#so in my head i literally just have a single homogenized image of the HUNDREDS of groups of natives OF THIS ENTIRE FUCKING CONTINENT

[nexus-nebulae]

was watching a video on how shit the pocahontas movie is and thinking about the mystification of native americans in media and how they're usually shown to be serious, quiet, and typically not very emotive- i have just realised that i cannot imagine a native american child being silly and having fun because i've literally never seen that before and that is so fucked

#like i just. they've been mystified and their histories have been rewritten and erased and destroyed #to where i don't even have an image in my mind of them being normal fucking emotive humans #that's so supremely fucked up #that their entire culture has been boiled down to such few traits that seeing anything beside that is surprising #like oh my fucking GOD there is such little fucking representation in media of native peoples #i was severely socially isolated growing up so the way i learned about other cultures was solely via media #and the fact that the only native representation i saw as a child was between fucking peter pan and pocahontas #so: blatant racism and fully rewriting history #and then a few shitty books i read in elementary school about white kids “becoming” natives by. living in a tribe for a year or smthn #and that's ALL I GOT??? #so in my head i literally just have a single homogenized image of the HUNDREDS of groups of natives OF THIS ENTIRE FUCKING CONTINENT #i've never met a native person. in my racist ass hometown they were talked about like a fucking extinct species. #like as in. i was genuinely told in schools that native tribes just fully dont exist anymore. #i was assigned projects speculating about them in the exact same way we did with fucking dinosaurs and ice age animals #and all this has been so deeply ingrained into my skull that *i literally cannot imagine a native child FUCKING LAUGHING* #that's so supremely fucked up like. i dont even have a good conclusion to my thought here that's just fucked up.

[dercolaris]

Maybe

Quite a long story compared to my other stuff. Round about 8800 words. Uff. Beside that I don't really want to say much about it - just read it. The main characters are Selina and Jonathan, but you should get an idea yourself of ​​the relationship between them in the story.

Thanks for double-checking the story, @shin-arei!

Have fun!

The black-haired woman stretched herself extensively in the cool air and gave a small moan when she finally stood on the roof of the old museum building. Gotham lay sleepy under a thin layer of snow, the few flickering lanterns cast lulling light on the deserted, extremely dark streets. It was a breathtaking sight. One of few that Selina Kyle would never get enough of. She closed her eyes and listened into the sleeping heart of her home city. This silence in the night was so unusually beautiful. Her lungs took a deep breath before looking for a way to quietly exit the roof. Selina grabbed her leather whip, let it hiss at a nearby billboard, and shimmy around the trusty tool on a neighbouring balcony. After landing safely, her gaze fell on the worn leather material in her hands. The years in Gotham didn’t leave one without a trace - neither objects nor people. Catwoman sank into a thick web of thoughts for a brief moment. Yes, the time had changed the hard underground life even more in the last months. How much Selina wished for the simple days of her youth, when it was enough to just care for food and shelter everyday. A time in which there was no crazy Joker, who murdered people at random and also no Penguin who had subverted all organizations, whether state or private, and thus in fact became the mayor of the city. Rival families with Mafia-like structures offered more leeway than a single ruler of the streets. At that moment Selina rebuked herself and pushed her googles onto her forehead. It wasn't as if it wasn't already difficult to survive in Gotham then, just the number of crazy people had increased dramatically in recent years. The thief shook her head slightly and turned to face the fire escape. She slid down elegantly, landing safely on the floor like a cat. Her whip found its way back into the holder on the belt. A loud roar of sirens darted past the dark alley towards the central bank. The black-haired woman watched the common spectacle with a smile, counted the fifteen police cars in total and looked up at the sky. As if on command, the light signal appeared in the shape of a bat in the grey, milky clouds above her. Selina couldn't help but chuckle slightly. She breathed a kiss on her hand and whispered softly: "Good luck hunting down the bad guys, my Dark Knight."

There were always rumours that she was very close to Batman, actually to the point that some rogues strongly believed they would share a bed at night and having a strange romantic love affair. That wasn't entirely true, even if Catwoman couldn't deny the millionaire's aura. Still, Gotham's self-proclaimed playboy wasn't interesting enough for her. Bruce simply wasn't a challenge. Peace, joy and rainbows was certainly nice every now and then, but the black-haired woman would never get used to the perfect wife and mother role. This thought clashed like a train without brakes into the otherwise homogeneous image of a possible permanent partnership. When the sirens had died down in the distance, the thief ventured out of the dark alley. Her break-in had gone unnoticed so far, and since the law enforcement officials were demonstrably busy with more important things, she would get away with no chase tonight. How boring. Selina walked in the opposite direction of the central bank, trying to get to the next street corner as quickly as possible. Her bag with the change of clothes was hidden in the ladies' room at the dingy Jack's Coffee fast food place. With luck, no one had suspected anything. Catwoman immediately smirked at her unfounded paranoia. It was known that women usually avoided the dirty take-away restaurant and there were practically no women on the streets of the city during the night time hours anyway. If her clothes were safe somewhere it was in the shabby loo at Jack's. A little shiver ran down the thief's back. This calmness was deceptive. Deceptive and at the same time absolutely beautiful. The snow fell slowly from the sky like a white veil. Catwoman did a little pirouette, chuckled happily and sucked the pure, icy air deep into her lungs. During the day a wild pack of stressed people raged across the paths, but now the roads belonged only to her. Like a proud cat in the night.

The black-haired woman passed some unknown shops with even more unknown names and stopped in front of a pane of glass. The cold steamed up the filthy window, but behind it her eyes caught some very old-fashioned clothes. Washed out shirts, dusty ties, turtle necks in stray colours. Her eyes slid to the name of the shop. "To the old tailor," her lips mumbled softly, followed by an ironic-sounding snort, “hmpf, very suitable, don't you think?" The thief continued on her way, turned left at the street corner and reached the filthy snack bar. When she pushed open the double door, the stench of alcohol, cheap perfume and sweet cigar smoke came towards her. Selina turned away, suppressing her cough. Only when her nose got used to the smells did she dare to enter. The guests' eyes were fixed on her. A bunch of older, failed men who spent their retirement years drinking their brains away. Catwoman felt no pity for these existences. The black-haired woman had known most of them since her messed up childhood and there was no one there who did not deserve to sit here at this filthy bar in one way or another. With this ulterior motive, she walked steadfastly through the rows of tables and passed the door to the women's toilets. The swirling light from the white neon tube completed a picture of pure disgust. The two washbasins lay in ruins on the smeared floor tiles, three of the four toilet doors had been torn from their hinges and the brownish green broth that rose from the bowls suggested that cleaning, or rather maintenance, had been on the to-do list for several years. The thief pushed open the remaining door with a shiver and locked it behind her. She wasn't particularly demanding when it came to her short-term hideaway, but she had a certain standard to consider this environment as totally unworthy.

The next opportunity to store her belongings would have been in Ivy's small apartment, but that shouldn't been possible for the next hundred years. A silly dispute between them had escalated to such an extent that, in blind anger at the stubborn botanist, she had turned one of her priceless new plants into compost. It was only through persuasion from Harley that she had gotten away with her life again. Selina sighed softly and pulled the tight leather suit from her body. The black-haired woman was infinitely grateful to the lively woman for her constant attempts to mediate between the botanist and her. Even with all nine cat lives, she would probably be dead without Harley by now. She and Ivy had a love-hate relationship that alternated between the two extremes. If they loved each other, no words were needed to understand what the other wanted. If they hated each other, the thief felt to stand in front of an overpowering praying mantis which was damn hungry and would like to eat her in one piece. She secretly admired Harley for the way she knew how to curb her girlfriend's temper. A life with Poison Ivy was just as dangerous as a relationship with a deranged clown. When Selina was finally in her dark jeans, greyish hoodie and black winter jacket, the pent-up tension of the evening fell literally away from her. Her leather outfit disappeared into the backpack, followed by her googles, gloves and, of course, her stolen goods. A quick glance at the smartphone immediately made her smile. “Selina, I know you broke into the National Museum tonight. Be glad Scarface is keeping all the police and me busy. Bring the stolen items to police headquarters by tomorrow night and we'll forget about the whole thing – Bruce.” She chuckled softly and slipped the cell phone into her pocket. The never ending game of cat and mouse with Batman made stealing so attractive and exciting.

She shouldered her backpack, opened the lock on the toilet and left the place of horror with quick steps. As the black-haired woman slipped through the snack bar, the waitress at the counter pulled loudly accumulated secretions up her nose, only to spit it out in a bucket next to the deep fryer. Stifling an emerging nausea, Catwoman pushed open the double doors with bated breath. The cool, fresh air felt like relief. A few liberating breaths later, Selina looked up again at the cloudy sky. It was still snowing incessantly. For a brief moment the thief thought about returning to her old apartment, but decided against it and turned towards the docks. The footprints were quickly covered with new snow. Her eyes examined the streets that slowly disappeared under the white ceiling. Far from the main road, civilization seemed to have come to a complete standstill. A few lights were still burning in the small windows of the skyscrapers, but the number was dwindling and the amount of functioning lanterns decreased with every new bend in the remote corners of Gotham. Selina stopped suddenly. She looked into the empty streets of the city and began to wonder whether her decision to go to him was the right one. After the violent argument with Ivy, the thief had actually sworn not to enter into a relationship, whether as a partner or purely for business. So how did it come that the black-haired woman got in touch with a permanent resident of Arkham Asylum, who was at least as ruthless and destructive as the infamous Joker himself? Her thoughts were wandering again to the night five weeks ago in the sewer system, when she tried to sneak into the town hall unnoticed. It was her plan to put a little warning on the mayor's desk. The good, old man was corrupt, but threats could put him back on the right track easily. At least a threatened disclosure of his involvement in several child trafficking cases often had the desired effect. That evening, however, something went terribly wrong. Selina had basically never had anything to do with Waylon Jones alias Killer Croc before, which the thief almost made for the mutated monster's dinner that night...

She waded slowly through the filthy waist-high water of the half-tubes. The constant dripping in the seemingly endless corridors of the sewer system made her shudder. entering buildings like this was by no means her style, but in turbulent times it was necessary to cover uncomfortable journeys. The ends justified the means. Catwoman grabbed one of the wooden beams on the barricade in front of her and jumped with a little swing onto the dry wooden panel on the other side. The bars on the apparent exits completed a gloomy picture that could create claustrophobic feelings in stray souls. Anyone who was not familiar with the constantly winding corridors was doomed to certain death. Selina sighed softly and looked at her GPS device. The town hall was not far away. Hopefully. The thief stretched a little when she suddenly heard a distant growl. Her head tilted to one side, her body tensed. She listened closely into the corridors, but could not make out any source of noise through the high ceilings and elongated halls. She had known from the beginning that she was not alone in these tubes. There were many homeless people who scolded these aisles of their home. Still, the sound had certainly not been human. Selina took a deep breath and dismissed it as a kind of imagination. The mind could play bad tricks on you if it was under-challenged by insufficient stimuli. Unfortunately, the bare, grey walls offered little to no change. Nevertheless, the black-haired woman got a queasy feeling. An uncomfortably oppressive feeling that she couldn't judge. More worried than she wanted to admit, Catwoman decided to reach her destination as quickly as possible and to choose a different route for the way back. She slipped across the planks with skilful steps.

After a good six hundred meters, the growl reached her ears again, followed by a faint bubbling. This time, however, the sounds were much closer than before. She paused and turned on her own axis. Selina tried hard to make out the source, her eyes sliding hastily into the six corridors that branched off from her position. Disorientation. These pipes were not her territory and there was something in this stinking water that most likely moved here every day, if not lived here. At that moment the thief had frozen into a pillar of salt. She was unsure how to proceed now. A slight tremor under her feet made the decision for her. The shock grew stronger and with a glance to the right, Catwoman recognized the lizard-like scales that snaked towards her with unimaginable speed. Her eyes widened even more. Only a second later did she sprint towards the nearest platform and hit her claws in the crumbling concrete to bridge the too great distance. Behind her, the wood was cut into thousands of small pieces. Selina landed on a swaying plank and tried to control her breath. The bubbling got louder again. The body in the water was directly on its way to her again after realizing that there was no one on the last platform. The black-haired woman looked at her gloves and jumped sideways against the concrete wall in time, when the terrible sound of wood bursting through the hallways again echoed. Her claws dug deep into the grey wall. "Ah, little kitten, come down to play!" The booming, deep voice below made her shudder. A reptile rose from the water, there was no other way to describe this creature. The red eyes sparkled menacingly, the nostrils snorted powerfully. It growled, laughing out loud, and spat amused: “Don't make it so difficult for yourself, dinner! Your death will be quick if you come down now, I promise!” The creature slowly built itself up to its full size and suddenly Catwoman was aware that this thing could grab her directly from the wall with one movement. She jumped a few inches higher and began to flee forward.

“You silly humans are all the same!”, thundered the crocodile before it hurried unexpectedly fast after her. Selina tried hard to get a head start on the creature, but the concrete was not a preferred material for moving quickly. Too daring a jump made this fact clear to her. With too much swing, her claws hit the ceiling on her left foot and she completely lost her footing. The porous mixture crumbled into the dirty water with a splash. The thief was holding on to the ceiling, looking for a firmer place for her foot. The creature below seemed to be watching her with pure amusement. As if to confirm, it laughed deeply and growled happily: “I sense your fear, kitten. Just keep it up, yeah? I like to chase my dinner!” Inferior. At that moment, Selina felt inferior to her enemy. A feeling she hated profoundly. She clenched her teeth and looked ahead. Nobody was superior to her! A narrowing, possibly for a previously planned ventilation shaft, was a good four hundred meters in front of her in the wall. This thing would certainly not fit into it. The black-haired woman took a few deep breaths and planned her route with practised eye. Targeted steps and jumps. One after another. Selina let out a low scream and crawled towards the opening with a few jumps. The water under her splashed up to the ceiling. She breathed quickly. It would be a very close call, but the thief had a slight head start. The creature struck her with its paw, caught her lightly on the thigh, but then fell sideways into the water. A sharp pain pierced her body, but she couldn't give in now. Taking advantage of the monster's slip, Catwoman hurried into the opening and fell backward onto the slippery concrete floor. She slid a few meters back into the corridor. Just in time when the scaly claw reached into the narrowing, searching for its prey. The claw scratched the floor a few times, but then pulled back. The crocodile's ugly face appeared, the red eyes glowing with lust for murder. It hissed softly: “Don't feel too safe, pussy cat. You are in my territory now!” A loud splash told her that the thing must have retreated back into the water. She then dropped her head on the floor and groaned in pain.

A look at the thigh revealed a superficial but heavily bleeding scratch wound. Selina swallowed hard, sat up a little and reached into her belt pouch at the hip. Her shaky fingers found the bandages. After a few attempts, the black-haired woman managed to apply a pressure bandage on the injury. The thief tried to calm her breath and clenched her teeth tightly. She had just closed her eyes for a second when the low growl came from very close behind her. In shock, Catwoman turned her gaze backwards, only to stare into the grinning face of the monster - a few inches in front of her. The narrowing was just a small passage to another tunnel system! Selina tried to flee, but the inhumanly strong paw closed like a vice around her torso and gradually choked her breath. The thing laughed triumphantly: “I have you now, small kitten! Surprise, surprise. Who would have thought? And now I'll break every single bone of you before I eat you whole! Any last words, pussy cat?” The crocodile slowly pulled her out of the shaft, unimpressed by her attempts to cling to the firmament with her claws. Selina lost her last grip and screamed out loud as she fell backwards into the dirty water. “No, it can't end like this!”, she thought with fear. Her body gasped for air, the disorientation in the water made her almost panic. The thief finally penetrated the surface of the water with her head and found herself facing the ugly monster. Suddenly her body was indescribably cold. "Your fear smells so good, kitten!", purred the monster contentedly, licking its pointy teeth. It continued to hold her in the tightening grip. Selina thought she was already hearing the breaking of her ribs when the monster suddenly stopped. The nostrils quivered, apparently sensing something new in the area. A quiet male voice confirmed the crocodile's suspicion: “Waylon Jones, where are your manners? Didn't the therapy in Arkham do anything for you?” The creature wanted to turn around at the voice, when a sharp scythe pierced his shoulder. The monster spat a loud, deep scream and loosened its grip on Catwoman. The blade twisted a few times in the solid flesh until the creature let go of its victim and plunged back into the water. It was visibly withdrawn, a trail of blood in the dirty broth followed his retreat. The ugly face appeared once again briefly, snorted angrily under pain: "You will regret that, Doc!" Then it was gone.

Selina was breathing a little quieter than before, briefly closed her eyes before turning to the man behind her. The thief suddenly turned pale. She recognized the figure with the gas mask, the hemp rope around his neck and the worn, dirty clothes. Scarecrow. The silence fell between them. Apart from the dripping of the water and the occasional puff of breath from the filters of the gas mask, nothing could be heard. Only after a few seconds did the man grasp the hem of the mask in order to pull it from his face in one flowing movement. He attached it to his burlap sack, walked slowly over to Catwoman and put his arms around her torso. Selina reacted instinctively. She scratched his thin arm once with her claws and hissed. A hand went tight around her throat, the needles on the gloves hovering only millimetres above her skin. His suddenly melodious voice laughed harshly: "Do that again and I'll throw you back to Croc! Or no, no, no, no. I just skin you, little kitten, and sell your fur to the highest bidder. Or just keep it to me and sew a mask from this rare material! " He gave a hysterical laugh when a sudden jerk shot through his body. The expression in the man's eyes had suddenly changed, the laughter had abruptly stopped. "I or rather we try to help you, Catwoman, even if Scarecrow might not have given you that impression." Selina looked at him in shock, which prompted him to continue calmly: "Now listen carefully to me, Miss Kyle. Waylon will not take long to come back, his flesh heals by itself after all. He is not a... ", the man paused briefly, thought a second about his next words and then continued," ... man, that licks his wounds and leaving such incidents without retaliation. We have to get out of here. Immediately. What you do afterwards is up to you, but we're in serious danger right now.” The thief held her sore thigh and gasped softly. The alarm bells were ringing louder than ever in her head. The man suddenly held out his hand to her, the blue eyes in the sunken eye sockets fixed on her. Selina swallowed chunks of a large lump in her throat and hesitantly took hold of the cold fingers of her counterpart. A miniature smile crept on the pale face of the former psychiatrist.

A small grin curled up in the corner of the thief's mouth. The doctor had taken care of the scratch wound, but kept his word after the treatment. The black-haired woman had been free to go. Following her nature as a cat, she went straight back to the heart of the city to resume her normal life. Selina looked down at the snow-covered street and stopped on one of the many manhole cover. Hot air came out of it, froze instantly in the cold. She would avoid the sewer system for the next thousand years. Selina smiled mischievously as she pressed some snow into the small holes in the lid with her feet. The scratch had healed pretty well in the meantime, but an uncomfortable drawing spread as soon as she came near the underground passages. A terrifying experience. It was only after the second visit to Jonathan that Selina really understood why he had helped her in the first place. The former doctor was known to be obsessed with fear, even if he could no longer feel fear himself. That is why he studied all the more the reactions triggered by fear in other living beings and that evening it was a unique field research for him. Without his assistance he could watch the thief in a moment of absolute panic, fear and despair. After this realization, Selina had given him a hurtful slap in the face. There was then five days of silence between them, until Jonathan broke the ice and apologized to her in a very awkward-sounding text message via SMS. The black-haired woman and Harley had been horribly amused at the fact that he was actually still using conventional methods like texting. The thief smiled happily when the memories of the evening with the Harlequin came up. At the same time, however, the question arose again, why she actually continued to visit the sinister doctor since the incident. The first time she had at least had the excuse of a follow-up examination. In the meantime, however, there have been five more meetings with the former psychiatrist, which admittedly had little to do with the incident. Harley's lively voice still echoed in her ears: “What is wrong about visiting John? You can just admit it, Kitty – you somehow like him."

She had, of course, vehemently denied this absurd claim. Jonathan? No thanks, never. She was maybe a bit desperate when it came to men, as none came close to her level, but it wasn't that bad. Inwardly, however, her mind often began to play the same game that she had with Bruce. "What speaks in favour of you liking him and what speaks against it?" "What are the advantages and disadvantages of getting involved with Scarecrow?" She admonished herself in such moments not to let it get that far to think about it . Anyway, Jonathan was too absorbed in his work. Selina hesitated and cursed inwardly. It could have been relative to the black-haired woman whether the smart doctor could find time for her in a probably toxic relationship. It just wasn't up for discussion – or was it? Selina pulled the hood a little lower over her face and crossed the street to the docks. The port area has been a fairground for the underground elite for ages. An image, that this district would probably never get rid of. She shivered heavily and her fingers found their way into the pockets of her winter jacket. It felt twice colder by the water. The wind swept around the little fishermen's houses with a hard hand, covering them with powdery snow. The thief only growled softly when another wind caught her and chilled her cheeks. With quick steps she looked for the twenty-fifth warehouse, which was much easier to find without a damn snowstorm. Now she was standing in front of this door again. An inconspicuous, somewhat sunken wooden door in the middle of nowhere, already attacked by the salt in the sea air. The cast iron handle had become brittle, the rust had eaten around the handle. The hinges were in no better condition. Selina bit her lower lip and made a fist with her right hand. What was she doing here again? "Visiting a friend," she muttered to herself, "you are visiting a friend." She knocked twice on the door. Footsteps, barely audible to other people, moved toward the entrance, followed by the click of a few locks. The door slid open slowly and two icy blue eyes looked at her first sceptically, but then almost relaxed.

As usual, Jonathan didn't say a word, just stepped aside to let his visitor in. Selina nodded to him with a smile, entered quickly without bothering to remove her shoes on the doormat. His hiding place was one of the cleanest of the rogues she knew, but still not particularly inviting and as long as he didn't complain, she would of course get her way. As expected of her, Jonathan said nothing about it this time either. He went to the table with a variety of liquors and looked at her expectantly. "A sherry, my dear." The thief sat down in one of the two comfortable, if somewhat antiquated, red armchairs. Visiting a friend? Visiting an accomplice? Visiting a partner? Selina smiled mysteriously and rested her chin on her hand. Maybe. Time passed incredibly quickly in Jonathan Crane's presence. Selina watched the man across from her carefully. There was a certain exhaustion in his eyes, the dark circles below them supported the assumption that he had not slept enough in the past few weeks. He leaned tiredly in the upholstery of the armchair, his head tucked back. His long fingers were cramped around the already empty whiskey glass. Jonathan had talked roughly about his work - an endless chain of complicated formulas and hypotheses on the subject of fear. The thief smiled and sipped her sherry. The professor of phobias dealt with fears. How very surprising. The black-haired woman began to wave the liquor in her hand when she whispered softly: "May I ask you a question, my dear?" Her razor-sharp, green eyes fixed him with a trace of curiosity. The curiosity of a cat. She didn't wait for an answer from him and added, smiling: “Why are you doing all this? All this effort, the constant trouble with the law and especially Batman. You are a seasoned man. Academics with distinction and over twenty years of practical experience. What is all this for, Jonathan? What makes an intelligent, distinguished man like you put his perfect, orderly life at risk?"

His slim body winced a little at the question. Selina could hear a low sigh. The older man ran a hand through his thin brown hair, but remained silent. Catwoman raised an eyebrow, finished the sherry with two more sips, and placed the glass on the massive side table. The seconds stretched out into minutes. The stinging of the alcohol in her throat was already ebbing when Jonathan turned his sunken face to her and said in an alarming calm voice: "I'm ready to answer, Miss Kyle, but only on the premise that we will play a game of Backgammon while we talk." A smile crept onto her lips as she slowly nodded. The former psychiatrist then pushed himself out of the chair with a groan and stepped into an adjoining room of his hiding place. Selina watched him go, almost amused. The thief quickly understood how to have a proper conversation with the initially strange doctor. Anyone who didn't know him could well suspect he was not interested in social interactions with other people. Alone the fact of his constant sifting through the counterparts brain could lead to this fallacy. Of course that wasn't true. Rather, Jonathan was concerned about a high-quality exchange of knowledge for which it required a conversation partner on an equal footing. Catwoman stretched with relish and purred softly. A pleasant scent of lavender played around her nose. The silence in the doctor's office was a welcome relief from the hustle and bustle in her apartment. Even if she loved every cat like her own child, every now and then Catwoman wanted a place just for herself. A place that offered an escape from the daily rush of the city. Selina rubbed her tense neck with her fingers. The black-haired woman knew she would never leave Gotham City. Even if the skyscrapers collapsed like a house of cards, there would be no reason to actually leave. Her lips formed a small smile. In Gotham she was born and in Gotham she would die. This city was her home and would be her graveyard, when her ninth life was gone.

The thief was torn from her thoughts when the doctor stepped back to the table with the board game. Catwoman had to get used to his quiet steps. Usually it was she who sneaked up on others. He put the board on the rough wood and opened the container for the stones. His long, bony fingers built up the basic position in a practised routine. During this activity, too, he did not say a word. Selina smiled, clasped her hands and followed his every move with her sharp, green eyes. Even with the simple construction of the game, Jonathan seemed careful. She bit her lower lip slightly. It was an act of total concentration, almost sublime, every pressure on the stones deliberately measured. In short: the epitome of the word control. Her eyes roamed leisurely over his relaxed-looking face. What a deceptive picture. Catwoman had already met his second, chaotic personality and no matter how relaxed the professor might seem now, the monster in him could in principle appear at any second. A wolf in sheep's clothing. His blue eyes suddenly looked directly into hers and he spoke calmly: "Would you like to begin this game, Miss Kyle?" His lean body took a seat in the red chair, his gaze still entwined with hers. The thief smiled and met his opals with her natural playfulness. She took the dice and let it dance skilfully through her fingers. "You're very special indeed, Jonathan Crane," she whispered softly and tilted her head to one side, running her free hand through her dark, silky hair. He snorted at the comment, leaned back a little further in the chair. Selina could almost hear the clockwork going crazy in his head. Did his mind ever rest? Probably not. The thief licked a little over her bottom lip, briefly looked disparagingly at the white dice before turning back to him: "We haven't even started to play and you already determine the rules of the game. And that's so latent that I almost didn't trip over this trap. Don't you think that's a little unfair, darling? ”A small smile crept onto Scarecrow's sunken face. A direct hit. Catwoman put a finger to her lips and nibbled lightly on the tip, then stroked the smooth top of the dice gently. She let it finally roll onto the board. While the cube was still looking for an end position, the thief whispered: “In Backgammon, the dice decide who starts. Surely you will be able to accept this small little loss of control, do you, my dear? ”A three crept into the corner of her eye as the dice came to a standstill. The black dots spoke a silent, almighty argument in the atmosphere. Selina continued to look him in the eye and patiently waited for his reaction.

After a few seconds the professor finally stirred. His leathery-looking fingers paused briefly over the dice, but then grabbed the sides and rolled it back and forth a few times with the tips of his fingers. Jonathan watched the numbers with a mysterious smile as he calmly replied: "Are you up for a little mind game, Miss Kyle? Who's in control if we play by the traditional rules of the game?” His fingers released the dice towards the board. Instead of following the geometric, rolling figure, he fixed on her green eyes again. He went on cautiously: “I've already worked through both scenarios with the offer to you in my head. Whether you have the preference or not is only marginally important to me any more at this moment. But how is it for you? Well, you have to wait until the die is cast - quite the opposite of what you could archive with agreeing with me. My generous offer would have provide a clear, unambiguous starting point and an opportunity to plan ahead. I didn't think you were so willing to take a risk, Miss Kyle, but of course I accept your decision.” Selina shuddered at his words. Once again she reminded herself that the elite of Arkham Asylum sat in front of her, even on both sides of the treatment room. The former psychiatrist was considered one of the most successful employees who had ever worked in the closed ward. A real expert on the treatment of anxiety disorders. After changing sides, he was now one of the few patients who were virtually resistant to all therapeutic approaches and who ensured regular exchanges of broken, frightened doctors. The dice had come to a rest in the meantime, but none of them dared to look down at the board. He didn't blink in direct eye contact with her and it felt like the icy blue buried a few centimetres deep in her head. Selina put her hand flat over the die, hiding the number. Finally she closed her opals and whispered muffled: "I'll start." An almost amused smile twitched in the corners of the mouth of the former psychiatrist. He then leaned back relaxed in the chair and merely nodded to her, a sign that she could begin. Selina bit her lower lip, inwardly cursed loudly at herself. The words had actually come out of her own mouth, but they felt incredibly strange in her mind. “Please don't blame yourself for this decision, Miss Kyle. After all, it wasn't yours from the very start."

Catwoman looked at the thin man, puzzled by his statement. He rested his chin on his right fist and spoke way too calmly: “I didn't give you a chance to determine yourself at this moment. And yes, I am happy to accept that it will worry you internally or even frighten you a little. Your fear of being inferior has one, pardon the pun, terrible attraction for me.” She remained silent at his remark, just looked down at the board. The thief frowned and ran her fingers over her chin. It was her turn. Selina lingered a few more seconds in her rigidity. This was more than just a simple game of Backgammon. This was a bitter fight of brains and this realization awakened the animal that had previously been slumbering in her. A game that suits her perfectly. The dice rolled on the velvety, dark green background of the playing field. Catwoman studied the initial situation and spoke softly: “What's so special about fear, Jonathan? Why the fascination with something you should actually run away from?” Her fingers set the first stones on their way to the goal. The first step was taken. Selina took a deep breath, leisurely sat up and stared into the gaunt man's eyes. Jonathan's lips were not more than a thin line on his pale face. The question seemed to preoccupy him. That gave her time to plan more moves. After what felt like an eternity, the former psychiatrist leaned forward a little, grabbed the dice and set it in motion. His fingers slowly brushed the rough wood of the edge of the field. “What's so special about fear,” repeated Jonathan dryly. He sighed barely audibly, paid only a fraction of his attention to the numbers and began to explain almost unemotionally: “Fear, Miss Kyle, drives us. Fear is the engine of our whole human existence. Do you remember the night in the sewers. What do you think gave you so much strength at that moment to master the long jumps and even ignore the horrible pain in your leg? Naturally adrenaline, the stress hormone, but let's take a step back here. Why or rather how did you signalize that a stressful situation needs to be dealt with? I have some suggestions for a possible answer here. How about the fear of being inferior or failing. Afraid to feel pain, even to be tormented by Waylon before he stops playing with his food and finally puts an end to your torture. Maybe also the fear of dying and being there alone without leaving a trace on earth. Fear is paramount here, Miss Kyle. That's why we're now sitting here and playing a game of Backgammon."

While he was explaining he had made his move, his thin hands were already resting in his lap again. He looked collected, calm, absolutely controlled. Yet the thief could feel that something was different in him as soon as they talked about fear. As cool as his voice might sound, there was something indefinable in his icy eyes. A deeply buried feeling that was looking for a way out of several turns in his calculating mind. Selina looked at his petrified face and the now cramped posture. Her thoughts slipped back to Scarecrow again. He was like a powder keg packed with broken glass and nails, ready to burst at any second. Jonathan rarely let his second personality get the better of him, but when the fuse burned the collateral damage was immense. A manifestation of overflowing feelings. The sinister desire in Scarecrow's twisted mind then oozed from the depths of his eye sockets like boiling, pitch-black tar and wetted the otherwise orderly world in indescribable chaos. In these moments he even competed with the Joker's destructiveness. The black-haired woman pulled away from his petrified face and looked down at the board. She was playing against Jonathan Crane now, not Scarecrow. A smile crawled onto her lips. As the dice rolled over the surface again, she could almost grasp the tension between them. Selina suppressed a laugh, tilted her head to the side to play with her dark hair and spoke mysteriously: “Let's not fool ourselves for a moment here, Jonathan. Where does your fascination for fear really comes from?” A faint clink made the thief startled. The former psychiatrist had put the bottle with the whiskey on the edge of his glass a little too quickly and poured himself a generous amount of the orange liquid. His thin fingers slowly turned the cap back on the bottle. The icy blue met her blazing green again.

He opened his mouth a little, paused in that position for a moment, before beginning to speak calmly: "There are things you shouldn't know, Miss Kyle. Everyone has inner demons, which they are better to carry to their graves. So I don't allow myself to answer your question for the moment and hope you're willing to accept my decision.” Catwoman gave a muffled laugh at this answer. She could hear him snorting softly, followed by the soft crumpling of the chair in which he was shifting restlessly back and forth. The speed of his reaction alone was a clear sign for Catwoman that she had scratched a sore spot on the former psychiatrist. The thief played with the round token, placed it on her chin and kept tapping her skin lightly while thinking. Was it risky to continue digging at this point with her claws? To tear open the wound further and to feel in the warm, pulsating flesh until it hit the root of all evil in his mind? The black-haired woman couldn't hide a smile any longer as she placed the stone eight squares down on the field. Today was probably not the right time for it. "We all have our little, dirty secrets, my dear”, said Catwoman as she leaned back, her fingers slowly intertwined, "and if you don't want to share yours, I'll have to live with it for better or for worse." She put one of her legs over the other, grabbed her knee in both hands and look playfully into his eyes. The thief could almost hear his heavy swallowing. The Adam's apple moved all too clearly on his throat. His fingernails kept tapping the glass briefly. Jonathan took a deep breath, took a small sip of the whiskey and began to reply: “There are some secrets that people can keep together, of course. Such secrets that can even lead to feeling closer to the person. Such as your knowledge of the Dark Knight's real identity. Of course, this requires a high level of trust between the persons.” He paid his attention to the game for a moment, set the dice in motion and put his glass on the side table.

The wind whistled through a few leaks in the window seals. Selina briefly watched the snow drifting through the fogged windows when she turned back to the professor: "Can we please leave Batman out of our conversation. It's enough for me that Harley and Pamela keep asking about his identity.” A low laugh made her puzzled. Jonathan hadn't even laughed once since she'd met him. All the more surprised was the amused expression in his opals, followed by the barely noticeable smile on his rough lips. He pushed his round glasses up his nose a little and spoke coolly: “Please don't think I'm so naive, Miss Kyle. If I had wanted to get his name out of you, I would have used different methods from the start. No, it's a good thing that I don't know anything about the Bat other than its dark form.” The former psychiatrist fiddled with the drawer of the table next to him and pulled out a small cedar box. The clasp opened with a click. He pulled out a grenadilla cigarette holder and a pack of Davidoff cigarettes. Jonathan fished one of the coffin nails from the container, put it on the holder and lit it with a match. After a long drag on the cigarette, the professor let himself slide a little deeper into the chair and pushed the smoke out of the side of his mouth. She had given him permission to smoke in her presence as long as he tried to keep the fumes away from her. Without further ado, his fingers set two pieces in motion one after the other. During his turn he spoke in an almost neutral tone: “I have not forgotten your introductory question, Miss Kyle. The motives a person has to move from thinking to action are complex, but my background was and is scientifical research. In a world like ours, in which clever minds are slowed down by laws and some unworthy creatures are given a right to life that they would otherwise not be entitled to, it is inevitable to turn against the natural order in personal development. Whether I like this fact or not is not up for debate any more."

Selina shook her head a little and rethought about this explanation twice in her head. Before she could reply, Jonathan anticipated her with a question: “You know that I live according to the quid pro quo principle when it comes to contact with other people. So allow me to ask what exactly drives you to your actions, Miss Kyle?” He took another deep drag on the coffin nail and let the ashes fall into the designated ashtray on the table. The thief gave a small smile. This question was probably unavoidable. She took the dice securely in her hand, weighed it around a bit and after a few seconds of reflection replied drily: "I think a wild mixture of many factors." Her fingers released the cube and looked for her glass. The sherry stung in her throat. Selina licked her bottom lip and continued softly: “For one thing, I want to survive in Gotham and let's be honest: stealing is a very lucrative business. What I steal together in one evening, others don't even earn in the whole year. On the other hand, I can also do something good for the people of the lower classes. I've lived on the street myself long enough and know how rough times have become. Sharing the money or food with them makes me feel good.” She felt his eyes carefully watching her speak. He seemed to perceive every word and analyse it deeply. The former psychiatrist put the cigarette holder down on the ashtray, took his glass and slowly swirled the whiskey in the dim light. He looked lost in thought into the liquid. "We both move on a very narrow line, Miss Kyle", said Jonathan when he looked slowly up. "I admit that our moral concepts may differ, but both lead us to turning against the law or staying in its grey areas."

Catwoman clicked her tongue irritated. The black-haired woman put her head sideways in her hand and kept eye contact with the doctor. Moral. A word that was barely worth a penny in Gotham as it seemed to her. The thief was all the more astonished at the use of the word from the mouth of a reckless rogue, who was considered extremely unscrupulous and who had probably not missed any atrocity in his long underground career. She wrapped her black hair around her index finger when she replied calmly: “What moral concept, my dear? Don't get me wrong, but the past few months you haven't exactly covered yourself with fame. Many have scruples about working with Joker, but it doesn't seem to be a huge problem for you. You actually let yourself be bought by the entire underground and work for the side that can currently pay the most money. Where's the morale there, Jonathan?” The wind briefly took hold of the fire in the fireplace. The flames hit the air wildly. It was to be seen who would get burned in this fight. Selina got up from the chair and stretched a little. She needed some movement. The warmth of the room mingled with the heat of the alcohol in her blood.

His voice fell almost gently in her ears: “It's true. I work for whoever can pay me the best. I worked a long time for Falcone, three weeks later for Maroni and in the end I attacked them both with Joker. Still, I have a moral codex, Miss Kyle.” She heard him get up and slowly walk towards her. Catwoman didn't turn to him. A cold breath on the back of her neck signalled that he had to stand right behind her. He continued with his low and nearly whispering voice: “I work for everyone, but not with everyone. You steal to collect the money for your own ends. I am offering my services to do basically the same thing. I won't deny it: I've worked for humans, or rather monsters, where any normal mortal would have likely fled. It doesn't fill me with pride or disgust when I look back on it, but my research literally devours money. On the other hand, I choose my work partners very carefully. I would never work with someone who does not share my moral standards. My moral to fight for a better world in the spirit of scientifically research. A world without fears. Mister Tetch shares a passion for the human, fragile psyche and the ways to break it in the hope of extracting new therapeutic approaches from it. With Mister Nygma I share an interest in the battle of brains, the trial of strength on an intellectual level and the fight against the neglect of the intellectual elite. I would take Jervis and Edward to fight at my side at any time and at the same time accept the risk of working on their goals for them free of any charge."

Selina sighed softly. She was still in the process of morally putting herself above him and this explanation didn't change that fact either. The thief turned to him and looked into his blue eyes, looking for a trace of remorse. The icy cold inside confirmed her suspicions. She whispered softly in his direction: “You could use your talent for so many good things, Jonathan. Like in the night you saved me.” The black-haired woman placed her fingers lovingly on his thin cheek and tenderly caressed the frozen-looking skin. The thief caught herself thinking of worn leather by the light touch. He did not withdraw from her, lingered quietly in front of her and opened his mouth to say something. Not a word came out, just a soft sigh. Selina slowly ran her fingertips over his clearly palpable cheekbones. Her voice was just a breath: “Where is this man, John? Where is the doctor who took such good care of my wound? Where is the psychologist who had spoken to me sensitively when I got out of the sewer, just steps away to have a panic attack?” The former psychiatrist continued to look into her eyes, his glasses slowly slipping off his nose again. He cleared his throat, pushed the thin metal up between the thin frame and spoke for the first time that evening with a hint of uncertainty: “He's here, Miss Kyle, right next to a monster. We both inhabit this head with a well-functioning brain and yet we use it very differently. Where I do good, he does bad. Where I heal, he hurts. Where I calm down, he fires up. Whenever I try to return to normal, he seeks out the depths of this world. It is pointless to look for a place for me in this society."

The thief stopped her movements and studied his face. A look of sadness crossed his frozen features. The black-haired woman let her free hand fall to his fingers, slowly cradling them. At that moment she recognized a certain disorientation in his doing, a buried desire to get back on a solid, bright path and escape his greatest fear. Selina put her hand flat on his cheek and warmed the cool skin. Loneliness. She took another deep breath and spoke softly to him: “Everyone has their place in society and contributes to it. We can only choose whether our contribution is positive or negative. Look at me, I am a thief and still bring more joy to the city than some police officers. I have a lot of friends around me on all sides. I can trust Harley, Pam and even Batman. Maybe even you, Jonathan. Think about it, my dear.” The thief stood on tiptoe and gently covered his lips with hers. They moved slowly, waiting for the professor to react. His lips stayed calm, completely unmoved. Selina broke the one-sided kiss. Even if he hadn't reacted, something changed in his eyes. A spark of hope. Catwoman gave him a small smile and slowly stepped back from him towards the door. He clearly had a choice. It was in his hand either to continue on his way to destroy Gotham or to embark on a new path.

#DC #Batman #Selina Kyle #Jonathan Crane #Scarecrow #Catwoman #Killer Croc #waylon jones #Pre Arkham Verse #Backgammon

[so-tell-me-will]

One of the things I talk about in my post 2027 lectures about what the next cycle looks like there are 2 relationships that are going to be absolutely essential for us in the next cycle. One is the relationship between Projector and Generator and the other is the relationship between left and right. The cross of planning has made it possible for us to have these kinds of mediums gathered together from different places on the planet. By the time you get 100 years into the next cycle none of that will exist.

Human beings are not going to be organized through the 40-37, we are going to be organized through the 20-34, we are going to have to, to know how to survive we are going to have to navigate on this plane, we are going to have to be able to do all of those things, knowledge resources are going to be limited. Its rightness that provides the tools for not being thrown into a dark age because somebody turns off the lights. It may be a little shmaltzy but it is really nice to think about the right as that light that is always there. You turn off all the lights and you can’t google anymore…

Think about it this way, that if you could, these people that are dreaming about singularity, these people that want to turn people into virtual lives connecting them directly, connecting them to computers. Look if you really want to understand what the right brings to us, if you really want to grasp it, it is here. On the other side we had pattern recognition (tone 3). Pattern recognition is homogenization. Differentiation recognition isn’t (tone 4). It is something totally different. It’s what a postcard is. You go to someplace, Venice and you get gazillions postcards that are going to give you precisely the same image, you are going to see a gondola, or you are going to see a canal. That is very left, he is the focus, here is the thing, this is the place to go to, this is what you have to think about when you see it, you keep on repeating the same thing over and over and over again. That is the image that is frozen in everybody’s head.

But the right is about differentiation recognition, what is different. Not what is the same, what is different. See, that’s this incredible thing that comes with this broad, broad, broad perspective that is there. This receptivity, that is not just simply just gorging itself on the maia experience but it is differentiating as it does that. It really is collecting all of that data and collecting it in a way that it can be accessed, but not by them. Not by them, then it becomes a horror story, then it becomes a painful ordeal…

This is the difference between left and right. Left and right at some mountain top and the left is looking for something to look at. It is looking for something, it never stops looking for something. The right is not looking for anything. It is taking it in. and you see the dilemma of the right is how guilty they feel that they didn’t focus. They are made to feel guilty for not focusing. And not being able to process the way things are taken in the way in which the left does. And so they suffer.

This is the killer. One of the things that I talk about for a 9-centered being is obviously we are here to differentiate this is the science of differentiation. Differentiation recognition is absolutely essential for us. And yet if you see rightness as something that is overwhelmed by historical leftness that instead of differentiation we get this imposition of homogenization on our consciousness. Not being allowed to see the difference. And not going to have those forces that are going to take it out instead of having those forces telling you what you should see…

This is the great promise that is there in us as 9-centered beings, that we do not have to deal in clichés, postcards, homogenized crap that we don’t all have to be fit into that cubbyhole, that that’s not what we are all about. That the experience of looking out at the world is not about having a focus, and a strategy, and a focus. There is always this other, the richness of it, the depth of it. Because of course this is what is beautiful there is all this depth that is there. It is what is so intriguing and you know what we’ve gotten to see over the last several hundred years where we have had 9 centered beings in the world is the left institutions trying to deal with right creativity and potential. Because they do think out of the box. And you know they’ve tried to come up with terms for like lateral thinkers, this kind of thing and bla bla bla all this, but it isn’t an understanding of what it is, it is still seen as the anomaly, and yet it is the very basic of the duality of what we are is this rightness that gives us this window on differentiation. Everything is different, nothing is the same.

The left says, “ah, it’s just a snowflake.” The right says, “they are all different.” And again that is a very simple analogy but something to grasp about the right, it is not limited to a single focus. Nor the opinions that arise out of that.

For me the left is always the blind man at the elephant. “oh, it’s a snake man, I know it’s a snake.” That’s the left, and the right says, “back off, it’s going to step on you.” the right sees the whole elephant. This is the difference.

The only difference is that because the left bangs it back and forth and they scream it out, “hey, it’s a snake!” the right doesn’t do that. you have to go up to the right and say, “well what do you think it is? And the right looks at you and says, “it’s an elephant you idiot. Open your eyes, see it all.” It is the other side of the coin. And this is what we are missing. this is what needs to be liberated in our children in our education, programs, this freedom not to be constrained by left dogma. Because the right is so different.

You go into the school and it’s all about homogenization. We are all going to learn about the same thing in the same way. Same thing, same way, no deviation. And it can be the same thing same way and its horrendously bad and I tis the same thing same way and its horrendously good it’s all the same way, it’s all the same thing. It’s not differentiation. Show me a math teacher, puts a formula on the board and expects somebody to get the answer without following their pattern. They don’t like that, they really don’t, it’s even worse if you show them. This is an enormous dilemma.

And it’s not about getting on some kind of political platform and being able to change this because quite frankly that is not going to be the case, it’s about being able to educate children. You educate children and the systems they are part of, I have done that with my own children. I have been very careful with their leftness and rightness to be able to prepare them for the environments around them that they understand to take advantage of as themselves, and not to get caught in those traps.

My eldest son is three parts right and one part left... I always gave him the same advice you have to, the biggest discipline in your life is being present in the classroom because the classroom is going to be very distracting for kids, being present in the classroom and then you never have to study. And he is a tremendous academic student and graduated literally at the top of his class.

And his friends are all studying and cramming all of this, and he is right. And if there hadn’t been anybody there to explain it to him he would have been caught in that trap with all those other children who are right minded who end up having, to try to pretend they are left and not being capable of it, they cannot set the patterns in that way, it doesn’t work for them, and there is nobody there to give them the sense that they are not just simply intelligent, they carry this extraordinary depth and brilliance within them…

That’s the thing I love about the right mind. You take a 15 year old right minded kid, and you put them in a room with idiots. And they will only display idiot level. They won’t display anything else, think about that because it is spooky. They will naturally flow with whatever level is established. Now take that same 15 year old and put him in some kind of genius school with brilliant kids and…what comes out of that kid then? It is extraordinary and it’s all there…

Intelligence in the left is measurable. Strategic so you can measure it. You’ve got idiot over here you’ve got genius over there whatever that may be..

You can’t measure right intelligence. And over the last 30, 40 years they’ve tried…

There’s no measurement for the right. You can’t measure the right's intelligence. You give me any person that has a right mind and I am comfortable in saying that they can show levels of genius that nobody else has ever seen. Whether they will or not that’s another story because they are going to have that kind of force that is going to have to pull it out of their system…

In life the level of consciousness you have to deal with the right minded being is always bringing you down to the lowest common denominator and it is horrendous because you are helpless in it. and then you have to wonder how you have to spend so much time talking so much bullshit to so many people. You have to come to grips with what it is to be right, begin to see the magic of it....

You are going to be dealing with people that are right minded all kinds of them, they are going to be around half of the population something like that. And you have to understand how uncomfortable they are and how difficult it is to get them out of all of those constructs of personality consciousness the way it works on this plane.

~Ra Uru Hu

#hd 2027 #hd gates

[sadhikamalladi-blog]

Adjustment Day by Chuck Palahniuk

Introduction

As a kid, I would devour books. I used to read a book every few days, and I spent so long refreshing the NYT Bestsellers List that I decided to just set it as my home page. This habit continued through high school. Any genre, any length, I wanted to read and learn everything there was to know. I loved how books moved at a pace that the author and I negotiated, instead of the wholly intractable speed of film. Sometimes, I'd spend hours rereading a line, relishing the image and rhythm the words and their pronunciations formed in my head. I wondered if the author intended for me to come back to that line, or if they simply wrote it while reaching blindly for a cup of coffee.

One of the first authors to pull me into their world, depraved and demented as it was, was Chuck Palahniuk. I read Fight Club, and I walked through life for months wondering if there was a fight club out there, literally or metaphorically, and if I would glean joy from joining. Through Palahniuk, I learned how to take an objective lens to everything, instead of arbitrarily assigning value and designating things or people as "good" and "bad." I read and reread all of Palahniuk's books, shaken as Seth turned into Manus and Tyler morphed into the narrator I had come to rely on and maybe even respect. Palahniuk let me be self-righteous only so he could dismantle me.

The truth is, Palahniuk's game has always been the same. He throws uneasy situations at you and lets them blossom into colossal shitstorms that you somehow find yourself at the eye of. His work is known for the employment of an unreliable narrator, one who's often equal parts bored and boring for the majority of the novel. So, I was especially surprised to find out his latest work, Adjustment Day, was a decentralized narrative.

Why I Hate Decentralized Narratives

Another book I read this summer was Into the Water by Paula Hawkins. Much like Palahniuk, Hawkins is known for unreliable narrators. Her previous book, Girl on the Train, captured my attention and twisted my judgments against me in the most Palahniuk-esque way I could've imagined. And she did it all without the gore and sheer shock value that accompanies Palahniuk's language. I had high hopes for Hawkins' novel, which ultimately left me unsatisfied because of its decentralized narrative.

Decentralized narratives are ones in which there are many narrators (at least 11, in Hawkins' case) of varying credibility. It's meant to provide us with the immersive experience of investigating the mystery as though we were living it -- through a series of short vignettes that inevitably reference context we don't have access to. And as readers, we're meant to wade through this mess and attempt to form loyalties and suspicions that are inevitably incorrect.

All of this is fine with me in theory. I love a good puzzle, and putting together conflicting narratives from ulteriorly motivated characters is an exciting prospect. Unfortunately, it's very hard to deliver this kind of novel.

The excitement of the style is also its downfall. The author has to maintain a careful balance across characters, placing red herrings and minor storylines with as much importance as the main plot. We're meant to have no indication from the writing alone who did what. And if we judge a character based on their past, we're bound to be wrong. However, the sad truth is that if we don't judge characters then we have very little incentive to remember who's who in the story. We also require some sense of coherence in order to follow a character's story.

About fifteen pages into Hawkins' Into the Water, I found myself pulling out a piece of paper and a pen, jotting names and bullet points down. Several hundreds of pages later, I was extremely displeased. Sure, there was a cohesive network of small tidbits that added up to a bigger story. But there were also loose ends galore -- to the extend that I found myself wondering if The Room was easier to follow (it wasn't).

I haven't seen a decentralized narrative executed properly. It does feel like the next natural step in literary evolution, from a single unreliable narrator to many.

Novel Overview

So, Palahniuk's Adjustment Day. I have to say, the novel brought up some exciting themes but ultimately fell a little flat for me, mostly due to issues with relating to characters. The ending left me especially dissatisfied, wondering why Palahniuk teed up situations primed for sharp and incisive social commentary and then didn't follow through. It really isn't his style to back off.

Parts of the novel felt clichéd, but I guess that's to be expected. We are consuming such a massive amount of criticism of different social phenomena that nothing really strikes me as surprising anymore. I've read stories about how Trump has planned his coup for decades and stories about how if only a few tiny things were different we would be in a vastly different social climate right now. Regardless, Palahniuk does his usual work of harnessing fiction to raise deeper questions about what's happening around us.

Youth Bulge

Every Palahniuk story is anchored by a simple social circumstance. Women feeling self-conscious about their appearances, men feeling inferior in comparison to their evolutionary ancestors' raw athleticism, etc. In Adjustment Day, it's all about the youth bulge, a phenomenon in developing countries where infant mortality rates plummet but fertility rates continue to skyrocket, resulting in a large number of youth.

Palahniuk focuses on male youth. He paints them with broad strokes, characterizing them as an aggressive, war-mongering group. He describes world governments in collusion with one another to construct aimless wars simply to expend these youth and occupy them. If they're not occupied, Palahniuk seems to claim, they'll run rampant and seek increasingly self-destructive ways to express masculinity.

The messiah-like Talbott character recognizes this trend and decides to harness the power of these young men. He spouts off various platitudes throughout the novel, many of which carry the ring of deep wisdom but lack nuance. The young men, proud to be part of some kind of covert movement, hang on his every word and seek to bring about Adjustment Day.

Adjustment Day

Adjustment Day is a largely circular idea. Basically, the idea is to divide the nation into three subnations: Blacktopia, Caucasia, and Gaysia. Through some increasingly contrived set of requirements, people are delegated mercilessly through these nations. As Talbott puts it, minorities only rebel when there's a majority to subvert. By placing the gays in one nation, the blacks in another, and the whites in a third, the new order will ensure that everyone exists solely in homogeneous communities and thus in eternal harmony.

But the first problem is that people are not willingly going to go into these subnations. What about interracial couples? What about young gay children being separated from their heterosexual parents? Talbott sees these as collateral damage.

To set the gears in motion, he establishes a new currency by which people can wield power in the new order. A humble list starts on the internet -- "America's Least Wanted." People nominate anonymously, and others can up- or down-vote names. As a name gained traction, the bounty on their head increased. Well, it's not literally their head -- the job is actually to slice off the person's left ear.

Preparation and Execution

The first half of the novel focuses on the preparation for this fateful day. Talbott recruits people who seek redemption -- addicts, disgruntled veterans, etc. -- and lets them start a lineage. They can recruit another man who can recruit another one and so on. The pride of the youth bulge ensures that no one recruits someone who will spill the beans too early.

Police officers and politicians are brought in on the deal, effectively making it hard to organize the state in response. The day of, the bloodbath occurs surprisingly quickly. People are slaughtered en masse, their ears sliced off and taken as tokens to establish influence in the new world order.

The Aftermath

We follow a few characters throughout the novel, seeing how they act before, during, and after Adjustment Day. In the aftermath, Palahniuk describes people forcing themselves to fit in just to maintain a semblance of their old life. An interracial couple pretends to be gay so they won't get separated into Blacktopia and Caucasia. A gay teenager enrolls himself in a glorified internment camp as he waits transfer to Gaysia.

Misfits scattered across the nations eventually stumble onto each other in some unspecified location and start anew.

What Worked

Palahniuk's language was as sharp as ever. He describes the justification for a temporary type of cash (the paper loses value in a few weeks).

Hoard food and it rots. Hoard money and you rot. Hoard power and the nation rots.

He so clearly cuts down to the core of our greatest fears about society -- that the effort we put toward a communal welfare may not ever benefit someone we care about.

Imagine there is no God. There is no Heaven or Hell. There is only your son and his son and his son, and the world you leave for them.

Palahniuk wrote about the desires of the youth bulge with passion that felt extremely familiar:

He was tired of learning history. He wanted to be it. Charlie wanted the history of the future to be him.

What Didn't Work

The decentralized narrative again made it hard to care about any of the individual characters. And although I felt some concern for the overall fate of the new order, I never really cared much about its ramifications on particular individuals. Arguably, that was where the punch of this entire story was hidden. If I could see the goodness of the overall arch but the badness on an individual level, we'd have another Fight Club situation. But I couldn't.

The horrifying descent into chaos was unsalvageable. If Palahniuk had just ended the book with Adjustment Day, I might have had a different perspective. But he continues on with this murky Reconstruction-esque tale that is neither interesting nor easy to follow. As NPR describes, Palahniuk tried to build the appeal of Fight Club into a bigger, more global movement but ultimately failed [1].

Conclusion

I still love Palahniuk. And I still let phrases from Adjustment Day roll around in my head. They don't have as much power to me though, because I can't contextualize them in any wonderfully meaningful way.

[1]: NPR article

#chuck palahniuk #adjustment day