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forthegothicheroine · 3 years

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The King in Yellow, 1949

Much of this story is true. Warnings in the tags.

When I had pneumonia in my early teens, my mother brought home an armful of VHS tapes from the library to alleviate my misery. Knowing my snobbish preferences, she had grabbed copies of whatever she found in black and white. I remember something musical that I suspect was Busby Berkeley, I remember Mildred Pierce (a bad choice, as it turned out- the plot includes a young girl dying of pneumonia), and I remember a period piece called The King. I faded in and out of consciousness while I watched it, but it soothed me while I was awake and filled my fever dreams with sparkling images. I could never find it at the library again, nor at Hollywood Video or even early Netflix (once my father got the subscription service where you could order practically every DVD.) It was a bit odd that it seemed to be so obscure, given that it starred old Hollywood legend Ingrid Bergman (and, although I initially forgot it, Marlene Dietrich.) But even big stars make films that fall by the wayside in public memory, and it seemed that this was one of them. Google was no help, and at the time that was that.

I didn’t see the film again until I was watching Turner Classic Movies at my grandparents’ house. I loved watching that channel with them while filling out the crossword puzzle that came in their little TCM catalogue (all of it based on movie trivia, the only kind of crossword puzzle I’ve ever been any good at.) I recognized a certain scene where Bergman stood on a balcony, looking sadly at the moon. Her face had an expression of unutterable melancholy, and the crescent moon reflected in each of her eyes, giving the impression of two moons in one sky. I had very little time to catch up on what I’d missed before we had to go meet my cousins at the local Italian restaurant. I knew logically that the movie would be long over by the time we returned, but I turned on the channel anyway. Of course it had moved on to the lesser known Alfred Hitchcock film Stage Fright, but then I heard Marlene Dietrich sing before I could reach the remote to turn the tv off in disappointment. I knew that I had heard her sing before, and I knew it had been in The King.

Dietrich’s singing often comes across as somewhat campy today, with its Rs pronounced as Ws and it’s up-and-down tone. Madeline Kahn parodied it brilliantly in Blazing Saddles, such that it was a bit of a disappointment when I finally saw Dietrich’s western Destry Rides Again and found it to be lifeless and inconsistent next to the parody. Still, we remember her voice for a reason, and when I remembered it that night, I knew that its sardonic loneliness had rung through The King and made me shiver in my dreams.

The TCM schedule didn’t list The King in its time slot, but something else. If I had taken down the name, maybe it would have helped me find it. Sometimes the same movie runs under multiple names.

I didn’t see the film all the way through for many years, after I graduated college. I had found a web page that listed public domain film noir, including one called The Masked Guest. The website described it as a costume noir, and I curiously clicked on the link. Once I took in the credits running on the youtube window, my eyes grew wide and I did not move from my place on the bed until the movie had run its course.

The credits did indeed list it as The Masked Guest, but I recognized the strange repeating design on the title cards. They told me that in addition to starring Dietrich and Bergman, it was directed by Fritz Lang, and a character called The King was credited to “???” (I hadn’t seen that kind of credit since the first Karloff Frankenstein.) When the King finally appears on screen, though, it is unmistakably Orson Welles’s voice that booms out from behind his elaborate costume.

Here are the things I understand about The King, or The Masked Guest, or The Man in Yellow, or any other title I’ve found for it on public domain archive searches. Dietrich and Bergman play princesses named Cassilda and Camilla, respectively. Though Dietrich’s accent is German and Bergman’s is Swedish, they blend together to give the film the impression of being set somewhere on the map that I can’t quite find. The scenery and camera angles are very Freudian, with a great deal of archways and pillars.

The first act of The King involves frankly dull romantic plotlines, and the only thing that really saved it was the feeling that the suitors were supposed to be insipid, a suspicion lended credence by the fact that the love interests were listed so low on the credits. Dietrich is the scandalous sister and Bergman is the responsible one, though each takes on aspects of the other as the film goes on. Dietrich sings her song at a party, dressed in a fake 17th century gown and leaning against a piano. Although just a moment ago she had been laughing and joking with her gentleman friends, her song takes an abruptly serious tone (not seductive, not sentimental) as she tells the story of a city lost to time and memory. Bergman slips away from the party and onto the balcony, where we see that wonderful shot of the moon in her eyes. Is she mourning? Is she longing?

Dietrich cuts off the song by abruptly screaming “Not on us, King! Not on us!” She flees the party weeping and shaking, and from there on the film goes mad.

Though uncommon, it is not unknown for movies to switch between black and white and color, done most famously in The Wizard of Oz. The film The King recalls here is the silent Phantom of the Opera, which had a masqued ball scene tinted in shades of red and green that tried to provide a whole spectrum of color. The effect is even odder in the masqued ball scene in The King- the only color that appears is yellow, highlighting things like candlelight, Dietrich’s hair, a passing gown, a vase of tulips. It also highlights one particular masked figure, whose expressionless mask was decorated with a black pattern against a sickening yellow canvas- the same pattern I had seen in the opening credits. The color of his costume causes him to stand out from the crown even when he is far off in the background, just one head among many others. It must have taken long and painstaking hours of work to color in every frame.

Dietrich still seems broken up days after her song, though Bergman tries to coax her into joining the dance. Finally, at midnight, Dietrich goes out to face the party, but only to demand that every guest remove their mask. The yellow man with a voice that once warned America about a Martian invasion tells her that he wears no mask. Bergman reacts with disbelief, but Dietrich starts laughing like a woman unhinged. As she laughs, the yellow hue seeps out of the King’s clothing and face- if that really is his face- and begins to color the entire ballroom crowd. I think that what follows is bloodshed, but if there is any carnage (doubtful under the Production Code censorship), the blood must be tainted yellow and splashed across the camera like daubs of paint. Dietrich’s laughing face is doubled and tripled on screen until it dissipates, but even when it has faded offscreen, it feels as if her ghost continues to watch the proceedings.

By the end of the scene (filled with German Expressionist camera angles and mad violin screeching), only Bergman remains alive, cowering behind a grandfather clock. It does not hide her for long. The King steps towards her and extends his hand. Reluctantly, but with a fatalistic expression, Bergman takes his hand. They walk away together hand in hand. The screen shifts back into black and white, and then the credits roll before we can get a good look at all the bodies in the scene. The credits say it was based on a play called The King in Yellow, although Raymond Chandler of all people apparently had a hand in the screenplay.

As I said, that’s what I think I understand. It’s an oddly experimental art film for the era, and it may be awaiting rediscovery by the film festival crowd. I feel as if I alone know about it, though that obviously isn’t true. It is my little secret; I tell myself that my husband doesn’t need me to show it to him, it would be too odd for his taste. I’ve rewatched it many times, even if it seems like each time I search for it I have to find a different video platform or torrent. Naturally, no subscription site has it available. Maybe I am the last person who will ever watch it. Maybe no one will ever think to look for it again after me, and it will be completely forgotten.

When I was hospitalized, they let me use my laptop at night before I went to sleep (no power cord, though, in case I tried to hang myself.) I found a youtube link for The Man in Yellow, and I watched it every night. It wasn’t a soothing sort of movie, but having it in my mind all day and then watching it in the evening allowed me to think as opposed to crying endlessly while the other patients shot me awkward looks. I clutched the childhood stuffed animals my mother brought me when she visited, and I always held them extra tight when the masquerade scene started.

I watched the movie when I had to move away from my beloved San Francisco. I watched the movie when I lost the last of my grandparents. I watched the movie when a doctor unwisely took me off my medication and I couldn’t manage to eat for a month. I watched the movie when the whole world got sick and we all locked ourselves away from each other. I don’t mind that I don’t entirely know what it means. I don’t mind the nightmares. In the hospital they kept telling us about mindfulness exercises, and maybe the fact that I can focus on every aspect of the film so closely that all else falls away is the reason I keep coming back to it. I’m being mindful. I’m not letting any stray thoughts invade my head. I’m just watching and waiting for the next beat of every scene, leading inexorably to that yellow-stained bloodbath.

Streaming media doesn’t last forever, and each time I find The King, I worry that it will be the last time I ever can find it. My efforts to download it have so far been unsuccessful, odd considering that it is in the public domain.

When I watch The King, I am once again a child in my bedroom being cared for in the throes of agonizing sickness. I am once again sitting on the couch with my grandparents in front of the tv, both of them alive and lucid again. I am once again in the hospital, all alone except for my stuffed animals and the staff trying to keep me alive. The film reflects in my eyes like the crescent moon in Ingrid Bergman’s gaze. It sings to me.

I am determined to find a way to obtain The King under any name so that I never have to worry about losing it. During some of the worst times in my life, it is the only thing that has kept me sane.

#the king in yellow #cw mental illness #cw disordered eating #cw institutionalization #cw suicide

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slashbitch2 · 3 years

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A Snippet of Life with Agatha Harkness

I have no idea how to use tumblr so I hope this works

--- Salem 1693 ----

Chaos reigned in the forest that night. Even before you had any inkling as to what had transpired between Agatha and the elder half of the Coven you could feel the imbalance in the air. It came in the form of an ominous pressure weighing down on you, a heightened sense of urgency that had you rushing toward shelter.

The forest had never scared you, not until that night. Shadowy figures seemed to move in your peripheral, gradually drawing nearer as you grew closer to your house, to your sanctuary. For once, you were cursing the remote location in the depth of the woods as upon arrival, you'd find yourself completely isolated, yet trapped by the thick rows of trees.

Although, as the heavy wooden door slammed behind you, the tension dissipated ever so slightly. Despite what your intuition was telling you, there was still a sense of safety to be found here. You exhaled, calming your erratic breathing and turning to lock the door.

"You know that flimsy lock wouldn't work, right?" A voice called from the back of your house, hidden in darkness but revealed by the person's tone.

Without turning, you answered. "It would against humans."

This wasn't the first time Agatha had sought refuge in your house. When she was younger, and would argue with her mother, she'd come running to your door begging for a bed for the night. Your own mother, a much kinder woman, would never turn her away. It was how you became such close friends.

She chuckled in response, though there was no real humour behind it. In spite of how tired Agatha sounded, she commanded a certain amount of fear. You could feel the dark power radiating round the room that was accustom to her presence. The other witches were not attuned to her malevolent abilities, but you'd always known.

The energy was almost audible, crackling as it came into contact with your own powers. Most would be threatened by it, but as her closest friend, the magic welcomed you into its obscurity. Tonight, however, there was a certain hostile hesitance to it.

You gulped, refusing to turn around in fear of facing the truth. "Are you staying for the night?"

"No." You heard movement, imagining that Agatha was gradually walking towards you. Your suspicion was confirmed as her breath hit the back of your neck. "I need you to come with me."

A chill travelled throughout your body at the notion. She'd always hated living as part of the Coven and used to share her dreams of running away with you. Now, for some unknown reason this fantasy had become a possibility. You remained quiet, trying to put two and two together.

At your silence, she sighed. There was more movement, and then her hand was outstretched in your line of vision, palm flat presenting a broach. Her mother's broach. Your breath hitched. If the broach was in her possession, than that could only mean one thing.

"They held a trial against me." Her voice barely breached a whisper. "Tried to have me killed." Her other hand rested against your shoulder, causing you to flinch. "I couldn't have done anything else."

You inhaled a shaky breath, tears welling up in the corner of your eyes. Years ago when your own mother had died, you blamed yourself, but Agatha had been there for you. She saved you from spiralling further into depression, dragged you out of the bleak captivity and promised to never leave.

You owed her everything, and had promised to do the same if anything ever happened to her. Now was the chance to repay for her loyalty.

Without another word, you turned, wrapping your arms around her form and tugging her closer. She was taken aback by the sudden contact, but soon reciprocated the embrace. She leant into the crook of your neck for a moment, then placed a kiss along your jaw. It served as an unspoken agreement, sealing your pledge of loyalty.

You knew in that moment that Agatha Harkness would probably be the death of you, which was something you were more than willing to accept so long as you could spend eternity in her arms.

--- London 1852 ---

Since the turn of 17th century, you'd been inseparable. On the very same night Agatha had grown fully into her potential powers, you'd run away together. It fulfilled childhood ambitions while simultaneously throwing you into independence earlier than you'd been prepared for, meaning that Agatha was all you had, not that you were complaining.

Had your mother been alive, you liked to believe she would've approved, although, sometimes you missed your home amongst the forest. The house and Coven had been your last true connection to her, severed that night as you left without a proper goodbye. Even now, over a hundred years later, the loss still caused you grief.

Agatha had never related to your attachment to Salem, or to family. From her perspective, you were all she needed. As long as you were by her side, anywhere could be home. Which is how you found yourself living in London, of all places, trapped amidst the seemingly endless industrial revolution. The houses were crammed close together, the streets overcrowded with miserable people.

Out of all the places you'd resided, this was by far your least favourite. Though, you'd never mention your misery to Agatha, who you could tell secretly loved the chaos of the city.

Your house was one among an identical row, so undifferentiated from the others that there had been several occasions when you'd accidentally entered the wrong one. Though thankfully, this evening you did not repeat that particular incident. After a long day of work, which you insisted on doing to maintain some sense of normality, your feet were aching, and your lungs filled with the smog that encompassed the city.

As the door shut behind you, the bustling noise was slightly subdued. You sighed in relief, taking a moment to observe the current layout of your home. While you spent the day working, Agatha would practice spells, and often you'd arrive to find the house either in disarray, or in a state of luxury that didn't match the appearance of the building. Today was the latter.

The living room had been transformed into something you'd expect to find in a manor house, featuring a rich wooden floor and furniture that looked to be the most comfortable you'd ever seen. New exotic decoration was scattered throughout, though you didn't take the time to appreciate it upon noticing the lit fireplace, instead collapsing in the armchair in front of the crackling fire. You basked in its warmth while savouring the comfort the chair provided.

You closed your eyes, appreciating the silence until it was inevitably interrupted. "Evening, dear." Agatha's enthusiastic voice called out as you heard her walking upstairs, most likely leaving the basement. She spent most her time down there, pouring herself into the books she'd accumulated over the years, dedicating effort to gaining more power.

"Evening. " You greeted upon hearing her footsteps grow nearer. "I like what you've done with the place." Opening your eyes, you were met with the unexpected image of Agatha wearing one of her usual dresses, only it was now an intense purple. "Nice dress."

"Oh, this old thing. Just an experiment." She dismissed with a wave. "Now, come with me." She stepped forward to grab your hand, impatiently trying to pull you up.

You groaned, reluctant to move from exhaustion. "Let me sit for a minute." The complaint didn't deter her, and you finally relented as her magic began to surround you, lifting your body as though you were weightless. "This better be worth it." You mumbled, being lead down to the basement.

It in fact was worthwhile. She'd spent the day working on a counter to a binding spell, and required you to be the test subject.

First, she walked you through how it worked, explaining in great detail that you shouldn't immediately oppose the spell, but rather let yourself fall deeper into the trap. And then she, without warning, bound your hands together, assuming you were willing to participate.

Unfortunately, her guidance hadn't been as clear as she intended, leaving you stuck for the following half hour.

"Please, Aggie, can we just give up?" You shifted around, seeking room to stretch your cramped limbs. "I obviously can't do it."

"Well, not with that attitude you can't." She clapped her hands, seemingly reinvigorated by your surrender. Then she began to amble around you in a circle as though observing from every angle.

You rolled your eyes, ensuring that she saw the display of impatience. "Why don't we pick this up tomorrow? Or when I haven't just had a full day at work, at least."

"It's your choice to work." She reminded you. "We have no need for the money." Agatha halted behind you, concluding that a new approach was necessary. She stepped closer, starting to rub soothing circles on your back. "You're overcomplicating it. Just- think about the disadvantage you're at right now. All the things I could do from this position."

You could practically hear the smirk in her voice, so decided to play along. "And why would I want to stop you?"

She laughed loudly, or rather, incredulously at that. "Oh baby, you sure you could handle it?"

Finding yourself at a loss for words, you simply nodded. Agatha usually flirted at any given opportunity, which was initially for her entertainment, simply to make you blush. But as you spent more time together, you became immune to her words. You'd quickly learnt that they carried no real weight.

Except now her tone was insinuating some sincerity behind the claim, which left you speechless.

"Can't even get out these binds." She murmured, her breath hot against your ear, her body pressing against your own.

"That's- unfair." You faltered, distracted by the close proximity.

"Then prove me wrong."

Tearing your mind away from Agatha's annoyingly smug insinuations, you focused on the binds in front of you. Purple magic looped around your wrists, erratically swerving around, but firmly holding your hands in place. Taking her advice, you almost entirely cleared your mind, concentrating only on the feeling of confinement. Slowly, the purple was overtaken by a sea of blue, replaced by your own magic.

"Atta girl." She praised, watching as your magic began to work. In encouragement, her mouth brushed against your neck, trailing up to behind your ear.

The binds suddenly snapped. Your mind overwhelmed by her teasing touch. You were grateful for the freedom nonetheless, sighing in relief as you massaged your wrists. Agatha backed away.

You turned to face her, already missing the contact. She was being unusually quiet, and only smiled awkwardly at the eye contact before busying herself with something else.

So much for being serious.

--- London May 8th 1945 ---

Despite living rather detached from the events of everyday, the World Wars had been rather hard to avoid, especially now, as millions of people flooded the streets to celebrate victory. The party had really begun the night before, requiring a noise cancelling incantation to be placed upon the house. Although it only resulted in a restless night spent lying in bed imagining what was happening outside. You had sworn to yourself that you'd join the celebrations the following day, regardless of whether or not Agatha wanted to join.

Living for such a long time, you'd come to realise that events truly were once in a lifetime, so you certainly weren't going to miss out on this one. Throughout your unnaturally long life, you'd grown wiser in some aspects, while with others you remained equally clueless. Dealing with your emotions, for one.

Almost three centuries of life spent with Agatha, yet you still hadn't confessed how you felt. The feeling had crept up on you slowly, strategically taking root deep within you. At first, you'd reasoned that perhaps it was the endless amount of flirting, or the shared experiences that made you care so deeply for her. But as you were currently walking through the city, passing couples sharing in their jubilation, you admitted that it was entirely her.

You loved everything about Agatha. You loved her at her best, and at her worst. Stuck by her side through prosperity and calamity. From the time she accidently transmuted you both to the middle of a jungle (which was then proceeded by a long hike and a tense week in which neither of you spoke to the other) to moments like these.

Through a gap in the crowd, you'd spotted her a few paces ahead, frantically looking around for you.

Sometimes the most memorable moments with her were when she was oblivious to you, in a world of her own. One of her weaknesses had always been her inability to truly relax with other people, and despite having spent so long together, you were no exception. Though the scarcity of these moments only made them more special, which is one of the reasons you loved to watch her work. There would inevitably come a point when she was so lost in her thoughts that she'd completely unwind, and the rare but real Agatha would take over.

Carefully pushing past the hoards of people, you caught up with her. Admittedly, the 40s were serving her well. Somehow she was able to perfectly blend in, styling her hair to be shorter and donning a deep purple dress, while simultaneously being eye-catching. You were certain that you'd be able to find her in a crowd of any size.

You reached out to tap her shoulder and were almost knocked over by the pace at which she swung round. At first glance she appeared concerned.

"There you are." She exclaimed, smoothing her expression into one of disinterest.

For all Agatha may try to act nonchalant, you'd learnt to recognize when she was uncomfortable. In this instance, it was the slight disdain in her voice that gave it away. "Behind you the entire time." You lied.

She looked sceptical, but dropped the subject in place of grabbing hold of your hand. "I hate crowds." She half whispered, half shouted, shooting an exasperated glare in the direction of a group that had just bumped into her. "Don't wander off again." She scolded, switching her focus back to you.

"Lighten up, Aggie." You tugged her forwards, re-joining the pace of the procession. She followed obediently, keeping her eyes down. "Don't ya know," You mimicked your worst American accent. "wars over doll!" The attempt at cheering her up earned a small smile, but she remained otherwise distracted.

A few more minutes of walking in a rather solemn silence and you relented. "What's on your mind?" Pulling her to a stop, your hand automatically slid to her waist. "If you don't want to be here, we can go home. I don't mind."

She shook her head, opening her mouth to speak, but never got the chance.

Behind you, someone from within a group began yelling out a countdown. You turned to see what the commotion was just as they reached the end, then watched as everyone in the group grabbed a partner and kissed them. The display was followed by cheering, and a round of applause as several other couples followed suit around you.

Perhaps it was the celebratory atmosphere, or the continually increasing intensity of your feelings toward Agatha, but you only had one goal in mind as you turned back to her.

But she must've been thinking the same as she beat you to it.

Her hands found their way to your face, yanking you closer. In the split second before your eyes fluttered closed, you caught sight of the abnormally vulnerable way she was looking at you, and quickly sought to reassure her by reciprocating the embrace. As soon as your lips met, everything faded around you. Agatha was all you could feel. She became everything.

Neither of you wasted any time in deepening the kiss. Soon your lips were parting, her tongue brushing against your own causing a rush of heat to suffuse across your body. Her hand shifted to caress your jaw, the softness of the action contrasting to the insatiable desperation with which she was pressing herself as close as possible.

You reluctantly pull away for a second. "We should-" You're trying to speak between kisses as Agatha refuses to stop. "go home now?"

There's no need to elaborate any further as she, without halting her path down to your neck, teleports you both home in a cloud of purple smoke.

You've never been more pleased with her improved accuracy in transmutation.

--- 1986 ---

Somewhere in the distance an awfully cheesy song was playing, one from one of Agatha's mixtapes no doubt. She loved the recent music style, stating that this would be the peak, though she'd said the same during the 60s and 70s. You had to agree, listening to trashy ballads with her had been the highlight of every decade.

"What are you thinking about?" Agatha's voice was low and husky, almost a whisper. You turned to see how she was staring at you, eyes roaming across your face as though for the first time. You were undoubtedly doing the same, but who could blame you when she only grew more bewitching everyday.

"Nothing." You sighed, sinking further into the pillow behind you. The room was faintly glowing, illuminated by both blue and purple strands of magic floating through the air. It was strangely comforting, like watching lightning crackling from afar. Lazily, you reached up, swirling a strand of blue round your finger.

"Your magic is darker." She commented, admiring the sapphire colour. She was right, while her power had taken on its purple colour earlier, yours had gradually darkened from the conventional light blue to a deep sapphire.

"Probably from spending too much time with you."

She chuckled, drawing your body closer to her chest and resting her head against your shoulder. "You love it." Smirking, she pressed her lips on your collarbone, then lightly bit down on the flesh. She shifted impossibly closer, her mouth tracing a path across your neck.

You revelled in the attention she was indulging you in, the sensations that accompanied her affection. Having Agatha's complete devotion was something you'd never get used to. During your friendship, she'd strived to be as close to you as possible, but being in a relationship with her provoked a whole new level of dedication.

"I love you." Though not the first time you'd told her, the repeated phrase still carried the same weight.

However, perhaps it was even more meaningful on this occasion, because as soon as the words left your mouth, Agatha froze. An anxious minute followed in which neither of you spoke, let alone moved. You didn't dare say anything else, rather lay there in silence, wondering what had warranted the sudden change in atmosphere.

Then she, without lifting her head, murmured against your skin. "Marry me."

Initially you believed your hearing had deceived you, that in reality she had said something else entirely. But judging by the way her whole body tensed, the way her magic pulsed dangerously as if it were guarding her, you knew, or rather could feel that it wasn't a deception. She had just proposed.

As another minute passed, you could almost feel her retreating into herself, insecurities inducing regret. You snapped back into reality, already loathing yourself for delaying the obvious response. "Yes. Of course I will."

Finally, Agatha dared to look up, tearful eyes meeting your own. She smiled shakily, then leant back down into a demanding kiss. "I love you, so much." She practically purred against your lips, before continuing to pepper any available skin with kisses.

Being loved by Agatha Harkness was bliss.

--- The Battle of New York 2012 ---

Another devastatingly loud crash shook your apartment, the gradually increasing volume indicating that the conflict was drawing nearer. Unlike the rest of the building's inhabitants, neither you nor Agatha had fled yet. But with each deafening rumble, or ear-piercing scream, you found yourself a step closer to ignoring her demand and leaving to help.

Upon waking up that morning, you'd sensed something was wrong, or rather, would be wrong very soon. The inkling had nagged strongly enough at the back of your mind to prompt you to wake Agatha up, who was quick to confirm your suspicion. However, neither or you could pinpoint specifics, leaving you to continue as though it were a normal day.

At some point, Agatha, being the ever vigilant wife, had gone behind your back and decided to place a protection spell upon the apartment for any worst case scenario that might've occurred. Although not an inherently bad thing, with the eventual discovery of this, you'd come to a couple rather upsetting revelations.

First, the obvious fact that she hadn't told you her plan, and second, the realisation that she'd somehow learnt to hide her magic from you. Of course her actions had annoyed you, but the battle raging outside kept you too distracted to process anything beyond basic surveillance.

Instead of arguing with Agatha, you'd suggested that you ought to help in any possible way. She'd replied with strong discrepancy, stating that it'd be too dangerous, then later admitting that she was afraid of losing you. Under any other circumstances, the confession would've been sufficient to cool your temper, to resign to hiding with your over-protective wife, but not this time.

You'd grown weary of watching people suffer, of the city being destroyed all around you. The large windows surveying the streets below had portrayed nothing but constant violence for the past hour. You were unable to look away, yet hated to watch helplessly. Only you weren't helpless. Unlike the majority of people, you were able to defend yourself, to fight back. The only thing stopping you was the reluctant promise made to your wife.

Avoiding the battle was becoming unbearable, and with no end in sight, you decided it was time to take action. Jumping up from the chair, you set a determined pace toward the kitchen. Agatha had her back turned, nonchalantly making tea while ignoring the chaos surrounding your home. Her indifference only motivated you.

"Agatha."

"Yup." She replied, casually popping the p.

"I'm going out." You tried to copy her apathetic tone, though there was still anger behind your words.

She tensed at the declaration, her grip on the counter visibly tightening, yet was remarkably quiet. Despite being unable to see her face, you could perfectly picture her grimacing. Nonetheless, her silent seething only encouraged you to continue. "Sitting here and doing nothing is driving me insane. I can't just-"

"No. You're not." She slowly turned round, peering at you both challengingly, and curiously. You hadn't seen her like this for centuries, not since the night before you'd runaway together. She had the same demeanour, was harnessing the same barely contained power. It filled the room like a shadow, engulfing you in a sense of dread. She shook her head, an eerily disbelieving smile stretching across her face. "You're not going anywhere."

The statement was commanding, it should've had you at her feet begging for mercy. But you'd spent so much of your life with her that you could see the lie in her eyes, notice the lack of meaning behind the words. She wasn't going to stop you.

"I'm going to help, Aggie." You took a step forward, a pleading attempt to convince her to let you go, maybe even to join you. Instead, she flinched. "Please..."

She was warily watching you in silence, her stubbornness shining through. The lack of compassion she was demonstrating reignited your resentment, had you nearly shaking with apprehension. There was no way she'd join you, but she definitely wouldn't stop you either.

"Here." With unsteady hands, you fumbled around for different valuables about your person, first throwing a watch onto the table, then a phone, and finally your ring. "Look after these."

Without another glance at Agatha, you strode out of the kitchen, flung open the door and descended onto the chaotic streets of New York.

It soon became apparent that your effort would best be spent helping any citizens, while, with much difficulty, staying out of sight. Under no circumstances did you want to be recognised for your endeavour, honoured for something that was general human decency. Besides, there was plenty gratification to be found in the battle. You couldn't recall ever having the opportunity to unleash your powers like this, out in the open with no holding back. It was therapeutic, though draining.

The eventual end to the conflict was a relief, but walking home seemed to require more energy than the entirety of the fighting had. As the adrenaline faded, you struggled to climb the endless flights of stairs, cursing the out of order elevator. However, the journey did give you a chance to think back over the past few hours, which were mostly a blur. Although one thing remained painfully clear; the argument with Agatha.

Pushing open the apartment door, you decided that your first priority was to apologise to her. You didn't regret your decision, but hadn't intended to upset her either. Then, only after could you relax, treat the few injuries sustained.

Strolling into the entrance, a palpable silence followed. You certainly hadn't expected to be welcomed back with open arms, but the lack of any greeting was concerning. The sound of your footsteps continued to be the only noise, echoing round the apparently empty flat. Your pace quickened as you explored the last few rooms, finding them all to be empty also.

At first glance, everything appeared to be exactly where you'd left it (except Agatha herself). It wasn't until your third walkthrough that you noticed something else was clearly missing. Your ring. The pile of valuables remained where you'd left them on the kitchen counter, save for the small silver band, which was no longer there.

Dropping to your hands and knees, you frantically began to search the floor, checking it hadn't fallen anywhere. Even at the lower vantage point, the ring was still no where to be seen. Upon giving up, you then searched through the apartment in greater detail, basically tearing the place apart. It didn't take long until you noticed that more was missing. Specifically, most of Agatha's things.

She had left you.

--- Westview 2023 ---

The red wall crackled ominously before you, the noise it emitted strangely similar to that of TV static. There was something inherently terrifying about the large structure engulfing the town. You could almost hear it transmitting a warning to stay away, not to venture past the boundary, but you'd come too far to surrender now.

Stretching forth a hand, you were met with little resistance. You'd dedicated the last ten years to improving on your magic ability and finally the progress was paying off. However, a large majority of that time had also been spent trying to track down Agatha, who's disappearance had caused nothing but pain. Out of all your mistakes, that one was the worst, and inconveniently, the hardest to fix. Despite your best efforts, there had been no sign of her for the last decade, though you hoped today would be the end to this separation.

Thousands of spells all cast at once, it would be impossible for Agatha to stay away. You could practically feel her presence nearby.

Propelling yourself forward slightly, you were pulled through the wall by an unknown force. While the boundary seemed to intimidate and reject most people, you were clearly an exception. The strength with which you were immersed into the town sent you spiralling toward the ground.

Grunting upon impact, you allowed a few seconds to remain on the ground and recover, only looking up when you heard a distinct but unforeseen sound. Children's laughter resonated from a distance, perfectly wholesome and entirely unexpected. Even more surprising was the completely ordinary suburban town in front of you.

Undeterred by the unanticipated scenario, you stood and observed the town in closer detail. You were situated towards the edge, on a patch of grass facing the last row of houses along the perimeter road. It was night, but the street was illuminated by what looked to be Halloween decorations. A pumpkin was placed outside every house, yet there was no one in sight. Carefully, you approached the signpost reading Ellis Ave and paused for a moment to think of a plan.

You knew Agatha was lurking somewhere in the town. The question was, how could you find her while being inconspicuous enough to avoid whoever had cast this town entrapment? Clearly they were incredibly powerful, perhaps more so than Agatha.

The eerie silence was broken by an advancing car, which parked in front of the crossroads. The entire situation was bizarre, but the uncanny feeling didn't stop you from walking over to the vehicle. Hopefully whoever was inside could shine a light on what was happening here.

You kept out of the beaming headlights, sticking to the shadows as you hesitantly approached. The person sitting at the drivers seat was obscured by the darkness so you hid from them while moving closer, therefore gaining the high ground in case they were someone worth avoiding. It wasn't until you were adjacent from the window that you halted to peer inside.

She was turned away from you, but that didn't stop you from immediately recognising her. Agatha still hadn't seen you, busy adjusting her witches hat, ironic, and seemingly setting a scene.

You had imagined this reunion many times, but not like this. It felt unreal to see her sat barely a few metres away from you, obliviously going about her business. The last decade without her had been the longest of your life, yet you felt like nothing had changed, like you could hop into the passenger seat and continue as normal.

Droning out your anxiety, you stepped onto the road, moving as silently as possible toward the car. Clearly Agatha was completely at ease as she paid no attention to the figure drawing nearer.

You knocked on the window, not daring to analyse her reaction. "Good evening, can I take your order please?" You joked, having no idea how else to handle the situation. For all you knew, she could still be upset, and would order you to leave her alone. Or she could've forgotten the grudge entirely, and welcome you back.

Instead, she sat there motionless, mouth slightly agape. Her lack of response prompted you to continue. "I came to apologise- well actually I tried to ten years ago but you left before I got the chance." Glancing up at Agatha, you noticed she was frowning now. "But if this is a bad time I guess I can come back later?"

She said nothing, but appeared to be fighting her own internal battle. You fought the urge to say anything else, desperate to hear her voice.

The car door swung open abruptly, causing you to stagger back. By the time you'd regained your balance, Agatha had flung herself at you, her hat falling off in the process. You wrapped your arms around her tightly, reluctant to ever let go. Hugging her felt so familiar, yet each time was as memorable as the last.

You felt tears begin to form in the corner of your eyes and let out a watery laugh. Agatha invoked so many different emotions, you couldn't keep up. Simply being in her presence pacified any worries you'd had, quelled the betrayal you'd felt after she'd left.

"This is a bad time," She muttered. "but it doesn't matter." At her dismissal, you separated, seeing how her expression matched your own. "And I'm the one that should be asking for forgiveness." She smiled sadly, brushing back a strand of your hair.

"How about we both take the blame and move on?" You suggested, eager to move past this stage of your relationship.

"Sounds good to me," She nodded, her hands slipping onto your arms as she backed away. "and I will catch you up on everything that's happening, but right now I need you to hide in the trunk."

"God I've missed you." Sighing contently, you looked over to the car, accepting your imminent fate. "And fortunately I do still trust you."

You went to leave, but were stopped by her grip on your arm. "Hold on." She reached into a pocket, producing a silver band. Your ring.

"You've been carrying that round the entire time?"

"Just in case." She winked, grabbing hold of your hand and slipping the ring back on.

A warmth travelled through you, starting from the tip of you finger and diffusing across your entire body. She held onto your hand, bringing it up to meet her lips while maintaining eye contact. At the gesture, you tugged her into a kiss, the contact saying what you currently were unable to.

You knew there was a lot you'd have to work thought together, but right now, all that mattered was the feeling of her lips against your own.

"Next time you want a break, please tell me instead of vanishing."

She chuckled. "There won't be a next time." Then pulled you into another chaste kiss. "You're not getting rid of me that easily, dear."

#agatha harkness x reader #agnes x reader

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multimetaverse · 3 years

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HSMTMTS 2x02 Review

Typecasting was another good ensemble ep (and the last filmed entirely pre-covid). Let’s dig in!

Lot’s of great humour this ep from Mazzara’s morning announcements to him dragging Ricky for being a flake, to Big Red’s office stare, to Carlos not being able to fake interest in Belle during the song

Ashlyn, Kourtney, and Gina’s audition was a lot of fun and was some great character growth for Gina who was so used to going solo and scheming to get her way

As was already leaked weeks ago, Ashlyn got Belle, Ricky is the Beast, and EJ is Gaston. For the most part we saw pretty safe casting choices. Ricky was always gonna get a lead role since he’s the male lead of the show and EJ is typecast in the meat head dumb jock roles like Gaston. A bolder show would have cast EJ as the Beast to flip the script a little but of course EJ had to be Gaston so that Ashlyn could be Belle. They had brief nod to it be sorta weird to have two cousins play unrequited love interests and I don’t expect it to be brought up much again (although let’s be real, a WASPy family like the Caswells definitely had some cousin marriages back in the day to keep the bloodline pure)

Tim’s reasoning for casting Ashlyn as Belle is that she doesn’t fit the image and body type of a Disney princess which is true and certainly by looks alone someone like Lily would typically have been a shoe in for Belle. But having the only white girl in the group being cast as Belle when her only competition was two black girls is pretty typical. It’s true that not many Belle’s look like Ashlyn but none look like Kourtney and Gina. It could be argued that it would be inaccurate to have a non-white Belle in rural 17th century France but it’s not like there were witches wandering around casting spells that turned noblemen and their servants into beasts and furniture in the Ancien Régime. HSMTMTS and Disney in general can sometimes do bold unexpected things that push boundaries and subvert expectations but most of the time they play it safe

The rini scenes were adorable tonight but man they hit different with Sour out now

Ricky rushing to help Big Red was sweet

Also nice to see Nini supporting Kourtney when their friendship was more one sided in S1

Carlos really is rich if he’s buying 10 000 instagram followers for the drama dept account

Lily does have a lovely voice but she’s a real dick. From the ending scene she’s either transferring to North High or was a spy sent in by Zach Roy to scope out East High, which is really taking this show into Glee territory

The YAC anthem actually slaps. This isn’t usually a subtle show and they’re not even trying to make it seem like Nini will stay at YAC. It’s a cold, rigid place with none of the warmth or camaraderie of East High . Where Miss Jenn trusts the process the Dean trusts the outcome. It looks from the June ep descriptions that Nini is back sooner rather than later thankfully and I’m curious what role she’ll end up getting in Beauty and the Beast

Looking Ahead:

Well Valentine’s day should be lit. Looks like the income gap between Seb and Carlos will come to the fore. I’m very curious to see if there will be a Seblos kiss this season. There’s no reason not to except Disney’s homophobia. Realistically if Tim can’t get a Seblos kiss approved then it’s very unlikely any other showrunner for less popular Disney shows with lgbtq rep will be able to get any same sex kisses approved

We get Howie’s introduction and there should be some sparks there between him and Kourtney. We also get Big Red wooing Ashlyn and Ricky and Nini’s comedy of errors with their Valentine’s gifts

The promo is making it look like Ricky is the one who got Gina the chocolates left on her porch. I would hope that it’s a misdirection of some sort and that there’s some mystery and drama to this plot. Like Gina thinking it was a gift from Ricky when it was from someone else or vice versa. Hopefully it’s not something lame like Ashlyn leaving it to cheer Gina up. If it’s a romantic gift then there aren’t many options: either Ricky, EJ, Howie, or Jack

Jack doesn’t seem to show up until near the end of the season and is likely only in an ep or two which doesn’t leave much time to do anything and who even knows if he knows who Gina is or where she lives. Howie’s description does say that he gets close with a wildcat or two which would fit Kourtney and Gina but again he likely doesn’t know Gina yet or where she lives. We know she has tension still with Ricky but that’s pretty shady of Ricky to give another girl a Valentine’s gift when he’s trying to make things work long distance with Nini. There was a hint towards Gina liking EJ in 1x10 and the facetime call between them before S2 also hinted to some feelings there but they haven’t done much of anything with Gina and EJ, or really anything with EJ so far this season. Well I can’t wait to see how things shake out

Until next week wildcats

#HSMTMTS #Rini #Nini Salazar-Roberts #Ricky Bowen #Ashlyn Caswell #Gina Porter #Kourtney Greene #HSMTMTS Reviews

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thisyearingaming · 4 years

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1997 - This Year in Gaming

Muggins here was born in ‘97, and can’t really remember much of it, natch. But there were some good things released this year - I’ve played every one of these, and have missed so many more.

Diablo - Windows, January 3rd

We start with dungeon-crawl-em-up and well-loved out of season April Fool’s Joke, Diablo. I’ll be totally honest - I don’t like Diablo that much. It’s absolutely fine, I just can’t get into it. The writing, setting and characters are all very good especially since this year only marks the beginning of games being seen as a bit more adult and intelligent. Check out this gameplay from Hour of Oblivion on YouTube, and marvel at the faux-Scottish accent on Griswold the blacksmith.

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Mario Kart 64 - Nintendo 64, February 10th

Compared to its more recent versions, Mario Kart 64 is a veritable bloody relic of the past - solid controls and a quirky style mean it’s still a crowd pleaser to this day, but you’d be hard pressed to find anyone right now that would die on the hill of it being their favourite single-player racing experience. It’s also got some of the deepest, impenetrable lore in any medium known to the human race - why exactly is Marty the Thwomp locked up here?

Blast Corps - Nintendo 64, February 28th

February’s position as most boring month of the year is shaken up a bit by having a uniquely designed Rare game slammed into its 28-day long face. Blast Corps is the puzzle-action game where you take control of several vehicles to destroy homes and buildings in order to prevent a nuclear warhead exploding in the coolest incarnation of Cold War politicking ever seen in a video game. Calling Blast Corps a “hidden gem” these days is like calling Celeste a hidden gem - it impresses nobody and makes you look like a dick.

Turok: Dinosaur Hunter - Nintendo 64, March 4th

The N64 was home to a surprisingly large number of above-average shooters despite its muddy graphics and small cartridge space - Turok is one of these, a great FPS game where you shoot the SHIT out of dinosaurs. Brett Atwood of Billboard said it was like Doom and Tomb Raider mixed - Doom Raider, if you will. I say it isn’t - there’s no demons, and there’s no polygonal breasts to poke dinosaurs’ eyes out with!

Castlevania: Symphony of the Night - Sony PlayStation, March 20th

What is a retrospective? A miserable little pile of opinions. I’ve only recently played through SotN for the very first time on a TOTALLY LEGITIMATE copy with a CRT filter. Bloody good (geddit?) game, that takes the repetition of its predecessors, improves on it in basically every conceivable way, and combines it with special effects and graphics that even 23 years later had me going “ooh, that looks quite good!” Symphony’s music and audio design are wonderfully paired with a deeply enjoyable experience that’ll have you saying “mm, maybe just one more room?”

Tekken 3 - Sony PlayStation, March 20th

Also releasing from the Land of the Rising Sun that day was Tekken 3, which many believe is still one of the best fighters ever made. Tekken 3′s combat is so fast and responsive that it’s better than some games made today. T3 is also the best and easiest way to knock seven shades of absolute shite out of your friends without risking a massive head injury or a trip to the headmaster’s office... where you could also challenge him, but only if he plays as my favourite Not-Guile-or-Ken character in gaming, Paul.

Sonic Jam - Sega Saturn, June 20th

The moment Sega realised that re-packaging old Mega Drive games would net them serious cash - although unlike later collections, this is a strictly Sonic affair, and has a neat little 3D world to run around in as a sort of hub world. Sonic X-Treme proved that Sonic Team would have to work hard at getting the fastest thing alive into 3D space properly: Jam is the sort of test ground for it too. It features some genuinely good emulation work for 1997, although it’s basically the gaming equivalent of going round to your grandparents at Christmas only for them to give you the exact same gifts you got in 1991, 1992 and 1994 but wrapped in a bow to make you think it’s different. What are you lookin’ at, you little blue devil?

Star Fox 64 - Nintendo 64, June 30th

So there’s this German company, right, called StarVox. Nintendo look at Europe and say “shit, we don’t want another lawsuit... after all, we’ve done three this year!”. So they give us in the PAL region the exciting title of Lylat Wars which as far as I know means absolutely fucking nothing in the context of the game. They’re still called Star Fox in-game too so what was the point? Anyway, fun 3D shooter with graphics that’ll make you do a barrel roll off the sofa and onto the power button to make the brown and green blurs a little easier on the eyes. Hello 2007, I’ve come back to make old references with you!

Carmageddon - Windows, July 30th

The game so scary it was BANNED in the UK! More like the game so fucking shit it was banned. Carmageddon is so deeply boring to play on PC that I can only imagine that Stainless Games made it tasteless by 90s standards simply to ramp up demand - much like another game we’ll be covering soon.

Herc’s Adventures - Sony PlayStation, July 31st

“And they said Kratos was the best hero? Shish... they got it wrong, sister! Hercules is clearly better... he even has a coconut weapon.” A surprisingly fun overhead action game that most people only know for... well, I’ll just embed it.

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Mega Man X4 - Sony Playstation, August 1st

A few years ago I tried playing every Mega Man game there is - I gave up at X3 because I was getting bored. Even still, Mega Man bores me - but at least the level design is good. Stay away from the Windows port. Pictured: me in the background yawning.

GoldenEye 007 - Nintendo 64, August 25th

The name’s Intro. Overused intro which I also managed to fuck up twice through the deeply editable medium of text. GoldenEye is like the Seinfeld of console shooters - playing it nowadays you’re unlikely to be amazed but holy shit there’s some absolute greatness in this game. Every sound and every piece of music in GoldenEye is permanently seared into my brain - sometimes I’ll just hear Facility or Frigate in my head alongside the door opening sound and the gentle PEW of the PP7. I mean come on, fucking listen to this and tell me Grant Kirkhope isn’t cool as all hell.

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LEGO Island - Windows, September 26th

The first open world experience I ever had was LEGO Island. It’s still quite good today, utterly deranged animation from the likes of the Infomaniac and Brickster - a cautionary tale for children that giving pizza to high-profile criminals is disastrous for the human LEGO race.

Fallout - Windows, October 10th

War never changes, but franchises do. Fallout’s legendary status in the industry is exemplified in how different it feels. Yes, we had the game Wasteland nine years prior, but until September 97 there was nothing quite like Fallout. From the chilling introduction sequence showing the ruins of the United States to the tragic ending, Fallout is an exercise in pure human misery with the brightest spots of hope it can possibly muster thrown in for good measure. What begins as a tedious isometric point-and-click RPG ends as a minigun-wielding power fantasy, before your entire worth is stripped from you at the finish line. You have 500 days to find a water chip before it’s too late, but you’re constantly being fought by terrifying Super Mutants, irradiated animals, and the biggest monster of all - humanity. See what I did there? If anything, humanity in Fallout’s setting would be the greatest unifying force possible against the horror of the outside world. But how is it? It’s dull, it’s sluggish, and it’s really hard to get into even if you’re already a fan - but push through that and it’s worthwhile to see exactly how far the series got before Todd Howard said “eh fuck it” and had the whole thing dipped into an FEV vat.

Grand Theft Auto - Sony PlayStation, October 21st

To put it simply, the first in the GTA series is now nothing but a novelty. It has an irritating camera, wonky controls, poor graphics and deeply repetitive gameplay. But thank fuck it exists, because without it the Rockstar story may have been very different indeed. It’s quintessential cops and robbers gameplay, spanning across Liberty City, Vice City and San Andreas in one game, but with maps so far removed from their modern incarnations they may as well be named “Not New York, Possibly Bristol and Orange Town”. People really fucking hated Hare Krishnas in the 20th Century, didn’t they?

Crash Bandicoot 2: Cortex Strikes Back - Sony PlayStation, October 31

A hard one to talk about, honestly - it’s more Crash and better than the first one. It looks great, and Crash controls so well compared to his first outing. It’ll also keep you playing for 100%, fiendishly addictive and unashamedly difficult. Had a weird cover that moved with your head.

PaRappa the Rapper - Sony PlayStation, November 17th

Type type type the words into the box! (Type, type, type - uh oh - the box?)

PaRappa is a gorgeously stylised rhythm game about rapping to steal the heart of the girl of your dreams - which involves learning karate, getting your driver’s license, selling bottle caps and frogs, making a cake, desperately trying not to shit yourself, and finally performing live on stage. Every one of its segments is so well-produced that they’d genuinely sell like ghost cookies in this era of shite rap. Notable for producing the greatest Jay-Z backing track ever made.

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Sonic R - Sega Saturn, November 18th

Sonic R is absolutely FINE with vibrant textures, interesting levels, neat gimmicks and decent controls. But I’m gonna talk about its fucking AWESOME soundtrack by Richard Jacques and T.J. Davis, an eclectic mix of Europop and New Jack Swing - even thinking about it is bringing tears of absolute joy to my eyes hearing Super Sonic Racing in my head. You’ve got the main theme, Living in the City, Can You Feel the Sunshine, Back in Time, Diamond in the Sky, Work It Out and Number One - all of these are absolute club bangers and genuinely wouldn’t be out of place in a 90s disco.

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Tomb Raider II - Sony PlayStation, November 18th

Lara Croft returns to single-handedly endanger every species on Earth. TR2 is really good, the exploration and puzzle-solving aspects of the first game expanded upon here and the gunplay remaining just as punchy. Lara’s got a fully-functioning ponytail which absolutely boggles the fucking mind - a lot of work went into Lara’s hair for the 2013 reboot, so I can’t imagine the amount of man hours it took to get fluid(ish, come on, it’s the PS1 we’re talking about) hair movements in 1997.

And really, that’s all I played from 1997. I’ve left out big hitters like Quake II, Gran Turismo and Diddy Kong Racing, but I simply haven’t formed an opinion on them yet. Maybe in a future post.

Thanks for reading.

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ceekbee · 4 years

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What to Remember When Waking Up

By Paul C Pritchard on Wednesday June 17th, 2020

Remember, Remember ...

I am sensitive and I can be hard on myself. It’s a paradoxical feeling of wanting everything to be better (I am an idealist) and then getting deeply affected by the pain of this life and those things that I want to help change. Consequently, I feel like I play a game of peekaboo with life. And that’s okay too. I come out when I can be at my most effective. And I retreat to restore and gain more resilience when needed. However, I make a promise to never give up. I hear the Dalai Lama telling me this over and over again as he’s smiling and laughing in earnest:

Never give up — No matter what is going on. Never give up. Develop the heart … Be compassionate. Not just to your friends but to everyone. Be compassionate. Work for peace in your heart and in the world. Work for peace. And I say again, Never give up. No matter what is going on around you. Never give up — Dalai Lama

At the moment, there’s a lot to be idealistic about. I don’t want to ever lose that fire in my belly for justice and graceful right action. I want to be vigilant and participate in the collaboration of change that is happening in the world right now. It excites me when: the global energy is emphatically chanting for justice and for a collective means to make amends; when there’s a conscious alignment for rebalance and a shift in global consciousness; when the sporadic and independent voices start to harmonise with synchronised purpose and when consciousness shakes the apathy, the mediocrity and the resignation out of us — making way for our souls to sing.

What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other?” – George Eliot (AKA Mary Ann Evans)

I feel great comfort in my heart as I read these words, a respite from the relentless search for meaning in my life. Back in the 19th Century women were frowned upon as writers and simply were not as popular as ‘male’ writers. Subsequently, Mary Ann Evans wrote under the pseudonym George Eliot. In my commitment to truth and integrity, this fact feels important to share. No matter how big or small these gestures of restoration are, only by continuing to correct the order and equality, can we make an honest impact. And we can all make an honest impact in our very unique ways.

Alt text hereWork for peace in your heart and in the world. Never give up. Image: Christopher Campbell

Focussing on the Solution

I personally don’t like to focus too much on the past and the whys (although I feel it’s vital for our understanding). I have learned I am more useful in solution-focused energies. When there is a natural surge to make amends, the invitation arrives for me to enter the slipstream and make my voice and actions count. Some people are activists and generators. I wasn’t built like that. I’m a collaborator and support person. We are experiencing a spectacular wave of transformation energy right now and the invitation is for us all to get on board with our own personalised way of creating lasting change.

Sometimes it’s not possible to do everything. So, I like to give to causes where my contribution will have a greater impact and also an ongoing ripple effect. I believe in giving to education initiatives and also projects that support basic survival needs; clothing, food and safe-shelter. If I can make a difference in a child’s life and their education, I know I am helping pave the way for a kinder world by empowering them with skills to take care of themselves and also one another.

Other causes also grab my attention; especially when I see broken children walking around in adult bodies feeling lost and at odds with the world. All their pain and wrong choices like a snowball gathering momentum in a cold and unforgiving world. I am a great believer in reform and rehabilitation. Yet, I learned a long time ago I cannot be an idealist and a perfectionist in the area of reform and rehabilitation. I cannot click my fingers and make all the world’s pain and suffering disappear. These things take time, a lot of time. It takes generations of healing. But I am committed to at least make a start in helping broken adults now.

Planting the Seeds of a Better Future

I imagine I am planting an acorn for that big old oak to come forth. Perhaps I will never get to sit in the shade of that magnificent tree. But it does not stop me planting and protecting this acorn, this sapling, this young tree. Right now, I can find solace when I think about all the shelter this tree will provide in the many years to come.

I believe the energetic blueprint of kindness can never be destroyed — it ripples into Existence eternally. It feels humbling to know that my invisible hands and invisible work will continue to have a kind influence in the world. I plant to make the world a better place for even when I am no longer here. This is what I try and hold on to when waking up.

Alt text hereI may never reap the rewards of my actions but maybe someday, someone else will. Image: Ksenia Makagonova

David Whyte, in his simple, yet deeply profound poem, What to Remember When Waking, reminds us of what is important. Not the destination but the journey. And more importantly what qualities we hold dear as we travel as a seemingly individual being. It is to hold steadfast that small opening of remembrance and to cultivate hope and trust. To foster a purer knowing and acceptance that we are not individual beings but a spark of the one Light. He states so eloquently, “To remember the other world in this world, is to live in your true inheritance.”

When I am too hard on myself and when my idealist cannot reconcile or make sense of the world, all I have to do is remember who I truly am, remember back to where it all began, that spark of light from the one true Light. And as I beacon myself out into the world, out into the universe, I must stay present enough to be amazed at the myriad of attributes of the exquisite light refractions I experience all around me. I must wait with curiosity, in childlike wonder at what shapes the seed of me is yet to reveal. My prayer is to keep shining and reflecting back into the whole — that one particular, unique and distinctive light that I call ‘Me’.

In that first hardly noticed moment in which you wake,

coming back to this life from the other

more secret, moveable and frighteningly honest world

where everything began,

there is a small opening into the new day

which closes the moment you begin your plans.

What you can plan is too small for you to live.

What you can live wholeheartedly will make plans enough

for the vitality hidden in your sleep.

To be human is to become visible

while carrying what is hidden as a gift to others.

To remember the other world in this world

is to live in your true inheritance.

You are not a troubled guest on this earth,

you are not an accident amidst other accidents

you were invited from another and greater night

than the one from which you have just emerged.

Now, looking through the slanting light of the morning window

toward the mountain presence of everything that can be

what urgency calls you to your one love?

What shape waits in the seed of you

to grow and spread its branches

against a future sky?

Is it waiting in the fertile sea?

In the trees beyond the house?

In the life you can imagine for yourself?

In the open and lovely white page on the writing desk?

What does this poem evoke in you? Can you take a breath now and recognise that spark of light that you call ‘you’? What are some of the qualities that you hold dear on this journey? What shape waits in the seed of you to grow and spread its branches against a future sky?

As always, we look forward to you sharing in the comments below and as always we are with you and sharing our love with you.

Paul and Team UPLIFT

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stefanreyes · 4 years

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› [ MICHAEL TREVINO / CIS MALE ] ┊ STEFAN REYES ― This TWENTY-NINE-YEAR-OLD SUPERNATURAL ( WITCH ) is AGAINST the humans. HE has lived in Marion for BORN HERE/ RETURNED FEW MONTHS AGO in the GREENWILLOW APARTMENTS neighborhood, working as a PARAMEDIC. There are no winners in this war, and HE is NOT AT RISK of losing the supernatural war.

↳ BASICS.

FULL NAME: Stefan Reyes

AGE: 29

GENDER & SEXUALITY: Cis male & Pansexual

HEIGHT & WEIGHT: 6′ & 81kg

SPECIES: Witch

GIVEN POWER: Life & Death Manipulation

HOUSING: Currently resides at Greenwillow Apartments, Family home is at Edgewater Orchard.

HOMETOWN: Born and raised at Marion. Moved to New York for a few years before returning in 2019.

OCCUPATION: Paramedic and co-owner of Ambrosia Apothecary

↳ FAMILY.

PARENTS: Alejandro Reyes ( Deceased ) & Leticia Reyes née Hernandez ( Deceased )

SIBLINGS: Maria Reyes ( Deceased )

DAUGHTER: Belle Rose-Reyes

OTHERS: Chloe Reyes - cousin, Leandra Reyes - aunt, Sawyer Rose - Belle’s mother

↳ VIEWS.

WITCHES: He may not openly say that witches as a species are superior to others, but he does believe that. After all they do have powers the other species could only dream of.

WEREWOLVES & VAMPIRES: The abilities of these creatures are something he’s always been interested in and he likes to study their powers and harness it for his own use.

HUNTERS & HUMANS: Don’t really care about what they do as long as they don’t cross his path.

↳ STORY.

Stefan was born and raised in Marion, son of two powerful witches, Alejandro & Leticia, whose ancestry went back centuries. But their magical line didn’t stay all magical -- his mother’s family had a secret which she did not even share with her husband. With one of her ancestors having married and procreated with a human centuries ago against the will of his coven, the witches cursed him in their anger and since then the magical line had been tainted, so to speak -- several of the descendants in the family being born with no magic in their blood at all. It was a secret well-guarded within the family though. These non-magical children were often killed or sent away where nobody knew them, stories fabricated to hide what really happened to them. It was what happened to Leticia’s brother too, which meant that she had a lot on the line when she had children with the power-hungry Alejandro Reyes. When all she wanted was a family, her husband wanted nothing but power and fame, to make a name for themselves in the world -- which he did. And when they had children, they were mere pawns to him, not to be loved but to be used, trophies to bring glory to the family name and carry on his legacy.

As a child, he was cared for very little. And if he had been cared for, he didn’t remember much. Long time ago, he had an older sister. He had been five and she had been twelve. Her name was Maria and there wasn’t much he remembered of her. There were few memories, where she played with him and they laughed. And then he remembered his sister’s screaming, always her screaming. He didn’t understand what was happening. He didn’t know that at twelve the girl still had no magic and his father didn’t want her, not when she seemed like she would grow to be a mere human. It wasn’t long after that Stefan attended the funeral of his mother and sister. A tragic accident, they said, but he knew deep down as he grew up that it was no accident -- it was his father’s doing.

After that it was just him and his father, with no love lost between them, but Stefan chose to keep his home life a secret. He didn’t share with a soul what had happened to the rest of his family and lived his life outside of his home as a different person. An outgoing boy who easily got along with people, but he had a dark secretive side – despite everything, he enjoyed using magic, especially in a manner which hurt others. He may not be able to control his father, but he could control everyone else if he liked. He loved how powerful it made him feel and he didn’t care who he hurt in the process of getting familiar which his powers.

It was when he was sixteen that he figured out what his given power was. He chose not to speak of it to his father, instead working by himself to perfect it. It was the power to play with life and death itself, and many fell victim to his trying to master this new power – and finally when he was twenty, he had perfected it enough for him to resurrect someone who had died many years ago. After perfecting a plan to run away from town, he brought back his sister, but he hadn’t anticipated how much of his strength that piece of magic would consume -- he was too weak to bring his mother back to life too. Stefan knew that his father would be furious when he came to know of him bringing Maria back. And he was bound to lose his sister again if he stayed to get strong enough to bring his mother back too. And so he bid goodbye to his mother and left for New York with just Maria, having no intention of returning to Marion ever again.

New York proved to be a fresh start not just for Maria but for him too. Granted, it was hard to settle at first. He had to drop out of Med school to spend his time taking care of Maria who was only a child, and a mess since her return. But once she began to get better, it was all worth it. It was a while before he could think about his career again -- he considered going back to Med school but that just seemed impractical now and so instead he joined as a student paramedic. Things seemed to move smoothly, and while he always had the fear at the back of his mind that his father would find them, he never did and with time passing, Stefan began to relax.

But his father did come for her one day, and Stefan lost his sister all over again but this time he made sure that his father paid. With his life being turned upside down after the death of Maria last February, Stefan has been doing his best to cope. After the initial few weeks of spiraling, he took to traveling, working at several medical camps overseas. Returning to New York where there were too many memories of Maria was not what he needed and so he instead moved back to Marion, in a attempt to move on from his sister’s death and to rebuild his life again.

↳ PERSONALITY.

Stefan may have been a timid kid at one time, but things were a lot different now. He had learnt early in life that being weak was not an option and while it took him years to fight back with his parents, he always made sure that outwardly he appeared strong to everyone, and then slowly learnt to grow strong himself. He is intelligent, charismatic and charming. His first instinct is always to be civil, if not friendly, with people. There is a very negative side to him too, a side which he learnt from his parents. He often overrides his instinct and can be very manipulative, use people for his own gain and throw them without a second thought. Although this is not something he would ever do to people he cares about. With his friends and loved ones, Stefan is the opposite of strong. He is caring and extremely protective, and would do literally anything for them. It might sometimes escalate to the point where he would do what he thinks is right for them, even if it is against their will. While Stefan does not have many weaknesses, his major weakness happens to be love itself, for he is easily manipulated by people he loves and trusts. With them he would be a pushover, letting them use him even when he knows clearly that he is being used. He has the tendency to get sucked into toxic relationships because of this. His biggest weakness of all had been his sister, keeping her safe and happy had been his biggest priority -- and when she died, Stefan spiraled. It had been months ago but only recently has Stefan come to finally accept her loss and begin to move on. He is hard working and ambitious, and despite his playful and carefree side, when it came to the real deal he is responsible and level-headed.

↳ TIMELINE.

Born: 2nd December 1990

Death of sister and mother: 12th June 1996

Resurrection of sister: 17th October 2010

Moved to New York: 18th October 2010

His daughter Belle’s birth: 11th July 2013

Maria’s killed again & his father’s death: 12th February 2019

Returned to Marion: 24th July 2019

↳ CONNECTIONS.

Baby Mama [ Sawyer Rose ] : Belle’s mother.

Child hood best friend [ open ] : Witch, approximately his age, who shares the same interest as him in magic. They knew each other since they were kids, and despite him not being in town a big chunk of the time, they’d still have kept in touch and would know everything about each other.

Other friends [ open, multiple ] : Any species, level of friendship can be discussed and plotted, I am open to all ideas! Friends he knew in Marion or when he was in New York, or he met during one of his trips abroad.

Connections through his daughter [ open, multiple ] : Belle’s baby sitters, School teachers, maybe witch who help the little girl learn magic. Those who take private classes for dance, art, music, karate etc. Belle is an active kid who wants to be involved in everything and Stefan would be happy to befriend her favourite teachers.

Colleagues [ Marley Evans, open, multiple ] : Other paramedics and EMTs, firefighters, doctors and nurses at the hospital etc.

Exes & flings [ open, multiple ] : It can range from just a one night stand or a long term flings, friends with benefits,enemies with benefits, exes in good terms & bad, I am open to anything here, as wild and dramatic as you want to go.

People who owe him [ Ryder, open, multiple ] : He can get devious with methods to repay him for favours he does for people. He owns an apothecary and can craft just about any spell people may want from him, as long as they are ready to pay his price.

I will think of more, but if there’s anything else you need, I am open to exploring!!

↳ TAGS.

Clever as the devil and twice as pretty ( visage )

They won’t break me but they will fear me ( musings )

#intro #bio

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radicalstorytelling · 5 years

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BLOG POST: A Summer of Poetry

I have been a poet (whatever that means) for the past 2 years. However, I have also been an A-Level student, which means that finding time to write has sometimes required more creativity than doing the actual writing. That all charged at 3.20pm on the 13th of June when I finished my final exam and entered into the longest summer of my life. I was determined not to waste a second of it. That was 5 weeks ago. If you're a concerned friend wondering why you haven't seen me in a while, here is what I've been up to.

1. Writing Spoken Word for #DarwenGetsHangry

#DarwenGetsHangry is a campaign to end UK food poverty, led by a group of young people. You may have seen them on ITV News recently - they're doing very well! My brief was to sit down with some of the campaigners to chat about how food poverty has effected them and then write a spoken word piece, from their perspective, in response. Members of the campaign will perform the piece at the End Hunger UK national conference in October and then will create a poetry-video based upon the piece to use as a tool for campaigning and recruitment.

This project has been both a challenge and a huge privilege. The sensitive nature of the stories I was helping communicate required me to work closely with the Darwen Gets Hangry campaigners, who blew me away with their bravery and trust. I feel real hope that soon the government will be forced to face up to the issue of UK food poverty, and it was an honour to feature in the history these extraordinary young people are making.

I'll be adding the #DarwenGetsHangry piece to my digital portfolio as soon as I have the go-ahead from the campaigners to do so!

2. Judging an environment-themed youth poetry competition From one group of youth campaigners to another!

Although school has finished, the Cumbria branch of the School Strikes 4 Climate Movement continues, proving once and for all that we are, in fact, not just lazy skivers... (as the random elderly folk who encounter our protests seem to LOVE informing me). Excitingly, it's making a difference as well! Already this year South Lakeland District Council have declared a climate emergency as a direct response to our February meeting, local media are providing regular coverage, and only last week Lib Dem Cllr Dyan Jones contacted us to arrange a meeting.

Unsurprisingly, poetry has cemented itself at the core of the movement, proving Shelley's assertion that 'poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world'. Inspired in part by the new poet laureate's pledge to use poetry to combat climate change, the organisers at UKSCN Cumbria decided to launch a competition for all school-aged young people throughout Cumbria, with subcategories for each Key Stage. Originally, my role was just supposed to be curating a judging panel, although this somehow has evolved to me being on the panel myself, promoting at it protests, and even appearing on BBC Radio Cumbria!

Overall, the competition has received 365 entries, which isn't bad for a contest arranged by a handful of teenagers without a budget! Winning entries are still to be announced, as the other judges and I are taking our time reading through our allotted poems. With so many negative messages about the future circulating, it's good to know that we can still find hope in the next generation. In the same vein but not completely related - if you do fancy listening to some poetry about climate change, one of mine received international attention earlier this month when it ended up on Extinction Rebellion's digital newsletter! (what witchcraft...) I'm about halfway down, dressed as a penguin.

3. Helping Organise a Literature Festival

Tidelines Literature Festival is a brand new family-orientated literature festival taking place in Grange over Sands on the 17th and 18th of August, for free. They've got special guests like Kate fox, Katie Hale and Tony Vino, as well as a storm slam, crafts, and open mic, a living library and plenty more. Originally I was only supposed to be hosting the poetry open mic (are we sensing a theme here?) but talking to the organisers, I confess, I may have gotten excited and volunteered to be the volunteer liason, as well as to put together a team of young poets-in-residence, help out with social media, help with promotion and perform an hour long show (more on that later) as well. Not that I'm complaining. Helping out with this festival has been more fun than I can say, and it hasn't even happened yet! For more information please do check out the Tidelines eventsbrite page.

4. Writing a full length show!

By far my most ambitious project this summer has been writing my first full-length show 'Kidz Theez Dayz'. This has been A LOT of work, and I've loved every minute of it (except cutting it down at the end, damn time constrictions!). 'Kidz Theez Dayz' is a (hopefully) powerful and thought-provoking spoken word/theatre piece about what it means to be a political big-mouth teenager in the 21st century. The show deals with everything from school life, the environment, first loves, mental health, powerful friendships and parental pressure, and is very firmly routed in our current political landscape. Does that sound interesting enough? I hope so. The whole process of planning, writing, editing, revising, designing sound, rehearsing and promoting has, and continues to be, a truly valuable learning curve and one which has allowed me to produce something I'm actually very proud of.

So far, I have 2 performances lined up, one at Tidelines Literature Festival in Grange, Lancashire on the 17th of August, followed the weekend afterwards by Greenbelt Festival in Boughton House, Northamptonshire. If you are interested in coming along but can't make either of those dates, I'll be announcing further performances on twitter, and after that... Fringe 2020?

5. Other things...

Upon reflection, cramming every poetry-related event, competition or project that I've been a part of so far this summer into this one blog post could be a stretch, so please forgive me for cramming a few into this one section.

One of the greatest privileges I have is being able to go into schools and teach poetry and creative writing, as I did at a primary school in Morecambe last week as part of their 'Wonderfest'. I've also been working with another artist to create a 10-minute piece of street theatre around climate change, set post-apocalypse, that will debut at the Torchlight Carnival in September. Another friend has recruited me to help organise a showcase of talented young artists, in aid of Ovarian Cancer, which we are busy planning and which I will be hosting. I've also finally had the time to start this blog! Hello, by the way.

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postpunkpontypandyphantomthief · 5 years

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6th Comedy Monologue

“So folks, that whole Brexit rubbish is finally over isn’t it?”

“I know, some of us could see it coming and Teresa May looks like the spitting image

of the stepmother from Cinderella

how come nobody has noticed that yet?

we all have politicians we don’t like don’t we?

at times like this, I have to remind myself Teresa May is a very well liked woman

but then I remember back in the day Margaret Thatcher was also a very well liked woman

don’t you think she and Teresa may are quite similar?

well this is how she’d treat a political problem

*attempts impersonation*

“what’s that? ok men I did you to do this and then this and then this and this”

whereas Teresa may would handle the situation like…

*attempts impersonation*

what’s this? oh leave it for a few months

but the main thing is they both hate poor people so who cares what they think

I actually sort of understand why people like Jeremy Corbyn but I had written that previous gag back in late June of last year, speaking of outdated gags

Pirates were the communists and socialists of the 17th century

they wanted money, disagreed with colonialism and didn’t care what the government thought of them

like with communists they were accepting and inclusive but they wanted gold

the pirates accepted many on their ship they allowed homosexuality, they allowed women in strong roles there were great times had on the high seas

even with the loot, they got they’d share it evenly what other power was involved with being inclusive with most things except money Oh Yeah! the communists

Yes, Yes we’ll handle it we’ll accept you but give us all your money

communism is a good concept but in the end, people get greedy for the money

like with pirates

we’ll accept you matey but give us some gold

however they didn’t agree about the government, they had their own independent pirate crews and disagreed with colonialism and capitalism

kind of like some of us, I think

we criticize politics, we like to party and we accept most people except colonialists …and capitalists...

Oh well, at least there’s been good music with Marina and the diamonds, Ariana Grande and the 1975

We, humans, love music

which makes me think about bands related to Homosapians

in the 60s we had the Monkees good band good name

and now we have Arctic Monkeys, Gorillaz, Rang a Tang and Apes

what about the lesser known homosapian types

Chimpanzees and Baboons

if music existed in Planet of the Apes

the Kate Bush hit Babooshka would be about a

monkey looking for love after getting his heart broken seeing his wife cheat on him with an older mandrill

only to fall in love again with who he’d call his baboonska

Animals are interesting creatures whether they are made of glass, made of 1960s haircuts or made of the first songs of a math rock band

Another good thing about music and animals is that Roger Taylor is going to help us save the bees

Thinking bee! Thinking queen! thinking bee! Thinking queen!

Speaking of which there’s been a whole glam rock/synthpop revival going on

And I love that

although as a kid I watched media from all sorts of different decades

While they watched Jersey Shore and Love Island I was watching Disney and CBBC sitcoms mixed with Japanese cartoons and shows from years before like Jem and the holograms, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and the original my little pony series.

I would also watch funnybones, the original noody series from a VHS I “borrowed” from my neighbours, as well as the Muppet show and some classic cinema.

I think it’s amazing that this revival is happening it’s like the 60s,70s,80s,90s and early 2000s are all going on at the same time.

Revolutionary anarchic protests, Androgynous rockers, Neon colours, post-punk indie shows, peculiar fashion trends and reality shows as well as the cybernetic future beyond

But I’m also cold and angry about how this is happening because on the other hand, there are things carried over from previous decades that shouldn’t still be around...fascists in positions of power, nonces in the entertainment industry, Threat of a nuclear war, low economy, Jamie Oliver, Piers Morgan, Death, Pollution,Misogyny,Misandry,Sexism,Racism and White Supremacy

I could list more, but I can’t think at the moment I’m focusing on my work while morons on Twitter and Tumblr are yabbering on about vegan sausage rolls.

I’ve never tried Greggs before but I’m sure the vegans and vegetarians are happy that a mainstream chain like Greggs has made a product catered specifically for them, whereas before if you asked for a “vegan option” at a restaurant the waiter would scratch their neck.

However not all restaurants are like this,having to work overtime dealing with angry parents,screaming children and the odd nazi at Mcdonalds is not an easy task,yet so many waiters and workers across the world are able to somehow keep those businesses afloat,you guys, girls and comrades don’t get enough credit,you should be paid more,no wonder so many mainstream restaurants are having strikes or running out of food and people are either going to more independently funded places or ordering online to get their daily dose of fast fried convenience.

and while I would be interested in trying a vegetarian diet,It would be hard for me to give up eating chicken that quickly but I don’t really eat meat that often,and before you say anything as long as cannibals don’t use their choice of food in a dangerous way they’re ok with me, it’s no different to when our prehistoric ancestors had to hunt to find food in order to survive,some people still have to do that,it’s sad...it really is,while Christianity isn’t something I believe in anymore, it did say in the bible that Jesus shared his bread and food with his people,and I think some of us should start doing that,and if you already do whether it’s a snack you have or leaving out leftover food from your side takeaway business, that’s brilliant your making more people happy and your allowing more people to enjoy food and to have access to that basic human necessity that we all should be able to have to access to.

Sharing is another primary school lesson it feels like half of humanity has forgotten about outside of basic decency and kindness, but I’m probably not the one to talk about that since I was called “Rude” for most of my life.

there’s a big difference between telling someone they’re a plonker and making someone more aware of how they can improve themselves as a person.

Most of us all have flaws, most of us have had toxic moments,

we’ve all at times had moments where we’ve said something wrong that we didn’t mean,

or times where our cowardliness has accidentally caused misunderstandings and drama

or times where we didn’t intend to sound hurtful but that’s how it came across, or times where we’ve blindly followed toxic people, imitating their actions without meaning to or just generally times where we’ve been ignorant little eijjits.

Even people some would say were flawless had flaws or problematic aspects about them

David Bowie wasn’t too nice to his wife Angie in later years, Graham Lineman and Robert Webb are transphobic, Rowan Atkinson supports Boris Johnson’s “so-called” jokes and Ricky Gervais doesn’t like hearing people with different opinions than him.

Overthinking however can exaggerate this, overthinking can take that one time you were a bit rude as a child and that problematic “fandom” phase you had as a preteen and make you feel like your worst person in the world.

Your not, but most of us have had moments,there’s also the “not like other girls/boys phase” sometimes it’s just a light-hearted comparison drawing or blog post taken out of context other times it’s the grown-up equivalent of saying “I like this thing over your other thing that means I’m better than you”

Considering my at times cold thoughts it’s weird that I’m the person of all people telling you this

It’s perfectly ok to be prideful and narcissistic just don’t be so arrogant that you forget about your morals and the people that you're close to, but if at times because of mental health you question your levels of empathy, sympathy and compassion that’s ok too, your voices deserve to be heard, and there is help available you can find it through helplines, organizations or even your own comrades.

Outside of all the twits in this horrid fishbowl of a world, there are also millions of very kind nice people, I don’t know where I’d be now without my comrades

The offline pals who are like my sunshine because they brighten up my day,the old secondary school friends that made me feel less alone,the online people who I can vent to, converse with and joke with,the bloggers from years ago that I still sometimes keep in touch with and the creators who through their work in Media, Theatre and the Arts were able to encourage me to keep going, keep working, keep creating.

I think your all lovely and beautiful and creative human beings, no matter what identity you are, what music genre you listen to or what topping you prefer on your pizza

I will most likely adore you and if I haven’t it’s probably because I haven’t met you yet

You are one biscuit of cells, on this fishbowl planet, your mind is a land of wonder and your body is the garden surrounding it, take care of yourself like how you take care of your garden, your pets or the fictional characters you write about.

Your future might not be the future you expect, but it’s one you’ll enjoy.

if you are doing something you love which harms nobody, be as happy and passionate about it as you like

you are a person who deserves the world

Don’t push yourself too hard, if you know you’re doing a good job keep at it, don’t stress yourself too hard, but remember not to procrastinate, your mental health is important, some people might not understand all of the issues you’re going through, but you can make it out alive.

You're, not a number or statistic you're a person, your a beautiful, Kind, incredible, wise person

spread some love and don’t forget what the late Freddie Mercury said,

Keep yourself Alive!

#comedy monologue #original monologue #joke

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comradecowplant · 3 years

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WELL it was an easy read and I finished the book already. I gotta do a classic Dani Vents About a Story post that will include significant spoilers, so be careful if you are reading/want to read The Mercies by Kiran Millwood Hargraves. I’m about to bitch about it a lot, but overall it was an interesting book that I’d still (mostly) recommend if you have an interest in historical fiction surrounding the Norwegian witch trials.

Most of it was really good, although a few theme threads and character arcs completely fell apart in the final act. I knew it was going to be dark-- again, 17th century witch trial shit-- but the actual “murder my favorite characters” bit thankfully didn’t begin until pretty late in the story, which lets the focus remain more on the lives of the women vs their horrific deaths. The author does a (mostly) great job at creating interesting characters you fall in love with, and succeeded immensely at bringing the landscape and village of Vardo to life.

BUT

IN THE LAST LITERAL FOUR PAGES, THE NARRATIVE TOOK ALL THE MEANING THAT THE PROTAGANISTS HAD CREATED OUT OF THEIR HARDSHIPS AND THREW IT OVER A CLIFF (LITERALLY! & EACH USE OF THIS WORD HERE HAS BEEN THE PROPER USE. although i guess a fictional event cannot be truly ‘literal’ BUT WHATEVER I AM NOT GETTING LOST IN THE WEEDS WITH PEDANTICS). I am so fucking mad, and it serves as a reminder to why I typically don’t read/watch many period pieces these days, unless it is a period setting in a fantasy/sci fi world. So many people think that in order to bE rEaLiStIc when writing about periods in history, you simply MUST be as grimdark as possible, especially with conclusions, but I find that perspective boring and uncreative as hell. Bitch it’s already fiction! it’s already lies! you are god in the universe you write, have some courage and don’t concede to established tropes that center on garish suffering to define the experiences of historically (& contemporaneously) marginalized people! At least in a medieval-set fantasy story, you get the vibes of the historical setting, but also your friends can swoop by on a dragon and rescue the innocent pants-wearing fisherwoman who is about to be burned alive by the racist woman-hating church.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love a story with a messy & unhappy ending. I even love an occasional grimdark story! But as I get older, I see & feel more the evils which inspired these historical events and how they still burden our world today, and I do not enjoy spending my free time reading/watching movies that are centered on suffering for suffering’s sake-- if I want a story about senseless violence & the underdogs who never win, I will just turn on the fucking news. SO, for me, the dark stories I do enjoy cannot just be traumaporn in a difference shell, the darkness has. to. make. sense. You can’t spend 300 pages on a woman overcoming her grief of losing her brother/father/fiancé/half her village & learning how to be a #StrongIndependantWoman, then have her just kill herself on the last page. It just isn’t narratively good, it just isn’t! And to be clear, the author could have gone WAYYYYYYYY darker in many places throughout the book & did not even come close to going full grimdark. I think overall she greatly succeeded at balancing hope & hopelessness. It was done so well in fact that I was lulled into a false sense of security that maybe just maybe there might be a way out for our ladies, a conclusion that didn’t end with the kind of complete misery that historic fiction tends to skew towards. But there is this overwhelming sense in the final few pages that, probably due to the aforementioned loyalty to perceived “historical accuracy”, she hadn’t included enough suffering (even though there is PLENTY of tragedy to go around by that point) & she didn’t know how to finish the story. So when in doubt, kill 👏 those 👏 gays 👏 (although we don’t know the fate of the other woman, who has entire chapters given from her perspective, but Meren just says bye & we never hear about Ursa again 😤)

Which brings us to, yeah, it did have gay shit like I thought, and up until the garbage of the last four pages, it was a very touching romance. But it too concluded in a way that is only satisfying if you squint, and adds to the inconsistencies that I mentioned above. I’ve never in my life said this before, and it makes me ill to even type this, but, *sob* it probably would have been a better story if the two women had remained platonic friends and no touch-a the booba. I know a lot of people think I’m One of Those cringe queers who will read/watch absolute garbage just if there is a queer person (which tbf I definitely also do sometimes, & it’s actually very valid of me, thank u very much), but if that were true I would have finished that awful Warming Trend book that I blogged about like 2 years go, or read any of the hundreds of stupid “subtext” trash that folks like to recommend, or ship Supercorp (no offense to anyone who ships them, I get it, Katie McGrath is hot, but come on, there is a perfectly good lesbian already on the show), or watched Glee. No, I do actually have some standards-- Are they super high, as a love-starved reader/viewer who uses romantic fiction as a primary means of escapism/coping with my shitty life? No, lmao. But as a writer, and as a queermo, nothing grinds my gears more than a badly executed lgbtq+ storyline.

Anyway, I just finished the book an hour ago so my crankiness & disappointment is raw and thus I am all over the place with this rant. I hope I’m not coming off as being too hard on the author, because despite it’s flaws, I am very glad to have serendipitously found The Mercies, and I look forward to checking out KMH’s other works. It’s been a long time since I’ve dug into a book and read it in just a few sittings like I did this, repeating “just one more chapter” for hours until it’s suddenly 3 am, and despite the fuckery to my sleep schedule it contributes to, the feeling is good-- it brings me back to simpler times when I actually was able to experience an ease from the constant uneasiness I always carry in my chest. Idk, moral of the story is that reading is fun, & when I get stuck in my Bad Turns & don’t read for months, it becomes easy to forget how much solace can come from a mid-quality but seductive (not in a horny way. but sometimes also in a horny way, lol) novel. Like, most of my reading these days is miserable 20th century theory or other academic/non-fiction writing related to our depressing capitalist hellscape & impending climate disaster, and The Mercies helped me remember that my roots lie in fiction. It also has me inspired to revisit a couple of historical fictions projects I have laying around, aND MAKE A WOMAN-EMPOWERMENT, ANTI-RACIST, QUEER AS HELL PERIOD FICTION PEICE THAT DOES NOT END IN COMPLETE GARBAGE! And in the meantime, I shall be revisiting the works of Sarah Waters, the only bad bitch I know of who writes queer historical fiction without relinquishing her characters solely to the suffering they experience ✌

If anyone has read this far and has any books/authors to recommend (wlw focused preferably, historical fiction or any genre as long as the story itself doesn’t rely on the tropes I touched on, recently published also preferably bc I have a long list of older books/authors but i don’t keep up with new releases like I should, & a lot of the ones I know are white & cis so PLEASE send reccs for more diverse stories/authors if you have them)

#dani talks about books

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sexdoll-alisa · 3 years

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9 Attractive Knowledge About Entity Dolls

In society, there was a time when people would mention inflatable dolls at the end of vulgar jokes, but we all know that times have changed.

Today, entity dolls are different from inflatable dolls many years ago. They have realistic designs and manufacturing processes, so that sometimes it is difficult to believe that they are not a real person. Realistic sex dolls are becoming more and more popular and affordable. Here are some tantalizing and fascinating facts about these lifelike dolls!

1. The existence of the entity doll is much longer than you think.

Many people believe that physical dolls were invented in the 20th century. However, historical records of physical dolls first appeared in the 17th century. More than 400 years ago, Dutch soldiers created leather dolls. They sold the dolls to the Japanese. For this reason, enity dolls are sometimes called "Dutch wives" in Japan.

2. The erotic industry in most parts of the world is illegal, but the entity doll experience hall is not strictly censored.

From Spain to Russia to China, physical doll experience halls have become a popular trend, and more and more stores have opened all over the world. Some countries and regions even allow public publicity and promotion.

3. Entity sex dolls that can accept customized orders

Most customers buy in stock, but many manufacturers can produce customized physical dolls. These are customized options that require a fee. As long as the budget is sufficient, for discerning customers, you can even create your own customized companion robot.

The extra cost of buying a doll that looks exactly like what you want is worth it, just as some men like carefully tailored suits, so are the quality and design of their physical dolls.

4. There are male and female sex dolls

Most dolls are designed and made with women as templates, however, the demand for male physical dolls is constantly increasing. Historically, male sex dolls only accounted for 5% of the total sales, but with the global popularity, more and more male dolls are designed to cater to the needs of other groups.

170cm Dildo Sex Doll with Huge Penis for Women Lovedollshop Gayteig

5. Entity dolls are not always for sex

Although the original purpose of physical dolls is for sex, this is not always the case. The world can be a huge and lonely place, and for some people, it feels emotionally empty.

Some fanatical fans of physical dolls just like to spend time with them, like a loyal companion. They snuggle together, watch TV, eat, and are able to benefit from the advancement of artificial intelligence technology, and now they can even communicate with each other.

6. The entity doll industry owes Howard Stern a big thanks

Howard Stern, who is known for his late-night erotic shows, bought a physical doll for more than $5,000, and reportedly had a relationship with him during the live radio broadcast.

As a result, the sales of physical dolls skyrocketed, and Howard Stern turned physical dolls from a stupid joke topic into the focus of attention of thousands of people.

7. The entity doll has fans

As their popularity continues to grow, physical dolls are gaining a fan base that calls themselves "baby friends". These fans think they are not lifeless dolls.

Filmmaker Melody Gilbert's documentary "Silicone Soul" conducted a detailed survey of this group and explained how they believe that physical dolls have souls.

8. The birth of Barbie was inspired by a physical doll

In Germany in the 1950s, there was a very popular adult manga about a senior call girl named Lily. For this role, people made and sold a doll. Although the doll is considered too sexy, it is very popular among men.

Although it is not as well-made as today's physical dolls, and the structure is not correct, Lily dolls are undoubtedly not children's toys. For this reason, Lily doll inspired the birth of Barbie in the United States.

9. The physical doll is heavy

Silicone sex doll or tpe sex doll,they are made of high-quality silicone and TPE materials are not light, they are used to make the doll feel soft, soft and lifelike. With the steel frame, the average weight of the doll is about 30 kg.

The heavier weight also gives the doll a more substantial quality, making it look more real. However, being overweight may be another reason why physical dolls are not so attractive to women.

#realistic sex doll #silicone sex doll #tpe sex doll #male sex doll

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mihrunnisasultans · 6 years

Note

i know you're not a fan of MC Hurrem but whats your opinion of historical hurrem? i felt season 1, 2 and part of 3 really didn't do her justice

Hello Anon!

Sorry that you waited so long for my response, but I wanted to give you a comprehensive answer and thus it got really long, so most of it is under Read more. And thank you for an interesting question :)

I do prefer historical Hürrem to the MC one, but she’s still not my fave. TBH I don’t have that strong emotions towards historical figures as opposed to fictional characters because we really don’t have any real insight into their everyday life, and historical accounts are always more or less subjective. Hating someone about whom I really don’t have much 100% confirmed information? Unfair and pointless. To quote Galina Yermolenko from the introduction to Roxolana in European Literature, History and Culture:

Although Western historians have been struggling to define Roxolana’s legacy for over four centuries, it is often overlooked that she was largely a creation of the European imagination. Due to the lack of historical records and hard evidence, most of what is known about this woman rests on a handful of secondhand contemporaneous accounts and subsequent reinterpretations and speculations by numerous historians, quasi historians, dramatists, and other men of letters who have shaped the Western discourse on Roxolana.

Thus said, I do understand your reservations about MC early portrayal of her. Portrayal of Hürrem as a ruthless schemer and manipulator is certainly nothing new; MC’s depiction thankfully does not make her some evil walking caricature like the earliest Western works on her (from 16th or 17th century), but she’s a complex character that has her sympathetic moments even in the view of those who generally dislike her, in accordance with later tradition. But since you have no problem with S4 Hürrem, who is even more ruthless than the earlier one, I guess your problem is of a different nature.

Again, the portrayal of Hürrem as a wild, unruly spirit is nothing new in works devoted to her, and while I totally get the problem with “undignified” Hürrem, I kind of appreciate it now? Pretty much all of “big five″ women of Sultanate of Women in MY/K are portayed based on the “slay queen” trope, but I feel that aside from Turhan, they all have their own distinctive features, other than the generic woman who slays them all and loves power? Hürrem‘s character actually develops and she becomes the true majestic sultana later on; it’s again kind of realistic that she’s not one from the start? Her wild and flamboyant image actually serves to show how much she’s of an outsider and differs from other women. Again, she becomes more dignified and majestic as she integrates herself into the world to which she was forcefully introduced. (NGL Turhan made me appreciate earlier character creations more because she’s basically a generic slay kween with little of other characteristics…) MC Hürrem is definitely a good character creation that elicits strong emotional response from the audience, whether positive or negative. I e.g. love to hate her and enjoy rooting against her, others do the opposite, but it’s hard to stay indifferent about her. And as as I sad, she actually develops in the span of 4 seasons.

But then again, I agree it’s sometimes overdone on the show. The earlier seasons do have their tongue-in-cheek moments, and Hürrem‘s sometimes excessive flamboyance is also part of that.

I have more issues with what was not shown about her character in addition to being a ruthless schemer and clever manipulator, as well as her relationship with Süleyman.

From what we know, historical Hürrem took an active interest in state matters that sometimes also wasn’t connected with her intrigues. In the show, even in S4, her occupation with state matters does not go further than what she needs because of self-interest. Most of her non-mercenary actvities are indeed shown in S4 when her participation in foreign relations and diplomatic correspondence are mentioned, but they seem a bit shoerhorned at this point and especially the mention of her diplomatic correspondence just shortly before her death seems more “tell-not-show”?

As for historical Hürrem’s relationship with Süleyman, it is often stressed by historians how he viewed her as his partner and advisor. I understand that they didn’t want to make Hürrem as such from the start because she needed to also learn about her surroundings (and her position and influence on Süleyman did rise after Hafsa’s demise and marriage), but even later in the show we mainly see Süleyman telling her that “it’s not your matter and go to your room” or “do not bother your pretty head with it”. He definitely treats her more as a partner in S4. Same about the constant (and tiring) repeated introductions of new “other women” for Süleyman and then making us watch unnecessarily long arcs of Hürrem hunting down such women. Judging by historical accounts, Süleyman stayed faithful to her, and in the show it seems that early!Hürrem spent her days mainly plotting other women’s demises. I understand giving us an insight into harem struggles when Hürrem did have to fight for her position in Süleyman’s heart at first, but later? Why, TIMS?

Historical Hürrem is definitely a controversial figure that sparks a lot of different approaches and opinions. Not long ago, I was reading two books with two totally different approaches towards her at the same time, one was André Clot’s biography of Süleyman (Suleiman the Magnificent: The Man, His Life, His Epoch), the other Empress of the East by Leslie Peirce. Clot is highly critical of her and shows signs of the older approaches in historiography concerning Hürrem (Sultanate of Women = ruin of empire), but at the same time sees her side of the argument and is of the opinion that it is Süleyman who is truly to blame for most things (so he breaks here with the presentation of Süleyman as an innocent puppet). [And frankly, Clot is salty about everyone except for Mustafa]. On the other hand, Peirce, in an attempt to debuke the “seductress who brought ruin on the Empire”image, goes from one extreme into another. Example:

A more peaceable system of identifying the next sultan began to emerge from transformations in the practice of succession-by-combat that began with her. Roxelana helped to move the Ottoman empire into modern times, where treaty negotiations became as challenging and significant as victory in battle and domestic well-being occupied as much of the government’s attention as conquest. Bolstered by the reforms she introduced, the Ottoman sultanate would sustain itself for another three and a half centuries

Even ignoring the VERY questionable first statement (struggles to determine Süleyman’s successor that Hurrem did influence were terribly bloody), there were many factors at play that affected Ottoman Empire’s transformation and to reduce the whole complex process to one historical figure’s influence is absurd and gross oversimplification, just as blaming solely one historical figure for deterioration of the Empire is. BTW, I recommend Günhan Börekçi’s thesis Factions and Favourites at the Court of Sultan Ahmed and his Immediate Predecessors and Baki Tezcan’s Searching for Osman: A Reassessment of the Deposition of the Ottoman Sultan Osman II if you want to read a comprehensive discussion on the whole complex process of Ottoman Empire’s political system becoming more sedentary ;) A bit of digression - I’m sad to be so critical of Peirce here because I do enjoy and appreciate The Imperial Harem and she is far more objective and balanced in that book. Also, I’m disappointed that such a large portion of Empress is based on imagination rather than a thorough historical analysis of sources.

Another criticisim of Empress of the East that I have was well put into words in the NYT review of the book:

Less convincing are her strained exculpations for Roxelana, insisting that she was not behind various unsavory murders that benefited her. One is left with the impression that Roxelana consistently wielded impressive power, except when things went badly.

Again, in trying to fight with demonisation of someone, do not make that person an angel either. We may not have concrete evidence of Hürrem being involved in e.g. Ibrahim’s or Mustafa’s deaths, but in my opinion “there’s no smoke without fire”. Peirce does mention in The Imperial Harem that Hürrem and Safiye were two sultanas least liked by people and I don’t think the assumption that “people hated women in power” explains it all, since sultanas with even more power, like Turhan or Kösem, were much liked.

Hürrem Sultan was a controversial figure that deserves a nuanced, complex portrayal. While MC portrayal has its flaws with respect to the depicton of a historical figure, at least it does show her as a complex person, with both good and bad traits. And as importantly, it does work within the established narrative. Could it have been done better though? Yes.

On a side note,I’m actually more salty about how Turhan was portrayed in comparison to her historical persona :/, but that’s a topic for a different discussion.

#muhteşem yüzyıl #magnificent century #muhtesem yuzyil #hurrem sultan #Hürremsultan #Anonymous #Joanna answers

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thiswaycomessomethingwicked · 7 years

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so i recently became lowkey obsessed with Napoleon and started reading up on him and found that he was a really fascinating, complex dude. but there were some things that i found kinda distasteful, like his misogyny, etc., So I was wondering how you reconcile the darker aspects of his personality and stuff? i know its somewhat different with historical figures, but i guess i just feel conflicted about liking him at times. so i wanted to know your thoughts cuz i really respect your opinion

–

Aw thank you for the ask! Napoleon is very much a complex human, the way most people are and so he naturally comes with things that aren’t-as-great-as-others. Bless his face (before he trips on a tree root and breaks it).

First, we cannot judge a person born in 1769 by the standards of 2017. No approach to history should come from applying our modern expectations of inter-personal/social behaviour to the past. It will provide an inaccurate reading of historical personages and times and will not allow you, as a historian, to truly understand how things worked and why people behaved the way they behaved.

A different point, but illustrative: We have a letter from, I want to say Gregorio Dati, to a friend instructing his friend to avoid certain seafoods in the spring and to not eat melon as the best way to avoid the plague. From a 21st century standpoint, with our understanding of germ theory, the hindsight of knowing about the spread and pathology of the plague (at least to a much greater degree than people in the 14th and 15th centuries) we can laugh at poor S. Dati who is just trying to help a friend.

However, if you approach Dati without the application of 21st century medical knowledge and understand that his world view is based around the long-standing humour theory, a theory that permeates most aspects of early modern life, then suddenly his advice makes the most sense in the world. It is sound, it is logical, and fits within his personal understanding of life on earth. Applying the 21st century to him would not give a historian a very deep reading of Dati and, frankly, render him ridiculous and he wasn’t ridiculous.

So for Napoleon applying 21st century gender norms and concepts of equality does a disservice both to us as historians as well as Napoleon as a complex human born two-hundred years ago and also does a broader disservice to the multifaceted, multi-layered aspects of society at that time. Not to say that there weren’t people agitating for somewhat-greater equality (and of course the Revolution did much for women before those advances were rolled back) but rather that Napoleon in his views was the norm and not the exception.

The better way to approach Napoleon’s sometimes-not-as-progressive-views is to understand the context. This does not excuse a man for reinstating slavery, for example, but it allows you to understand why he did it, what his motivations might have been and then, later, why he re-abolished slavery. Same for his slaughter of the Syrian prisoners during the Syrian-escapade of the Egyptian campaign and his complex views towards women and a woman’s place within French, and European, society.

Second, understand that he’s human like anyone else and no one is problem free. We all have issues.

A friend came over last night for dinner and we were discussing this very issue where if someone says something problematic, or exhibits a potentially problematic view point, the current consensus is to drop them like a hot potato. You’re not allowed to like them! It’s morally wrong to like someone flawed! You are part of the probleeeeeem. [Ahem]

Which, obviously, when you think about it for ten seconds, is a faulty viewpoint. None of us would have friends. I, personally, am a deeply flawed individual. I have opinions and views that are problematic, and I am sure I have many more that are problematic that I just haven’t been made aware of. Should no one like me because of that? Should no one like any of us?

Part of studying history is understanding that everyone is as flawed as any of us. Because we are human and that’s part of the fascinating, exciting thing is just finding ways in which we were, and always been, so fricking human.

I spent some time studying colonial New Spain (what is now Mexico) and if you want a world that does not fit into any of our 21st c expectations of anything 16th and 17th century Mexico is it. In particular, I was studying the translation works of Bartolomeo de Alva, a mestizo (mixed-race) priest from Mexico valley (near Teotihuacan, for those interested). He was translating the plays of Lopa De Vega into Nahuatl for his parishioners who were predominantly indigenous. In doing so he was participating in the act of colonization because he was encouraging his parishioners to adopt Spanish lifestyles, morals and expectations. Yet, he himself, was Mestizo. He was considered less than human by the Spanish, inherently untrustworthy, and dirty. Yet he was freely participating in their “civilization” project. Should we dump Bartolomeo to the side because he does not fit within the ideal framework of colonial/post-colonial/de-colonial resistance? Or should we understand him as an individual in a certain circumstance, with a life history we know little about, making shift as he best saw fit to? One of these approaches does him justice, the other does not.

The same applies to Napoleon. He is a product of his time who did both great and terrible things, who was progressive and conservative, who was complex and is worthy of a nuanced, careful approach. As with any human you have to take the dark with the light and eventually you have to come to terms with both in your own way.

Basically, my advice would be to really read around and create a context for his existence. Read about 18th and 19th-century French and Italian society. Learn about the public/private division of life, the middle class and the aristocracy and the clashes between them. Read about post-Trent Catholic theology and the place of the Church within French and Italian society. Read Rousseau and read Voltaire. Read about social and gender expectations pre, during and post 1789 France. Do the same for Corsica if possible (although sources are more limited if you only read English there’s more stuff in French and Italian). Understand that as much as Napoleon did his best to sew the French identity into his skin he was always still Other, still an outsider. Learn how he performed Empire and that there was a Private Napoleon and a Public Napoleon and they were often different people. Remember Duroc’s saying about Napoleon, ‘Let him have his way: he speaks from his feelings, not according to his judgement; nor as he will act tomorrow.’

Creating a thorough understanding of the society that produced Napoleon will help, I think, in reconciling the often contradictory nature of his public and private views, his politics and his approach to sovereignty. It doesn’t mean you have to like everything he does, and nor should you, and it does not mean you cannot critique him for his actions, because that’s fine, but it’s really about understanding the world he lived in, the world he was trying to create, and to not judge him as we would judge a ruler today but as someone from his time would. Because he lives on that cusp between early modern and modern and the society he lived in, the events that informed his personality and thoughts, should be respected and understood.

Sorry for the million year long rant! I hope this helps?

TL;DR

1. Don’t apply 21st c standards of morality to a person born in the 18th c.

2. Understand that all humans are flawed and you have to reconcile that however works best for you.

3. Understanding the context of his life, the society he lived in, the background to that society, will hopefully help with the reconciliation of his manifold flaws by providing some insight into who/what/where/when/why of his views and motivations.

FINALLY, he changed. Like all of us. His views at 25 are not those at 45 - he said something along those lines, in that vein of thought, to Joseph in 1806: ‘I am sorry that you think that you will find you brother again only in the Elysian Fields. It is natural that at 40 he should not feel towards you as he did at 12…’ Also, he often spoke contradictory to what he believed. He liked arguments and playing Devil’s Advocate and so that also affected how people saw him and what they heard his espousing. He was always, at the end of the day, a performative person but also a person who changed and shifted his views and was not set in stone.

On St. Helena, circa 1817, Napoleon was conversing with Barry O’Meara, his doctor. O’Meara asked if Napoleon could go back and change something small what would he change? And Napoleon replied that he would listen to women more. That if he could go back and do it again he’d take more time to sit and to listen to what women have to say. Because he didn’t and he believed that he missed a lot of important insights that might have helped him.

[thank you for the ask! apologies again for the massively long rant. If you want to chat hmu I promise I don’t bite and I’m not as caustic or, as a friend said, rispido, as I might appear on here]

#ask #reply #napoleon #napoleon bonaparte #history #anon

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angrycollectordaze-me-blog · 5 years

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Paper代写：British pub culture

本篇paper代写- British pub culture讨论了英国的小酒店文化。英国的小酒店很出名，历史悠久，韵味怡人，它与英国人的生活息息相关。英国的小酒店是人们休闲饮酒的好去处，也是人们交际约会的所在地，甚至一些重大的政治事件也与小酒店有着不解之缘。英国大多数小酒店都有自己的招牌，其中灌木枝是小酒店最古老的招牌之一，据说这一传统起源于罗马人。本篇paper代写由51due代写平台整理，供大家参考阅读。

The English pub is famous for its long history and pleasant atmosphere. It is closely related to British people's life. Through the story of the pub, we can get a glimpse of the colorful British beer culture. The history of the British pub dates back to before 2000. The early English taverns followed the Saxon custom of the mai tavern, where people gathered for social and recreational activities. Many old taverns have gardens and meadows, and a brewery is of course indispensable. In Tudor England, the choice of a tavern keeper had to be approved by royal decree to ensure social stability. The innkeeper of a small number of hotels and inns was also the station master of the unofficial post office to ensure the smooth operation of the royal mail road. In the first decade of the 17th century, taverns could even issue unofficial COINS that their owners guaranteed would be exchanged for the kingdom's currency. In the first decade of the 19th century, the hotel industry was divided internally to accommodate different classes of guests. Local people generally believe that hotels, inns, taverns, than the mai hotel, beer hotel and liquor stores higher. At the beginning of the 20th century, there were about 200 small hotels in Britain, some of which had been operating for about 400 years. Although the pubs are generally owned and operated by licence holders, many are owned by or in some way related to breweries.

In ancient times, British pubs were not only frequented by ordinary people, but also frequented by celebrities and even Kings. In Elizabethan times, a mermaid hotel appeared in London, which is said to be built by the Danish walters. The mermaid hotel was the London meeting place of Britain's first private Friday street club. Located to the east of st Paul's cathedral, the mermaid hotel opens on bread street and Friday street. Shakespeare, Ben jonson, Sir W. raleigh, and j. dorn were prominent members of the club, and they often met at the mermaid hotel to discuss literary and dramatic issues, sometimes at odds with each other. Ben jonson, for example, has accused Shakespeare of lacking in art and classical literature. The ancients wanted to limit time and space, to subtly focus the audience's attention, and to limit the story to one day and one scene if possible. Whatever you do, don't be like Shakespeare. Let the story go on for years. That might be jonson's advice to the new playwright. Jonson and Shakespeare also argued over their technique over ale at the mermaid or the three barrettes. Jonson was said to be as heavy as a Spanish galleon in argument, and Shakespeare as swift as an English battleship.

Shakespeare has a deep feeling for the mermaid hotel, in his famous play "Henry iv", there is a boar head hotel, people say he is the mermaid hotel in his heart moved to the stage, the scene and atmosphere and the life of the mermaid hotel is the same. Dickens said the boar head hotel for Shakespeare added a lot of elegance. The mermaid has also been a place to study Shakespeare, Elizabeth I and other great writers of the James I period.

Some Kings in England were also very interested in taverns. In 1640, Charles I stopped his horse when he was leading his army through an inn outside London. He drank a lot of ale in the inn, but as he had no money with him, he had to sign a bill for 1000 pounds of wine and left. What was once a small inn is now London's matthaway hotel. The owner of the hotel, asby, recently rummaged through his drawers and discovered an old bill left by his ancestors. It turned out to be the one signed by king Charles I more than 300 years ago. asby to the British queen Elizabeth ii account, but was rejected by the royal family, asby ready to deal with Buckingham Palace, because debt is a matter of course.

There are about 129 small hotels in the east end of London, many with long histories dating back to the 16th and 17th centuries. The most famous inns in the docklands are in the lakeside area of wapping. Prospect of Whitby was founded in 1520 and is probably the oldest boutique hotel along the Thames. The wooden tavern had once been a den of iniquity, frequented by pirates, smugglers, prostitutes, and thieves, but also by famous names such as Charles Dickens and Samuel pepys.

British pubs are popular places to drink and socialize, and even major political events are associated with them. The famous whig plot to overthrow Charles ii was hatched in a ale shop, which is known as the "McCabe plot" in British history. In the early summer of 1683, the whigs in England were strongly dissatisfied with the pro-anglican policies of king Charles ii and prepared to carry out assassinations or riots to overthrow the rule of Charles ii. They discussed the plan of action to assassinate Charles ii at a McGowan hotel in hertfordshire, and then laid an ambush on the path near the McGowan, waiting for the arrival of Charles ii to be assassinated. But the king's advance dashed the whigs' plans. On June 1st, the British royal family investigated the case based on information provided by a whistleblower. Quite a few notable names were involved in the plot, such as Scott, duke of Monmouth, cantrell, earl of Exeter, Lord Russell, Sidney, Sir Armstrong, ferguson and Lord Howard. The plot at McCabe was just one of the plans reportedly being discussed by the men, who often met at a London beer merchant or at their own homes to discuss ways to overthrow Charles ii or stop the Catholic James ii from taking the throne. When the affair broke, the earl of Essex was banned and later died in tower of London prison, possibly by suicide. Russell, Sidney and amtron were executed for treason, while the rest fled to foreign lands. In 1605 the gunpowder project plotted to blow up the houses of parliament at the red lion inn in Dunkirk. Before boarding the battleship victory for trafalgar, Lord nelson was at George's inn in Portsmouth. Thomas paine, an Englishman and author of a pamphlet in support of the American and French revolutions, wrote his masterpiece "the rights of man" at the angel inn in London. In the late 18th century, the rules of cricket were laid down at the hambrayton inn...

Old English taverns have strange and varied names and interesting origins. The widow's son, a very modest pub outside London, has become a gathering place for British sailors and sailors. Legend has it that more than 200 years ago, a local widow made bread before Easter to welcome her son, who was a sailor, back from a long voyage. However, the son never came back. The widow was deeply grieved. After widow dies, posterity changed her cabin into inn, name is inn of widow's son. Every year before Easter, the landlord continued to make a loaf of bread and put it on the beam. From then on, sailors every Easter to the widow's son hotel to touch the bread hanging on the beam, year after year, it has become a tradition of sailors, sailors can touch the bread lucky.

The English pub is quite entitled to claim that it gave birth to the English theatre. In the 16th century, itinerant entertainers would often set up a stage in the middle of a tavern to perform a popular morality play. The square courtyard of the inn is surrounded by corridors leading to the guest rooms. Among them are the stations for the audience who buy cheap tickets. The entrance stage was built in the corner of the building below, and the hawker selling ale and food could walk through the audience seats, so the sales of ale and food in the pub increased greatly. At that time, some entrepreneurs saw the flourishing of drama art on the stage of small hotels, and the audience also increased day by day. They bought some small hotels and inns and changed them into permanent places for performing, so the stage became a kind of fixed architecture. In the beginning, the structure of the amphitheater remained the same as the courtyard of the inn, while the sale of food and drinks such as ale became a lucrative business dependent on the dramatic arts. In 1576, James burbidge founded the first commercial theatre in England that did not lose the architectural legacy of the English tavern -- the only theatre where Shakespeare's Lord chamberlain's company had performed for a long time. On April 13, 1597, when the lease of the land expired, Alan, the owner of the theatre, refused to renew it. James burbage, the former director of the theatre, died. The new theatre, called the globe, is a Shakespearean creation, with a portrait of the giant hercules at the entrance. In Shakespeare's heyday, the globe became the pride of the London theatre world, where Shakespeare's famous plays Hamlet, Othello and Macbeth were premiered. On June 29, 1613, the globe in Shakespeare's Henry viii, "a drama is a as the stage effect of the shell will ceiling ignition of the vegetation structure, that made the globe ashes, it was said that an audience pants on fire, thanks to side with ale to sell, he used his quick wits, will put out the fire with a bottle of ale, or he was ashamed to see the people. Thankfully, in 1993 a "Shakespearean structure" was restored to the site of the globe by the Thames in London, and Shakespeare's comedy the merry wives of Windsor was premiered. The new globe theatre still has a "stand" for the audience and allows vendors to sell snacks and cans of beer during performances.

English pubs have their own signs, shrub branches is one of the oldest signs of the pub, it is said that this tradition originated from the Romans. Some small hotels also like to hang some vines in front of the store, in order to promote their own wine. Early breweries hung long twigs of brooms outside, reminiscent of girls stirring fermented liquids. A green wreath is hung whenever a new wine needs official inspection.

Every inn sign has a moving story, and some signs depict a historical event. For example, the sign "the king's oak" recalls Charles ii, who climbed an oak tree in the forest to escape soldiers on his way to France. In 1010, a saint who fitted himself with a pair of wings flew down from a church tower. He glided for about 200 meters and fell to the ground with his legs broken. Artists based his heroic feat for malmesbury "flying saints" inn painted signs. Today's inn signs are mostly painted in bright lacquer on aluminum surfaces. With tens of thousands of pubs in the UK, every pub must have its sign repainted every ten years to avoid duplication.

The opening hours are regulated by law or by the local government. The usual opening hours are from 11.30am to 3pm, and then from 5.30pm to 10.30pm or 11pm. Gambling is forbidden in hotels, and children are not allowed in. The law prohibits children from entering hotels, which is considered wise by British people.

The English word "bar" comes from a small hotel, "bar" is originally "bar" or "bar" meaning. Once upon a time in English pubs, there was a long bar across the seat. The bar was mostly a copper bar, on which the drinker could put his feet and have a pleasant chat with the owner. Later people simply referred to the hotel as "bar", that is, we call today's "bar", and the modern bar stool lower one used to step on the foot of the copper tube is from the ancient British small hotel seat in front of the long copper bar evolved, this may be said that the modern bar still has the British small hotel charm.

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meredithhelenblack-blog · 7 years

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An Island and the Way of the Watermen of the Chesapeake Bay

The Tangier Island fishermen are hauling up a pot of blue crabs onto their fiberglass deadrise boats, the blue green water of the Chesapeake Bay sparkling in the afternoon sun.

Aboard his blue workboat “The Old Bay,” 85-year-old Jack Pruitt adjusts his glasses as he bends down to examine the squirming, fresh crabs in the sorting bin. It’s just another day on the water.

He knows it’s a long day ahead following the flow of the crabs, but he still considers this job the best in the world. Most of his fellow “watermen”—what the fishermen around the Chesapeake Bay are called—feel the same.

Later that day on the nearby Tangier Island, another elderly islander, ninety-three-year-old Jane Crockett, stands on the small white island footbridge that connects two pieces of the shrinking island across soggy green marsh. One wrinkled hand is on her cane, while the other rests on the railing of the bridge, where she has the best view on the island of the sun sinking in a spectacular array of orange and pink on the horizon. It’s her favorite part of the day and somehow this picturesque view never ceases to inspire her.

Beside her, planted in the green marshes, is a pale white cross. Jane, like the rest of the islanders, is a Christian. And so she prays for the fate of Tangier Island, which has been sinking over time. She remembers when the island was much larger, but that was decades ago.

Jane searches the distance for the ferry bringing over the day’s last load of tourists. That day, she had chatted with a few of the tourists that had come in on an earlier ferry.

They like to hear about life on the island and Jane is happy to talk to them. She knows a lot of the history of the island, as she has lived here for over ninety years.

Her nephew Bill should also be on the ferry, bringing over her groceries from the mainland and a few new colorful perennials for her front porch. He will also bring more paint and canvases. Jane is a talented painter and her paintings of life on the island hang in galleries across the Eastern seaboard.

It’s one way that she tries to share her love of this place that has become her whole world. In ninety years, she has not left this tiny island even once—her world has consisted of about three miles of land. The last time Jane had set foot on the mainland was when she was a small child. She married at eighteen and she probably would have visited the Virginia mainland had her new husband not passed away there in a train accident soon after they were married. After the accident, she could not make herself leave the safety net of her island home.

Nevertheless, she considers herself to be quite happy on her island home. She has her daily routine and many friends who visit her. She is also active in the Tangier community. In addition, Jane is a knitter and she knits scarves for the homeless on the mainland.

But her home could soon be washed away due to climate change and erosion. Some scientists predict Tangier could be gone in just fifty years. Although she will not be around when the island sinks, she thinks it is a shame that the island’s history and culture will be gone forever.

She also worries about the islanders who have lived here for many years and how they will adjust to a new way of life over on the mainland.

And so Jane is determined to save the island before it’s too late.

***

Tangier Island is located twelve miles from the Virginia mainland, in the center of the Chesapeake Bay. The island is known as the “soft crab capital of the nation.” Most of the men on Tangier Island work on the Chesapeake Bay water as watermen.

The way of the watermen stretches back generations in Tangier families and crabbing sets the rhythm for the island. The men wake up early—3 am—to begin their work on the water. A small number of Tangier boys join the military instead. Tangier Island has a very isolated and unique culture, as well as a rich history. Here, life moves at a much slower pace than the rest of the outside world and has little-changed in centuries. The island was settled by Cornish fishermen in the 17th century and almost everyone is descended from the original clans and has one of four last names. The people have their own English dialect that is often called Elizabethan English, although it is more likely Cornish roots. There is a rare inherited disease called “Tangier Disease,” that originated there and includes an increased risk of cardiovascular disease.

According to the plaque on the main street, the island was named in 1608 by Captain John Smith, who got the name from either Tangier, Morocco or Tangier pottery in northern Africa. In 2009, the population was 528 residents. But one hundred years ago, there was well over 1,500 residents. Today, everyone uses golf carts to get around the island and there are few cars. The island is separated into ridges. There is Main Ridge, Canton, and West Ridge. The northern part of Main Ridge is called Meat Soup Court. That’s where Mrs. Jane Crockett lived. Some of the places on the island are Sheep’s Hill, Black Dye, and Hog Ridge. I grew up on Hog Ridge. The largest channel is Big Gut where the teenagers dropped their old soda cans, hence the name. Unlike Jane Crockett, I (Mary) left Tangier Island as soon as I graduated from the island high school. I was drawn to the big city of New York as I had aspirations to be a professional actress. Still, my happy memories of growing up on the island stayed with me long after I had left, and a part of me always yearned for my island home. I remember riding bikes around the island with my brothers and neighbors past dusk, our parents never having to worry about our safety because there is no crime on the island. On windy days, we’d search the small island beach where the blowing sand would reveal arrowheads left over from the Choctaw Indians who lived there centuries ago. Then we’d skip them on the water or, sometimes, we could sell them to the tourists for some change alongside our lemonade stand.

There were also the times we decided to make animal shapes out of balloons, something my dad taught us. We’d sell them to the islanders.

Above us, ospreys would fret against the backdrop of the clear blue sky. In the evenings, everyone gathered at Spankey’s, the local 1950’s-style ice cream parlor to hang out and gossip. In a small town, there aren’t any secrets. The upside is that it is very tight-knit and neighbors help each other out.

Jane Crockett was the grandmother I never had, as my own grandmother died before I was born. Jane was a striking woman and, even though she was in her nineties, the beauty she had once been still peaked through in her face. Her eyes were a deep blue—the same color as the Bay.

I often visited her and we’d sip tea on her front porch. Jane was a collector of antique tea sets. She always told me I could have them when I got older and had a home of my own.

She had twenty cats, which roamed all over the island. We named them the funniest names. Every morning, Jane had a cup of coffee on her front porch where she had a spectacular view of the water. Next, she would arrange her collection of glass angel ornaments in the window sill so that they reflected the light just in a certain way.

Jane was also a woman who had truly lived. There was a deep wisdom in her. People often went to her for solutions to their problems.

The other interesting character on the island who was my friend was the librarian, Debbie Pruitt. Debbie wasn’t a Tangier native, which wasn’t the norm. Debbie married Samuel Pruitt, a Tangier native who had left the island to attend college on the mainland. That’s where he met Debbie. After they married, they moved back to the island. Debbie really had a tough time adjusting to life on the island. It really is a tough society to break into. In fact, when Debbie and Samuel first met, it was difficult for them to understand each other because of Samuel’s heavy dialect.

Debbie couldn’t get used to the lack of modern conveniences on the island until she became the librarian, which gave her something to do. It was the perfect job for her. She had real world experience having lived on the mainland for most of her life. And so she could recommend the best books to the islanders. She was the most well-read of all of us. Her husband, Samuel Crockett, was an island waterman. One summer, Debbie proposed a reading challenge. The challenge was to see which Tangier child could read the most number of books and write essays about them. I ended up winning the contest, which worried my mom a little bit. Of course she was proud of me, but she also felt a little sad that I was dreaming big about life on the mainland through all of the books I was reading and she knew she would greatly miss me if I left. After all, I held a special place in her heart as her youngest child. And so I felt a little torn about leaving, but at the same time, I knew I had to follow my dreams. Another central figure in my life was Dr. Coptor, the island doctor. He had a practice on the mainland, but every week he took his chopper out to the island to treat us. He did this for sixteen years without missing a week. On stormy days, he caught the mail boat over. The islanders named him Dr. Coptor but his real name was George Smith. I still remember the winter I had acute appendicitis. I was sixteen. Dr. Coptor flew me first class on his chopper to the mainland. Of course my family didn’t have health insurance- no one on Tangier did. And so I couldn’t believe it when I found out that the doctor had footed the bill for my surgery out of his own pocket. What a kind man. After that, Dr. Coptor would sometimes let me catch a ride to the mainland when I needed more inspiration for my screenplays. You see, sometimes I wanted to write my own plays. Speaking of screenplays, let me take you back to the summer I graduated from the island high school. It was a good crab harvest that year and so everyone was in a good mood. Then one cool summer afternoon, we found out that Hollywood wanted to film a scene from the movie Message In A Bottle on the island beach, starring Kevin Cosner. Everyone was excited, especially since Hollywood had offered to pay $5,000 for the use of the island. I was perhaps more excited than the rest because, ever since I was young, I had had aspirations to be an actress. I put on plays for my family and friends and recruited my siblings and friends to act in them, but of course, I always had the leading role. I also used to study people and what made them tick. I had a gift for getting inside people’s heads and inhabiting their thoughts and emotions. Then my father, who was the town mayor, voted along with the town council to reject Hollywood’s proposal because the film had a beer in one scene and some profanity. Tangier is a dry island and the islanders are devout Christians. My father and the other council members were afraid the movie would be a bad influence on the children. Almost everyone else on the island disagreed. It was only one beer, and so we all signed a petition, but it was to no avail. I was greatly disappointed and was growing tired of the Tangier way of life. I thought it might have been my only opportunity to get close to a real movie with real actors.

That summer I also spent more time at the Tangier Bed and Breakfast, called the Bay View Inn. I often would go there to visit with the tourists and hear their tales of the mainland. It was almost like traveling to a foreign country. That was where I met Anne, a teacher from New York City, and her husband, John. Anne and John had searched for a quiet, small place to spend part of the summer away from the bustle of the city and came across Tangier Island. They’d tell me stories about the big city and I felt closer to my dreams. When I told Anne and John about how the town council rejected the filming of Message In A Bottle on the island, they were sympathetic. The night before Anne and John were due to go back to New York, Anne had an idea. “Why don’t you go to New York?” she said. “You know there’s no better place to get an acting career off the ground than the Big Apple.” I smiled at the thought but shook my head. “I could never afford the rent.” “You could work,” Anne persisted. “A friend of mine is actually looking for a nanny.” If I hadn’t been feeling so disappointed by my father rejecting the Hollywood movie on the island, then I’m sure I would have said no. Usually I wasn’t impulsive. But I had just graduated school and I was feeling desperate for a change. Then I looked at the moon hanging low in the sky. Did I really want to leave all of this behind? Yet something suddenly rose in me that felt like resolve. I knew I might never get another opportunity like this. I slowly nodded. “I’ll come,” I said. The next day I broke the news to my parents. My father just stared at me and I could see he was disappointed. “What about Tom?” he said, referring to the boy next door, Tom Crockett. “We’d hoped you’d get married and then you could work in the island school like your sister.” “I want to be an actress,” I asserted. “Well,” my father said, “I don’t know what you’re chasing in New York, but your mother and I, all of us on the island, we’re proud of our heritage, we’re proud of the island. No one in this family has ever left here before. But if you want to leave all this behind…” he let the rest fade. Then his eyes flickered with sadness. “It’s you young people that are letting the island go away,” he said. “When I was young, we were all content to stay here.” He sunk down into his seat. “I love this place—but it’s going to take a miracle to save it.” I sighed. I hadn’t expected my parents to be thrilled about me moving to New York, but I’d hoped for their support. But my mind was already made up and so the next day Anne, John, and I were off. Sitting there on the ferry, I watched ripples of water moving away from the boat as it ploughed ahead, away from the island–and towards my new life. The ripples barely made a dent in the wide blue expanse and something about that made me feel nostalgic, although I had only just left my home. Tangier Island is like that–the passage of time slow and barely making an impression on the culture that has little-changed in hundreds of years. And I knew New York would be the opposite. Then I looked up and there was a rainbow. Its colors were bold and clearly defined against the pale sky. I had always loved rainbows as a child, but now I was no longer a child—I was making my way into adulthood. I smiled. Maybe it’s a good omen, I thought. *** When we arrived in New York City, Anne and John showed me all around. It was nothing like Tangier, and I began to feel homesick. However, I wanted to prove to my family that I could make it on my own, so I put on a brave face. Like Anne promised, her friend gave me a job as a nanny. Now I just had to get into acting classes in the evenings and go to auditions on the weekends. It was a challenging schedule, but I had ambitions for once in my life. I was no longer living the life others wanted for me. But while I loved New York, I still missed my family and the island. Sometimes I would go down to the New York water just to remember how it used to feel to live on the water. If I closed my eyes I could remember being out on the crab skiff, shafts of the pink dawn rising in the east. I remembered how my father woke up earlier than any of the other watermen so that he could have his coffee early. In addition to being the mayor, he was also the principal in the island school. But he was a kind and gentle principal. All of the kids loved him. I felt a pang of nostalgia then at all I had left behind. And the nights on the island, how I missed them. New York was never silent. There is something liberating about the nights on Tangier. The air is heavy with the scent of the Bay and all is so very quiet. Strange, when I think about Tangier, what I remember most is the feel of the place, the fresh air, the birds, the sand, the pink dawn and the purple sunset. On the crab skiff in the silent hours of the morning, the steady hum of the engine and the morning call of the birds overhead. One day, I got something in the mail. It was a check from Debbie Pruitt. I felt warmed by her generosity, but I knew I couldn’t accept the money. Debbie was not well off herself. “Thank you Debbie,” I wrote back. “I hope you and the others are well. Keep me in your prayers.” Then I landed a small role in a play at a small dinner theater. Of course I didn’t expect my family to attend. They didn’t even know I had landed the role. In the play’s program, I had put in a little plug for my island in my bio. One day, I thought, I’ll be famous and my name will mean something. Maybe then I’ll be able to put Tangier on the map. So you can imagine my surprise when after the show, I saw Dr. Coptor walking towards me. He handed me his program. “Will you sign my program?” he asked. Again, I was touched by his kindness. Dr. Coptor said he had been in town attending a professional conference and had heard about my play.

”How’s mom, dad, Sarah (my sister) and the others?” I asked. “Just fine,” said Dr. Coptor. “It was also a good harvest this year and tourism has spiked. We think it’s because of the recent newspaper article on the Tangier Bed and Breakfast. Everyone wants to stay there now.” I remembered that, when she got back to New York, Anne had written a glowing freelance review of the B&B and submitted it to a local newspaper. “That’s good,” I said. “I bet that that makes dad happy seeing as he’s the mayor.” It felt good that my friend had played a small part in helping the island and my family by writing the article. Dr. Coptor wiped his brow then. “But Mary,” he said. “You should know that we are losing ground at an alarming rate. The island is. Just this year we lost fifteen feet of land.” I was hit by a pang. I had left my island home looking for adventure. But what if it disappeared? When I visited, would all of my childhood memories be gone? I felt a little guilty leaving my home then, and a little worried that I might forget where I came from. But I lived in New York now, so I just had to forget about what I had left behind, I thought. I wondered why Dr. Coptor had felt the need to bring this up now. Perhaps he felt I should know because my father was distressed about it. I didn’t know. *** And just like that, three years passed. Then one day, out of the blue, I got a letter from my sister. “Dad’s sick,” it said. “It’s cancer.” Sadly, I realized how much I’d been out of touch with my family. In that instant, I knew I had to go home. Sitting on the ferry on the way back to Tangier, I thought with regret of all I had missed on the island while I was away. I thought that, to me, my childhood memories are like a place lost in time. I changed after I left the island, I knew. My sister and mother were there to greet me on the dock. When we walked into the house, I saw my father lying there on the couch. He looked nothing like the father I knew, and guilt filled me as I realized I had left my family when they were in need. I talked to him a little and then that night, my mom told me about what my father had been doing before he got sick. “He was attending meetings on the mainland, trying to get the word out about Tangier’s plight and how the island is sinking. It’s going to take a lot of funding to save this place,” she said. “But now that he’s sick, he doesn’t have the strength to do any more.” *** Still feeling guilty about abandoning my family, I decided I had to help my father. He could no longer get the word out about Tangier’s plight—I had to continue the work he had started. Although I didn’t know what I could do. Immediately, I thought of Jane Crockett. She was my closest friend on the island and she must know something. After all, she had lived here for ninety-three years. When I knocked on her door, I mentally reviewed what I had to say. She opened the door and I noticed that her hands were shaking a little more as she stepped onto the porch with her cane, her white hair pulled back neatly. “Jane,” I said, and she immediately enveloped me in a hug. “Can we sit for a few minutes? I have something important to tell you and I may need your help,” I began. Jane must have seen the sad expression on my face. “What’s on your mind?” she asked. “Please sit down.” “Well,” I said. “You know what is happening to Tangier, about the island sinking. Well you know that my father was trying to do something about it, but now he’s sick…” “Oh yes,” she said, her voice a little low. “I wish there was something I could do. This place is so special.” “So what do we do now?” I asked. “Well,” she said. “Did I ever tell you about my late husband?” I knew the story. Mrs. Jane Crockett’s husband fought in World War II and had earned a purple heart. He made it through the war, but a few months after he returned, he went back to the mainland and took the train to New York to attend the funeral of one of his fallen comrades. On the way, the train derailed and he was one of three people killed. “Well,” Jane Crockett continued. “If we’re going to do this, then we need to have the book.” “Book?” I said, not understanding. Mrs. Jane Crockett laid her hands in her lap and looked up at me. “When my husband died, he was working on a book on the history of the island. It included dozens of oral interviews he conducted with the old timers on Tangier and he meticulously researched the history of the island.” She let out a breath of frustration. “I tried to find it after he died…" “I know we can find it!” I said. “You’re right. If we had the book it would be so easy to convince the Virginia governor to give us the funding we need to save the island and build a seawall. They would see the history, they would see how special this place is,” I said. “But it’s impossible,” she said. “Maybe,” I answered, and the wheels were turning in my mind. “Or maybe we can recreate it,” I said, getting excited. “ We can make a movie about the island to send to the governor to get the funding for a seawall.” It wasn’t until later that night that I remembered Anne’s talent–she was a stellar photographer and videographer. If anyone could help us document the island in an artistically pleasing way, it would be her. That night I called her. “Anne,” I said, “Do you remember what I told you about Tangier Island?” “Yes,” she said. “Can you get some time off?” Then I told her the plan. She said she’d get here as soon as possible. *** And so we decided to make the film and call it “ Way of the Watermen of the Chesapeake Bay.” I was the director and Anne was the film maker. Of course the movie would mainly focus on an extensive interview with Jane Crockett but we also planned to interview many of the young people. In addition, we planned to take shots of many of the historical buildings around the island. Finally, we planned to interview some scientists on erosion and what it was doing to the island, as well as what it would take to save the island. Did Tangier just need a seawall or did it need even more? And so we started filming. First we interviewed Jane Crockett on film about her memories of the island. “What is your fondest memory of Tangier Island?” Anne asked on film. “It was the August Storm of 1933,” Jane began. “Homes were flooded to the second story. We really pulled together as a people. All of the books on the island were ruined because we couldn’t transport them out of the library fast enough before the floods came. The children could climb in the tops of the trees because the trees up to their tops were underwater. We got some canoes and everyone on the island paddled around in canoes. The cats needed to be saved. Especially my cats. Back then I had twenty cats. I moved them to the top floor of my house, and they were still scared, but we managed to save them all.” Then Anne asked, “What about the largest channel on the island- Why is it called Big Gut? That’s a funny name.” Jane said, “Oh that was old Dave Crockett who came up with that name. You see for a while the teenagers were dropping their old soda cans in the channel. The town council starting making them clean it up and Dave said the channel had absorbed so much soda that it should be called Big Gut.” Anne asked Jane another question. “What’s the most interesting thing that’s ever happened here?” Jane grew serious. “Well, I don’t know if you would call it interesting, but it definitely spooked us all. One day after a storm, the waters receded and there lay part of an ancient Native American vessel. We climbed aboard and found an old battle ax. The boys thought it was so awesome. We were going to take it over to the mainland so they could put it in one of the national museums in Washington, D.C. But the night before it was to be transported, it mysteriously disappeared. People thought someone on Tangier had stolen it, but we never solved the mystery. Then the next week, the tide rose again and the native American vessel once more slipped beneath the waters before we had a chance to search it for more artifacts.” Then we took shots of my mother working as a waitress in The Fisherman’s Corner restaurant where the wives of the watermen sold their husbands’ daily catch to the tourists direct and fresh from the Bay. We wanted to show how tourism supports the economy of Tangier. In addition, we filmed a day in the life of a waterman. One of the watermen we interviewed was Dan Crockett. Dan talked about fishing on the water. “My father was a watermen and he died on his crab skiff when he was 98. We do not earn money if we do not work. There is no retirement for us. But we do it because we love to be on the water…,” he said, adding, “I wouldn’t trade this for anything.” Then we decided to interview some young people. The young people mostly talked about the sense of community on Tangier. Everyone knows everyone and people will help you out at the drop of a hat. They talked about how their fathers and grandfathers would let them go out on the boats in the early mornings sometimes and how much fun it was to catch crabs on the water. Some of them talked about how they were going to follow in their fathers’ and grandfathers’ footsteps and become watermen. We also interviewed my sister, Sara Pruitt. Sara had settled down on the island after graduating school and had married another islander who she grew up with, Samuel Parks. They now have five children. My sister talked about how she is continuing the Tangier legacy. “So,” Anne said to Jane, “You know there is a history book of Tangier written by someone named Sugar Tom Crockett. I thought you said there was no history book of the island and that’s why your husband was writing one.” Jane Crockett shook her head. “You see that’s where the misunderstanding is. Sugar Tom was a fake. I mean, he was a real person, but he embellished his history of the island, to put it mildly. Most everything in it is exaggerated or false. That’s why you see my husband felt the need to write an accurate history of the island. If only we had his history book…” she sighed and shook her head. “It’s okay,” I said. “You’re like a living history of the past ninety years, plus we can glean a lot from old newspaper articles and put together a piecemeal history ourselves.” Towards the end of the film, we had onscreen interviews with local scientists and experts on the Chesapeake Bay and erosion. The film closed with a final monologue from one such expert:

"If the island sinks," he said, "Tangier natives will be the first climate change refugees in the United States. The plight of Tangier Island should create a sense of urgency," he went on, "because other coastal cities in the United States may suffer the same fate in the future."

And that was the end. Then we decided to preview the film. We popped some popcorn and gathered around Jane Crockett’s T.V. in her family room. The opening credits rolled and then the movie opened to panoramic views of different parts of the island—there was the church, the health clinic, the harbor, the tombstones, and the school. Soft music played in the background and then Anne’s voice could be heard on the film: “Tangier Island is a special place. We hope this film gives you a little flavor of this place we call home and why we could never imagine living anywhere else.” I thought the movie was very well done after the final credits rolled and we had finished previewing it. Now we just had to get it to the governor. I had the idea that I could ask Doctor Coptor if I could catch a ride over on his chopper. He agreed. Sitting in the chopper, I watched Tangier Island fade away below as we took flight. I clutched the DVD in both hands and my stomach was doing flip flops as I thought about what I was going to say to the Governor’s secretary again. I gave the film to the governor of Virginia and we crossed our fingers and waited. A month later, we got a response. It read: Dear Mayor of Tangier, “We have reviewed your film. We have indeed heard of Tangier Island and have read many of the recent newspaper articles about the island’s fate. We have also heard that many of the young people are leaving the island to find opportunities elsewhere. We believe that the culture of Tangier will die out on its own anyway. For these reasons, we don’t believe the funding for a seawall is warranted as the population on Tangier is declining and the state currently does not have money to spare.” Sincerely, Virginia Governor When I finished reading the letter, first shock and then overwhelming shame engulfed me. I was one of the very young people the governor was talking about. I had left the island looking for a better life. How could I argue now that Tangier should be saved? But even though I had left, Tangier would always be my home. No matter where you go in the world, nothing can replace your home. Of course Tangier was worth saving. Where else could you find this much history? It was time to come up with a new battle plan, I thought with resolve. The next week, I had a brilliant idea. We could take our plight to the United States Congress. There was only one person I could think of who would be good to testify for us: Jane Crockett. But getting her to agree to do it would be nearly impossible, I realized. After all, she had never been off the island and she would have to do it in order to talk to Congress. Jane would have to confront her biggest fear: addressing a crowd in a public place. The next week, I approached Jane. It took six months, but we were finally able to convince her. She was terrified to leave the island, but her desire to get the funding for the seawall was even greater than her fear. I had the idea that we could start a petition to get a hearing and get the mayors of the local towns to sign it so that we could get a hearing. Finally, we got one. When we had taken the ferry over to the mainland, Jane started to have separation anxiety. The sight of cars terrified her—as well as the street lights. We had to catch a taxi and when we were inside, the taxi zipped and zigzagged around the city. “Oh dear,” Jane Crockett exclaimed. The only time she had come close to such a thrill ride was when her golf cart, (which everyone uses to get around Tangier as there are no cars on the island), overturned and she flew into the soft bed of the marshes. And then, don’t get me started on when we saw the Anacostia River filled with oil and the trash lining the sidewalks of the street. Mrs. Jane Crockett bent down trying to pick up some of the trash and put it in the trash can. “Jane,” I said, gently putting my hand on her arm. “You can’t pick all of this up. Washington, D.C. is just a dirty city. It’s not like Tangier.” *** The day of the hearing, Jane walked onto the Senate floor. “Mr. Chairman, my name is Jane Crockett and I’m here to tell you why Tangier Island needs to have a seawall,” she began. “When I was two years old, my father took me on the crab skiff. He worked all day, dawn to dusk, until he was 95. My grandfather did the same and his father before him and his father before him. That’s five generations,” she said. “Now, all of my ancestors made their living on Tangier Island. It would be a shame for the way of the watermen to disappear.” “I myself had hoped that my final resting place would be there next to my husband on the beloved island where we both grew up,” she continued. “What will happen to us when the island goes under the water?” “We’re a simple people,” Jane Crockett went on to say. “We’ve never asked anything from the federal government until now. Okay, I know what you will say. A seawall costs a lot of money. It’s a multi-million dollar cost for taxpayers for such a little place with not many residents.” “Now I am going to tell you the story of my husband, Joseph Crockett, a very noble man and a United States veteran,” she continued. Jane began, “Like some Tangier boys, my husband decided to join the military when he graduated high school. He bravely served his country for four years. He was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. He was awarded a purple heart for his heroism. Fortunately he survived the war, but a few months after he returned, he was killed in a freak accident. My husband nearly gave his life for his country, but the federal government has forgotten him and other Tangier veterans. Don’t you think the United States government owes them something for their distinguished service? Soon he will be a hero without a homeland.” “After the accident that killed my husband,” she continued, “I made the decision to never leave the island. Tangier Island is my life,” she said, “It’s the only home I’ve ever known.” Jane left the podium then. The speech went very well, I thought. Now it was all in the hands of the legislature and we just had to wait. *** Over the next few weeks, The Washington Post was flooded with letters to the editor and sympathy for Jane Crockett. Someone started a petition and thousands signed it and sent it to Congress. Finally there was a decision. Tangier would get the funding it needed for a seawall as well as a plan to build breakwaters, pumped-in sand and new vegetation. It would be a 30 million dollar project funded by taxpayers. It was understood that the seawall would be dedicated to Jane Crockett’s late husband. A gold plaque on the wall read in distinguished script: “This seawall is in memory of Joseph Crockett. United States Veteran, Recipient of the Purple Heart Husband and friend His heart is forever here on his beloved island.” Looking at the plaque, Jane pictured her husband as she remembered him fifty years ago. And she smiled because she knew he would be proud that she saved the island. Her mind, at last, was at rest. *** Jane died that summer. We buried her next to her husband on the island. Jane and Joseph lie buried beneath the fiery red Autumn trees at the tip of the north side of the island. It was fitting, I thought, seeing as Jane was like a living soul and her spirit would always live on in this place. I knew she would always hold a special place in my heart. That Christmas, I landed my first major role in a Broadway play. As I took my place center stage, the lights dimmed, then flickered back on briefly. I blinked, certain I was seeing things. But, sure enough, there they all were—my entire family, including my father, whose cancer had been cured. Tears filled my eyes. It was the best Christmas gift anyone could ask for.

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goodlawdmaude · 7 years

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Madrid, Spain

Day 1 (3/24)

After landing in Madrid, navigating our way to our AirBnB, and napping for two hours, Jarod and I were woken up around 1:30pm by a knock at the door. Our host had told us that a man named Ous would come to clean the apartment at 2pm. What she didn’t mention was that Ous--while incredibly nice--did not speak any English. In a mixture of Spanish and charades, we managed to agree that we would leave the apartment for an hour so that he could clean.

In a daze, we piled on our layers (it’s cold in Madrid in March!!) and headed out. We walked through the Barrio (neighborhood) of La Lavapies and into La Latina, walking until we came to La Real Basílica de San Francisco el Grande. We sat in a plaza on the South side of the church, admiring the structure’s large, yellow dome and resting our very weary bones. From there, we wandered North past El Palacio Real de Madrid, through La Plaza de Oriente, and finally back through the center of Madrid to our apartment.

Even though my body was dull with exhaustion, taxed heavily by the previous day/night, I was awestruck by the beautiful city streets and extravagant monuments. Everything was picturesque. There were balconies on every building with ferns growing in ornate pots and flower beds snuggled up against decorative railings. At crosswalks and through cafe windows, I saw people smoking cigarettes and sipping espressos; talking quickly, excitedly, rhythmically with wide eyes and exaggerated hand gestures. We were in a new place, and I was stoked to explore it!!

By now, it was around 4:30pm, and we were hungry. We set off in search of a restaurant nearby and found two whose kitchens were closed. This was our first inconvenient encounter with ~siesta~. Even hungrier now, we found a market and bought tortellini and vegetables to cook back at the apartment. That night, we were in bed by 8:30.

Day 2 (3/25)

Our first real (still surreal) morning in Madrid, we woke up at a reasonably early hour after an unreasonably excessive amount of sleep. We made eggs at home, then went to a nearby cafe recommended by our host, Maria. Again, it felt like there was culture everywhere. The people around us were dressed neatly in scarves and hats and boots (still freezing!), ordering pastries and warm drinks, dipping the former into the latter and eating them slowly and gracefully. Here, we each got two coffees and drank them quietly, soaking up the environment around us. I admit I was (I still am) a bit self conscious; I didn’t want to speak too much or too loudly in my ugly American accent and identify myself as an obnoxious outsider.

At this cafe, we started to suspect that coffee in Spain is different than coffee in the US. In Spain, a coffee is served small in a cute little teacup on a saucer with a packet of sugar on the side. You can order a couple different variants--cafe solo (shot of espresso), cafe americano (still small), or cafe con leche (larger, but half milk)--but there is no order that will get you a giant mug of good old fashioned black coffee. (”Cafe negro” will get you the prompt: “Cafe Americano?” to which you will nod, confused and disappointed when you get a tiny teacup of slightly diluted espresso.) I digress.

From the cafe, we headed to El Museo Del Prado, where we spent hours admiring--or more often puzzling over --thousands of paintings. My favorite was a small piece, entitled “The Painter’s Children,” which portrayed two young girls lounging on a futon, one wrapped in a pretty Japanese blanket, the other sprawled on a cushion. Jarod’s was a huge portrait of a Roman (??) leader dead in a bathtub--a suicide referenced as honorable in The Godfather.

When we thought we might die of hunger, we tore ourselves from the Prado despite only seeing (maybe) half of the art on display. We wandered up the street and into a tapas restaurant. This was when we truly started embracing Spanish culture with a mid-day glass of wine and four sequential plates of tapas rich with meats, cheeses, and oil. This was also when I learned that a “Russian salad” does not contain lettuce, but lots of potatoes and mayonnaise.

We went back to our apartment, took naps (Jarod) and studied the city (Lizzy). Still feeling full and generally out of sorts, we headed to the Santa Ana square//Barrio de Las Letras (the literary district, where the paving stones of the main street are engraved with some of the best known lines from 16th and 17th century Spanish literature). We got mixed drinks and a plate of tortillas and hummus at a hipster joint full of trendy young people, then proceeded to a lively gin bar called Carbones 13, where we each had a gin and tonic--the first that I have ever truly liked.

We stopped at home briefly before rushing out to catch an authentic live flamenco performance at a bar on our corner, El Candela. We put our names down to reserve seats, then had half an hour to kill before the performance started. We spent that time in a lively, divey Bodega (wine bar) down the block. Our drinks were cheap (5€ for two) and came with a plate of potato chips.

The performance itself was fabulous. There were only 4 people on stage and only one who danced. It was the first flamenco I’ve ever seen live, and I was struck by the drama of the production. The dancer’s heels banged loudly on the hollow stage floor, the tassels of her outfit swung wildly as she moved, and her face and hands were full of intense emotion. The crowd shouted “ole!” and the end of each piece--and sometimes during--to show their appreciation and admiration. (I didn’t know that was a real thing, but I loved it.)

After, we went home and stayed up a while longer, confused as to what time zone we were in. Suddenly, it seemed quite late--3 or 4am--but we were not exactly to be counted on to know the time. Little did we know, day lights savings had occurred that night; a phenomenon which would further confuse us in the morning.

Day 3 (3/26)

We woke up around 10am, with 1pm lunch reservations at one of the oldest restaurants in the world quickly approaching. Jarod was a little hungover as we embarked towards Botín for our lunch date. He ordered shrimp, which came with the legs and heads still attached. Decapitating them was a task that hungover Jarod liked even less than spry Jarod would have. I ordered cod, which was smothered in a soup of delicious tomato sauce and was impractically humongous (I am notorious for clearing my plate and could only eat half). We drank half a pitcher of sangria--which may have been ambitious given the night before, but when on vacation...--and finished the meal up with a DIVINE chocolate mousse cake. The meal was tasty, but pricey (80€) and the restaurant itself was lovely, but packed with tourists (ourselves among them). It didn't turn out to be quite the cultural endeavor I had imagined, although we did see (what I imagine to be) some very traditional Spanish dishes, such as "baby squid, cooked in his own ink." Harsh.

After lunch, we went in search of Madrid's famous flea market: El Rastro. I had the driving interest in El Rastro, but had done a poor job of researching the actual location (I knew it was in La Latina from 10am-3pm... And not much else). In our search for the market, we stumbled upon a giant amphitheater type hole in the ground, covered in weeds and graffiti and tattooed young people. There were two guys playing live music, the speaker too weak to allow us to hear them from the entrance ramp on which we stood. It was a little silly, but I felt alive being there, like I was seeing an authentic, grimy part of modern life in Madrid.

With Jarod's guidance, we finally found El Rastro as it was closing down. We walked through the stalls of leathers, rugs, fans, and clothing, admiring everything but avoiding wanting anything (I could hardly order coffee for myself let alone haggle with a street vendor). At the end of the road, we found ourselves at an old tobacco factory, La Tabacaleria, that had long ago shut down and repurposed as an art gallery. Atlas Obscura had called this out as one of the hidden gems worth seeing in Madrid, and there was no entry fee, so we headed in.

The art exhibit was eerie--one piece was a TV hung from the rafters and entwined in a chain, broadcasting silent black and white footage--fitting for the cold and dark hallways of La Tabacaleria. There were lots of other videos in Spanish (which we didn't watch), but also some cool images of Mayan ruins (which interested me more).

When we finally got back home, we siesta'd--as is the Spanish way--and woke up some time later, ready to get our first real exercise in. We went to the Parque Del Buen Retiro, and ran around its perimeter, then walked through the interior, stopping to admire the Palacio De Velazquez, Palacio De Crystal, and a man-made lake--full of couples in paddle boats--that flanks the Monumento a Alfonso XII.

Our stomachs were still very confused so we elected to make dinner at home that evening, stopping by the market for rice, chicken, and vegetables.

Day 4 (3/27)

By day 4, you would think we would have at least somewhat adjusted to Spanish time. And in a way we had: we were waking up late, taking naps in the afternoon, and staying up later. So on day 4, we slept in. When we finally tore ourselves from the cozy den of bed, it was around 11am. We still needed coffee, so we headed out towards La Plaza Mayor and stepped into a coffee shop along the way.

From the Plaza, we headed out to revisit the west side of Madrid: the Royal Palace we had seen on day 1 in a daze, the old theater (Teatro Real) we had missed entirely, and the Egyptian temple (Templo De Debod) we hadn't known about. After walking for several hours, we were famished. We came home, pooled some leftovers to snack on, then exercised in our living room and cleaned up in preparation for our impending departure.

We headed out for our final dinner. We planned to go to Museo Chicote: an old restaurant and “Madrid landmark” frequented by famous people (Ernest Hemingway among them). However, it was closed (as are a lot of shops and restaurants on Monday in Madrid, apparently). We backtracked to the literary district and chose a restaurant called "La Vinoteca." Obviously. There, we feasted on shared plates of cheesy croquettes, flavorful meatballs, and crostini topped with mozzarella and tomato. On the way home, we stopped at a nearby Bodega, which was dark but inviting and buzzing with activity. And with that, our time in Madrid had come to an end. We packed and prepared for our jarringly early 530am wake-up the next day, after which we would take the metro to the airport and fly to Porto, Portugal.

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