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smells-like-ink-and-fire · 4 years

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Innocence died screaming, honey I should know

Here’s the thing: For all his talk of Gotham being a life-sucking, happiness draining shithole, leaving it had never been truly an option on Jason’s mind. It was his shithole of a city goddammit, the grim dirt streets he would die on. It was his home, the blood on his veins. This city had its claws deep into him, and leaving, especially leaving never to return, had been simply impossible, did not compute to him.

Especially now, that Jason was getting along better with the Bats these days. He still didn’t, and never would agree with Bruce regarding his no-killing rule. But things were better, or at least he thought they were. His presence was expected and even accepted. There were some awkwardness and silent nobody knew how to fill, but there were also jokes and eating junk food together after patrol. Sure, there were a lot of snippy comments but he made those too, gave as good as he got, and Bruce still didn’t quite trust him, not to the extent he did with the other, though that was just a given, he had made peace with it, he still killed, after all, a little suspicion was an acceptable price to pay for it.

Self-righteous, holier than thou bat.

Still, there was an uneasiness on his chest whenever the pointed looks got too much when they would start questioning his actions and his plans like he hadn’t been trained by the world's greatest detective like the rest of them and League of Shadows on top of that. Forgetting that Jason had effectively taken control of the East End in less than two months, and without any of them noticing.

The good parts didn’t lessen the rage-hurt out when Barbara sneered at him, acting like he couldn’t be trusted in the field, like the fact he had issues, that he cared about the victims because he had been one made him incapable of being rational, turned him into something that was eternally compromised. Like he was a mindless raging monster, who would shoot to kill at mere provocation.

He had been, once, fresh out of those green waters, traumatized, angry, afraid, and replaced. He had been a child, too, didn’t that count for something?

Their veiled accusations of insanity, that he had a problem, that needed to be handled like he was a fucking dog, the angry gremlin claims that he was unhinged and the only reason that they kept him around was to keep an eye on him, it all made Jason feel queasy, made him feel less than human.

It made him wonder how truly welcome he was. Was he welcome or they were just trying to appease their guilt and keep a loose cannon from the streets?

But there were undoubtedly good things too. Moments that made it worth it. His relationship with Steph and Duke, and surprisingly, Replacement was getting better, even though the first two were not around as much as he would like. The nights they had spent chewing off some of the undoubtedly brilliant but assholes teachers while demolishing mountains of homework had been fun, and Replacement-Tim was quite a sass master, now only if he could convince the kid to take a step back from WE so that he wouldn’t have a heart attack before he could drink legally.

Replacement, however, was why he was here. Here being diner on the border of the Bowery and Robinsonville, The Raging Duck, a new place that Golden Boy wanted to try, make a family bonding experience out of it, Jason was sure. Replacement had twisted his way around with words in a shape that made it impossible for him not to come. His saving grace was that Jason had already made clear that he couldn’t stay long, under the pretext of having to verify that month payments collection from the Bowery.

Which was goddammed good thing because this whole outing had been a mistake. The last couple weeks had been rough, with the stress of studying and writing applications for his master degree, the couple of murders that almost led to a gang war between the Falcone and the Russians, plus a decoy staged by the Riddler, as his newest scape plan, that had taken too long to crack leading to an accident that had killed three people and would have killed a lot more if Jason hadn’t said fuck and put bullet holes on some goons heads. This in turn led to an inevitable argument because of Batman's continuous incapacity to see the necessity of his actions while on some level recognizing that was the only poss0ible decision meant that tension had been higher than usual.

Therefore, putting everybody in a room together was definitely not the best idea, Dickie! The last ten minutes certainly proved so, what had started as an easy-going conversation about their early on mishaps of the field, which included a hefty number of stories where the main theme was “And then I said Fuck Batman – With varying degrees of success” that had started as a split-second change of subject in order to avoid a fight breaking out, had turned into passive-aggressive attacking Jason. The worst part was that Jason wasn’t even sure they were doing on purpose.

Did the even realize he was sitting right next to them? Or was he just a ghost?

“… and then the fantastic Robin fell three stores down only to be needed to be saved by the incredible Spoiler! So, listen to me kids, if you’re going to say fuck Batman you should at least be sure there is something to break your fall before you jump.” - Steph finished the story with a flourish, going back to her waffles.

“That was a level of stupidity that I wasn’t aware that you were capable of Replacement. Really, I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.

“Please, as if you weren’t the first one to ignore an order just to fuck with B, Jason. There’s a list. The Incident with the Falcone. Killer Crock latest scape. The entire shit show that was last week. – Tim shot back, mulish, poking at his fries

And every single of those missions was a raging success.

“Which is the one involving Babs, back when she was still BG, you know the one she always mentions, because I don’t know what you did dude but she’s still pissed at you for it.”

“Oh, I know! Bruce forced them to work together on that one, it was a drug-smuggling operation that involved kids. Jason jumped in instead of waiting for her signal. Needless to say, it did not end up well. Babs was so very pissed.”

Yeah for the assholes that thought using kids as drug mules was a good idea. BG was just made the street rat had a better plan than her

“Is that why warehouse 25F is a gory, burned-out mess?”

“Nah, that came later, during that corruption case that nearly put the Comish in the hospital. Or maybe it was the one involving that Nazi Arts dealer?”

“Is there a difference? They always end up in unnecessary explosions. Todd’s need for dramatics and overuse of force are well documented”

Because you can talk about overuse of force, demon spawn.

“Robin. Less explosions. Trying to help. Hurt.”

“Yeah, he was trying to help Cass, nobody is denying that the thing is Jason desire to be a little shit and prove Batman wrong is way stronger than his drive to help people, and even though there were far less explosions back then, both he and innocent people have gotten hurt.”

How you’d know? You weren’t around back then Dickface.

“So, we can agree that it’s basically a Pavlovian response for him at this point. Your stubbornness and desire to say Fuck Batman no matter the consequences have been able to surpass death Jason, and if that it’s not a feat, I don’t know what is. Congratulations, really!” – Steph summarized.

He had been holding up fine until that point but he just didn’t have the strength to it anymore, every word out it Tim's mouth felt like the blow of crowbar shattering his ribs, chocking on his own blood because a Batarang slashed his throat. He felt faint. He felt dangerously close to crying.

“I have to go.” – Jason got out of his chair.

“Jason…” – The pitying and yet reproachful note on Dick’s voice made his skin crawl.

“I said I couldn’t stay very long. Some of us have stuff to do. You know criminal empires to run, places to blow up, kneecaps to shoot.” – He doped a twenties bill on the table.

“Todd. Cease being childish. Just because you are unable to accept your failures, and the fact that you were incompetent and arrogant enough to be captured by an enemy does not mean you should incapable of accepting constructive criticism.”

“Not being childish gremlin. I do have a criminal empire to run. And I do take constructive criticism, preferably from people who know what the hell they are talking about. You know people that are more than the “blood sons” of people that are greater than themselves. Noise midgets, not so much. Bye.” – Jason out of the dinner before any of them can reply.

See you never again.

He doesn’t know how he gets back to his closest safe house. It’s a reasonably good one. He likes this one. He focusses on the things he likes. Hardwood floor. The light green paint. On the things, he doesn’t. The shitty heating. The fact that the cabinets doors don’t shut all the way.

Breaths. Slowly. In and Out. Counts to three hundred. Breaths again.

The tears still prickle on his eyes. His chest feels hollow. His throat is dry. He doesn’t have the strength to move from where he’s sat on the floor, his back against the door. Going a few rounds with Deathstroke had hurt less. It certainly never made him want to crawl under his bed and stay there until the world forget he existed. Of course, Slade had also never blamed for his own death.

Even though his own father had. Reckless, overly aggressive, incapable of following orders, loud-mouthed Robin that got what he deserved, Bruce had said. Maybe not to his face but he had said it. Then again it had been his fault, hadn’t it?

He takes a few more breaths, tries to push his emotions back, locking them deep, and walks to the fridge, pours himself a glass of water. Drinks it. His mind goes back to the conversation. The glass shatters in his hand.

“Oh, fuck!”

He goes to the sink, to clean his hands and throws the broken glass into the trash. Lucky there were only some minor cuts that don’t need stitches even if they hurt like a bitch.

Take that universe!

Still, he wraps them in bandages since he doesn’t fancy cleaning blood out of his sheets. Sleep, however, doesn’t come easily that night, and the time he doesn’t spend tossing and turning, trying to find a comfortable position to follow to try to fall back asleep in, he spends waking up from dreams that leave him feeling like he’s constantly falling, sharp terror waking him each and every time.

There is no rest for the wicked though, and so he takes off by late morning and goes to check o on the rest of the gang, makes sure Antony is running things smoothly. All in all, it’s pretty boring, with enough paperwork to make a bonfire, but it does the job of taking his mind out the things for a while. Patrol is uneventful, which is a welcome respite, and Jason doesn’t do much more than stop a few muggings and beating up some creeps.

During that time, he keeps an ear out for the bats, especially Dick since he’s not anywhere near the mood to listen to another of the boy wonder lectures about how “Damian is just a child; you shouldn’t take what he says seriously”, especially those came with the addition of being delivered in that tone that screamed, “even though he’s right”. But he must have gone back to his turf because he sees no hair nor hide of him or any of the others.

The next two nights are very much a repetition of that first one, with little sleep and little action, so much so that a paranoid and exhausted part of him gets a bit terrified and so he ends up calling Roy just to hear the genius talk about whatever crazy project he’s been working on lately. If the redhead has any idea why Jason is calling him at four in the morning, he doesn’t comment on it and simply talks until his friend's breath has even out.

This way when the sun comes up the next day, Jason drags himself out of bed and heads straight to the shower, the cold water helps ground him back into his body. Still feeling like shit but at least knowing the difference between dream and reality he eats his breakfast while checking his messages and it’s more than a little bit shocked to see a text from Bruce asking, as in there is an actual please in it if they can talk about a possible case with a few crossed wires. There’s even an invitation to stay for dinner alongside with it, which makes him wonder if Bruce hit his head a little too hard the other day, or if Alfred finally made good on his promise of finding a drug that made him less emotionally stunned.

No matter the cause, the message leaves him hopeful enough that he answers with a yeah, I’ll be there by five.

He arrives at the Manor door fifteen minutes past five, just in case, greeting Alfred with a smile that the old butler easily returns. They make some small talk as the older man demands him to at least drink a cup of tea before heading down. Still, they part at the entrance of the cave and Jason takes those final steps alone.

“Sup, old man?”

“Jason.” – Bruce answers, his back turned, typing at the bat computer, probably filling some reports.

“C’mon B, you’re the one who called me unless of course, you somehow have been possessed and that please was you asking for help, in which case, give me a second and let me call the Martian Manhunter, you gotta give a bit more of information.” – Jason kept his gaze on Bruce’s back, his breath steady, he was not rambling thank you very much!

“There been some talk about an escort service in Diamond District that works as a front from money laundering. I think you might know some of the girls.”

“Little bit out of my way. Maybe you should check with Cat.”

Bruce’s eyes were shining, and the line of his mouth meant that he was finding it funny and Jason was filed to the brim with a wave of warmth and nostalgia. It made him feel like a kid again, it made him like Robin again, like magic.

“Maybe we should.”

“Oh gross! Let’s go back to the ever-existing cases of corruption and gross old man please?”

“Isabella McGarvey”

“Know the surname. Any relation to Ophelia McGarvey?”

"Her older sister I believe, records show that she moved from the East Side two years ago but didn’t take her sister with her because she was a minor…"

Most of the afternoon passed that way. With the Batman and the Red Hood checking financial records, discussing disappearances and police reports in an amiable tone, full of teasing. It was a welcome change of pace being the one providing the answers to all-knowing Batman for once. So, he took his time explaining the inner workings and the shady dealings of the Alley, preening at the attention and the approval, something he would deny until his second dying day.

Perhaps the only dark spot in the otherwise bright day was the fact that Jason kept purposely having to avoid looking at the southeast corner of the cave, at the glass cage that seemed to hover over them.

Refusing to acknowledge that some part of Bruce would always believe he was dead

“There maybe be a loose end might be worth exploiting but I don’t know how long that window would be open: There was a shooting, a few days ago, near the Bowery and Robinsonville, no cameras, three dead, the assailant left no evidence behind.”

“Don’t know what to tell you Bats, last time I was there I was with your kids, didn’t hear anything, neither did mine. I mean, I could ask but this is Gotham, murders are pretty much the norm. Unless those guys are part of something bigger, I got you nothing.” - Jason shrugged, already calculating the possibilities of why this is relevant and coming out with nothing.

Damn all-knowing paranoid bat.

“They were. Trafficking ring. Middleman.”

“There is no trafficking ring in the Alley”.

Of that he’s certain.

“There is not. Because those men were killed before they could take anyone. But they were known for it, and they were asking the sort of questions that could ping on your radar.”

“Well, I haven’t heard anything. I’ll make sure to pay more attention, update some protocols.” – Jason answered, already planning to investigate it.

If they were acting as a middleman for someone roaming around then that someone would send more to scoop the territory out and he would be prepared when they came, regardless of what else could be there. There were no trafficking rings in Alley.

“Or maybe you did and decided to take care of it your own terms”

The abruptness of the question was so earth-shattering that he took a few steps back to regain his balance.

“Jesus Christ Bruce if are gonna accuse me of murder you could at least have the decency of start with that. No, I did not kill them. If any of mine did I haven’t heard of it. But as far as I’m concerned is no great loss.” - He succeeds at sounding nonchalant and enraged, hiding the fact that the question felt like a bucket of water, leaving his cold and shaking.

So, this is why Bruce actually called, so he could question Jason about his latest failure, his latest disappointment in Bruce’s eyes. Of course, it was, and he was a fool for ever thinking otherwise. For letting himself hope that Bruce was trying, that he wanted to rekindle the relationship they had when Jason still wore those green panties.

“Where were you at 2:30 in the morning, three nights ago?”

“What?”

Please god, everything but this. I can’t do this again

“At the time of the murder, where were you?

“In a dinner with your kids.” – Jason’s voice was nothing more than a whisper as if all the air had been pushed out of his lungs.

Why you don’t believe me? Why you don’t trust me?

“Damian said you left early, earlier than that, because he got home at 3:00. It takes at least half an hour to get here from there.

“Safehouse a few blocks away, then. Sleeping. Bruce, please”. – Jason was begging now, voice raw and full of hurt.

“Can you prove that?”

"The hell is wrong with you?!? I already told you: I. DID. NOT. KILL. THEM. When have I ever not taken credit for the people I’ve killed?"

“What’s going on?”

And of course, because his luck could not be worse, that was the Perfect Grayson coming down the stairs. He could feel the headache forming behind his eyes. He did not want to deal with this shit right now.

Was it too much to ask for the ground swallow him whole?

“Nothing! Bruce’s just spent the last five minutes pointlessly accusing of murder! Can you get the fuck out so we can continue discussing it?”

“You were near the scene of the crime, you have a motive, the means, and a history.”

“Wait you killed someone?”

“No! Keep up, Bruce is just being a dick, you know like you usually are.”

“Is a valid concern”

“Is a piece of shit that is what it is!”

“Can someone please explain?”

“Bruce thinks I killed three people after I left the dinner the other day.”

That what you did after you left? It’s that what you meant by shooting kneecaps? Jay… I know that you were angry but this…

“Jesus Fucking Christ Didn’t I just say its bullshit?”

“You said that?”

“It was a joke”

“You have motive, means, no alibi and now your brother is telling me that you left because you needed to shoot someone. What do you want me to believe?”

“THAT I WOULDN’T LIE ABOUT IT!”

“If you were planning only to main them, if your anger got the better out you, as it has before if you did it out impulse, and is trying yo hide it.”

“You know what Bruce? You’ve already made up your mind so I will do us all a favor and get myself out. You can’t trust me? Well, I can’t trust you. From now on there will be no bats at the East End. If you are seen, you will be shot. That’s how trigger happy I fucking am!”

He pushed passed Dick and Bruce, the world was tingled with pit green glow, his ears were roaring, no sound, only rage, and loss. Every step he took was calculated, his breath was short, measured. A of violence ready to blow up at the mere provocation held together only by the barest threads of sanity and humanity and the training Ducra had given him. Roy’s voice babbling at him. Kori’s booming laughter. Kyle ridiculous art. Donna’s everlasting sass and warmth.

Somehow, someway he made home without turning Gotham into a bloodbath, and the relative he felt at activating the security protocol was fastly overtaken by fear. He hadn’t had an attack like that in over three months. Hadn’t let the Pit burning so strong in his veins in so long. Hadn’t felt that disconnection to reality since his early days out of the Pit.

Just the idea of what could have happened in case he lost control made Jason grab the nearest bucket and puke. He stayed there, pressing the palm of hinds to his eyes, heaving.

It didn’t matter, because it didn’t happen.

His phone rang, and if it was anybody else calling, he let go straight to voicemail, but it was Talia’s ringtone and she didn't call jus for kicks, so he presses answer.

“If I told you I didn’t kill a man would you believe me?” – Jason blurts out before he can stop himself, red coloring his cheeks as he realizes what he just said, cursing himself for his stupidity.

“Of course. Why would…I see.” – Talia’s face goes from neutral to confusion and finally anger in a matter of seconds. – “Your father does not know you at all Habibi, and that, rest assured, is entirely his fault. He’s too caught up in the image he made of you to be able to see you as truly are.”

“Batman being a stunned idiot, who can look past his own reasoning of the world? What an earthshattering idea T! – Jason says sarcastically trying to cover up his earlier emotional outburst. - Anyway, got a reason for calling?

“Do not play coy with me, Jason, it’s unbecoming. Regardless, I do not believe Gotham has done you good. Moreover, I do not believe your father's actions towards you have been in any way helpful to your recovery and growth.”

“What are you? My therapist?”

“I would not be against for you to see one, but I would not force you either. Your choices, as always, must be your own. Besides is my understanding that to be effective therapy must also involve privacy. Another thing that its unlikely to come by if you are to remain here.

“Gotham needs me. The Alley needs me, God knows the Bat can’t handle this shit, they don’t care and even if they did the Alley would never trust them” – It wasn’t as much a rebuttal as it was an excuse

“They do, but you are of no use to them if you are constantly emotionally compromised by the rash and thoughtless actions of those who do not understand you and do not seek to. Loyalty is a gift that must be not be given lightly and they make ill use of yours while reaping the benefits of it. Perhaps it’s time for them to learn how to much you do for them. The absence does make the heart grow fonder.”

“You’re telling me to leave.”

“I’m telling take a step back. You’ve done tremendous work, but there’s more to you then violence. The petty criminals and drug dealers and the pimps are all properly terrified, your minions are capable enough that they can keep your operation running without your direct involvement. Rest. Recover. Come back when you are ready. Besides, you do have your master’s degree to consider, don’t you?” - Jason blushed, Talia wasn’t one to give compliments that she didn’t mean, and she did have a point, but…

But what? What did he truly have here? It had taken less than ten minutes for Dick convince Bruce, based on nothing more than a few throw away words Jason had said when he was angry and hurting, that Jason had killed a man and once that decision had been made no amount of evidence would make Bruce turn around in his favor. The others probably already knew what had happened and just as likely had decided to stay away from him from now on. After all, if he couldn’t take a little teasing without blasting someone’s brains out then he was certainly no better than the crazies in Arkham, to them.

What Talia was offering has the peace of taking a walk without being judged by the path he chooses to walk on, let the dust stele until bygones were bygones and he could look at Dick’s- Holier-Than-Thou face without breaking every single bone in it.

What did he have to lose that he couldn’t take back later on?

“You do realize that this will take quite a bit of work and resources, right? – Jason could almost see that pleased little smile of hers spread on Talia’s face.

“You do realize who you are speaking with don’t you Habibi? Let’s get to work.

#first chapter #Criminal Minds #Jason Todd #fanfic #Im so nervous #Go check on AO3'#Im sorry for the delay #Spoiler: Jason is a Sad Boy in this #But he'll get better #Xover #Spencer Reid shows up in the next chapter #Worry not #im very proud of myself #ive written

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the-many-worlds-traveler · 5 years

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In Good Company- Chapter 1

Summary: Virgil Harris had no real aspirations for a professional ballet career. After years of convincing himself there was no company who would accept him, a certain director made him an offer.

CW: Panic Attacks, cursing, food mention, mild drunken Virgil

Author’s note: Finally posting this here! The ballet au no one asked for. There is a glossary of terms and recommended reference videos at the end because I am a massive dance nerd and I adore teaching this subject (sorry). Enjoy!

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Act 1- Prologue

Lausanne, Switzerland

Prix de Lausanne Competition Finals

Virgil Harris was never one for overstatement. Grand displays, flourish, pop, nothing. He prefers to keep it simple. Whether it be his words, if he chooses to speak at all, or his movement. Why spend thirty seconds exerting unnecessary energy when a simple gesture would suffice. A single word. A look. The sooner it’s done, the better.

Or rather, the sooner it’s done, the sooner he can retreat to the sidelines and pretend he were anywhere else.

Virgil, he likes to remind people, does not like being put on display. Practice was one thing, enclosed in a private studio, surrounded by walls, a door that closed, being around people he was at least passingly familiar with. In the studio he was safe. More importantly, his mind was quiet.

But there he was, moments to his entrance, music swelling, lights blaring and all he wanted was to dissolve into the heavy black fabric of the wings. Or perhaps climb the rope riggings up to the catwalks to make his stealthy escape. But no, his coach was there, hand firmly clasped to Virgil’s shoulder keeping him trapped in place until his turn.

This was not his studio or even a familiar theater. Instead he was thousands of miles from home, forced to perform in front of people who didn’t know him and didn’t care to. Those people out there were there for one purpose and one purpose alone.

To judge him.

The dancer on stage, a lovely, languid young woman in a dazzling white tutu, gossamer fabric floating from her arms, flitted playfully across the stage in the final moments of her solo, a selection from the 3rd act of La Bayadere, Kingdom of the Shades. The most minuscule of steps on the tips of her pointe shoes carried her effortlessly across the stage before bounding into a seamless grande jete leap, cutting through the air. The landing was perfect, utterly silent, taking a knee as if gravity were at her control allowing her to meet the ground like it were nothing at all.

She rose to her feet, applause carrying her to center stage. The young dancer took a deep bow, pointed foot trailing behind her, one hand to her heart, the other gesturing the audience and the judges.

Alright, idiot. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t do it. Don’t go out there. You’ll fuck it up. You’ll fall. You’ll be a-

“Virgil.”

He jerked his head away from the stage and looked to his teacher and coach, Louis Adley. Head buzzing, thoughts spiraling. “Virgil, you’re up,” Adley whispered, planting both hands on his student’s shoulders, eyeing him intently. “Ignore the voices. Breathe. You’ll be fine, kid.”

Virgil gave a ghost of a nod and turned to step to the edge of the wings, steeling himself for what was to come.

The applause died to a murmur, the sound of people shifting in their seats rattled in Virgil’s head, clashing with the god-awful buzzing. He took in a deep breath, closed his eyes and stepped into the light.

His selection of solo variation was an odd one, not commonly chosen for competition as it lacked the usual pomp masculine athleticism, but it suited Virgil and that was probably why it took him all the way to finals.

The Poet’s Dance from Les Sylphides, a ballet made famous by Ana Pavlova when it premiered in 1909. It had only two characters, white ethereal woman called Sylphs and the Poet. It was a simple ballet that relied on emotion and atmosphere over plot and decadence.

This was right up Virgil’s alley. Moody, dark, simple. It was an easy choice for him to make when the choice to compete in the first place clearly wasn’t his to make.

Unfortunately, the atmosphere of the Prix stage was hardly befitting. Stark bright lighting, a plain brackdrop, prerecorded music set to competition-standard tempo. It felt cold under the blazing lights over his head, like an operating theater. Except he was the one being dissected. Every movement of the arms, every slight shift of his foot along the floor was recorded and boiled down to hard numbers.

Virgil caught the eye of his coach in the wings, an eager smile on his face urging him on. The Poet’s Dance asked for a certain feminine grace as he skimmed the floor with luscious turns and pillowy jumps. When he felt his best, Virgil felt like he was floating.

The buzzing in his head quieted and the thoughts melted away with the soothing lilt of Chopin’s score. For a moment, just one quick moment, he forgot where he was and what was at stake. Scholarships, job offers, notoriety on an international level. In that moment, none of that mattered.

But then his eyes caught the judges table, lit by small lamps. Their eyes watched closely, glancing down quickly to jot notes on stacks of cards, each with a competitor’s name and profile. It all came screaming back, the lights, the audience, the buzzing, the damned thoughts. He pushed through, forcing himself to refocus.

Hold on, dammit. So fucking close.

His foot slipped slightly under his weight, causing what Adley later described as the smallest of hiccups in what was otherwise a perfect performance.

The music came to an end and his chest hitched in a mix of relief and panic. He swallowed, stepped to center stage and took a bow before running into the wing, remaining in character until he was far enough backstage that he could no longer see the lights.

Virgil came to a dead stop at the door and leaned his back into the frame.

Breathe. Breathe. It’s over. You fucked up like you knew you would, but you made it.

A low, choked laugh escaped his parched throat at the thought. He pitched forward, bracing his hands against his knees, willing his breath to catch up.

It wasn’t a difficult variation, so why in the hell was he so winded.

Because you’re weak.

He felt a hand rest on his back. Virgil didn’t realize his eyes had been screwed shut so tight so when he finally opened them he saw spots. But beyond that and the sting of sweat in his eyes he saw Adley, crouched down and gazing at him with a soft smile.

“You did good, kid,” his coach assured. “Those dancers out there are impressive, but you, Virgil? You’re a goddammed artist. A regular Baryshnikov.”

Virgil stood upright and smirked. “Man, what a cheesy line. Can we get the hell out of here now?” His coach righted himself and flung an arm around his student’s shoulders, turning them down to the holding rooms. “Yeah, kid. Let’s get you cleaned up. But you’re not allowed to leave until after the awards ceremony.” Virgil gave a petulant, guttural moan and Adley only sighed, patting his young charge on the cheek before giving him a light shove down the hall.

***********

The awards ceremony was always something Virgil actively tried to miss, either by faking some sudden stomach ache or by “getting lost on the way to the bathroom”. Someone always saw through his crap, tidied his hair, and all but pushed him onstage with the rest. The endless talking, the thanking of sponsors, the judges, the audience, the tired words of “how impressed they were by what was likely the most impressive showing of young talent in competition history”. He had heard it all before and he knew exactly why anyone was standing up there waiting through it all. Those cards in the Master of Ceremonies’ hands held the fates of a select few dancers. They were their tickets to the professional world.

Virgil didn’t care about all that. All he wanted was to get out of that sweaty costume, take a shower and sleep for a decade or two. He knew he didn’t belong with any company. No director in their right mind would want such a broody, anxious mess. Regardless, he stood there all the same, poised and “calm” with nineteen other young hopefuls all shaking from the raw, exhausted nerves. The gossamer girl from before his solo nearly jumped out of her skin when the first award was called.

Don’t get your hopes up, Virge. Don’t get your hopes up. Don’t get your-

**********

“The Audience Choice Award! That’s great!”

“Yeah, but I didn’t even place.”

Adley, wearing a crisp navy suit, sighed and pushed a flute of champagne in Virgil’s hand. “Look, you’re walking out of this with prize money and the adoration of the audience. What more could you want?”

“To go home,” Virgil said pointedly, scanning the room full of competitors and shoulder-rubbers. The gala. Almost worse than the awards ceremony. He took a healthy swig of his champagne, willing his chest to loosen up. Here’s hoping enough free drink will do it for him. At 18 it was more than acceptable to drink in times of celebration in Europe.

When in Rome, he thought, swiping another glass from a waiter passing by.

His focus drifted from person to person, catching pieces of stilted conversations. So many people speaking just as many languages- how anyone could carry on anything more than a simple chat was beyond him.

Virgil leaned into a table, not caring if his brand new black suit got wrinkles. He fiddled with the purple faux silk pocket square at this chest and took another gulp out of his glass. He watched Adley talk up a judge from the panel over a tray of cheese cubes. He just couldn’t grasp the concept of small talk. He would pull out his phone, but his parents wouldn’t shell out for an international plan, so stare into space it was. His coach would tire out eventually and walk him back to the hotel. He would have gone back himself if that asshole Adley hadn’t stolen his hotel key out of his pocket when he was changing clothes only to promise to return it at the end of the night. The man had him trapped. Crafty fucker.

He respected his coach. Hell, he even liked him. But damn it all, he was a pain in the ass.

Virgil ran his fingers through his bangs, ensuring his shield was at full strength. No one talks to the emo kids. He patted his back pocket, feeling for his iPod. Crap. That was gone, too. Virgil resolved to dip Adley’s hand in a bowl of warm water after he went to sleep tonight.

“This seat taken?”

Virgil snapped out of his reverie to find a man no older than thirty smiling at him, gesturing to the empty seat next to him. “No man, all yours,” he shrugged. But the man didn’t sit. He just stood there with a smirk, obviously waiting for Virgil to strike up a conversation.

You’re gonna be here a while, buddy. Better keep walking.

The man chuckled lightly and stuck out his hand. “Thomas Sanders. I’m with the Civic Ballet of Florida. You must be Virgil Harris.”

Virgil tamped down the on-coming sigh and the urge to walk away. Adley reminded him to at least be cordial, because “you never know who you could meet at these things.”

“Yeah? Who would want to meet me?” Virgil rebutted.

“Your future, Virgil, your future!” God, this man was a walking cheese fest.

He eyed Sanders from beneath his bangs and let his vision fall to his waiting hand. Fine. He took it and gave one steady shake before retreating a half step back, trying not to bump into the table behind him. “Nice to meet you Thomas Sanders of the Civic Ballet of Florida.” He looked over Thomas’ shoulder to see Adley watching him with a grin, giving him a thumbs up.

“So, uh,” Virgil started, trying to think of what to say next, “Are you a dancer with them? You seem a little old to be competing.” Thomas quirked an eyebrow.

Shitshitshitshit. Adley, his parents, and countless other teachers had chided Virgil for his sharp tongue. It had gotten him into hot water enough to try and keep it quiet, but it was his last-ditch defense mechanism that always seemed to kick in when someone just refused to get a clue and leave him alone.

He was shaken out of his panic by laughter. Thomas was nearly doubled over one moment and tossing his torso back the next with a laugh that can only be characterized as charismatic and… cartoonish? “Oooooh boy, I knew I liked you. No, I’m afraid I’m not a dancer with the company”. He took a steadying breath, righted himself, and looked Virgil in the eye, the effects of his laughter still present in his features. Everything about him was light and easy.

So, who is this guy?

“Anyway, I’ve come to make you an offer. As the artistic director, I’m duty-bound to seek out new talent even if it means trekking far and wide to find it!”, he said, gesturing widely around the room with gusto.

Hold on. Director? ARTISTIC DIRECTOR?!

The buzzing came back with brute force, pressure in his skull and chest building rapidly. He just insulted the artistic fucking director. To his face! His vision swam and the feeling in his fingers was nearly gone. He needed to sit. No, he needed to get the hell out of there. Find Adley, get his key, hide in his bed until kingdom come. Where was Adley? He scanned the room and couldn’t spot him. There was no time for this.

Time to cut and run, Virge.

He felt a hand resting softly on his shoulder and expected to see Adley there. Instead he saw Thomas, smile soft, brows slightly upturned, leaning down a bit to meet his eyes. “You alright there? You look like you’re going to be ill. Too much champagne?” Thomas guided Virgil to the chair the director never took and stole another from a nearby table, placing himself next to the young dancer.

“Can I grab you water? Are you here with anyone?” Virgil shook his head and attempted to level his breathing. He just couldn’t understand why this man was being to kind to him after being so clearly insulted by some snot-nosed kid. He could feel Thomas’ gaze on him but couldn’t will himself to look up.

He could hear the chair next to him creak with the shifting weight. Peeking out from under his hair he saw the man leaning back watching the crowd.

“I always hated these competitions. It’s always about the wow-factor, the tricks. They talk about artistry, but no one ever looks natural or even happy for that matter. No one really wants to be up there. Heh, no one really wants to be here” Thomas took a steady swig from his glass and set it on the table. “Honestly, I only ever competed because my teachers expected me to. And I needed the scholarship money to keep training. It’s exhausting. So, yeah,” he laughed, “I guess I am too old to compete. Just listen to me! I sound like an old man.”

A comfortable silence settled over them. Why this was comfortable he couldn’t pin-point. What was it about this guy?

When the feeling finally returned to his fingertips he sat up and watched the ebb and flow of the ballroom. “Yeah,” he started, “I only came to this because my instructor wanted me to. I’m... I’m graduating this spring and I guess he just wants me to have a fighting chance.”

“He sounds like a good teacher.”

Virgil smiled and rolled his eyes, finally spotting Adley in the crowd. “I guess he is. He’s good to me anyway.”

Thomas turned in his seat to face Virgil, features taking on a more serious tone. “That much is clear. He seems to have trained you well. Though,” he began, “what I saw up there wasn’t a dancer showing off every trick he’s got in one shot. I didn’t see a frantic grab for attention. I saw…” Thomas’ voice trailed off. “I saw emotion. And… a certain maturity that clearly goes beyond your years. You are technically strong, don’t get me wrong, and the polish will come with experience, but there’s another layer to your movement that I can’t quite put my finger on. You’re a bit of a question mark, but I like that.”

The director waited a beat, catching Virgil’s eyes. “I get the feeling you wouldn’t do particularly well in a strictly classical troupe and I’m guessing by your absolute enthusiasm about this whole shebang here you agree.” Virgil thought on that and he wasn’t wrong. He never saw himself dancing big impressive ballets and he definitely could not see himself fitting into the stereotype of machismo male danseur. He never really fit in anywhere, which suited him fine up until now. He would find his niche eventually, but this world of traditional classical ballet wasn’t it.

“Look, Mr. Harris, I’m not trying to sell you snake oil. I like what I see and I firmly believe you have a quality worth developing. And I’m curious to see what you become. Our company is not what you would call ‘traditional’. We’re always looking to explore new and, frankly, unusual ideas in dance. We don’t have to be stuck in the 1800’s staging the same three popular ballets to sell tickets. We’re not afraid to go against the grain and judging by your performance up there you’re not either. All I’m asking is that you give it some thought.”

Thomas stood, brushing off his trousers. Reaching into his pocket he handed Virgil a simple white card with a yellow star logo on the back. “It was a pleasure to meet you Virgil Harris. Hopefully this won’t be our last encounter”. With that, Thomas turned on his heel and stepped back into the crowd.

What the actual fuck just happened. He sat there, dumbstruck and not quite sure what to think next. Going against the grain? If anything, he was so afraid to go either direction that the grain was the least of his worries. Try to be unique and he risks getting rejected. Try to fit in and he’s miserable and will still get rejected. It seemed like a real lose/lose, but still…

Virgil downed the last of his glass and shook his head. Shit, he just offered you a job and you’re just sitting there like a moron. Say something, you idiot. Quick, before he changes his mind.

“Mr. Sanders?! Hold up.”

Virgil stumbled out of his chair, the champagne obviously having gone right to his head. Thomas turned back puzzled as he watched the little drunk fledgling scramble free of the chair. “I’m sorry for earlier. I, uh, I’m not great in social situations.” He took a deep breath before soldiering on. The job was his. All he had to do was ask.

“Would it be possible to, uh um, you know… View rehearsals at some point? You know, (stop saying ‘you know’) to get an idea of what you guys do?”

Thomas took a step forward and held out his hand once more, unable to hide his excitement. “Come take company class over your spring break. I think you’ll find you feel right at home.”

Virgil slid his hand into Thomas’ and shook. In one month he would travel to Florida and see it all for himself.

--------------------------------

Glossary of terms: Prix de Lausanne- An annual international youth ballet competition in Lausanne, Switzerland for pre-professional dancers ages 15-18.

Variation- A short dance interlude common in classical ballets.

Grand Jete- (French) Large Throw- A “split leg” travelling jump that carries the dancer across the floor.

Wings- Large fabric panels dividing on and off-stage.

Video References: La Bayadere Shades Variation- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n8INJnPDzy4<br /> Les Sylphides Poet’s Dance (with Baryshnikov)- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yl0FIXUFTvM

#sanders sides #ballet company au #teen!virgil #needs more ballet

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sweetsweetnathan · 5 years

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Top five favorite characters.

This is definitely a question that will reveal a lot about me, so I hope that’s what you’re looking for ;P It’s going to get really fucking long, so I’ll store it beneath a cut so it doesn’t destroy anyone’s dash.

I’m doing these in ascending order, so #5 is least most favorite and #1 is most most favorite. I feel it’s important to say than since #5 is a character that is going to make a lot of people roll their eyes (as is #4, frankly).

#5 - Holden Caulfield from the Catcher in the Rye

Waitwaitwait, don’t leave just yet! I have tried to explain why I like this character to people I go to school with, and they barely let me finish a sentence before reminding me that he’s a whiny brat with well-off parents who spends the whole book wallowing in self-imposed misanthropy.

These are not the reasons why I like him!

Although I do feel it’s worth pointing out that he’s barely more than a child (he’s 16, which is the age of consent where I’m from, but by no means “adulthood” anywhere), lost his younger brother at an even younger age, witnessed a suicide, and he does in fact live in a world that is extremely alienating to people who are opposed on principle to conformity. But even these are not the reasons why I like him! I like him structurally, as a character in a book, way more than I like him as a person. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that the book doesn’t want you to like him. It wants you to pity him.

Allow me to share a passage with you to explain myself better:

Anyway, I kept walking and walking up Fifth Avenue, without any tie on or anything. Then all of a sudden, something very spooky started happening. Every time I came to the end of a block and stepped off the goddam curb, I had this feeling that I'd never get to the other side of the street. I thought I'd just go down, down, down, and nobody'd ever see me again. Boy, did it scare me. You can't imagine. I started sweating like a bastard—my whole shirt and underwear and everything. Then I started doing something else. Every time I'd get to the end of a block I'd make believe I was talking to my brother Allie. I'd say to him, "Allie, don't let me disappear. Allie, don't let me disappear. Allie, don't let me disappear. Please, Allie." And then when I'd reach the other side of the street without disappearing, I'd thank him.

Holden is a kid given to sudden panic and fatalistic thinking. There’s something in his subconscious telling him that his life is fragile, that it can be taken away at any moment. Suddenly everything can change and what you thought was safe and innocent can be threatened and defiled. This is an existential crisis without a readily apparent inciting incident (though it has one, we’ll get to that). The Catcher in the Rye isn’t a story with an especially noticeable structure-- we’re not on a journey to destroy the One Ring, blow up the Death Star, or defeat any villain really. Holden is trying to get home. The obstacles he encounters aren’t necessarily trying to stop him from doing that, but they’re obstacles nonetheless. Why? Not because the universe is conspiring against him, and not because there’s an all-powerful villain threatening him with destruction. The obstacles come completely from Holden himself.

So why is it that the Catcher in the Rye can get away with this? On paper a character piece about someone taking the long way home one shitty night sounds like the description of countless Creative Writing 1 school projects, not literary classics. How does Salinger make it work?

The answer is in the prose itself, which like the obstacles is possessed entirely by the main character. Let’s examine this passage:

My brother Allie had this left-handed fielder's mitt. He was left-handed. The thing that was descriptive about it, though, was that he had poems written all over the fingers and the pocket and everywhere. In green ink. He wrote them on it so that he'd have something to read when he was in the field and nobody was up at bat. He's dead now.

Look at each sentence: “My brother Allie had this left-handed fielder’s mitt. He was left-handed.” It’s obvious after reading it that he’s talking about his dead brother in past-tense. What’s the big deal there? He talks about the whole damn story in past-tense, because he’s telling it long after it happened. How is this significant?

Well, the last line is “He’s dead now.” Not “He died”, but “he is dead”. So the whole book we’re reading past-tense lines. But this one, out of all of them, is present-tense. And because of that sudden shift we regard it differently. Allie’s death isn’t something that happened in the past. His being dead is something that’s happening in the present. It’s the reminder that this is a story Holden is telling, which solidifies the illusion that Holden is real. Holden is not real-- Salinger, the writer, is real, and Holden is made up. But when Holden has the dimensionality of having both memories of the past and feelings of the present, he seems more real than another, living person. It illustrates the beauty of prose writing: Movies can give us spectacle, and visuals which evoke emotional depth that words can’t. Games give us agency and interactivity to act as ourselves or as someone else in a situation that is alien to us. Prose gives us no visuals, and affords us no agency. What it gives us is the opportunity to see the world through someone else’s eyes. And Holden Caulfield will always be one of my favorite characters for exemplifying that.

#4 - Luke Skywalker from Star Wars

After all that, Holden is beat out by Luke?

Yes, but listen: Holden I like for professional reasons. Luke I like for personal reasons. See, I have some anger problems. The causes are as numerous as they are complex, and not very interesting. The bottom line is that my emotions are pretty untrustworthy. I actually dislike when people say that a space is dedicated to letting people feel their feelings uninhibited. What if my feelings are violent and hateful? What if without inhibition, I become the kind of person I hate? I have seen things that I wish I could unsee, things that I hate. Being told to let go of that hate feels like being told to permit evil to exist in the world. I cannot abide that. There are certain behaviors that I will oppose no matter the situation. Through this I put myself in an awkward situation: Everyone who doesn’t feel this way begins to look complicit in the wrongdoings of the world. Focus too long on what makes you unhappy, and happiness seems like an unnatural luxury. Feed anger too much, and you forget how to feel anything else. This is what’s called the “Dark Side”.

Luke struggles against the Dark Side. How could he not? His family was taken from him by a system that exploits and murders with impunity. He took the fight to his enemy and destroyed their greatest weapon-- but they’re still not defeated. In the Empire Strikes Back, Luke is terribly impatient to seize the powers of the Jedi. He wants to win. He wants the Empire destroyed. Anything in his way is wasting his time.

When we see him again in Return of the Jedi, he is as close to the Dark Side as a person can be. He walks into a gang leader’s palace, strangles his guards, mind controls his adviser, and pulls a gun on said gang leader. When the gang leader takes offense to all this, Luke promises him death if he doesn’t submit to Luke’s demands. Luke is indulging in every wrathful instinct he has. But he knows that what he’s doing isn’t right. He meets Vader and the Emperor expecting to turn Vader away from this same behavior, but the Emperor has concocted a situation where only might can make right.

If I was given the opportunity to decide between offering patience to the evil people I’ve met, and killing them without consequence, I don’t know if I’d make the choice Luke made. His story is fantastical, but to me it feels very real. It’s a story about finding balance. One has to act to stop bad things from happening. But one must also restrain themselves, or become one of those bad things.

#3 Guts from Berserk

So I just talked about anger problems and the Dark Side and all that, so you’re probably thinking, “Oh, Guts is that, but just like...more.”

And okay, that’s a little true. A find that in Guts a lot too. But similar to Holden, I’d like to take a moment to appreciate the literary structure Guts is constructed with as well. None of his empathetic qualities would mean anything without this structure. If he’s not going somewhere, then he is just the angry, violent stereotype of a manly man that solves all his problems through violence that people stereotype him as.

So let me introduce you to Booker’s Seven Basic Plots:

Going to an art school has resulted in me feeling that it’s necessary to spend some time justifying the existence of a textbook about structure. So I’m going to detour away from Guts in order to do that.

To keep a literal textbook’s worth of storytelling analysis very short, the seven basic plots are not meant to be the only plots that should exist, or even the only plots that do exist. They are an incredibly versatile sets of story frameworks. Allow me to explain by comparing two stories that share one of these seven plots: Crime and Punishment and the Catcher and the Rye.

These two stories are “Rebirth Plots”, and Rebirth Plots are comprised of five elements:

Falling Stage: A young hero or heroine falls under the shadow of the dark power.

Recession Stage: For a while, all may seem to go reasonably well. The threat may even seem to have receded.

Imprisonment Stage: Eventually the threat returns in full force, until the hero/heroine is seen imprisoned in the state of living death.

Nightmare Stage: This continues for a long time, when it seems like the dark power has completely triumphed.

Rebirth Stage: But finally comes the miraculous redemption, either by the hero (if the imprisoned figure is the heroine), or by a young woman or child (if the imprisoned figure is the hero).

Crime and Punishment and the Catcher in the Rye are both Rebirth Plots, but they focus on different aspects, and are thus completely different stories. Most of Crime and Punishment is the Recession Stage, where the main character has gotten away with his crime. Contrast Catcher in the Rye, where the Recession Stage ends basically as soon as he leaves his school, whereupon he spends a short time in the Imprisonment Stage and everything until the last chapter is the Nightmare Stage.

So even though the Seven Basic Plots presents an outline, it's not an outline meant to exclude strange stories that don’t fit it. Quite the contrary, it’s designed to include radically different stories, sometimes within the same categories as more traditionally-told ones.

So with that in mind, what story does Guts find himself in? Well, that’s the exciting thing: Guts is so incredible because he goes on every kind of adventure.

Overcoming the Monster - This is Guts’ story when Casca is captured by the Holy Seein the Conviction Arc. He has to fight against a whole society built around zealous hatred-- zealous hatred that mirrors his own obsessive pursuit of Griffith.

Rags to Riches - The first third of the Golden Age Arc is famously this kind of story, as Guts goes from a nameless mercenary to one of the most famous commanders in Midland, making friends along the way and overcoming his apprehension towards close personal connections.

The Quest - The journey to cure Casca of her trauma during the Fantasia Arc is a very long version of this kind of story. Guts gathers allies, teaches lessons, and watches the world change around him, as he changes as well, allowing his heart to soften again.

Voyage and Return - The Black Swordsman Arc and the beginning of the Conviction Arc sees Guts gallivanting around Midland killing demons, only to return to Goto’s cabin to find Casca has departed due to his own failings.

Comedy - The middle of the Golden Age Arc is this, with Casca and Guts falling for each other as he begins to develop into his own man separate from Griffith.

Tragedy - The end of the Golden Age Arc, which I would feel bad about listing here three times if it wasn’t fourteen fucking volumes long. Here Guts loses every connection he’s made over the years, then finally loses himself as he chooses to pursue vengeance rather than stay with Casca.

Rebirth - The whole of Berserk is a Rebirth Plot on many levels. To start with it’s Guts’ shift from the antisocial Black Swordsman to a symbol of hope in a world overrun with demons. For the world of Berserk it’s a change from being centered around an Idea of Evil to believing in something Good.

Guts is a fascinating character for how he changes again and again, yet still stays the same.

And Unlike Luke, Guts does sometimes fail. But despite the fact that he fails, he finds chances for further redemption. This is because despite every awful thing he’s been through, he still goes on fighting. There’s this brilliant moment when Guts is a child, where he’s run away from home after killing his abusive foster father in self defense. Guts is surrounded by wolves, injured, and starving. He tells the wolves to kill him, because he doesn’t want to live anymore. And yet when the wolves attack, he reflexively defends himself. Even as he wants for death, there’s a part of him that denies it. He wants to go on living, no matter how bad things get. There’s a lot of strength to be learned from that.

I hope Miura will live to see the series end. The character has been at war for so long, and he deserves to put down his sword and live in peace.

#2 Conan the Cimmerian

Let’s take a detour from all my personal issues and literary analysis to talk about the wisest character on this list. It might not seem so, but the original Conan stories by Robert E. Howard are some of the most brilliant and insightful works of fiction ever published.

Holden Caulfield gives us a realistic look at a troubled teenager. By viewing this teenager’s uncensored thoughts on the world, we’re allowed to see the world through his eyes. Doing so teaches us a lot about ourselves, and what we discover isn’t always so attractive. Conan is similar. Conan hails from Cimmeria, a gloomy and unforgiving land. There is no civilization in Cimmeria. Its people are tribal and nomadic. There are many different languages and ways of writing, no currency, and scarcely any agriculture. But Conan’s story does not take place in Cimmeria. Conan’s stories take him all over the world of Hyboria, which itself is essentially a pre-historic earth, where he explores the cultures of all the “civilized” nations. This, more than the violence, adventure, or lurid depictions of women, is what makes Conan worthwhile to me.

Allow me to share with you a passage:

Conan has seen how people behave when there are no rules imposed on them. He knows how cruel they can be, as well as how kind they can be. More than anyone Conan knows the dangers of civilization, how its rules and customs and trappings might convince a person they are good when they’re letting their fellow man starve, or that they’re bad when they’re committing violence against someone whom the rules of society declares above reproach.

Conan brings a perspective to things that is sobering and unique, and looking at things through his eyes helps a person see humankind not as one divided by lines on a map, but as a singular entity which expresses itself in many different forms.

#1 Eren Jaeger from Attack on Titan

Gif source: https://weheartit.com/entry/214956834

Anger, Dark Side, hopefulness, blah, blah, blah. What makes Eren so special? What makes him more special than Guts?

Let me tell you something personal about me: I have a best friend. And contrary to all my expectations growing up, it’s a person who considers me her best friend right back.

She is the only person I know that I consider my intellectual equal (arrogant statement, totally true). I love her immensely. Indescribably. Just like, a fucking lot. We express this love in a lot of different ways. To begin with, we talk all the time. Almost every day, for hours. We share with each other the things going on in our lives, our thoughts, our opinions, the games we play, the movies and TV we’ve seen, our desires for the world, all of it. She is the first person I ever talked to about some of the stuff I experienced in my childhood.

In short, she is pretty special.

When she watched Attack on Titan for the first time it was I who showed it to her. We watched up to episode 11 on that first night, and the rest of the month she texted me her reactions to the events of the first and second season. As she watched she got really enamored with Mikasa, as Mikasa is a lot of what she would like to be in life (capable, dedicated, beautiful, six feet tall, etc). But of Eren, she said that he reminded her of me. In fact, she said that she started to just look at Eren as me-on-the-screen, and when Eren would do something reckless or talk back to someone, or give a crazy-sounding speech about what he believed in, my friend told me she’d say “Classic Nathan [

There is a quality among the great heroes of literature, both from the east and the west, that Eren exemplifies in spades. While Eren has a tendency towards action that makes me admire him and a defiant nature that makes me envy him, his most powerful quality is his immense capacity for hope. You can see this represented in every character on this list in some form or another. Holden hopes against all reason that his sister can be saved from the falseness of the world. Luke hopes that a person can turn from the Dark Side. Guts hopes that life is worth living, even if it’s shown itself to be nothing but suffering. Conan’s hopes are the most justified, as he places it in the vastness of the world, and the world can’t help but satisfy him.

Eren hopes that the titans, insurmountable as they seem, can be defeated. He hopes that the world, tiny as it may seem behind the walls, can be explored. He hopes that people will listen to him when he speaks. He hopes that when he fights for what he believes in, he won’t die. He hopes for so much, and no matter how much is on the line he is ready to fight for those hopes, and to deny anyone who wishes to restrain him.

And my best friend told me he reminds her of me.

I’m not saying she was right. I’m not as strong as Eren. I’ll shut down socially when I’ve judged people to be dumb, evil, or boring. My hope doesn’t carry me over every mountaintop. Not that it does that for Eren; part of what I love about watching his story is that he struggles and falters. Hell, he dies in his first engagement with the titans.

But like Guts he keeps fighting.

Like Luke he struggles against his lesser qualities.

Like Holden he has a viewpoint of the world that leads me to consider myself.

Like Conan he is different from everybody else, but still believes in himself.

And that’s all I want to be.

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nancywheelxr · 5 years

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(our friends set us up on a blind date as a prank because we don’t like each other but neither of us wants to let them win so ) | Part 7:

( part 1 ) ( part 2 ) ( part 3 ) ( part 4 ) ( part 5 ) ( part 6 )

Weeks pass surprisingly uneventfully, but even amidst the dull boredom, something stays with Winn, nagging at him to pay attention. Alex hadn’t meant anything by her comment, not really, not this time, but it makes clear they have to step up their game if they want to keep this up for much longer. Soon, people will begin to wonder why they never seem to go on “dates”. And god knows the DEO loves a good gossip.

So when Kara asks if they want to go get drinks after work, Winn makes a big show out of telling her no, he can’t, actually, because you see, it’s date night.

The choice of words is important, too. He’s very proud of that. Date night, implying a routine, implying they did this before, implying they go out regularly.

And he thinks Brainy notices it, too, because he smiles from across the table, knowing and private, eyes shining under the lights, before going back to his conversation with Alex.

Kara grins, watching them. “Right, are you guys planning anything big for Valentine’s Day?”

“Sure,” he replies easily, “I’ve got reservations at that fancy french place downtown.”

She coos, shaking his shoulder excitedly, “oh my god, that’s so romantic! You’re taking him back to the place of your first date!”

“Yeah, well, not to brag, but I’m a damn good boyfriend.”

“You are constantly bragging,” Brainy comments, suddenly appearing at his side, “although you’re not incorrect. This time.”

Winn snorts, “thanks, babe.” A foot steps on his, and he has to bite back his snickers, “anyway. We were talking about how awesome I am, right? We should go back to that.”

“No, but seriously, how did you get that reservation? And at Valentine’s Day?” Kara says, gaping, “I heard there’s a month-long wait list.”

He shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets, “two months long. But I actually made them back in December? I mean, I was already there anyway, so I asked just to see– who knows, right? And there was a table left, so I took it. Seemed smart at the time.”

“Not at all,” Brainy frowns, apparently not grasping the logic of that, “two months are too far ahead, what if we had broken up?”

“Nah,” Winn grins, swinging an arm around his shoulder, “I thought it was worth the gamble. ‘Sides, I have faith in us, man.”

The frown clears from his face, but Brainy keeps looking at him with surprise– no, that’s not right. Something surprised and disbelieving in his eyes that Winn wishes he had more time to figure out properly–

Someone makes gagging noises nearby, drawing their attention away from each other. It’s Alex, faking a disgusted grimace, “yeah, yeah, we get it,” she rolls her eyes, waving them off, “you guys are disgustingly in love.”

If she wasn’t grinning just like her sister, Winn maybe would be inclined to believe the annoyance on her words, but as it is, Alex isn’t fooling anyone. She’s just as happy for them. And maybe if he hadn’t meant it what he had said earlier– he did have faith in them at the time. Half-drunk and excited with their new plan, he had been absolutely goddam sure they would be able to pull this off– then maybe he would feel a little bad for tricking them.

“It’s a love story for the ages,” he says. His smile slips briefly, but it goes unnoticed.

“Absolutely revolting,” she shakes her head.

Kara elbows her sister, snickering along. “Let them live, Alex,” she keeps a straight face for about a second before adding, “they have a date tonight.”

“You know, I met thirteen-years-old more mature than you two,” Winn tells them matter-of-factly, then turns to Brainy, “are you ready to go? Or do I need to entertain the peanut gallery for much longer?”

“There are no peanuts here,” Brainy gives him a perplexed look, “do you want peanuts?”

Right, he should’ve seen that coming, this one’s on him. “No, it’s just an expression, it means they’re children and their comments are stupid.”

“Oh. It’s a very misleading expression,” he shrugs, “but in that case, yes, we can go now.”

“Great,” Winn claps, whirling around, “shall we?”

“Have a good date,” Kara calls.

“And bring him back before midnight!” Alex adds.

“Will do,” he laughs.

“I have a very important question,” Winn says with a serious expression. He’s just finished locking the door, and Brainy is still hovering nearby. “Have you ever played Mario Kart?”

He throws his keys in the vague direction of the dish by the door, and Brainy follows him into the living room, sitting down on the couch. “I have not. The only games I know of are the ones Kara has brought at Game Nights.”

“Yeah, right, right, she told me you were there a few times,” Winn says, hooking up his game system on the TV. “She also mentioned it was a bit of a learning curve?”

“There were no explosions and no kittens,” he complains, huffing forlornly, “everything is so misleading in this century.”

“Even Scrabble? I thought you would be good at that one.”

“We haven’t had the opportunity to play it,” Brainy says diplomatically and takes the controller passed to him, turning it around curiously.

“Seriously? Kara hasn’t lifted the ban yet?” Winn scrunches up his face, “but then again, we’re still strongly against Mario Kart during Game Night, so. That’s fair, I guess?”

Only sort of, though. Adding the letter s to every completed word on the board just to see Alex slowly go through all five stages of grief does not compare to breaking one’s favorite controller during Mario Kart. The thing was crushed. To smithereens. But he supposes some games are just not meant to be played by a group of very, very competitive people.

They haven’t banned Monopoly yet, though, for some reason.

“Nevermind that,” he shakes his head, focusing on the task ahead, “so. I figured since we gotta stick together for a couple hours, we could just stay here and chill? I’ve got Mario Kart, Netflix, and the pizza place on speed dial.”

“Not Massimo’s?”

“God no, that place is stricken from the records. Giorgino’s two blocks down– and before you ask, yes, I’ve checked and they’re willing to make your weird apples and olives pizza.”

Brainy smiles. “It is the only acceptable flavor of pizza.”

“And people think pineapples were the real crime,” Winn laments.

The familiar song kicks in as the menu pops up, and Winn does his best to explain the game. It’s fairly simple, after all, and it’s not as if they were going straight for the rainbow road. Brainy picks up on it quickly, choosing Luigi as his avatar. Winn, of course, chooses Yoshi because some traditions are meant to be followed. And, weirdly enough, it’s not so bad. Throwing shells at him is very entertaining, watching his confusion as to why he’s suddenly spiraling off the road turn into suspicion turn into really? And that turns into spite pretty quickly.

Because the thing about Mario Kart is that it’s so much more fun when you’re overly competitive– and not gonna lie, both of them are guilty as charged on that one.

“Fuck off,” Winn says, too busy to physically flip him off, “that’s cheating!”

“No, I am merely using the resources available in the game,” Brainy replies calmly.

“I don’t know how yet, but I know you are and I will figure it out,” he threatens, leaning to the right as he makes a curve, “in the meantime–”

“I’ve told you I’m not– wait. What happened? Why have I shrunk?” Brainy glares at him, “and I’m the one cheating?”

Winn laughs.

He had been so prepared for tonight to suck, it’s almost upsetting how well it goes. They don’t argue properly, no more than the usual bickering, which by now it’s mostly fun. Brainy accepts the beer he tips in his direction, humming pleased and somehow not swerving on the road while holding the controller one-handed.

That’s so cheating.

“So, you want that pizza now?” Winn asks, pausing the game.

“I could eat,” Brainy decides after a moment of indecision. He might have been aiming for a nonchalant, cool reply, but his stomach betrays him, growling earnestly, and he sighs, halfway amused, “I meant, yes, I would like that pizza now.”

Hiding his snickers, Winn digs around for his phone, lost somewhere in the mess they made of the coffee table. The pizza place is on speed dial and the teenager on the other end of the line apparently isn’t paid enough to judge his weird ass order.

“Appalling,” he says later, when the two pizzas are laid side by side and the olives stare back at his soul amidst the apples. “God really has left us.”

“Try it,” Brainy tells him, eyebrows raising in clear challenge. He picks up a slice for himself and nudges the box towards Winn.

And well. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that Winslow Schott, Junior cannot back down from a dare, so he sets down his own pepperoni slice and carefully takes the olive and apples, gingerly raising it as if it were a nuclear bomb about to go off in a crowded mall. A deep breath. He takes a small bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Eh, it’s not so bad. I thought it would be worse, to be honest.”

Brainy gives him a victorious smirk, “would this be a good time to say I told you so?”

“It’s never a good time to say that,” he scowls, washing down the taste with beer, “and it’s still weird.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” They eat in relative silence for a while, and Winn isn’t surprised to see him slowly working his way through the entire pizza. The game is soon switched for some very unrealistic action movie neither of them recognizes, but the explosions do look cool with the electronic soundtrack.

“It’s a shame there are no pizza places in the future,” Brainy comments idly.

“Oh my god, I know, right? I searched everywhere for one, it didn’t even have to be good, the bar was at existing.” Winn says, gesturing broadly with a slice, “and how come there are no bananas, either? And no one even knew what I was talking about, it was like they didn’t even exist! Like, I didn’t look it up because, you know, spoilers, but what happened? Did we all as a species develop a sudden aggressive allergy to bananas and had to destroy all records of the fruit? Is there gonna be another banana apocalypse in the next centuries– what?”

He stops, self-consciously wiping his mouth with a napkin, because Brainy is staring at him strangely. To be fair, everything about all of this is strange. But he caught him doing that before; sometimes at work, Winn will turn to say something, only to find Brainy already looking back. It’s odd and offputting, and honestly? A lot easier to just chalk it up to another one of his quirks and call it a day. That’s probably the explanation anyway. Now, though, Brainy shrugs, “nothing. Do you always feel this passionate about fruits?” A pause. “Did you say another banana apocalypse?”

“Dude,” Winn breathes, sitting up properly because it’s not every day you get to school Brainy about something. “It’s so much less exciting than it sounds, but here’s the thing– “

It’s a little after ten o’clock when he walks Brainy to the door, awkwardly stopping in the doorway. He scratches the back of his neck, “so. I guess it wasn’t all that bad, after all.”

“I suppose it was not unpleasant,” Brainy allows, his lips twitching, “although, I do have a request– next time, may I bring the movie?”

“Sure,” Winn says easily, then stops. He narrows his eyes, “am I going to regret agreeing to this?”

Now, Brainy grins openly, startlingly amused, “well, you’ll just have to wait and see. Good night, Winn. And thank you.”

It’s something in the way he says it that Winn wonders what exactly he’s being thanked for, too warm, too grateful to pass as simply politeness. Still, unwilling to overthink it, he shrugs awkwardly, “no problem, man. See you tomorrow.”

Brainy nods, slipping out the door.

Winn stays there, staring at the end of the hall for another long moment before going back inside.

#brainy #querl dox #brainiac 5 #winn schott #winndox #supergirl fic #when in rome #fake dating au #god i cant believe i rewrote the whole chapter #clearly i hate myself #still feel kinda meh about this one #but oh well #now i shall go back to the asks

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shutupnsing · 6 years

Text

Nose or Mouth?

Breathing for singing—Mouth or nose?

This will be short—MOUTH!

Okay, all right—so that was the short version. But let’s take a look at one of the vagaries which plagues this voice teaching racket. The question “Should I breath through my nose or breathe through my moth when I sing?” is right up there with the whole “Should my stomach go in or out?” routine. And these are routines in the best comedic vein. I’ll save the stomach rap for another time but lets talk about the breathing thing and make some observations.

First, we are built to survive. Every system, every innate behavior built into the human machine is designed to get us through another day. We can live without food for a number of weeks—without water for a number of days. We can live without air for less time than it takes youtube to load a goddam hamster eating tiny food if you’re trying to watch it in my basement. We are built to respirate successfully.

There are three respiratory holes through which we can take in and let out air. Two of them work together and are small enough to obstruct with a green bean. The third is big—really big. On some people, too damned big, but again, that’s a different story.

Now, the two small holes are lined with little dudes that have one job. Their job is to sniff around and send messages to the brain—messages like, “Whoa! that fish has been sitting out for too long. Don’t eat it.” And “Damn! I know there’s a bakery around here somewhere.” Yes, we can and frequently do breathe through our nostrils when we are at rest and writing a blog. But when you need to get some air in there in a hurry, drop your jaw and get that tank filled.

Singing is in many respects, an athletic activity, the elements of which include tone, pitch, projection and enunciation. None of these elements exist without the coordinated application of ample and sustained air controlled at very specific pressure. If we use a garden hose as an analogy, a bigger hose allows for more volume to pass at a lower pressure while a smaller hose passes less volume at a higher pressure.

Opinions are like, well, you probably know the rest of that worn out old saw. But the advantage of mouth breathing in singing is not a matter of opinion. If we can agree that we are built to survive and that our natural process provides for the least impediment to successful breath intake, we can also surmise that when we inhale through the orifice of least impediment, our throat, inclusive of muscles, cartilage, ligaments and vocal folds, will be in a state of relaxation. It makes sense, doesn’t it—that everything which is able to do so would clear out of the way when we take in a breath. And it is precisely this relaxed state which fosters the most effective onset of phonation or, starting a tone.

You can prove the advantage of mouth breathing for yourself very easily. Looking straight ahead into a mirror, place the palm of your hand across your throat with your thumb on one side and fingers on the other. Drop your jaw and take in a deep breath. You will feel virtually no muscular action from your throat registering in your hand. Now, try to imagine the sheer volume of air you took in through your mouth. Now, close your mouth and, through your nose, try to take in the same volume of air in the same time. Can you feel the muscular constriction of your throat and neck muscles as you struggle to inhale fully? This tension will pass right down into your upper chest if you try to pull in air hard enough. When you try to suck in a massive amount of air through the tiny openings in your face, your throat turns into one of those trick woven tube-like hand cuffs. You stick a finger in each end and the harder you pull, the tighter it gets. How can this constriction be a positive element of singing technique?

Nose breathers claim that their technique is less “drying” or that the nose somehow “warms” the air before it reaches the sensitive vocal cords. What brand of bullshit is that? First off, most vocal sessions aren’t attempted in arctic or saharan conditions. A few degrees or percentage points of relative humidity either way can be expected when traveling room to room or dressing room to stage. Using that level of sensitivity for an excuse is just, well, it’s embarrassing.

Secondly, why would the nose be either warmer or moister than the mouth? I mean really, think straight for a moment, The nose hangss out in front of your face like a balcony and has far less insulation from outside temperatures than the mouth, which is insulated by the lips, teeth and cheek meat for chrissakes. As for moisture, I have yet to hear of a nose which can compete with a mouthful of healthy salivary glands. The “nose breathing is better because it moisturizes and pre-heats the air” bullshit is something that has been propagated by singers, teachers and busy-body advice-givers over and over again—and rarely questioned. But you can see how logic kicks the entire concept square in the old…well, anyway, Breath through your mouth. It’s the right thing to do when you’re singing.

#singing #breath control #support

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nuevorealidad · 6 years

Text

Fresh Start Cosmic Toolkit

😍😍🌾⚘🌸🐱🐶🐥🐬🐴🐺 ✂️✂️🔥🔥🔥🌀🌀🌷☘🌺🌷☘🌺🌳🌻🍀😍

Here’s your COSMIC TOOLKIT for a FRESH START

❀ Make hydration, nutrition and exercise a top priority ❀ Exercise your power to say “no, thank you” ❀ Form honest, real-life relationships. Walk if it gets toxic. ❀ Be more meditative, less reactive. ❀ Live your dream like it’s real, and never stop dreaming. ❀ Keep on moving, growing, reading, writing, learning. ❀ Mind your business and give generously/receive gracefully.

😍😍🌾⚘🌸🐱🐶🐥🐬🐴🐺 ✂️✂️🔥🔥🔥🌀🌀🌷☘🌺🌷☘🌺🌳🌻🍀😍

Trust & Belief ~ My Homeland Security is Intact & Secured Forevermore

It’s working! Everything you’ve ever wanted is being pressed toward you. Everything is clicking. Don’t let the illusions trick you. Don’t let the events of today dampen your spirits. Things couldn’t be any better than they now are. You couldn’t have more reasons to celebrate. Continue! Press on! The hardest work is done! Keep showing up, be present, open every door and let events unfold. Life is your stage. This is your parade.

I love it when you’re hot, The Universe

😍😍🌾⚘🌸🐱🐶🐥🐬🐴🐺 ✂️✂️🔥🔥🔥🌀🌀🌷☘🌺🌷☘🌺🌳🌻🍀😍

If You Want to Live Differently, You Have to Think Differently

Take a look around you. Do you see anyone living the amazing, kick-ass life that you want to live?

Hell no!! They are living the same boring, normal life as the next guy.

Your dreams are bigger than that!! They include living a location-independent, travel-tastic kind of life full of freedom, adventure, and fun.

Know this: the only things standing between you and being location independent and traveling as often as your heart desires, are your beliefs that say you can’t! Seriously! That’s the only real obstacle!

If you want to live differently, you have to think differently. It’s as simple as that.

You don’t have to be special, rich, or wildly successful to have what you want. The only thing you do need is the belief that you can pull it off, and a willingness to think differently about things.

Just give yourself permission to go for your dreams and unleash your brilliance out into the world. You wouldn’t have the desire if it weren’t possible for you. The Universe isn’t a bitch like that.\

😍😍🌾⚘🌸🐱🐶🐥🐬🐴🐺 ✂️✂️🔥🔥🔥🌀🌀🌷☘🌺🌷☘🌺🌳🌻🍀😍

IGNORE YOUR CURRENT REALITY esp if its sucking 😆 STOP focusing on wat is-wat is- wat is going the f* on or why the f* you can’t where u want or need to be.! FOCUS only on wat u want and deliberately create the Reality u preferred and desired instead of repeating dat freakin reality on default.

Play in the realm of possibilities. Just because you aren’t living the life that you desire right now doesn’t mean you can’t in the future. You need to create that future now by thinking about how you want it to be rather than how it is. What you focus on expands. If you focus on what isn’t here yet, you will get more of that. If you focus your attention on how you want your life to be, you will begin to see that showing up.

😍😍🌾⚘🌸🐱🐶🐥🐬🐴🐺 ✂️✂️🔥🔥🔥🌀🌀🌷☘🌺🌷☘🌺🌳🌻🍀😍

************* Live in the Moment *** Be in the Now ****************** 2018 is a stay home enjoy ur solitute solidarity and peaceful year and how ur homeland security is intact and secured unfolding forevermore. - there’s a time and place for everythiing..everything in good time - u dont have 2b out there g* speculating forcing or making it happen (go w/ wat u feel ..if it feels good then its right time) try to match the fire action months w/ activity desired feb 20-mar 20 - good time to get ur dental work done(introvert energy anti socializing) so that when ur bday month comes u r ready 4 da launch..looking good :* meantime concentrate master on dailies esp this yr 2018..not really dat action yr u enjoy but nevertheless a good time to practise gratitude and appreciation for all ur homeland security abundance package is providing.. it’s yr Jup Sco (abundance in the hidden) redeem all OPPs meant 4u , or deprived fr u previously…+time to save up be frugal and rack up as much funds as u can for ur 2019 launch w/ u will need lining up ur dailies to be creative and productive gives meaning and purpose to the mundane

Jup Sco also auspicious time for relationships w/ the non physicals (ur IB <3 P) to get closer deeper more intimate sexually emotionally physically..best time to transform non physicals to physicality as jupiter expands its love and genuine connectivity.

🌷☘🌺🌳🌻🍀🌾⚘🌸 🌱🌺🌱 ღℒ❤ѵℯღ 🌱🌺🌱 💗 All I need in life is you 💗

Spend time every day w/ ur 💕 IB <3 Partner 💕 fr the moment u wake up and make him the last b4 u go to sleep. he is after all ur higher guidance council who will always show u the way wat u need to know at path of least resistance.. he’s also ur right hand side kick (did i mention sexy n handsome ) reminding u not to be so hard on ur goddam self whenever u f*up feeling regret and complete waste basket…and remind me dat i always do the best case scenarios at all times so even if i did-done-do-it .. know it was wat needed to be done (sometimes its not 4 obvious reasons, in hindsight it is to reveals the leverage and freedom to 2 watever i want whenever i want.

Have fun with this. Get the juicy goodness flowing. Be aware of when your inner critic starts to chime in about how you can’t afford it or you could never make it work. The trick is to give yourself permission to want it and bask in the delight it brings you.

Don’t get caught up in the details of HOW it’s all going to happen. This sounds counterintuitive, but hear me out. The fastest way to get frustrated and give up is trying to see how it’s all going to work out ahead of time. There are all kinds of details you can’t possibly know in this moment. These are the things that make you think it’s never going to happen. Give the Universe a chance to work its magic. Trust that all the details will unfold before you in ways you could never imagine. Have faith, and go with it.

😍😍🌾⚘🌸🐱🐶🐥🐬🐴🐺 ✂️✂️🔥🔥🔥🌀🌀🌷☘🌺🌳🌻🍀🍂⚘🌺🌺🌺

When it comes to setting aside a little time each day to visualize, look at it like this:

No matter how distracted you become or how confused you are about the process, the simple fact that you gave your dream this time and attention means you did it correctly, you did it long enough, and that by the time you open your eyes, already in the unseen, huge wheels have begun turning.

HUGE. You think I’d make it hard? Your humble servant ~ Universe

🎆🎨🎯😇🎥🖱📡📲🌈🏖 💸💸💸💰💰💰🎪🎪😇 🌷☘🌺🌳🌻🍀😍😍😍😂🤣😂😆**hugs**🤗 🤗💗💗 **luv**💕💞💕**likes**& lots of **kisses**💋💞💋🌟💃💃💃🌟✌ ✈️✈️✈️💥🔥🌠😍😂🤣😂😆hot 2 trot 🔥🔥🔥🌀🌀🐶✌💞🎨🎯😇 🎥🖱📡📲📰🌈🏖 🎪🎪🍰🍰💰💰💰😇 🌷☘🌺🌳🌻🌾⚘🌸🍃🌿😍😍😍😂🤣😂😆🌟🌟🌟💃🌟✌🌋🌊🌈🎆

Shalamar - Make That Move (12’’ Version) - All ‘bout Our FS in Our FLife https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=2&v=w-Pi9uCZzfA

Make That Move ~ So many times-By holding back I let the good things pass me by-And then one day I asked myself the reason why-And like an answer from above you came into my life -And showed me one thing for sure-With life nothing is certain-You got to go for it when you feel it-Everybody, everybody needs somebody to love-And I choose you, baby, so let’s.-Make thatmoveright now, baby-You only go out once in a lifetime-Make that move right now, baby.. So natural to -Give in to feelings deep inside when love is due-And I knew something was missing ‘cause now I feel brand new-And motivation’s in my heart whenever I’m with you So girl whatever you do-Just remember love is a motion-You got to hold on tight-When you know it’s right-Everybody, everybody needs somebody to love-And I choose you, baby, so let’s -Make that move right now, baby-You only go out once in a lifetime-Make that move right now, baby-The longer you wait on love, the more you’ll be without itWhy don’t you(Make that move) (Make that move) Make that move .. come on-Make that move right now, baby-If you make that move with me, I’ll be yours eternally 💕💞💕

🎆🎆 Uranus/Taurus..a glimpse 🎆🎆

Taurus commands his worth, which comes from knowing with certainty the value of where he chooses to invest his energy in order to feel comfortable: in his relationships, material things, physical property, intellectual assets, marketable ideas, tradable skills and talents etc – anything that can be secured, considered of practical use, that will enhance the quality of enjoyment of life and enrich the quantity of our reserves so that they can stay sustainable.

What do you value -

What qualities do you need most in others that you can use?

What would you fight most fiercely to protect in your life, even if it killed you?

How much of what you share with others do you come to expect should always be there? What are the supply & demand arrangements fixed upon? Are they sustainable?

Own any negative feelings. See how powerfully they can take over and ruin your chances of stability and peace. Instead of continuing to feed negative, distrustful thoughts with negative emotions, focus on this word:

TRUST TRUST TRUST TRUST TRUST TRUST TRUST Repeat that word in your mind. Feel into it. Understand that a lack of trust is just a feeling of insecurity about your own self-worth. It is not the truth. You are worthy. Trust in that. The universe does not present us with emotional conflicts to block access to our heart. The universe only presents us opportunities to open it. It is through re-negotiating or divesting our powerful emotional investments that we learn to see how blockages only hinder our growth.

these how mere mortals do it or being human … and how they do it is like letting go of fixed emotions, develop compassion, learn to listen patiently, understand lovingly – not through suspicion, demandingness and wild speculation but through practicing empathy and developing ways for non-violent conflict resolution.

🎆🎇🎉🔆💸💰📈 ❣️💞💘👍😍💥 🌞🌟💃🏻🌊🌈🌒🌓🌔🌕🌠🌋🎆🎇

But for those be coming gods dehumanizing ..its none of dat..its recognizing U are different , detaching urself from all dat shit..different strokes 4 different folks /wat more U u are no regular folk blok..FOR YOU it ‘s all about thinking breathing living the Alternative, the Opposite, Make Ur Own Rhyme & Reason.. of how U fking want it to be. If there are lingering excess baggage fking w/ u just remember to utter ur famous words ..’’ fuck this / fuck you / fuck off ! We all do things until we don’t, so dont judge it.

Be kind to urself by doing only with pleases U. **Remember U are the Exception to the Rule ** & the 1 who gets away w/ it every f* time.. so continue to live u life the way u want it’s Uranus Way / the rest is bullshit/history .

Mahal, I always knew I could count on you to uncover the truth, and when others just played “follow the leader.” I wasn’t surprised at all to find you standing by your principles when the going got tough. There was never any doubt in my mind that when faced with a fork in the road, you’d take the path less traveled as should be.

I just had no idea you’d have such expensive taste…we are alike in so many ways.

You Rock Baby, ^ James ^

#ORIG

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megacircuit9universe · 4 years

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Times Change

WED JUL 08 2020

Trumps numbers... approval rating, and polling numbers in all the states that could possibly matter this November... are so bad right now that Trump has threatened media outlets, including FOX News, for posting the latest numbers, which he says are all fake.

He’s also been ranting on Twitter about how the upcoming election is going to be rigged, and doing speeches, such as on July 3rd at Mount Rushmore, in which he’s ranting about how liberals and Democrats are enemies of the state, including teachers, and the media, and that they’re all conspiring to end America and bring forth a scary dictatorship where conservatives will be persecuted and punished.

His little pal, Tucker Carlson, over on Fox... is running with that ball and helping to plant the seeds in the dysfunctional brains of his audience, that if Trump loses, it will be because the election has been rigged by a vast liberal conspiracy.

Well... if by, rigged, they mean... influenced by a level of Presidential incompetence so astronomical that nobody in the country can’t see and feel it quite painfully... and if by, conspiracy, they mean... a vast majority of voters have agreed to use their voting powers to vote him out of office... then, sure!

But what this all says... the warlike paranoid rhetoric against not just all races (it used to be just Muslims and South Americans) but all US citizens who would dare to oppose Trump... coupled with the cries of a rigged election to come...

...is that he know’s he’s going to lose.

And they know... he’s going to lose (his junta).

So, the best plan they can think of at the moment is to try and foment violence if he loses... in an attempt to intimidate the rest of us into backing down.

Don’t you vote him out, or we will unleash our army of brainwashed morons to take to the streets with guns and torches blazing. We will throw the biggest tantrum the world has ever seen.

But, after everything else we’ve been through so far... we’re not simply desensitized to the threat of more upheaval... in the case of this threat, we’re like, bring it on!

People are already in the streets standing up to walls of fascist cops in riot gear every night. You think anybody’s scared by the idea of a bunch of red hat idiots coming out of the woodwork with their shotguns and assault rifles? We have shotguns and assault rifles too!

This is America... everybody has a gun!

We don’t use them on the cops, but if Backwoods Bob, or KKKarl wants to show up in attack mode, because they’re pissed off about the outcome of the election... shooting their asses in self defense is justifiable homicide, so let’s go!

Meanwhile, the Supreme Court and the Pentagon have already shown conclusively, in the past month, that they have zero loyalty to Trump.

BLM has brought together a huge coalition of not just white and black people, protesting and fighting side by side, but also Native Americans, Arab Americans, Mexican Americans, Puerto Ricans, Asian Americans, Jews, Amish, Wiccans and other Pagans, atheists, scientists, gay, straight, lesbian, trans, even some Christians, and yes, a not trivial number of Republicans.

Gen X was always there for the fight, along with a few Boomers, and a few Silents, but now Millennials are finally on board, as is... everybody’s celebrated new heroes... Gen Z!

Which brings me back to Tik Tok...

Tik Tok has been instrumental in bringing the above mentioned coalition together... though it took SARS CoV2 to be the catalyst that mobilized us against racism, fascism, and Trumpism, here in 2020.

As social media platforms go, Tik Tok has outmatched all of its predecessors... who were all, in their own ways, very impressive... from MySpace, to YouTube, to Tumblr, Instagram, Twitter and Vine.

It has old roots, being a merger between Musical.ly which has been around since 2014, and what began as Douyin back in 2016. 2018 was the year that what we now know as Tik Tok, was born, and quickly rose to the top of the app charts.

It inherited a huge user base of teenagers, but also filled the gap left behind by Vine, which died in 2016, and Tumblr, which was dealt a critical blow in late 2017, when it was sanitized of all explicit material.

Ignored completely by the mainstream, Tik Tok was also blown off fairly aggressively by established YouTubers as a platform of vacuous content, of no interest to anybody above the age of 15, other than pedophiles.

But when Covid19 hit the world stage in early 2020, forcing everybody on the planet to shelter at home, and grapple with boredom... Tik Tok went mainstream in a big way.

It was the only social media app left, where it was acceptable not to wallow in depression and political defeatism (Twitter), not to be out shopping, globe trotting, or partying (Instagram) and not to be making long form videos in a professional studio with 100K subscribers and a Patreon (YouTube).

This is when most of the millenials, GenXers, Boomers, and even Silents began to get on board... to have a go at finding their own niche in the Tik Tok universe.

And this brings us to the key to Tik Tok’s popularity... its algorithm.

Well, its algorithm, coupled with an elegantly simple interface, and perfect upper time limit for videos... just over a minute.

It takes only ten minutes, scrolling through Tik Tok videos, liking the ones you like, for that algorithm to start visibly tailoring your feed to what you want more of. And over the course of just a day or two... doing this, and following whoever you’d like to see more of, even when they aren’t going viral on the For You page... you can quickly cultivate an addictive feed that you’re happy to scroll through for hours.

Some say it’s just a sinister ploy to keep you on the app, in order to steal your data but... all social media apps do that. Tik Tok simply does it better. It’s algorithm is superior to Twitter, Facebook or even YouTube, allowing you to tailor your feed on the fly in real time... if times are changing that fast... which they have been.

So, why the long love letter to Tik Tok now?

Well, this week, it’s suddenly in peril. It’s been banned in India, could soon be banned in America.. and after losing those two massive markets... could just die.

It began with China passing a law last week that, for national security reasons, it needed to have access to all app data collected by all apps based in China... which includes Tik Tok, which is owned by a Chinese company known as ByteDance, headquartered in Hong Kong... the province which has been in a struggle to maintain what little autonomy it has left from the Chinese mainland for several years now.

India... which was recently embroiled with a border dispute with China that resulted in a military skirmish, immediately banned Tik Tok, for fear of their citizens data falling into the hands of Xi Peng.

But Tik Tok has an American CEO, who, in a move to save the app from getting banned in America, announced that the Hong Kong headquarters would be moving overseas.

That didn’t do much to calm the Trump administration, however... who have only just pieced together that Tik Tok was truly behind the disastrously low attendance of his recent Tulsa rally... and also a key social media channel for BLM and other anti-Trump movements to organize and coordinate (and one they can’t penetrate and manipulate, as they did with Facebook and Twitter four years ago).

So now, both Trump and his Secretary of State, Mike Pompeo have gone on record saying they’d like to ban Tik Tok in the United States.

It’s not clear yet if this ban will actually happen, though it seems likely.

It’s even less clear how a ban in both India and the US will affect the fortunes of Tik Tok.

VPNs will make it possible for users in both countries to continue using Tik Tok, so... over the short term, it will remain accessible... at least to those hardcore devotees who have come to rely on it.

But, barring a massive sea change in the general popularity of VPNs... which is not out of the question, in these increasingly authoritarian times around the planet... the loss of most of the two biggest markets could cripple Tik Tok.

People say, What about supply and demand?

Well... the most likely fate would be for Tik Tok to be bought out by a non-communist company, say a US company like Google, or Amazon.

That’s been the trend for over a decade now. Yahoo bought Tumblr. Twitter bought Vine. Facebook bought Instagram, etc. But more often than not, in these cases, when the hugely popular platform gets bought for billions by the big corporation... the big corporation drops the ball and drives it into the ground.

YouTube being bought by Google is probably the least dismal of these examples, but YouTube is nothing like what it was back in the early twenty teens, when it was a platform for anybody with a web cam in their bed room to talk to the world, and get famous.

But then again, this IS 2020...

Tik Tok has redefined the entire dynamic of social media, at the same time that SARS CoV2 has drastically altered the global economy... meaning that the twenty-teens model of both things, and how they work together... could well be out the window by now.

And this brings us, in tonight’s final analysis, to a fundamental truth that Trump, for all his diabolical plotting to game the 2016 campaign process... has failed to plan for.

Times change.

Twitter was the shit back in 2016, wasn’t it? What a brilliant move for a dark horse boomer candidate turned President to troll the shit out of it every goddam day for years on end, right?

Well, he’s killed Twitter now. The whole universe, as it was in 2016, has disintegrated... in no small part thanks to Trump’s abuses, neglect, and incompetence.

But also just the march of history... climate change, global pandemic, technological breakthroughs, economic upheaval, civic unrest, etc.

They like to say those who ignore the past are doomed to repeat it.

I say... those who ignore the future, get eaten by it.

Tempus Edax Rerum.

Time consumes all things.

0 notes

bowtomycoolclocks · 7 years

Text

Just Let Go Part 1

Pairing: Archie Andrews x Reader

Summary: The core five have just met you, the new bad-ass of Riverdale. However, when you first meet them it doesn’t go as smooth as some predicted until you met Archie Andrews. Will you level with the core four or lose Archie in the process?

Warnings: Anger, smoking (DONT DO IT KIDS YOU HAVE SO MUCH TO LIVE FOR), slight cursing.

A/N: Hi everyone! It’s been quite some time, I know. I’m sorry and to be honest, I was procrastinating to write this, and I don’t want to lie to you guys. However, I’m back on track baby! I love Riverdale and to be honest, it’s quite enjoyable writing as Jughead. Before we begin, I have the schedule of when I’ll be posting. It will be anytime Wednesday and Friday. I am starting school in a week so it might have to change, but for now, it’s all good. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy more to come soon! Don’t forget tags and requests are open!

Jughead Pov

Here in our unearthly town named Riverdale, life before Jason Blossoms death was very… trite. Then following the death of football star Jason Blossom, everything in Riverdale turned to shit. However, in every cloud there is a silver lining, so to speak. For Archie Andrews, my closest, and dearest friend, she would be his silver lining. It was like every day in Riverdale, lackluster and inconsequential. Like my father always said, “Everyone in this goddam town, is like a monkey. Doing the same damn thing every day, pickin’ bugs out of their hair, shittin’, and eatin’. Every day.”. This was true, until a very unique female, walked into “Pops”.

She wore a red and black flannel and black skinny jeans with rips at the knees. From what I could distinguish, she wasn’t like every run of the mill suburban girl that Riverdale bred. This girl was contradistinctive from any female I had witnessed or been acquainted with. She meandered with such confidence it was uncanny to any I have seen. At the time, Archie, Betty, and I were sitting in the once plush, but now deteriorating booth. I was sitting next to Betty while Archie was across from us. Then soon after the girl marched into “Pops” with a look of petulance. Her E/C orbs glared once she turned her head to Betty and me’s direction. She had cursed under her breath and journeyed up to the counter. Pop walked to the counter, with a bounce in his step.

“Hey there!” He exclaimed.

“Hi. I’m here to pick up my food.” She spoke, venom in her voice.

“Sure thing Honey. Whats the name you put the order as?”

“Y/N.”

“Well okay then, I’ll be out soon.” Pop walked away into the kitchen. With the girl we had all assumed to be Y/N, she rested against the counter, with her arms folded. I could tell that she had no interest conversing with anyone. However, Betty- at the time we were in the first stages of becoming intimate- being the over exuberant, gregarious person, I’ve grown to adore, was predetermined to introduce herself to the new girl. Betty had stood up and dusted her pink, peter pan collared shirt.

“Betty, what are you doing?” I had questioned, raising my eyebrow. I knew that if Betty went up to this new girl, she’d be chewed up and spit out, it was almost guaranteed.

“Juggie, is it wrong wanting to introduce myself to someone new?”

“Bets, you know she’s going to piss on you.” I explained, straightening my crown hat.

“What does that mean Jughead-? Never mind, it doesn’t matter, I’m just going to go over there.” Archie by now turned around, to see the damage Betty would have to take. Betty walked up to Y/N. Y/N, turned to the side and looked at Betty, she rolled her eyes, piqued.

“Hi, I’m Betty Cooper! I can assume that you’re new so I just want to say hello. I couldn’t help but overhear that your name is Y/N,” Y/N was silent, she didn’t speak a word, “I’ll take that as a yes. Well anyways, I was hoping maybe you’d want to meet my friends?” Betty inquired, tilting her head. Then Y/N looked at Betty up and down, however not in a flirtatious way, but in a more judgmental way.

I was puzzled, why was this girl, whom we never met, so impertinent towards us? Pops then walked up to them and placed the take-out food on the counter. Y/N turned around, handed Pops the cash and started to walk out of the diner. Despite fully exiting the diner, she turned on her heel, looked at Betty, scoffed, and shook her head. After that, she exited, the bells chiming in happiness for her descent. Betty turned around and slumped back to our booth.

“She is something.” Archie pointed out, shrugging his shoulders. Betty then looked at him.

“Maybe there’s a reason why she acts like that.” Betty tried to reason.

“Or Bets, she’s just naturally like that.” I turned my head. I could tell Betty felt distressed. I tried to comfort her, emphasis on the tried. I awkwardly wrapped my arms around Betty and gave her a thin-lipped smile as she looked at me.Then I turned my head to the window and saw Y/N take a drag of her cigarette. She was leaning against her boss 429 black Mustang. Her eyes shifted to mine, and she stomped the cigarette on the ground. Y/N then entered the car, slammed the drivers’ door, and zoomed away from the diner. I then faced Betty and Archie and took a bite of my burger. That was the first encounter with sweet little Y/N.

The next one was just as bitter as the first. It was the following week. Just an ordinary October day in Riverdale high. You have your jocks, taking steroids in the locker rooms, your geeks, playing Minecraft or dungeons and dragons, your sweethearts, greeting everyone, trying to make the world a “better place”, your populars, sneaking alcohol in a water bottle, and your outcasts, sitting around, observing the world around them, but not participating in it. Betty, Archie, Veronica, Kevin, and I were standing in the hallway. Betty, Kevin and I were standing against the lockers.

Then she walked in. All heads turned to her, the high school of Riverdale stopped in time when Y/N waltzed into the halls. Y/N at the time wore a black Metallica shirt, ripped jeans, black Dr. Martens, and wrapped around her upper body was a leather jacket. Y/N sashayed towards us. When she proceeded next to us, Betty greeted Y/N. Much to Betty’s dismay, Y/N kept walking forward. Betty frowned and looked to the ground. Veronica, however, wasn’t keen on Y/N blatantly ignoring Bets.

“Hey, you!” Veronica called out to Y/N. My face had a look of confusion as well as the rest of them. Y/N turned around, her gaze on Veronica, then she turned back around and started to walk away.

“Hell no, if she thinks she can just walk away she has another thing coming.” Veronica spatted.

“Just stop Ronnie, it doesn’t matter.” Betty spoke shyly.

“Well, it does to me.” Then with that Veronica stomped to Y/N and grabbed her arm, forcing Y/N to turn around.

“Who do you think you are? Listen, new girl, if you ever do that to any of my friends, you will regret it.” Veronica seethed spitting out venom. Y/N laughed, almost menacingly, it was unusual, and quite frankly scary.

“You seem like the type of person to boss people around, so let me tell you something. If you ever lay a finger on me again, I promise you, that finger won’t be there anymore.” Then Y/N shoved her arm out of Veronica’s grasp and walked away.

Everyone stared in awe, no one had challenged, much less threaten The Veronica Lodge. Veronica looked at our classmates.

“All of you turn around! This is none of your business!” She screeched to our peers.

It was the same day when all of us encountered Y/N again. It was lunch and we all sat around our usual lunch table outside. I was quiet while everyone else was chattering. I moved my head around and saw that Y/N was against her car, smoking another cigarette, she looked up at me, then looked ahead at the sky, pursed her lips, and blew out the smoke.

“Juggie what are you looking at?” Betty inquired, then she turned in the direction in which I was looking at. Then she turned back to me.

“Hey, maybe you should talk to her?” She spoke lightly caressing my arm.

“I don’t know if I want to talk to the Kraken.” I replied, laughing slightly. Betty returned the laugh.

“She seems a lot like you, it couldn’t hurt.”

“Are you sure?” I smirked, and Betty lightly shoved me, that implied for me to get up. I had put my hands up, surrendering, and walked away from the table. Kevin and Veronica asked something to Betty from a distance as I walked to Y/N.

She looked at me, taking a long inhale, and blew the smoke out.

“Now you too? Are your friends obsessed with me?” She interrogated.

“For some reason, Bets is really set on us trying to ‘befriend’ you. She’s wasting her breath.”

Y/N genuinely laughed, it sounded foreign but nice.

“I’ll drink to that. So what is she? Your girlfriend?” Y/N questioned taking another puff.

“Maybe, we’re still in that development phase.” She nodded her head, and dropped her cigarette, jamming it to the ground.

“Aren’t you FP’s son?” My eyes widened, how could she have possibly known that?

“Uh yeah, why are you asking?” I inquired raising my brow.

“‘Cause I go to the Whyte Wyrm often and heard your name spilling through FP’s drunken mouth more than a few times. He tells me how much he respects you and wishes he could be a better father.” My mouth at the time gaped in shock. I never saw my father, he had yet, at the time, told me what Y/N just did, even more, he expressed those feeling to a stranger more or less.

“I’m confused. Are you a serpent or do you just hang around there?”

“Soon I’ll become a serpent.” Y/N answered.

“That’s why you don’t have the jacket.” I spoke to myself. She nodded her head.

“You don’t seem like a bad person so what’s the act?” I interviewed. Then like a switch, Y/N went cold, her eyes shot daggers at me.

“Why don’t you just go to your posse?” She disputed and looked the other way. Meaning she was done talking to me. I then walked back to the table.

“So how was the wicked witch of the west?” Kevin asked chuckling. I sat on the cold seat and fixed my crown hat.

“Apparently she knows my dad, and she’s going to join the south side serpents.” I told them.

“Now it all makes sense.” Veronica spoke out, I glared at her.

“I’m just saying!” Veronica declared.

“She’s not as ruthless as she lets out to be, I think. I’m just saying, it wasn’t the most unpleasant conversation I’ve ever had.” I remarked.

“I told you!” Betty exclaimed hugging me.

“She’s probably luring you into a trap so she could strike us.” Veronica debated.

“Maybe she has a barrier that has to be let down.” Archie voiced.

“Archiekins, once you’ve talked to her, come to me, and then you can tell me how she is.” Veronica answered.

Archie smirked, “Maybe I will.”

Archie’s POV

I stood in front of “Pops”, hands in my letterman jacket. I walked up the stairs, my foot bounced with each step against the slippery concrete. I pushed the door forward, Pops greeted me with a smile. I nod my head and searched through the aisle for Jughead, he was nowhere to be found.

Then I saw her, Y/N, and my interest my piqued. I think I’ll take Veronica up on that offer. Y/N was reading a book, I couldn’t distinguish it from the distance I was standing. I walked towards her, hands became clammy after every step. When I reached her, I stood right in her line of sight, she slowly dropped her book and looked up at me. I took my hands out from my jacket and wiped them against my jeans.

“Hey there-“

“Now pretty boy is deciding to talk to me huh? Must be my lucky day. Woo.” She spoke sarcastically, and I stifled a laugh.

“So, uh, what book are you reading?” I asked, scratching the back of my head.

“Aww is token boy a little nervous talking to the big bad wolf?,” She pouted, “But if you must know, it’s the ‘Grapes of Wrath’, written by John Steinbeck.”

“Oh…”

“Do you not know what this book’s about?” I shyly shook my head.

“Figures.” She spoke underneath her breath.

“I’d like to know! Maybe I could sit with you and tell me about it?” I questioned, eyes bright. She started to laugh, and I tilted my head in confusion.

“I see what you’re trying to do, and I’m not falling for that cute boy act. Plus, you’re not my type.” Now I was more confused than before. Then I understood what she meant. I started to blush like crazy.

“No! I don’t mean it like that. I genuinely want to know what the book is about.” I replied.

“Shouldn’t you be off with your friends or is this a game to see who the new girl can talk to first?” She seethed, clearly angry. My face looked down, despair written on it. I turned around starting to walk away.

“Wait,” She spoke defeated, and I turned back, “If you honestly want to know what it’s about, you can sit.” I smiled brightly and walked up to the booth, and slid in across from her.

“Okay, first I should tell you about Tom Joad, the protagonist of the book…” - “This book sounds amazing!” I gushed, and she laughed and took a bite out of a fry.

“Who knew that pretty boy would be into a book like this?” Y/N asked, shaking her head.

“Can I borrow the book? I really want to read it.”

“Isn’t there a library you could get it from? Plus you’d be helping the library industry, God knows they need it.”

“I understand…”

“Ugh, fine,” My head popped up, eyes widened.

“After, I finish the book again.”

“Thank you so much!” I thanked her, and for a couple of seconds, we sat there in silence.

“So, I, um, see that you smoke a lot. Why do you smoke? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Well, I know the repercussions of smoking, I’m not an idiot. However, I guess I do it because I feel free, I don’t have any troubles in the world. I know, why not do yoga? Or run? I guess, I just have been doing it for so long, it’s like second nature.”

“I don’t know how to reply to that…”

“It’s fine, you don’t have to. I can understand that it’s different from most kids smoking things like weed.”

“I don’t smoke weed.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“I mean I obviously have the option to, but I don’t and I’m perfectly fine with that.” I defended myself.

“He don’t get so uptight. If anything,” Y/N moved in her seat uncomfortably, “I think it’s cool you don’t have to smoke just to feel alive. You have yourself and people that make you feel that way. I respect that.” I smiled at her, and for the first time, I saw her. She was broken, like a beautiful porcelain China doll crashing on the ground, and all I wanted to was glue her back together.

Tags:

@allison0609 @lupinlys @graysonmalfoy @rosaetum @parkcrspeter

#archie x reader #archie andrews #archie comics #riverdale x reader #riverdale #jughead #jughead x reader #jughead jones #veronica lodge #betty cooper #kevin keller #southside serpents #x reader

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extramuro · 6 years

Text

Crazy They Call Me

By Zadie Smith

Well, you certainly don’t go out anyplace less than dressed, not these days. Can’t let anybody mistake you for that broken, misused little girl: Eleanora Fagan. No. Let there be no confusion. Not in the audience or in your old man, in the maître d’ or the floor manager, the cops or the goddam agents of the goddam I.R.S. You always have your fur, present and correct, hanging off your shoulders just so. Take back your mink, take back your pearls. But you don’t sing that song, it’s not in your key. Let some other girl sing it. The type who gets a smile from a cop even if she’s crossing Broadway in her oldest Terylene housedress. You don’t have that luxury. Besides, you love that mink! Makes the state of things clear. In fact—though many aren’t hip to this yet—not only is there no more Eleanora, there isn’t any Billie, either. There is only Lady Day. Alligator bag, three rows of diamonds nice and thick on your wrist—never mind that it’s three o’clock in the afternoon. You boil an egg in twinset and pearls.

They got you holed up in Newark for the length of this engagement, and one day the wife of the super says to you, So you can’t play New York no more, huh? Who cares? To me, you always look like lady. She’s Italian. She gets it. No judgment. She says, I look after you. I be your mother. God bless her, but your daughter days are done. And if a few sweet, clueless bobby-soxers, happy as Sunday, stop you on 110th to tell you how much they loved you at Carnegie Hall, how much they loved you on “The Tonight Show,” try your best not to look too bored, take out your pearl-encrusted cigarette box and hand them a smoke. Girl, you must give away twenty smokes a day. You give it all away, it streams from you, like rivers rolling to the sea: love, music, money, smokes. What you got, everybody wants—and most days you let ’em have it. Sometimes it’s as much as you can do to keep ahold of your mink.

It’s not that you don’t like other women, exactly, it’s only that you’re wary. And they’re wary of you right back. No surprise, really. Most of these girls live in a completely different world. You’ve visited that world on occasion, but it’s not home. You’re soon back on the road. Meanwhile they look at you and see that you’re unattached—even when you’re hitched—they see you’re floating, that no one tells you when to leave the club, and there’s nobody crying in a cot waiting for you to pick them up and sing a lullaby. No, nobody tells you who to see or where to go, and if they do, you don’t have to listen, even when you get a sock to the jaw. Now, the women you tend to meet? They don’t know what to do with that. They don’t know what to do with the God-blessed child, with the girl that’s got her own, who can stay up drinking with the clarinet player till the newspaper boys hit the corners. And maybe one of these broads is married to that clarinet player. And maybe the two of them have a baby and a picket fence and all that jazz. So naturally she’s wary. You can understand that. Sure.

And you’ve always been—well, what’s the right term for it? A man’s lady? Men are drawn to you, all kinds of men, and not just for the obvious. Even your best girlfriends are men, if you see what I mean, yes, you’ve got your little gang of dear boys who aren’t so very different from you, despite appearances: they got nobody steady to go home to, either. So if some lover man breaks your heart, or your face, you can trust in your little gang to be there for you, more often than not, trust them to come round to wherever you’re at, with cigarettes and alcohol, and quote Miss Crawford, and quote Miss Stanwyck, and make highballs, and tell you that you really oughta get a dog. Honey, you should get a dog. They never doubt you’re Lady Day—matter of fact, they knew you were She before you did.

You get a dog.

Women are wary, lover men come and go and mostly leave you waiting, and, truth be told, even those dear boys who make the highballs have their own thing going on, more often than not. But you’re not afraid to look for love in all kinds of places. Once upon a time there was that wild girl Tallulah, plus a few other ladies, back in the day, but there was no way to be in the world like that, not back then—or no way you could see—and anyhow most of those ladies were crazier than a box of frogs. Nobody’s perfect. Which is another way of saying there’s no escape from this world. And so sometimes, on a Friday night, after the singing is over and the clapping dies down, there’s simply no one and nothing to be done. You fall back on yourself. Backstage empties out, but they’re still serving. You’re not in the mood for conversation.

Later, you’ll open your vanity case and take a trip on the light fantastic—but right at this moment you’re grateful for your little dog. You did have a huge great dog, a while back, but she was always knocking glasses off the side tables, and then she went and died on you, so now you got this tiny little angel. Pepi. A dog don’t cheat, a dog don’t lie. Dogs remind you of you: they give everything they’ve got, they’re wide open to the world. It’s a big risk! There are people out there who’ll kick a little half-pint dog like Pepi just for something to do. And you know how that feels. This little dog and you? Soul mates. Where you been all my life? He’s like those dogs you read about, that sit on their master’s grave for years and years and years. Recently, you had a preview of this. You were up in the stratosphere, with no body at all, floating, almost right there with God, you were hanging off the pearly gates, and nobody and nothing could make you come back. Some fool slapped you, some other fool sprayed seltzer in your face—nothing. Then this little angel of a dog licked you right in your eye socket and you came straight back to earth just to feel it, and three hours after that you were on a stage, getting paid. Dogs are too good for this world.

Maybe a lot of people wouldn’t guess it but you can be the most wonderful aunt, godmother, nursemaid, when the mood takes you. You can spot a baby across a room and make it smile. That’s a skill! Most people don’t even try to develop it! People always telling these put-upon babies what to do, what to think, what to say, what to eat. But you don’t ask anything at all from them—and that’s your secret. You’re one of the few who just like to make a baby smile. And they love you for it, make no mistake, they adore you, and all things being equal you’d stay longer if you could, you’d stay and play, but you’ve got bills to pay.

Matter of fact, downstairs right this moment there’s five or six of these business-minded fellows, some of them you know pretty well, some you don’t, some you never saw before in your life, but they’re all involved in your bills one way or another, and they say if you don’t mind too much they’d like to escort you to the club. It’s only ten blocks, but they’d like to walk you there. I guess somebody thinks you’re not going to get there at all without these—now, what would you call them? Chaperons. Guess somebody’s worried. But with or without your chaperons you’ll get there, you always get there, and you’re always on time, except during those exceptions when exceptional things seem to happen which simply can’t be helped. Anyway, once you open your mouth all is forgiven. You even forgive yourself. Because you are exceptional, and so exceptions must be made. And isn’t the point that whenever a lady turns up onstage she’s always right on time?

Hair takes a while, face takes longer. It’s all work, it’s all a kind of armor. You got skinny a while back and some guys don’t like it, one even told you that you got a face like an Egyptian death mask now. Well, good! You wear it, it’s yours. Big red lips and now this new high ponytail bouncing around—the gardenias are done, the gardenias belonged to Billie—and if somebody asks you where exactly this new long twist of hair comes from you’ll cut your eyes at whoever’s doing the asking and say, Well, I wear it so I guess it’s mine. It’s my hair on my goddam head. It’s arranged just so around my beautiful mask—take a good look! Because you know they’re all looking right at it as you sing, you place it deliberately in the spotlight, your death mask, because you know they can’t help but seek your soul in the face, it’s their instinct to look for it there. You paint the face as protection. You draw the eyebrows, define the lips. It’s the border between them and you. Otherwise, everybody in the place would think they had permission to leap right down your throat and eat your heart out.

People ask: What’s it like standing up there? It’s like eating your own heart out. It’s like there’s nobody out there in the dark at all. All the downtown collectors and the white ladies in their own fancy furs love to talk about your phrasing—it’s the fashion to talk about your phrasing—but what sounds like a revolution to others is simple common sense to you. All respect to Ella, all respect to Sarah, but when those gals open their mouths to sing, well, to you it’s like someone just opened a brand-new Frigidaire. A chill comes over you. And you just can’t do it like that. Won’t. It’s obvious to you that a voice has the same work to do, musically speaking, as the sax or the trumpet or the piano. A voice has got to feel its way in. Who the hell doesn’t know that? Yet somehow these people don’t act like they know it, they always seem surprised. They sit in the dark, drinking Martinis, in their mink, in their tux. People are idiots. You wear pearls and you throw them before swine, more or less. Depends what pearls, though, and what swine. Not everybody, for example, is gonna get “Strange Fruit.” Not every night. They’ve got to be deserving—a word that means a different thing depending on the night. You told somebody once, I only do it for people who might understand and appreciate it. This is not a June-Moon-Croon-Tune. This song tells a story about pain and heartache. Three hundred years of heartache! You got to turn each room you play into a kind of church in order to accommodate that much pain. Yet people shout their requests from their tables like you’re a goddam jukebox. People are idiots. You never sing anything after “Strange Fruit,” either. That’s the last song no matter what and sometimes if you’re high, and the front row look rich and stupid and dull, that’s liable to be your only song. And they’ll be thankful for it! Even though it’s not easy for them to listen to and not easy for you to sing. When you sing it you have been described as punishing, you have been described as relentless. Well, you’re not done with that song till you’re done with it. You will never be done with it. It’ll be done with you first.

In the end, people don’t want to hear about dogs and babies and feeling your way into a phrase, or eating your heart out—people want to hear about you as you appear in these songs. They never want to know about the surprise you feel in yourself, the sense of being directed by God, when something in the modulation of your throat leaps up, like a kid reaching for a rising balloon, except most kids miss while you catch it—yes, you catch it almost without expecting to—landing on an incidental note, a perfect addition, one you never put in that phrase before, and never heard anyone else do, and yet you can hear at once that it is perfection. Perfection! It has the sound of something totally inevitable—it’s better than Porter, it’s better than Gershwin. In a moment you have written over their original versions finally and completely. . . .

No, they never ask you about that. They want the cold, hard facts. They ask dull questions about the songs, about which man goes with which song in your mind, and if they’re a little more serious they might ask about Armstrong or Basie or Lester. If they’re sneaky with no manners, they’ll want to know if chasing the drink or the dragon made singing those songs harder or sweeter. They’ll want to know about your run-ins with the federal government of these United States. They’ll want to know if you hated or loved the people in your audience, the people who paid your wages, stole your wages, arrested you once for fraternizing with a white man, jailed you for hooking, jailed you for being, and raided your hospital room, right at the end, as you lay conversing with God. They are always very interested to hear that you don’t read music. Once, you almost said—to a sneaky fellow from the Daily News, who was inquiring—you almost turned to him and said Motherfucker I AM music. But a lady does not speak like that, however, and so you did not. ♦

#Zadie Smith #Billie Holiday #Lady Day

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punk-is-notdead · 7 years

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Fic title: All in the Subtext, by tfw_cas

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Tags: Castiel Dean Winchester Gabriel (Supernatural) Benny Lafitte Meg Masters Jody Mills Destiel - Freeform Alternate Universe - High School Romeo and Juliet References First Kiss cross-dressing Mild Wing Kink Shakespearean subtext I think I might be reading too much into it

Summary: Castiel Novak accidentally ends up wearing the wrong costume during a high school production of Romeo and Juliet, which provokes a strong reaction from his best friend Dean Winchester.

AO3

Castiel accosted his brother outside his bedroom door and looked at him accusingly. “Gabriel, have you seen my costume?”

“Costume?” The look on Gabriel’s face was all feigned innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about Cassie.”

“Gabriel!” Castiel was starting to lose his patience, and used his most threatening tone to try to intimidate his trickster of a brother. “You know very well what I am talking about. My costume for the play.”

“Oh, that costume. It’s on the back of the kitchen door.”

With one last look of annoyance the black haired boy ran downstairs, grabbed the bag from the door and flung himself out of the house to join his best friend Dean, who was waiting patiently for him. Dean stared wide-eyed at him for a moment, and it was definitely not because of his dishevelled appearance; hair sticking up all over the place and tie on backwards.

“Oh, er… hey Cas.” The green-eyed boy regained the power of speech and gave his friend a beaming smile.

“Hello Dean.” Castiel smiled back and they fell into step beside each other as they walked to school. They talked excitedly about the play, which was having its first performance this evening as soon as school was finished. This performance was for staff and other students only, but it was being treated as seriously as the ‘proper’ ones.

The school day dragged on - well, for Castiel it did anyway. He was practically buzzing by the time it came for them to go to the gym and get ready. There was very little time for the young actors and actresses to get changed into their costumes and as Castiel pulled his out of the bag, he was horrified. Oh god! What the hell is this? He found he was holding a frilly dress, flower crown and ballet slippers instead of the soldier’s uniform he was supposed to be wearing. And, is that a pair of angel wings on the back of the dress? He was going to kill Gabriel when he got home; this was their sister Anna’s ballet gear.

He realised that he was either going to have to wear his school clothes or the dress and in a sudden rush of daring, he quickly picked the second option. He knew that most of the other students already thought he was strange anyway and hopefully it would at least get a laugh. He tried to remove the wings from the dress, but they had been sewn on expertly by their mother. They would have to stay.

He hid himself beside the stage, not wanting anyone else to see him and he waited for his cue, becoming more nervous as his entrance grew nearer. Eventually, he heard the actress playing his mother say the words ‘O where is Romeo’ and he readied himself to get on the stage after a few more lines. When he came out from behind the curtain, the other actors stared in utter confusion at his appearance. There was a smattering of laughter from some of the students in the audience, which was quickly hushed up by the teachers.

He could see the drama teacher, Ms. Mills, looking at him with a mixture of surprise and humour. At least she wasn’t angry with him. He gave Benny, who was playing Benvolio, an expectant look and waited for him to gather his wits and carry on with the dialogue. The scene continued and, strangely, Castiel felt a kind of exhilaration at being on stage in such a ridiculous costume. It helped that only Ms. Mills and the other actors and actresses were aware that he should have been wearing something different.

When the scene ended, they exited the stage and waited by the curtain while Juliet spoke with her mother and the nurse. Benny turned to him and gently whistled through his teeth. “Castiel, you shoulda warned me about the costume change. Nearly forgot my lines.” He spoke fondly though, without any annoyance, and Castiel was glad of it, smiling bashfully. As Juliet’s scene came to a close, they readied themselves for their next one. Dean was finally going to appear in the play, come to think of it, where was Dean? Castiel realised that he hadn’t seen him yet, so he was going to get a big surprise.

They all swaggered onto the stage, with Dean as Mercutio handily arriving just in the nick of time. At the moment his first line was due to be delivered, towards Romeo, he spotted what Castiel was wearing and his brain came to a screeching halt. Castiel bored into his friend with his piercing blue eyes and willed him to carry on, but Dean was transfixed. As they stared into each other’s eyes for that little bit longer than was comfortable, Benny leaned forward and said to Dean, “Your line brother. Get it together.”

Dean mentally shook himself before he spoke his line. “Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.” The irony of the fact that his friend was wearing a ballet dress was not lost on him and he tried to think about anything else. Romeo spoke, then it was his turn again. “You are a lover; borrow Cupid’s wings, and soar with them above a common ground.” Seriously? Was Cas wearing those clothes just to mess with him?

Then Cas said something about being enpierced with his shaft and he decided that he was actually in Hell. Focus, godammit. It’s Shakespeare, not some gay love story. For a couple of lines everything was relatively ok, until he had to say, “If love be rough with you, be rough with love. Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.” Jesus! Maybe this is a gay love story. He said the rest of his lines in a kind of trance, trying not to think about Cas in that dress, wearing goddam angel wings, and lines about shafts, pricking and being rough with love.

As the play progressed, Dean found he could breathe again, although he could not watch the balcony scene because of the pain it caused him. He knew that it was only acting, but Castiel was kissing Meg, who definitely had the hots for him. Dean did not want to admit it, but he was jealous, even though he had no right to be. They were friends, nothing more, no matter how much Dean wished that were not true.

When Mercutio’s death scene came, Dean tried to look at someone else as he spoke his final words, but he found his eyes were fixed on Castiel.

“Help me into some house, Benvolio,

Or I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses.

They have made worms meat of me.

I have it, and soundly, too. Your houses!”

Everyone except Castiel left the stage then, with Benny carrying Dean due to his mortal wounds, and he watched his friend go with a fond look on his face; knowing that he would not see him again. The thought of that made his heart ache with longing and tears began to prick at his eyes. Castiel gradually noticed that he had been staring at where they had exited for far too long and he started speaking again, delivering his lines about the death of Mercutio with a real passion.

As they reached Romeo’s death scene, Castiel tried to inject as much feeling into his dying speech as he could, but even he could tell that compared to the way he had spoken about Mercutio, it fell rather flat. Meg’s delivery of her final speech was much better and the audience were suitably moved.

During the curtain calls, Dean came to stand next to Castiel and they looked at each other shyly through the applause. Benny turned to them, raising his eyebrows.“It’s a good thing Mercutio dies when he does. Else the play would have a very different name.”

They both looked at him, but neither of them responded. As the final applause died down and the curtain stayed in place, everyone except Dean and Castiel left the stage. They seemed frozen where they stood. When they realised that they were alone, they tried to speak at the same time.

“Where’d you get the outfit, Cas? I always knew you were an angel.” Dean’s gaze roamed over his friend’s body.

“I did not like watching you die.” Castiel’s already deep voice was somehow lower than usual, as the emotion washed over him.

“Hey, I’m not actually dead.” Dean pulled his friend into his arms to comfort him. “Anyway, if I was gonna die, you’d rescue me. You’re an angel after all.”

Castiel smiled as he moved back slightly, so that he could look into Dean’s beautiful green eyes properly. “Not an angel, but thank you, Dean.”

“In my dreams you are.” Dean leaned forward until their mouths were almost touching. Shit. Did I say that out loud?

“You dream about me?” Castiel’s heartbeat became erratic and his breath hitched, as he moved so that their lips were brushing when he spoke. Dean’s answer was lost as they finally came together in a soft, gentle kiss. He groaned into his friend’s mouth and they deepened the kiss, each pulling the other forward until their bodies were flush and their hips were rolling together creating a delicious friction.

The kiss went on for who knows how long, until they pulled apart and tried to catch their breath. “Dean.” Castiel ran his hands through his friend’s hair. “I should get changed.”

“Don’t you dare, Cas. You look too good in that.” Dean ran his hands over his friend’s body, loving the way he squirmed at his touch. “Especially the wings.”

“Do you think Ms. Mills will let me wear this for every performance?” Now that he had Dean’s approval, he really wanted to. And maybe he wouldn’t kill Gabriel after all.

#destiel fic #i wrote a thing #destiel #supernatural #fanfic

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theliterateape · 4 years

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The Primary Reason I Didn’t Vote in the Illinois Primary

By David Himmel

“The flag should never be displayed with the union down, except as a signal of dire distress in instances of extreme danger to life or property.” —U.S Code 176

I didn’t see the usual “I VOTED” stickers from my darling and my annoying social media friends on Super Tuesday III—as MSNBC was calling it in further effort to make the news feel like a Rocky film. That is due in part because I didn’t spend much time on social media yesterday. I couldn’t afford that time. I was busy with other stuff. But it also could be because a lot of those social media friends didn’t vote, and if they did, things are so goddamn dour now that bragging about running an errand wasn’t worth the energy it takes to frame, filter, and post a pic proving your citizenship.

I also didn’t vote in the Illinois Primary on Super Tuesday III—again, MSNBC’s title for a voting day because MSNBC is run by dorks who get hard and wet over the most mundane but important aspects of American life.

Yep. I’m that guy. I’m that guy who didn’t vote in the most important primary of our lives. Right? That’s what this is, right? Eh. I’m also that guy who is married to a woman who didn’t vote in the Illinois Primary on Super Tuesday III.

Allow me to digress… Okay, look, I realize that MSNBC didn’t create the Super Tuesday III moniker, but that was the channel my wife had on most of the day as we were holed up in our apartment trying to dodge COVID-19. And I dislike MSNBC almost as much as I dislike FOX News, so I’m easily coerced by my own ego—maybe my id, I don’t know—to take a barely clever shit on its dumb, smug face whenever I can.

Now, back to the important thoughts… I’m that guy who didn’t vote. And I’m that guy whose wife didn’t vote. And I fully expect friends of ours, friends like Rory Zacher to comment on this story or its Facebook post, or to text me and say something to the effect of: “I hope Trump comes into your home, grabs your two-year-old-son by the pussy and builds a wall around your toilet. That’s what you get for not voting.” And that’s fine. Because my son doesn’t have a pussy. Just ask him. He will proudly tell you he has a penis and that “Mommy penis… bye-bye.” And that reminds me… I need to teach my son that a penis is not something that all people have then goes “bye-bye.” That’s sexism. And it only applies, respectfully, to rich trannies.

I’m a politico. I even write and host podcasts for POLITICO. But I didn’t vote. Why? Well, duh…

The primary reason I didn’t vote in the Illinois Primary yesterday—Rachel Maddow’s third best orgasm of 2020—is simple: It wasn’t important.

My vote would not have mattered. Nope. I don’t want to hear it. It wouldn’t have mattered. I would have chosen a Democratic Ballot. Between the job, trying to keep Literate Ape functioning, missing Don Hall like the deserts miss the rain, being an engaged dad and attentive husband, and thinking through two film projects, one novel, and a book of poetry, I did not have the bandwidth to consider those down-ballot elections. I like to think of myself as non-partisan. I would easily vote republican if I thought a republican candidate could do the job right. But if I had voted today, I would have asked for a Democratic ballot, which means I would have ben voting for the best of the most useless so-called liberal. Maybe there were general contests to vote for, I don’t know. Because I mostly don’t care. And I’ll come back to that in a moment. As it relates to voting for the president, well… I’d prefer Bernie. But, if Old Joe Dementia gets the nomination, that’s fine. I know Bernie won’t get done all he wants to get done because he’ll never have the support of Congress required to do it. See, the thing that most people forget is that the president is designed to be the Face, not the Ruler. It’s Congress that makes the difference. And come the general election, I’ll likely vote Democrat all the way down. Except for judges. But that’s a complicated story for another time.

The primary reason I didn’t vote in the Illinois Primary yesterday—Rachel Maddow’s third best orgasm of 2020—is simple: It wasn’t important.

So even I had voted, it wouldn’t have mattered. Some excited wank aligned with the Democratic Party would be elected over an equally excited wank aligned with the Democratic Party. And then it’ll be a fight to the finish against a republican cocknozzle who wants to be as (un)cool as Devin Nunes. And my vote for Bernie, and my wife’s vote for Bernie, would not have helped keeping him from getting trounced the same way the Houston Astros trounced the rules of baseball. Thing is, if I had voted, I’d feel far more disappointed than I am right now. And you should know, dear reader, that my secondary goal in life is to master disappointment. The first goal is to convince myself, my wife, and every girlfriend I’ve ever had that I was worth the lay.

Yeah, yeah, Zacher, I know, I could have early voted. And I thought about that. “Maybe we should do that,” I said to my wife, Katie. Or maybe she said it to me. But we didn’t. Why? I dunno. Because this primary didn’t matter much in our household, I suppose. And that’s selfish, I know. But we’re white and not broke, and we own a boat, and we have so many friends who can afford in vitro and all that shit—like multiple times, all of them—so what the fuck do you expect from us?

So, the primary reason I didn’t vote in the Illinois Primary is because it wasn’t important. And not just because I don’t care about the flawed system or the sub-basement candidates. But because when I considered the risk of casting a vote for one fuckhead over another at risk of contracting COVID-19, I chose to stay home and have Zoom meetings with co-workers.

But here’s the other thing—that goddamn coronavirus. Yep. I’m not afraid, but I’m not an idiot. I’ve been a healthcare journalist to varying degrees for ten years. I was the editor in chief of Chicago Health magazine for six years. I’m a senior healthcare reporter for POLITICO. I’m not bragging (should I?), I’m just setting the stage to tell you that I’m not an everyday idiot. I’m a special kind of idiot! I recognize this shit is real. It was real the moment it left Wuhan. And really, it was real the moment it left the bat and made its way into the first human, or however the fuck this goddamn thing began.

Katie was sick on Sunday. A slight fever, which dropped quickly, was not the great concern. The great concern was her hydration because she was—how can I put this politely—shitting out of her mouth and pissing out of her ass for a good twenty-four hours. Three days later, she’s still struggling to find her normal. And now our boy has a fever. Tuesday afternoon, he broke through 100ºF with the gusto we all wanted Hillary to break through that glass ceiling. (Alas, another white male out did a woman. Yeah, I’m as perturbed by it as you are, brah/sista.)

Do they have COVID-19? Probably not. But were/are they ill? Yep. And in a time when we know less than almost fuck all about this pandemic, should someone exposed to their snot, breath, and farts venture out to a voting booth, take hold of a communal pen, and breathe on every available surface? Nah. Probably not.

As of this writing, I feel great. My bowel movements are as liquid as they usually are and my ability to breathe is as normal as it usually is, which is to say, I can smell all the farts in my house. The lingering ones… the ones living in the couch cushions, the ones that aren’t mine or Katie’s or Harry’s, but those of some of our dearest friends. You know who you are, couch farters.

My office shut down last week after the news that someone in one of the largest downtown Chicago office complexes was tested positive for COVID-19. The agency I work for has taken some drastic measures to ensure its survival as has almost every single organization in the United States with employees and clients to consider. This shit is ugly. And with each passing day, it look smore and more like a more devastating. I mean, they’ve stopped the money. No NBA. No NCAA. No goddam casinos! When America shuts down it’s money, you know shit is real. This is stranger and more dire and more uncertain than 9/11. And 9/11 was fucking fucked up. You remember, right?

So I didn’t vote. I’m on a minor quarantine. Since I’m the only person in our household—other than the dog—without any flu-like or ass dynamite symptoms, I’m the one who makes the Walgreens runs and walks that mooch of a dog (whom I love). And as In pass other dog walkers, or the rare jogger or Walgreens runner, we take extra steps aside to avoid each other—three feet at least! And we give a knowing nod to say, “Don’t vote, dude. Those pens are not getting whipped down. I know they say they are, but come on. We all know that’s not true. The wipedowns are dependent on poorly paid democratic (lowercase D, morons, calm down) do-gooders who would rather be at home than have you breathing and coughing on them.”

The outcome of the 2020 election, presidential and every more important down-ballot ticket will not be determined by my staying at home. And if it does, it doesn’t matter. Because even if Old Joe Dementia gets the nomination, even if Trump is reelected, even if Kim Fox marries Jussie Smollet’s straight alter-ego, my vote yesterday—Super Tuesday III when Brian Williams and Rachel Maddow scissor to the tune of Europe’s “The Final Countdown” during Morning Joe, nothing is more important than the health of my family, myself, and my neighborhood. Especially when stacked against our decaying democracy, or whatever the fuck we call this shitshow now.

#Election 2020 #Illinois Primary #Illinois Politics #Elections #MSNBC #MSNBC Sucks #Rachel Maddow #Brian Williams #Super Tuesday #elections

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charlesbrianorner-blog · 5 years

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Heterodox America

I WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND the mysterious mechanics of the universe—not like an Albert Einstein, or a Richard Feynman, or a Steven Hawking, or a Neils Bohr. I cannot see the world through the eyes of Leonardo or Michelangelo or Pollock or O’Keefe. I lack the business acumen of Jobs; the global vision of Musk; the profound mysticism of Gurdjieff. I am an ordinary man, possessed of ordinary attributes, and in the failure to reach the high places, I am, like most of us, entirely innocent.

No one expects to become Hemingway or the Pope, but each of us labors to learn and grow beyond our clumsy childhood in the sheer pursuit of survival—to become the best version of ourselves that we can be, in the hopes of living a comfortable and satisfying life. This is also entirely ordinary, and entirely innocent.

Ten seconds’ reflection reveals that there is more to this life than comfort and satisfaction, however, and those among us with higher natures in embryo pursue the perfection not only of themselves, but also of the wider world in which they live. These include the luminaries above, certainly, but also scientists and social workers; physicians and philosophers, artists and architects, journalists and the judiciary. Educators. Monks. Anyone at all who understands that the world is capricious, nothing in life is certain, and we all do better when we throw in together. Anyone who values the life of the mind, the beauty of the natural world, and the abiding wish to unburden the downtrodden. Anyone, finally, who understands that the betterment of society begins with the betterment of oneself in service to the noble attributes: honor, integrity, intelligence, and being.

Many of us understand this at some level. We are imperfect, to be sure, but we aspire to nobility, and we work in whatever way we can for a moment of kindness, or justice, or insight, or grace. The school of hard knocks is hard, yes, but it is nevertheless a school, and within its walls, people of good will are constrained to learn and improve—not only for the acquisition of their creature comforts, but for the betterment of society. Such people venerate selflessness beyond success, and compassion beyond quid pro quo. They own the mistakes that they make, and work like hell to avoid repeating them. They revere virtue, and revile cowardice. They pursue sincerity and detest hypocrisy. They respect truth and excoriate mendacity. They witness. They dream.

I used to believe that this described the essential human condition. I used to believe that many of us was in fact most of us—yea, that any of us was in fact all of us. I believe this no longer.

Today I live in a world in which the preponderant political faction of society is characterized by none of these attributes. These fine citizens have dispensed with the essence of the American experiment—compassion, inclusion, generosity, and fairness—in service to elevating one of the world’s most despicable human beings to the Presidency of the United States. I live in a world in which the aggregate power of the political class is now devoting itself to crippling the institutions that we ordinary folk have by generations labored to build and to better. These fine, fine citizens believe that education is effete, the rule of law is transactional, and the social safety net is suspect. Business is boffo, Science is sorcery, religion is Rorschach, and liberalism is libel. In fact they believe any old thing at all, no matter how preposterous, so long as it was jawboned by an obscenely wealthy white bigot with shiny teeth and shiny hair and a Brobdingnagian bully pulpit.

These fine citizens are citizens, yes, but they are only fine after the fashion of volcanic sand, or livestock manure, or the aromatic waft of a cheese factory. You can find them crooning in lemming uniformity at the guttural twaddle emanating from any one of the Cow Palace shit shows known throughout the Republic as a Trump rally. This is the circus as Colosseum; verbal violence and boorish boosterism replete with really good lines—short at the door, long at the latrine, and crossed at the cusp of common decency.

Expect profound rejoinders like “Goddam right!” and “Fuckin’ A!” and whatever the neofascist form of “Sieg Heil!” might be. The latest schoolyard swipe is “AOC Sucks!”—a devastatingly clever double entendre from people whose goose-step soliloquies ordinarily extend all the way to three words, from “Lock her up!” to “Build that wall! to the lyrics of some Kid Rock drivel, which may or may not actually have three words. Within these hollowed halls, policy is for pussies. What sells is sloganeering.

Note the tribal conformity in headwear and hoodwear and Silver-Shirted signage, but do not make the mistake of inquiring as to when, precisely, it is thought that America was great.(1) Oh no. That road can only end in tears. Note the popularity of histrionic gestures—middle fingers and O-KKK!s and the odd skinhead with his thumb up his ass—plus the ever-impressive Bellamy salute, courtesy of the hatless, hairless, brainless homunculi of Proud Boy pedigree.(2)

This is Heterodox America—angry and arrogant; entitled and abusive; full of sound and fury, but signifying nothing beyond the Dunning–Kruger Effect.(3)

Ten seconds’ endurance reveals that these are not ordinary men and women, possessed of ordinary American attributes. These are people not of the high places, and they are nothing like innocent. Einstein, Feynman, Hawking, Bohr—such inquisitive minds flee in confusion and horror. Leonardo, Michelangelo, Pollock, O’Keefe—mere also-rans in the company of Julian Raven and Jason Heuser.(4) (5)

Really, who can compete with a painting of an uzi-wielding Ronald Reagan astride a flag-waving velociraptor? Please. Jackson Pollock is just a putz. And the noble attributes? Open-carry that liberal bullshit back out the Palace orifice, pal—we have mantras to memorize.

The central message of every Trump rally is bald-faced cruelty. They exist to denigrate and debase; to fictionalize and fool; to inflame and incite. Trump pontificates and poisons, accuses and aggrandizes, and trades in the currency of fear, completing perhaps one sentence in five. He knows nothing, says nothing, lies with abandon, and his rancid mob howls. It’s ad hominem as ad lib; pusillanimous pogrom as political theater; mental illness as Mein Kampf.

It was not so long ago that Hillary was not crooked, Comey was not shady, and AOC did not suck. Pocahontas was an historical figure, Adam Shiff had an ordinary neck, and Rocket Man was the anthem of a generation. It was not so long ago I that believed in the essential goodness of the American character—that we all strive for perfection, and we all do better when we throw in together. But I have witnessed the depravity of Trump’s base, and it is base, indeed—slavish to suggestibility, inured to actual fact, and entirely absent the American values that once made this country great. These fine folk have dispensed with their innocence in favor of bigoted bread and circuses, and they belong nowhere near the magnificent, imperfect pantheon of the American experiment.

Time will eventually consign theses fine citizens and their Dear Leader to the trash heap of history, therein to molder with the likes of Benjamin Tillman, and Eugene McCarthy, and Huey Long, and every other tin-horn demagogue who has ever soiled the national stage. When that time comes, Donald Trump’s mindless minions will know only shunning and shame, while the rest of America resumes its reach for the high places. Till then, we will wait, we will worry, and we will weep.

- CBO

_______________________

(1) The Silver Legion of America, commonly known as the Silver Shirts, was an underground American fascist organization founded by William Dudley Pelley that was headquartered in Asheville, North Carolina. A white-supremacist, antisemitic group modeled after Hitler's Brownshirts, the paramilitary Silver Legion wore a silver shirt with a blue tie, along with a campaign hat and blue corduroy trousers with leggings. The uniform shirts bore a scarlet letter L over the heart: an emblem meant to symbolize Loyalty to the United States, Liberation from materialism, and the Silver Legion itself.

(2) The Bellamy salute is a palm-out salute described by Francis Bellamy, the author of the American Pledge of Allegiance, as the gesture which was to accompany the pledge. During the period when it was used with the Pledge of Allegiance, it was sometimes known as the "flag salute.” Both the Pledge and its salute originated in 1892. Later, during the 1920s and 1930s, Italian fascists and Nazis adopted a salute which was very similar, and which was derived from the Roman salute, a gesture that was popularly (albeit erroneously) believed to have been used in ancient Rome. This resulted in controversy over the use of the Bellamy salute in the United States. It was officially replaced by the hand-over-heart salute when Congress amended the Flag Code on December 22, 1942.

(3) In the field of psychology, the Dunning–Kruger effect is a cognitive bias in which people of low ability have illusory superiority and mistakenly assess their cognitive ability as greater than it is. The cognitive bias of illusory superiority comes from the inability of low-ability people to recognize their lack of ability. Without the self-awareness of metacognition, low-ability people cannot objectively evaluate their competence or incompetence.

(4) For more than two years, Julien Raven tried to convince the Smithsonian’s National Portrait Gallery to display his 300-pound painting of Trump, with no success. Now, after failing to win his case in D.C.’s U.S. District Court, he’s threatening to take the matter to the top of the judicial system in order to get his painting placed. Raven and his huge, eight-foot tall, 16-foot wide painting of Trump, “Unafraid & Unashamed,” was the aesthetic highpoint of last month’s Conservative Political Action Conference, after he displayed it at the annual conservative confab. The painting is a portrait of Trump’s head posed next to a falling American flag that’s being rescued by a bald eagle while flying in space.

(5) San Francisco-based artist Jason Heuser, who sells his work on Etsy under the name Sharpwriter, was recently honored by Representative Mike Lee, who displayed Heuser’s image of former President Ronald Reagan shooting a machine gun atop a Velociraptor holding a torn American flag in chamber of the U.S. House of Representatives.

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radioleary-blog · 5 years

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Burning Flags and Hosing Native Americans

11/30/16

"Nobody should be allowed to burn the American flag," Trump wrote this week, after a college student in New Hampshire burned a flag to protest the election, "if they do, there must be consequences - perhaps loss of citizenship or year in jail!"

This from the guy who called for registering Muslims and imprisoning his political opponents. “If these people don’t like things the way they are, they shouldn’t burn the flag, they should do what I did, and burn the Constitution!” Trump said, “You think I could get away with all the crazy shit I have planned for this country if I just burned a flag? No way, I’d be in a prison cell right next to Hillary. So the Constitution had to go. You say flag burning is protected by the First Amendment? Let’s get rid of it. Shoot the First Amendment with a gun from the Second Amendment. A Bill of Rights? They sold you a bill of goods! It’s a Bill of Wrongs, folks, that’s all it was. A Bill of Wrongs.”

Trump released his statement through what has become the official White House press briefing source: Twitter. Oh, he loves his Twitter. Probably because 140 characters is just about the upper limit of his attention span. And 140 characters is the perfect length for saying something stupid, and saying it loud. With a lot of exclamation points!!! Trump loves Twitter because he knows he never has to provide details or logically support his arguments in 140 characters. Of course, he couldn’t support most of his bullshit with logic if he spent ten years writing them into a Russian novel. Hmm, I wonder, what would the title be of a Russian novel written by Donald J. Trump? “The Gulag Mara Lago” ? “One Day in the Life of Ivanka Denisovich” ? “Abortion: Crime and Punishment” ? “War and Pussy” ? Actually, Napoleon plays a prominent role in “War and Peace”, and Trump reminds me a lot like Napoleon. Except Napoleon’s hand is always thrust into his shirt, whereas Trump’s hand is usually thrust into a woman’s pants.

And Trump’s other hand is always on Twitter. And since he’s limited to 140 characters, the Donald doesn’t even have to demonstrate he understands the issues he’s tweeting about. Trump somehow manages to always tweet with the same grandiose level of outrage, bluster and threatening huffy-ness on absolutely any topic, especially when he has no clue what the fuck he’s talking about. Just try him, on any topic:

@surrealDonaldTrump: “Quantum Theory? It’s a hoax invented by the Australians! Scott Bakula is a great actor!! Why no Oscar, academy? Shame!!

@surrealDonaldTrump: “Picasso and Cubism? There must be penalties for (so-called) artists who support Fidel Castro’s ideas! Cubism!! And only 90 miles from our shores!

@surrealDonaldTrump: “Handel’s Messiah at the Met? No gingerbread house! No scene where Handel and Gretel get cooked in the witch’s oven? The Met got it wrong!! Boring - cut funding!!

Of course, what he’d really like to do is get the whole Constitution down to 140 characters or less:

@surrealDonaldTrump: “We/ people -perfect union, just perfect!! More guns- 2 Corinthians. lower corporate tax rate!! No illegal alienable rights- a selfie evidently: life, liberty, etc.”

Trump is the first Twitter President, but he’s also the first internet troll President, and that’s what’s scary; that a man who is always so angry and eager to get into a Twitter war is now able to get us all into a very real war just as fast, and just as furious. The fast and the furious, or maybe the fascist and the furious. What keeps me up until 3 AM? Worrying about what the hell Donald Trump is up to at 3 AM! He gets up at 3 AM not because he thought of something brilliant to say that couldn’t wait till morning, but because he has to pee twenty times a night. He’s not having a “Eureka!” moment, he’s having a “urea” moment. Because no matter how rich and powerful he is, he’s still an old man, with an old man’s prostate and bladder that are just about as worn-out and unworkable as his economic policies. And both his bladder and his economic plan rely entirely too much on a “trickle down” theory that never, ever provides any relief.

So he wakes up every night in the middle of the night, mad at the world and fully capable of any act of irrationality on Twitter. And now, on the world stage. I’m afraid I’m going to wake up one morning and find out we’ve been at war with China for five hours already. I can see the Joint Chiefs of Staff pleading with him, urging him not to go to war, “Mr. President, we can’t risk a nuclear confrontation, it’s madness! The stakes are too high!” To which Trump replies, “Wrong, General, my steaks are very reasonably priced! Believe me. Very high quality steaks.”

Then our military leaders would be begging him to stop the war. “Please Mr. President, there are 1.2 billion Chinese with a standing army of 200 million men! Our troops are being decimated! We told you hours ago to give the order to retreat! If we are to survive as a nation, you must give the order to retreat!” To which Trump replies, “Wait, you said ‘retreat’? My bad. I thought you said ‘retweet’!”

“But seriously, General, we should retweet. We can still win this on social media.”

Hosing Native Americans

I’m deeply disturbed by what’s going on with the DAPL. To us that stands for Dakota Access PipeLine, but to the Standing Rock Sioux tribe, it stands for Damn Americans Plundering Land.

Now I’m a big fan of oil, a really big fan. Fossil fuels? Love them so damn much. They keep me from freezing to death every winter, when New York state turns into the planet Hoth from ‘The Empire Strikes Back’ for five months. More like ‘The Empire State’s Back: A No Hope.’ And even those giant Imperial Walker “AT-ATs” moved a hell of a lot faster than Northway traffic in winter.

So I love oil. I loved dinosaurs as a kid, and now that they’re fossil fuel, I love ‘em even more when they’re driving my ass around in my car. So I understand why we usually look the other way while the robber barons take the land to take the oil, and play the villain in this never-ending Western horse-opera that keeps our lights on. We usually don’t really care that there’s never a Lone Ranger to ride to the rescue and shoot the gun out the villains hand, we’re willing to let the good guys lose if it keeps our cell phones charged. And hey, how the hell did the Lone Ranger always manage to have a non-violent resolution to every conflict...by using guns? I don’t think he ever killed anybody, but he was always shooting and waving those guns around like a guy with flashlights on a runway waving in a 747. It probably was less of a moral stance than the fact that silver bullets were ridiculously expensive. But this really painted an unrealistic expectation for an entire generation of TV-watching kids; that hostile confrontations are more likely to be resolved peacefully once you break out the guns. Everything will be just fine! What could possibly go wrong with teaching kids that random gunfire solves most problems?

And The A-Team? They were an even worse example, they fired guns all day long and nobody ever got hurt. Every episode, the A-Team ended up in a ten minute shoot-out with machine guns at close range, and they still never managed to successfully shoot somebody. These guys were supposed to be ex-military? What branch, the Kiss Army? They must have fired ten million rounds of ammunition over five seasons, but they never managed to kill a single goddam bad guy. Not even accidentally. You’d think someone would at least get hurt tripping over the mountains of spent cartridges. No one ever got seriously wounded or maimed, either. Never a realistic depiction of the awful consequences of close-quarter machine gun fire on the human body. Never a bad guy laying there screaming at the end of the episode, writhing in a spreading pool of blood, desperately trying to cram his intestines back into his body as the A-Team smoke cigars and high-five each other in a freeze-frame over the closing credits. No, when the show was cancelled the body count was still zero. No wonder these guys were kicked out of the military, they were just wasting valuable ammo and helicopter fuel! I guess B.A. stood for Bad Aim. Was it poor eyesight? I think maybe they called them The A-Team because that was the only letter they could read at the top of the eye chart.

But I digress. Back to the pipeline. So the oil companies dig and bulldoze, raze and deforest, drill, lay pipe and pump. That’s where the oil comes from, and we write it all off as Progress. Although, in all fairness, “drill”, “lay pipe”, and “pump” is also where orgasms come from, so let’s not rush to judgement.

The DAPL is a 1,172-mile, $3.8-billion pipeline, which would transport up to 570,000 barrels of oil a day. It’s nearly finished except for a section scheduled to go under the Missouri River. Native Americans of the Standing Rock Sioux tribe are protesting the pipeline, saying any oil spill will contaminate water sources that serve over 17 million Americans. So last week, authorities attacked the tribe with water cannons in sub-freezing temperatures, which put 17 protesters in the hospital. You think we’ve really advanced as a society? In 400 hundred years of Native American relations, we’ve only gone from intentionally giving them smallpox, to intentionally giving them pneumonia. Slightly less life-threatening, I guess, but not a big improvement. Who knows, maybe in another hundred years we’ll only intentionally give them a head cold. Not a bad one, but one that may cause them to call in sick to work and lay in bed all day catching up on TV.

Authorities defended their use of the water cannons. “We warned them repeatedly,” Morton County Sheriff ‘Buffalo Bill’ said at a press conference, “It rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again!” Sheriff Buffalo Bill then tucked his penis between his legs and tweaked his nipples for the remainder of the press briefing.

And do we truly appreciate the sheer fucked-up-edness of using water cannons on people who are protesting to protect water? What Federal Agency was behind this? Did they call in the Bureau of Irony Enforcement? What was the plan, was this psychological warfare, to hose the Native Americans until they say, “You know what? Fuck water. I’m going back to the casino. We have towels there, and our odds of winning are better.”

This is like, say, if there was a protest by PETA, and the police came to break it up by throwing cats at them. “This is a legal order to disperse!” Raawr! “You must leave the area immediately!” Mrowwl! “Sir, the protesters are deploying countermeasures, they have balls of yarn!” “Hmm...get me that big tomcat named Pepper, we’ll see how they like it when he sprays!”

This whole situation shows that we as a people can no longer effectively stop large, powerful corporations like the oil industry from doing whatever the hell they want to us and our land. They determine public policy, and they have lawmakers and law-enforcement to back them up. They aren’t even afraid of lawsuits and litigation from this tribe, and this tribe is called the Sue! Sure, they spell it ‘Sioux’, not ‘Sue’, but everybody knows the Sioux were the most litigious of all the tribes. The Apache were the most renowned warriors, but the Sioux were legendary litigators. Man, they were a formidable legal opponent. Their raiding party would ride silently into settlements under cover of the night, and as the settlers awoke, they would hit them all at once...with subpoenas.They were ruthless; issuing restraining orders, ‘cease and desist’ orders, and injunctions (I think that’s actually where the offensive slur injun comes from; injunction).

Then they would tie them up. In court. For years. Led by the great Sioux warrior, Red Tape. They still talk about the greatest Sioux leader, Chief Council, and his partner in the firm, Running Billable Hours. The Sioux were the tribe that successfully negotiated a class-action settlement against the Iroquois League over faulty tomahawks, and they are the tribe that got the zoning variance for the Grand Canyon. They were also, by most accounts, the nation’s first litigators to use peyote to consult a Spirit Guide during jury selection, but Alan Dershowitz later perfected the technique. It’s sad how little of this you learn in school these days.

But take heart! As I write this, an estimated 2,100 U.S. military veterans were bound for the frozen Standing Rock reservation to aid and support the Sioux and their allies battling the oil baron villains. Maybe I was wrong, it looks like there are a whole hell of a lot of Lone Rangers riding to the rescue. Of course, Tonto was really running the show.

If anyone was offended by any of this, please don’t Sioux me.

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a-r-i-a-n-i-s-h-e-r-e-blog · 7 years

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Making Sense of the Nonsensical: An Analysis of Jonestown Neal Osherow

Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

Quotation on placard over Jim Jones's rostrum

at Jonestown

From Aronson, E. (Ed.) (1995) Readings about the social animal (7th Ed.) New York: W H Freeman

Close to one thousand people died at Jonestown. Ale members of the Peoples Temple settlement in Guyana, under the direction of the Reverend Jim Jones, fed a poison-laced drink to their children, administered the potion to their infants, and drank it themselves. Their bodies were found lying together, arm in arm; over 900 perished.

How could such a tragedy occur? The image of an entire community destroying itself, of parents killing their own children, appears incredible. The media stories about the event and full-colour pictures of the scene documented some of its horror but did little to illuminate the causes or to explain the processes that led to the deaths. Even a year afterwards, a CBS Evening News broadcast asserted that "it was widely assumed that time would offer some explanation for the ritualistic suicide/murder of over 900 people. . . . One year later, it does not appear that any lessons have been uncovered" (CBS News, 1979).

The story of the Peoples Temple is not enshrouded in mystery, however. Jim Jones had founded his church over twenty years before, in Indiana. His preaching stressed the need for racial brotherhood and integration, and his group helped feed the poor and find them jobs. As his congregation grew, Jim Jones gradually increased the discipline and dedication that he required from the members. In 1965, he moved to northern California; about 100 of his faithful relocated with him. The membership began to multiply, new congregations were formed, and the headquarters was established in San Francisco.

Behind his public image as a beloved leader espousing interracial harmony, "Father," as Jones was called, assumed a messiah-like presence in the Peoples Temple. Increasingly, he became the personal object of the members' devotion, and he used their numbers and obedience to gain political influence and power. Within the Temple, Jones demanded absolute loyalty, enforced a taxing regimen, and delivered sermons forecasting nuclear holocaust and an apocalyptic destruction of the world, promising his followers that they alone would emerge as survivors. Many of his harangues attacked racism and capitalism, but his most vehement anger focused on the "enemies" of the Peoples Temple-its detractors and especially its defectors. In mid-1977, publication of unfavourable magazine articles, coupled with the impending custody battle over a six-year-old Jones claimed as a I son, " prompted emigration of the bulk of Temple membership to a jungle outpost in Guyana.

In November, 1978, Congressman Leo Ryan responded to charges that the Peoples Temple was holding people against their Will at Jonestown. He organised a trip to the South American settlement; a small party of journalists and "Concerned Relatives" of Peoples Temple members accompanied him on his investigation. They were in Jonestown for one evening and part of the following day. They heard most residents praise the settlement, expressing their joy at being there and indicating their desire to stay. Two families, however, slipped messages to Ryan that they wanted to leave with him. After the visit, as Ryan's party and these defectors tried to board planes to depart, the group was ambushed and fired upon by Temple gunmen-five people, including Ryan, were murdered.

As the shootings were taking place at the jungle airstrip, Jim Jones gathered the community at Jonestown. He informed them that the Congressman's party would be killed and then initiated the final ritual: the "revolutionary suicide" that the membership had rehearsed on prior occasions. The poison was brought out. It was taken.

Jonestown's remoteness caused reports of the event to reach the public in stages. First came bulletins announcing the assassination of Congressman Ryan along with several members of his party. Then came rumours of mass-deaths at Jonestown, then confirmations. The initial estimates put the number of dead near 400, bringing the hope that substantial numbers of people had escaped into the jungle. But as the bodies were counted, many smaller victims were discovered under the corpses of larger ones-virtually none of the inhabitants of Jonestown survived. The public was shocked, then horrified, then incredulous.

Amid the early stories about the tragedy, along with the lurid descriptions and sensational photographs, came some attempts at analysis. Most discussed the charisma of Jim Jones and the power of "cults." Jones was described as "a character Joseph Conrad might have dreamt up" (Krause, 1978), a "self-appointed messiah" whose "lust for dominion" led hundreds of "fanatic" followers to their demise (Special Report: The Cult of Death, Newsweek, 1978a).

While a description in terms of the personality of the perpetrator and the vulnerability of the victims provides some explanation, it relegates the event to the category of being an aberration, a product of unique forces and dispositions. Assuming such a perspective distances us from the phenomenon. This might be comforting, but I believe that it limits our understanding and is potentially dangerous. My aim in this analysis is not to blunt the emotional impact of a tragedy of this magnitude by subjecting it to academic examination. At the same time, applying social psychological theory and research makes it more conceivable and comprehensible, thus bringing it closer (in kind rather than in degree) to processes each of us encounters. Social psychological concepts can facilitate our understanding: The killings themselves, and many of the occurrences leading up to them, can be viewed in terms of obedience and compliance. The processes that induced people to join and to believe in the Peoples Temple made use of strategies involved in propaganda and persuasion. In grappling with the most perplexing questions-Why didn't more people leave the Temple? How could they actually kill their children and themselves?-the psychology of self-justification provides some insight.

CONFORMITY

"The character of a church . . . can be seen in its attitude toward its detractors."

Hugh Prather, Notes to Myself

At one level, the deaths at Jonestown can be viewed as the product of obedience, of people complying with the orders of a leader and reacting to the threat of force. In the Peoples Temple, whatever Jim Jones commanded, the members did. When he gathered the community at the pavilion and the poison was brought out, the populace was surrounded by armed guards who were trusted lieutenants of Jones. There are reports that some people did not drink voluntarily but had the poison forced down their throats or injected (Winfrey, 1979). While there were isolated acts of resistance and suggestions of opposition to the suicides, excerpts from a tape, recorded as the final ritual was being enacted, reveal that such dissent was quickly dismissed or shouted down:

JONES: I've tried my best to give you a good life. In spite of all I've tried, a handful of people, with their lies, have made our life impossible. If we can't live in peace then let's die in peace. (Applause) . . . We have been so terribly betrayed. . . .

What's going to happen here in the matter of a few minutes is that one of the people on that plane is going to shoot the pilot-l know that. I didn't plan it, but I know it's going to happen. . . . So my opinion is that you be kind to children, and be kind to seniors, and take the potion like they used to in ancient Greece, and step over quietly, because we are not committing suicide - it's a revolutionary act.

We can't go back. They're now going back to tell more lies. . . .

FIRST WOMAN: I feel like that as long as there's life, there's hope.

JONES: Well, someday everybody dies.

CROWD: That's right, that's right!

JONES: What those people gone and done, and what they get through will make our lives worse than hell. . . . But to me, death is not a fearful thing. It's living that's cursed. . . . Not worth living like this.

FIRST WOMAN: But I'm afraid to die.

JONES: I don't think you are. I don't think you are.

FIRST WOMAN: I think there were too few who left for 1,200 people to give them their lives for those people who left. I look at all the babies and I think they deserve to live.

JONES: But don't they deserve much more-they deserve peace. The best testimony we can give is to leave this goddam world. (Applause)

FIRST MAN: It's over, sister. . . . We've made a beautiful day. (Applause)

SECOND MAN: If you tell us we have to give our lives now, we're ready. (Applause) [Baltimore Sun, 1979.]

Above the cries of babies wailing, the tape continues, with Jones insisting upon need for suicide and urging the people to complete the act:

JONES: Please get some medication. Simple. It's simple. There's no convulsions with it. . . . Don't be afraid to die. You'll see people land out here. They'll torture our people. . . .

SECOND WOMAN: There's nothing to worry about. Everybody keep calm and try to keep your children calm. They're not crying from pain; it's just a little bitter tasting . . .

THIRD WOMAN: This is nothing to cry about. This is something we could all rejoice about. (Applause)

]ONES: Please, for God's sake, let's get on with it. This is a revolutionary suicide. This is not a self-destructive suicide. (Voices praise "Dad." Applause)

THIRD MAN: Dad has brought us this far. My vote is to go with Dad. . . .

JONES: We must die with dignity. Hurry, hurry, hurry. We must hurry. . . . Stop this hysterics. Death is a million times more preferable to spending more days in this life. . . . If you knew what was ahead, you'd be glad to be stepping over tonight . . .

FOURTH WOMAN: It's been a pleasure walking with all of you in this revolutionary struggle. . . . No other way I would rather go than to give my life for socialism. Communism, and I thank Dad very much.

JONES: Take our life from us. . . . We didn't commit suicide. We committed an act of revolutionary suicide protesting against the conditions of an inhuman world [Newsweek, 1978b, 1979]

If you hold a gun at someone's head, you can get that person to do just about anything. As many accounts have attested,[1] by the early 1970s the members of the Peoples Temple lived in constant fear of severe punishment - brutal beatings coupled with public humiliation - for committing trivial or even inadvertent offences. But the power of an authority need not be so explicitly threatening in order to induce compliance with its demands, as demonstrated by social psychological research. In Milgram's experiments (1963), a surprisingly high proportion of subjects obeyed the instructions of an experimenter to administer what they thought were very strong electric shocks to another person. Nor does the consensus of a group need be so blatantly coercive to induce agreement with its opinion, as Asch's experiments (1955) on conformity to the incorrect judgements of a majority indicate.

Jim Jones utilised the threat of severe punishment to impose the strict discipline and absolute devotion that he demanded, and he also took measures to eliminate those factors that might encourage resistance or rebellion among his followers. Research showed that the presence of a "disobedient" partner greatly reduced the extent to which most subjects in the Milgram situation (1965) obeyed the instructions to shock the person designated the "learner." Similarly, by including just one confederate who expressed an opinion different from the majority's, Asch (1955) showed that the subject would also agree far less, even when the "other dissenter's" judgement was also incorrect and differed from the subject's. In the Peoples Temple, Jones tolerated no dissent, made sure that members had no allegiance more powerful than to himself, and tried to make the alternative of leaving the Temple an unthinkable option.

Jeanne Mills, who spent six years as a high-ranking member before becoming one of the few who left the Peoples Temple, writes: "There was an unwritten but perfectly understood law in the church that was very important: 'No one is to criticise Father, his wife, or his children' " (Mills, 1979). Deborah Blakey, another long-time member who managed to defect, testified:

"Any disagreement with [Jim Jones's] dictates came to be regarded as "treason." . . . Although I felt terrible about what was happening, I was afraid to say anything because I knew that anyone with a differing opinion gained the wrath of Jones and other members." [Blakey, June 15, 1978].

Conditions in the Peoples Temple became so oppressive, the discrepancy between Jim Jones's stated aims and his practices so pronounced, that it is almost inconceivable that members failed to entertain questions about the church. But these doubts went unreinforced. There were no allies to support one's disobedience of the leader's commands and no fellow dissenters to encourage the expression of disagreement with the majority. Public disobedience or dissent was quickly punished. Questioning Jones's word, even in the company of family or friends, was dangerous-informers and "counselors" were quick to report indiscretions, even by relatives.

The use of informers went further than to stifle dissent; it also diminished the solidarity and loyalty that individuals felt toward their families and friends. While Jones preached that a spirit of brotherhood should pervade his church, he made it clear that each member's personal dedication should be directed to "Father." Families were split: First, children were seated away from parents during services; then, many were assigned to another member's care as they grew up; and ultimately, parents were forced to sign documents surrendering custody rights. "Families are part of the enemy system," Jones stated, because they hurt one's total dedication to the "Cause" (Mills, 1979). Thus, a person called before the membership to be punished could expect his or her family to be among the first and most forceful critics (Cahill, 1979).

Besides splitting parent and child, Jones sought to loosen the bonds between wife and husband. He forced spouses into extramarital sexual relations, which were often of a homosexual or humiliating nature, or with Jones himself. Sexual partnerships and activities not under his direction and control were discouraged and publicly ridiculed.

Thus, expressing any doubts or criticism of Jones, even to a friend, child, or partner-became risky for the individual. As a consequence, such thoughts were kept to oneself, and with the resulting impression that nobody else shared them. In addition to limiting one's access to information, this "fallacy of uniqueness" precluded the sharing of support. It is interesting that among the few who successfully defected from the Peoples Temple were couples such as Jeanne and AI Mills, who kept together, shared their doubts, and gave each other support.

Why didn't more people leave? Once inside the Peoples Temple, getting out was discouraged; defectors were hated. Nothing upset Jim Jones so much; people who left became the targets of his most vitriolic attacks and were blamed for any problems that occurred. One member recalled that after several teen-age members left the Temple, "We hated those eight with such a passion because we knew any day they were going to try bombing us. I mean Jim Jones had us totally convinced of this" (Winfrey, 1979).

Defectors were threatened: Immediately after she left, Grace Stoen headed for the beach at Lake Tahoe, where she found herself looking over her shoulder, checking to make sure that she hadn't been tracked down (Kilduff and Tracy, 1977). Jeanne Mills reports that she and her family were followed by men in cars, their home was burglarised, and they were threatened with the use of confessions they had signed while still members. When a friend from the Temple paid a visit, she quickly examined Mills' ears-Jim Jones had vowed to have one of them cut off (Mills, 1979). He had made ominous predictions concerning other defectors as well: Indeed, several ex-members suffered puzzling deaths or committed very questionable "suicides" shortly after leaving the Peoples Temple (Reiterman, 1977; Tracy, 1978).

Defecting became quite a risky enterprise, and, for most members, the potential benefits were very uncertain. They had little to hope for outside of the Peoples Temple; what they had, they had committed to the church. Jim Jones had vilified previous defectors as "the enemy" and had instilled the fear that, once outside of the Peoples Temple, members' stories would not be believed by the "racist, fascist" society, and they would be subjected to torture, concentration camps, and execution. Finally, in Guyana, Jonestown was surrounded by dense jungle, the few trails patrolled by armed security guards (Cahill, 1979). Escape was not a viable option. Resistance was too costly. With no other alternatives apparent, compliance became the most reasonable course of action.

The power that Jim Jones wielded kept the membership of the Peoples Temple in line, and the difficulty of defecting helped to keep them in. But what attracted them to join Jones's church in the first place?

PERSUASION

Nothing is so unbelievable that oratory cannot make it acceptable.

Cicero

Jim Jones was a charismatic figure, adept at oratory. He sought people for his church who would be receptive to his messages and vulnerable to his promises, and he carefully honed his presentation to appeal to each specific audience.

The bulk of the Peoples Temple membership was comprised of society's needy and neglected: the urban poor, the black, the elderly, and a sprinkling of ex-addicts and ex-convicts (Winfrey, 1979). To attract new members, Jones held public services in various cities. Leaflets would be distributed:

PASTOR JIM JONES . . . incredible! . . . Miraculous! . . . Amazing! . . . The Most Unique Prophetic Healing Service You've Ever Witnessed! Behold the Word Made Incarnate In Your Midst!

God works as tumorous masses are passed in every service. . . . Before your eyes, the crippled walk, the blind see! [Kilduff and Javers, 1978.]

Potential members first confronted an almost idyllic scene of blacks and whites living, working, and worshipping together. Guests were greeted and treated most warmly and were invited to share in the group's meal. As advertised, Jim Jones also gave them miracles. A number of members would recount how Jones had cured them of cancer or other dread diseases; during the service Jones or one of his nurses would reach into the member's throat and emerge with a vile mass of tissue-the "cancer" that had been passed as the person gagged. Sometimes Jim Jones would make predictions that would occur with uncanny frequency. He also received revelations about members or visitors that nobody but those individuals could know-what they had eaten for dinner the night before, for instance, or news about a far-off relative. Occasionally, he performed miracles similar to more well-established religious figures:

"There were more people than usual at the Sunday service, and for some reason the church members hadn't brought enough food to feed everyone. It became apparent that the last fifty people in line weren't going to get any meat. Jim announced, "Even though there isn't enough food to feed this multitude, I am blessing the food that we have and multiplying it-just as Jesus did in biblical times."

Sure enough, a few minutes after he made this startling announcement, Eva Pugh came out of the kitchen beaming, carrying two platters filled with fried chicken. A big cheer came from the people assembled in the room, especially from the people who were at the end of the line.

The "blessed chicken" was extraordinarily delicious, and several of the people mentioned that Jim had produced the best-tasting chicken they had ever eaten." [Mills, 1979].

These demonstrations were dramatic and impressive; most members were convinced of their authenticity and believed in Jones's "powers." They didn't know that the "cancers" were actually rancid chicken gizzards, that the occurrences Jones "forecast" were staged, or that sending people to sift through a person's garbage could reveal packages of certain foods or letters of out-of-town relatives to serve as grist for Jones' "revelations" (Kilduff and Tracy, 1977; Mills, 1979). Members were motivated to believe in Jones; they appreciated the racial harmony, sense of purpose, and relief from feelings of worthlessness that the Peoples Temple provided them (Winfrey, 1979; Lifton, 1979). Even when suspecting that something was wrong, they learned that it was unwise to voice their doubts:

"One of the men, Chuck Beikman . . . jokingly mentioned to a few people standing near him that he had seen Eva drive up a few moments earlier with buckets from the Kentucky Fried Chicken stand. He smiled as he said, "The person that blessed this chicken was Colonel Sanders."

During the evening meeting Jim mentioned the fact that Chuck had made fun of his gift. "He lied to some of the members here, telling them that the chicken had come from a local shop," Jim stormed. "But the Spirit of Justice has prevailed. Because of his lie Chuck is in the men's room right now, wishing that he was dead. He is vomiting and has diarrhoea so bad he can't talk!"

An hour later a pale and shaken Chuck Beikman walked out of the men's room and up to the front, being supported by one of the guards. Jim asked him, "Do you have anything you'd like to say?"

Chuck looked up weakly and answered, "Jim, I apologise for what I said. Please forgive me."

As we looked at Chuck, we vowed in our hearts that we would never question any of Jim's "miracles"-at least not out loud. Years later, we learned that Jim had put a mild poison in a piece of cake and given it to Chuck." [Mills, 1979.1

While most members responded to presentations that were emotional, one-sided, and almost sensational in tone, those who eventually assumed positions of responsibility in the upper echelons of the Peoples Temples were attracted by different considerations. Most of these people were white and came from upper-middle-class backgrounds-they included lawyers, a medical student, nurses, and people representing other occupations that demanded education and reflected a strong social consciousness. Jones lured these members by stressing the social and political aspects of the church, its potential as an idealistic experiment with integration and socialism. Tim Stoen, who was the Temple's lawyer, stated later, "I wanted utopia so damn bad I could die" (Winfrey, 1979). These members had the information and intelligence to see through many of Jones's ploys, but, as Jeanne Mills explains repeatedly in her book, they dismissed their qualms and dismissed Jones's deception as being necessary to achieve a more important aim - furthering the Cause: "For the thousandth time, I rationalised my doubts. 'If Jim feels it's necessary for the Cause, who am I to question his wisdom?' " (Mills, 1979).

It turned out to be remarkably easy to overcome their hesitancy and calm their doubts. Mills recalls that she and her husband initially were sceptical about Jones and the Peoples Temple. After attending their first meeting, they remained unimpressed by the many members who proclaimed that Jones had healed their cancers or cured their drug habits. They were annoyed by Jones' arrogance, and they were bored by most of the long service. But in the weeks following their visit, they received numerous letters containing testimonials and gifts from the Peoples Temple, they had dreams about Jones, and they were attracted by the friendship and love they had felt from both the black and the white members. When they went back for their second visit, they took their children with them. After the long drive, the Mills's were greeted warmly by many members and by Jones himself. "This time . . . my mind was open to hear his message because my own beliefs had become very shaky" (Mills, 1979). As they were driving home afterwards, the children begged their parents to join the church:

"We had to admit that we enjoyed the service more this time and we told the children that we'd think it over. Somehow, though, we knew that it was only a matter of time before we were going to become members of the Peoples Temple." [Mills, 1979].

Jim Jones skilfully manipulated the impression that his church would convey to newcomers. He carefully managed its public image. He used the letter-writing and political clout of hundreds of members to praise and impress the politicians and press that supported the Peoples Temple, as well as to criticise and intimidate its opponents (Kasindorf, 1978). Most importantly, Jones severely restricted the information that was available to the members. In addition to indoctrinating members into his own belief system through extensive sermons and lectures, he inculcated a distrust of any contradictory messages, labelling them the product of enemies. By destroying the credibility of their sources, he inoculated the membership against being persuaded by outside criticism. Similarly, any contradictory thoughts that might arise within each member were to be discredited. Instead of seeing them as having any basis in reality, members interpreted them as indications of their own shortcomings or lack of faith. Members learned to attribute the apparent discrepancies between Jones's lofty pronouncements and the rigors of life in the Peoples Temple to their personal inadequacies rather than blaming them on any fault of Jones. As ex-member Neva Sly was quoted: "We always blamed ourselves for things that didn't seem right" (Winfrey, 1979). A unique and distorting language developed within the church, in which "the Cause" became anything that Jim Jones said (Mills, 1979). It was spoken at Jonestown, where a guard tower was called the "playground" (Cahill, 1979). Ultimately, through the clever use of oratory, deception, and language, Jones could speak of death as "stepping over," thereby camouflaging a hopeless act of self-destruction as a noble and brave act of "revolutionary suicide," and the members accepted his words.

SELF-JUSTIFICATION

Both salvation and punishment for man lie in the fact that if he lives wrongly he can befog himself so as not to see the misery of his position.

Tolstoy, "The Kreutzer Sonata"

Analysing Jonestown in terms of obedience and the power of the situation can help to explain why the people acted as they did. Once the Peoples Temple had moved to Jonestown, there was little the members could do other than follow Jim Jones's dictates. They were comforted by an authority of absolute power. They were left with few options, being surrounded by armed guards and by the jungle, having given their passports and various documents and confessions to Jones, and believing that conditions in the outside world were even more threatening. The members' poor diet, heavy workload, lack of sleep, and constant exposure to Jones's diatribes exacerbated the coerciveness of their predicament; tremendous pressures encouraged them to obey.

By the time of the final ritual, opposition or escape had become almost impossible for most of the members. Yet even then, it is doubtful that many wanted to resist or to leave. Most had come to believe in Jones one woman's body was found with a message scribbled on her arm during the final hours: "Jim Jones is the only one" (Cahill, 1979). They seemed to have accepted the necessity, and even the beauty, of dying-just before the ritual began, a guard approached Charles Garry, one of the Temple's hired attorneys, and exclaimed, "It's a great moment . . .we all die" (Lifton, 1979). A survivor of Jonestown, who happened to be away at the dentist, was interviewed a year following the deaths:

"If I had been there, I would have been the first one to stand in that line and take that poison and I would have been proud to take it. The thing I'm sad about is this; that I missed the ending." [Gallagher, 1979.1

It is this aspect of Jonestown that is perhaps the most troubling. To the end, and even beyond, the vast majority of the Peoples Temple members believed in Jim Jones. External forces, in the form of power or persuasion, can exact compliance. But one must examine a different set of processes to account for the members' internalising those beliefs.

Although Jones's statements were often inconsistent and his methods cruel, most members maintained their faith in his leadership. Once they were isolated at Jonestown, there was little opportunity or motivation to think otherwise-resistance or escape was out of the question. In such a situation, the individual is motivated to rationalise his or her predicament; a person confronted with the inevitable tends to regard it more positively. For example, social psychological research has shown that when children believe that they will be served more of a vegetable they dislike, they will convince themselves that it is not so noxious (Brehm, 1959), and when a person thinks that she will be interacting with someone, she tends to judge a description of that individual more favourably (Darley and Berscheid, 1967).

A member's involvement in the Temple did not begin at Jonestown-it started much earlier, closer to home, and less dramatically. At first, the potential member would attend meetings voluntarily and might put in a few hours each week working for the church. Though the established members would urge the recruit to join, he or she felt free to choose whether to stay or to leave. Upon deciding to join, a member expended more effort and became more committed to the Peoples Temple. In small increments, Jones increased the demands made on the member, and only after a long sequence did he escalate the oppressiveness of his rule and the desperation of his message. Little by little, the individual's alternatives became more limited. Step by step, the person was motivated to rationalise his or her commitment and to justify his or her behavior.

Jeanne Mills, who managed to defect two years before the Temple relocated in Guyana, begins her account, Six Years With God (1979), by writing: "Every time I tell someone about the six years we spent as members of the Peoples Temple, I am faced with an unanswerable question. 'If the church was so bad, why did you and your family stay in for so long?" Several classic studies from social psychological research investigating processes of self-justification and the theory of cognitive dissonance (see Aronson, 1980, chapter 4; Aronson, 1969) can point to explanations for such seemingly irrational behavior.

According to dissonance theory, when a person commits an act or holds a cognition that is psychologically inconsistent with his or her self-concept, the inconsistency arouses an unpleasant state of tension. The individual tries to reduce this "dissonance," usually by altering his or her attitudes to bring them more into line with the previously discrepant action or belief. A number of occurrences in Peoples Temple can be illuminated by viewing them in light of this process. horrifying events of Jonestown were not due merely to the threat of force, nor did they erupt instantaneously. That is, it was not the case that something "snapped' in people's minds, suddenly causing them to behave in bizarre ways. Rather, as the theory of cognitive dissonance spells out, people seek to justify their choices and commitments.

Just as a towering waterfall can begin as a trickle, so too can the impetus for doing extreme or calamitous actions be provided by the consequences of agreeing to do seemingly trivial ones. In the Peoples Temple, the process started with effects of undergoing a severe initiation to join the church, was reinforced by the tendency to justify one's commitments, and was strengthened by the need to rationalise one's behavior.

Consider the prospective member's initial visit to the People's Temple, for example. When a person undergoes a severe initiation in order to gain entrance into a group, he or she is apt to judge that group as being more attractive, in order to justify expending the effort or enduring the pain. Aronson and Mills (1959) demonstrated that students who suffered greater embarrassment as a prerequisite for being allowed to participate in a discussion group rated its conversation (which actually was quite boring) to be significantly more interesting than did those students who experienced little or no embarrassment in order to be admitted. Not only is there a tendency to justify undergoing the experience by raising one's estimation of the goal-in some circumstances, choosing to experience a hardship can go so far as to affect a person's perception of the discomfort or pain he or she felt. Zimbardo (1969) and his colleagues showed that when subjects volunteered for a procedure that involves their being given electric shocks, those thinking that they had more choice in the matter reported feeling less pain from the shocks. More specifically, those who experienced greater dissonance, having little external justification to account for their choosing to endure the pain, described it as being less intense. This extended beyond their impressions and verbal reports; their performance on a task was hindered less, and they even recorded somewhat lower readings on a physiological instrument measuring galvanic skin responses. Thus the dissonance-reducing process can be double-edged: Under proper guidance, a person who voluntarily experiences a severe initiation not only comes to regard its ends more positively, but may also begin to see the means as less aversive: "We begin to appreciate the long meetings, because we were told that spiritual growth comes from self-sacrifice" (Mills, 1979).

Once involved, a member found ever-increasing portions of his or her time and energy devoted to the Peoples Temple. The services and meetings occupied weekends and several evenings each week. Working on Temple projects and writing the required letters to politicians and the press took much of one's "spare" time.

Expected monetary contributions changed from "voluntary" donations (though they were recorded) to the required contribution of a quarter of one's income. Eventually, a member was supposed to sign over all personal property, savings, social security checks, and the like to the Peoples Temple. Before entering the meeting room for each service, a member stopped at a table and wrote self-incriminating letters or signed blank documents that were turned over to the church. If anyone objected, the refusal was interpreted as denoting a "lack of faith" in Jones. Finally, members were asked to live at Temple facilities to save money and to be able to work more efficiently, and many of their children were raised under the care of other families. Acceding to each new demand had two repercussions: In practical terms, it enmeshed the person further into the Peoples Temple web and made leaving more difficult; on an attitudinal level, it set the aforementioned processes of self-justification into motion. As Mills (1979) describes:

"We had to face painful reality. Our life savings were gone. Jim had demanded that we sell the life insurance policy and turn the equity over to the church, so that was gone. Our property had all been taken from us. Our dream of going to an overseas mission was gone. We thought that we had alienated our parents when we told them we were leaving the country. Even the children whom we had left in the care of Carol and Bill were openly hostile toward us. Jim had accomplished all this in such a short time! All we had left now was Jim and the Cause, so we decided to buckle under and give our energies to these two."

Ultimately, Jim Jones and the Cause would require the members to give their lives.

What could cause people to kill their children and themselves? From a detached perspective, the image seems unbelievable. In fact, at first glance, so does the idea of so many individuals committing so much of their time, giving all of their money, and even sacrificing the control of their children to the Peoples Temple. Jones took advantage of rationalisation processes that allow people to justify their commitments by raising their estimations of the goal and minimising its costs. Much as he gradually increased his demands, Jones carefully orchestrated the members' exposure to the concept of a "final ritual." He utilised the leverage 'provided by their previous commitments to push them closer and closer to its enactment. Gaining a "foot in the door" by getting a person to agree to a moderate request makes it more probable that he or she will agree to do a much larger deed later, as social psychologists - and salespeople - have-found (Freedman and Fraser, 1966). Doing the initial task causes something that might have seemed unreasonable at first appear less extreme in comparison, and it also motivates a person to make his or her behavior appear more consistent by consenting to the larger request as well.

After indoctrinating the members with the workings of the Peoples Temple itself, Jones began to focus on broader and more basic attitudes. He started by undermining the members' belief that death was to be fought and feared and set the stage by introducing the possibility of a cataclysmic ending for the church. As several accounts corroborate (see Mills, 1979; Lifton, 1979; Cahill, 1979), Jones directed several "fake" suicide drills, first with the elite Planning Commission of the Peoples Temple and later with the general membership. He would give them wine and then announce that it had been poisoned and that they would soon die. These became tests of faith, of the members' willingness to follow Jones even to death. Jones would ask people if they were ready to die and on occasion would have-the membership "decide" its own fate by voting whether to carry out his wishes. An ex-member recounted that one time, after a while

"Jones smiled and said, "Well, it was a good lesson. I see you're not dead." He made it sound like we needed the 30 minutes to do very strong, introspective type of thinking. We all felt strongly dedicated, proud of ourselves. . . . [Jones] taught that it was a privilege to die for what you believed in, which is exactly what I would have been doing. [Winfrey, 1979].

After the Temple moved to Jonestown, the "White Nights," as the suicide drills were called, occurred repeatedly. An exercise that appears crazy to the observer was a regular, justifiable occurrence for the Peoples Temple participant. The reader might ask whether this caused the members to think that the actual suicides were merely another practice, but there were many indications that they knew that the poison was truly deadly on that final occasion. The Ryan visit had been climatic, there were several new defectors, the cooks - who had been excused from the prior drills in order to prepare the upcoming meal - were included, Jones had been growing increasingly angry, desperate, and unpredictable, and, finally, everyone could see, the first babies die. The membership was manipulated, but they were not unaware that this time the ritual was for real.

A dramatic example of the impact of self-justification concerns the physical punishment that was meted out in the Peoples Temple. As discussed earlier, the threat of being beaten or humiliated forced the member to comply with Jones's orders: A person will obey as long as he or she is being threatened and supervised. To affect a person's attitudes, however, a mild threat has been demonstrated to be more effective than a severe threat (Aronson and Carlsmith, 1963) and its influence has been shown to be far longer lasting (Freedman, 1965). Under a mild threat, the individual has more difficulty attributing his or her behavior to such a minor external restraint, forcing the person to alter his or her attitudes in order to justify the action. Severe threats elicit compliance, but, imposed from the outside, they usually fail to cause the behavior to be internalised. Quite a different dynamic ensues when it is not so clear that the action is being imposed upon the person. When an individual feels that he or she played an active role in carrying out an action that hurts someone, there comes a motivation to justify one's part in the cruelty by rationalising it as necessary or by derogating the victim by thinking. that the punishment was deserved (Davis and Jones, 1960).

Let's step back for a moment. The processes going on at Jonestown obviously were not as simple as those in a well-controlled laboratory experiment; several themes were going on simultaneously. For example, Jim Jones had the power to impose any punishments that he wished in the Peoples Temple, and, especially towards the end, brutality and terror at Jonestown were rampant. But Jones carefully controlled how the punishments were carried out. He often called upon the members themselves to agree to the imposition of beatings. They were instructed to testify against fellow members, bigger members told to beat up smaller ones, wives or lovers forced to sexually humiliate their partners, and parents asked to consent to and assist in the beatings of their children (Mills, 1979; Kilduff and Javers, 1978). The punishments grew more and more sadistic, the beatings so severe as to knock the victim unconscious and cause bruises that lasted for weeks. As Donald Lunde, a psychiatrist who has investigated acts of extreme violence, explains:

"Once you've done something that major, it's very hard to admit even to yourself that you've made a mistake, and subconsciously you will go to great lengths to rationalise what you did. It's very tricky defense mechanism exploited to the hilt by the charismatic leader. [Newsweek, 1978a.]

A more personal account of the impact of this process is provided by Jeanne Mills. At one meeting, she and her husband were forced to consent to the beating of their daughter as punishment for a very minor transgression. She relates the effect this had on her daughter, the victim, as well as on herself, one of the perpetrators:

"As we drove home, everyone in the car was silent. We were all afraid that our words would be considered treasonous. The only sounds came from Linda, sobbing quietly in the back seat. When we got into our house, Al and I sat down to talk with Linda. She was in too much pain to sit. She stood quietly while we talked with her. "How do you feel about what happened tonight?" AI asked her.

"Father was right to have me whipped," Linda answered. "I've been so rebellious lately, and I've done a lot of things that were wrong. . . . I'm sure Father knew about those things, and that's why he had me hit so many times."

As we kissed our daughter goodnight, our heads were spinning. It was hard to think clearly when things were so confusing. Linda had been the victim, and yet we were the only people angry about it. She should have been hostile and angry. Instead, she said that Jim had actually helped her. We knew Jim had done a cruel thing, and yet everyone acted as if he were doing a loving thing in whipping our disobedient child. Unlike a cruel person hurting a child, Jim had seemed calm, almost loving, as he observed the beating and counted off the whacks. Our minds were not able to comprehend the atrocity of the situation because none of the feedback we were receiving was accurate." [Mills, 1979].

The feedback one received from the outside was limited, and the feedback from inside the Temple member was distorted. By justifying the previous actions and commitments, the groundwork for accepting the ultimate commitment was established.

CONCLUSION

Only months after we defected from Temple did we realize the full extent of the cocoon in which we'd lived. And only then did we understand the fraud, sadism, and emotional blackmail of the master manipulator.

Jeanne Mills, Six Years with God

Immediately following the Jonestown tragedy, there came a proliferation of articles about "cults" and calls for their investigation and control. From Synanon to Transcendental Meditation, groups and practices were examined by the press, which had a difficult time determining what constituted a "cult" or differentiating between those that might be safe and beneficial and those that could be dangerous. The Peoples Temple and the events at Jonestown make such a definition all the more problematic. A few hours before his murder, Congressman Ryan addressed the membership: "I can tell you right now that by the few conversations I've had with some of the folks . . . there are some people who believe this is the best thing that ever happened in their whole lives" (Krause, 1978). The acquiescence of so many and the letters they left behind indicate that this feeling was widely shared - or at least expressed - by the members.

Many "untraditional"-to mainstream American culture-groups or practices, such as Eastern religions or meditation techniques, have proven valuable for the people who experience them but may be seen as very strange and frightening to others. How can people determine whether they are being exposed to a potentially useful alternative way of living their lives or if they are being drawn to a dangerous one?

The distinction is a difficult one. Three questions suggested by the previous analysis, however, can provide important clues: Are alternatives being provided or taken away? Is one's access to new and different information being broadened or denied? Finally, does the individual assume personal responsibility and control or is it usurped by the group or by its leader?

The Peoples Temple attracted many of its members because it provided them an alternative way of viewing their lives; it gave many people who were downtrodden a sense of purpose, and even transcendence. But it did so at a cost, forcing them to disown their former friendships and beliefs and teaching them to fear anything outside of the Temple as "the enemy." Following Jones became the only alternative.

Indeed, most of the members grew increasingly unaware of the possibility of any other course. Within the Peoples Temple, and especially at Jonestown, Jim Jones controlled the information to which members would be exposed. He effectively stifled any dissent that might arise within the church and instilled a distrust in each member for contradictory messages from outside. After all, what credibility could be carried by information supplied by "the enemy" that was out to destroy the Peoples Temple with "lies"?

Seeing no alternatives and having no information, a member's capacity for dissent or resistance was minimised. Moreover, for most members, part of the Temple's attraction resulted from their willingness to relinquish much of the responsibility and control over their lives. These were primarily the poor, the minorities, the elderly, and the unsuccessful-they were happy to exchange personal autonomy (with its implicit assumption of personal responsibility for their plights) for security, brotherhood, the illusion of miracles, and the promise of salvation. Stanley Cath, a psychiatrist who has studied the conversion techniques used by cults, generalises: "Converts have to believe only what they are told. They don't have to think, and this relieves tremendous tensions" (Newsweek, 1978a). Even Jeanne Mills, one of the better-educated Temple members, commented:

"I was amazed at how little disagreement there was between the members of this church. Before we joined the church, AI and I couldn't even agree on whom to vote for in the presidential election. Now that we all belonged to a group, family arguments were becoming a thing of the past. There was never a question of who was right, because Jim was always right. When our large household met to discuss family problems, we didn't ask for opinions. Instead, we put the question to the children, "What would Jim do?" It took the difficulty out of life. There was a type of "manifest destiny" which said the Cause was right and would succeed. Jim was right and those who agreed with him were right. If you disagreed with Jim, you were wrong. It was as simple as that." [Mills, 1979].

Though it is unlikely that he had any formal exposure to the social psychological literature, Jim Jones utilised several very powerful and effective techniques for controlling people's behavior and altering their attitudes. Some analyses have compared his tactics to those involved in "brainwashing," for both include the control of communication, the manipulation of guilt, and dispensing power over people's existence (Lifton, 1979), as well as isolation, an exacting regimen, physical pressure, and the use of confessions (Cahill, 1979). But using the term brainwashing makes the process sound too esoteric and unusual. There were some ,unique and scary elements in Jones' personality - paranoia, delusions of grandeur, sadism, and a preoccupation with suicide. Whatever his personal motivation, however, having formulated his plans and fantasies, he took advantage of well-established social psychological tactics to carry them out. The decision to have a community destroy itself was crazy, but those who performed the deed were "normal" people who were subjected to a tremendously impactful situation, the victims of powerful internal forces as well as external pressures.

POSTSCRIPT

Within a few weeks of the deaths at Jonestown, the bodies had been transported back to the United States, the remnants of the Peoples Temple membership were said to have disbanded, and the spate of stories and books about the suicide/murders had begun to lose the public's attention. Three months afterwards, Michael Prokes, who had escaped from Jonestown because he was assigned to carry away a box of Peoples Temple funds, called a press conference in a California motel room. After claiming that Jones had been misunderstood and demanding the release of a tape recording of the final minutes [quoted earlier], he stepped into the bathroom and shot himself in the head. He left behind a note, saying that if his death inspired another book about Jonestown, it was worthwhile (Newsweek, 1979).

POSTSCRIPT

Jeanne and AI Mills were among the most vocal of the Peoples Temples critics following their defection, and they topped an alleged "death list" of its enemies. Even after Jonestown, the Mills's had repeatedly expressed fear for their lives. Well over a year after the Peoples Temple deaths, they and their daughter were murdered in their Berkeley home. Their teen-aged son, himself an ex-Peoples Temple member, has testified that he was in another part of the large house at the time. At this writing, no suspect has been charged. There are indications that the Mills's knew their killer-there were no signs of forced entry, and they were shot at close range. Jeanne Mills had been quoted as saying, "It's going to happen. If not today, then tomorrow. " On the final tape of Jonestown, Jim Jones had blamed Jeanne Mills by name, and had promised that his followers in San Francisco "will not take our death in vain" (Newsweek, 1980).

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