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deltaengineering · 5 years

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Fall Anime 2019 Part 3: just trick ‘em

Babylon

Well, I kinda asked for it, didn't I. Far removed from any spurious fantasy nonsense with assembly line gimmick ideas, this is a very serious and buttoned-up procedural about a prosecutor going after some political corruption. I mean, two people died, but by anime standards that's essentially serial jaywalking. And that's the part where I have to get hypocritical and say: It's a wee bit unexciting, innit? Say what you want about gimmicks, but they're something and this does not really impress outside of the concept either. Maybe this would work better as the J-drama it could very easily be. Babylon is honestly not bad, and there's a tiny bit of intrigue regarding the pharmaceutical company the scandal is attached to, but it still has severe problems making a case for itself beyond what it doesn't do.

And then I watched the other two episodes that are out and disregard everything, this show is trolling and it owns. Well, provisionally at least. It certainly becomes a lot less bland and some things happen and it reminds me a lot of Paranoia Agent now. So yeah, pretty promising, but it’s a plotty show so now it’ll have to deliver on that end.

Special 7 – Special Crime Investigation Unit

While we're on the topic of crime drama, here's one that definitely does have a gimmick: It's set in a world with vampires and so on. And it has a team of superpowered cops who are also vampires and so on. And quite a bit of action. Yeah yeah, so it isn't really a drama and more akin to Ghost in the Shell meets Cop Craft, only not as respectable or vaporwave as the former nor as ultrajanky as the latter. Before we go any further there's one thing: This is directed by the perp wot did Angolmois, and he brought his texture. Only in the shading of the backgrounds this time and I honestly would not mind normally, but when you’re already a notorious AfterEffects criminal you better be on your best behavior. Apart from that it's... well, competent but nothing special. Middling characters, middling looks, extremely tall dwarves, unobtrusive writing. It’s okay but pretty interchangeable. At least the OP is pretty stylish.

Actors - Songs Connection

You saw this coming: It's a show I watched days ago and I haven't the foggiest. What I do know is that it wasn't what the MAL summary says, which is something about walls of Trumpian proportions and singalong tournaments. I'll probably regret this but let's have another looksie...

Um, it's a School Club Plot with unexciting pretty boys and in particular a guy channeling his sorrow over his Morbus Key-stricken sister into song. I suppose a scientist man randomly talks about teleportation sometimes, so that’s technically foreshadowing and as such technically good writing. The realest thing about it by far is that someone finally acknowledges that Vocaloid songs are not made for humans. But it's provably, objectively forgettable so let's just move on.

Africa no Salaryman

So what if office, but animals? The jokes basically write themselves! They’re just not, you know, very good jokes and like most slim comedies this show has problems justifying its full-length runtime. I won’t even go into detail here because it’s pretty much just what you’d imagine. Of note is that the lion is voiced by Akio Outsuka, the lizard is voiced by Kenjiro Tsuda, and the toucan is a dick. In fact, the majority of this episodes is the toucan acting like a dick. As far as visuals are concerned this looks occasionally neat and mostly pretty shitty, almost like talented people are making this on a stiflingly low budget. And yeah, the African elephant in the room here is that Aggressive Retsuko is the same thing but much better, and I have an entire second season of that on my backlog. Not to mention that (spoilers) Beastars is obviously also similar and also much better.

Watashi, Nouryoku wa Heikinchi de tte Itta yo ne! / Didn't I Say to Make My Abilities Average in the Next Life?!

No points for figuring out what this is based on the title. WNwHstIyn!/DIStMMAAitNL!? is one of those curious isekai stories that technically don’t need to be one, and goes one step further by making the main girl not only reborn and then having grown up in isekailand, but also undercover in a new city under a wrong name. So it’s basically DOUBLE isekai. What’s very weird about it is that about half of it is fairly okay, since this is directed by a seasoned Doga Kobo dude and the results is the kind of inoffensive cute fluff you’d expect from that (with looks to match). Of course the other half (which is, as previously mentioned, completely unnecessary anyway) won’t shut up about isekai generics that could not be any less interesting (though, admittedly, they could be less inoffensive too). Sorry, I don’t like inoffensive cute fluff enough to watch it when it comes packaged with that.

Stand My Heroes - Piece of Truth

Stand My Heroes seems to want to be another serious business thriller, apart from the part where it’s also based on an otome gacha game. So the serious nature of the plot is somewhat undercut by the main girl being a wet noodle whose amazing distinguishing feature is being resistant to all drugs (which in practice means an inability to fall for roofies). She’s got a job as a narc where she happens to be surrounded by a harem of pretty boys. Since this is serious business, they’re all professionals, which in practice means they’re all clones of the same smooth, gentlemanly dude. Some are jerks at first, but also in a gentlemanly way. Not very exciting, you guys. The plot of this is pretty confusing and seems to revolve around main girl going around looking for people that get her closer to other people that she can then recruit into her narc department even though they’re already there, and if that is incorrect it’s because this is all too mindnumbingly dull to pay much attention. The looks are pretty bad too, with a kind of soft blur over everything that can’t hide the mostly nonexistant animation. And yeah, everyone looks the same. I guess you can’t improve on (or deviate from) perfection.

Kandagawa Jet Girls

Auteur anoraks take note: this is the new smash hit by the director of the poignant and respectable Tsuredure Children. Well, pay no mind to the other stuff he was responsible for, which is in no way relevant to this anime about team jetski racing where the participants also shoot each other’s clothes off. Yes, this is complete schlock that’s all about the boobies and when it isn’t it’s all about the asses instead. The discerning viewer would be advised to locate the AT-X version, if you know what I mean (if you don’t know what I mean you don’t want to watch this show anyway). Not gonna lie, this is so shameless it managed to amuse me more than not, and that’s something. Of course, it’s also most certainly not good: On a technical level it’s cheap as chips and the only thing it has over Valkyrie Drive is that it’s less rapey, which isn’t even strictly a plus when the appeal here is being as unbelievably outrageous as possible. This is the kind of thing that entertains for only as long as it manages to top itself, and that seems pretty hard to pull off with a first impression like this.

#anime #impressions #africa no salaryman #babylon #actors #Special 7 – Special Crime Investigation Unit #Watashi Nouryoku wa Heikinchi de tte Itta yo ne!#Didn't I Say to Make My Abilities Average in the Next Life?!#Stand My Heroes - Piece of Truth #Kandagawa Jet Girls

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southeastasianists · 6 years

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IMAGINE THAT THE LANGUAGE YOU speak with your friends, with your family, with people on the street, a language unique to your country and objectively very interesting and cool, is, officially, considered lesser and unworthy. This kind of thing has happened around the world throughout history: African-American Vernacular English (AAVE) speakers in the United States, for example, have also had their language marginalized and demeaned by the ruling power. Now, it’s happening in Singapore.

Singapore is an immigrant country with four official languages: English, Malay, Tamil, and Mandarin. Officially, English is the most commonly spoken language in Singaporean homes, having recently and just barely edged out Mandarin. Unofficially? That’s completely wrong. Because what’s likely the actual most common language spoken does not appear on the census. That language is called Singlish.

Singlish can broadly be categorized as a creole, which is a full language that arises suddenly, usually with one language as its base, but with unique grammatical features and many words from at least one other language. This kind of language comes about when people who don’t speak the same language are suddenly living in the same place. Many creoles came from the slave trade: one person speaks one language, another speaks a second language, and they’re both moved to a place where they have to work together and live together and communicate. The base language is usually the language of the ruling class or imperial power; it’s a language that those two slaves need to understand a little, but they bring elements of their own languages into it. At first, this kind of language is classified as a pidgin, which is sort of a shorthand that exists solely for necessary communication alongside other full languages. But in some cases, it evolves into a full language of its own, one that can handle all the tasks any other language handles, at which point it’s called a creole.

Singlish has its base in English, because Singapore was a British colony for most of its modern history. But the vast majority of the population came from countries where English was not the dominant language, mostly mainland China, Malaysia, and India. Thus Singlish was born.

“Singlish itself, in its full-blown version, can get quite hard to understand [for non-Singaporean English speakers],” says Jakob Leimgruber, a sociolinguist and assistant professor who wrote his thesis on Singlish. Singaporeans are rarely monolingual, and conversations can often include bits and pieces, or full sentences, in multiple languages, which can make trying to isolate Singlish a bit tricky. But, despite the fact that Singapore is made up of multiple ethnic groups who speak different languages, Singlish itself is “remarkably consistent,” says Leimgruber, across the entire populace.

At least, it’s consistent across all ethnic groups. Socioeconomically, it’s more likely that poorer and/or older Singaporeans would speak Singlish more often; younger and wealthier Singaporeans are more likely to be able to switch between Singlish and more widely understood varieties of English. But Leimgruber says that few, if any, Singaporeans would be completely unfamiliar with Singlish, largely due to the country’s compulsory military service, which places people from all economic backgrounds together.

The language includes lots of loanwords from the other major languages spoken in Singapore, especially Mandarin, Malay, and Tamil. These are really, really common, to the point where sometimes it can sound as if the speaker has simply switched languages mid-thought. And there are some pronunciation things; words that end with a lot of consonants, for example, tend to get simplified, so a word like “texts” would be pronounced more like “tex.” But it gets much more interesting than that; it has a whole mess of totally distinct grammatical features that make it unusual.

An easy one to understand is the word “lah,” which is what’s known in linguistics as a tag. It’s attached, often but not exclusively, to the end of sentences. It’s roughly similar to the Canadian “eh,” and various other English words or phrases used around the world (“right,” “you know,” “innit”). It is ubiquitous in Singapore, as associated with Singlish as the Canadian “eh” is with Canada, although interestingly there is no pause between the end of the sentence and “lah,” as there is with “eh.” Imagine it as just…not having a comma. “So you’d just race into it lah”? Singlish has so, so many of these lightly modifying tags: leh, mah, lor, hor, har, ar. They all convey slightly different things about the relationship between the speaker and listener, or the way the speaker wants the listener to interpret what was just said.

Interestingly, the Singaporean government does not have a firm definition of what “standard English” means.

Singlish speakers use the present tense when referring to people who are alive, or probably still alive. In English, you might say, “I went to Thailand last year, and the guide spoke fluent Spanish.” In Singlish, it would be, “the guide speaks fluent Spanish.” The thinking is that the guide continues to speak Spanish; whether you are in Thailand does not affect the guide’s ability to speak Spanish.

Then there’s the word “kena,” which is pronounced something like “kih-NAH.” There are words like this in Asian languages such as Malay and Hokkien, but not really in English. It’s a grammatical word used to mark the passive and usually right before or even instead of a verb; it means something, some verb action, happened to the subject of the sentence. Interestingly, it’s only ever used for negative things; you could say “the teacher kena scolded him,” but not “the teacher kena praised him.” “Tio” is similar, though it can be used for positive actions as well, like “She tio money on the ground.”

The English word “then” has, in Singlish, been changed to “den,” and its meanings have been pretty radically changed. It can be used to describe an action that will happen in the future, as in ”I den talk to you.” It can be used in about a dozen other ways, meaning “therefore,” as a link to a previous sentence, or alone as a sarcastic sort of “oh yeah?” meaning. The pronunciation might subtly change as well, by lengthening or dragging out the final consonant, to indicate the way in which the word is being used.

“Den” is one of many examples of ways in which Singlish sort of sounds like English, but actually packs a whole other bunch of meanings into it. If you were to just translate “den” as “then,” you wouldn’t really be getting it; you can’t use “den” in some places you’d use “then,” and vice versa, and it sometimes means something other than what “then” would mean.

Singlish also uses a lot of reduplication, which is repeating the same word. English doesn’t do this much; it might have a phrase like “very, very big,” in which the repetition is used to amplify the word “very.” “Very, very big” is even bigger than “very big,” which is bigger than “big.” In Singlish, that’s not at all how reduplication works. Take a sentence like this: “Your son short short.”

For one thing, that’s not a typo; Singlish, like Hebrew and a few other languages, simply doesn’t use the verb “to be.” (Singlish also often omits articles like “the” and “a/an.”) But the reduplication thing: “short short” doesn’t mean “very short.” Instead the reduplication of the word is a dampener, taking the whole phrase to something more like “short-ish.” This kind of reduplication can be used with both adjectives and verbs; you can take a walk walk, which would be a very mild stroll.

Anyway, that’s just a brief survey, and it might even underplay exactly how different from English Singlish really is. Leimgruber says Singlish is mostly mutually comprehensible with English, but I’m not so sure. Take a look at the Singlish dub ofBeauty and the Beast.

Singlish is spoken across all ethnic groups in Singapore, even across economic strata. But the government hates it. Since the year 2000, the Singaporean government has been conducting a campaign called the “Speak Good English Movement,” which is specifically designed to discourage the use of Singlish and encourage the use of standard English.

Interestingly, the Singaporean government does not have a firm definition of what “standard English” means; they aren’t strictly teaching British Received Pronunciation or New England Prep School English or Australian English or anything else. By “standard,” they seem to simply mean “English that can be readily understood by English speakers outside Singapore.”

The campaign is not overtly violent or racist in the same way marginalization of Irish Gaelic or AAVE speakers was and is. The Singaporean government does outreach, posting signs around public transit telling people the “correct” way to pronounce words, hosting writing competitions for kids in school, that kind of thing. “These words are very similar and many often get them confused, but do you know when it’s more appropriate to use a particular word? Put your grammar skills to the test and see how you fare!” reads one quiz. Is it “The mother put her children to sleep at night” or “the mother put her children to bed at night”?

The government’s reasoning is that English is the international language of commerce, and that Singapore has an inherent advantage because, it being a former British colony, English is already widely spoken. But if instead it’s Singlish that people are speaking, this could make for a serious obstacle to international financial success.

Since the early 1980s, the idea that any one language can be “correct” or “good,” while others are “incorrect” or “bad,” has been widely panned by linguists. Bill Labov, pioneering linguist at the University of Pennsylvania, was among the first to study AAVE as a regular language, one with rules that can’t be broken and unique features and an evolution, rather than as some mangled form of standard English. Since then, the idea that all languages are just, you know, different, rather than good or bad, has been the norm. Singapore’s shunning of Singlish is, from that perspective, retrograde and maybe even offensive.

Singlish itself is pretty well-studied, though a lot of the publications—dictionaries, for example—are more jokey than serious academic works. And Singaporeans have not risen up to protest the marginalization of Singlish. “There’s much less of an advocacy for Singlish in Singapore,” says Leimgruber. There are some—again, jokey—organizations, like the Speak Good Singlish Movement Facebook page. (“Harlow, welcome to the Speak Good Singlish Movement. Our Gahmen has been damn siao on, trying to tell us to speak good engrish, good chinese. This is the Facebook Singlish Speaker’s Corner, let it all out my friends. Don’t be paiseh.”)

But Singaporeans seem fairly comfortable switching between Singlish and Singapore-inflected English, or Mandarin or Malay or any of the other languages spoken in Singapore. Leimgruber says that Singaporeans don’t disagree that some mutually comprehensible form of English is important to learn, and in many situations (speaking to foreigners, job interviews) will switch to English. The degree to which people are aware of the differences between Singlish and English varies; most Singlish speakers will probably not use the many Mandarin or Malay words when speaking a more standard English, but some of those grammatical differences would likely remain.

But, says Leimgruber, Singlish is not really in any danger of dying out, despite the government’s hopes. (He says that in cases where the government really feels the need to connect with the populace, like in elections, government officials will sometimes lapse into Singlish.) It’s as close to a unique national language as Singapore gets lah?

#Southeast Asia #Singapore #Singlish #Linguistics

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reekierevelator · 5 years

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The Face of Tomorrow

Sitting, eyes red and head drooping, foot almost glued to the pedal, feeding the coarse material through the needle. At last, she moved her foot away and let her head fall. Another piece finished. Twenty shirts, all exactly the same, already today.

But before Ode could take a few moments to rest her arms and have a sip of water the foreman arrived to snatch away the finished shirt, saying ‘Atta girl, plenty more where that came from’, and pushed a sewing pattern down in front of her tired eyes. This was quickly followed by ‘Here you go then, next piece’ as he thrust a pile of cut-outs on to the heavily scratched beech wood of her small work desk. The new pieces were in a dazzling shade of almost iridescent blue with a subtle pattern of thin black lines running through them. Ode sat up and stared, mesmerised. The foreman couldn’t understand it. ‘It’s the same shirt dear, just different material’ he explained slowly, as if Ode was some kind of simpleton.

Since leaving school Ode had spent long hours working in the dilapidated red brick building only the boss calls the Golden Garment Company factory. Her fellow workers called it the workshop. Her old school friends called it the sweatshop. Long hours and poor pay, but ‘it’s a job’. And without qualifications Ode felt lucky to be employed at all. She knew it was only because her mother had taught her the basic skills required – through making her sew and mend from a very young age, - that she’d got the job in the first place. In her own family, new clothes were a rare and almost unheard of luxury. It had been that way since they had fled to escape the fighting, arriving in Britain from Nigeria when Ode was a small child.

She had never owned the kind of on-trend fashionable clothes that she’d seen on some of the city’s girls. And she knew anyway that she was plain and unattractive. Fancy clothes wouldn’t hide that. People had never been backward in coming forward to tell her so.

Once, she’d gone with her friend to try on expensive clothes in a posh shop – it was what they did, try them on, admire themselves in the mirrors, and then return the clothes to the rails. Sometimes Ode took even longer as she examined the textiles, the way a particular fabric had been cut, sewn, pleated. It was much more valuable to examine the actual clothes, see exactly how they had been treated, cut on the bias or whatever, than to read about them in the odd fashion magazine that came her way. She could understand why her behaviour could irritate the woman in charge of the changing rooms and how she might get annoyed. When Ode emerged wearing a floor length sequined gown the woman had carped ‘You don’t really fit the modelling mould, do you love? Not got the required features: not thin enough, not tall enough, and your legs are too short.’ It cut Ode to the bone, but still she couldn’t shake the obsession.

In fact she became quite acclimatised to cruel humiliation. ‘Your cheekbones are too low, nose is too big, your mouth is too wide, the shape and colour of your eyes is all wrong.’ In a way it made her more resilient. ‘You can’t squeeze into that dress my girl, even the bust’s not right. In fact, your whole build is all wrong for those kinds of dresses. To be honest I can’t see even spending a fortune on make-up and cosmetics making much difference.’ Even when it left her almost in tears Ode found she could cope. That was just how her life was and since it was likely to stay that way she better get used to it.

Somehow she just couldn’t help herself. She inevitably found herself starting conversations with workmates, family, and sometimes even strangers at the bus stop by commenting on their clothes. She offered them her ideas on what might suit them better. But what she considered sensible suggestions were often received as rudeness; unwarranted intrusions, impolite, offensive, insulting. On the odd occasions when she had ventured to make such suggestions to her friends they had either laughed out loud, asked what on earth she was thinking, or stared at her as if they thought he was going mad.

But at least the meagre wages she was earning allowed her the very occasional luxury purchase. The unusual blue cloth triggered her desire. At the end of the day she noticed the scrag end of a roll abandoned on the cutting room floor. She picked it up and approached the foreman.

‘Could I take this home with me?’ she asked

The foreman knew there was not enough material for another garment and that it would only be swept up and put in the refuse with the rest of the rubbish. He barked back ‘Of course not, it belongs to the company,’

‘I could pay for it,’ Ode answered timidly.

‘How much?’

‘I have six pounds saved,’ said Ode, rummaging in her pocket then stretching out her hand showing him the money.

The foreman cast his eyes furtively around the now empty room. ‘Sold’, he muttered, quickly grabbing the cash from Ode’s hand.

With the dress-making skills her mother had somewhat forcefully bequeathed to her Ode intended to cut the material into embellishments for her existing clothes. But then she struck on the idea of unpicking the stitching of her own dress and using her own quirky ideas to remake it in a wholly new style, one she imagined would show off the blue material properly. The dress she created was highly unusual, a peculiar variation on the traditional dress of her ancestors, a new take on the sort of clothes her mother wore as if she still walked the Nigerian countryside every day. A matching gele, or headdress, completed the effect.

At first her best friend, Uma, impulsive and beautiful, with big eyes and an impish smile, was the only one she would allow to see her new ‘African’ dress. Then one day Uma said ‘Is real neat, yah. But what you gonna do wit it though – just sit at home wearin it, starin at youself in the mirror like you famous? Shu, no girl like you ever gonna wear that kinda thing on the street.’

But maybe that was just the challenge Ode had been waiting for. The very next Saturday she wore her highly original new dress while accompanying Uma to Harlesden market, shopping for yams, plantain, and cooking bananas. She drew admiring glances from other girls, saying ‘Stunna, innit’ and ‘You got an ankara buba now Ode?’. Even some of the boys approached her, passing comments like ‘That’s a wicked colour’, and ‘Cool dress’. A white boy mentioned her ‘Impressive kaftan.’

Ode’s girlfriends were quick to convert to a full appreciation of the new style. They found themselves re-thinking the fashion advice Ode had tried to give them, which they’d previously rejected as ridiculously outlandish. It didn’t take long before they were asking her advice on materials, and arranging for Ode to run up clothes for them at home after they brought her the lengths of cloth they’d bought.

One Saturday afternoon Ode and Uma passed the unimposing little shopfront of a professional photographer. They paused outside for a moment before Uma, on the spur of the moment, marched in, her friend trailing behind, and asked him to take photos of her. ‘For a fashion model portfolio?’ the photographer had joked, and Uma surprised herself when, the idea having been put in her head, she replied ‘Well yes.’ When she asked him for the names and addresses of modelling agencies her Ode’s laughter became uncontrollable. But still, he’d gamely suggested a few names while keeping his grin in check.

Uma collected the big glossy photos the next weekend and posted them off to New Vision Models, one of the names she’d remembered. Surprisingly, the agency, under pressure to demonstrate greater ‘diversity’, invited her for an interview. But when Uma arrived to speak to Zelda it was quickly clear that she wasn’t really interested. Uma was glad she’d gone alone and that her friend wasn’t there to hear Zelda’s casual, acerbic comments on her height, weight, and the size of her feet.

Zelda’s phone rang. It was an urgent request. One of their clients had put together a mail order catalogue that had to go to print next day and they’d only just realized all the models they’d used were white. They couldn’t afford to be depicted as racially biased and they couldn’t afford to re-schedule the printing job. In fact, business was so bad because of all the new online retailers that unless the catalogue brought in a lot of sales they knew the company was going to collapse anyway. As a matter of fact they couldn’t even afford to pay the usual going rate for models but they desperately needed someone within the hour.

So for a minimal fee, from which Uma would earn only ‘experience’, the agency sent her to wear cheap clothes for some quickfire photographs which would be included in a mail order women’s clothes catalogue that would be printed in great haste on cheap paper. In their hurry a shot was taken of Uma wearing the dress in which she’d arrived, a dress designed and stitched together by Ode. The photo was included along with an arbitrary price the catalogue editor had made up on the spot.

Inevitably, the catalogue’s readers hated the clothes and bought very little. But even while the company was folding, comments proliferated across the social media about one of the models, how she was so different to the usual mannequin-like catalogue clothes-horses and actually looked like a ‘normal lively girl’ for a change. As attention was directed towards Uma, more readers also commented that the only item of clothing in the catalogue that was worth buying was one that she modelled – a sort of esoteric take on traditional West African dress. Unusually, the dress was in bright pink rather than the usual primary colours and its pattern was picked out in subtle, swirling crimson and gold. Surprisingly, the cut was for a casual dress style, a chiseled cut and only knee-length, with a rectangular neckline. Equally surprisingly, the dress was still somehow unmistakeably African.

While casually flicking through Instagram discussions a young man linked it to a message he sent to the husband of Phoebe, a young aspiring clothes designer. ‘People are saying there’s someone, something out there, that is “different” ‘.

When the husband brought it to her attention Phoebe investigated. She checked Instagram. The nape of her neck prickled. She tracked down a copy of the printed catalogue. She phoned the catalogue company, then the modelling agency, and then Uma herself. When she discovered who had made the catalogue’s one outstanding clothes item her sense of excitement went into overdrive. She ran out of her office in Jermyn Street and was soon on the Bakerloo Line heading north to Harlesden. When she found the flat in the high-rise she confused Ode’s mother by asking to talk to the girl with the perfect eye.

The social media hubbub also reached Zelda. She was quickly back in contact with Uma, offering her more work, and insisting the company could live up to its name of New Vision.

Ode handed in her notice at the sweatshop. The foreman told her to stay, warned her she’d regret leaving, since his own pay was linked to production and he knew how hard Ode worked. But Ode began working with Phoebe. With Ode’s ideas and Phoebe’s business contacts it wasn’t long before they were selling vast numbers of new garments, not only throughout the UK but to the near two hundred million Nigerians and to other parts of West Africa.

Within a year Uma’s cheerful face was on billboards and the cover of Cosmopolitan. She was following in the footsteps of Iman and Naomi Campbell.

But Ode’s face, despite the cheekbones being too low, nose too big, mouth too wide, and shape and colour of the eyes all wrong, was the real face of tomorrow. It was already to be found on the inside pages of Business Today as well as StyleWatch, Glamour, and West Africa Now. The world had moved on. The face of Britain was multicultural and not only was the West African market online, but the whole face of Africa was changing fast. Given the respect accorded a top class designer, business couldn’t be better.

#Reekie Revelator #short story #fashion #immigration

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jflashandclash · 5 years

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Traitors of Olympus IV: Fall of the Sun

Twenty-Two: Calex

No Swimming in the Holy Rivers

Reyna and Calex were able to strongly encourage their previous hosts to give them directions off the resort. They left the pervs of Lemnos and stumbled into an uncanny, underground jungle.

From what Calex understood of Axel’s plan, they were supposed to end up in the Labyrinth as a cut-through to Tartarus. Without ever having been in the Labyrinth, Calex could sense this wasn’t right. This wasn’t the Labyrinth he’d read stories about.

Axel’s Mist mask evaporated as soon as they entered the jungle. If anything, his cat features seemed to grow more prominent, the black, patterned fur creeping along his scalp, the gold of his eyes even brighter. His ears twitched violently at every sound. He and Thalia scanned their surroundings with the routine and attention of a referee monitoring their home-team in a shootout. The huntress and guide took to the front, clearing a small path.

Calex and Reyna brought up the back, him with his bow ready to fire at any crazed lemurs that might jump in their path and Reyna with her spear, also scanning their sides and behind them, to assure they weren’t being followed.

“So, what is all of this?” was the only feigned courage that Calex could bluff after several minutes of crunching foliage. “And how will it get us to Euna?”

No one answered at first, though Calex swore he could hear Axel swallow as the Mayan clenched his fist.

Calex had seen the Liberian rainforest. During the two hour drive from Robert’s International Airport up the Monrovia-Kakata highway, the rainforest was interspersed and looming amongst rubber plantations, farms, and marketplaces.

This was different.

There was no warmth of the African sun. There were no villages tucked away in clearings or dilapidated roads. Just an ominous wrongness telling Calex he didn’t belong here. The canopy above and the foggy horizon in the distance glowed with an eerie turquoise light, like they’d stumbled into a cavernous Atlantis.

At least part of him felt attached to Liberia’s rainforest, even if the attachment was resentment. Here, the soft, sporadic rustling of the branches and foliage seemed to hiss, “Yoruba pup, Helen spawn, bastard of two continents, join us for some afternoon tea. See who will end up in the biscuits that we put on our table.”

This jungle would swallow him whole.

As if the others could sense the same thing, everyone stayed uncomfortably quiet.

Calex was annoyed. After saving Thalia and Axel from the shag of many consequences (he decided, despite his dislike of Pax, that he’d cheer Pax up with that story later), he deserved that question answered.

He was glad that Reyna cleared her throat to repeat his question, “Axel? You really think Euna went this way?”

None of them wanted to doubt Axel’s true sight through the Labyrinth, but Calex couldn’t help the nagging sensation that something was amiss. His eyes kept drifting from the jungle to the helm latched along Axel’s beltline.

Earlier, all of the shame that Calex had previous sensed in the Silver Tongued Snake Helm had been seeping back into Pax. Calex gently extended his senses. It was invasive, but Calex reminded himself this could be necessary. Though, by not asking Axel’s permission to search his emotions, this would make Calex as bad as their hometown dodgy creep, Pax.

Typically, Axel exhibited a practiced composure. That meditated calm was gone, replaced with a cacophony of emotions: anguish, defeat, remorse, confusion. As Calex feared, underlying it all, the hatred and malice of the Leonis Caput was cracking away at Axel’s reserve. The lines separating what made Axel what he was and what made the Leonis Caput a monster were deteriorating. With each little crack, as Axel struggled to control that animosity, he turned the hatred inward.

Yet, as Calex’s unbearable primary teacher would have said, Axel bore “a stiff upper lip.” Calex always loathed that saying. As if someone could switch out their lip for that of an android.

Axel shook his head, like he could feel Calex prying into his emotions.

Calex wrangled his Eros senses back in, returning his attention to the forest floor. He wondered how many seconds had passed while he searched.

Axel said, “Euna didn’t go this way. If we wanted to follow her directly, we would have to…” For an instant, Calex could see a visual representation of Axel’s cracking as the older boy paled. “We would have to go through the Princess Andromeda, and she has too much of a head start. My true vision says this is the fastest way to go—a shortcut.”

Ahead, Calex could see the canopy break into a small clearing. The ground quivered enough that he felt like he was under a motorway. He might have assumed there should be water ahead, but the increasing din sounded more like the continuous slide of falling rocks.

“How long a shortcut, Cat Breath?” Thalia asked, using her daggers to push vines and branches out of the way.

“Sorry, the glowy path my true vision provides doesn’t have an estimated time bar,” Axel said and Calex could envision his half-smirk. “But, if I had to guess, it’ll take us fifteen to thirty minutes as opposed to the hour or two if we descended through the Labyrinth. We just need to cross one of the rivers to get out and get back to the Labyrinth, but, uh, not this one.”

“So, we’re not in the Labyrinth?” Reyna asked carefully.

Calex hadn’t processed Reyna’s question. He was about to ask “why not” about the river.

The trees opened to a clearing, and he could see the river moving slowly and seeming to bubble.

But, it wasn’t bubbling, and the substance inside wasn’t water.

All of them stopped to stare from ten meters away.

When Calex realized that the narrow river was made out of thousands of scorpions crawling atop each other, he could handle that. At least a bit. Admittedly, he got a tad queasy. But, his mum made him eat a scorpion once at a Chinese restaurant down the street from their flat. (Tom had teased him until Tiwa said it was his turn). And, they’d chased an emperor scorpion or two out of the clinic every summer holiday.

“Guaba,” Reyna cursed. When Calex glanced at her, he found that he wasn’t the only one looking queasy.

At their stare, she straightened her posture. “Tailless whip scorpions. They’re… spiders in Puerto Rico. Not my favorite arachnid,” she said stiffly.

Remembering all the other times Calex frantically smashed various arachnids and insects in the clinic, Calex wanted to inform Reyna that he sympathized, but figured it wisest to bring as little attention to her discomfort as possible.

“So,” Axel concluded, “Not crossing Xibalba’s Black River.”

“That’s an understatement,” Thalia said. “How about setting fire to the Black River?”

Axel led them back into the undergrowth, using his sword to cleave a path. Thalia helped along his side while Reyna and Calex resumed their vigilance from behind. “This one isn’t as bad as the White River,” Axel muttered.

“What’s in the White River?” Reyna asked gravely.

Calex considered what albino creepy-crawlies could make a river--

“Pus.”

Upon hearing it, Calex wasn’t sure he could get his emotions sorted.

Fortunately, neither could Thalia. While Scorpion Creek seemed Reyna’s downfall, Thalia stopped hacking to stare at Axel. “Cat Breath, why does your underworld have a river of PUS?!” she demanded.

“Why doesn’t yours?” he seemed to mean it as a genuine question, not pausing to look at her. Sweat dripped from his chest onto the crisscross of roots and vines and, likely, snakes below. In the oppressive heat and lack of sunlight, Axel opted to stash his shirt into his rucksack. “I always wondered why it was a river of fire instead. Isn’t fire holy to Hephaestus? Shouldn’t a river of fire be holy to him and, therefore, by his workshop instead of in Tartarus?”

“Other options beyond river crossing? Perhaps a trolley?” Calex asked, not wanting to think about how many pimples needing popping to make that river a thing. Or that Axel had admitted they were in Xibalba, whatever that meant.

Axel shook his head. “We either cross a river, take a road, or pass through one of the houses. I fear any movement on the roads will alert the Lords of Xibalba to our presence—”

“Bad?” Thalia guessed.

Axel nodded. “And to cross through a house, you need to stay there overnight. While time passes differently here than outside—“ He gestured to two watches on his wrist. One still had a pink permanent marker heart drawn on and a Leminian citizen’s phone number. “—that’s too long a gamble. So river.”

Ahead, the dense foliage appeared to part again. Calex relaxed to hear the sound of sloshing water. However, the closeness of another river didn’t make sense. They couldn’t have walked more than half a kilometer. True, geography in the Underworld was likely to be a bit dodgy, but two rivers that close ought to converge, right?

Calex held down the urge to vomit at the thought of a pus-scorpion river. That would be the end. The gore or horror wouldn’t thwart him: a weak stomach would.

“That’s the White River, innit?” Calex asked, wondering if these heroes would boot him from the group if he lost his lunch.

Axel shook his head. “The Red River. It’s the one we’re crossing.”

This time, Calex smelled the river before he saw it. While the mugginess still choked him, the wet scent of the forest gave way to a metallic bite.

Calex had smelled this scent a lot at the clinic. He’d smelled it in the infirmary. But this was overpowering. By the time the trees and shrubbery parted, he already knew what to expect, but the amount felt overwhelming.

This river slugged along. In the perpetual turquoise twilight of the jungle, the continents looked like black sludge or dirty motor oil. Judging by the slow slosh along the shoreline, it was highly vicious.

Cartoon-red bubbles foamed along the shoreline and in leisurely-spiraling eddies. This river was wide, far wider than the White River, maybe the width of the Thames. Any sand or foliage that snaked into the river was stained a dark pink.

Calex shivered as he stared at the two-toned water, dominantly black with a glistening crimson hue.

For a sick moment, he remembered a picture from one of his history classes, something about Mayans shooting captives, intentionally inflicting nonlethal wounds to bleed them and let the blood drain down the slants in the execution court. Calex envisioned hundreds of bodies strung in the above world to make this river.[1] Then, he thought about his patients in Kakata, and the way they hemorrhaged from the eyes, ears, and nose. Some vomited blood. Would they have contributed to this? How many people needed to be killed to make this river?

“I need a rabbit to cross,” Axel said.

Calex didn’t realize he was staring. He shook his head, unable to get his voice box to work.

“A rabbit?” Reyna repeated, sounding hollow.

“Yep, a rabbit,” Axel affirmed.

“Do Mayan rabbits make excellent, river-hopping mounts?” Thalia asked.

More mythological transport. If Calex wasn’t going to throw up before, he definitely would make some pavement pizza now.

“No,” Axel said, “But it will make crossing easier if we can find one. Huntress, Praetor, would you mind catching one for us?” Axel didn’t look at Thalia. Although Calex could tell Axel had carefully picked out the words, the question sounded more like a command.

Thalia seemed annoyed and suspicious. “What? Do jaguars have trouble catching widdle wrabbits?”

“No, I need to make preparations,” Axel said, walking towards the river.

Reyna’s lips pressed into a thoughtful frown. Her gaze narrowed as Axel knelt in front of the river, a little too heavily. “Leonis Caput,” she said coldly, “the Lieutenant and I are here to assure your continued… cooperation.”

Considering Axel could easily lead them to one of these “houses” and shove them in with little more than a, “ta-ta!” and run off without them ever hoping to find their way back without a guide, Calex found their concern unwarranted if not comical or a bit offensive. “Hey—” Calex began to say when Reyna made a whistling noise.

Aurum and Argentum, her automaton guard dogs, appeared at her side. Argentum strolled up to Axel, his tail wagging. The Mayan gave the silver hound a tired smile and rubbed the dog behind the ears.

Reyna’s frown turned to irritation at the dog’s trust. She bent to pet the warier dog’s head. “You know they can tell when you’re lying. What kind of preparations and why don’t you want us here?”

Axel froze. His ears flattened against his head and he puffed up his cheeks to pop them. “I need to remember the diction used in the Popol Vuh—”

“The Pope’s view?” Calex asked.

“Our ancient book,” Axel said. “It’s been awhile since I’ve looked at a physical copy and, in order to get out of here, I need to meditate to remember how they speak—”

Aurum began to growl.

Argentum nipped at Axel’s hand in warning.

Axel rapidly withdrew from Argentum’s range.

Reyna scowled. “Axel?” She folded her arms. “What are you hiding from us?”

His face went red. He glanced at Reyna, then looked away.

Thalia drummed her fingers along the mace on her belt.

Calex set a hand on Axel’s shoulder. “Come on, mate—”

“Your presence,” Axel said, his voice stiff, “is distracting me.”

He didn’t mean Calex.

Calex choked on a laugh. Instead of squeezing Axel’s shoulder to show him it was okay, Calex patted Axel’s back twice in amusement. “Right,” Calex said.

Nether dog growled to signify that Axel was lying.

“Ladies,” Calex said, “Mind if I borrow Axel to have a nice chat long this lovely shoreline?”

Thalia went red. Reyna looked confused, before her complexion took a similar dive towards the warm spectrum. They exchanged a glance, and Calex saw Thalia start to form the words, “which one of us?” to Axel’s comment before realizing how rubbish a question that was.

Instead, she withdrew some kind of hunter’s snare from her pack. After a split second to collect herself, she rolled her eyes. “Boys. Come on, Reyna. Let’s go hunt while the boys talk about their feelings or whatever.”

Reyna couldn’t manage a proper retort. Calex blinked at seeing this amazing warrior that he read so much about during summer holiday, seeing her… well, be as speechless as any other teen might have been. And Axel, whom Calex admired for his bravery and stoicism, reduced to clumsy diversions. He remembered something Annabeth once told him: that all gods feared Eros as the most powerful primordial. Apparently all heroes were at his whim too.

Reyna nodded after a moment. “Aurum, stay and make sure they don’t do anything…” She fumbled for a word. “Suspicious. Argentum, help me flush out the rabbit.”

The silver dog perked up and trotted over to his master. Aurum sat down on his haunches, examining Axel intently with its ruby eyes.

After a moment of silence where no one knew what to say, Thalia and Reyna started back into the jungle.

Axel cleared his throat, straightening his posture. “Stay close to the river. Then, you can find your way back without me coming to get you. Don’t go near any fruit trees or decapitated heads hanging off fruit trees. And if you do, don’t let them spit at you.”

“Why would we—”

“Wasn’t planning on it, Cat Breath!” Thalia called over her shoulder. She took Reyna’s arm and hurried the praetor out of sight, cuing Calex into how uncomfortable Thalia still felt with that whole love potion incident.

Once they were in the jungle, Axel collapsed onto his haunches. He exhaled heavily and leaned back, placing one hand behind himself to keep propped up.

Aurum mimicked the movement, lowering himself down to the ground while keeping his ruby eyes on them.

Calex sat beside Axel, only two meters from the bloody shoreline. Some of the bubbles were so viscous, they didn’t pop, but caught along the bank to bob in the current like a scene from It.

The nausea threatened to return at the reek of metal.

“So, you’re having trouble being around two girls you fancy?” Calex teased, trying to get his mind off their surroundings.

Axel sighed. He slipped a hand past his leather skirting, into his jean pockets, and withdrew a box of cigarettes and a lighter. “I’m having trouble being around myself,” he said, tapped out a cigarette, slipped it in his mouth, and cupped his mouth to light the tip.

Calex frowned. “Those things will kill you, mate. And I don’t think Reyna or Thalia will much care for the smell.”

Axel exhaled a line of smoke. “I’m trying to quit. Normally, Ajax switches all my cigarettes out with gum, but he won’t get close enough to steal them right now.” His voice sounded distant as he examined how the blood leisurely slugged along the riverbed.

Calex remembered Pax slipping something into his pocket when the dodgy prick hugged him earlier. Calex reached inside to withdraw a box of cherry-mint gum. Calex tapped Axel’s leg with the box. “He’s a clever bastard, I’ll give him that. Outsourcing help nowadays.”

Axel’s blank countenance broke, his lip curving up. He sighed, took one last long drag, then pressed the tip of the cigarette into the pinkish shoreline. Smoke twisted up, into the bluish-green mist of the canopy.

“It’s amazing how annoying he can be from such a distance,” Axel said. He puffed up his cheeks, popped them, then slipped a piece of gum into his mouth.

“You won’t be needing this, mind you,” Calex said, picking up the box of cigarettes.

Axel’s ears flattened further against his scalp. He shook his head.

Without thinking, Calex pitched the box of cigarettes into the bloody river. The box floated for a moment before getting slurped under.

Axel paled.

Aurum sat up.

Calex paused. “That was sacrilegious, wasn’t it?”

Both glanced around, waiting for a Mayan god to string them up and add their blood to the river.

When nothing happened, Axel’s shoulders relaxed again and Aurum rested back down. “I guess not. Just, uh, don’t litter in my holy rivers again.”

“Noted,” Calex said. He thought about how jumbled everything had been, and that they hadn’t gotten a break. Sure, he’d been ready to tease Axel about Thalia and Reyna—Axel didn’t seem to be handling the love potion thing as well as Thalia had—but there was a lot more going on than just that.

Even if they successfully made it through this Underworld to get to Euna, then somehow convinced her to come back to Camp Half-Blood, they’d either be coming back in the middle of a battle, or to a destroyed camp. According to Axel’s Kronos watch, they had time. And maybe they would return home to find everything all tea biscuits and sunshine, but maybe they would find another friend had been tossed into a fire or someone else had been beaten to death.

Even if everything went well, Axel, Euna, Pax, and Alabaster were still wanted by the Romans.

They weren’t through the hardest part yet, and, from Calex’s sneak peek into Axel’s head, Axel wasn’t well.

“You know,” Calex said softly. “A wise leader once told me, if I was emotionally compromised, not to push my luck. He also reminded me that even the bravest and most loyal warriors have their moments of doubt and weakness.”

Axel cracked a smile. “First Alabaster, now you.”

“Pardon?”

He shook his head.

Calex snorted. He remembered hanging out with his cousin after a football game, his cousin going on about some girl or another, and how much his cousin would pretend to be confidence before begging for advice, despite being older and “wiser.” Until then, Calex hadn’t noticed how much he missed his cousin or the taste of a sandwich from Café Rouge.

Thinking about what Axel said to the girls, Calex laughed.

“Is there something funny, child of Eros?” Axel asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m thinking of the look on Merry’s face if I told her that I need her to step away for a moment so I could meditate on the Qur’an.” He wanted to mime the way Axel had staggered to the shoreline, but thought that would be a bit much. “She’d obliterate me for that one, wouldn’t she? ‘Specially if a magical dog told her I was lying, right?”

Aurum huffed at Calex’s chuckle.

Axel frowned. “I do need to replicate the Popol Vuh’s speech patterns to cross the river. The lie was about the meditation. Chiich, Frasco, and Santiago all made sure I could quote that book by heart.”

The more Axel spoke, the more oblivious he sounded. Calex shoved his shoulder. “Mate, I can’t imagine you survived the whole of the Titan War if you get that flustered each time the praetor is near you. Did Thalia’s thing really shake you that much? Aurum and Argentum didn’t say you were lying about the girls flustering you.”

Aurum snorted from where he’d relaxed again.

Axel puffed up his cheeks and popped them. His exhale turned into a sigh of defeat. “Calex… I’m worried about what will happen when I get near Backbiter.”

“Luke’s sword?” Calex asked, unsure he’d heard him correctly. This was about to become a much more complicated, unpredictable love triangle if Axel was daring to go where Calex thought he might be.

Axel nodded. “When Leo reforged it, and I stepped on it, the Leonis Caput took over and I almost attacked Kally.”

Despite wanting to help Axel out, Calex felt an overwhelming urge to slog him across the scruffy goatee. For some reason, he always associated all the lying and manipulation that lead up to Joey’s death as Pax’s fault. He forgot that the Pax brothers had jointly forced Leo into recrafting the blade, and, apparently, put Kally into a compromised situation. “Might have been nice to know a fortnight or two ago,” Calex said tightly. “Anything else you care to share with the team?”

“The Leonis Caput is very interested in Reyna. With everything that happened with Ajax…” Axel’s fingers fished into his pocket, then glared out at the river, where his cigarettes were. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and cross his arms to rest his chin there. “I’m mentally exhausted. My resolve has run down. If the Leonis Caput challenges me, I won’t be able to fight it. Reyna can take the monster. I’m not worried about that. But, if it happens when we need to talk to Euna… and she’s holding Backbiter…”

“What are you getting at, mate?” Calex asked.

“I can’t tell Euna not to take vengeance for her sister or to stall her vengeance by helping the camp. If I could punish Ares and Aphrodite right now…” Axel swallowed. The grip he had on his own arms became tight.

He sounded mad.

“Are you, Axel, disappointed in yourself that you couldn’t take out two gods?” Calex asked, hoping Axel would hear how ridiculous that sounded.

“Yes,” he said without a hint of sarcasm. “And I’m hoping Euna can succeed where I failed. I can’t—in honesty—try to change her path. I just want to make sure she’s safe, since I feel like I’ve failed so many in that regard. I can still get us to her, but Calex…”

Axel’s golden eyes narrowed to thin slits as he examined Calex, like he could sniff out any of Calex’s weaknesses.

“Reyna and Euna don’t know each other. Thalia and Euna haven’t had the time to get super close. It’s going to be up to you if you want to stop her: someone bent on revenge for a dead sister with a god-killing scythe and a droplet to enhance her powers to godliness. Plus Jack, who will really be egging her on. Once I get you to Tartarus and we find Euna, I can’t help you, even if I wanted to, and I don’t think Thalia and Reyna will be able to either. You’ll be on your own.”

Calex swallowed. That wasn’t too much responsibility or anything.

As he heard the crunching of Reyna and Thalia as they returned from the hunt,[2] all he could croak out was, “Brilliant.” And, after a pause, “We can go back to talking about the girls. That’s something I specialize in and—”

“I’ll push you into this river,” Axel said with a crooked grin.

“Noted.”

Thanks for reading guys! I hope you enjoyed!!!! :D And I hope you’re having a lovely Saturnalia <3

footnotes:

[1] Check out more info on this when Pax and Axel get their stand alone series XD Since I’m sure blood, pus, and scorpion rivers are your favorite. Hold on. Pax is crying saying his neon bathing suit will get stained if he has to go near any of these and he knows someone will throw him in. He’s probably not wrong.

[2] When I first wrote this, I put “return from the foods.” We still don’t know what was wrong with Jack that day. Except that Jack loves rabbit ragu because he’s a monster.

#pjo #hoo #fanfiction #Traitors of Olympus #Percy Jackson and the Olympians #Heroes of Olympus #Axel #Calex #Thalia #Reyna #Jack Jack is BACK XD #i hope #we'll see how we survive through the holidays *salutes the family sinking ship*#But i hope you guys have a happy holiday and a relaxing break!

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delafiseaseses · 2 years

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Have you ever thought that maybe the GECK races were meant for the players in 2008 and not “it’s 2277 and you’re African American?” Did the thought ever occur to you that it was for the players (likely American specific) choice? Instead of “African American” would it have better for you if we had said black since obviously “Caucasian” is a terrible term. Better yet, why give a shit about player customization on a game from nearly 14 years ago?

Oh, and fuck England

Ooooooo is this my first ever anonymous hate ask (and ask at all)? I think it is. This is exciting. I'm pulling the mouth ulcer I'm suffering with grinning at this momentous occasion.

I must say though... I think this needs a rewrite. I mean, I know the charm of this kind of thing is that it's generally low quality, but feel free to send me a fixed version if you ever feel the need. Most of the grammer is decent and I can understand you for the most part. I suppose that's all that's important, innit? Heh, I don't say 'innit' all too often.

Anyway my response. Well, it looks like you merged two sentences there with that "Instead of “African American” would it have better for you if we had said black since obviously “Caucasian” is a terrible term". So, I'm not quite sure what those sentences were meant to be, but, to answer the questions that I think you asked:

Yes, I would say it'd've been better to just say 'black' since I don't believe people of post-war Fallout would be American or know of the continent of Africa (also, what's with that 'we' I highly doubt you were at Bethesda at the time and had the ability to make such decisions, but if you were, the answer is still 'yes').

And, yes, I think it'd've been better to just say 'white' rather than using an outdated term from some ""scientific racism"" twats from the 1780s. I'm glad even you agree that it's a terrible term (unless that was an attempt at sarcasm, if it was please go educate yourself on the origins of that term).

As for the 'it was made for Americans' thing. Yes. That's quite bloody obvious, y'know. Near everything in the English-speaking world is made for Americans first, but black and white are terms used in America. It'd've been sensible to use 'em in 2008. Why dance around outright saying them words? Fear it'd've sounded bad? They jumped into far worse territory using the term 'Caucasian'.

You also ask "...why give a shit about player customization on a game from nearly 14 years ago." well, I actually said in the thing "...I wanted to talk about it because it rubs me the wrong way every time I start a playthrough." which is the answer to that.

Hell, clearly you're giving a shit about my giving a shit about it, so I could ask you the same question, but about why you give a shit about a random bloke's opinions about customisation from a near 14 year old game. You'd've had to have been searcing for that game to have ended up seeing a post from a person who literally gave themself the alias first name 'Nobody' and then gave a shit enough to write this ask. Of course, I know the answer is that you do give a shit and am merely play acting that you don't in that way I've never understood (like when someone writes 'nobody cares' on a YouTube video, clearly you cared enough to write that. True apathy involves not even bothering).

And I do agree with that last part. Fuck England, all the nation stands for and has done. Awful country with an awful government and a loada awful people in it. So, I guess we can agree on that, at least. I only like my home area, and even then in an "it's alright" sort of manner.

And that about does it. Thank you for the ask. Feel free to ask again either as an Anonymous person or under some Tumblr identity. I had a real fun time answering you. You've made my morning. Goodbye.

#Responses of Nobody Delafiseaseses

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lindsaywesker · 4 years

Text

Good morning! I hope you slept well and feel rested? Welcome to the working week! Currently sitting in my study, attired only in my blue towelling robe, enjoying my first cuppa of the day. No walk or gym this morning. Just don’t have time. Teaching tomorrow. Hopefully I’ll have time to walk on Wednesday morning? At this time of year, we stay indoors more and eat more ‘cold weather food’ so, by the time winter is over and you’re hoping to look sexy for Valentine’s Day, you discover you can no longer fit into any of your clothes. So, at this time of year, exercise is very important. Naturally, sex burns a lot of calories but not if you’re a one minute man! If you only last a matter of seconds, you won’t be burning anything! And, anyway, the last thing a woman wants is more unsatisfactory sex! The weekend was pretty good. On Saturday, my radio show went well (thanks for all the feedback), while The Trouble had a successful bazaar at The White Lion, Streatham. The bazaar is gonna happen every two weeks; an opportunity to buy some original and unique Christmas presents for your nearest and dearest. On Sunday, The Trouble rehearsed for her performance at my birthday party. We have live music between 9.00 and 10.00. Very excited! This week is looking eventful. On Tuesday night, we’re going to the theatre with The Phabulous Phoebe Thorne (The Becton Beauty.) Looking forward to ‘Master Harold And The Boys’ by South African playwright Athol Fugard. I remember seeing his play ‘Sizwe Bansi Is Dead’ at the Royal Court Theatre Upstairs when it first came to London in 1973. On Thursday night, I’ll be at the Notting Hill Music networking event at Tileyard Studios (from 6.00pm.) Big love to John Saunderson! Always nice to see some of the old faces! On Friday night, I’ll be at the Forest Hill Funk Club (upstairs at The Signal, Forest Hill) for another night of mayhem with the FHFC crew! Trying not to get too excited about my birthday party on Saturday ... but it’s difficult! Yesterday, I saw a photo of three of my favourite girls and it made me happy that two had become three. I absolutely love bringing people together! I am blessed to know tons of good people and it’s so nice when they connect and start hanging out with each other. Making friends is a joy, innit? Not fake, needy, sometime contacts; I’m talking real friends! Have a marvellous and momentous Monday. I love you all. And, remember, my new novel ‘Keep It Fun’ is now available from Amazon. You will love it!

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pocharryfics · 7 years

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HI CAN U PLEASE DO A DRABBLE ABOUT BLACK HISTORY MONTH WHERE YOU JUST STARTED DATING HARRY AND YOU'RE EDUCATING HIM ON HOW IMPORTANT IT IS TO YOU AND WHAT IT SYMBOLIZES AND STUFF LIKE THAT? THANK YOUUU BTW I LOVE YOU AND YOUR BLOG!!

I’d like to preface this by saying that this drabble is, without the shadow of a doubt, the worst thing I think I’ve ever posted on this blog. If it weren’t for the fact that I wanted to get in at least one Black History Month blurb before February was over, this disgrace would not exist in any form on any platform. Vey self-deprecating, I know, but I had to give a fair warning and let you all know in case you wanted to turn back. This is 10/10 a snake habitat, please turn around. There are much nicer drabbles in my masterpost that you can read instead.

You had absolutely no explanation nor rhyme or reason, but one Tuesday afternoon you felt compelled to ask Harry what he knew about Black History Month.

“Not too much, m’embarrassed to say. Didn’t really celebrate it in school cause it was considered an American thing.”

“What about when you got out of school?”

“Not much then either. See some fans tweeting a few things about it in February, but that’s about it. S’kinda embarrassing now when I say it out loud; feel like a proper git,” Harry sighed, mildly ashamed at his lack of knowledge.

“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s never too late to start learning, is it?”

He nodded glumly before allowing you to continue.

“In fact, I helped my baby cousin with the same thing a few years back. They weren’t really teaching her much Black History in school so my mom and I tried to bridge that gap; every weekday in February when we would drop her off to school we would tell her one Black History fact and encourage her to share it with her friends at school. No idea if she actually told anyone, but she left the car knowing it so I guess that’s good enough,” you reminisced, thinking back and smiling at the fond memory of your family.

“S’cute. Already flexing those teacher muscles and you weren’t even in the program yet.” Harry chuckled, nudging you and gesturing towards the colander on the cabinet.

He accepted it with a nod and set it down into the sink, reaching over your head for the sea salt to prep the pasta noodles for draining. It had been your turn to cook, but impending midterms had monopolized all of your focus and you had forgotten to stop by the store - coming right home after class and pouring over one of many study guides. When he had turned his key into the lock all of your neglected responsibilities came flooding back.

Harry had pretended not to notice and urged you to resume studying, but you had felt too negligent to comply and insisted on whipping up something yourself. You met each other halfway and decided to cook the meal together. Lucky for you, there was an adequate amount of pasta noodles left in the pantry and a can of Ragu so an emergency trip to the grocery was avoided.

“You’re not an eleven-year-old girl though, so I won’t be as nice to you as I was to her. In fact, how about this - you’ll give the facts to me?”

“Giving me homework, are yeh? Not a teacher yet, pet,” Harry surmised, pulling you in closer and nearly dunking his fingers in the tomato sauce as he reached over the pot to take your hand in his.

“New fact each day, Harry. And I want good ones too, not the same ones that get regurgitated every year. I don’t wanna hear anything about peanut butter or traffic lights.”

“New fact every day. Got it.”

You’re not sure if you really expected Harry to follow through with it; impending examinations had captured your full attention and if he had said anything at all you likely wouldn’t have even noticed. But just as agreed upon, Harry greeted you that Wednesday morning with a fresh mug of coffee and the first of many facts.

“Hiram Rhodes Revels was the first Black man elected to the US Senate in 1870. Only got to serve a year, but still,” Harry recalled, handing you a mug of fresh coffee before pouring his own. “Right in the middle of Reconstruction and in Mississippi no less.”

And so a routine fell into place between the two of you. Each morning Harry would share a new fact that he learned over breakfast and you would discuss it at length before you had to go to class and he left for his meetings.

“A teenage girl called Claudette Colvin refused to give up her seat on the bus nine months before Rosa Parks did.”

“Mmmm hmmm. That’s cause everyone thought Rosa would be a better spokesman because people would be able to sympathize more with a tired little old lady than a pregnant teenager. Poor Claudette.”

“But she wasn’t some little old lady at all, she was a secretary for the local NAACP chapter! The whole bloody bus boycott was a setup! Crazy. I always thought it just sorta happened organically. I had no idea that it was a big protest planned fo’ months.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know Harry,” you teased.

Harry gave an offended pout and snatched a piece of your toast, sinking his teeth into the buttery bread before you could grab it back.

“Did yeh know that Shirley Chisholm was almost assassinated three times when she was trying to run for president in 1972? That’s fucking mental, innit?”

“She’s an inspiration, all right,” you hummed in agreeance while blowing the steam from your coffee.

“You ever think of changing majors? Maybe go into politics?”

“I never really thought about it too much. If I ever changed majors, I’d probably switch to criminal justice and go to law school. Why? Think I’d be a good politician?”

“Think you would make a good president. Follow up in her footsteps and win it for old Shirley.”

“I think you just wanna be the First Husband.”

“Think they’d let me?”

“I don’t know, but could you imagine? Former pop star turned First Gentlemen.”

“Former?”

“I don’t think they’d let you keep performing if you were the First Husband; it would be a major security risk. If you think you have it bad know, you’d really have to have a security detail around you 24/7.”

“Good point. Maybe yeh should just stick to teaching.”

“W.E.B Du Bois.”

“What about him?”

Do yeh know that he -”

“Co-founded the NAACP? I sure did.”

“But did yeh also know that he was the first -”

“The first African-American to receive a PhD from Harvard? Absolutely. He’s very well known for his academic achievements.”

Harry heaved a long sigh at the interruption and you leaned over and pressed a kiss to his pouty bottom lip. “Gonna let me finish or aren’t yeh?”

“I’m sorry, Harry. Please go on, I’m all ears.”

“Anyway. He wrote this amazin’ book called The -”

“The Souls of Black Folks. It’s a literary masterpiece that … oh I didn’t even mean to do it that time. Wait, come back! Harry!

Harry was sat at the island in the middle of the kitchen, contemplatively sipping his coffee when you found him that morning. Long shadows and dark circles haunted his face and it looked as if he hadn’t slept at all. You flicked the light switch on the wall when you made your way in.

“What’s wrong, pumpkin? And why are you sitting here in the dark?”

He took a long and plaintive sip of his warm beverage before he spoke. “Are you aware of the monetization of incarceration and the exploitation of minorities in this country’s prison-industrial complex?”

That took you for a loop and you didn’t know what to say for a moment so he took your stunned silence as an opportunity to continue.

“Did you know that Ronald Reagan brought crack into inner city neighborhoods during the War on Drugs to fill up privatized prisons?”

“I thought you were gonna wait so we can watch 13th together?”

Harry only shook his head and stared forlornly out of the kitchen window. When it had finally clicked in your mind, you had to cover your mouth to keep the giggles at bay. The dark circles underneath his eyes, the withdrawn demeanor, and the yawn that broke from his berry red mouth gave everything away. You had anticipated that all of this newfound information would have an effect on him, but you couldn’t possibly have predicted this.

He was literally tired from being so woke.

I’d like to apologize to @milkmeharry @mendaxtheuser and anyone who sat through this.

#drabbles #harry styles fluff #1d interracial #writing #pocharryfics #black history month

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liciousedy · 7 years

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Before I begin on the part II of my weed experience check out the part one anecdote right HERE. It will only take you few minutes. You won’t regret it.

All caught up? Welcome back on track.

I loved the high and I was always looking forward to my next high. For a newbie like me,my high always lasted for hours upon hours worst still if it had been cooked, fried, drunk…hmm good times.

About several months into my weed initiation I got a call from home saying my cousin was seriously ill and I had to keep him in my prayers. Then I got another call this time from my brother saying its nothing more than just a psychotic breakdown from his weed addiction. Wait my cousin is in this too? Small world innit?

His parents had ferret around his room and found a huge stack of weed. His situation was so bad that his parents being traditionally African thought he needed an exorcism cuz he had straight gone coo-coo.

I had to go home immediately and what I saw was horrible. I couldn’t recognize him nor his words,they brought distraught to my ears. Ill at ease, I took a step back and started doing some research. I was told it had no side effects so where is all this coming from?

First thing that caught my attention was that some people have a genetic predisposition to psychotic breakdowns so in other words I might have a crazy gene. I could be burning up and throwing away old torn clothes today and by tomorrow I won’t even need clothes at all cuz I will be thinking its crazy to wear clothes and more fun to walk around in my birthday suit.

Is there a test I can take to see if I am at risk? What do I say to the doctor? “What’s up doc? Can I do a crazy test?” I mean do the doctors in my country even know about this? Do the hospitals have the equipment needed? Does the government know about this and are there measures to prevent and treat psychiatric cases? Do we even have institutions that train psychiatrists on this issue? If they exist how good are they? Is all the info I need classified? I mean there are people walking around streets who clearly need some mental care so I guess one of my questions above needs to be tackled.

Assuming I make it to the hospital wouldn’t I be put through the wringer and considered crazy for even asking if they can draw my blood and do a genetic test and fish out the crazy gene? I guess I would never know because I dint make it to the hospital. I will shrug off the results anyway cuz they wont have any credence to me.

Moving on,my cousin was seriously ill and this made me do a 180 on all I was ever made to believe about weed. So after combing and beating, I discovered the pros and cons and I am only gonna highlight those I experienced that way I can vouch for them all. Off to the pros;

It is an awesome painkiller. Menstrual pain was history to me.

It actually is an antidepressant. It lifted my mood during some really dark times.

It also surprisingly made me get stuff done. I could get an hour’s work done under fifteen minutes and was never shagged out.

My level of confidence was through the roof for someone who was usually diffident. I had a higher self esteem.

I was actually a better human being. I rarely got annoyed,was always amiable,treated people better.

CONS

The confidence came with a lot of arrogance and had hysterics.

I became lazy. Its difficult to comprehend being lazy and hardworking at the same time but it was all about what I set my mind to before I was under the influence. If I dint feel as doing something before smoking a blunt I definitely won’t do it after am done with that blunt.

I lacked concentration. The GOOD feeling that weed gave me became hyperbolic. I felt like all I had to do was think it and its done. Life went by quickly cuz I had the IDGAF ( I don’t give a fuck) ideology.

I lost touch with so many friends cuz I knew they won’t approve.

It is a huge contravention.

While the downside of weed wasn’t that severe for me, my cousin wasn’t so lucky.

He lost close to six months of his life because he had to undergo severe treatment. He was on total solitary confinement with little. His life was on pause.His painting and rapping careers were put on hold and up till date he hasn’t found his way around that because though he got better he was an addict and he occasionally goes back to it and loses all his focus.

My post probably doesn’t do a lot of convincing but I have done some self admonition and I know for sure that I won’t be going back to that life anytime soon.It isn’t as easy as falling off a log but I certainly am making the effort.

Yes! I miss the high and it takes a whole lot of restraint to say no to a blunt but as long as I got my will power and someone by me to keep reminding me am on the right track, I ain’t about that life. What is a human being without a properly functioning brain? I mean Steve Hawkins is a good example. Lost every thing but he had his brain and made the world a better place with just that.

The secret is not to over do it. Once or twice a year on very special occasions will be way healthier than every single second but who am I to say? Research is still on going and no one really knows how far the effects of weed stretch but till then I will keep waiting for my honeymoon cuz that’s when I will really need THE KUSH INTERVENTION.

Oh! My Bf quit too so, win-win.

Have you had any firsthand experience with the pros and cons of weed?Please share with us. We really could learn a thing or two from you. Would you rather email me your story? Please do.

*All pics courtesy of Google

XOXO

I USED TO LOVE THE HIGH TOO Before I begin on the part II of my weed experience check out the part one anecdote right…

#DEPRESSION #Kush #MENTAL HEALTH #PROS AND CONS #PSYCHIATRIC #PSYCHOSIS #PSYCHOTIC BREAKDOWN #STEVE HAWKINS #THE JOKER #Weed

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thecosydragon · 6 years

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My latest blog post from the cosy dragon: Interview with Catherine Evans

An Interview with Catherine Evans, author of The Wrong’un

Catherine Evans’s novel, The Wrong’un, was released by Unbound in May 2018. She’s the founder of www.pennyshorts.com, a website which offers short stories of all genres to readers around the world. She’s a trustee of the Chipping Norton Literary Festival and sponsor of the ChipLitFest Short Story Competition. She lives with her husband in Oxfordshire and has a daughter and three stepdaughters.

Everyone has a ‘first novel’, even if many of them are a rough draft relegated to the bottom and back of your desk drawer (or your external harddrive!). Have you been able to reshape yours, or have you abandoned it for good?

I abandoned my first novel for good. It was a thinly disguised memoir of a very turbulent time in my life. It’s intensely intimate, like reading my own secret diary.

Over the years, what would you say has improved significantly in your writing?

Observation. The older you get the happier you are to just sit and watch.

Some authors are able to pump out a novel a year and still be filled with inspiration. Is this the case for you, or do you like to let an idea percolate for a couple of years in order to get a beautiful novel?

If I was a hermit I’m sure I could pump out a novel a year. My head is always way ahead of my hands; I have the next few books juggling around in my head.

I have heard of writers that could only write in one place – then that cafe closed down and they could no longer write! Where do you find yourself writing most often, and on what medium (pen/paper or digital)?

I can write anywhere, usually directly onto my laptop, often with pencil and paper. The kitchen table is my favourite place because it’s warm and close to the kettle and I really don’t mind interruptions. I love working late into the night when everyone else is asleep; often I realise with a start that it’s 3am, my hands and feet are iceblocks and I have to get up in a couple of short hours for the school run, but I go to bed happy as I’ve done 3,000 words. Those are good nights.

Before going on to hire an editor, most authors use beta-readers. How do you recruit your beta-readers, and choose an editor? Are you lucky enough to have loving family members who can read and comment on your novel?

I have an old schoolfriend who is a natural bookworm, and several other friends from the writer’s groups that I’ve been part of for the past 15 years who are always happy to read whatever I give them, so I’ve never used a beta-reader. My publisher, Unbound, assigned me my editor after I specifically requested her, as she had done such a wonderful job editing ‘A Thing Of The Moment’, by Bruno Noble, a friend with the same publisher. I was lucky she was available; she was forensic in her thoroughness and she really cared about the manuscript, the story, the voice and the characters. I accepted 99% of her suggestions, and I feel that the resulting book is ours, not just mine.

I walk past bookshops and am drawn in by the smell of the books – ebooks simply don’t have the same attraction for me. Does this happen to you, and do you have a favourite bookshop? Or perhaps you are an e-reader fan… where do you source most of your material from?

I love the look, feel and smell of a real book, the covers, the blurbs and I like to know exactly how far along I am and to be able to flip back and forth between the pages. E-books are very useful for travelling, and I often download the sample chapters, but there’s very little I love more than browsing for books, whether it’s in bookshops, in charity shops or at car boot sales, and whenever I go to someone’s house, I can’t stop myself from looking at the books on show. E-books will never replace real books.

I used to find myself buying books in only one genre (fantasy) before I started writing this blog. What is your favourite genre, and have your tastes changed over time?

I’m happy to read any genre as long as I care about the characters. I love books that confound genre, for example David Mitchell’s ‘Cloud Atlas’. I don’t much care for romance (reading about it, that is), but I loved David Nicholl’s very unconventional love story ‘One Day’. My tastes have definitely changed over time. I’ve become a much more critical reader, and I seldom finish a book without thinking about what the writer could have done to make it stronger.

What do you do when you’re not writing?

I perform all the usual tasks that fall under the role of mother; feeding, instructing, lecturing, nagging, hectoring, threatening, bribing and chauffeuring. I’m a trustee of the Chipping Norton Literary Festival, now in its seventh year. We’re always scheming and dreaming up new ways to raise cash, including running writer’s workshops and Open Mic events. Every year in the run-up I wonder why I do it, then I always enjoy the Festival weekend so much and the feedback we receive always fills me with renewed passion for the following year. I’m the Editor of www.pennyshorts.com, a website which publishes short stories of all genres from writers around the world online, making them available for free download. It now features around 200 stories from new and established writers and is steadily growing.

Social media is a big thing, much to my disgust! I never have enough time myself to do what I feel is a good job. What do you do?

Much to my disgust too. Social media provides an anonymous forum for the most appalling rudeness and sheer vitriol, which then spills over into all other spheres of life. I seldom read a thread that doesn’t disintegrate into childish name-calling, and the inane virtue-signalling, loud calls for apologies and screams that this or that is ‘offensive’ can get incredibly boring.

Saying all that, when I add new stories to pennyshorts I tweet about them with a suitable picture and also post about them on Facebook with some info about the author. I’ve been told to open an Instagram account and to start an Author’s page on Facebook, but there never seems to be enough minutes in the day. That doesn’t mean I won’t do it, it just means it’s not high up on my list. It all seems to be a giant echo chamber. I’ve had a twitter account for three years, and have never read a book promoted by a tweet. Sometimes I get unsolicited direct messages from Indie authors, one of which was ‘I’d drink battery acid to get you to download a sample chapter of my book.’ Really? Please don’t, and no thanks.

As you don’t maximise social media, what do you do instead?

I think old-fashioned word of mouth is the most powerful way to promote books. Books demand something of their readers, and if you inhabit the world of a novel for a few hours of your life and love it, you will want others to share that experience. When a friend whose judgement I trust tells me that they loved a particular book, I pay attention, and will read it. I love reading book reviews in newspapers and magazines and online too. I get a lot of ideas from the Sunday Times ‘Culture’ mag.

Now that your first book is out, what’s next?

I’m actively working on two books simultaneously: a novel which examines the pernicious effects of early sexualisation on young girls and a non-fiction book about the philosophical teachings of Martial Arts, and how it can be of benefit in all spheres of life. Once I’m done with those, I’d like to write my mother’s life story. She grew up on a farm in rural Transvaal in the 40s and 50s and studied at the University of Cape Town in the 60s, where she met my father. She’s not a writer, but she’s a born storyteller, and has a unique perspective of South African history and apartheid and many tales to tell about farm life, relationships, neighbours, family and community dynamics. Lastly, I’d like to turn a three act play I wrote several years ago into a novel. So that’s four books in total that have yet to see the light of day – should keep me busy for the next few years.

Answering interview questions can often take a long time! Tell me, are you ever tempted to recycle your answers from one to the next?

Not at all. It’s like free therapy, innit?

from https://ift.tt/2O1OJQN

#book bookreviews authorinterviews lovereading bookworm

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milk-shy · 6 years

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the european canon berlin trilogy is here & it’s ready to fUck yOu uP !!!

berlin is where he grew up as an artist i feel, because there’s some indescribable sort of compassion and weltschmerz that’s not quite the same thing as the pure young sadness of the ego. and i don’t really understand it either, because i’m too young and i don’t know anything about what war and love and faith are, but it reaches for something, it pushes towards something; and barefaced un-costumed denim-wearing bowie is his most genuinely mysterious iteration because here, at this odd transitional pitstop, he aspires for, well, ‘what is highest in all of us.’ any degree of truth to the human condition is measured by depth rather than breadth, that’s the point of art; and here, where he finally takes off the mask, he is completely naked, sweet and sad rather than grandiose. when he takes off the platform heels he’s a small and awed human thing like the rest of us— but he’s fully, fearlessly honest like none of the rest of us; and when he decides to be honest, you had better believe he doesn’t choke.

low (1977)

dark and urban and european, beautifully art-rock, beautifully complete. not a spare second anywhere, it all seems vital and necessary. it’s like a new language -- like everything he’s done before, it’s like nothing he’s ever done before. if this is what avant-garde is, i can get behind that. it’s depressing, it’s like the shattered mirror of pop-rock, it’s like a fast car, it’s absurd and breakneck and crushingly sad. it’s a david bowie sashay through the wreckage of a martian apocalypse. and then it’s chucked into a synthesiser. it’s leather and crossed wires. it’s a breed of pop that’s outgrown melody and thinks lyrics are passé (’sound and vision’-- keeps us waiting for his voice, flirts, plays hard to get, until almost imperceptibly he slides, sidles, in--) wouldn’t it have been the easiest thing in the world for him to churn out a few more rock n’ roll copy-and-pastes? but no, he does this, for some insane spectacular reason.

highlights: ‘breaking glass,’ ‘sound and vision,’ ‘always crashing in the same car,’ ‘warszawa,’ ‘subterraneans’

heroes (1977)

this is lovely -- has a bit more of a note of hope here, it’s a bit more jagged and emotional, pushes into fear and hope and occasional intemperance, as though from the desolation of the second side of low he moves straight into something that’s a little bit unevenly brighter, with a bit of melody in fits and starts. it has the same home-grown sticky heart of ziggy but it comes from a machine and somehow, not a decade later, it is for a completely different time. what a perfect moment, electronica before the ‘80s completely exploded it. as for the title track, well, it contributed like 0.001% to breaking down literal borders innit? it might be horribly cheapened by pop culture at this stage but it is very berlin, first and foremost of its time, and some of the sadness of the bridge is missed i feel? read something somewhere about visconti mixing it so that his voice is progressively drowned until he has to shout to be heard, while fading further and further back, and wow, who knows how much more depth there is if you’re educated enough to find it.

highlights: ‘beauty and the beast,’ ‘heroes,’ ‘sons of the silent age,’ ‘neuköln,’ ‘the secret life of arabia’

lodger (1979)

this is fuckin weird lmao — back to lyrics and rock melodies it is !! except with an odd vein of mombasa influence and also like, whatever the fuck brian eno did re: this. it’s not a great one but there are some solid jams and the opening track is a banger with a wistful strain. it is in some sense what the entire “trilogy”— if such can be said to exist— is progressing towards: a public and engaged artist who’s shed the personas and the mystique, a newly political and present bowie for a new decade. yeah, it’s a poor third, obviously it doesn’t have the stone-cold poise of low and heroes, and for a berlin album there’s just way too many words on it, but it’s intriguing, it’s new, it’s the last thing you would have expected of him— fantastical ethereal alien bowie is officially dead until blackstar.

highlights: ‘fantastic voyage,’ ‘african night flight’ (for pure mad weirdness), ‘red sails,’ ‘look back in anger,’ ‘red money’

#bowie #tt18

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burnaboysession · 7 years

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INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT

Rob: I want to start with you as a musician. You said something in another interview that I wanted you to expand on, and I may be paraphrasing you, but you said you move like music. What do you mean by that?

Burna Boy: That I move like music?

Rob: Yeah.

Burna Boy: It’s a step, man. Music moves without anyone asking it where it’s going. That’s how I move, you know? Of course I’m not unstoppable. Obviously everyone has been… [There have been] bad times where the world and the powers that be have tried to stop me from moving, you hear me? From getting to where I’m supposed to be and where I’m supposed to reach, but every time they fail, you get me? Cause I move like music. You can’t stop music.

Rob: I think one of the most interesting things about you as a performer and a musician is that you wield music like a sword.

Burna Boy: Exactly. That’s exactly what it is.

Rob: You said you feel that resistance. Do you think it’s because of the gift?

Burna Boy: I don’t know man. They say every gift is also a curse on the other side. I just feel like this is what I am, this is who I am, this is what I represent, and it’s going to be like this till I die isn’t it?

Rob: How did you discover it in yourself?

Burna Boy: You don’t really discover these things, they discover you, you know? Everything just falls into place when you’re chosen. When it’s divine, shit just falls into place.

Rob: I find that a lot of current afrobeat is sugary sweet.

Burna Boy: (laugh)

Rob: It’s real pretty sounds, but the message only ends at the club. But you try to put lyrics in those sweet sounds. How do you approach melody? Because that’s one of the things, I think, where you stand out: constant innovation on a melodic level.

Burna Boy: I feel like melodies are a thing of the soul. Melodies are the way you chose to pass your messages. A sound of the soul, man, and I feel like my choice in melody and how my melodies come out represents how my soul is. Represents how my soul looks, or how my soul sounds. That’s how I feel about it.

Rob: So what is Soke?

Burna Boy: Soke is a representation of that. It’s basically a real example for what you said, for the question you asked.

[interruption]

Rob: You were saying Soke is representative of that?

Burna Boy: Of the question you asked about the sugary stuff, and the message. Soke is a tune where I’m stating the obvious about what is going on in Nigeria, about how there’s no lights, and the electricity situations, no water. All of that shit, man. I just put that in a song, the shit that the average Nigerian knows as every day life, put that in the tune. With what I’ve done with my melodies, it’s very danceable and stuff, so obviously sometimes you tend to forget that this is what I’m actually talking about in the tune. But it doesn’t really change anything because you’re still gonna hear it on different levels. The message still goes across, but I can’t say the same for everyone, I can only speak for myself.

Another thing is afrobeat, I don’t feel like people do afrobeat, I feel like that’s just a comfortable name to give African music. Afrobeat is Fela Kuti. That’s where afrobeat started and ended, as far as I’m concerned. And obviously family and all that… but that’s really all it is. What we do, we are our own generation, our own sound. I call my thing afrofusion. I feel like the next one will have the next name for his one, but ay man they try to put it under one umbrella, “it’s afrobeat”, but I just don’t like that because that’s Fela Kuti. If you’re gonna say you do afrobeat that means you play every instrument, you understand? If you’ve seen what Fela’s done, you can’t compare it to no one’s shit, mean.

[interruption]

Rob: You were talking about Fela.

Burna Boy: Well, that’s really all I was saying. I’m just saying, the music we hear now is grandchildren of afrobeats.

Rob: So talk about your relationship with Fela. I mean musically.

Burna Boy: He’s the inspiration. He’s the goal.

Rob: The goal.

Burna Boy: Yeah.

Rob: That’s interesting because earlier, you said you find resistance from where you’re supposed to be. Is Fela where you’re supposed to be?

Burna Boy: “Supposed to” is a strong word. We never know where we’re supposed to be, we just go with it. That’s what I’m doing. I have no vision of where I’m supposed to be because I didn’t think I was going to be here. So I cannot tell you where I’m gonna be.

Rob: Right.

Burna Boy: All I know is we work to be the best version of ourselves. That’s what I’m doing with me and my music.

Rob: Talk to me about some other songs. Mandem. Do you remember when that came to you?

Burna Boy: Of course, Mandem is for the mandem. (laugh)

Rob: Right, right.

Burna Boy: Yeah man, Mandem is a tune obviously done for the mandem whose names you heard at the end of the tune. There’s more of those names that didn’t get there, everyone’s level ain’t the same, but it’s for the mandem.

Rob: That was a monster. Uncle T!

Burna Boy: Yeah man, man like Uncle T.

Rob: That’s when you were coming back to London. How long had it been?

Burna Boy: About seven years.

Rob: And you kept in touch with London? During that absence?

Burna Boy: Af course, always, always.

Rob: How was that transition for you, from London to Lagos?

Burna Boy: It was London to Potakot (Port Harcourt).

Rob: Potakot.

Burna Boy: Yeah. I used to live in Nigeria anyways. So, yeah.

Rob: I’ll ask you a question I ask everybody I interview. Who is God to you?

Burna Boy: Who is God to me? God is love, man. God is light, in the sense that you wake up and you pray... everything you pray for, God is just shining a light on your soul. You’re praying for a light to get shone on you. That’s what every prayer basically is, that’s how I see it. You pray for anything, I just look at it as a light, you know? To shine on your day, on yourself. God, whoever, in whatever form, religion or whatever, God is love, God is the higher power that we can’t explain.

Rob: Rank these in order. Respect, riches, and power.

Burna Boy: Okay. Respect, riches and power... boy. Respect, number one. Respect’s number one because everything else falls into respect.

Rob: Right.

Burna Boy: Power and riches, right? I feel like they all come with… with respect comes power and riches and all that. Or, or, with power comes [respect]... but it’s never really the real–I’m talking the genuine real system of life. It’s respect, then power and riches. But I feel like they’re all one and the same thing.

Rob: All is under respect?

Burna Boy: Yeah, but they’re all one and the same thing really because who’s rich that people don’t respect? Obviously there’s rich people that people don’t respect but… but they respect the money. (laugh) Real shit I can name a million people that don’t deserve the light of day, but it’s their money innit?

Rob: The other day, there was a picture we were talking about of a rapper we won’t name and a politician. And what I saw is hip hop and africa coming together on some level, you saw something different. What did you see?

Burna Boy: I don’t really like to talk about this shit man, because everyone always likes to take apart what I say and stuff. But me, everything I say is because I’ve seen it firsthand. If I’m talking about something I’ve seen firsthand, the effects and what it does... one man’s good time is another man’s whole life. That’s just how I see life. I feel like you see a man coming through, going somewhere, and taking a picture with the person there, you’re thinking “oh, this is nice, this guy is going there to do this”. But really, you didn’t ask what that person is gaining from that, because really and truly, the way I see it is that anyone that’s on top in life… they don’t really go places they have nothing to gain from. If you’re someone that’s on top of the world, I don’t really see you going somewhere… because you didn’t get to where you are [by] doing them things. And that’s why I feel like I don’t plan shit and don’t expect shit. I just live life, hope for the best and prepare for the worst because that’s really what life should be. If I could tell the future, then I’d probably change it. (laugh)

Rob: So let’s get back to music and melodies. One of my favorites is Jealousy. What was happening at that time, when you made that song?

Burna Boy: Well, I feel like all my songs are self-explanatory. There’s really no explanation.

Rob: I mean, I’m interested in your craft.

Burna Boy: My craft is basically a product of my environment, and a product of my experiences and the experiences of the people around me. Or feelings, my feelings at the time. That’s all it is.

Rob: You seem to have expansive feelings. Your reach is further in terms of how you feel.

Burna Boy: Yeah, cause the same way I feel, I’m not the only human in the world. There’s a bunch of people that feel the same way I feel, so it’s bound to be relatable, you know?

(break)

Rob: I was asking about the generational clash in Nigeria.

Burna Boy: It’s a real thing. It’s a very very real thing. Even down to our politics, our president now was our president… how many years ago. That’s our president now, so that’s really how our society is. The new generation, we have our own identity, we have our own ways, we have our own minds. We know things they don’t know, because this is our generation. But obviously, they feel like the way it was, in their generation is the way it should be till they die, and they don’t die very early. (laugh) Real shit, you get me? It’s just the way it is, man.

Rob: I hear it in the music, you know what I mean? The tension.

Burna Boy: It is, because it’s really frustrating for the young ones, because they’ve got… they see… I don’t know how to explain it, man. What I know about an iPhone, my mom don’t know. My grandparents don’t know. And you can’t expect them to. But now in our society, no matter what it is, they know best–even when they don’t, which is most of the time when it comes to the new generation. What worked then cannot work now. You can’t expect it to work now. You can’t expect you, who’s from that era, to know best about this era. You can advise, but they don’t get the concept of advising, bro. I’m telling you. That’s how I feel, I feel like they don’t get the concept of advising and they take the concept to be: “Follow my way. If you’re not following my way, you’re silly. This is not how we’ve been doing this”. That’s why me, I’m just walking around not giving a fuck, I just do what I want, because their life is not my life. I’m not gonna let anyone fuckin’ change me into them, and that’s really what it is, it’s like most Africans my age are extensions of… because that’s what’s forced on them. That’s really how the whole thing is. They never really got the chance to exercise the thoughts they’ve had for themselves. It’s all looked at as (?? - timestamp: 3:42 of ZOOM0010_Tr3.wav). I don’t know how to explain all this stuff, maybe I’m not even coming across right but…

Rob: No, I’m just letting you go. The society is heavy with tradition, and all the youth are pressing up against many, many, many years.

Burna Boy: Exactly.

Rob: So going back to music, I want to name some musicians and you give me your take on them. King Sunny Adé.

Burna Boy: Legend. Absolute legend. There’s no other words to describe.

Rob: Super Cat.

Burna Boy: Yeah I mean that’s the king of the flow as far as I’m concerned. You know, it’s funny you say that, that used to be my favorite artist of all time.

Rob: You said it was the flow.

Burna Boy: Yeah it was the flow man. It was just too crazy... fluid, you know?

Rob: Reggie Rockstone.

Burna Boy: (laughs) Ghana.

Rob: Giggs.

Burna Boy: Sheesh. Street’s prophet, man. Trust me, the UK’s street prophet. The UK’s Moses man.

Rob: Talk about the evolution of grime.

Burna Boy: Giggs is not grime, that’s UK rap.

Rob: UK rap.

Burna Boy: Yeah, grime is Skepta and Wiley and Ghetto, you know? But you see, Giggs is too legendary. I don’t think there’s any roadman who didn’t come up on Giggs… that Giggs had no influence on his life whatsoever. That’s Giggs man.

Rob: So are you a miner? Do you dig in the crates and search out music? Or how do you discover new sounds, et cetera?

Burna Boy: I don’t know man, I just really… It’s always random. I don’t know how to go start searching for new stuff. I see what pops up in front of me, you know? (laugh)

Rob: Back to music, Rock Your Body… what do you think about that and the fact that you’re now in New York City. That’s the first sound you released when you touched ground here. What’s your ideas about what happened with that song? Do you think about what happens with songs or do you just create and let them go. Do you have an idea?

Burna Boy: Yeah, that’s me, I really just make it and let it go. There’s too many. The creative process never stops for me. I just let it go. And then it’s up to the fans and people, that’s it, really?

Rob: And it’s the same for performance?

Burna Boy: No, it’s not. The performance, a lot like the recording and the making of the music is more spiritual. More unexplained, and more…

Rob: More unexplained?

Burna Boy: Yeah more organic and just more spiritual. That’s how I see it man. Cause with the live shows and the music, it’s like you see the music, you see how it came, you see it all come together and you see how i feel about it. It’s real. It’s the same as the music. It’s all just one unexplainable package.

Rob: The New York performance, was that special to you?

Burna Boy: Of course, it was my first show in America. Of course it was special to me. I had Swizz Beatz, the legend, bring me out. He doesn’t do that. That’s legend, you get me? It’s just been crazy, cause I landed in New York and then I got the maddest phone call from one of the biggest legends in Africa, Black Coffee, and he’s linked me up, and is like Swizz is looking for me and stuff and then it’s all mad. And then I got there and then it’s just mad family things.

Rob: You been catching a lot of attention from a lot of different… I saw pictures of you and Diplo.

Burna Boy: Yeah man.

Rob: That’s crazy.

Burna Boy: We got Major Lazer. Came to Nigeria still, kicked it with me still.

Rob: So you have such a range of ways you can go musically. When you work with artists, is it a thing where you have a plan with that wing of music? You know, you go this way with Wizkid, or if you work with Diplo, you think about it? Or is it just, the music happens?

Burna Boy: It just happens. It just usually happens.

Rob: You have a favorite city?

Burna Boy: I got a few, actually. I’m still moving in the world…

Rob: Still discovering.

Burna Boy: It’s too early for me to really say… to call my favorite city.

Rob: Is there a city you want to visit?

Burna Boy: That I want to visit? I don’t know man. Anywhere the wind blows me. Anywhere life takes me.

Rob: One other song I wanted to ask you about, Run My Race. I liked Run My Race not only because it was such a new sound. The visuals were crazy. You have an advanced visual vocabulary. What do you think about when you do your visuals? How do you communicate with it?

Burna Boy: I just try to bring out the song in the best way possible, because most of the time when I’m recording I already see how it is in my head. I already know what to do. I know how I want it to look. It doesn’t always turn out like that. Sometimes it turns out even better, sometimes it turns out worse, but that’s really how it goes for me. If I had my way I’d have a video for every song I’ve ever done. (laugh)

Rob: You’re very visual.

Burna Boy: Yeah, it’s cause if you listen to the music, sometimes I want you to be able to see what I’m talking about, so you’ll get a better understanding.

Rob: I saw in one of your videos you were actually drawing, I think Wendy showed me one. You actually draw?

Burna Boy: No, well used to. I don’t no more. I used to draw cartoons and stuff like that. I was really big on that but I fell off.

Rob; Was it like comics?

Burna Boy: Yeah, all of that. Everything. I used to draw everything, but I fell off.

Rob: It just translated into your videos.

Burna Boy: I guess.

Rob: Do you see yourself acting, or doing movies?

Burna Boy: That’s what I’m saying. I see myself doing anything the Lord wants me to do. There’s no boundaries to what I can do, so it’s all about what I do do. You never know until I do. Neither do I. I don’t know until it happens. Looking at all my stuff I’m thinking about modeling.

Rob: Can you measure your impact on Nigerian youth, on African youth, on people all over the world? Can you feel what it is, or what it isn’t?

Burna Boy: I don’t understand.

Rob: What do you think your impact is on young people?

Burna Boy: I don’t know. I really don’t know. I just transfer my feelings into the air and whoever catches it catches it. That’s basically what it is, I don’t know about impact. I just know this is how I feel and if I feel this way and I let you know through the music, and you feel the same way, then in the spiritual world, we’re friends.

Rob: The mannequin challenge. Soke. Did you notice when the mannequin challenge happened, and your video…

Burna Boy: Yeah, my friends wouldn’t let me rest. A lot of things started, and I’ve started and restarted a lot of things and gotten no credit for it. It didn’t just start now. It didn’t just start with the mannequin challenge or whatever.

Rob: Do you think that’s changing?

Burna Boy: I can’t say until I can say, you get me? I can’t say until I can. Just being honest with that one there.

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