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#would really like to be sent to the seaside for my health right about now
johnny-and-dora · 3 years
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the enormity of it all! there’s just so much of everything!!!! and i’m so tiny and delicate and insignificant and there’s just so much to do and so little time to do it in and i don’t know how much more of this i can take!!!! fuck!
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imperiuswrecked · 3 years
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Pietro + Luna interactions 🥰
(Full fic below the cut)
One Summer Day
Pietro had just gotten off a rather nasty mission, he was covered in ichor and the smell was horrendous. Stopping an evil former god from returning to the mortal plane wasn’t the most fun thing in the world but it could have been worse. He contemplates cleaning his suit, however there was no saving it from the mess of god’s blood so he sighed as he tossed it out. In the shower he slows down and takes his time, letting the hot water cleanse him. His phone signals that he got an emergency text and he grumbles under his breath.
“I swear to god if Clint needs a ride I will take him to Savage Land and leave him there.”
It dings again, and he curses as he sticks his head out of the shower and snatches up his phone to speed text a barrage of insults to Clint, but when he sees who sent the messages his heart drops. The first message simply said; S.O.S. and the second was a set of coordinates. Both messages were from Luna. Pietro jumps out of the shower and in less than 3 seconds he is fully dressed and running out of the door to his small New York apartment to save his daughter.
When he arrived at the place Luna had sent he thought that he would be running into a trap, or a battle, or some plot by a villain who had kidnapped his daughter. That happened a lot back when Luna was younger, after Pietro had gotten her a cell phone, they had come up with the “come get me” message. No matter when Luna sent it, Pietro would race to her location to help. He screeches to a halt and is surprised to find himself in a rather nice place. It was the entrance to a kids summer camp in the northern part of California. The sign proclaimed the name and the grounds were lovely. There was a lake not to far off and the cabins stood in neat rows, beyond the smaller cabins stood a larger one which was probably the meeting hall for the whole camp. Voices sounded all around as girls walked to and from cabins, or the main hall, some were racing down towards the lake, their towels banners behind them as they yelled with laughter. Unless this was some elaborate design nothing here seemed out of the ordinary. He was the one out of place here in his shimmery light blue suit with a lightening blot that crossed him from shoulder to hip and pale white hair.
He pulls out his phone to be sure he had the right directions, but an instant later he sees pale blonde hair and young teen running towards him while carrying a large overstuffed backpack in one hand and her phone in the other, “Dad!”
“Luna?” He was confused, she seemed to be in good health, and not in danger. Still he opened his arms when she ran into them and pulled her into a tight hug, she was taller now, her hair tickled his chin. It was a shocking thought that someday she would be taller than he was, she seemed to have inherited his frame even as a child she was always more like him than her mother.
“Is everything alright? Are you hurt? In danger?” He asked quickly, barely slowing down enough for her to understand, as he pulled out of the hug to hold her at am arms length and check her over for any wounds.
“I’m fine dad, I’m fine! But we need to-” 
There was a raised shout and a flurry of movements as counselors began to appear in the distance, a few were checking cabins and others moving towards the main entryway to the camp, following the asphalt road that lead straight towards them.
“Run!” She yells. 
He doesn’t even hesitate, in the blink of an eye it was as if they were never there.
Racing with Luna in his arms brings back memories of her younger self’s delighted shrieking, faster papa faster! It rings in his mind as his feet beat against the road. He takes them away from there and to the seaside before he stops. She hops out of his arms and and the backpack she had been clutching is tossed onto the sand.
He crosses his arms and waits for an explanation, she beams up sunnily at him, “Luna?”
She doesn’t lose her smile as she replies, “Yes, Father?”
“What happened to dad?”
“Depends on how upset you’ll be with me.”
“Any reason I should be upset with you using our emergency code when there wasn’t an emergency?” Not that it would have matter, he would have come for every false alarm, but he didn’t want her to think it was alright to do so. She could have just called him for a pick up.
“It was an emergency... sort of.”
Her smile slips, a somber look which makes no one doubt that she is her father’s daughter comes over her face, “Mom sent me to that camp, I was supposed to be there for the summer while everyone was moving Attilan again, and she has a new boyfriend, well old new, it’s Black Knight.”
He winces. It was an old hurt, that Crystal could flint from man to man, and something he had to deal with without making his daughter feel caught in the middle of their ex-marital issues.
One of the girls there found out about my powers and well... they were really nice at first, but then when I wouldn’t use my powers to help them they told the counselors and said I was a dangerous mutant. They locked me up in my cabin but they didn’t know I had my phone on me because it was all supposed to be turned in at the start of the camp and I had given them the communicator mom got me.”
“They locked you up?!” Pietro was already turning on his heel to race back and bash some heads in, but her hand on his arm stops him.
“No, dad, please... they are just scared. I could have made them not scared you know, but I didn’t want to...” she pulls her hand back and crosses her arms, blue eyes that were his mirror turn away and look at the waves.
“You didn’t want to use your powers to make them feel something they didn’t have control over.” He finishes.
“Yeah... its hard sometimes you know? Knowing that I have the power to do this, it’s so frustrating to see people struggling with their emotions and know that I can solve things faster, but it’s not right.” She looks back, her face is a awash with guilt which makes him think about those long ago days when she couldn’t control her powers fully. She’s come a long way since then. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair before smiling at her.
“Well, I guess since summer camp wasn’t working out we can spend the summer together... what do you say?”
She brightens, it didn’t take an empath to know she was excited to see her father for a longer period than her mother usually allowed.
“Can I bury you in the sand?”
“Fine.”
“You have to promise to not move a single muscle!”
“I promise but only if you call your mother and let her know to get a refund from that place,” He counters as he flops onto his back and prepares himself to stay very still, “after that you have to tell me how you broke out of the cabin.”
“Uncle Max taught me how to pick locks!”
“Of course he did.”
The rest of the afternoon is filled with laughter and stories as they catch up on what they have missed since last they saw each other. After Pietro was covered to his neck with sand, Luna snaps a picture of her father and sends it to her mother to let her know all was well. 
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lhs3020b · 4 years
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Some notes on recent polling developments (long, fairly depressing)...
The YouGov MRP figures came out last night. This is notable because in 2017, the multilevel-regression approach was the sole one that spotted the possibility of a hung parliament. We all ridiculed it at the time - I'll confess that I side-eyed it too. And then - well, we all know what happened to Theresa May, don't we? So, the MRP thing deserves to be taken seriously. And unfortunately, this year, it's looking grim for us. Briefly, the MRP is forecasting a Tory majority. They're also predicting that all opposition parties (bar the SNP, who only stand in Scotland) will lose seats. Labour in particular look in the danger-zone for a collapse, and contrary to their bullish predictions, the Liberal Democrats are also forecast to lose seats. (Note that this is with respect to their current strength - technically, the MRP result gives them a gain of 2 seats on where they were on the 9th of June. They currently have 19, due to defections from various other parties.)
I'll admit that I don't want to believe the MRP results, but this has never been a data-denialist blog, and I don't intend to start on that road today.
One caveat is that the reporting on the MRP results has ben remarkably-bad. The actual YouGov page is here: https://yougov.co.uk/topics/politics/articles-reports/2019/11/27/yougov-mrp-conservatives-359-labour-211-snp-43-ld- Buried a long way down the page, they say this: "Taking into account the margins of error, our model puts the number of Conservative seats at between 328 and 385, meaning that while we can be confident that the Conservatives would currently get a majority, it could range from a modest one to a landslide." As far as I can tell, the "majority of 68" figure is derived by treating 317 as a working majority and assuming that the Tory vote lands right at the upper end of their confidence-interval. This is poor statistical practice for a variety of reasons. It's also a bit questionable in terms of parliamentary arithmetic - the "working majority" thing depends on how many Sinn Fein MPs Northern Ireland elects (they don't take their seats, so count toward neither Government nor Opposition tallies). And we won't necessarily know how many that is until, well, December the 13th.
(Also, a further health-warning is that apparently the model isn't able to fully-represent some local phenomena, such as independent candidates, and the effect of the Brexit Party's partial stand-down is also apparently somewhat-unclear. The last caveat is that the analysis assumes data that has already been collected - that is, if public opinion changes between now and polling day, then obviously existing projections could become obsolete. This will still be a possible source of error even if the MRP sample is statistically-unbiased and the underlying theory/analysis is all sound.)
However, even the best-case scenario for us gives the Tories 328 seats, which is both a working and a (very small) absolute majority.
Obviously, this is not a good situation for us.
While not quite a landslide, nonetheless an inflated Tory majority will be devastating for this country. The stuff they'll do will be awful. Brexit will happen. There'll be a bus crash late next year, when the transition period ends. (No, they will have no plan for this - they won't feel they need one, as they'll be secure in power until 2024.) There'll be a Windrush for resident EU citizens. They'll trash the economy. They'll probably crash the NHS - the only question there is whether they do it through accidental negligence or through deliberate malice (say, an ideologically-driven trade "deal" that gives President Trump everything he wants on a silver platter). Nothing will be done about the country’s escalating housing crisis. They'll double down on all the maddest of the madcap "law-n-order" stuff - expect an explosion in jailable offences, accompanied by lengthy minimum-sentence tariffs and further restrictions on legal aid. They'll also resuscitate their plans to manipulate the parliamentary boundaries, and change electoral laws in their favour. The media? Expect no surprises from them. The newspapers are largely already Conservative Pravdas. The BBC - nervous about its precious Royal Charter - seems to be in the process of declaring itself for the Tories too.
Bluntly, if the Tories get re-elected this year, they'll gerrymander things so you have little chance of getting rid of them in 2024.
Perhaps this is the key thing to understand about Boris Johnson: really, he's less Britain's Trump, and more Britain's Victor Orban. He'll leave just enough vestigial democracy intact to make what he's doing plausibly-deniable, but he'll busily rearrange the furniture to favour himself and his friends. If he gets re-elected this December, you can expect to be seeing his face into the 2030s. The only reason I put the cut-off as early as that is that I expect the coming climate-crisis will wreak havoc with the Tories' internal coalition. (Oh you've built all your luxury millionaire mansions by the seaside? How nice for you, especially now that the sea is literally in your parlour. Umm, whoops.)
What can be done? Well, the first thing is to reiterate some discussions I've seen on Twitter recently. The TL;DR of them is that hope doesn't have to be something you feel - it can be something you do. (And that's just as well, because I'll admit that 2019 has destroyed what traces of social optimism I was clinging to. I'm dreading the bad end that's coming to us next month, but I also fully-expect it.)
So, my advice remains as it has been: on December the 12th, turn up, and vote for whoever you judge most likely to beat the Tory.
Remember, the MRP approach is fallible. "Mortal, finite, temporary" is absolutely in play here; no model is any better than the data that went into it. Or, indeed, the date when it was calculated. And at the end of the day, the only poll that genuinely-matters is the one on December the 12th, and that hasn't actually happened yet. (Though admittedly, given the storm-surge of pre-emptive grief that's flooding Twitter today, you could be forgiven for thinking otherwise.)
As for the horrible mess that are our opposition parties, I'll repeat what I said in 2017: it's OK to vote for a least-worst option. You're not perjuring yourself or committing any moral sin, rather you're trying to be a grown-up. Part of the package of being an adult is making the best of bad situations.
It absolutely does suck - believe me, this is one of the most soul-destroying election campaigns I've ever seen. Every single party has clown-show'd itself. All of them have done things that are ridiculous, inept or otherwise ghastly. (Well, maybe not the Greens - I haven't heard of any specific scandals surrounding them - but their cardinal sin is that they have no plausible prospect of winning the election.) But even then, the barrel we're going to have to stare down is going and voting for them anyway.
(As a related case-in-point, one factor that seems to have helped the Tories win their unexpected 2015 majority was that a contingent of left-wing voters simply stayed at home on the day. While it's hard to find concrete statistics on, nonetheless anecdotally, this absolutely was a thing. A lot of people were demotivated by Labour's confused and incoherent campaign, left cold by all the bothering about fiscal rules, and alienated by things like the mug with "controls on immigration" on it. All of those are 100% valid criticisms. Except, except, except ... it helped an even worse party back into office. The theory of "if the choices are bad, sit it out" has been tested to destruction. It turns out that looking the other way is also a choice, and not necessarily the best one.)
I would add that there are also real questions to be asked about the utter vacuum of political strategy of people nominally on the anti-Tory side - it seems the Opposition spent the summer fixated on the minutiae of House procedures, while never stopping to ask why they were on this battlefield to begin with. Meanwhile the Tories largely-ignored Commons process, and instead sent a political appeal straight to Leave voters. It lost them a lot of individual legislative battles (and I'm not minimising their defeats - they were important!), but it put them in a good strategic place to win an election. And in the long run, it turns out that was what mattered.
It's hard not to feel bitter while thinking about the events of spring and summer. Perhaps if Jo Swinson had been less blinkered about Jeremy Corbyn, perhaps if Labour could have had the minimum sense to call a Vote of No Confidence when BoJo was vulnerable, perhaps if the collective Opposition had been able to recognise the huge wave of unharnessed political energy washing through the country during the petition back in March, perhaps if Change UK had managed to be something other than an unfunny joke, maybe if Corbyn had taken the anti-semitism problem seriously in 2018 and had actually done something instead of sitting on his hands and letting it metastasize to the point where it derailed his election campaign ... but, no. That's for some other, better timeline, not the one we live in. We seem to live in the world that resolutely and firmly chooses the wrong fork in every road. I don't know whether our timeline quite qualifies as the Bad Place, but it's certainly a place full of bad choices.
In a weird sort of way, though, this brings us back to the key theme. Whatever you might think of what's happening in this election - and goodness knows I'm as appalled as anyone else - nonetheless, your vote matters. Use it. As we're seeing, this is the ultimate limitation on their power, and the one chance we have of stopping them.
So once more, let me reiterate: turn up. Vote against the Tory. Do it as a hopeful action, even if you don't feel hopeful. If nothing else, do it so that when the bad things happen, at least you can say you tried to stop it. I wish I had something less bleak to offer here, but this is where we are.
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pamphletstoinspire · 6 years
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A Padre Pio Inspirational Story
With Image:
https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/padre-pio-inspirational-story-harold-baines/?published=t
Father Denys Pierre Auvray
***
Prayer was the key to Padre Pio’s existence and the guarantee of his mission. Prayer was his daily activity. He also dedicated many hours of the night to prayer. It was the task which he felt was particularly his own and which drew upon him the attention of the whole world. At the altar, in his cell, or in the monastery garden, with his hands folded in prayer or holding his Rosary, his world was God — to be contemplated, to be praised, to be entreated, to be propitiated. More than anything else, his was a life of prayer, of uninterrupted conversation with God. — Father Fernanado of Riese Pio X
***
Father Denys Pierre Auvray, a French priest of the Dominican Order, visited Padre Pio for the first time in 1956. Father Denys was able to talk with Padre Pio during the Capuchins’ recreation period, when Padre Pio and the others took a short break from their busy schedules. Since Father Denys did not speak Italian, he spoke to Padre Pio in Latin. Among all the brown-robed Capuchins who were gathered together that day, Father Denys stood out in his long white wool Dominican habit.
Father Denys was very happy that he had been able to talk to Padre Pio but he knew that it would be much better if he could converse with him in Italian rather than Latin. He also had a great desire to make his confession to Padre Pio. He decided to study the Italian language so that he could communicate freely with Padre Pio and receive spiritual direction from him.
Father Denys made many return trips to San Giovanni Rotondo. When he visited, he frequently lodged at the Villa Pia hotel, not far from the Capuchin monastery. One afternoon when he returned to his room at the Villa Pia, he noticed that it was pervaded by a strong perfume. It had happened on more than one occasion and he became very concerned. He spoke to Luigi, one of the employees at the hotel, and voiced a complaint. “Someone is sneaking into my room when I am out and I am very upset. I always keep my door locked when I am away but I believe that a woman has been unlocking my door and going inside. I have proof because there is a strong scent of perfume that is still lingering inside the room.” In order to prove his point, he invited Luigi to step inside his room.
Luigi entered Father Denys’ room and noticed the fragrance at once. He did his best to explain the phenomenon to Father Denys. “The fragrance in your room is not because a lady has been coming in while you are away,” Luigi said. “The fragrance is from Padre Pio.”
Luigi explained to Father Denys that sometimes Padre Pio made his presence known by a wonderful fragrance. As he was talking to Father Denys, the room suddenly became pervaded with the strong scent of incense. “You see,” said Luigi. “Now we notice the fragrance of incense. It just so happens that Padre Pio is at the church right now presiding at the Benediction service.” The penetrating fragrance of Padre Pio’s perfume stayed in Father Denys’ room for the next fifteen days.
During Father Denys’ visits to San Giovanni Rotondo, he met many of the people who collaborated with Padre Pio in his apostolic works. Dr. Guglielmo Sanguinetti was one of those individuals. Emilia Sanguinetti, the doctor’s wife, told Father Denys that she made it a practice to go to confession to Padre Pio once each week. On one occasion when she was making her confession, she noticed that Padre Pio’s face was swollen. There was also a small cut on his face. She asked him about it and he told her that the injury occurred when he was reciting the exorcism prayers over a woman who was possessed. At that moment, the devil struck him. Padre Pio told Emilia that if he had received the blow just a millimeter lower, it would have taken out his eye.
At the monastery of Our Lady of Grace, there were generally always long lines of people waiting to make their confession to Padre Pio. Father Denys was impressed by the fact that Padre Pio met thousands of people in his lifetime, but he saw each person as an individual. He marveled at Padre Pio’s gifts of discernment and reading of hearts.
Father Denys was speaking with Padre Pio on one occasion when he made a comment about the weather. “What is it about San Giovanni Rotondo? It certainly rains too much. It rains almost constantly!” Father Denys remarked. “Yes, it does rain a lot here,” Padre Pio replied. “But here it also rains the Asian flu.” Evidently Padre Pio could sense what was about to happen, because shortly after he spoke the words, Father Denys came down with the Asian flu.
Father Denys heard much talk about Padre Pio’s love for the angels. Every day at the monastery, Father Denys observed that Padre Pio prayed to St. Michael the Archangel. One day, he asked Padre Pio, “Are the angels really present to you? Are they with you when you retire for the night and do they ever help you get to sleep?” “Yes, they are with me,” Padre Pio replied. “They help me get to sleep unless they are coming to deliver a message from my spiritual children. In that case, they come to wake me up.”
On one occasion, Father Denys sent his guardian angel to Padre Pio. It happened when he was preaching a retreat to a religious order of nuns in the seaside town of Biarritz, in the southwest part of France. During the retreat, he suddenly began to feel very ill. Worried that he might not be able to continue with the program, Father Denys prayed with urgency to his guardian angel. “Dear guardian angel,” he prayed, “Please take a message to Padre Pio for me. Tell him that I am very sick and I need his prayers so that I can recover. Otherwise, I do not see how I can complete this retreat.” To Father Denys’ great relief, he soon began to feel better and he managed to preach all the sermons in the retreat.
Later, Father Denys wrote a letter to one of the Capuchins at Our Lady of Grace monastery. He explained that he had sent his guardian angel to Padre Pio and he wanted to know if Padre Pio had received the message. The Capuchin wrote back to Father Denys and told him that he had spoken to Padre Pio about the matter. Padre Pio said that Father Denys’ guardian angel had paid him a visit. Padre Pio hoped that Father Denys was feeling better and he had been praying for him ever since he had received the angelic message regarding his illness.
From time to time, Father Denys was troubled by various health issues. He told Padre Pio that if the state of his health improved, he wanted to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. He had always had a desire to go there. “If I become stronger physically, I would like to go on pilgrimage in thanksgiving to God for the blessing of good health,” Father Denys said. “Of course, Divine Providence would have to assist me, because the expenses of such a trip would be enormous, far more than I would be able to afford.” Padre Pio listened to Father Denys but made no comment.
One day, in the hotel dining room, Father Denys met a couple from Lebanon, Mr. and Mrs. DeChabert. Father Denys enjoyed the fact that he could converse with them in his native French. They told Father Denys that they had come to San Giovanni Rotondo in order to ask Padre Pio for his prayers. Their son had died tragically in an accident in India just three months previously.
Father Denys felt very sorry for the couple. He knew that it was almost impossible for the pilgrims to speak to Padre Pio privately. There were visitors at the monastery from all parts of the world. Almost everyone had a desire to speak to Padre Pio. The Capuchins were very protective and did their best to shield Padre Pio from the crowds. Because Father Denys was a priest, he had easier access to Padre Pio. He decided to speak to Padre Pio and see if he could arrange for Mr. and Mrs. DeChabert to meet him.
Father Denys went to the monastery and told Padre Pio about Mr. and Mrs. DeChabert. “The couple’s son has recently died,” Father Denys said. “They have come here to ask you for your prayers,” he added. “All right,” Padre Pio answered. “I will be happy to pray for their son.” “But they have a great desire to meet you and to speak to you,” Father Denys said. “It will not be necessary,” Padre Pio replied. “But it is necessary,” Father Denys answered. “They need to see you.”
That afternoon, Padre Pio presided at the Benediction service, just like he did every day. After Benediction, Father Denys told Mr. and Mrs. DeChabert to follow him into the sacristy. Padre Pio would be there shortly. When Padre Pio came into the sacristy, Father Denys introduced him to the couple and said, “Padre Pio, this is the couple I was telling you about. Their son died three months ago.“ Mr. DeChabert had a photograph of his son, and he gave it to Padre Pio. Padre Pio held the photo in his hand and looked at it in silence. Finally, he blessed it. Mr. and Mrs. DeChabert felt greatly consoled.
Father Denys was always happy whenever he had a chance to spend time with Mr. and Mrs. DeChabert. Since the couple lived in Lebanon, Father Denys told them that he had always been interested in the Holy Land. He asked them if they had ever traveled there and they replied that they had. “I am particularly interested in Jerusalem,” Father Denys said. “Have you ever been there?” he asked the couple. “Of course we have,” Mr. DeChabert replied. “It is only an hour plane ride from where we live in Beirut. And you, have you ever been to the Holy Land?” Mr. DeChabert asked. “No, I have not,” Father Denys replied. “I have always wanted to go there but my health is not the best and besides, I would never be able to afford it.” “It wouldn’t be expensive at all,” Mr. DeChabert said. “It would be free. I am going to give you a first-class ticket. I am the Director of Public Transportation in Lebanon.”
Father Denys was astonished. He thought about his lifelong desire to visit the Holy Land and he remembered the time he had spoken to Padre Pio about it. He had the feeling that Padre Pio had something to do with the unexpected gift.
In 1963, Father Denys traveled to the Holy Land for a three-week stay. Later, he visited Mr. and Mrs. DeChabert in Beirut, Lebanon. Before the trip to the DeChaberts’ homeland, Father Denys spoke to Padre Pio about it. “In that country, you will suffer,” Padre Pio said. Father Denys was not sure what he meant, but he would soon find out. The widespread poverty in Lebanon was very painful for Father Denys to witness. To see the privation and the hardship of so many people, caused him great suffering.
To Father Denys, Padre Pio was a model of holiness for all people, both priests and laity. Whenever Padre Pio spoke about God, Father Denys always had the sense that he was speaking about someone that he had intimate contact with, someone that he knew very well. When Father Denys looked back on the many times he was able to visit Padre Pio through the years, he knew how truly fortunate he was. To Father Denys, every encounter with Padre Pio had been a time of grace.
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jisforjudi · 7 years
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'Queen Victoria always liked sex...' Judi Dench and Stephen Frears on making Victoria and Abdul
 Jessamy Calkin
2 SEPTEMBER 2017 • 6:00AM
It was a story that was crying out for a film. Queen Victoria, old, fat, bored, widowed and still grieving, had pretty much given up and was slowly eating herself to death. Her dissolute son Bertie was impatient to get rid of her so he could be crowned Edward VII.
It was 1887, her Golden Jubilee year, and she was bracing herself for the onslaught of tributes and fealty from overseas royalty. Britain had ruled India for the past 29 years and as a gift she was sent two Indian servants, Mohammed Buksh and Abdul Karim. Karim, a clerk at the prison in Agra, was 24. He came over for a couple of months and stayed for a decade.
Initially his duties were as a servant, but after less than a year he had become the ‘Munshi’, the Queen’s teacher (she learnt Hindustani from him) and official Indian clerk. Victoria was Empress of India and fascinated by the country, but had never been there. She became besotted with Abdul: there were daily lessons, a salary increase, portraits commissioned and he introduced her to curry, which became a staple on royal menus.
As her infatuation increased, her family and the Royal household grew increasingly resentful. Racism was fairly endemic at the time, and Karim had started to get a bit uppity. The Queen put him in charge of the Indian servants, gave him his own cottage, shipped his wife and mother-in-law over from India, put him in his own carriage on the royal train, and his father – a medical assistant in the Agra jail – was awarded a knighthood.
Abdul was devoted to her, but hierarchy was everything in those days. There was a rebellion in the Royal household and a stand-off with the Queen. (Even her beloved John Brown, despite his closeness to Victoria, had always remained  a servant.)
It was a narrative with a lot of charm but it was bound to end badly. And it did. After Victoria’s death, Karim’s house was raided by Bertie and almost all of the many hundreds of letters from Victoria were destroyed. Karim was packed off back to India, where his health declined and he died eight years later, aged 46.
But no one thought to destroy the Queen’s Hindustani journals, a product of her daily lessons with the Munshi. And when writer Shrabani Basu was researching a book about curry she became curious about its prevalence in the Victorian household, and equally curious about the portraits of the striking Indian courtier in the Durbar Wing at Osborne House.
She discovered that 13 volumes of the Queen’s Hindustani journals were kept in the archives at Windsor Castle, and asked to see them. Then, in Agra, she came upon Abdul Karim’s tomb and tracked down his relatives – which led to the inevitable trunk containing his journals, and a whole new light was thrown on the relationship.
When producer Beeban Kidron heard about Basu’s book on the radio, she couldn’t believe her luck. Cross Street Films, the production company she runs with husband Lee Hall (who wrote Billy Elliot), pitched for the rights and won. ‘We wanted to do it from the point of view of Abdul, the stranger looking at the strangeness of court. And to be funny and accessible,’ says Kidron.
Cross Street teamed up with other production companies, including Working Title, to produce the film. Hall wrote the script and Stephen Frears was asked to direct. ‘He’s brave and irreverent,’ explains Kidron. ‘And I felt he would get the humorous, fable-like take on the subject.’
And Frears, everyone hoped, might bring in Judi Dench to play Victoria. ‘Nobody else made sense,’ he says. They had worked together on Philomena (2013), and Dench had famously played Victoria in John Madden’s Mrs Brown, the 1997 film about her relationship with the Scottish servant (played by Billy Connolly). So it was a nice conceit that, 20 years later, Dench might play her again.
Did her heart sink or leap at the idea? It cautiously leapt, Dame Judi Dench tells me on the phone. For several reasons.  ‘I have sometimes been back to re-examine something, but not in film, only in Shakespeare. But I did think Lee’s screenplay was really very good indeed, and I can’t resist Stephen Frears.’ She was riveted by the story, and had already done the homework in her last foray as Victoria.
She cites a particular scene, when, to the consternation of the Royal household, Victoria took Abdul to a remote little house called Glas Allt Shiel, on the Balmoral estate, where she used to retreat with Brown, and to which she said she would never return after he died. ‘They don’t understand anything, those stupid aristocratic fools,’ she says of her family in the film. ‘Toadying around. Jockeying for position… They couldn’t bear me bringing dear John Brown here. Yet I was happier here than anywhere in the entire world. Oh, I miss him, Abdul. And Albert… I am so lonely. Everyone I’ve really loved has died and I just go on and on.
‘No one really knows what it’s like to be Queen. I’m hated by millions of people all over the world. I have had nine children, all vain, and jealous and at loggerheads with each other. And Bertie’s a complete embarrassment. And look at me! A fat, lame, impotent, silly old woman. What is the point, Abdul?’
‘It must have been glorious to have somebody to talk to,’ says Dench now. ‘Somebody to learn from, and to exchange ideas with. And she was proprietorial with him; he kind of belonged to her – I’m sure that just having somebody to relax with must have been wonderful for anyone in that position.’
Abdul is played by Bollywood star Ali Fazal, alongside a stellar theatrical cast: Tim Piggott-Smith, Michael Gambon, Olivia Williams, Paul Higgins, Eddie Izzard – there is even an appearance from Simon Callow as Puccini.
Kidron and Frears headed to India to find Fazal. After the audition, Frears said, ‘I can see Queen Victoria being quite taken with him…’, and Fazal came to the UK for a screen test, his first time in the country. Frears instructed him to watch Peter Sellers in Being There as a reference.
‘I remember reading Victoria’s letters,’ says Fazal on the phone from India, ‘the ones that survived, and being unable to describe their relationship – was it love? Was it intimacy? Was it friendship, or maternal? There were letters she signed as “your loving mother”, or she would say, “I miss my friend,” and on one occasion, “Hold me tight.” Those are strong words for a monarch.’
There was no evidence that their relationship was sexual, but there was a romantic element to it. According to Frears, Victoria liked to be held: ‘Brown would lift her down from the horse and put his arms around her, and she liked that very much.
‘Anyway, she always liked sex. It was just the children she couldn’t stand.’
For all that Abdul was devoted to her, that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a chancer as well. ‘What appealed to him was the intellectual stimulation they shared,’ says Fazal.
‘But there was a manipulative side to him too, and I still believe he was an opportunist, though I think it was called for to be an opportunist in a world that was not yours, in a country that was not yours. You’re going to have to climb up the ladder with constant obstacles and people against you, and it requires a lot of balls to do that; you have to be a bit street-smart.’
One of the best things about the film is the glorious sets. The court routine would be for the Queen and the Royal household to spend the late summer in Scotland, at Balmoral, then return to Windsor for the autumn, and move to Osborne House on the Isle of Wight for the winter and Christmas, then back to Windsor in February.
In the spring there would be a European sojourn – Florence, say, or Nice. The film was shot in India and the UK. Windsor and Balmoral were recreated at Greenwich, Belvoir Castle and Knebworth, but the biggest coup occurred when the film-makers were granted permission to film at Osborne House, which has never happened before.
This was the Queen’s seaside holiday home, which she and Albert acquired in 1840 (and which was given to the nation by Bertie upon her death in 1901), an Italianate house with wonderful gardens. It added a whole new dimension to the film, and the actors were elated to be there.
‘It was glorious to be sitting at a desk and looking out of a window at the same view Victoria would have seen 100 years ago,’ says Dench. ‘Walking down those corridors and glancing about, you think, well the paint might have changed – but it was still really exciting.’
During filming, visitors to the house were treated to an occasional glimpse of Queen Victoria, or Bertie, which must have been surreal. They must have thought they had stumbled across a historical re-enactment, or an amateur pageant, except the actors were Judi Dench and Eddie Izzard, who had nipped down to the Durbar Room in full costume just to have a look.
Paul Higgins, who plays the Queen’s doctor, Sir James Reid, was the only cast member with a build slight enough to wear real Victorian clothing. He relished walking to the set from his hotel every day, taking the old chain ferry and striding up the hill to the unit base in the grounds of Osborne House.
‘I always walked to the house in Victorian clothes much like Reid would have worn, over lawns that he would have walked over as he chatted to the gardeners – he was very interested in gardening. It was such a great way to get into character.’
Alan Macdonald, who worked with Frears on The Queen and several other of his films, was the production designer. ‘Osborne House would have been the most difficult location to recreate because it’s based on an Italian villa, and within it they created a sort of new fashion, which is a departure from the ornate heaviness and subdued nature of Victoriana wallpapers and textiles.
Windsor Castle and Balmoral were tricky enough, but Osborne House is a whole other world that hasn’t really been seen on screen before – the colours are like Neapolitan ice creams and sorbets, and it was all about letting in light.’
A designer’s job, says Macdonald, is to reinforce the narrative tone of the film. ‘It’s not just creating rooms. Finding the location is a challenge, as is finding the furniture, or building a garden in Hampshire – but the real challenge is in creating this sort of jigsaw puzzle, putting all these pieces together, and reflecting some kind of psychological aspect of the story.’
English Heritage was happy to comply, because of the obvious benefits it will reap from tourism. But there were restrictions. ‘We had people from English Heritage saying, “Don’t step there; no, don’t sit there…”’ says Dench. ‘And if you wanted to move your glass slightly to the left, someone would have to put gloves on and move it for you.’
Some of the furniture was very delicate, says Macdonald. Too delicate to sit on. ‘So you might have a scene where 20 people are meant to be sitting in a room but only three people can sit down. So there’s a bit, for example, where Olivia Williams [Lady Churchill, Lady of the Bedchamber and friend to the Queen] looks as if she’s sitting on a chair but, in fact, it’s a sort of crate.’
One of Macdonald’s favourite moments was during an outdoor tea-party scene in Scotland (filmed in a glen where some of The Queen was also shot), in which the Queen and senior members of her household were having a miserable formal picnic at a table buffeted by the wind. A car pulled up during the filming, the door opened and a high-heeled boot poked out. Eddie Izzard.
He wasn’t required on set that day but, says Izzard, he likes to be where the action is. ‘Film is my first love and it was one of the first scenes we shot, and I just wanted to be there – so I drove myself up.’ It was a cold windy day and Izzard lay down in the heather to keep warm.
He looks like Bertie. How did his casting come about? It was the casting director who suggested him, and Frears went to watch him do stand-up. ‘My character’s interesting – very damaged by his upbringing, and his mother blamed him for the death of Albert. But he was the only one who could tell her to f— off really.’
Bertie was one of Karim’s chief detractors. ‘Victoria was on her way out; she’s eating herself to death – she’s going to go in the next couple of years and the throne will be Bertie’s,’ says Izzard. ‘And then suddenly she gets a whole new lease of life; she’s got something to live for. So you can see that Bertie would be pissed off.’
Izzard gained 26lb to play the part, and was given a beard and a cane. He relished working with Frears and was already a friend of Dench, who often goes to see his stand-up shows. Accordingly, he arranged a show to take place in the Isle of Wight during filming, to entertain all the other actors and raise money for charity.
‘It keeps me match fit, and we all had this great sense of community – we’re on the Isle of Wight for a month – so I thought it would be fun for the locals too. It’s like the circus coming to town for one day. Where I grew up, in Bexhill-on-Sea, the circus never came to town. So if I can ever make the circus come to town, that’s such a good thing to do.’
Dench attended this event, and it was if the Queen herself had arrived, says Macdonald. ‘She is perceived as regal, but she’s so warm and open and amusing and irreverent – not grand at all.’
It sounds like a very entertaining film to work on. The principal members of the cast stayed in a small hotel with 12 rooms. There was much playing of Scrabble and other games. And Dench made them all watch University Challenge.
Frears stayed elsewhere. ‘I went to a holiday camp, which I rather preferred, but I could hear their whoops of laughter while I was there. Judi is very good at all that – she’s Brown Owl. She looks after everybody.’
Dr Reid was a key character. He was in permanent attendance to the Queen, seeing her several times a day, and became her trusted companion. He was a Scot who hated Scotland. Higgins read his biography, Ask Sir James, in order to prepare for the role. ‘Apparently he was an exceptional doctor. Unlike some of her other doctors, he really kept up to date. Victoria gave him time off to travel to London and visit hospitals and keep in touch with technology and learning.
‘She came to rely on him and trust him, except when he told her not to eat so much and so quickly. She had a gargantuan appetite.’ (In one scene, Dench had to munch her way through 27 boiled eggs. Everyone was very impressed by this.)
Queen Victoria died in Reid’s arms on 22 January, 1901, at Osborne House. She was 81. ‘She was a monster, but she was also rather brilliant,’ says Frears. ‘I admire her more and more.’
‘I grew up being very sceptical of Victoria,’ says Lee Hall, ‘but when I read more about her, I found she was a much more interesting character than I had assumed and I really fell in love with her. She was more broad-minded than all the people around her.’
After her death, the Munshi was allowed to spend a moment alone with the Queen as she lay in her coffin. Then, on the orders of the King, came the raid on his house and the destruction of the Queen’s letters. He returned to India, and the land that Victoria had given him in Agra, a wealthy and titled man, and according to Basu, spent his last days sitting by the statue of Queen Victoria and watching the sun set over the Taj Mahal.
www.telegraph.co.uk/films/2017/09/02/queen-victoria-always-liked-sex-judi-dench-stephen-frears-making/#comments
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the part that worries me is the sentence One of the best things about the film is the glorious sets.  Makes me think it’s going to be a stinker
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seriouslyhooked · 7 years
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Some Call It Magic (A CS AU) Part 2/?
When Killian Jones moves to Storybrooke he instantly senses something strange about this little town in Maine but he’s willing to overlook all the bizarre signs for one reason: the single Mum living next door to him. There’s only one problem. Killian is nearly positive she’s a witch, a brewing potions and casting spells witch. But when true love is involved, does a little thing like magical powers really matter? Story rated M. 
Part 1 Here. Also On FF Here.
A/N: So first and foremost I want to say thank you so much for the great response I got from so many of you! It makes writing so much easier on my end when I know I have people who are as excited as I am to get to the next chapter. That being said, this installment takes place on the same day as chapter one but from Killian’s POV. Hope you guys enjoy and let me know what you all think!
What a difference six hour’s worth of highway makes, Killian thought to himself as he drove past the outer limits of Storybrooke and into the heart of this quaint town on the coast of Maine.
It occurred to Killian more than once on the drive to this sleepy little hamlet that this might be the making of a total disaster. He’d tendered his resignation at one of the nation’s greatest papers this week, where he had leeway on writing any story he wanted, and for what: a complete one-eighty where he traded in a ritzy Manhattan flat for a seaside cottage in a town with under a thousand occupants. Killian was almost certain that his old apartment building alone had more people living in it than the whole of Storybrooke, and if he had to guess, the impending culture shock would not be insignificant.
But even if this move was certifiably crazy, it offered something Killian had been desperately craving for a long time: change.  He’d been stuck for too long in the same cyclical, boring life that never evolved in any way. Every story that he wrote (even the most abnormal ones that he wrestled for weeks to get just right) was formulaic. His hobbies were predictable and his poor attempt at a social life was totally contrived. There was nothing new in Killian’s world, nothing that gave him the rush that climbing the ladder at the paper once provided. Yes, Killian he had success in his profession, but what did it matter if he ended each day feeling unfulfilled?
“If you’re that unhappy, why don’t you go off and write that bloody book you used to talk about? You’ve got the money. You’ve got your health. What the hell is stopping you?”
His brother Liam’s opinion had come as a surprise to Killian when he offered it a week ago. Liam was a workaholic to the extreme stationed as an in-fighting consultant for the US Navy. He was never home and he preferred it that way so Killian assumed that Liam would fail to see why someone could want more for their life than their work, but his brother surprised him with his insight on their last Skype call.
“You’ve only got one life, brother. Better to find something that matters and secure it than to wake up one day and realize you would do it all differently if you could.”
With those words in mind, Killian debated with himself about what choice to make. He wanted a sign or something more than simple suggestion from his brother that this was the right play, and when he got home that day he found one. For there, interspersed in the usual bills and flyers that came each day in the mail, was something unusual: a post card bearing an appealing picture of the ocean and the words ‘Storybrooke, Maine.’
The oddness of the piece of mail grew that much more bizarre when Killian flipped it over and found that it was handwritten with an almost child-like script and addressed to him personally. Not ‘current resident,’ not the name of the last tenant who once lived here, but Killian Jones. On the card there was also a short but informative message:
‘You’ll find what you’re looking for here.’  
Maybe Killian should have read that and been skeptical. After all what was someone in a town in Maine doing sending him a personalized post card? But then he reasoned that it must be some kind of marketing ploy, and in his case they might just have convinced him. There was something about the earnestness and clarity this postcard brought even while being wrapped in mystery that intrigued him.
So Killian did the only logical thing he could think of; he hopped on his laptop and googled the place, scrolling deeper and deeper into what he could find of Storybrooke and falling into a fantasy of what life there might be like. The next thing he knew, Killian was searching real estate listings and sending an email to a woman named Elsa who appeared to be the only realtor in the whole town, hoping to find a house of his own despite having never even been to Storybrooke in his life.
Now, not even a week later, he was here. After spending a night in a hotel in Portland, Killian rose with the dawn and headed for Storybrooke, arriving at the town’s real estate office at the bright and early hour of 7:00 AM. And he knew he had the right place to, for just out front of the tiny office was Elsa (who he recognized from her website) awaiting him with her hand covering a yawn as she tightly gripped some coffee in a portable cup.
“Killian Jones I presume?” She asked when he approached and he nodded.
“Aye. And you must be Elsa,” she nodded and Killian made sure to thank her for doing this as they walked inside her office. “I appreciate you humoring me with the early hour.”
“Oh it’s no problem. Clearly you’re eager to call Storybrooke home,” she said cheerily before pausing a bit. He could see a question brewing in her eyes but she bit it back and moved to get the rest of the materials they’d be needing.
“You want to ask me why exactly it is that I’ve moved here at all,” Killian acknowledged and she blushed a bit at being found out before nodding.
“It is a little strange. We don’t get a ton of new people,” she said but then quickly she tried to rephrase. “I mean obviously there are new people sometimes. We’re not like barring people at the town lines or anything. I mean…”
“It’s just that this isn’t really a town on the beaten path,” Killian filled in.
“Exactly!” Elsa said with relief.
Killian decided it was best to give her a snippet of his past and his hopes for the future but he was glad when Elsa didn’t pry for more than the Reader’s Digest version. Instead she worked diligently so that in twenty minutes time they had all the paperwork for the sale completed. It was a quick and relatively painless process, and Killian was amazed at just how easy it was to solidify a life altering decision when one put their mind to it.
In all honesty, Killian had been what many people might call reckless with this whole affair, not bothering to go see the house in person before putting in an offer. But Killian had seen it amongst the listings and known that if he was going to do this, that was the house for him. He also figured the price was low, it was close to the coast, and if it turned out to be total rubbish he could find another place or take it as a sign to give up on the whole idea of small town living all together.
This property also had the added bonus of being fully furnished so Killian hadn’t had to buy new things. He’d chosen a similar set up back in New York (because he never gave much thought to the styling’s of the place he largely just went to sleep) and all his actual belongings of any sentimental worth had fit in his car in a matter of boxes. Killian hoped that the existence of furnishings in this new place would keep it from feeling too empty, but it was a risk to say the least. After all he could show up and the whole place could be done up in frilly lace or garish shades that hurt to look at.
“Well Mr. Jones, I’m pleased to inform you that you are now officially a Storybrooke homeowner. Here’s the key to your new place,” Elsa said happily when they were done, pulling him from his worries.
Killian accepted the key and it’s copies, feeling a level of excitement he didn’t expect when the cool metal grazed his palm. The action of holding the key eased away his earlier doubts instantly, and Killian decided to hold onto that and keep that faith close as long as he could.
After a basic farewell to Elsa and a promise on her behalf that she’d see him around, Killian departed from her office and headed back into the sunny, mild morning that now seemed filled with so much possibility. He’d just bought a house, an actual house, and Killian wondered if he shouldn’t go and see it now that all was said and done. But there was one part of this town that beckoned him more than his future home could: the seascape that had lured him here in the first place.
When Killian arrived at the Storybrooke Beach, there was no one else around, but he didn’t mind. The serenity he imagined when glancing at that postcard back in New York was made real in this moment. The slow laps of the waves on the shore were peaceful and even, embodying a rhythm that was familiar for Killian and evocative of the only real home he’d known back in England when he was a lad. Back then it was him and Liam against the world and the sea had been the back drop for most of their good memories.
Bringing out his phone for the first time since stepping into town, Killian decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to take a picture and to send it to the brother that had largely gotten him here. Killian made sure to include the passing sailboats in the distance and when he was satisfied that their crisp, white sails were visible, he sent the picture and a short message to Liam:
‘Not even thirty minutes in and I’ve already found more enticement for you here than in all of Manhattan. Consider this a firm demand that you take leave early this go around instead of waiting like you always do.’
While Killian knew his brother wouldn’t respond for a week or so thanks to the missions he was on, it felt good to get that check-in off his list of things to do. Yet speaking of lists, Killian had a great many things on his plate at the moment, and while staring out at the sea might be more enjoyable, he had to get back to reality and face the music so to speak. So he departed the sands with one last look and thought to himself that he’d be back soon enough to enjoy the salty air and subtle breeze he’d already come to love.
Once back in town again, Killian decided that it wouldn’t hurt to stop for some provisions. Nothing major of course, but he was relatively certain that Storybrooke wouldn’t boast any twenty-four hour establishments as New York did. He had a full day ahead of assessing what needed changing and doing with his house, so he set off to get some food and tools to pave his way at least for a few days.
Crossing the street to where the one town grocer appeared to be, Killian noticed the continued smiles and ‘good mornings’ that were tossed his way, but there came a moment when he had this feeling that he was missing something. It wasn’t a concrete thought per se, but a pull to look at one of the storefronts just beside the grocer. When he did, he noticed a flash of blonde hair and the barest glimpse of a lithe figure moving out of sight, but the window was hardly empty despite the departure, and there staring at him were three women, one of them being Elsa.
It was clear in that moment that the women had been staring at him. Killian could read it all over the faces of Elsa and the shorter woman beside her who both had the decency to look guilty, but the brunette to Elsa’s right was hardly deterred by being caught. Instead of appearing ashamed, she just started to wave, which set Elsa and the other woman doing the same. Killian nodded in their direction and smiled, but he pushed past the place to the grocer all the same not wanting to get sidetracked.
“You must be the new import everyone’s been talking about all morning,” a voice said to Killian when he’d barely entered the store.
Killian looked over and found a man with a wide smile and easy disposition. He’d guess they were around the same age, and from the white coat the man was donning he was likely some sort of Doctor. It was funny to Killian though, because underneath the coat the man wore a flannel, jeans and sturdy boots, as if Maine living meant even the utmost professionals needed to be ready for a hike at the drop of a hat.
“Yeah that would be me,” Killian confirmed and the man extended his hand.
“David Nolan, town vet.”
“Killian Jones, resident new guy” he offered in response as he shook David’s hand. “So the gossip’s already in full swing, huh?”
“Don’t worry, it gets easier,” David promised. “When I got here a few years back the talk was pretty constant but eventually it fades. And hey, maybe you’ll get lucky and someone else will move here soon.”
“How often does that happen?” Killian asked, already guessing the answer.
“Every couple of years, give or take,” David said with another smile and Killian shook his head.  
“Right. Well I’m afraid they’ll be disappointed. I don’t have that sordid of a tale to study,” Killian admitted.
“That’s alright, they can work with anything,” David teased before asking a genuine question. “So what brings you to Storybrooke?”
“I’m hell-bent on becoming a cliché,” Killian said sarcastically before filling in the rest of his plan. “I’m here for a change, pondering the big universal questions, thinking of writing a novel...”
“A novel? That sounds great!” David proclaimed. “I’ll have to tell Mary Margaret that. She’ll be thrilled to have a writer in town, and you’re moving next to Emma and Henry so you might just become her new favorite person.”
“Who?” Killian asked, not following David’s sudden enthusiasm.
“Right sorry. Your next-door neighbor Emma Swan is one of my wife Mary Margaret’s best friends. She and her son Henry live in the little blue house next door to you and she owns the Stay A Spell Café next door.”
“And why would my proximity to this Emma Swan make your wife happy?” Killian asked, his mind lingering on this unknown woman’s name curiously when it passed through his lips. Meanwhile, David suddenly looked like he’d given away too much and Killian sighed somewhat dramatically, having a sneaking suspicion of what it could be. “Let me guess – an eligible and undeniably attractive man moves to town and all anyone can think is who to set him up with.”
“You kid, but you’re not wrong. That’s exactly what everyone will do. The whole town is in love with love and Emma… well she’s been a town favorite since the day she got here,” David admitted and Killian found himself perplexed but also wanting to ask some more about his new neighbor. She wasn’t from here either? How had she ended up here? But before he could ask, David was making his excuses. “Anyway I gotta get to the clinic to open up, but if you ever need anything I’m around.”
“Lots of trials and tribulations lining my path here in Storybrooke?” Killian asked and David shook his head with another smile appearing on his face.
“No, but Storybrooke is… special. Things will come up and when they do I’m an excellent listener.”
With that David said goodbye and though there were some strange elements to the conversation he’d just had, Killian didn’t leave the man thinking less of him. Actually he figured he might have found a potential new friend, which would no doubt be useful since he’d up and left all his old ones in New York.
From there, Killian ran into a great many more talkative citizens of Storybrooke (none of whom were his mystery neighbor), and his quick jaunt to the market and the hardware store ended up taking far longer than he expected because of it. As an act of necessary self-preservation, Killian went straight home from there, pulling his car into the driveway of his new estate and taking it all in for the first time.
This house was the quintessential New England home, which was to say it was a few hundred years old and, but it had an air of being well preserved, as if the previous owner had given it a lot of tender love and care. Everything was new and fresh, with the white paint gleaming from a newly applied coat and the yard appearing immaculate in every way. It was clean and clutter-free, and for that reason it stood rather in contrast to the house next door.
Thanks to the blue color and its small shape, Killian was able to guess that this was the home of the neighbors David mentioned before, and while he wouldn’t call it messy, the cottage was definitely adorned with a good number of unusual trinkets. A uniquely decorated wind chime hung on the front porch, and tiny, colorful pinwheels dotted the lawn as did a number of little gnomes and figurines. From the front of the house Killian could make out a structure in the backyard that he assumed was an ornate kind of trellis covered in vines, and way in the back up high in an old oak tree was a tree house.
On top of that the whole property was nearly surrounded by flowers, some wild and some meticulously gardened, and Killian was amazed at most of the varieties. Lilacs, sunflowers, even a few roses were all thriving and growing at a rate he couldn’t imagine. He could have sworn a number of these blossoms weren’t in season, but here they remained, all in the apparent peak of bloom with September already starting.
Staring at the house his neighbors had made for themselves, Killian felt a sudden pang of longing. That was a home – a real home - filled with life and a vibrancy he’d never experienced before. It was captivating even in it’s busyness, and Killian didn’t have to meet Emma Swan or her son to know that there was a love in that house. Nothing less could settle in a place like that. There had to be a real kind of magic to bring something like this to life.
Killian couldn’t tell if he was comforted by the clear sense of rightness next-door or a little envious, be he decided on the former. Happy neighbors would probably be good to have as apposed to surly ones, and though his house might not boast the same level of inherent cheer, it did hold a comfortable ambiance that Killian appreciated. He’d worried that the furnishings would be to the taste of an old woman, but once inside Killian found nothing lacking. It was classic and appropriate for the house and though he found a few rooms he might change once he was settled, this would do very well indeed.
“Alright, so all in all not a heinous disaster yet,” Killian mused to himself hours later after he’d found a place for the last of his things and gotten some of the cleaning and organizing out of the way. He’d made a lot of progress, but there was still more to do with the rest of his afternoon and Killian was just about to dive into one of the actual building projects when a sharp rapping sound moved against the window, shaking the pane of glass at a dangerous rate.
“What the hell?” Killian muttered as he saw the shaking branches tapping vigorously against his window. He moved to get a better look but unfortunately his sight was obscured from this vantage point leaving him with no choice: he had to go outside and face the culprit himself if he had any hope of making it stop.
Moving through the upstairs and down to the first floor, Killian’s mind considered some possibilities of what the commotion could be, but when he stepped outside he was surprised by what had actually caused the ruckus. There was currently a small person trying to climb this tree and shaking the branches as he moved along. The person – nay, the child – in question was coaching himself aloud as he moved along the branch, and for a second Killian was too perplexed to come up with a way to address this perfect stranger trespassing on his land.
“Almost there. Just a little bit more…” The boy said with a hopeful bravado in his voice one didn’t hear outside of conversations with children, but Killian didn’t like the idea of him going any further. He was risking himself enough as is and a fall from that height could be dangerous.
“Something I can help you with, lad?” Killian called up to the boy who stilled at the words. After a second he looked down at Killian with a huge grin. Funny – when Killian had been caught making a nuisance of himself in his neighbor’s yards as a child his instinct had never been to smile, but this boy looked damn near delighted at his presence, and Killian couldn’t help but extend a smile in return.
“Actually yeah. There’s a kitten up here and she’s too scared to come down but I can’t reach her without doing something that my Mom would call ‘stupid reckless.’”
Killian chuckled at the phrasing and he appreciated the sentiment. This wasn’t the safest of activities for a young boy to be engaging in, but his mother’s words playing in his mind was a good sign. Hopefully it meant that even if Killian hadn’t stumbled upon him, the lad wouldn’t have climbed much higher and potentially hurt himself in his heroic pursuit.
“You wouldn’t happen to be Henry would you?” Killian asked and the boy looked thrilled at being discovered.
“Yeah! How did you know?” Henry asked excitedly.
“Ah well that’s easy enough – you’re Storybrooke famous. I couldn’t go even one morning in town without hearing of you. So why don’t you hop down from there so I can give it a try and you can spare yourself the scolding from your mother later?”
“So is this your house now?” Henry asked as he shimmied down the tree and Killian found himself aligning with Henry’s movements in case he should slip. “Did you buy it from Mrs. Hubbard?”
“Aye I did,” Killian confirmed.
“Cool! What’s your name?” Henry asked as his feet hit the ground. His eyes were wide with a real want to know and Killian had never felt quite so interesting in his life.
“Killian Jones.” As soon as Killian provided the answer, Henry was thrilled all over again, as if somehow the name itself was some kind of awesome occurrence.
“So Killian, where ya from?” Henry asked, the cat seemingly forgotten but Killian laughed to himself. If first impressions could be trusted, his new young neighbor was precocious at the very least.
“Originally Britain but I detoured in New York.”
Henry snickered immediately at the joke and Killian didn’t have time to wonder if perhaps he’d made a comment too high brow for the lad to understand. Still there was something about earning a laugh from the boy that made Killian happy. When was the last time he’d even had contact with a kid? And were all of them this prone to good humor? Killian could hardly tell the answer to either question.
“That’s cool. My Mom and I lived there too. New York I mean. I’ve never been out of the country,” Henry said sounding a little remiss, but not too heartbroken about it.
“I think there’s hope yet for you, lad. What are you? Ten? Eleven?”
“I’m ten going on forty, or so my Mom says sometimes when I make a good point.”
“I bet that happens fairly often,” Killian acquiesced and Henry grinned, his chest puffing out proudly as he did.
“You bet!”
“So, this feline that needs saving… is she a companion of yours?” Killian asked nodding towards the tree and seeing the small bundle of black fur still nestled high up on a branch.
“Nope. I just got off the bus and heard her meowing. I followed the sound and I ended up here,” Henry said. “Can you help?”
“I think I can manage,” Killian said, assessing the sturdiness of the tree and gauging how he wanted to go about this.
With a quick word of caution for Henry to step back, Killian started his climb and got to the part where Henry had made it, knowing the branches would no doubt be hitting his windows again. The real problem came, however, when Killian ran out of places to safely step. If he moved too far a branch could break and he’d go tumbling down. But the kitten was still a good arm’s length from him and shaking from the whole ordeal.
“Come on then, can’t you see I’m trying to help you?” Killian asked, knowing full well the animal had no idea what the hell he was saying, but what else was he supposed to do? Maybe he’d bought something from the store to lure it closer? As Killian considered the possibilities Henry spoke again.
“You ever rescued a cat before?” Henry asked and Killian gritted his teeth, not in anger but frustration at his own lack of ability.
“Not that I recall,” Killian replied, knowing full well that the answer was no.
“There’s a trick to it you know,” Henry offered. “You could sing something.”
“Sing something?” Killian asked, perplexed at the suggestion.
“Yeah. My teacher, Mary Margaret, says it’s kind of like purring and as long as your voice isn’t terrible it should work,” Henry said with an earnestness that Killian chose to believe.
“You weren’t singing a second ago,” Killian noted and Henry shrugged.
“That’s because my voice is too high. I’m only ten, remember?”
“Aye,” Killian said before resigning himself to the fact that he was going to have to sing if just to appease his energetic neighbor. “Any requests?”
“No country,” Henry replied adamantly as if Killian would somehow be well versed in that genre and Killian bit back a laugh.
“Yeah I can pretty much promise you that, lad.”
In the end Killian went with a song easily hummed to, and though the first few moments he highly doubted the merit of Henry’s claims, he was shocked to find that the small cat moved closer to him as he continued the song. Soon enough the cat was within arm’s reach, and with only a little bit of risk on his part, Killian was able to grab her safely and make his way back down. When he was safely on land once more, Killian debated handing the cat to Henry but then reconsidered.
“There’s no telling if she’s sick with something, mate. We should see about getting her to Doctor Nolan first just to be safe.”
“You know David?” Henry asked surprised and Killian nodded.
“Aye. He’s the one who told me about you and your Mum.”
Henry’s face broke into another smile at the mention of his mother, and the look in his eyes was filled with something. Killian’s instincts told him that there was a plan brewing in the boy’s head, but before he could comment on that, the sound of a woman’s voice cut through everything.
“Henry, there you are!”
In that moment of first seeing the woman he assumed was Henry’s mother, Killian found himself at a loss for words. There was no means of understanding the beautiful sight before him. Emma Swan, if that was who this was, was more alluring and initially striking than anyone he’d ever met. It was like one second he was half asleep and the next he was jolted by this sudden sense of rightness. Everything about her was made of equal perfect parts, from her blonde flowing hair to her expressive green eyes. Even in this moment when worry was only just finding relief at her son being okay, she was stunning and so much more than Killian ever expected or knew how to handle.
Bloody hell! He thought to himself, not knowing what to say or do. Suddenly he was awkward when that had never been a problem for him, but for the moment he was spared by her continued attention being given to her son. She hadn’t so much as looked his way yet, and if Killian had any hope of not appearing a total fool, he needed to steady himself before she deigned to do so.
“Hey Mom!” Henry greeted, looking fully pleased with himself and the turn in situation.
“What are you doing here, kid?” Emma asked in a softer, but still firm tone. “You’re supposed to get off at Grace’s stop on Monday’s, you know that.”
“Oh. Am I still doing that this year?” Henry asked, but there was something less genuine in the lad’s voice than Killian had experienced since meeting him. If he had to guess, Killian would say that Henry knew what he was doing and that he’d gone against the original plan willingly.
“Yeah Henry, you are. I’m supposed to be working until five on Mondays, same as always.”
“Okay, Mom. I’ll remember next time,” Henry promised, and his mother seemed to trust him in that, giving him a nod and bringing him in for another hug.
This level of understanding reached between mother and son, however, prompted that next gloriously terrifying step Killian had been anticipating. Finally, after what felt like forever, Emma looked his way, and the connection he’d anticipated was like a punch in the gut and the warm rush of sunshine after a cold, dark winter all at once. He was thrown for a moment as they stood there silently gazing at each other, before Henry stepped in and saved the day.
“Mom, this is Killian. He’s out new neighbor from New York. Killian, this is my Mom, Emma Swan.”
“It’s nice to meet you Killian,” Emma offered kindly, her hands remaining on Henry’s shoulder’s in a protective way, as if she was still trying to convince herself that she’d found her son and he was truly okay.
“You as well, Swan,” Killian replied back clumsily.
Killian nearly smacked himself in the forehead for that lack of cool and his strange use of her last name, but then he remembered that wasn’t an option, not when he still held this small, furry beast in his hand. He looked down to the small puff of fur at the same time Emma did and when he looked back her way, he saw how much easy affection she had for the animal. She’d been a practical ray of sunshine since the moment he saw her, but now she was even more than that, exuding this kind of power he couldn’t readily explain.
“This your friend?” Emma asked in a way that simultaneously teased him and offered appreciation of the small kitten in his grasp.
“Not exactly,” Killian said, casting a glance at Henry who was making a sign for him not to rat him out. Killian didn’t want to lie to Emma in any way, so he chose his words carefully and selected only part of the story to share with her. “I just got her down from the tree with some guidance from your boy here, so I’d say we’re really acquaintances at best.”
Emma laughed at the joke and if Killian had thought it felt good to earn that sound from her son, there was nothing to compare earning one from Emma. It felt like he’d just won every damn prize in the book, and he immediately had this want to make Emma laugh like that again. He wracked his brain trying to think of something funny to say but he couldn’t form the words. He was too consumed with that lingering smile that played at her lips to formulate anything of sense to say.
“Well she seems to have taken a liking to you,” Emma said. “Are you a cat person?”
“I never gave it much thought to be honest, love,” Killian answered and Emma’s smile widened, filling his whole being up with light as she did.
“You might want to. I don’t think you’ll be shaking her anytime soon.”
Killian knew Emma was likely right about that given the fact that this little creature was purring up a storm and cuddling further into him with every given second. It was nice though, and even though he hadn’t had a pet since he was young, the thought of this little thing being in that great big house with him lent a level of comfort. He’d just have to ask David when he eventually got to his clinic if anyone had reported a missing cat. Then he’d have to figure out how exactly to care for a cat since he didn’t have even a remote idea.
“Hey Mom, you know what would be a great idea? We should have Killian over for dinner tonight!” Henry said excitedly and Killian actually really liked the sound of that. But his hope for such an invitation faded when in that moment Emma’s face fell, causing Killian’s heart to clutch painfully in his chest. She looked stricken by the proposition, and here he was thinking things had been going rather well.
“Maybe another time, kid. We have plans at Belle’s tonight, remember?” Emma said, offering Killian an apologetic look as she did. He clung to that expression, hoping it meant that she wasn’t counting out the idea on the whole.
“Oh yeah, I forgot about that” Henry said disappointedly. “ So tomorrow then?”
“Let’s give Mr. Jones the chance to settle in a little before we beat down his door with invitations, okay? Now go grab your backpack. I’ve got to get back to the café and you’re coming with me.”
“Alright. See you later?” Henry asked Killian earnestly, as if he was a little afraid that Killian might make a run for it after everything.
“Aye, lad, I’ll be here,” Killian promised as Henry ran back into his house presumably to get his stuff. Both Killian and Emma watched him go but then something dawned on Killian – she’d just used his last name and Henry hadn’t mentioned it in their introduction.
“What?” Emma asked when he looked at her with a smirk on his lips. She went a little pink under his gaze and Killian immediately took to that with the same intensity that he had her laugh. God she was something else.
“You knew my last name already. Someone’s been gossiping about their new neighbor.”
It was a risk to put that theory forward, because perhaps there was a chance that she’d merely spoken with the previous owner or stumbled upon his name in passing at that café David mentioned, but when her jaw dropped and she went fully red Killian knew he was right on. Emma Swan had been curious about him, and now he just had to hope that she wasn’t disappointed with the results.
“I wasn’t gossiping. I just happened to hear a couple of things that’s all,” she said, her eyes struggling to meet his when she did.
Killian could have pressed her on this, but as it was he didn’t want to push. Right now he was in this incredibly easy, almost blissful state with a woman he’d only just met and he didn’t want this feeling to fall away. The last thing he’d ever want to do was cross a line and move this from playful banter to a misunderstanding and so he allowed Emma to pivot to a different subject.
“Anyway, thanks for watching out for Henry. I hope he wasn’t too much trouble. He can be a handful.”
“Not at all, love. You’ve done a good job with him. From what I can tell he’s bloody brilliant.”
The pride that Emma displayed at the compliment to her son was profound, and Killian could tell that she was the kind of mother who truly loved her boy more than anything. That was as it should be, and Killian certainly hadn’t told a lie. He did like Henry a lot, and he hoped to see him and his mother often.
“Yeah he is,” Emma whispered happily.
Before Killian could say anything more, and before he was even remotely ready to say goodbye to her, Henry was coming out the door again, and the moment was broken. Emma was back in the mindset of getting to work, and as much as Killian would love to make an excuse to go and see her and Henry there, he knew he shouldn’t. Coming on too strong too fast was a bad move and if he had any chance of continuing to get to know Emma, he had to give himself the space to figure out just exactly what he was feeling.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Swan,” Killian said when she was just about to go and Emma turned back at him offering an enigmatic smile that had so much behind it that Killian was dying to figure out.
“Chocolate or vanilla?” She asked, the question totally taking him by surprise.
“What?” he asked, not knowing if he’d just dreamed up the question all together.
“It’s a simple question,” she clarified. “Chocolate or vanilla?”
“Chocolate, Swan. What do I look like a mad man?” he asked and she laughed again at that, this time in a lower way that tantalized the very fabric of his being when it washed over him.
“Chocolate it is,” she said and with that Emma Swan and her son were off, leaving Killian standing there and wondering what on earth she could have meant.
He discovered the answer to that a few hours later though, after he’d made a visit to David and gotten some more supplies for this surprising new roommate of his, when a basket arrived on his front door along with a note. Within the confines there were a substantial amount of treats that all had one single flavor in common – chocolate. He knew right then that they were from Emma, but the note she left with them sealed the deal.
Welcome to Storybrooke, neighbor. Glad you’re not a ‘mad man.’
And all night long after that Killian spent the evening enjoying the sweets he’d been left and thinking to himself that he was so incredibly right in coming here. For there was something truly special about Storybrooke and her name was Emma Swan.
Post-Note: So there we have it – Killian’s POV of the first day in Storybrooke. The nice thing about the coming chapters is that I am planning to go back to a dual point of view installment. This will mean more CS interaction and a faster pace, but I had a lot of things to set up for in this chapter and as such it ran a little long. Anyway, I hope you guys all enjoyed and thank you for reading.
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clubofinfo · 6 years
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Expert: You ever wonder what a Martian might think if he happened to land near an emergency room? He’d see an ambulance whizzing in and everybody running out to meet it, tearing the doors open, grabbing up the stretcher, scurrying along with it. ‘Why,’ he’d say, ‘what a helpful planet, what kind and helpful creatures.’ He’d never guess we’re not always that way; that we had to, oh, put aside our natural selves to do it. ‘What a helpful race of beings,’ a Martian would say. Don’t you think so? ― Anne Tyler, The Accidental Tourist, April 2002 Respite. Oregon Coast. Tidepools, grey whales, seals and sea lions, puffins and eagles, riotous rookeries and crashing tides, Milky Way and bioluminescence. One large emotional palette from which to paint new images, and to recharge batteries, reset some clocks, and reflect. Yet, how can a thoughtful person go minutes or hours or days with a blank mind, or into some levitating meditative state without all those deaths by a thousand cuts eating at the conscience? Death by a thousand laws, by a thousand penalties, by a thousand codes/regulations/permits; death by a thousand fines/levies/fees; death by a thousand firings/sackings/diminishments of our collective humanity. Death by a thousand tons of toxins in our community’s air, water, soil, education system, legal framework, urban planning. Death by a thousand seconds of celebrity culture, insane fake news, mauling media, lecherous lawyers, junkyard scientists, medical malpractitioners. Death by a thousand broken treaties, broken laws for the One Percent, broken promises, broken bureaucracies. How can you not wake up, look in the mirror, and be angry? Really angry at the state of the world, at the state of inequities, at the state of billionaires capturing our souls by the gigabytes to the 1,000th power, billionaires foreclosing on our jobs, our schools, our communities, our safety, health, sanity? John Trudell said a lot about that, waking up angry every single day . . . decrying what whites like to think are the great civilizers of the world (themselves) – what whites think western civilization is: The great lie is that it is civilization. It’s not civilized. It has been literally the most blood thirsty brutalizing system ever imposed upon this planet. That is not civilization. That’s the great lie, is that it represents civilization. — John Trudell Think about it: going into tourist space has more curves and dangerous cliffs to negotiate than being in the mix 24/7. The mix, man: fighting for homeless, fighting for the drug addicted, fighting for students, fighting for our people’s health, fighting for clean air, water, soil, money. With each overfed, overpaid/-paying, overly obnoxious and arrogant tourist, with every 30-foot RV with Lexus SUV in-tow, with every Indian Pale Ale microbrewery pitcher consumed and mountain of fried clams gobbled up, well, reflection isn’t just looking at Ursula Minor and Major as the tide goes out and the Dungeness crabs come in. Reflection is seeing the human species as a cancer. Self-centered, violent, believing there is a dung heap for the rest of the scum and a golden city for the vaunted, valued, human. More specifically, here’s sentiments from Susan Sontag, not to be taken lightly: If America is the culmination of Western white civilization, as everyone from the Left to the Right declares, then there must be something terribly wrong with Western white civilization. This is a painful truth; few of us want to go that far. … The truth is that Mozart, Pascal, Boolean algebra, Shakespeare, parliamentary government, baroque churches, Newton, the emancipation of women, Kant, Marx, Balanchine ballets, et al., don’t redeem what this particular civilization has wrought upon the world. The white race is the cancer of human history; it is the white race and it alone—its ideologies and inventions—which eradicates autonomous civilizations wherever it spreads, which has upset the ecological balance of the planet, which now threatens the very existence of life itself. Scheme of things, the scale of the glass half full or glass half empty. The hierarchy of needs, and the implosion of those who have and those who do not. Peter Principle of the most incompetent, the most ethically challenged, the most philistine, the most ignorant, the most self-aggrandizing, the most murderous and sociopathic, rising to the top – in governments, parliaments, boardrooms, corporations, militaries, schools, hospitals . . . et al. A Pacific Coast that was once sane and peopled by Salish Tribes, now one with pink-skinned folks like Gremlins scurrying about to stake out more retail space, more consumer opportunities, more territory yanked from anything left in a fractured “natural world.” Five days of being on the coast, and it was all white people looking for saltwater taffy and goofy expensive humpback whale blown glass monstrosities. Unending kitschy stuff while the Anglo Saxon/Caucasian minds funnel through moving lips to purge out strings of commentary that are insipid, childish, all bundled up in the “where are we going to eat breakfast next and then find a nice seaside table to sip that Pinot while we stay comforted in our great white world?” Not an African-American, Black, Indian, Native American in sight. The smartest things in the air out here along the Oregon Coast are the corvids and thousands upon thousands of sea birds, falcons, bald eagles and osprey. It certainly isn’t the thoughts, words and actions of humanity here, from Newport south all the way to Golden Beach. We are talking about unending caravans of motor homes with full-sized SUVs in tow, the other traffic feeding a crisscross onto summer home beaches, some of them two-month-stay homes, and a lot of real estate for sale, properties moving from one hand to the next and a world of tourists devoid of color. It’s five days, and no Mexican-American families, no African-American families. It’s as if the US of A is that alt right David Duke land of the white Christian. Disconcerting, being out here for a respite for myself and my significant other. Tough jobs both of us manage back in Portland, and the getting away from the woods and rivers where we live and work, to the Oregon Coast is a deserving break. But, again, bizarre, really, the lack of diversity as if the USA, with 335 million citizens, is not about to largely (percentage wise) transform into a country of non-white-Germanic-Anglo people. State of the mind of white Americans tied to their whiteness, their Crypto Christian/Crypto Zionist earth razing and financialization schemes to corner everything we do, see, hope for, dream of, create, think of, believe in, live for, die for, hold dear, propagate as a market, it’s a sickness sent out to all corners of the world through the London School of Economics-Oxford-Yale-Stanford-Yeshiva type of recruiting as slick and effective as any School of the Americas or West Point! Trump is Obama is Clinton is Bush is Andrew Jackson is Nixon is Roosevelt is Washington. Whiteness is the key to civilization, even with our one outwardly mixed-race CEO. He excels as a man of white civilizers holding the key to final subjugation. Obama, who is like a Stepford Son! But let’s pause on the sheer demographics and exponentiality of the globe’s racial make-up coming onto the 8 or 9 billion mark: One demographer, who didn’t want to be named for fear of being called racist, said: ‘It’s a matter of pure arithmetic that, if nothing else happens, non-Europeans will become a majority and whites a minority in the UK. That would probably be the first time an indigenous population has voluntarily become a minority in its historic homeland.’ Lee Jasper, race relations adviser to the Mayor of London, Ken Livingstone, predicted a similar future, telling The Observer : ‘Where America goes, Europe follows 30 years later. There is a potential for whites to become a minority in some European countries.’ In Europe, with its 40,000-year-old indigenous white population, the rise of a non-white majority may not be greeted with such equanimity. In the United Kingdom, the number of people from ethnic minorities has risen from a few tens of thousands in 1950 to more than 3 million now. •In Italy, the birth rate is so low that, without immigration, the population is predicted to decline by 16 million by 2050. •The United States government predicts that non-hispanic whites will become a minority in the country by 2055. •The United Nations predicts that 98 per cent of world population growth until 2025 will be in developing nations. •The population of Europe is expected to drop from 25 per cent of the world total in 1900 to 7 per cent in the next 50 years. — Anthony Browne, The Last Days of a White World, Guardian, September 3, 2000. No matter how quickly the demographics shift in the US of A, correcting and redressing the past biggest injustices of Native American genocide by the white economists, bankers, clerics, militaries, serfs into this country will never happen. First Nations aboriginal peoples used to have this land to themselves. But now, less than one percent of the population they teeter on complete historical banishment, as the largest growth groups are among Latinos (largely derived from Spain), and Asians, (largely from China and the Philippines). This state of the world a la Oregon Coast is a state of people not able to get under the skin of how messed up the country is, has been and is continually going. No large conversations about those things, even the ones who adore and lust after Trump, they just move along in a world of retail relationships, one where the food is talked about while eating it, where the weather is detailed beyond absurdity, and where no serious talk about our collective and individual pain ever unfolds. Whites are lobotomized by debt, depression, deceit, emasculation, Hollywood, F-U Book, the Billionaire Mile High Club of Data Dealers, overeating/under-nutrition, delusions, and dreams of a UFO End Times or New Times. I attempt to gauge how illiterate folks are along the coast, looking at stuff in museums, people trying to understand the scheme of 70 percent of the globe’s surface (oceans) on all life, and their attempts at trying to understand the clouds above and the winds below. The corporations-TV-jefes have done a very good job, alongside the schools, media, ignorant politicians, and celebrities, AND scientists, of denuding the western mind of anything real or pressing, anything resembling a solution to the unfolding ills of climate warming, oceans rising, resources dwindling, bodies toxifying, communities eroding. This vast Pacific Coast is, of course, under the gun as acidification of the waters around Oregon is ramping up due to all sorts of upwellings, smokestack-tailpipe spewings. Species are collapsing. More people are moving into the tsunami belt here, and more woods/forests are being clear cut. More cars, more CO2 pushed out of internal combustion machines and burning of other fossil fuels all the way up the Industrial Age chain our factory technology 12,000 miles away from Depoe Bay. This is a big thing, ocean acidification, and the Oregon Coast is sort of the testing ground for the rest of the world tied to this double-headed monster – climate changing (warming) and ocean acidification. The Surfrider Foundation is working hard on this project to understand how Oregon’s coast will be affected by lower PH levels. Take a look at this amazing web site and organization, a coalescing of forces that very few tourists and locals alike know even little about. Here, the news not fit to broadcast or turn into a Netflix drama (sic): Canary in the Coal Mine Whiskey Creek Hatchery became the ‘Canary in the Coalmine’ for Oregon’s shellfish industry in 2007 when their oyster larvae experienced a massive die off. Scientists determined that the lower pH of the seawater they were pumping in from Netarts Bay was preventing the larvae from growing their shells. On a map of Oregon, find the coastal town of Newport. Draw a straight line directly west, perfectly perpendicular to the coast, out into the mighty Pacific 200 nautical miles from the blinking beacon of the Yaquina Head lighthouse. You’ve just sketched the Newport Hydrographic Line. Nearly everything we know about the function of Oregon’s coastal ocean ecosystem has been learned from samples collected at these stations between 1961 and … well, last week. The technology used along the Newport Line has evolved with the times. Since 2006, autonomous underwater gliders (the first two were named “Bob” and “Jane” after Bob Smith and Jane Huyer) have been patrolling it 24/7. At this very moment, two gliders resembling small yellow missiles are swimming their lonely way, diving and surfacing in an undulating path, collecting data on temperature, salinity, water clarity, ocean currents and more. These remarkable instruments transmit about 10 percent of their data as they “fly,” communicating via satellite when they surface. When a battery gets low, the glider surfaces and calls home. Scientists retrieve it from a boat, switch the battery out for a fully charged replacement, download the full data set and release it. The gliders can be monitored and even controlled via a smart phone app. Initially, studies along the Newport Line focused on physics — currents, temperatures and winds — in order to understand and characterize the most important oceanographic phenomenon in the region: wind-driven coastal upwelling. This process underlies nearly everything else that happens in Oregon’s ocean, from the flourishing fisheries to the presence of gray whales to the low-oxygen conditions and ocean acidification that have been in the news in recent years. In a nutshell, summer winds blowing from the north push surface water to the west and drive the conveyor belt of deep, cold, nutrient-rich waters into the coastal zone, fueling the Northwest’s food webs. Sometimes called “climate change’s evil twin,” a phrase coined by Oregon State’s Jane Lubchenco, ocean acidification is an insidious and unseen effect of rising carbon dioxide (CO2) levels in the atmosphere. The oceans have always absorbed CO2 from the atmosphere, but as levels of the greenhouse gas have climbed, primarily the result of fossil fuel burning, the oceans have taken in ever-higher amounts, leading to shifts in ocean chemistry. Organisms from oysters to corals are considered sensitive. Over the past 200 years, according to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, average ocean-wide pH has dropped from 8.2 to 8.1. That may not sound like much, but on the pH scale, it amounts to a nearly 30 percent increase in acidity. Other researchers have found that highly acidified water can cause calcium shells made or used by many marine creatures to be harder to build or to dissolve. The net effects may be felt up and down the food chain. Animals in the intertidal and near-shore zones, including economically important species such as oysters and crabs, may be at risk. ‘The ocean may look the same, but the water is changing, especially on the Oregon coast,’ says Chan. Here’s why the Oregon coast is particularly vulnerable to acidification and thus an important place to study ocean chemistry. A Deep-Ocean Conveyor Belt The summer sun can warm your face, and the air can feel hot, but if you’ve ever been swimming along the Oregon coast, you know how cold the water can get. It gets especially chilly when north winds blow and push warmer surface water to the west. In its place, currents from deep in the ocean rise along our beaches and bays to replace it. This water — delivered by a process that scientists call upwelling — isn’t just colder; it also carries more nutrients that can fuel ocean life. On the downside, it has less oxygen and tends to be acidified. Like the proverbial slow boat to China, it can take decades for deep ocean currents to travel to the West Coast. When it last touched the atmosphere at the start of its journey, CO2 levels were lower than they are today. In the future, the water upwelling along our coast will carry the memory of the annual increases in CO2. Okay, so I cut and paste a lot here, but again, what are those crab cake bakes and flounder fries really about here along Oregon’s coastal water, which mostly originates in the North Pacific off Japan? Answer: Two cold, deep-water currents, one of which takes a decade to reach Oregon, while the second current brings those waters to the Oregon coast in about 50 years as it follows amazingly serpentine routes around the globe. Now, here’s the physics and chemistry we don’t talk about when eating our dill-infused, olive tampenade-drenched salmon — cold water holds higher concentrations of CO2 than warmer water, so these circuitous currents start off with increased CO2 levels. Then while making their slow flow toward the U.S. West Coast, the biological activity by organisms living in that water layer — zooplankton, phytoplankton and other microorganisms — constantly generates CO2 until, by the time the ocean conveyor belt of water rises to the surface off the Oregon coast, its CO2 level has increased greatly. Then, as the water is exposed to our atmosphere after decades in the depths of the mother ocean, even more of the greenhouse gas gets absorbed. This is something most Americans can’t-won’t-don’t grasp – chemical changes caused by engines of biomechanics of currents, air, and pollution. Okay-okay, not all tourists get into this level of science and deeper looks at how messed up the world is because of the Corporate Line and Power (One Percent) and the Collective Delusion of their Compliant Consumers (us). But truly, how can people in 2018 NOT go through the thought process of considering each and every bite we take, each mile we drive, each foot of earth we walk onto, each inch of clothing we buy, every trinket and every product we consume as part of the big picture? That little oyster stand in Newport has its intended and unintended consequences already built in, all that embedded energy to get to the oysters (metal in the ships harvested in mines/smelted/galvanized; then fossil fuel dug up and piped in to propel those ships to sea); to harvest the bivalves, then to haul them back, and next to process, package and ship them out, and, finally, to attract people from all parts of the West Coast to consume them. Yes, our own trip to get there and each nibble we make with the squeeze of a lemon, well, the footprint of Homo Sapiens-Consumo-Retailpithecus is dramatic. We are talking about those shellfish, now vulnerable to ocean acidification, all that fossil fuel to propel humans to the parking lot and propel foreign made utensils and plates and equipment to the little archetypal oyster shack, in Oregon, well, consequences are being laid out as I write this on the Cloud. In a world where everything is a retail transaction, where no thought of how the stuff we stuff into our mouths got from farm to fork is expended, it’s no surprise we are cooked intellectually and as communities of me-myself-and-I cancers. Then, more onion peel pulled back: who are these owners of these small businesses in these small towns on the Oregon Coast? Do they care about the world, or their little zone, little hamlets or beach towns? Do they care about the rampant poverty, the growth of shaky families aging in place, in the death spiral of education and decent ways to be, to be human, in small style, while living in a world of entertaining ourselves to death and make-believe idealism and ideals tied to the rich and the famous or notorious? Do they care Portland is filled with houseless people, homeless veterans, youth living on couches under an average of $80K in college debt, people like me working our tails off for the underpay the non-profit world of social services spreads like disease across the land? And that’s not just Portland, but Every Town USA. Do they care about fence line communities in Houston or the lead in water in Flint or the lack of electricity in Puerto Rico six months after a hurricane? Do they care about words having universal meaning, or the poetry in being versus consuming, or the truths of human kind, or the lessons in evolving history, or the potentiality of real revolution, or the bigger power of changing him-or-her-self into a giver, no longer a taker, or being part of the smaller and bigger solution, while still grappling with their privilege, and then finally seeing the future of seven generations out being more important now than ever before? Respite. Observation. A poem. Sanity: Contemplating Nine Crows Jumping Mid-Air for Our Trail Mix near Yachats, Oregon on the eve of partner’s 48th birthday something about cobalt tips, wings the black of eclipse birds smarter than parking lot humanity tricksters, crowing along faded lines jumping, leaping, barely flapping corvid line of avian harmonizing with wind people looking into ocean sky we asked crows into our lives two of us tired of heavy hearts, our own species cancers, riotous Homo sapiens, like the cracks of coast cliffs beaches we surmount hoping gulls congregate we never know when light from animal brother inches into our hearts never know when whimsy follows us into memory, love how coal black birds possess mental might through tricks, we can’t stop thinking birds, smarter than human race, the Oregon Pacific in the background creek emptying into swells we find harbor momentarily comics like Charlie Chaplin waddling, marching, the grip of their sky, somehow transformed into our world too http://clubof.info/
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suburbantaste-blog · 7 years
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Where I Come From: Part I
To understand where I am, you have to understand where I’ve come from.  This post is all about my favorite thing: me.
I grew up in a suburb. Hence, my suburban taste.  Growing up my mom worked and my dad was retired. I cannot say that he “stayed home with us” because he actually did the opposite.  He sent my brother and I to daycare at a nearby church (Baptist!) until we were school age.  My dad was 56 when I was born, and from the day I blessed the suburbs with my presence – he retired.  My parents made that choice together.  My mom still had many years of earning potential and she wanted to work.
Dad: My dad had worked since he was very young, supporting himself really as far back as he can remember. He did not come from much and was born during a time in our history – the Great Depression – when money, opportunity and wealth did not exist in his small hometown of Loogootee, Indiana.  Being born during that time was a blessing and a curse.  He struggled as a young man but had very solid, firm financial goals because he had seen the worst of the worst.  He lived through a time where the financial future was extremely uncertain and volatile. He made it a point to earn his own money and valued that money much higher than its true value – he saw it as his future financial freedom, a way to get out of Loogootee, Indiana.  As he worked and saved, he certainly made mistakes along the way – but he knew his end goal and he stuck with it, doing whatever he needed to.  He worked bad jobs, good jobs, hard jobs, long jobs and shady jobs – but he worked and he saved and he kept his eye on the end goal.  He did not buy flashy things even once he had enough, he just kept the end goal in mind.  So when 56 came around and this beautiful suburban baby came along, he was able to say, “Screw it,” to work and be home to have the flexibility he wanted.  
Mom: My mom worked since she was young as well, but not necessarily to support herself, more so to help out with her expenses, save for college, a car, etc.  Mom came from a middle class working family where she did not want or need for anything but certainly was not handed a wad of cash whenever she wanted either.  She had a similar mindset as my dad in that she knew when she worked that she was saving for something bigger – not just the  latest, greatest, flashiest – but for college.  She went to college, graduated and immediately started working. By the time she met my Dad and they had kids, she still had lots of working years and potential for more money – she also wanted to work since she did find parts of it rewarding from both the career aspect but also a social aspect as well.  I’ve watched my mom move up the corporate ladder into a pretty hefty career role and salary – so I’d say her decision to continue working was spot on.  At the young age of XX, Mom is still receiving raises, bonuses and title bumps, so I’d say they/she made the right choice.  She’s close to retirement age now but has planned well enough that she will live comfortably once she decides to pull the trigger. 
I grew up also not needing or wanting for anything.  Did my parents buy me a brand new BMW when I turned 16?  No, but both my brother and I were given cars (with no car payment or insurance payment attached) so I still consider myself very lucky.  I always had new “cool” clothes growing up (Abercrombie anyone? - sick.) and we were sent to any and all summer camps, day camps, sport camps, retreats, field trips, summer classes, etc. that we wanted – no questions asked – so I’d say, we had it very good and my parents managed their money well.  I grew up being shielded from any money issues really – my parents never lost a home, or had medical bills or an accident at work that kept them from working, there was no losing of jobs either.  I do know that at one point mom was laid off from a bank who was being bought out by another, but we never heard much about it, our parents did not have to worry because they had savings, and within no time at all, my mom had a new (better!) job than before, so it was almost a non-event.  For all of these reasons, and many many many more, I am a fortunate girl.  I worked a few jobs through high school (grocery store, babysitting, summer tennis camp) but really that money was mine to spend however I wanted (clothes and makeup). For these same reasons, I did not get a swift kick in the you know what, until I graduated college and was sent “off on my own.”
I graduated college in 2008 with two options, get a job or go to law school.  I had thought of going to law school seriously for two years and had somewhat of a plan of what I would do with a law degree but by no means had I thought through the finances of being a student for an additional 3 years. I was extremely and awfully fortunate to have two parents who planned since the time I was little for myself and my brother to attend college.  Not only did they plan by constantly instilling in us that college was part of our path, but they made sure that path was as easy as possible for us by providing fully funded 4 year educations.  I went to a private school in North Carolina for 4 years which by no means was the price of Northwestern, but was easily $30K-$35K a year including tuition and living expenses (if not more, the way they allowed me to live.) My brother went to a large public school in North Carolina, but again, the way my parents allowed him to live, easily cost $10K-$15K a year.  We both received incredibly respectful college educations, graduated in four years with no debt.  While I was preparing to go to law school and had seemingly, no worries, I had other friends working with lenders on a student loan repayment plan with money they didn’t even make yet.  This “debt free” life was not something I understood at the time, while I was in college or when I first graduated, but it is something I have come to understand very, very well.  Isn’t that how it always goes – by the time you appreciate something, the time has come and gone?  I know I’ve thanked my parents before for my education and for their diligent planning, but probably not to the extent I should have.  I like to think the way I can repay and “thank” them is by continuing to be a valuable citizen, taking advantage of any and every opportunity that comes my way and by passing the gift of education along by donating to my alma mater and planning for my children’s future.  I like to think that my life, now, is a proverbial “thank you” and I have used every ounce of what they gave me to my advantage and benefit.
*NOTE: I agree and understand college is not the only path to take after high school.  I acknowledge there are many paths that may be more economical and end up with the same respectful degree.  My path right out of high school was to go to college, my parents paid my full way there, I graduated in 4 years and use my degree daily.  I give back to my college quarterly and love where I went to school.  I won’t apologize for that.  I will acknowledge and agree there are MANY paths you can take to be successful. 
The moral of the story is: I had parents who from day one saw value in saving money and planning for the future.
This has really shaped me in the last few years as Mister and I plan our future and plan for a family. As we’ve thought through our own childhoods, our college experience, where we believe the education system is headed, we are fairly confident we want our child(ren) to have the same options we did and have the ability to go to college wherever they choose.
Mister grew up in England, in a mid-size seaside town.  His childhood was spent in a middle class family as well where he wanted for nothing but certainly was not flashing new cars or the latest and greatest.  He was taken on lots of travels and always had a plentiful Christmas.  His parents owned their own business for a number of years, giving him a glimpse into what a true work ethic should look like.  His college years were half covered by the government and the other half he paid himself.  He chose a college close to home to save money and worked throughout to put himself through college and for spending money.  Mister does not begrudge or wish for a different path, he liked his college and is glad he stayed nearby but it did make it even more concrete in his mind that he did not want his child to have to stay near home if they did not want to when the time came to choose a college.
When I graduated college, my parents helped me get my first apartment, a small one bedroom for $655 a month, 4 miles from the law school.  I had decided to go to law school and at the time my parents were a bit up in the air on whether they would help pay for law school or whether I would go it alone. For the first semester, it was a bit half and half.  By second semester, my mom laid it out.  I was on my own.  She felt depleting their savings or retirement carried a much larger consequence to everyone’s future than me incurring student loan debt.  She was absolutely right and I think her number one goal at that age and time should have been socking money away for retirement.  She would still pay for my health insurance but at 22, it was time for me to spread my wings.  She helped me apply for financial aid and get set up with a student loan.  While I do not resent or hold a grudge with her for doing so, the fact is from that day forward, I was on my own – suddenly making adult financial decisions without much education or support.  It was probably the smartest thing they could of done – rip off that bandaid.  To be fair, of course when we went out to dinner or if we stopped at the grocery to pick something up, she would pick up the tab, so there were certainly still fringe benefits coming my way but 95% of my expenses now fell on me.
The problem became the student loans.  Man, are they easy to get.  They don’t explain the terms very well or when they do, they’re not easily understood. Luckily all of mine were from the government and not private loans.  I attended a relatively inexpensive law school, a state school, so tuition and books were not as high as many of my counterparts.  But living expenses were another story.  I had always had the ability to go out to eat, buy clothes and go out with friends without batting an eye.  With student loans, you can still do those things because they will basically give you as much as you ask for.  Every semester, the first day of class, my new student loan I had requested would hit my bank account and I would “budget” out the next 6 months of living expenses.  I use the word budget particularly lightly.  By “budget” I mean, I would only budget out my rent, utilities, car insurance, and a few other necessities but pretended my food bill and fun bill were much lower than what they actually were.  By that 6th month, things were tight and I was foaming at the mouth for my next student loan check to hit my bank account unaware.  Much like gaining weight, it comes on easy, but is challenging to get off.
 It was around this time that Mister moved to America.  His income helped but with immigration and legal bills coming our way to get his visas and green card sorted out, we still relied on a student loan each month to make ends meet.  To his credit, he did everything he could to provide as much as he could on a limited work visa.  He worked bad hours with bad managers to help where he could (it was this fact and trait that would ultimately make me realize he was the type of life partner who would do anything when the going got tough  to get things done.)
 I made it through law school (it was a blur that I do not remember).  About 6 months before graduation, I started looking for a job. Wow. Wowwww.  I was in for a shock.  The job market was not at all kind to a 25 year old baby shark attorney without a law license.  The North Carolina attorney job market was over saturated – really the entire country was over saturated with other baby shark attorneys.  A bunch of Type A people, thinking they knew the law, biting each other for the chance at any job they could get their fins on.   It was around this time that Mister got a job offer in Texas at a new hotel opening, looking for new finance staff.  Mister and I took a trip to Texas and decided with the job potential on his end and the cost of living in Texas, it was a no brainer – we were moving to Texas.  I decided to suspend my job search until I was in Texas.  The day after graduation, I packed up my Ford Focus and drove to Dallas, Texas to meet my husband, who had already been there for 2 months and started a new life.  This was the best move we ever made.  Being away from everything we knew and being forced to really figure it all out on our own was a make or break it moment for our relationship  And we made it.
 We found a reasonable apartment to rent, Mister loved the change of scenery and being in a bigger city and I studied for the Texas bar alone in a SMU Law Library room for 3 months.  It was not fun or glamorous and I was miserable those first few months.  But I pulled up my boot straps, kept my head down, took the bar, and a week after the bar was hired on at a law firm as a true blue baby shark attorney.  I found out in November that I had passed the bar and received a hefty raise to make my shark status official.  We started looking at a new, nicer apartment, started making friends, started to create new memories and create new “favorite places.” We really found our groove and started to thrive as to young 20-somethings.
 We have now been in Dallas for 5 years.  We’ve steadily increased our income, decreased our debt and have matured in how we value each dollar we bring in.  In Part Two on my financial history, I’ll delve into what we’ve gotten ourselves in and gotten ourselves out of in the last 5 years.  
See you suburbanites soon!
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