ‘There's never been equality for me, nor freedom in this "homeland of the free."’ ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Letter to a White Person who Denies Their Privilege

Dear white person who denies their privilege, 

Privilege is defined as an advantage given to a specific group of people. This does not mean that those who are privileged will not struggle or experience problems and hardships, it simply means that greater opportunities are presented, you will be treated better and it is easier to escape such struggles. As a person of colour such privilege is not present in our lives. When the same crime is committed by two people, one of colour, one who is white, the media speaks for itself. Media will present the white individual with respect and dignity regardless of crime committed. The media will use a nice headshot while using words of respect and achievement to describe you. The person of colour however will be presented in a vulgar manner. Instead of a headshot, they will have a mugshot and the choice of words will describe poor behaviour or lack of societal contribution. 

Moving past the theme of crime, white people are better represented in today’s society in comparison to those who are coloured. In films and books, white individuals hold more screen time or are the main characters and saviours of stories while people of colour reside in their shadows. Even in religion, God and Jesus are depicted as white. Jesus was born in the middle east, where the colour of people's skin is predominantly of darker complexion; so why is he seen as white? Privilege. 

Now, the next time you decide to deny your white privilege, please consider the little details of life in comparison to a person of colour. We consider your response to us before we speak, it would be appreciated if you could do the same. 

Thank you.

Sincerely, 

A person of colour. 

[thisismrbrendanjay]

Nixon and MLK

People were marching in the streets.  The leaders were getting arrested.  Police brutality was coming to a head.  The country was divided over whether the protesters were heros or criminals.  And Eisenhower was president.  

It seems antiquated when we see how people spoke to each other then.  Rancor among sides.  Talk of “those criminals.”  Peaceful demonstrations turned to riots.  But there is something we can learn from Nixon and JFK beyond the new film “Selma.”

It’s a little telling that his first meeting with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was in Vice President Richard Nixon’s Senate office--not the White House in 1957.  President Dwight David Eisenhower was avoiding King.  Just a few years before, Eisenhower had a name synonymous with freedom, after leading the allies throughout WWII.  But civil and racial unrest had gripped the country.  Eisenhower didn’t know how to play with racial questions.   In 1954 Brown V. Board of Education the Supreme Court ordered an end to segregation in schools.  “Separate educational facilities are inherently unequal.” Eisenhower handled it unbelievably poorly..  He suggested that they undo generations of unequal schooling starting with--no joke--graduate schools.

But the Vice President, Richard Nixon, was the lone voice in support of a Civil Rights Bill as part of their “domestic portfolio”--a high priority that would stabilize the country through democracy.

Miles away J. Edgar Hoover of the FBI began fanatically tracking King.  But on June 13, 1957 Richard Nixon invited him to his senate office for the first of several meetings.

King had recently given his famous “Justice without Violence” speech and Coretta Scott King was pregnant with the future Martin Luther King III.

“If the Negro succumbs to the temptation of using violence in his struggle for justice, unborn generations will be the recipients of a long and desolate life of bitterness, and his chief legacy to the future will be an endless reign of meaningless chaos.”

Nixon’s notes from that afternoon survive.  Negro determined to gain dignity...This is part of a world problem--quest for human dignity all over the world.  They stayed for three hours.  But when he left, King told reporters that it was not a substitute for a meeting with Eisenhower.  It was only “a step in that direction.”

“He had one of the most magnetic personalities that I have ever confronted.” That is Martin Luther King--Martin Luther King--talking about the conservative Nixon. “I...feel that Nixon would have done much more to meet the present crisis in race relations than President Eisenhower has done,” he told reporters.  

Being in DC was difficult for King. As a student at Morehouse College in Atlanta, he’d worked summers in Connecticut.  It always unsettled him--as he wrote in his biography--to leave the integrated North and have to switch to the segregated cars down South.  Because they moved him to the Jim Crow cars in D.C--his own nation’s capital.

The particular genius of Richard Nixon at the time was his ability to listen.  He was only Vice-President, the handy punchline to many jokes about being ineffectual.  But he had his eyes on the White House and saw that oppressed peoples were the quickest to turn towards his bigger enemy: Communism.

Prophetically, King mentioned that Nixon--who would later step down for deceiving the American people--should be watched.  “If Richard Nixon is not sincere, he is the most dangerous man in America.”

King’s political genius was of course in leading his people to a place they couldn’t legislate.  It wouldn’t be over with integrated kindergartens.  It wouldn’t end with voting rights.  Equal pay.  King at his best and most applause-worthy lines speaks of a world above politics, “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.”

When Nixon was photographed with King his fellow republicans thought it would ruin the party.  Shouldn’t he appeal to conservatives in the North and South?  Nixon rejected this idea.  If you want to see race divide the party: become a Democrat.

After the original--but weak by today’s standards--Civil Rights Bill passed, Nixon got a letter from Jackie Robinson: “I and many others will never forget the fight you made and what you stand for.”

King wrote, “I will long remember the rich fellowship which we shared together and the fruitful discussion that we had.”

But King didn’t come close to giving up there, “History has demonstrated that inadequate legislation supported by mass action can accomplish more than adequate legislation which remains unenforced for the lack of a determined mass movement.” King reminded Nixon that he still wanted an audience with the President.

Nixon replied, “My only regret is that I have been unable to do more than I have.  Progress is understandably slow in this field, but we are least can be sure that we are moving steadily and surely ahead.”  Although they didn’t agree on everything, Nixon and King agreed on a vision of a stronger America.

A year later MLK met with Eisenhower.  Segregation was crumbling, but desegregation not enforced.  The meeting solved nothing.  A stronger civil rights bill needed to pass.

THE PRESIDENTIAL HOPEFUL  

By 1960 the equally charismatic John F. Kennedy Jr. was up against Nixon for the Presidency.  Southerners didn’t trust Kennedy.  The evangelist Billy Graham had just returned from a convention in Rio with MLK and heard that King might support JFK.  “King was greatly impressed and just about sold.  I think if you could invite him for a brief conference it might swing him.”

This is where influence gets involved.  

MLK was arrested for violating probabation (What? Yes.  He’d gotten a ticket for “driving without a license.”)  King was arrested in chains in the back of a paddy wagon. With a police dog. Coretta Scott King appealed to both Nixon and the Kennedys.  Coretta was worried he might be killed or disappear in Georgia like other demonstrators had.

At the time, both Nixon and Kennedy had a lot to lose in the southern vote.  Among black voters they were equally split.  MLK leaned toward JFK, Jackie Robinson toward Nixon.

But the Kennedys went into high gear.  JFK telephoned Coretta.  JFK’s brother Robert telephoned the governor of Georgia, which freed MLK.

Nixon?  Uhm… there are rumors that he tried.  But “some hang-up occurred someplace.”  Still the Vice President, Nixon had more clout in the White House on the matter than the influential Kennedy and his brother.  But Nixon wanted to avoid using the matter for political “Grandstanding.”

Soon after the Kennedys printed up 2 million pamphlets entitled “‘No Comment’ Nixon Versus a Candidate with a Heart, Senator Kennedy.”

This is where we lose the young idealist Nixon.

Now for the really weird part: with the election all but over the California born Nixon went home to vote on election day.  When he suggested that he and his campaign aides get a drink they reminded Nixon that the bars were closed.  For Election Day.  So they--no joke--took an all day road trip to Tijuana.  Nixon wanted Margaritas and Mexican food.  

Yes, this is the day when a republican who turned his back on black leadership and turned to Mexican labor.  And it cost him the election.

They came back to the States that night to watch Nixon lose to Kennedy.

Years later in combing through the post-mortem of loss, it was discovered that the Justice Department had looked into how to free MLK, but sat on it.  They also found a very rousing statement drafted for Eisenhower in support of MLK, condemning the Georgia incident.

“I always felt that Nixon lost a real opportunity to express...support of something much larger than an individual,” King later said.  “He would call me frequently about things, getting, seeking my advice.  And yet, when this moment came it was like he had never heard of me, you see.  So this is why I considered him a moral coward.”

Three years later Nixon and MLK bumped into each other at the funeral of John F. Kennedy.  Nixon and JFK started in the Senate the same year.  They’d been opponents, yes, but also friends and colleagues.  There’s no record of King and Nixon speaking in the intervening years.

The vice president who brought us into an era of Civil Rights turned out to be Lyndon Johnson.  Who took over for Kennedy.  This is roughly where the movie “Selma” begins. In 1965 after King’s 1965 Selma to Montgomery marches Johnson signed the Voting Rights Act that both Nixon and King wanted.  Over the dead body of their mutual friend JFK.

THE PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE

Nixon ran again for President in 1968.  For a while he looked like he would oppose Johnson. But then, four days after Johnson stepped out of the race, Martin Luther King was shot and killed.

Street demonstrations and violence followed.  Nixon, a viable candidate wondered if he should go to the funeral of his old friend King.  He worried that this close to election time it might seem like “Grandstanding.”  A friend reminded him that he had used that word in 1960 when it cost him the election.

But what should Nixon do?  Make phone calls?  Send flowers?

Instead he suspended his campaign, flew to Atlanta two days early to visit with the King family.  First he went to see Coretta.  And then to see MLK’s parents in Collier Heights, a prosperous Atlanta neighborhood.  There was no press coverage.  He left without taking photos.

But then he returned to Atlanta two days later for the funeral.*  He sat in Ebenezer Baptist Church.  But he didn’t join the three and a half mile march to Morehouse College--where Dr. King first discovered on a summer trip that the world and even his own country could be a better place.  

To join that march, for any candidate--Nixon decided--would have been grandstanding.  

What do we learn from Nixon?  What can our political establishment learn from the bloodshed and actions in recent months?  Can you be conservative about an event and still progressive about the future?  We learned a few things from Nixon and MLK.  We learn quite a bit about time.  Namely:

Listening to opposing factions, is different than joining the march.  There are incidences, there are people and there is government.

Inaction is action.  Deciding not to get involved with King in the White House was Eisenhower’s decision.  Meeting with King was Nixon’s.  Stepping in to King’s arrest in Georgia was a different kind of decision for Nixon than Kennedy

No one should wait for a former friend’s funeral to say or feel sorry.

*I’m debating the asterisk, but the funeral for Martin Luther King Jr will continue to be one of the strangest, but most notable events in history.  Notables alphabetically: Harry Belafonte, Wilt Chamberlain, Bill Cosby, Bobby, Jackie and Ted Kennedy, Nelson Rockefeller and George Romney--Mitt’s father.

Suggestions for Further Reading:

If you want too much information on the subject check out Ike and Duck: Portrait of a Strange Political Marriage and the annotated letters to Nixon available in the King Papers Project.

[pope-francis-quotes]

26th January >> (@zenitenglish)  #PopeFrancis #Pope Francis #PopeinPanama Homily at Cathedral of Santa Maria La Antigua (Full Text) ‘The Lord knew what it was to be tired, & in his weariness so many struggles of our nations & peoples, our communities & all weary & heavily burdened can find a place’ #jmj219 #WYD2019

Pope Francis’ Homily at Cathedral of Santa Maria La Antigua in Panama (Full Text)

‘The Lord knew what it was to be tired, and in his weariness so many struggles of our nations and peoples, our communities and all who are weary and heavily burdened can find a place’

Below is the Vatican-provided text of Pope Francis’ homily at the Mass he celebrated in Cathedral of Santa Maria La Antigua in Panama, during the third full day of his Apostolic Visit to the country to celebrate World Youth Day 2019:

***

“Jacob’s well was there, and so Jesus, wearied as he was with his journey, sat down beside the well. It was about the sixth hour. There came a woman of Samaria to draw water. Jesus said to her, ‘Give me a drink’” (Jn 4:6-7). The Gospel we have heard does not shrink from showing us Jesus, wearied from his journey. At midday, when the sun makes all its strength and power felt, we encounter him beside the well. He needed to relieve and quench his thirst, to refresh his steps, to recover his strength in order to continue his mission.

The disciples personally experienced the extent of the Lord’s commitment and readiness to bring the Good News to the poor, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to captives and freedom to prisoners, to comfort those who mourn and to proclaim a year of favour to all (cf. Is 61:1-3). These are all situations that consume life and energy; yet they show us many important moments in the life of the Master, moments in which our humanity, too, can find a word of Life.

Weary from the journey

It is relatively easy for us, compulsively busy as we are, to imagine and enter into communion with the Lord’s activity. Yet we do not always know how to contemplate and accompany his “weariness”; it seems this is not something proper to God. The Lord knew what it was to be tired, and in his weariness so many struggles of our nations and peoples, our communities and all who are weary and heavily burdened (cf. Mt 11:28) can find a place.

There a many reasons for weariness on our journey as priests, consecrated men and women, and members of lay movements: from long hours of work, which leave little time to eat, rest and be with family, to “toxic” working conditions and relationships that lead to exhaustion and disappointment. From simple daily commitments to the burdensome routine of those who do not find the relaxation, appreciation or support needed to move from one day to the next. From the usual and predictable little problems to lengthy and stressful periods of pressure. A whole array of burdens to bear.

It would be impossible to try to cope with all these situations that assail the lives of consecrated persons, but in all of them we feel the urgent need to find a well to quench our thirst and relieve our weariness from the journey. All these situations demand, like a silent plea, a well from which we can set out once more.

For some time now, a subtle weariness seems to have found a place in our communities, a weariness that has nothing to do with the Lord’s weariness. It is a temptation that we might call the weariness of hope. This weariness is felt when – as in the Gospel – the sun beats down mercilessly and with such intensity that it becomes impossible to keep walking or even to look ahead. Everything becomes confused. I am not referring to that “particular heaviness of heart” (cf. Redemptoris Mater, 17; Evangelii Gaudium, 287) felt by those who feel “shattered” at the end of the day, yet manage a serene and grateful smile. I am speaking of that other weariness, which comes from looking ahead once reality “hits” and calls into question the energy, resources and viability of our mission in this changing and challenging world.

It is a weariness that paralyzes. It comes from looking ahead and not knowing how to react to the intense and confusing changes that we as a society are experiencing. These changes seem to call into question not only our ways of speaking and engaging, our attitudes and habits in dealing with reality, but in many cases they call into doubt the very viability of religious life in today’s world. And the very speed of these changes can paralyze our options and opinions, while what was meaningful and important in the past can now no longer seem valid.

The weariness of hope comes from seeing a Church wounded by sin, which so often failed to hear all those cries that echoed the cry of the Master: “My God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mt 27:46).

We can get used to living with a weariness of hope before an uncertain and unknown future, and this can pave the way for a grey pragmatism to lodge in the heart of our communities. Everything apparently goes on as usual, but in reality, faith is crumbling and failing. Disappointed by a reality that we do not understand or that we think has no room for our message, we can open the door to one of the worst heresies possible in our time: the notion that the Lord and our communities have nothing to say or contribute in the new world now being born (cf. Evangelii Gaudium, 83). What once arose to be the salt and light for the world ends up stale and worn.

Give me a drink Weariness from the journey can happen; it can make itself felt. Like it or not, we do well to have the same courage as the Master, and to say, “Give me a drink”. As was the case with the Samaritan woman and perhaps with each one of us, we want to quench our thirst not with any water but with the “spring of water welling up to eternal life” (Jn 4:14). Like the Samaritan woman who for years had been carrying the empty pitchers of failed loves, we know that not just any word can help us regain energy and prophecy in our mission. Not just any novelty, however alluring it may seem, can quench our thirst. We know, as she did, that neither knowledge of religion nor upholding options and traditions past or present, always makes us fruitful and passionate “worshipers in spirit and truth” (Jn 4:23).

The Lord says, “Give me a drink”, he asks us to say those same words. To say them, let us open the door and let our wearied hope return without fear to the deep well of our first love, when Jesus passed our way, gazed at us with mercy and asked us to follow him. To say those words, let us revive the memory of that moment when his eyes met ours, the moment when he made us realize that he loved us, not only personally but also as a community (cf. Homily at the Easter Vigil, 19 April 2014). It means retracing our steps and, in creative fidelity, listening to how the Spirit inspired no specific works, pastoral plans or structures, but instead, through any number of “saints next door” – including the founders of your institutes and the bishops and priests who laid the bases for your communities – he gave life and fresh breath to a particular moment of history when all hope and dignity seemed to be stifled and crushed.

“Give me a drink” means finding the courage to be purified and to recapture the most authentic part of our founding charisms – which are not only for religious life but for the life of Church as a whole – and to see how they can find expression today. This means not only looking back on the past with gratitude, but seeking the roots of their inspiration and letting them resound forcefully once again in our midst (cf. Pope Francis-Fernando Prado, The Strength of a Vocation, 42).

“Give me a drink” means recognizing that we need the Spirit to make us men and women mindful of a passage, the salvific passage of God. And trusting that, as he did yesterday, he will still do tomorrow: “Going to the roots helps us without a doubt to live in the present without fear. We need to live without fear, responding to life with the passion of being engaged with history, immersed in things. With the passion of lovers” (cf. ibid., 44).

A wearied hope will be healed and will enjoy that “particular tiredness of heart” when it is unafraid to return to the place of its first love and to find, in the peripheries and challenges before us today, the same song, the same gaze that inspired the song and the gaze of those who have gone before us. In this way, we will avoid the danger of starting with ourselves; we will abandon a wearisome self-pity in order to meet Christ’s gaze as he continues today to seek us, to call us and to invite us to the mission.

[Original text: Spanish] [Vatican-provided text of Pope’s prepared speech]© Libreria Editrice VaticanaJANUARY 26, 2019 16:52

PAPAL TRIPS

[txteo]

Martin King (1963) I have a dream - Summary

Summary: While slavery has been abolished, segregation and discrimination still persist, damaging black lives. Black people are very angry, and rightly so: The constitution and the Declaration of Independence gave us rights to "Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness", and we are here to claim these rights. Justice is for everybody, and we need to achieve racial justice now. If we ignore this, it will blow up, we might see revolts. "There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights." But we need to be disciplined, we need to be creative, we may not be violent. We need to realise that a lot of white people are here today, a lot of white people know their freedom and our freedom are connected. The status quo can change, and it will change. I have a dream, which is based on the American dream. A country of equality, of brotherhood, of universal freedom and justice, where people will "not be judged by the colour of their skin but by the content of their character." In my dream, everything that is wrong is right, and we all see god's greatness together. With this dream, our nation can be united. And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true. All humans, whatever their race or religion, can come together and sing together: "Free at last! Free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

Source: Martin Luther King, Jr. (1963) I have a dream. Speech given at the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, on August 28, 1963 at the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, Washington D.C.

(Full text at bbc.co.uk, English)

[Personal note: Reading MLK in summary is not a good idea. Read the full text to enjoy a master of rhetoric, among the very best in all of history.]

This summary is licensed CC:BY-SA.

Detailed Summary

This is the "greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation".

The Emancipation Proclamation was signed in 1863.

We ended slavery, which for black people was the best!

But in 1963, black people are still not free.

Segregation and discrimination persist, they damage black lives.

Black people are generally poor, in a very rich country.

Black people are not accepted and respected in American society.

These are the problems of someone in exile, but these are American ctizens.

The constitution and the Declaration of Independence gave us rights to "Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness", and we are here to claim these rights.

The justice system has failed to guarantee these rights.

We demand that our rights, our security, our freedom, are recognised.

This is an urgent problem. We can not do this slowly, step by step.

We need to achieve racial justice now. We need to become brothers [and sisters]. Justice is for everybody.

Black people are very angry and they should be. 

And this is just the beginning. If we ignore this, it will blow up, we might see revolts.

"There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights."

But I have also an important message for black people.

We need to be disciplined, we need to be creative, but we may not be violent.

We can counter "physical force with soul force".

We should not distrust white people by default.

A lot of white people know that we have a shared future.

They know that their freedom and our freedom are connected.

A lot of white people are here today.

We may never retreat from our positions, ever move forward.

Black people suffer from police brutiality, discrimination, segregation, voter suppression and a white political elite. 

Black children develop in an environment that damages their identity and dignity. 

As long as these problems persist, we can not be satisfied.

Many of us here are active in the struggle.

Some of us here have been in jail, beaten by police.

We have suffered creatively.

But suffering without desert is redemptive.

The status quo can change, and it will change.

We need to go back to our struggles, we need to go back to the Deep South, to the slums, and continue our work. 

Everything really is very difficult, but we should not despair.

I have a dream.

It is based on the American dream.

In my dream, America will be a country of equality, of brotherhood, of universal freedom and justice.

In my dream people will "not be judged by the colour of their skin but by the content of their character."

In my dream, children will grow up in racial harmony.

In the Deep South all this is hardly thinkable at the moment.

In my dream, everything that is wrong is right, and we all see god's greatness together.

I will return to the south with this dream, with this hope I find in my despair.

With this dream, our nation can be united.

With this dream, we know "that we will be free one day".

And knowing this, we can fight our struggles for freedom together, and go together to jail, if we must.

"My country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring." And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true. 

This song will have a wholly new meaning.

Let freedom ring from everywhere.

All humans, whatever their race or religion, can come together and sing together.

"Free at last! Free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

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