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alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer · 3 years

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Well hello there! Boy am I gonna be annoying (Im so sorry)

💻 for Jem and Alastair Carstairs with prompt (idk if this is too specific or not enough) where Jem saves Alastair from being wrongfully imprisoned because of the murders or just them bonding over anything

💡 and 👑

....also 🎺 for christopher lightwood

Thank youuu!

oooooh boy okay!! thanks for sending this in, i hope you enjoy it lol ❤💚💙 also happy new years!!! 🎉🎁

so first, here’s the one-shot (lmao it ain’t gonna be a one-shot tho lol OOPS-)

song that reminds me of christopher lightwood

this one was super hard bc I feel like we’ve talked about all the songs lol, for anyone who’s not you, pls listen to “The Astronomer” from Ghost Quartet bc it is the BEST kit lightwood vibes!!!

for you tho it’s gonna be “Galileo” by the Indigo Girls, idk I like the chorus “How long 'til my soul gets it right / Can any human being ever reach that kind of light / I call on the resting soul of Galileo / King of night vision, king of insight”

character and excerpt from my WIP

okay so for this one I’m gonna give you TWO characters and who they are in my actual WIP, and then an excerpt from the no-magic short story I wrote for my creative writing class!

Leena is a shapeshifter who can shift into a tree (pls don’t ask what I was on when I decided that I was like 14) and has both plant-reviving powers and basic healing powers in her human form. She’s bad at math (also, just, school) and feels almost constantly overwhelmed by the expectations placed on her (from parents, professors, even friends) but is a very caring person and an excitable friend.

Liz is a shapeshifter who can shift into a bird (a crane, specifically) and is generally not a very easy person to be friends with. She’s had a difficult life and she appears very closed off to most people, claiming to just be introverted but in truth is fairly lonely, she’s just lost at navigating any type of social situation. i s2g i know she sounds like alastair but i swear they’re not the same

the excerpt under the cut!

The first time Liz went birdwatching, she was a freshman in college. It was an easier adjustment for her than most -- not much to leave behind -- but that only exemplified how different she felt from all of her peers. She’d never been good at making or keeping friends (one of her high school guidance counselors called her “prickly”) and being constantly moved by the foster system never helped. While she watched her classmates and roommate fall into the rhythm of a university social life, she spent more and more of the daytime in the library and more and more of the nighttime ruminating over her loneliness. When the sun began to rise before she’d even had a chance to rest her eyes, she started to go on walks to watch both the birds and the sun awaken for the day.

She’d known a lot about birds already, but she’d never had the freedom to look for them herself before. As it would turn out, birdwatching was much harder than she thought. It required patience and quiet and constant, careful attention, and if she was being honest, the slightly purple lighting from the fading night sky, the biting chill in the air, and the complete absence of the typical bustling of students between classes and meetings could be unsettling that early in the morning. She connected with a birdwatching club in the area -- mostly older women who lived in the neighborhood, but she didn’t mind -- and the more she learned about the local birds, the easier it was to spot the common ones. Every week, though, she’d hear the other women talk about their rarer finds, and she’d realize that, compared to these women, birdwatching was just another thing she was bad at.

She met Leena in their calculus class at the beginning of the semester, but they’d never spoken, not until their professor paired them off for a group project. Liz had respectfully protested -- who assigns group work in a calculus class, anyways -- but her professor insisted that they might all benefit from a little extra support from one another.

By the time the project was turned in, Leena had realized that she could use a bit of help with calculus and Liz had realized that she could use a friend. She’d never seen herself as patient or clear at articulating herself, but Leena insisted she was the first person she’d ever met that could make math make sense. They began to meet regularly to work on problem sets, and sometimes just to talk. Nothing was perfect, especially not after Liz accidentally made herself an enemy to half of Leena’s friends, but no one asked for perfect.

The night that Leena first kissed her, her whole world spun. In hindsight, it was awkward and sloppy, but in the moment, she couldn’t dare to dream of anything more.

That night, she fell asleep without issue for the first time in years. She woke the next morning while the sky was still dark. Checking the time, she knew that the sun would begin to rise soon. She pulled on a hoodie and took off through campus. She felt lighter on her feet then than she’d felt since her mom passed, barely resisting the urge to dance through the streets, basking in the excitement.

As the sun just barely began to creep up, she heard a hoot. She froze and scanned the trees and telephone poles around her. Her eyes found it quickly -- an owl, a rare sight. As she tiptoed closer, her eyes rested on the curves of his ears. The ladies at the birdwatching club were going to be so jealous.

#jaimie's appreciation posts #christopher lightwood #the shapeshifter wip #ask #littlx-songbxrd

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sparklyjojos · 4 years

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CARNIVAL recaps [12/13]

Today’s recap: Seiryoin as a blunt weapon, Kirika trying to be relevant to the plot again, and Nemu meeting a ghost.

TWENTY-THREE

28 Dec 1996 — 03 Jan 1997

TOWER OF PISA

[There’s a short moment of first person narration here; a random man from Pisa who lost his wife is so done with life that when he’s contacted by the men in black, he agrees to work with RISE during the next Billion Killer case.]

[Third person narration.]

Amagoi and Meiru have just finished enjoying a few days of the famous Carnival in Venice when Dokuson has them move to Pisa.

As they’re standing near the famous Leaning Tower waiting for 1 PM, Amagoi says that they still need to go back to Japan and figure out where Ryuuguu Otohime went. All they know is that she was spotted by the seashore, witnesses claiming that she rode what looked like a giant turtle into the ocean, which brings to mind Urashima Taro’s way of transportation to the legendary Dragon Palace. It sounds unbelievable, but the Crime Olympics are already so chaotic that maybe fairytales are going to start to come true as well.

During their previous stay in Italy, Meiru and Amagoi have solved a case that involved dead bodies wrapped in pasta, apparently the result of a long conflict between restaurants that involved the mafia. Now they’re pursuing another serial case happening in many Italian cities, the killer always standing on a roof and throwing pizza with a heavy metal ball as a “topping” on people’s heads.

Their conversation is interrupted when a crowd of agitated onlookers gathers nearby. A man looking like a cook is standing on top of the Leaning Tower, holding a pizza in one hand and a metal ball in the other. Meiru recognizes him as Galigali Galilei, a pizzeria owner they met in the pasta case. His name seems fitting, as he then performs a variation of the famous Galileo experiment by dropping the pizza and the ball at the same time, as if to demonstrate they will fall at equal speed. But the moment the ball hits the ground, there’s a much louder noise that can’t mean anything good.

Meiru and Amagoi manage to run away before the tower—which had been magically cut through near the base—falls down with a deafening rumble, rolling through the Square of Miracles until it hits the nearby cathedral. Almost three hundred people die in the event. A Billion Killer skull is found where the Tower once stood.

[Second person narration from Dokuson.]

Before Meiru and Amagoi left for Italy, you asked them to investigate Venice and Pisa, where a serial killer case had been going on, and told them they’re free to enjoy the famous Carnival as long as they made absolutely sure to go back to Pisa just in case the next Billion Killer attacks it on 28th. Amagoi perked up when you said that even if nothing would happen there, the trip would mean she could eat as much of her favorite gelato as she wanted at DOLL’s expense.

The cases on December 21st and 28th happened in Egypt and Italy, just like predicted. Everyone is trying to reason out the Billion Killer’s next target—and that S-detective is likely trying to figure out your person, which you wordlessly encourage. You wonder just how much of your mystery they’ll be able to uncover.

TWENTY-FOUR

04 Jan 1997 — 10 Jan 1997

GRAND CANYON

[Third person narration.]

Still hospitalized BOKU gets a visit from Kirika Mai. This is their first meeting, since she has spent the last few months in hospital.

Kirika says that Dokuson is recently extremely busy organizing "the First JDC Red and White Reasoning Contest" [this name referring to kouhaku, the annual New Year's Eve singing contest]. It’s going to be a televised event in which a bunch of JDC detectives will participate in two teams (male and female) and try solving many smaller cases of the Crime Olympics. The contest judge will naturally be Dokuson. Aside from showing the criminal world their power, Dokuson also hopes that getting rid of as many cases as possible in one go will lessen the overwhelming barrage of things they have to concern themselves with.

Participants won't be hard to find, as JDC has experienced a flood of new detectives ever since doing away with the entry exam. It seems many people have awakened their detective skills lately; as Dokuson puts it, people by their very nature are detectives battling with the mysteries of life. Ajiro Souji used to say something similar, about how in times like these people continue to live to solve mysteries.

[We get a list of strange new detectives. It's long, but some of my favorites are Paper Plane Detective, Irresponsible Advisor Detective, Hunger Strike Detective, and Going Feral Detective.]

...whether or not these strange reasoning methods are useful in fighting crime, they certainly help shed some light on the mystery known as humanity. BOKU muses that perhaps all the genius thinkers and philosophers of history could be considered great detectives, in a way.

Kirika mentions that some of the new JDC detectives were exposed as secret criminals—Murder Detective, Accident Detective, Thief Detective and so forth—basically "Crime Detectives", who did solve mysteries, but using less than legal methods.

But going back to the reasoning contest, they're still searching for a suitable host (Dokuson wanted to give this role to BOKU, but that's not very possible now). Also, the JDC Band announced they're going to take part in the event as “the Band Detective”.

Putting aside those topics, Kirika finally gets to the point and shares her suspicion: she thinks "the youngest detective in the world", Hanto Kuraimu, is not at all some tiny genius of predictions, and everything has been set up by Dokuson.

Even when Kirika had been hospitalized, she used all her authority to get other detectives to investigate the situation for her, and recently got Dokuson to let her meet with Maimu and Kuraimu. Apparently little Kuraimu is now a “baby detective”, which only Dokuson knows about except them. Maimu insists that when she locks eyes with her daughter, she feels a stream of consciousness not unlike that which she felt making her pregnant predictions. The two are even able to communicate by Maimu asking questions and Kuraimu moving her head to answer “yes” or “no”. Maimu claims they already solved a few cases that way. Kirika wanted to try asking the baby questions herself, but was told Kuraimu wouldn’t show her abilities in front of anyone except her mother.

Dokuson insists that the “baby detective” is real, and that the simplest way to prove it would be to wait and see if the predictions she makes about the Billion Killer cases are correct. At the time Kirika and Dokuson talked about it, the latest two predictions already came true—the Great Pyramid and the Tower of Pisa—with the next going to concern the Grand Canyon.

Kirika still thinks that it’s Dokuson who somehow predicts the cases and uses an ordinary child as a smokescreen, maybe even making exhausted Maimu believe in her baby’s powers.

Kirika is trying to investigate Dokuson, who seems more and more suspicious to her—from the unfavorable impression Hyouma has about him, through the very timely appearance after the JDC explosion, to the insistence that Tsukumo Juku be kept away from the organization based on a fax from “Tsukumo Jaki”, who might not even be real. Kirika suspects that Dokuson is secretly a member of RISE and doesn’t as much predict the Billion Killer cases, as simply knows their schedule.

[Second person narration from a random person.]

Let’s think about reading. Whenever someone loses themselves in a book, all the personal details of their life cease to exist; there is only you, “the reader”, a part of the collective also lost in the same book; and right now, the two popular books that connect you and others—be they detectives, criminals, random passersby—are Cosmic and Joker.

Ever since Joker was released, there have been constant incidents of someone tying the two books together with string and using the cumulative weight of about a thousand five hundred pages as a murder weapon, later discarding the bloody books near the body. The group responsible for these nationwide murders has been dubbed Cosmic Jokers, CJ for short. The only link found between the victims is that they all had their own copies of Cosmic and Joker in their rooms. To prevent further tragedy, both titles were quickly pulled from stores.

You, who happen to have them both on your shelf, can’t help but want to solve the mystery. According to experts on TV, CJ might be connected to RISE—is there something in the books they don’t want people to learn?

You continue to read and reason, and each night another yous are murdered, and other innocent yous continue to read…

[We then have a brief first person narration from a random person visiting the Grand Canyon, who witnesses the most extraordinary event from a plane. The Thunderbird Lodge, a hotel built on the Canyon’s edge, suddenly raises like a rocket, flies through the air in an arc, and plummets roof-first into the abyss, taking eight hundred people with it. A Billion Killer skull is later found where the hotel stood.]

TWENTY-FIVE

11 Jan 1997 — 17 Jan 1997

NEUSCHWANSTEIN

[First person narration from Nemu.]

It’s been five months since the beginning of the Crime Olympics The estimated death toll so far is six hundred million. The location of would-be Denver G8 Summit was moved to Athens, scheduled to take place on January 17th. Whether a simple meeting will actually help curb the overwhelming crime is doubtful, but the eyes of the world will be on them.

I arrive in Greece around the time of the Summit. One reason for my journey is that Dokuson asked me to investigate the whereabouts of the missing S-detective Lemuria Sullivan; another reason is that I want to visit a place connected to my brother Juku.

I haven’t had contact with Juku ever since our visit to Ryuuguujou in November. No one besides Dokuson is allowed to call him, for everyone’s safety. Even I don’t know what Juku is doing right now.

A lot of things have happened in those two months. Jounosuke died, Otohime disappeared, Jouka was murdered. Not a day passed without deep sadness and darkness. The good old times of having fun with friends were lost. If I were to lose my brother too…

It was painful to look at his smile when we separated back then, when he assured me that “I’ll be fine, Miss Nemu”, even though he’s being targeted by this mysterious Tsukumo Jaki. I know that he’s a strong person… but the thought of him facing all that darkness feels so tragic and miserable.

Since I grew up next to someone like him who always treated all others with love, some of his kindness was naturally passed to me, but I will never be quite like him and Yomiko, who would always love everyone and be ready to forgive the worst criminal. I know how tremendous human kindness can be—and that’s exactly why I always wish deep in my heart that no foolish hurting of others could occur ever again.

Back in Ryuuguujou, Juku told me that if I ever happened to lose my way, I should head to Delphi in Greece, the place where his unique reasoning method Jintsuuriki had been perfected. Jintsuuriki had already awakened in him at the time of the Saimon Family Murder Case, but the true understanding of it came later, thanks to “the oracle of Delphi”. I doubt that I could attain similar enlightenment, but seeing as I’m already in Greece, it won’t hurt to check. Juku must have had a reason to tell me to go there... and I have a vague feeling that it’s inevitable.

The S-detective who was expelled from DOLL, Lemuria Sullivan, was last seen in Meteora three years ago. The name Meteora just like meteor comes from the Greek word for something “in the air”, a fitting name for a formation of towering rock columns. Lemuria Sullivan spent a week in one of the temples built there, the Monastery of the Holy Trinity, and disappeared afterwards.

After a short stay in Meteora, I move to Delphi, the place considered by ancient Greeks to be the center of the world. I tour around the place, but it doesn’t feel any different than normal sightseeing. Unexpectedly, a person working in a hotel in Delphi recognizes Lemuria Sullivan from a picture I show them and gives me more information.

Rumor has it that the ghost of Pythia the oracle has been appearing at night in the ruined Temple of Apollo. Three years ago, Lemuria Sullivan went there to verify the tale and never returned.

So Lemuria Sullivan was actually last seen in Delphi... Faced with that suspiciously useful coincidence, I get a strange thought: did Dokuson and Juku already know everything and purposefully manipulate me into going here? I get a vague feeling that there has to be a connection between both of them and Lemuria Sullivan. Whatever it is, I will need to investigate Sullivan’s disappearance first.

I go to the Temple of Apollo in the middle of the night. The darkness makes me remember the title Lemuria Sullivan had in DOLL, Knight in Night, quite a contrast with the temple of the god of the Sun. His less pompous nickname was Herr Omega. The Greek letter in his nickname seems fitting, considering where he went missing.

Strolling through the dark ruins, I can almost imagine my old coworker Ajiro Souya walking around to boost his reasoning skills. It’s been a few years since his death. Back then, I was too immature to realize just what my feelings for him were, but losing him still had a significant impact on me, made me realize my responsibility as a detective, and strengthened the will to keep moving forward. I know it had a similar effect on Joya [Christmas]—speaking of whom, he recently walked into a Billion Killer case in Egypt, in what looks like a coincidence, but feels like an inevitability. The same can be said about Amagoi just happening to be in Pisa. Maybe it was inevitable that when I went to Machu Picchu a few months ago, I would tell the local president about Jounosuke, and the president would later call him there to investigate, which would lead to Jounosuke’s death…

The sheer thought that a world of incidental events could actually be an organized set of inevitabilities is frightening.

My meeting with the ghost of Pythia is probably inevitable too.

[Second person narration from ???]

From the moment you became Pythia, you were always Pythia and no one else, all throughout the past, the present, the future. Many women have been chosen to be you, but they all lost their individuality in the process, becoming the single being of you; not a group of people, but the undying Pythia. If you die, another you takes your place. Those who don’t know everything like you do wouldn’t understand how you existed before the Temple was built and after its destruction. They might see you as a ghost.

Wearing a hooded coat over your current body of an old woman, you wait in the stormy night until the guest approaches: a young woman with an umbrella, her expression bearing no surprise, just certainty.

“You came… Tsukumo, Nemu,” you speak in raspy, breaking voice, and Nemu does show surprise this time. Not because you know her name, but because she can understand what you’re saying. “That is because, my words, are transmitted, directly to your head.”

“But it looks like you’re speaking.”

“All senses, are illusions.”

“Who are you?”

“A priestess, receiving prophecies, from Apollo.”

“Is this how you knew my name?”

“I know your past, your future, everything. You came here, to find Lemuria Sullivan.”

“If you know my past, then you must know about my brother as well?”

“I met, Tsukumo, Juku, years ago.”

“Do you know where Juku or Lemuria Sullivan are now?”

“I know. I will not tell you, but there is, a way for you to learn. In two weeks, be in Germany, when the Billion Killer strikes.”

“Germany is a huge country. I’m not an oracle like you, I can’t predict where exactly the case will happen.”

“There are, three kinds, of those, who can guess the future. Do you, understand?”

“Three kinds… one are people whose predictions come true by pure chance, two are those who secretly make the predicted event happen… and…?”

“Real oracles. Those with, real powers. I am blessed with, the prophecies, of the true oracle.” As Nemu gives you a doubtful look, you add, “If you, don’t understand, I will tell you. The Billion Killer case, will happen at, Neuschwanstein Castle.”

“...if I go there, will I learn about Lemuria Sullivan and my brother?”

You nod, then point to the sky. Tsukumo Nemu looks there, and once her sight returns to the ground, she finds you already gone.

[Third person narration.]

King Ludwig II of Bavaria was known for many things, among them the amount of money he spent on castles, his love for Wagner, and being considered mad. Perhaps his most famous commission was the castle Neuschwanstein. This name literally means “New Swan Stone” and refers to the legendary Knight of the Swan, the titular hero of Wagner’s opera Lohengrin.

Nemu remembers that a few years ago, during the Geneijo Murder Case, she talked with one of the writers involved—Nijikawa Ryou—about his stay in Germany, and he said that she should definitely visit Neuschwanstein if she’s ever around. Looking through Joker, Nemu finds a description of Geneijo that compares it to the Nymphenburg Palace, where Ludwig II was born. However, Nemu knows well that the real Geneijo doesn’t look all that similar to Nymphenburg. It’s like whoever wrote Joker deliberately got the description wrong just so they could put the name of Ludwig II in there as a hint.

Looking at the splendid Neuschwanstein, Nemu thinks that maybe the king’s obsession with castles made him not a madman, but a misunderstood artist who dedicated his entire life to ideals. Perhaps the Billion Killer was also someone who could be defined that way (though of course Nemu wasn’t able to sympathize with the way he created his masterpieces).

When Nemu called Dokuson about her trip to Germany, he sounded almost like he had been expecting this turn of events, which made her even more suspicious. This suspicion also means she’s starting to get mixed feelings about her own brother—not quite distrust, but the impression that Juku knows something important he’s not telling her.

On 1 PM local time, a man wearing a suit of armor with white wings—the Swan Knight of legends—appears from the upper levels of Neuschwanstein and flies down to the ground as if suspended from the sky on invisible wires, his arms outstretched to the sides so his body makes the shape of a cross. The knight lands in the middle of a curious crowd of tourists, retrieves the sword at his side and starts massacring everyone around. Finally a large group of security guards and stronger tourists piles on him and pins him to the ground, but the knight magically disappears from underneath them leaving behind a skull of the Billion Killer.

Nemu observes the entire scene from afar. She gets a glimpse of the knight’s eyes once, and has a weird feeling that they’re the same as the eyes of Ludwig II in his portraits.

A witness tells her that about an hour before the bloody incident, they saw an old woman carrying the Billion Killer skull through the nearby Queen Mary’s Bridge.

And when Nemu heads there and looks down at the flowing water under the bridge, a tumbling huge peach comes floating...

[>>>NEXT PART>>>]

#sparkly reads carnival #maijo and jdc stuff

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tomeandflickcorner · 4 years

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Episode Review- The Real Ghostbusters: Aint NASA-sarily So

Okay. This episode? It nearly broke me.

The episode starts out in space, aboard Experimental Space Platform Galileo. The crew of the Galileo consists of Captain Ivan Kirov, Lieutenant Irahqua, Lieutenant Commander McTavish, Lieutenant Dostoyevsky Sato and Yeoman Whitney. Right away, it’s painfully obvious that we’re looking at an unapologetic Star Trek parody, as the whole crew of the Galileo are unmistakable spoofs of the original crew of the Enterprise. Captain Kirov is a combination of Kirk and Chekov (well, that’s a weird combo), Irahqua is Uhura, McTavish is Montgomery Scott, Sato is clearly Sulu and Whitney is Janice Rand.

Anyway, it’s the Galileo Crew’s second day of their current mission, and it appears everything is smooth sailing. Until alarm bells begin going off. It appears something has collided with the space platform. Moments later, both McTavish and Whitney enter the bridge to inform Kirov that they think they’ve just seen a ghost. Obviously, there’s only one solution to this- spend millions of dollars in government money to send the Ghostbusters up to the space platform via space shuttle. And it’s here, dear readers, that my brain crashed. And not just because we’re seeing the Ghostbusters piloting a space shuttle (because who needs astronaut training, amiright?) According to this episode, the Ghostbusters coexist in the same reality as a Star Trek-esque crew. But we saw in the episode Station Identification that there’s also a Star Trek parody TV show in The Real Ghostbuster’s universe. So, in other words, this episode is telling us that, not only do they have a Star Trek-like television program in this show’s universe, but there’s also an actual Star Trek-like crew roaming about space at the same time. Yeah, Star Trek’s a great show. I like it as much as the next person. But COME ON! It is possible to have an overkill of Star Trek parodies.

Upon arriving at Space Platform Galileo, the Ghostbusters are greeted by Kirov. And yes, this scene is overflowing with Star Trek jokes, with Winston commenting on how the crew looks familiar and Peter saying that they’re space explorers busy with ‘exploring strange new worlds and seeking out new life and new civilizations.’ (Don’t bother keeping a count of how many Star Trek jokes they squeeze out in this episode. I guarantee your Star Trek Joke Meter will overheat and explode relatively quickly.)

Egon, upon checking his PKE Meter, determines that he does have a reading on an ectoplasmic entity, but that it consists of ‘empty ectoplasm.’ Meaning it doesn’t give off any psychokinetic energy and therefore isn’t a real ghost. Almost instantly after he says this, the lights on the space platform go off. Sato announces that the Creature has attached itself to the solar energy converter and is draining the space platform’s energy. So McTavish brings the Ghostbusters down to engineering, where they find the Creature, which is a large tentacle monster with multiple eyes and mouths. For some reason, Peter makes a comment about never wanting to put marshmallows in his hot chocolate again, which seems like a strange thing to say, as the Creature looks nothing like a marshmallow. And we also get McTavish making yet another Star Trek joke by saying that the way Egon talks reminds him of ‘an old shipmate.’ Basically comparing Egon to Mr. Spock.

The Ghostbusters then prepare to fire their Proton Packs at the Creature, but this only results in the Creature growing even larger, as it’s able to feed off the energy of the Ion Streams. To make it worse, the Creature then begins to feed on the energy in the ship’s anti-gravity unit, so the Ghostbusters begin to float in midair for a bit. Until the Creature decides that it liked the taste of the Ghostbuster’s Ion Streams a bit more and ends up going after the Proton Packs instead. The Creature proceeds to chase after the Ghostbusters and soon manages to catch Winston. And, for some reason, the others don’t seem to notice Winston’s cries, so they don’t realize they lost Winston until Peter happens to look back. (Not very observant of the three team members with actual Ph.Ds.) Fortunately, Winston is able to slip out of his Proton Pack, allowing him to get away unharmed.

The Ghostbusters then return to the bridge to fill in Kirov on what happened. And Kirov is not happy that they haven’t been able to stop the Creature. Especially when the lights once again go off, with Sato announcing the Creature has begun feeding off the ship’s life support systems. Thankfully, McTavish is able to tap into the space platform’s emergency reserves for power, but this only has bought them a bit more time, and they only have four hours to deal with the Creature before the emergency reserves run out. But the Ghostbusters are not quite sure what to do, especially since the Creature has grown to be too big for the Ghost Traps they have on hand. Winston comes up with the idea of trying to communicate with the Creature, as it could be intelligent enough to be reasoned with. But this doesn’t really go anywhere.

Thankfully, Ray seems to have an idea of his own. This idea involves McTavish switching off the power for the space platform for a bit. With the power switched off, the Ghostbusters can lure the Creature to the center of the platform with the energy of their Ion Streams. Rather like a carrot on a stick. Ray initially tries to rope Winston into being the bait, but Egon manages to come to Winston’s defense by pointing out that, considering this is Ray’s plan, he should be the one to act as bait, to ensure it all goes well. Ray’s plan ultimately works, and the Creature is successfully lured into the center of the space platform. And, even though it didn’t seem to work before, their Proton Packs are now able to work on the Creature, holding it in place and allowing the Ghostbusters to capture it within four separate Ghost Traps. Not exactly clear why the Proton Packs were effective now when they only seemed to be feeding the Creature before, but whatever. It’s the final few minutes of the episode, so they have to wrap it up somehow.

But of course, they can’t have the episode end without churning out a few more Star Trek jokes, with Kirov stating that they’re on a five year mission and Irahqua saying that Egon really does remind her of a certain pointy-eared science officer. (Yes, okay. Egon is like Spock. We get it.)

Oh, this episode. It just made me cringe. Look, I have no problem with spoofs. I love movies like Spaceballs, Men in Tights and Monty Python and the Holy Grail. But there’s a certain point where a joke stops being funny and it feels more like they’re bashing you over the head with it. And that was what happened with this episode. Even when it first began, I couldn’t believe it was actually happening within the actual episode. I was sure the stuff with the Galileo was going to end up being revealed as just a show or movie someone was watching. But when I realized that it was actually happening, I’m pretty sure I groaned internally. Combine that with the fact that we’d previously established in the episode Station Identification that there already was an in-universe show that parodied Star Trek, and my brain short-circuited.

In fact, I think the only good part of the episode was the Creture itself. During the episode, Egon determines that it had the same basic ectoplasmic makeup of a Class 4 Free Floating Spirit, but the PKE Meter couldn’t detect any psychokinetic energy emanating from the creature. So, does that mean we were dealing with the ghost of an Alien lifeform? For a basis of comparison, let’s look at the 2001 movie, Evolution. Yes, I know some people might not consider Evolution to be a good movie, but I say it was an entertaining popcorn flick. (Also, it was directed by Ivan Reitman, who also directed the original two Ghostbusters movies. So that alone makes it relevant.) Anyway, in that movie, it was determined that the Alien monsters were nitrogen-based organisms rather than carbon-based like all organic life on Earth. So maybe that’s what was going on here. Maybe the reason why this particular creature didn’t seem to give off psychokinetic energy despite being an ectoplasmic entity was because the Ghostbusters’ equipment was designed around Earth-bound ghosts. But this was the ghost of something from off-planet. Can you imagine how awesome the episode could have gotten if they actually built on that? Think about it. The Ghostbusters have already essentially proven the possibility of life after death simply by proving the existence of ghosts. They could have also proven the existence of intelligent life on other planets, too! But alas, the writers were too busy throwing the endless Star Trek jokes at us to realize the potential. Talk about a missed opportunity!

(Click her for more Ghostbusters reviews)

#the real ghostbusters #rgb episode review #ghostbusters franchise

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a-deadly-serenade · 5 years

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The Shield and the Sword: Chapter 6: Familiars Are A Girl’s Best Friend [Alucard/Reader]

You’re a witch that is skilled in herbology, one that has been persecuted by the church for practically your entire life. In spite of this, moving throughout different towns has allowed you to pick up some chatter about a woman in a village called Lupu. She is supposed to be a wonder when it comes to medicine, and this immediately perks up your interest. So after plucking up some courage, you’ve made it to her door… hoping that she takes you as her apprentice.

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You ran over to your bedroom door and pulled it open, Adrian joining you out into the hallway as you quietly shut your door. “So, who would be the quickest from here?” you asked.

He hummed, and then turned to face the opposite side of the corridor. “The long library is the closest to your room, so let us start there.”

With that you started on your adventure, having to quickly follow alongside Adrian so that you wouldn’t get lost amongst the winding halls of Castlevania. It turns out that Adrian was correct in choosing this supposed long library, because you arrived in front of a large marble doorway quicker than you expected.

“This is it,” he said, and easily pushed it open. Dark marble tile lined the floor and walls, portraits of famous Greek monsters lining the walls, such as Medusa, the Minotaur, the Manticore, and the Siren. Bookshelves towered high, so high that you nearly tripped on yourself as your craned your neck to try and see the top. Large lanterns that burned with bright red flames, helped illuminate the long wooden desks that lined one side of the immense room. Two plush, purple chairs with golden frames were pushed inside each of the desks, and rows and rows of bookshelves stood behind them.

There were various other doors within the room, which surprised you to think that this place was even bigger than this. Adrian led you down a long corridor and up a set of marble stairs, and finally through another door, which held a small room inside.

A large, antique desk stood in the middle of the room, cluttered with books and parchment and spilt vials of ink. A long white candle sits inside an iron candlestick that is nearly covered in thick wax, the flame flickering along with a small fire that sits behind a metal gate. Two bookshelves are jammed packed with books, scrolls, plays, and maps, ancient artifacts hanging from the walls, like Medusa shields and pots from ancient civilizations.

“Young master, welcome!” cries out an old, nasally voice. Sitting in a large, worn, green chair was an old man. He had a long, curly white beard and piercing black eyes. He almost resembled the great scientist Galileo, you thought, with his dark maroon cap and robes; he appeared about as knowledgeable as well.

“It’s been a bit, old one,” Adrian said with a smile.

“What brings you here today?” he asked, before his expression changed to one of shock when he finally noticed you. “Oooh, now I see why you haven’t been stopping by as much.” there was a twinkle in eye, waggling his finger in teasing as the both of you jumped to argue against it.

“Now, now, calm down. There is no need to get into such a huff,” he laughed. “I can tell that this one is wise beyond her years. It is too much of me to say that you are in the medical profession?”

“Uh… yes, how… how did you…?” you stumbled over your words in mild shock.

He laughed again, but it was not a mocking sound. No, it was more akin to a grandfather laughing at a joke that seemingly flew over your head. “I am this castle’s librarian, my dear. I have quite the talent at reading people.”

“Wow,” you sound breathless. “Well, yes, you are correct. I overheard about Lisa’s abilities, so I sought her out and asked if she would accept an apprenticeship from me.”

“Fascinating,” he replied.

“I don’t know if Adrian told you, but I came from a clan of witches that specialized in healing,” you explain.

“Ah yes,” he nodded. “Although, it was not the young master I talked to. I recall when the Master and I had a conversation about you. He seemed hesitant, knowing about the reputation of other witches that dabbled in dark magic. But, he saw something in you. It seems as though he was correct in making that assumption.”

You were dumbfounded that Vlad had said something like that about you. It was very humbling to know that even Dracula could be impressed by someone other than his family.

“We,” you finally find your voice, a bashful smile on your face. “We actually came here looking for one of Adrian’s familiars.”

“Oh of course I have to fetch that blubbering buffoon,” the librarian grumbled to himself.

“There’s no need,” Adrian replied. “I can fetch him, he is mine after all--”

“No!” he shouted. “I know where he is, off making a ruckus,” he walked over to a small stepping ladder that had been set in front of a bookshelf. He climbed up the first two stairs, muttering to himself as his finger slid across the spines of several books. “There you are!” he abruptly shouted, and heaved the large tome off of the shelf. He plopped it open on his desk and flipped through several pages, he then gave the passage a good slap. “Come on! Don’t waste our time! The young master wants to see you!”

The book suddenly lifted itself off of the desk, something flipping through the contents very rapidly. A low groan rumbled from the text, and in an instant, a human skull covered in a layer of wavering protoplasm emerged.

You gasped, and the skull gave a shake before it turned to seemingly glare at the librarian. “What’s the big idea here, old man? You had no right pulling me out of there!”

“Hush you old fool!” the librarian scolded. “Your master is here!” he pointed at Adrian, and the ghost let out a terrified cry when he saw him standing beside you.

“Master…” he floated over. “I apologize, if I had known that you were coming--”

“That’s enough, Matthias.” Adrian said. “I wanted to speak with you, for there is someone that I would like you to meet.” he gave you a firm tug and pulled you beside him as he introduced you to the ghost. “You will treat her with respect, you understand?”

The skull looks at you with an air of disregard. “You’re the witch that I have heard about,” there was mild disgust in his tone. “Off to drink the blood of the innocent, eh?”

“Excuse me?!” you nearly shriek.

Adrian placed a hand on your shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “How many times do I have to tell you that the Countess you once ruled over was not a vampire! You live with vampires!”

The ghost let out a horrible wail. “Do not remind me! The fact that I was cursed to serve a family of vampires is so humiliating!”

Adrian rolled his eyes and turned to the librarian. “I suppose now would be an appropriate time to head out.” he said, and bid him good luck as the two of you left the old man with the chattering, whiny ghost.

“Well that was certainly… interesting,” you laughed, and gave Adrian a grin when you heard him groan.

“I apologize for his behavior, he’s usually not so… insufferable. He usually reserves only nasty fits like these when someone comes into the library unannounced, for he’s usually serving as the librarian’s secretary while he’s away.”

The both of you chuckled as you walked down hallways and staircases, until you were finally led back outside into an outdoor courtyard. Tall, stone pillars towered above the two of you in a circular formation, ledges connecting all of them to form a long pathway that was lined with overgrown ivy. Small candelabras lit the way, the candlelight creating an eerie glow under the moonlight as you walked side by side.

A sundial stood in the middle, and you grazed your finger across the dial as you wondered just what sort of familiar would reside here.

Adrian gave a whistle, before crying out, “Cereza!”

Tiny squeaks filled the night air, and a large black mass blocked out the white light of the moon as a bat with huge, startling red wings flew down from the sky. Its claws dug into the fabric of Adrian’s shirt as it hung upside down off his arm, cleaning its face with its big, leathery wings.

“Who’s that?” you whisper, the bat pausing its grooming to look at you with large, brown eyes.

“Her name is Cereza,” Adrian explained. “I’ve raised her since she was a little baby,” he gave her a good scratch on her chin, and then introduced Cereza to you.

The bats ears flicked from side to side as Adrian spoke, and when he was finished, she turned her massive body around to get a good look at you.

You felt yourself flush under her gaze, silently hoping that she approved of you, although you were unsure what she searched for as she continued to silently stare.

After several tense seconds, she flapped over and gave you quick licks on your cheek, her form of kisses. You giggled, heart aflutter that Cereza had at least judged you to be worthy of being here.

“Thank goodness someone has some sense,” Adrian gave you a smile, happy that Cereza was so fond of you already. “Would it be alright if she tags along? She wanted to come with us.”

“Of course!” you reply. “Who are we off to see next?”

“We will need to head lower into the castle,” Adrian stated. “Follow me, I have a shortcut.” he grabbed a hold of your hand and started to lead you to where he wanted to go.

You felt your cheeks heat up, but you hurried to keep pace as he ran towards a peeling wooden door that looked practically ancient. He pushed down the iron handle, and urged you down a set of stone stairs that glowed blue under a mysterious light.

The farther down you walked, the louder the sound of running water grew, your hand getting slightly damp as you ran it across the surface of the wall. Before long, the two of you had made it to the bottom of the stairs, into an enormous underground cavern that stretched for miles.

Giant stalactites hung from the ceiling, dripping with their mineral rich solutions onto the growing stalagmites below. Tiny bats flew out from small holes in the stone above, eagerly gobbling up all the dragonflies and other bugs that buzzed in the air. The croaking of fat, green bullfrogs could be heard as well, and you almost felt as if you were on an entirely different planet, as you walked beside a thunderous waterfall.

Adrian followed the river, and before long, you spotted a boat floating at a dock. The ferryman gave Adrian a wave, his sunken gaze lighting up as a large sack of gold was thrust into his hands.

“Hehe, thank you!” he cried out, clambering into the boat as he grabbed the great big oar that would be used to steer.

You climbed in after Adrian, the ferryman having to use hardly any force as the swift currents easily tugged the boat along. The old man put his oar in the water to slow the approach as the rocky shore neared, and when the boat came to a full stop, the two of you (and Cereza) continued on.

It finally seemed as though you had arrived, when Adrian stopped walking so he could knock on the wall. The small space was littered with branches and tiny animal bones, and an array of round rocks and geodes.

Cereza let out a cry and flew over to a hole in the ceiling, where she flapped her wings to cause a gust of air to tunnel inside. “Alright, alright! Give me a sec!” a shrill voice shrieks.

Cereza backs off and allows for a purple, winged demon to hop down from one of the stalactites. The creature had bright red eyes, small horns, and walked on its hind legs, which were, surprisingly, covered in brown tattered pants. Long, thick claws helped it pick up a crudely fashioned spear, and it walked over to Adrian, its hooved feet making loud clacking sounds against the stone.

“Hatred, I would prefer it if we could speak face-to-face,” Adrian said, and the demon leaped into the air, its wings flapping as it hovered in front of its master.

“What brings you down here, Master?” he asked, before letting out a cry of alarm when his eyes landed on you. “Who’s that?!”

Adrian introduced you, and after he let slip that you were a witch, the demon’s demeanor instantly shifted.

“Oh! You’re a witch?” he leaned over to look at you. “Hmm… it doesn’t seem as though you’ve ever communicated with my kind before.”

“Of course not,” you snapped. “Demons are untrustworthy, why would I ever want to summon one?”

Hatred clearly looked offended at your words. “I am not untrustworthy! I protect my Master! Isn’t that right? Tell her!” he shouted.

“I would put aside your demon biases when it comes to Hatred,” Adrian whispered. “I know they have quite the reputation, but he has sworn allegiance to me.”

Hatred nodded his head in agreement. “Yes sir, I have. I would never betray my Master! To do so, would be punishable by death!”

“Well, I don’t know about that--” Adrian tried to say, but Hatred interrupted him.

“No, it is the only deserving punishment! And because he trusts you so much, I will swear my loyalty to you, miss,” he said, giving you a bow.

“There’s no need to do that!” you said, embarrassed.

“Nonsense!” Hatred stated. He snapped his fingers and out game a card, which he handed to you. “From this day forth, should you ever need me, simply focus your energy into that card, and I will appear to you, no matter where you are.”

You thanked him as you took the gift, shocked that two of Adrian’s familiars had accepted you so quickly.

Adrian reached into his pocket and pulled out a small sack filled with big, juicy green beetles, which he hands to Hatred. The demon happily gobbled them up, a long leg sticking out from the side of his mouth as he chewed up the last remains.

Cereza gives a few squeaks, and Hatred rolled his eyes. “You always have to criticize me about something, don’t you princess?” he said the nickname scathingly, giving her the stink eye as the bat continued to talk to him.

“That’s enough you two,” Adrian said. “If you’re going to get snippy with each other, we might as well leave.”

Hatred gave Cereza one last glare before he flew over to the pile of rocks in one corner of the room. “Alright, that’s fine by me!” he cried out, picking up a geode and attempting to crack it open with his teeth. “Remember what I said little lady!” he shouted, as you gave him a wave as you and Adrian began walking out of the cave.

“I’m glad that went well, he can oftentimes be very abrasive to people that he is unfamiliar with.” Adrian mused, his hands behind his back.

“I guess being a witch has its benefits,” you joked, Adrian giving you a playful smile in return.

“Off to the last one, then?” you stated.

Adrian nodded and took a hold of your hand once more as he lead you down the pathways back to the ferryman, who took the both of you back across the river, free of charge. Cereza had decided to remain inside the caves, wanting to rejoin the smaller bats that lived there to partake in their current feeding frenzy.

When the moonlight finally made itself visible again, he lead you through the courtyard and back inside of the castle.

The next room that you found yourself in was an extravagant ballroom. Massive would have been an understatement in describing its sheer size, the floor being made of smooth, polished wood and the walls being made of pristine black and white marble. Two chandeliers hung on opposite sides of the room, their large candles igniting themselves as soon you walked through the doors, allowing you to see the beautiful artwork that adorned the ceiling. It curved upwards to form a dome, intricate paintings of Greek figures like Zeus, Hera, cupids, and beautiful nymphs hiding amongst the clouds surrounded a large circular roof window. This part of the architecture was in a league all its own, an enormous stain glass piece that caused the floor below it to be dotted in twinkling rainbow lights.

A gigantic painting hung above a marble fireplace, a lifelike portrait of a main with long black hair and a sharp, pointed face that resembled Adrian. He had gray eyes that shined with hunger and power, a luxurious, silky robe made of ermine draped across his shoulders, that had been fitted into a shining set of armor. A sword was in his hands, legs spread apart in an authoritative stance and he appeared ready to take on the world.

“Is that… your father?” you questioned.

Adrian nodded, taking a spot beside you as he gazed up at the intimidating work of art. “Indeed. This was far before he met my mother, however. This was when he was still a soldier, and a formidable one at that.”

“It’s hard to think of your father before meeting Lisa,” you said. “I cannot even imagine what he must have been like.”

“Mother tells me that humans were terrified of him, believing him to be more myth than man,” Adrian said this in an amusing tone, his heels tapping softly against the hard wood as he walked up to the fireplace.

It was then that you noticed the two swords that hung on the wall, and Adrian easily grabbed a hold of the lowermost, letting the blade rest in his hands.

You were a little confused, but before you could even say a thing, the sword slid out of his grip and effortlessly hovered just above his shoulder.

“How did you--?”

“This, is my final familiar,” his eyes darted over to his right shoulder, and the sword slid off its current pedestal and moved to levitate between the two of you.

“A sword?” your tone was laced with skepticism. “That’s your last familiar? How can a sword be a familiar?”

He took a firm grip of the handle, lifting up the blade so as to inspect it. “Mother tells me that it is a family heirloom, and when I was of age, she gifted it to me.”

Your eyes widened in shock after hearing this. “This sword belong to Lisa?”

Adrian shrugged, lowering the sword so that it rest at his side. “I am not sure if she used it herself, she did not tell me much about it. But it is a very loyal and powerful weapon.”

You looked at him, and then looked at the sword. Curiosity was starting to get the better of you, and you wanted to see how this thing operated when it was being used in battle.

“Show me.”

It was not a question, and one of Adrian’s fine, blond eyebrows rose up, as if challenging your statement. “Are you sure?”

“Did I stutter?”

A grin erupted on his face, the dhampir taking a step back and putting his hands behind him as his sword cut through the air. It did several sweeps, before it stopped dead, and made a direct beeline towards you.

You let out a scream, eyes screwing shut as you raised your hands up in a defensive posture. You didn’t think that he’d just charge at you like that!

A dull thud thrummed up your fingers, and when you didn’t feel any pain, you slowly opened your eyes to find the sword floating in front of your hand, as though it had been stopped by something.

“Did… did you stop it?” your voice wavered, a bit more frightened than you wanted to be.

“Interesting,” he hummed. “Seems as though you created a barrier and put a stop to it.”

“What? A barrier…” you looked around you, confusion etched upon your features. There was nothing surrounding you, so how could he say that you had summoned a barrier?

Adrian grabbed his sword and a stabbed the exact same spot, the blade wobbling slightly as it ran into… something.

“See?”

You were astonished, as you had never done anything like that before. “I never knew that I could form barriers.”

“It seems as though you are powerful than you gave yourself credit for,” he gave you a smirk, sword in hand as he stood before you.

You looked down at your hands, clenching them into fists as you felt the undeniable sting of magic course through your veins. You thought that it would be useful if you could somehow practice the use of this new spell, understanding the only way for it to become stronger was through continuous use.

“Adrian, I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh?” he leaned forward slightly, his blond hair almost creating a curtain on either side of your face.

He smelled of leather and books, with just a hint of fresh grass, his golden eyes shining like rare gems in the candlelight. You felt yourself unconsciously draw yourself closer to him, your teeth digging into your lower lip as you nodded your head.

“Seeing as how I’m helping you improve your magic skills, it would only seem fair if you assist me in my combat skills.” you gave him a toothy grin, your pulse quickening as he laughed, and his fangs gleamed in contrast to his richly colored locks.

“That sounds fair,” he brushed a stray piece of hair out of your face, your skin burning under his touch. You felt his hand linger on your cheek for a moment, before it slid down your neck and then finally rested on your shoulder. There, it remained slightly indecisive, before he relinquished his grip and put his hands behind his back once more.

He gave a flick of the wrist and his sword flew back onto its spot on the wall, while you silently hoped that he could not hear how loudly your heart was hammering within your chest.

“I will see you tomorrow then,” he gently grabbed your hand, peppering not one, but two kisses to your knuckles. “Small lady.”

You were certain you were blushing now, as he called you by the nickname you had given Aria. You gave him a silent nod as he walked away, the words of the hibiscus echoing inside your mind,

I know the true feelings that lay in your heart… of the one with the beautiful golden hair, the prince of darkness.

The reality was so obvious that it was staring you in the face, but still… you refused to believe that these feelings were justified, that they were real…

You let out a deep sigh, laughing up at the moon that hung high in the sky. “What am I going to do…” you muttered, as you walked out of the ballroom, trying to deny the butterflies that fluttered in your stomach, and the beating of your heart as your mind reminded you of how he smelled, reminded you of his voice, and reminded you of the way that he had looked at you--

You shook your head to try and clear away these messy ideas, and while you told yourself there was nothing to these feelings, you could not deny that the last thing you thought of before falling asleep was a pair of brilliant golden eyes.

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zf7 · 5 years

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I feel like a ghost. I’m a 35-year-old woman, and I have nothing to show for it. My 20s and early 30s have been a twisting crisscross of moves all over the West Coast, a couple of brief stints abroad, multiple jobs in a mediocre role with no real upward track. I was also the poster child for serial monogamy. My most hopeful and longest lasting relationship (three and a half years, whoopee) ended two years ago. We moved to a new town (my fourth new city), created a home together, and then nose-dived into a traumatic breakup that launched me to my fifth and current city and who-knows-what-number job.

For all these years of quick changes and rash decisions, which I once rationalized as adventurous, exploratory, and living an “original life,” I have nothing to show for it. I have no wealth, and I’m now saddled with enough debt from all of my moves, poor decisions, and lack of career drive that I may never be able to retire. I have no career milestones and don’t care for my line of work all that much anyway, but now it’s my lifeline, as I only have enough savings to buy a hotel room for two nights. I have no family nearby, no long-term relationship built on years of mutual growth and shared experiences, no children. While I make friends easily, I’ve left most of my friends behind in each city I’ve moved from while they’ve continued to grow deep roots: marriages, homeownership, career growth, community, families, children. I have a few close girlfriends, for which I am grateful, but life keeps getting busier and our conversations are now months apart. Most of my nights are spent alone with my cat (cue the cliché).

---

Also, within the past year I’ve had a breast-cancer scare and required surgery on my uterus due to a fertility issue. On top of that, I’m 35 and every gyno and women’s-health website this side of the Mississippi is telling me my fertility is dropping faster than a piano falling out of the sky. Now I’m looking into freezing my eggs, adding to my never-ending financial burden, in hopes of possibly making something of this haunted house and having a family someday with a no-named man.

----

I used to think I was the one who had it all figured out. Adventurous life in the city! Traveling the world! Making memories! Now I feel incredibly hollow. And foolish. How can I make a future for myself that I can get excited about out of these wasted years? What reserves or identity can I draw from when I feel like I’ve accrued nothing up to this point with my life choices?

h/t sean.

this is a really poignant, vulnerable, self-deprecating letter in a tough situation. how do you even react to someone with such a life-consuming issue that spans every facet of her life?

i don’t love polly’s advice, but the comments are incredibly interesting. some of them are “i told you so”, others seek to provide optimism. there’s a lot of pretty antifeminist stuff. see a psychiatrist! get a dog! do shrooms! go to church! volunteer! date yourself/love yourself! make an action plan and be strategic! i was in the same place but everything got better! i was in the same place and life sucks!

aren’t women stuck between a rock and a hard place if people reach professional/emotional maturity at a later and later age (let’s say 30) but women’s biological clock deadlines still stay the same (let’s say at 35)? what happens if they don’t want to date un-successful/matured men in their 20s, but then by their 30s, the successful/matured men want to date younger?

more generally, the comments made me feel like the self-actualization self-fulfillment everyone-is-awesome movement has someone done us a disservice? like if we are so focused on the no-wrong-choice rhetoric and we-are-all-beautiful and seek to squash people who are negative, isn’t that potentially giving people blind spots when they make decisions because they aren’t adequately aware of the drawbacks?

but like... that’s sort of the moral of the advice, also, right? is that everyone IS awesome, just given the right framing and approach.

the comments are so varied.

anyway. my favorite comment was the following:

To Haunted: I did everything the opposite of you. Right now, we're in just about the same place. With a few exceptions of course. I invested. I bought my house before the bubble. I married my high school sweetheart, to whom I had every hope and intention of spending the rest of my life with. When that 18 year relationship ended (nearly a decade ago now), I figured I'd be good to go for whatever was next. I was in my early-mid-thirties, athletic, a great business person, smart as heck, and good at being in love. I wanted kids, wanted a life-partner, wanted to work hard, and was ready to make a great life out of the divorce my ex-wife chose. But I had just spent most of my savings on a masters degree. And I'm only 5'8" and went bald at 18. My beard already had a little grey in it. And I had no idea how to date. I'm charging into my early 40's now and, earlier this year, took the lowest paying job I've ever had. (Hooray for starting a non-profit!) I've got plenty of savings, but I'm earning less than I'm spending. And the job sucks, honestly. I've been mostly single (with some serial monogamy in the mix) since becoming single. And my occasional romantic partners keep getting younger. It feel bleak as hell, honestly. My point has nothing to do with my own personal shit-show. It's simply this: (y)our choices, (y)our actions, and (y)our "energy" are only a small part of what led to this situation. Our paths, looking back, are influenced heavily by the terrain through which we wander them. When the terrain helps dictate our paths, a lot of them tend to cross at the same saddle. (Apologies for the back-country hiking metaphor.) Keep wandering, friend. You could have made all your decisions differently. You could have made all of my decisions, the opposite of yours. And we'd still be high-fiving at the same saddle, the low-point, regrouping, on the way to the summit. Cheers, Eric P.S. If you're ever in Southern AZ, give me a shout. I'll buy you some tacos.

side note, one of my friends is having difficulty having a kid. some of these lines are crazyyy

Date every night.... move home or move to a city with a high male to female ratio. Whatever it takes. I’m 39 now with a newborn and she has filled me with the worlds largest supply of heroin concentrated love. Your friends won’t tell you that because they don’t want to make you feel bad - but stable loving husband and baby will make you love every minute of your existence.

They didn't tell us the peace that you feel when holding a sleeping baby.

I'm 42. I have single female friends of the same age who bitterly regret not having children. I used to attend legal conferences where 50% of the people in the room were single 55 year old female lawyers. Almost none were married and almost none had children. None of them looked like they were particularly happy with life, even though they were probably top 5% income earners.

also this comment lol:

"my fertility is dropping faster than a piano falling out of the sky." According to Galileo's law of motion; all bodies accelerate at the same rate regardless of their size or mass. :)

#advice #ask polly #self #friendship #career

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snowleopard59 · 5 years

Text

follow that car

It’s a coverup, the whole thing is one big coverup and almost everyone knows it but almost no one wants to admit it. At eight years old he heard on the news that the files related to the JFK assassination would be sealed for 75 years. Why? At eight years old he answered his own question and promptly covered it up within himself as deep and sealed as the files themselves.

Still walking, he ascended a rise in the road which revealed a large sprawling cemetery. The first tombstone had his name on it- the epitaph read – he died unhappy because he didn’t try hard enough. He went to the next- it read - he died unhappy because he tried too hard. And then the next – he was to blame for everything. And then the next - he was not to blame for anything. Rows upon rows of tombstones, all with his name on them.

I couldn’t read anymore. I looked away, and saw not two vultures, but now two crows perched on an iron railing. Wait, this is the cemetery of past lives, that’s the only possible explanation. He came to a section marked- suicides. The first stone read – he thought he was going to get away from it all. He was wrong.

And then the next – he thought this would help him figure it all out once and for all. He was wrong again. And then the next – if you’re reading this, you’re still alive, so don’t do what I did. Or do, I don’t really care. What? No karma, no suffering depression as penance for committing suicide so many times in his past lives? He walked on, saw more epitaphs – he led an undistinguished life. But he was happy. He was kind. He helped people when he could, but he did nothing to write about in any history book.

And then he was aware a Cadillac El Dorado had slowly pulled up beside him on the narrow asphalt between the tombstones, it’s engine silent as the cemetery grass itself. The car had stopped that day in Dealey Plaza, too, although that part of the film was taken out. You hear what might be a shot and you put the brakes on? Or did he mean to do it? El Dorado; the golden one.

The driver, a dark-haired woman, asked him if he could drive her to Las Vegas. She said she wasn’t feeling well, she tried calling 911 but her cell phone battery was dead. She sat there briefly like a great blue heron perched on a favorite branch above a favorite fishing spot; silent and surmising the variables.

He said he would be happy to drive her, adding how familiar she looked, and that the last time he’d seen her she’d looked so sad. She just slid into the passenger seat leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She loves me, he thought. He knew it, he felt it, that she loved him, that she really did even though she might not outwardly show it. So many things didn’t show, didn’t seem to make sense, any sense at all apparently.

Like Catholic confession and the JFK files just to name two. Moreover, as he stole glances at her from watching the apparently interminable road stretched out ahead of them to the dusky desert horizon, he knew he loved her he really did. Scott really loved Zelda, Zelda really loved Scott, but they burnt out on their lifestyle.

She loved him he loved her but they were driving this Cadillac down a dangerous road. Never one to not fall prey to the most outlandish mental meanderings he considered that he had been surreptitiously programmed by the CIA rogues, all still alive and well, grandchildren and great grandchildren of the infamous assassins and usurpers of governments in the 50s and 60s and 70s, that when he heard a loud pop he would stop the car.

And when he stopped the car that would allow the shooter a clean shot. That’s what they did to Greer. Like Sirhan, like Ruby, a hypnotic trigger to behave a particular, demonic way. Child’s play for the LSD scientists and behavioral modification experts. But it went deeper than that. Much deeper. He loved her she loved him and what they were doing, despite the outward appearance of apparent suffering, had a point.

All suffering then must have a point. Holocaust suffering had a point Hemingway’s suicide had a point, Zelda insanity and Scott alcoholism had a point. It was to achieve a better result. For me and the woman it was to live out our years without having to work or if we wanted to work to work at something we enjoyed and which made much more money than what we used to work at that we didn’t enjoy.

It was the holy grail, the alchemists stone – you don’t get that at Wal-Mart. It takes suffering apparently. Maybe there’s another way but so far humans have only been able to come up with suffering. Because direct knowing is too much of a shock- well some people can do it but most are fried- and then he remembered waking up from naps and contemplations with the startling energy of an electrical shock.

He would flee from that consciousness; it was too much he was not strong enough how do you get strong enough to withstand the full energy of God to put it a certain way- you suffer- a little or a lot – you can build strength other ways but you have to be able to withstand the energy. And then she told him telepathically that she was the lady of life’s lake.

That the nature of yin and yang, the truth of duality was as the sages of the east and many others knew for eons, was that there is a yielding and a forward motion. Souls incarnate as forward motion male energy and life is yielding feminine energy but they mix and they change and the truth and wisdom of it is to make a dance, a loving dance.

Rumi and the Sufis tuned in to this most poetically of course; to love all life to seek to please it as a seeking to please a lover so that then it seeks to please you back. Eyes still closed, she just smiled. They both knew the, they both knew when they got in the car together that afternoon.

Don’t put the brakes on! Speed up, speed up dammit! He heard himself say, in a dream. And he was in the car, and he felt the pain of the bullet and knew the driver had slowed down, to a stop even, so as to assure the shooter the kill shot. But there were still a few seconds left. But nobody’s going to save us now he thought.

May as well start carving that tombstone now. Checkmate is checkmate, that’s just how it is. For now. She woke up, she knew he wouldn’t stop the car until they got there. Well, maybe to pee. It would be ok to pee in the desert. The desert would appreciate it probably.

But she wouldn’t have to try to jump out of the car this time. Better to run away and live to fight another day. Demosthenes, 338 B.C. Oh well those Greek philosophers had an answer for everything didn’t they? No, they didn’t, they were stumbling around like we all have been forever, only occasionally tripping across a jewel. A particularly luminous seashell on our stoned walks on the beach.

We pick it up, feel it, look at it, sense it, maybe smell it, but mostly, know it. This is it, our shell, our special shell. We put it in our pocket and walk on, walk home, to our studio apartment maybe, put it on a shelf or in a drawer and forget about it. But now, he remembered the seashell in the drawer. It was shaped somewhat like a classic 1955 El Dorado Cadillac.

He knew who he was, he knew who she was, he knew why they were in the Cadillac and where they were going. He didn’t know how he knew only that he knew. This was going to take some getting used to, because most people could not be told these things he knew now. Socrates, remember? It wasn’t that he thought that highly of himself, just that he wanted to stay alive awhile longer, especially if it might be with her.

Yes, she’s married but she might not be later. Or maybe they could just be friends he thought. He knew she was well-read; literature, history, philosophy. She probably could change the oil in the Caddy as well if she had to, which she never would. Because of course, she was also rich.

But since that day she had been skeptical about letting other people drive her. Ok maybe they won’t shoot you but they stop the car at the worst moment. They’d both seen the original, unaltered film. The car comes to a complete and total stop. The car and the country.

The fact that she let him drive her was an awesome display of trust in his ability to protect her. If she needed protecting, which she didn’t now, but it was a good feeling, a warm gesture after so many disappointments. The sun was coming up, they were approaching Las Vegas. Of all places. They should have just called it El Dorado, the lost city of gold, or city of lost gold.

It all depended on your definition of gold, and lost, and found. Are we really locked into pay as you go spiritual growth or lack thereof as he, and so many others had been taught? You’re sworn to secrecy, because, again, Socrates, Galileo, JFK, well you know the list.

But you go ahead, shout it from the rooftops if you want, and then, after they drag you down and William Wallace you, or Joan of Arc, or, well you know the list. Then you can come back and not get in the car if you don’t want to, but sooner or later, something will get you, if only your own reliance on prescription meds.

Sir Henry Neville could write Othello and all the rest today without fear or trembling of being imprisoned in the tower of London. He would have to contend with the tower of Babel still. No need to waste money on a ghost nom de plume pseudonym Shakespeare that would go on through centuries to come as the imprimatur of great literature.

No matter, Sir Henry knows who wrote what. They crossed the city limits, and then were in town. He pulled the car up to a decrepit dilapidating motel called the Blue Angel. They parked, got out, went into room five. A 20-year-old man was there crying on the bed.

The room glowed with warm, soothing Himalayan salt lamp light. How could such a room, in such a place and time, for such a sad young man, glow? Sufis again – when the heart weeps for what it has lost the spirit laughs for what it has found.

She took out her phone and showed him the most recent text from her husband. It simply said all is well. When did she charge the battery he wondered? And then he knew. And then she went into the bathroom and came out with a warm washcloth which she placed on the young man’s forehead.

He breathed deeply, relaxed, and fell asleep. Their work here was done. They went back out to the parking lot and got in the car again. The young man was the young him, of course, broke and depressed in Las Vegas without a fake i.d.

Creating one had been a waste of time. No one asked him for his i.d. They were happy to take his meager earnings at 20 years old as they would be at 21 and beyond. Days later, bleary eyed from exhaustion and weeping in some end of the world place like Tonopah or Winnemucca, however…

Playing nickel slots in the bus station, an ancient security guard asked him for i.d. Heart still weeping, spirit at that point couldn’t help but laugh. But now, he was with her and they were at Caesar’s. She had reluctantly agreed but insisted on choosing the game.

Fine. Roulette. A little illusion of European elegance in this corporate rodeo borne of mobster roots and rootless mobs. Here, no clocks, ultra-oxygenated air, and a wildly changing assortment of other psychotropic influences, they would put it all on one roulette number.

Lose. Of course. 38 to 1 odds, c’mon! Except of course right now in this cosmic non-duality state of mind and being they couldn’t pick the wrong number, just couldn’t. They picked 17. 17 came up. She gave it all to the roulette dealer.

A middle-aged woman whose credit card debt was almost the exact amount of the payoff and who needed to see a doctor about her bipolar condition but had no medical coverage. Back to the Cadillac. And the winding road out of town to a place called the Mt. Charleston lodge.

They were late; no, they were right on time, for a wedding. The crowd was already gathering. He didn’t really like crowds but this one was different, this one would help not hurt. He hoped Elvis would be officiating; real Elvis not some faux Vegas Elvis impersonator.

Real Elvis had a spiritual side that got lost rather quickly. And then found. There he was. Real? Real enough to officiate this wedding. They stood in the back, and then were called to the front as the witnesses. They knew the couple being married and they knew how much in love they were. And they knew, like Elvis, there would be some rough edges to smooth out.

But if Elvis could do it, and, obviously, he had. He stood there, young, slender, strong, vibrant, the sound simply surging from him even as all in the crowd and wedding party were silent, sensing the ceremony soon to begin. Best wedding I’ve ever been to, he thought.

I ought to know, she thought. And then he saw the man from the all the films and photographs walk up to her, and they were together again. Resplendent as usual in his blue suit, a man not just for all seasons and all countries but all times.

That’s why he was there. He was her bodyguard for the short trip. He helped her drive, she helped him know. Helped him know about the coverup, about why he knew there was one, and why, once he knew just how absolute it was, he knew what to do, and what not to do about it. He stayed behind now with the rest of the wedding party, including preacher Elvis, and watched them walk away together.

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republicstandard · 6 years

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The Exile of Kanye West from Ta-Nehisi Coates’ Brittle Black Pantheon

On Culture, Black and Human

The big, bad lapdog of neoliberal white America is back to his one-note bark once again. Like a porn addict with a renewed hunger for more of the same, Ta-Nehisi Coates, polysyllabic but monomaniacal as always, is again on the prowl for white supremacy, summoning up more gooey gobs of words to indulge his fiendish fetish, of which neither he — nor apparently his editors at the Atlantic — can ever seem to get enough. The particular target of his latest 5,000-word fantasia is Kanye West.

Who is Kanye West? He’s some hip-hop artist … or so I’ve heard. Sure, I’m being facetious, but really, when you stop to think about it, who is Kanye West? He’s an entertainer, a prominent and prolific black entertainer who recently made some controversial comments in favor of Trump and against the notion that black Americans need to be forever victimized by and enslaved to slavery, as it were. To Ta-Nehisi Coates, who makes a ritual habit of raising the slave ships’ mainsails every time he embarks on his rhetorical voyages and whose entire M.O. is to keep Americans of every race perpetually enslaved to the original sin of slavery, West’s words were, of course, flagrant heresy. And so Coates takes the occasion to muse on black celebrities — the heroes and the traitors to “the cause” alike — and how those like Michael Jackson and Kanye West who aspire to deracinated celebrity rather than the specifically black celebrity that is supposedly their birthright are fleeing an angry ghost and overdetermining history they can never hope to escape.

This is a sad little world in which Coates lives and in which he would confine people based on the color of their skin. And it is a brittle world as well. I return to my question: who is Kanye West? … and, more importantly, why does Ta-Nehisi Coates — a self-styled intellectual, a thinking man — care if a notoriously outspoken black entertainer makes some inartfully worded, off-the-cuff remarks that don’t jive with the dominant narrative — victimhood, slavery, racism, etc. — of what blackness in America is supposed to be all about? Why does his whole world rise and fall on the shoulders of the athletes and entertainers that he forthrightly calls “Gods,” people like Kanye West or Michael Jackson, people like Stevie Wonder, James Brown, Ray Lewis, Colin Kaepernick or O.J. Simpson? Coates has claimed to be an atheist, a rarity among African Americans, but in this particular respect, his worldview unfortunately echoes another dominant strain of African-American theology, a slavish worship of the dollops of pop icons the American capitalist culture industry serves up in supersized portions. Slurping up with relish, to the last drop, its Big Gulp of saccharine flavors, he later finds himself brought short when the ill effects of too much artificial sweetness start to rot the body — his precious, mythologized “black body” — from within. When O.J. is on trial, it is as if all black America is on trial. When Michael Jackson dyes himself white, it is as if a part of black America dies. When Kanye lavishes praise on Trump, it is as if a dagger is thrust into the single black heart to which the black American ritual drum must beat. Good business is good for business, but art and culture are, or should be, a different kind of business altogether. When you kneel before the ever-changing display of glittering artistic, cultural and athletic idols adorning the capitalist temple of Mammon and never bother to wonder whether a deeper truth is out there to be found, you get what you’ve got coming to you.

The underlying pathology at the heart of black America’s fragile constitution, the underlying reason that Ta-Nehisi Coates cares so deeply about what an entertainer like Kanye West says and does, is that black American culture has little sense of history. There are the larger-than-life flavors of the moment — Kanye, Beyoncé, Oprah, Michelle Obama and the like — there are the saints and sinners of the “Old School” — the icons you loved when you were young or the ones your parents and grandparents told you of: Michael Jackson, Michael Jordan, Run-DMC, James Brown, Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, James Baldwin, etc. — and then, once that short trail peters out, black America is lost in the woods. Go further out, and all there is is slavery, the mythical “drum” and the “slave ships” — both of which make their obligatory appearance (and, what is more, in the same sentence) in Coates’ latest piece — and, still further out, a still more heavily mythologized ancient African homeland of peace and harmony, natural wonders, dances and divine rhythms and, to the north, a land of vast sands, heavenly pyramids and divine pharaohs incongruously recruited to join up in the “black” cause. No wonder, then, that mainstream black culture’s approach to black celebrities of the present and of the very recent past is so thoroughly theological, making such figures indispensable to the consolidation of the contemporary black sense of self.

White America, of course, is not quite so overinvested in its present-day racial archetypes and allows its heroes to be of many races, to speak with many voices. Although Coates, just last year, lambasted white Americans for allegedly manifesting their white identitarian politics in electing Trump (a misguided argument I’ve debunked in some detail here), the irony is that while only 58% of those whites who voted in the presidential election voted for Trump, a whopping 96% of black voters in 2008 and 94% in 2012 voted for Obama. Meanwhile, many of those same whites who voted for Trump in 2016 had voted for Obama in 2008, so many, in fact, that, he had “won the largest share of white support of any Democrat in a two-man race since 1976.” So on which side of the fictional line separating “black” from “white” do the real racists reside?

Nor is this merely about presidential politics. The fact is that there simply is no unitary white pantheon of contemporary or recently enshrined “Gods” akin to those worshipped by Coates. Whites have their cultural heroes, sure, folks like Elvis, the Beatles, Madonna, Tony Robbins or Tom Brady, but also, folks like Michael Jackson, Michael Jordan, Oprah, Martin Luther King Jr., and even, for many, Barack Obama, even, for some, Ta-Nehisi Coates himself. And if these heroes should take a hard fall, there is a backup stable — in fact, the true starting lineup — of many others spanning the centuries from the dawn of recorded history to the present, people like Homer and Shakespeare, Mozart and Beethoven, Leonardo and Michelangelo, Galileo and Newton, Lincoln and Washington…. The Biblical prophets, the builders of Ancient Egypt, the thinkers and writers of Ancient Greece and the forgers of Imperial Rome and Ming Dynasty China … all these, too, are part of that same generous pantheon. This is not white culture or European culture or even the culture of the West. It is simply culture, human culture. It is owned by no one.

It is only when that culture is attacked and undermined, when its claim to represent the universal heights of truth and beauty — “the best that has been thought and said in the world,” in Matthew Arnold’s oft-quoted phrase — is relativized and ridiculed, that we get to a place where blacks begin to essentialize their racial identity and contrive a need for their own darker-skinned set of parallel deities. Only after the deep, fecund ground of universal culture is pulled out from under our feet and a giant misstep plunges us — and plunges blacks more than anyone else — into the shallow cesspool of identitarianism do we get to the point where Ta-Nehisi Coates, seeing Kanye West flailing to break free of his racial manacles, can summon West back to what Coates imagines as a permanent black “home” in this impoverished, cramped, ramshackle dwelling place:

And so for Kanye West, I wonder what he might be, if he could find himself back into connection, back to that place where he sought not a disconnected freedom of “I,” but a black freedom that called him back—back to the bone and drum, back to Chicago, back to Home.

But Coates’ vision of freedom is, of course, a thoroughgoing species of parochialism, and worse, a vision of never-ending enslavement to the tragic side of the black American experience.

History and culture offer us all, black Americans included, far more than the tired, repetitive cadence of the bare “bone and drum.” But for Coates to let go his disappointment with Kanye, he and all black Americans must first let go of its flipside, the rickety racial pedestal on which Kanye and all of Coates’ other all-too-human “Gods” stand awkwardly elevated. He must let go “black freedom.” He must let go black culture. And he must embrace our culture, the one universal human culture that recognizes the law of greatness alone and that belongs, in equal measure, to me and to him and to anyone else willing to leave their local lore and superficial commitments behind at the base of the mountain and devote their lives to the difficult upward journey.

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