#civilised autobiography.
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ANDREA DWORKIN, ‘Wuthering Heights’ (1987) from Letters from a War Zone
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smut henry creel please?
A Match Made in Lab
show: Stranger Things (season 4 spoilers)
pairing: 002!reader x Henry Creel/Vecna/001
summary: when you and Henry escape on the 4th of July and things happen to be a bit... romantic.
a/n: maybe this isn't as smut as you expected, sorry, but it is what I can do as I am a very shy person (I swear!); for those of you who are asking for this fic part 2 stay tuned because it's coming!
tag list: @perssepeony
You were friends. After all, there wasn't much choice for a friendship when you grew up in a lab with only a boy your age and a bunch of scientists. Yes, yes, they hid your existence and gave your number to somebody else, but they did that later because in 1964 Henry Creel was number 001 and you, [y/n] [y/l/n], were number 002, the only subjects in Hawkins National Laboratory.
“So,” he whispered when you two were together doing some recreational activities in the room that later on would be painted and called “the rainbow room”. “I have a plan.”
You looked around, but the guards were too far, close to the doors and the cameras weren't able to catch sound back then.
“Tell me more.”
He smiled beautifully. His hair was growing back again, slower than yours because they kept trying to shave him every month. But you, after four years of tests and buzzcuts, they decided to allow you some growth, at least to the shoulders. Henry had heard some of the female scientists claiming for you, something about “allowing a girl her femininity”.
There was no need for femininity in the lab, you thought but there was no use in saying it.
“I think we can… through the vents,” he said, explaining a plan you two had been trying to achieve from the moment you realized you were allies and not enemies. The word he was not saying was “escape” because if anyone there heard it, you and Henry would be dead.
And so he kept the explanation going, but he only used chess metaphors, for it would be easier to hide the truth.
The next day, you went on as normal, being the perfect children for the doctors. The secret was that at midnight, when security was reduced and the scientists were home, you two would be escaping through a secret passageway Henry had found.
There were flaws to the plan of course. A security guard could not stop you — they were there for the outsiders mostly — but a late-night doctor could if they were fast enough to see you two. Besides, someone would enter your rooms at one a.m. and the alarm would be sounded. So, you two had to be fast all of the time. And the powers needed to be on point because they were your only weapon.
But all your worries didn't matter. Once Henry’s hands were holding yours, nothing could stop you and soon you were out. Out.
In the dark, sure, but still out.
“We did it,” you whispered, for you were still afraid.
Henry looked at you, focusing on your eyes and you felt your hand being squeezed.
But there wasn't much time for nice touches. He said he had used his mind powers to map out the territory, but he wasn't very bright at it, not as good as you, so it took you some time to grasp the reality surrounding and find the best way to civilisation.
“There,” he said, pointing at a gas station. “We'll need to get some clothes if we want to head to town.”
You agreed with him. The store had only one worker, so it was easy to knock him out and get what you two wanted. Henry found himself a white t-shirt and a pair of khaki pants while you got a black white-dotted dress just tight enough.
Once you had finished changing, you handed Henry your gown which he burned, so it could be left with no proof.
“The dress looks nice on you,” he said, looking you up and down. You felt your cheeks turn red. It was a weird feeling.
You had read about it, before the lab and even when in the lab. They allowed you some books, not any title — it had to be approved and “appropriate” — and not all but most of the readings mentioned love. In autobiographies, the scientists would always happily marry a pretty lady and in the fictional ones, the protagonists always had a romantic interest. It was love, they called it. Magical, unique and beautiful.
But when stuck at the lab it never felt like that could happen to you. Of course, Henry was there, and he cheered you up just enough to survive, but the place wasn't a romantic one. Besides, you feared he did not know what love was. He always mocked your readings and had no interest in them, and he lived in the outside world even less than you had. He got in the lab in 1959 and you in 1960.
He reached for your hand as you made your way out of the gas station and headed to Hawkins. It was a long walk but you two managed because of adrenaline, excitement and the chance to have real unsupervised conversations.
“Look,” you said, “the city looks bright for midnight.”
Henry looked straight ahead, seeing the town that suddenly appeared and it indeed looked rather lighter.
“Perhaps today is a festival?”
Your question remained unanswered until you two reached downtown, where the party was loud and full. You even felt undressed compared to all the men and women, fancily dressed.
“Fourth of July,” pointed out Henry, answering your question as he looked at the big flag being waved by a white man of large bones.
You knew when you were younger your parents used to celebrate it, but there was no memory of the happiness you were seeing (and suddenly feeling as well) around.
“Come on,” he tightened his grasp in your left hand, “let’s get some hotdogs before they stop selling them.”
“Henry,” you couldn’t help but smile. “We have no money.”
“No, but we have you,” he smiled too. “And who’s best at implementing memories in people’s minds?”
Again, your cheeks reddened.
“I mean, it’s not like I have competition,” you said, jokingly for he had been practising the arts of the mind as well but he was not half as good as you.
He pretended to be offended but laughed it off.
The night was like that: funny and silly moments of you two, while you watched the whole of Hawkins celebrations and sooner than you’d like, people were going back to their homes and most of the lights were out.
“We should get out of here now,” Henry said, getting up from the sidewalk where you two were sitting. “The lights are out and now we’re easily found.”
You stared down at your feet. You were so tired. After putting the guards to sleep and having to do so much walking, your legs hurt and so did your mind. You looked up again, back at Henry, with pity eyes.
“Can’t we find a place to stay? For the night?”
He wasn’t gonna say yes. It was dangerous and reckless. At that hour of almost dawn, the alarm was probably already on and people probably were hunting them down, he was sure. But he understood her point and he only wanted to make her happy.
Henry knew he didn’t deserve to get out of the lab and he was fine staying there, but you didn’t deserve it. You didn’t deserve the life of a rat.
“Ok,” he sighed. “But it has to be a quick sleep. Four hours top.”
You agreed with a nod and grabbed his hand. You knew he would find a place for you to stay so you just let him do the job. He liked to use his powers, way more than you.
When the place was found, both of you had to settle down on a bed made of cardboard and some torn cloth, as it was the only thing available in the back of a practically abandoned factory.
You turned from side to side, unable to close your eyes. Even if the discomfort was great, it wasn’t the lack of a pillow that kept you awake.
It was him.
Henry was your best and only friend, so you guys used to hang out in the lab together, but everything looked different outside of it. There, on the cardboard bed, he was no longer 001 and you were no longer 002. Somehow, the dynamic seemed to be that of a boy and a girl, and at least your hormones seemed to be in full bloom.
You turned around to face him. Even though his eyes were closed, you knew he wasn’t sleeping. His back was against the weathered wall of the factory, and he was leaning his head forward. He looked like he was sleeping, but you were smarter than that.
“Henry?” you whispered.
He opened his eyes in your direction.
“Sleep, [y/n].”
You pressed your lips together and didn’t respond. But you didn’t sleep either.
“Just say it,” he said, sighing. “Say what you want to say, [y/n].”
“It’s actually something I wanna do,” you said, getting your back up from the floor. “I saw a couple doing it and… and I wanted to test it.”
“It’s not dancing, is it? I’m not going to dance right now,” Henry said, in a serious tone, but you knew he was joking.
You looked at him through your eyebrows, a look of compassion, but also of seduction, or at least, that’s how you felt when you faced him before doing what you wanted and feared.
Henry swallowed hard. Nothing in his body indicated that he knew what you were about to do—after all, he didn’t open his arms to wait for you—but perhaps something natural and instinctive asked him to stay alert. He looked at you, his brows furrowed and his lips slightly parted.
You took a deep breath before pushing yourself forward and touching your lips to his. You’ve never done this before, and perhaps you both never would’ve if you hadn’t escaped the lab.
It was just a brush of lips, an invitation. Then you pulled away, lowering your gaze to your lap. In yourself, a feeling of accomplishment but also of shame. What if he didn’t want that? What if it had been horrible for him?
“I don’t…” you started to say, but you didn’t have the chance to finish, because Henry’s lips had come back to meet yours; this time with more passion, more desire and more force.
He was pressing all of him against you, and from then on everything seemed to happen driven by lust and instinct. You didn’t really know what you were doing, as it was both his and your first time and you didn’t have access to much of that content.
It certainly shouldn’t look pretty to an outsider, but it was incredible to Henry, who felt a tightening of pleasure from his lips to his legs, almost electrifying. It’s better than good, you thought, as he nibbled on your lip, forcing you to open them. His tongue slowly entered your mouth, searching for your own tongue.
Needing some support, your hands reached for the back of Henry's neck, and stayed there, as your fingers tangled in his blond hair, which grew soft.
Both of your breaths were heavy and you both needed a few seconds apart to recover. Somehow, even though you were exasperated, you weren't tired — on the contrary, you were awake; your whole body and hair were.
The kisses and caresses continued, and you tested a kiss on each other’s neck, a caress beyond the bend of the waist. It was no longer cold, and suddenly you were overcome by the need to remove your clothes. The little skin that was in contact was insufficient for the size of the desire you both felt. You just knew you needed more.
“I need you to kiss me,” you told him breathlessly.
He smiled, pulling away from the crook of her neck. “I’m kissing you,” he said.
“Yes, but…” you sighed, mortified. “I need you to kiss me somewhere else.”
Henry looked up to meet his, and he frowned.
“A bit… lower,” you cleared your throat.
He smirked and obeyed, lowering his lips to your cleavage and after a few sighs of yours, he lowered even more. But he didn’t stop at your belly. Oh, no. Now that the dress was gone, he kissed you in a secret place, one that only the female doctors (and yourself) had seen before.
It just felt natural.
Your hand reached for his member, a part of him that your anatomy lessons at the lab were not enough to teach you the power it had. It was different from the few things they shared. It was hard and big, and well, very interesting to look at. You just wanted to touch and when you did it, Henry let out a groan.
“What are you doing?” he asked, but there was no anger in his voice. He seemed to be hanging by a thread.
“I’m touching you,” you answered, biting your lip.
“You don’t have to just because I’m kissing you,” he said.
Oh, you thought; maybe he did know more about “this” than you. Had he been reading different books? Were the scientists teaching him different things they were teaching you just because he was a boy?
Or had he learned that with his father, back when he was just 11 and a good family boy?
“I want to,” you said, hardening your grasp on his member.
He gulped. “Okay,” he let out, before closing his eyes and tilting his head back.
You didn’t do much, for you didn’t know how to do much.
At some point, you felt very open, both bodily and mentally, so you just asked him, “Henry? There’s more than this, isn’t there?”
He stared at you. “Yes.”
You liked him because he never lied to you.
“Can you show me?”
“I’ve never done it before,” he said. “I haven’t even kissed anyone before. You are my first, [y/n], you know that, right?”
You nodded.
“I can do it, but it might hurt you. It was what I learned in bio class anyway.”
You tilted your head. “So we had separated lessons.”
He smiled, with pity. he knew you liked to learn. “They said they weren’t classes for the ladies.”
You rolled your eyes, jokingly, and he giggled, hiding his face at the crook of your neck. You passed your hands through his hair.
“Now?” you suggested, in a whisper filled with desire.
His hands were everywhere, his fingers on your skin, his leg nudging its way between yours. He was pulling you closer, rolling you on top of him as he slid onto his back. His hands were on your bottom, drawing you so tightly against him that the proof of his desire burned itself into your skin. You gasped at the intimacy of it all, but you couldn’t do much because his lips were back kissing yours.
His mouth moved to your ear, then to your throat, and you arched beneath him as if you could somehow curve your body closer to his. There wasn’t a manual available, so you were kind of lost in what to do, but there was no way you could have remained motionless, no way you could have stopped your legs from wrapping around his. Whatever this was, building inside of you —this tension, this desire—it needed release, and you were starting to grow impatient for the moment. You wondered if it was the same for Henry.
He pushed forward, just an inch or so, but it felt like you were swallowing him whole. Henry’s hips began to move, unable to remain still when he was so obviously near to a climax. You looked like an angel beneath him, and every time you grasped and gasped, he felt closer to heaven, even if he did not deserve it. He finally let himself go and gave in to the overwhelming desire surging through his blood.
“You are beautiful, [y/n],” he whispered as if only then he recalled he could speak.
You smiled.
And then it came. A sound from your lips, sweeter than anything ever to touch his ears. You cried out his name as your entire body tensed in pleasure, and he came right after, for you two were such a match that it didn’t even need to be rehearsed.
“It didn’t hurt,” you said, suddenly overwhelmed. “It was good.”
He smiled.
“It was good for me too.”
For a minute there was silence, and neither of you spoke, for your chests were rising and falling too fast, and the bliss of being in each other’s arms was enough.
You didn’t even realise when you fell asleep until you woke up.
You were in his arms, but it was easy to get up. Your heart raced as it realised what was happening. There were lights everywhere, and even though there was nobody over you, you felt like you were surrounded.
“Henry,” you nudged him. “Henry, wake up.”
But he didn’t hear you.
“Henry, wake up!”
You pushed him.
“Come on, Henry now’s not the time.”
When you heard sounds — people, probably your doctors coming closer — you decided to use your powers on his mind, to see if you could wake him up from his subconscious.
“Wake up, Henry, please,” you prayed, but there was no reply. He wasn’t dead, you could feel his heart and breath, but for some reason, he could not wake up. Had he been using his powers to cover you two before he fell asleep? That could explain his tiredness and inability to wake.
Deciding he wasn’t gonna wake up, you tried to get him up with your own strength, but you were never much strong. Neither of you was. You tried, oh, God, you tried, but he didn’t wake and he didn’t move.
You grasped your dress. It was too late to come up with a plan. You could hear Dr Brenner loud and clear. if you escaped alone, maybe you could make it.“I love you, Henry,” you whispered in his mind and then you left, running for your life and your freedom.
#jamie campbell bower#henry creel#vecna#stranger things#stranger things fic#henry creel x reader#peter ballard x reader#Peter ballard#vecna x reader#fanfic#smut#Peter ballard smut#Henry creel smut#001#001 x reader#number 001
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Believe the Buildings
Schopenhauer, like Descartes, was no friend of history. In his The Art of Literature he offered his view that, “History has always been the favorite study of those who wish to learn something, without having to face the effort demanded by any branch of real knowledge, which taxes the intelligence.” (No doubt part of Schopenhauer’s rejection of history is due to his dislike of Hegel, and the special place that Hegel gave to history.) However, later in that work he said something a bit more searching about history:
“There are two kinds of history; the history of politics and the history of literature and art. The one is the history of the will; the other, that of the intellect. The first is a tale of woe, even of terror: it is a record of agony, struggle, fraud, and horrible murder en masse. The second is everywhere pleasing and serene, like the intellect when left to itself, even though its path be one of error. Its chief branch is the history of philosophy. This is, in fact, its fundamental bass, and the notes of it are heard even in the other kind of history. These deep tones guide the formation of opinion, and opinion rules the world. Hence philosophy, rightly understood, is a material force of the most powerful kind, though very slow in its working. The philosophy of a period is thus the fundamental bass of its history.”
The musical simile is interesting in light of Schopenhauer’s metaphysics of music, which is deservedly better known than Schopenhauer’s philosophy of history; also, the distinction between the history of the will and the history of the intellect reflects Schopenhauer’s metaphysics and gives us a distinction the like of which we don’t exactly find anywhere else.
That being said, there is something vaguely similar to this distinction in a tripartite distinction made by Ruskin and quoted by Kenneth Clark. Clark opened his book and television series Civilisation: A Personal View, which focuses more on art and architecture than civilization proper (if there is such a thing), with this observation made with Notre Dame de Paris in the background
“What is civilisation? I don’t know. I can’t define it in abstract terms—yet. But I think I can recognise it when I see it; and I am looking at it now. Ruskin said: ‘Great nations write their autobiographies in three manuscripts, the book of their deeds, the book of their words and the book of their art. Not one of these books can be understood unless we read the two others, but of the three the only trustworthy one is the last.’ On the whole I think this is true. Writers and politicians may come out with all sorts of edifying sentiments, but they are what is known as declarations of intent. If I had to say which was telling the truth about society, a speech by a Minister of Housing or the actual buildings put up in his time, I should believe the buildings.”
Many have commented on what was left out of Clark’s account of civilization, some of whom have singled out music, although Clark does discuss Baroque church music and opera. Like all histories, Clark’s account is highly selective, and it is selective for a reason. Clark notes elsewhere that:
“People sometimes wonder why the Renaissance Italians, with their intelligent curiosity, didn’t make more of a contribution to the history of thought. The reason is that the most profound thought of the time was not expressed in words, but in visual imagery.”
I have often thought of this comment, and it seems to me that the most profound thought of our time is to found in science and technology. He have our art and architecture, but, viewed by Clark’s criterion, if we trust the buildings of the present age, we will not be very impressed. Implicit in these two quotes from Clark is the idea that we should trust the most profound form of thought in any given era to tell us what Schopenhauer called the “fundamental bass” of era.
Trusting the buildings, or the music, or the painting, or the technology, is the bright, sunlit side of an age; we can also trust of the shadow side of an age to tell us that which a people, a civilization, or a period of history passed over in silence—what is neglected, or denied, or dismissed. When Hume ridiculed the “monkish virtues” of the Middle Ages, he showed us the shadow side of the Enlightenment, alongside the sunlit side of the Enlightenment, which was witty conversation among educated individuals attending a fashionable salon, which was the affable sociability that plays such a prominent role in Hume’s naturalistic ethics.
The fact that we build ugly buildings that don’t last is our shadow side, while our sunlit side is the science and technology. So our buildings are to be trusted also, but trusted to reveal our blind spots and deficits. It is not uncommon to hear ridicule of the admittedly silly scientific ideas of pre-modern societies, which were their shadow side, but we still appreciate the buildings, which are more beautiful than ours, and have stood the test of time. Our technology, while wildly sophisticated, will not likely endure as well. And long after we are all dust and our civilizations only a distant memory mentioned in forgotten books, the pyramids of Egypt will still stand, bearing witness to a belief in buildings surpassing that of Kenneth Clark.
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week 23.
I was recently in London with my dad. Whenever I’m in the London, I like to buy some books, so we headed towards Waterstones in Picadilly, the biggest bookshop in europe, I believe.
On the way there, we happened to walk by Hatchards--a bookshop which claims to be the oldest in the UK (est. 1797)--, and decided to pop in.
I don’t know if Hatchards is the oldest bookshop in the UK, but it certainly looks the part. The bottom floor was dominated by non-fiction, autobiographies, history books, political works: what might be considered intellectual literature.
Now, my favourite genres are science fiction and fantasy, and although I do read other genres and some non-fiction, these two dominate my yearly reads, so naturally, I went to look for them.
The fiction was on the first floor (second in us english). At the top of the stairs, I was surrounded by all sides by classic fiction, bookshelves black and red with Penguin and Vintage Classics.
I found the science fiction and fantasy. The horror was also on the same shelves. Behind me was some bearded chap looking at the historical fiction shelves by the science fiction and fantasy. I found a book I liked the look of, and took it.
Then I looked around me. Everyone looked so intellectual and civilised looking at their Dostoevsky and Dumas, their Chomsky and Churchill. I felt out of place, a child in an adults world.
I felt I needed to take something civilised, so I caved in and took my two tomes to the till, hoping that nobody saw my silly stories and judged them.
Waterstones, on the other hand, was great.
On the second floor, there’s a whole hall of nerds: Fantasy, Sci-fi, and Horror. Opposite them, tabletop games. Let’s not forget manga, and in the centre of it all, a cool display for some horror novel I can’t remember the name of. No fear of judgement here!
You could really tell how the people in charge of this stuff at the respective bookshops viewed literature. Hatchards was for the modern upper middle-class “Oh yes you must read to understand the world”, and Waterstones totally understood “Oh you love stories with cool spaceships? We do too!”
Not that there was any fault in Waterstones’ non-fiction and classics collection.
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Uncool50 - finding my place
Part of the #Uncool50 project, a sort-of autobiography told through the memories of pop singles. This installment covers the second half of the 2000s. Nothing from 2005 or 2006, by now my head had been turned by European hits and the anglophone stuff just wasn’t fun.
The theatre kid who made it. "Grace Kelly" came out of nowhere at the start of 2007, as flamboyant and ostentatious and unashamedly queer as anything. Mika sounds like Freddie Mercury, the lead singer of Queen who was snatched from us far too soon.
The homophobes hated it. Of course the homophobes hated it, they cannot stand anything fun, colourful, honest. One review at the time said, "Like being held at gunpoint by Bonnie Langford", as if this was a bad thing!
This song is fun, it's catchy, it worms into your ears and is never going to leave. Might just be the greatest pop song of the decade. More power to Mika.
The greatest pop moment of the decade comes straight after the breakdown in "About you now". We hear the chorus line again – "can we bring yesterday back around?" But this time it's different – a little higher-pitched, a touch yelpy. And there's a gloriously discordant high tone, "coz I know how I feel about you now".
By this time, we're up to Sugababes 3.0 – Siobhan's long-gone, Mutya's been replaced by Amelle - but the songs still remain awesome. Dancey-electronica with a scuzzy overtone. And the video with the young man parkouring his way around south London, hopes to meet up with his date on the Southbank.
vimeo
My long list of 300 songs had a lot of Sugababes – "Overload" and "Freak like me", "Too lost in you", "Ugly" and "Change" all featured. But none of them have this yelp of joy, that’s the clincher.
"This is the life", Amy MacDonald's defining hit. Breakthrough single "Mr rock and roll" had positioned Amy as a troubadour, sings songs about people's lives. She uses a few words to describe a scene, and whoosh – we're in it!
"This is the life" is a personal, probably autobiographical, song. "So you're sitting there with nothing to do, talking about Robert Riger and his motley crew". Life-affirming through its melancholy, drunken nights out and waiting in for friends and thinking both that this is excellent and this is terrible.
Number one for the year in Belgium, Netherlands; for some weeks in Austria and Czechia; top five in all civilised markets around the continent. And number 28 on Britain, because the playlisters and programmers in London are a complete waste of space and goodness knows who pays them. Amy's built a hugely successful career in Europe, and still makes top-drawer albums to this day.
So I started hanging out with a bunch of friends from the karaoke bar, and we went out to a maize maze, ears of corn up to eye level. Or for Caz, ears of corn over the top of her head. Caz managed to lose contact with the group, get lost, and had to be rescued by the tall stablehand.
We welcomed Anna into our friendship group, and she turned out to be the glue to hold us together, and we loved her dearly. "Bulletproof" by La Roux is one of many many songs from those years. This time, maybe, I'll be bulletproof.
#uncool50#uncool 50#personal#autobiography#pop singles#mika#queer#queer representation#sugababes#video#amy macdonald#troubadour#la roux#genderqueer
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The creator of the trans flag was an autogynephile creep who openly admitted to stealing his mother's and random women's underwear for sexual reasons. He talks about it in his autobiography "more than just a flag". He also stated in the book that he was turned on by looking at himself in the mirror while wearing women's clothes ( typical autogynephile behaviour ) here is a video discussing it:
https://youtu.be/9zaQ-os4yxw
He's also written a story about an adult man marrying a teen girl who doesn't age in his book "tales from a two-gendered mind"
So next time you proudly wave around your trans flag remember that you are supporting a pedophile autogynephile degenerate creep.
Fun fact!
JK Rowling think the Irish and Scottish who want freedom from the British are actual Nazi's and yet there are good HP fans, the pope has facilitated both mass genocide and rape at all times throughout history and yet there are good Christians, the recent TERF March down in Australia was hand in hand with Neo-Nazis.
What's the difference here, assuming you are saying this in genuine good faith?
We don't support the person directly. We don't buy a flag off them every time we need one, we take the flag. Just as 'lesbian' was a slur that was reclaimed, similarly the flag is in the public domain. We aren't directly supporting her, ever heard of death of the author? We're, unlike Aussie terfs who actively defended those doing Nazi salutes. Again, let me make myself clear, the terfs down there were defending people who believe that the ideology closest to the Devil is good. You might want to fix your own ranks there, just saying.
Now, I did look her up on Wikipedia, just to see what it said. It didn't say anything about her you said, but it was very short. So there's a good chance you could genuinely be telling the truth. If you are, yeah. Not great. (just saw the video link, oops. I'll take a look in a bit. Tanks for adding that!)
Anyway. Have a great day, hopefully y'all deal with the Nazi problem your going through and we can continue to discuss our issues in a civilised manner!
#please note im taking all of what you say in good faith no matter how little i believed them#tw transphobes#cw nazi#cw transphobes
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Travel Documents 122: Entropia
by Samuel Alexander
Genre: sci-fi, near-future, social change, cultural change
The Dust Cover Copy
When industrial civilisation collapsed in the third decade of the 21st century, a community living on a small island in the South Pacific Ocean found itself permanently isolated from the rest of the world. With no option but to build a self-sufficient economy with very limited energy supplies, this community set about creating a simpler way of life that could flourish into the deep future. Determined above all else to transcend the materialistic values of the Old World, they made a commitment to live materially simple lives, convinced that this was the surest path to genuine freedom, peace, and sustainable prosperity. Seven decades later, in the year 2099, this book describes the results of their remarkable living experiment.
The Scene
Worldbuilding
Okay, so, it happens to everyone: some books just rub you the wrong way. This is one that did for me.
The concepts are good. The ideas are good. But the delivery is just. Really. Tedious. Also, it’s pompous. And this is from someone that reads Agatha Christie for fun.
So yeah, I’m owning it as a reviewer: this one got on my nerves. I’ll dig into why below.
So, the worldbuilding. A private island is created with seed money and the basics of civilization, and is designed to evolve into a more sustainable future. Right there, we start with problems. I got really heavy ‘manifest destiny’, and ‘city on a hill’ vibes right from the entire setup. That is not a compliment. The concept of a group putting together an isolated island community to test a social theory is…yeeah. A wee bit cringe. Done right, it could be an intentional community. But this author, in trying to hearken to a style based in British travelogues and personal journals, instead fell right into the kind of ‘righteous community’ rhetoric that makes my brain seethe with images of the worst excesses in classism, eugenics, and paternalistic determinism from the last century. Taking the elect away to a nice paradise island? Eugh. Not a good look.
The author aimed for solarpunk, and fell right down into something uncomfortably close to ecofascist rhetoric.
Now, credit where credit is due: the basic technical ideas are good. Ripping up lawns for food production? Good. Goats instead of cows? Not bad. Circular production? Great. But tech is amoral. And in this case, all the good tech in the world won’t redeem the underlying cultural and social assumptions. And those are worrisome.
The Crowd
Characterization
Honestly? Nil. Zip. Zilch. We don’t find out who is writing this ostensibly personal diary of how Entropia was formed, not as a person. The description of the community is almost Marxist in its absolute absence of actual PEOPLE in his social descriptions. Everything is concepts, ideals, and nice clean anonymous groups. You might as well be in Stepford.
Writing Style
This is a good conceptual book, written in the Wrong Way. It should have been written as a treatise. A how to guide. It would have been a great manual. An illustrated showcase of the island could have worked. But the author chose to write a fiction work, and then couched it as an autobiography of an unknowable narrator who is pontificating on how well their community managed to create itself.
Not cool. The reader feels cheated, bored, and irritated. They signed up for a story. Not a lecture.
If you want to write a guide to setting up a sustainable eco-community, do it. Don’t do this.
The Moves
Plot
The problem with an autobiography told by the kind of professor you hope you don’t get stuck sitting with at dinner is that, by using it as the style, the author has washed hands of all real emotional turmoil. All problems are past tense, pat and solved. Everything is worked out. Everything is neat.
And that is boring, boring, boring. It’s like listening to the above prof pat himself on the back for a career well completed during his retirement speech. And man, don’t you want to slip out the back door while he drones on.
Overall Rating
There’s good basic information in the technical descriptions. But for a read, pick up anything else.
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Born Oct 22 1919, novelist Doris Lessing (née Doris May Tayler) was born in Persia (now Iran) to British parents. She moved with them to the British colony of Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) in 1925. Her childhood, a mixture of idyllic and difficult, ended prematurely when she was sent to a convent school, where she was terrified by the nuns and their tales of sin and damnation, according to a Reader's Guide to The Golden Notebook and Under My Skin (1995).
A temporary attraction to Catholic ritual was dispelled when her mother described the horrors of the Inquisition, at which point Lessing "quit religion," according to literary critic John Leonard. Her formal education ended when she dropped out of an all-girls high school at age 13. She left home at 15, married Frank Wisdom at 19 and had two children before divorcing in 1943. She then married Gottfried Lessing and had another son before divorcing in 1949. She never married again.
Her first novel, The Grass is Singing, was published in 1949, the year she moved to London with her son. Her famed "Children of Violence" series (1951-59) features her heroine, Martha Quest, in a series of four coming-of-age novels. In 1956 she was named a "prohibited alien" by Southern Rhodesia and South Africa. The Golden Notebook (1962), with heroine Anna Wulf, was hailed as an early feminist classic. Her autobiographies were published in two volumes, Under My Skin, and Walking in the Shade (1997). She also wrote a series of science fiction books that were panned by some critics.
In analyzing a human propensity to dogmatism, including her own previous communist conversion, Lessing said, "There are certain types of people who are political out of a kind of religious reason. I think it's fairly common among socialists: They are, in fact, God-seekers, looking for the kingdom of God on earth. ... If you don't believe in heaven, then you believe in socialism." (New York Times, July 25, 1982.)
She was awarded the 2007 Nobel Prize for Literature at age 88, the oldest person at the time to ever receive the prize. The Swedish Academy called her "that epicist of the female experience, who with scepticism, fire and visionary power has subjected a divided civilisation to scrutiny."
#atheism#christianity#judaism#islam#catholicism#mormonism#baptist#jehovah witness#scientology#Religion
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In the desert I had found a freedom unattainable in civilisation; a life unhampered by possessions, since everything that was not a necessity was an encumbrance. I had found too, a comradeship inherent in the circumstances, and the belief that tranquility was to be found there.
- Sir Wilfred Thesiger
Sir Wilfred Thesiger (1910-2003) was probably the greatest traveller of the twentieth century, and one of its greatest explorers. A former SAS soldier in the deserts of North Africa during the Second World War, his later travel writings such as the classic Arabian Sands (1958) and autobiography A Life of My Choice (1987) have been hailed as classics of travel literature, and his other publications, such as Desert, Marsh and Mountain (1979), introduced many more people to his remarkable archive of photography spanning over fifty years of travel.
#thesiger#wilfred thesiger#quote#explorer#author#soldier#SAS#writer#desert#travel#traveller#exploration#british#icon#civilisation
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A Passage to India
E.M. Forster,
A Passage to India
(1910s English girl confused by experience of the Raj)
Between Two Worlds
Ruth Prawer Jhabvala, Heat and Dust (Englishwoman contrasts modern India with her aunt"s 1920s experience)
James Clavell, Shogun (American becomes samurai in 17th-century Japan)
John Le Carre, The Perfect Spy ("autobiography" of ipper-echelon British spy - and double-agent, trying to discover where his loyalty lies)
Henry James, The Ambassadors (rich 1900s Americans take "culture" to Europe, find it more civilised than they expected)
Confused Emotions
R.K. Narayan, The Vendor of Sweets (devout Hindu in rural India dismayed by son"s "progressive" ways)
V.S. Naipaul, A House for Mr Biswas (Indian Hindu in Jamaica caught between dependence on his wife"s all-engulfing family and his longing to lead his own life)
L.P. Hartley, The Go-Between (small boy in 1910s England carries love-messages, emotions he only dimly understands)
Paul Theroux, Fong and the Indians (Indian shopkeeper struggling to survive in rural, tribal Africa)
Willa Cather, My Antonía (daughter of 19th-century Bohemian immigrants growing up in rural Nebraska)
Imperialism, Good and Bad
Timothy Mo, An Insular Possession (blockbusting novel about English imperialism in Honk Kong)
James Blish, A Case of Conscience (should mineral-rich planet be exploited at expense of native inhabitants" life and culture?)
James Blish, A Case of Conscience (should mineral-rich planet be exploited at expense of native inhabitants" life and culture?)
Rudyard Kipling, Kim (adventures of Anglo-indian boy in heyday of Raj)
Twilight of Empire
Paul Scott, Staying On (plight of English in India after independence)
Peter Vansittart, Three Six Seven (Romanised Britons watching advance of barbarism after 4th century collapse of Roman power)
Morris West, The Ambassador (Us ambassador in Vietnam, appalled by his country"s action there)
Gerald Seymour, Field of Blood (underover SAS officer hunts IRA suspect in present-day Belfast)
P.H. Newby, The Picnic at Sakkara (English teacher in 1950s Egypt confused by collapse of British Empire)
#PATHWAYS#FORSTER_EM#A PASSAGE TO INDIA#AMIS_Kingsley#BLISH_James#CATHER_Willa#CLAVELL_James#HARTLEY_LP#JAMES_Henry#JHABVALA_Ruth#KIPLING_Rudyard#LE_CARRE_John#MO_Timothy#NAIPAUL_VS#NARAYAN_RK#NEWBY_PH#SCOTT_Paul#SEYMOUR_Gerald#THEROUX_Paul#VANSITTART_Peter#WEST_Morris
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DEBRA E. BEST, ‘The Monster in the Family: a reconsideration of Frankenstein’s domestic relationships’
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pls mrs thot tell me what started your beef with matt leech. i feel like im missing out on tea
I could write a novel darling, in fact it will have a whole chapter in my autobiography The Thot, The Myth, The Legend: little ole me, tales from the belly of a shark
I’ll give you a cheeky snippet
He insults every fibre of my being, gives me the creeps the major cringe.com his Instagram captions fill me with anger. We had several arguments in 2006 surrounding the Importance of Clytemnestra in Agamemnon and of the folly of man following the ascension of the Hunter gatherer by creating civilisation and after that I can’t stand to talk to him as he is so thoroughly wrong. He’s a cad, a dandy, he commits every faux pas since the development of civilised masculinity and what’s more is he added me on Facebook and has YET to make a move :/ sick of it
There’s only room in my heart for so many cringe old men and Eion and Ross have filled the position
Matt if you’re reading this ... hmu, let’s argue
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The Coffee God
In times of hardship, many of us turn to faith, falling back on the whispered prayers of the damned, or the chanted mantra’s of the believer, ancient rituals leaving us muttering and swaying over candlelight and offerings as we appeal to a higher power. En masse, however, more people worshipped at his altar than in any church or temple, not knowing they were taking part in acts of veneration; instead of smoky incense filling the room with Oudh and jasmine, the air carried roasted arabica and soft vanilla fumes, sweet cinnamon pastries replacing the church wafers.
Were you to look at him, your first thought probably wouldn’t have been to kneel in veneration as he certainly didn’t look like much, let alone a God. In this iteration, he wore soft knit jumpers covered in coffee stains, dark aprons instead of ceremonial robes, crumpled pen and paper hastily stuffed into a pocket to take orders. His hair was dark, not quite the black of ink or onyx, but the rich warm brown of espresso, and he moved with a jittery energy that could never be fully suppressed, fidgeting hands and tapping feet ruining any notion of stillness. His face had the same qualities, shifting quickly from bored frowns to wry smiles as he welcomed regulars or hid distaste at the less than respectful customers he had to endure. For the slightly more discerning or intuitive, there was something about his eyes that suggested he was otherworldly; they seemed to flash a bright, shining gold if you made him laugh, switching to a soft honey as he stood thinking, or occasionally a dark and bitter grey when the ruder customers really went too far ( the air would shift in the coffee shop then, the smell of burnt coffee grounds and sour milk filling the air until placated by the clinking sound of coins falling into a tip jar as penance). Even then, that hint of the numinous didn’t tell you the full story of his past; of ancient cultures venerating him and leaving offering as he made crops grow, bitter beans growing from where bitter tears fell. As time passed, his gift grew in the world, monasteries in Yemen making the drink we love today, before it spread to the breakfast tables of Italy, or to the salons of Paris, into the mugs of America. Coffee became a gift that bolstered soldiers in the trenches, or restored the energy of nurses who gave all of their energy to those in their care. Cities grew and developed under his care, sipped cups smoothing over difficult meetings and helping to overcome hurdles. His gift was vigour, a boost when adversity was being faced and trials had to be passed, and he had circulated in the blood of armies as they marched; when you think of warlike gods, you might see Ares and Athena marching on the battlefield, or the valkyries collecting the fallen hero, but the always forget him as he walks with those who shared a final cup in solidarity and union before taking up arms. He was ancient and had seen the rise and development of civilisations, cradled in the hands of presidents and monarchs, a bitter reminder of the real world.
Coffee shops became the new temples, as people welcomed the sun over a latte and a tired smile, that first sip warming the soul. Quiet and unassuming, he had helped to build the modern world, one demitasse at a time. Now, of course, he was much tamer than his wild youth, offerings and rituals becoming coins exchanged for a smile and a flat white, little rituals that still held their own potency. The cafe we find him in now lacked the grandeur of a cathedral, but held its own appeal; cosy and intimate, there were shelves of beaten books where you could usually find good advice hidden between autobiographies and old romance novels. The tables and chairs were eclectic and old, worn in by centuries of use so that nothing matched but made pockets of warmth and familiarity. He decorated with potted arabica plants on each table, a nod to his origins, and odd trinkets and statues from each of the countries he had spread to, relocating with a different face and different story every hundred years or so. There were blankets ( some of which resembled rather frayed tapestries from lost cities) stacked up in every corner, cushions piled on every chair, and soft lamps to be lit as the sun set, to draw in the stragglers and the lost from cold streets. Aside from some truly delicious coffee, he served his worshippers in other ways, offering innocuous words of advice as he steamed the milk for a woman racked with difficult choices, spying the future in the dark mirror of the coffee he poured, or as it spiralled up in steam. He offered fresh cakes that tasted like something from a pleasant childhood memory, uncanny in their similarity and the tranquility they brought, or tarts with fruit so fresh that you tasted the sunlight in their skin. There were macarons in every colour, each igniting a particular emotion, just asking for a bite to be taken, mingling rich pistachio and the feeling of security, or rose to help ease a broken heart. He had become the confessional and the priest, leading customers in their daily rituals and offering a kind ear for when someone had to get something off their chest. Customers usually left smiling, maybe a little more whole and restored than when they went in to that unassuming, cosy, quirky little cafe
#writing#my writing#coffee#coffeeshop#short fiction#short story#writer#god#deity#coffee shop#coffee god#modern gods#dark acadamia aesthetic#dark academia#barista#new writerblr
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4, 11, and 17 for the asks?
4 Historical figure everyone should collectively stop talking about.
There so many directions to go with this... I could probably pick a different dude every time this is asked.
Robert E. Lee because *gestures vaguely in the direction of the South and all its stupid mental baggage* It’s like they thought they peaked in high school but they also lost the high school championship football game and then spent their middle age trying to rewrite history.
11 Favourite quote from an autobiography
Hmmm what is my favorite bit of Lejeune...
On the short end, I like "Audacity alone can succeed" (though the original French was more blunt with “l'audace réussit")
On the longer end, I have feelings about Lejeune spending a whole page complaining about how stupid he thinks duels are only to go :-) Time to kick his ass.
“What a bother!” I said to myself. “I, who detest the stupid prejudice which makes it impossible to avoid a duel, am now dragged into one myself. The fear of appearing a coward really is a piece of culpable pusillanimity, and it is a proof rather of want of courage than of the reverse not to dare to express one's aversion to risking one's life in a single combat when there are plenty of other opportunities of proving one's valour in presence of a thousand dangers. Might not a duel deprive my country of two of its best defenders ? Does a duel make a skilful rogue and bully respectable? Or is an honest fellow who falls beneath the sword of a swashbuckler contemptible? Such were the questions I put to myself, and it struck me that it really would be a good thing to look upon the two parties to a duel as mentally afflicted, one because he was fool enough to insult the other, and the other because the insult has inflicted on him a mental injury. This state of things once admitted, the seconds, who are able to judge of the cause of quarrel calmly and dispassionately, should be bound in honour, and by certain rules to be agreed upon, to effect a reconciliation in every case. Society and civilisation would doubtless gain greatly by the abolition of the barbarous custom of rushing to a duel to atone for one offence by committing a yet greater one, resulting often in the death of the innocent party. I was still musing on this weakness of humanity when at the hour appointed M. Stoffel reappeared.
In spite of myself I was really as much under the tyranny of the point of honour as any one, and I gaily accompanied M. Stoffel to the place where I expected to find my brother with his regiment.
17 Opinion on military history
IT’S COMPLICATED. It’s not like I dislike military history. I guess I have more problems with it being presented with bad priorities. Like super jingoistic war content is like ........hhhnnnggghhhh
Also I hate it when people just pretend war logistics doesn’t exist. Good gravy do I have feelings about how people are taking all this shit they need everywhere.
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A PERFECTLY NORMAL, REGULAR OLD IKEA
Item #: SCP-3008
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: The retail park containing SCP-3008 has been purchased by the Foundation and converted into Site-██. All public roads leading to or passing by Site-██ have been redirected.
The entrance to SCP-3008 is to be monitored at all times, and no one is to enter SCP-3008 outside of testing, as permitted by the Senior Researcher.
Humans exiting SCP-3008 are to be detained and then debriefed prior to the administration of amnestics. Dependent upon the duration of their stay in SCP-3008, a cover story may need to be generated prior to their release.
Any other entities exiting SCP-3008 are to be terminated.
Description: SCP-3008 is a large retail unit previously owned by and branded as IKEA, a popular furniture retail chain. A person entering SCP-3008 through the main entrance and then passing out of sight of the doors will find themselves translocated to SCP-3008-1. This displacement will typically go unnoticed as no change will occur from the perspective of the victim; they will generally not become aware until they try to return to the entrance.
SCP-3008-1 is a space resembling the inside of an IKEA furniture store, extending far beyond the limits of what could physically be contained within the dimensions of the retail unit. Current measurements indicate an area of at least 10km2 with no visible external terminators detected in any direction. Inconclusive results from the use of laser rangefinders has led to the speculation that the space may be infinite.
SCP-3008-1 is inhabited by an unknown number of civilians trapped within prior to containment. Gathered data suggests they have formed a rudimentary civilisation within SCP-3008-1, including the construction of settlements and fortifications for the purpose of defending against SCP-3008-2.
SCP-3008-2 are humanoid entities that exist within SCP-3008-1. While superficially resembling humans they possess exaggerated and inconsistent bodily proportions, often described as being too short or too tall. They possess no facial features and in all observed cases wear a yellow shirt and blue trousers consistent with the IKEA employee uniform.
SCP-3008-1 has a rudimentary day-night cycle, determined by the overhead lighting within the space activating and deactivating at times consistent with the opening and closing times of the original retail store. During the "night" instances of SCP-3008-2 will become violent towards all other lifeforms within SCP-3008-1. During these bouts of violence they have been heard to vocalise phrases in English that are typically variations of "The store is now closed, please exit the building". Once "day" begins SCP-3008-2 instances immediately become passive and begin moving throughout SCP-3008-1 seemingly at random. They are unresponsive to questioning or other verbal cues in this state, though will react violently if attacked.
SCP-3008-1 is known to have one or more exits located within though these exits do not appear to have a fixed position, making it difficult to leave SCP-3008-1 once inside. Using any other door besides the main entrance to enter the structure or breaking through the walls of the retail unit leads into the non-anomalous interior of the original store.
Since containment began 14 individuals have managed to exit SCP-3008. Following extensive debriefing all individuals have been administered amnestics and released.
Incident 3008-1: At 00:37 on ██/██/200█ a human male exited SCP-3008, followed 10 seconds later by an instance of SCP-3008-2. SCP-3008-2 caught and killed the man before itself being terminated by armed response personnel. This incident represents the only time an instance of SCP-3008-2 has been seen exiting SCP-3008. A full autopsy on the corpse was performed; see 3008-2 Autopsy Log for more details.
The man was carrying an IKEA-branded journal seeming to document his time in SCP-3008-1, transcribed below verbatim.
- Close Journal
So, I'm writing this to document what I can only assume is my sudden descent into insanity. I can't possibly be THAT bad a navigator, and yet as I write this I've been trapped in Ikea for 2 days. I haven't seen another person in the entire time I've been here. I thought it was a prank at first. Turn the place into a maze, get all the people out and see how long it takes me to get lost, then everyone has a good old laugh. Realised that wasn't the case when I tried to backtrack. Everything had changed, so I ended up lost. Instead of the exit, it was just row after row of bookcases.
So, I'm trapped in Ikea. Sounds like the setup for a bad joke. The lights went out at 10pm. Nearly gave me a fucking heart attack, that loud electrical THUNK sound and then pitch blackness. Place is full of beds though and my phone has a torch on it - but no damn signal - so I found a bed and went to sleep. Spent most of the next day trying to find my way out with no luck. Did find a restaurant serving those meatballs though, so at least I won't starve. That's probably the punchline to that joke. Anyway they were still warm and fresh, but I haven't seen anyone around who could have cooked them. Made my way back to the beds before the lights cut out again since it's too dark to search with them off.
It's 9.10am now, the lights came back on a little while ago. I'm sure I've searched the entire area around where I came in now and the exit obviously isn't here, so I'm going to pick a direction and hope for the best.
Day 3 of my magical Ikea mystery adventure. If I wasn't sure that there was something seriously weird about this place before, I am now. Walked for 3 hours in a more or less straight line (insert Ikea joke here) before I came across a ladder next to one of those huge stock shelves they have here. Climbed up to get my bearings, and it looks like this place just stretches on forever. Like that scene from the Lion King, except instead of trees and grass it was all shelves and tables and crap. I did see a person moving not too far away though, so I headed over.
Thought it was a staff member at first - it was wearing the uniform. And hell maybe it was, maybe freakish 7ft tall monsters with long arms, short legs and no faces are just the kinds of thing they want working at Super Ikea. Damn thing completely ignored me though, and with no eyes or ears I can't even be sure it knew I was there. Thought about shoving it or something to get its attention, but its hands were big enough to crush a water melon so I decided against it. It just kept moving along and eventually I lost sight of it so I decided to carry on the way I was going.
Anyway, no comfy bed for me tonight. Looks like I've entered the Improbably Hard and Pointy Table section of the store. Guess I'll have to make do with some bunched up tablecloths. Phone battery died during the day too. Didn't work anyway, but I feel like I've just lost some vital lifeline.
You ever see one of those cartoons where they're going through doors in a hallway and they just pop out of another door in the same hallway? That's how I feel right now. I've seen nothing but the same identical bookshelf for 2 days now. Just row after row after row of them. I mean, come on. I love books as much as the next guy, but this is excessive. I'm obviously still moving forwards though, I can see the signs hanging overhead passing by. Too bad none of them say "Exit".
Not sure who I was addressing that question to. Lets just say it was practice for the autobiography I'm going to write when I get out of here. I'll call it "My perfectly normal trip to a regular old Ikea".
If I ever get out o
Finally found some other people! Yeah, turns out I'm not the only poor bastard trapped in here. Lucky for me, I guess. My 6th night here, 2 of those staff things came at me in the dark. Different from the first one I saw, but still messed up. Heard them coming, they were saying that the store was closed and I had to leave the building, all nice and polite like. I'm not sure which part of that was weirder, that they don't have mouths or that they were apparently trying to kill me while they were saying it. Came at me like rabid dogs.
So, I legged it. Sprinting through ikea in the dark like a fucking madman. I saw it when I cleared another stand of those giant stock shelves, all lit up with torches and floodlights. They've built a whole town in here! Got a massive wall built out of shelves and beds and tables and whatever else. I swear to god it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Anyway I guess they saw me coming (or maybe they heard my girlish manly bellows of fear), because they had a gate open and 2 people were there waving me in. Heard the staff things slam into the gate behind me after it closed, still politely informing us all that the store was now closed. They wandered off eventually though.
They call the town Exchange, because that's whats on the sign hanging from the ceiling directly above it. Exchange and Returns. All lit up against the night using lights they've found and plugged into the power lines. And there are beds and food and people. Over 50 wonderful people with regular sized limbs and a full set of facial features. It's now my 7th night here, and the first one not spent in darkness. A full week living in Ikea. There's probably a TV show in that somewhere.
Now that I'm around other people, I'm starting to feel more normal. Maybe normal isn't the word. But after a week with only the sound of my own footsteps for company, I was becoming increasingly sure that I'd just gone nuts. That I was tied up in some padded room somewhere, banging my head against the wall. But no, I feel quite sane now, thank you very much!
Apparently there are other towns out there. Some with more people, some with less. I found that fairly mind-boggling - how can that many people go missing with no one noticing. Surely someone would have noticed that everyone who goes to ikea seems to fucking vanish. Or maybe it's not everyone. Maybe we're just the lucky ones.
The people here just call those staff monster things the Staff. Apparently they are fine during the day, minding their own business walking the aisles. As soon as those lights go out though, they go fucking bonkers. So during the day people go out to find food, water and whatever else they need. Apparently there are restaurants and shops around that randomly get restocked. No one knows how. Maybe the staff do it. Apparently they aren't very good at their jobs though because the restocking sometimes takes a while, which means the food needs to be rationed. Maybe if they weren't so busy chasing people around in the dark they'd get more done.
Anyway when night comes the staff go nuts and everyone holds up inside the walls. Apparently it's the same everywhere in this place, whatever this place is. The Ur-Ikea, from whence all other Ikeas sprang. Or maybe we're all still just in the regular ikea and this is all some fever dream brought on by mind-numbing boredom. Who knows.
Been here for 10 days now. Most of the people I asked said they stopped keeping track a long time ago and one guy, Chris, said he'd been in here for years.
Years.
[ILLEGIBLE SCRIBBLES]
Apparently there are rumours of people who do manage to get out. And of people who see the exit, only to have it vanish before their very eyes. I get the feeling not everyone believes that, but I do. Explains how we got stuck in here in the first place (sort of). And I mean, come on. Staff monsters, row after endless row of high quality Swedish furniture. I don't know why they would find a disappearing door so hard to believe in.
Anyway, I went out scavenging for food at a nearby shop with Sandra and Jerry today. Once you learn the landmarks of this place it's not so hard to navigate. The overhead signs help a lot, but there are others; not too far in the distance a huge section of those giant stock shelves has collapsed against each other and way off in the east (we all assume it's east anyway - apparently Ikea doesn't sell compasses) is some kind of tower that looks like its made of wood, reaches all the way to the ceiling. Maybe they were trying to break out through the roof. Lights up at night so there must be people there, but its apparently a few days walk (which means it must be miles away) so no one here really knows for sure. Apparently I got incredibly lucky sleeping out in the open for a week without getting ripped to bits by the staff. That's me. Lucky lucky lucky.
We found some food in the shop. Guess the staff restocked it during the night, which was nice of them. There was a telephone on the wall, so I figured I'd try it out. There was a voice on the other end, but they were just talking nonsense. Random words strung together with no real meaning. You ever see a video of someone with aphasia? Kind of sounded like that. Didn't answer me when I spoke to them anyway. Sandra says all the phones in here are the same.
Oops, asking the journal questions again!
I was thinking last night. The ceiling on this place is pretty high and as far as anyone can tell it goes on forever. Shouldn't there be some kind of weather in here? I'm sure I read about some NASA building that was so big it had its own weather patterns, with clouds and stuff. This place is definitely bigger than that, but now that I think about it I'm pretty sure I've never felt so much as a temperature change in here.
I'll add it to the Grand List of Weird Bullshit.
The staff attacked the Exchange last night. Must have been 20 or 30 of them all just asking us to leave the store calm as you like, while trying to smash the walls down with their bare hands. Apparently this happens pretty regularly, so everyone is prepared for it. Knives from the restaurants, lawn mower blades made into hatchets, a fire axe. One guy, Wasim, even made a functional crossbow. Anyway the walls have holes in them, which I hadn't noticed before, specifically so we can stab out at the staff when they attack. Took a couple of them down myself. They don't seem to bleed, which is weird, but they go down as easy as a regular person once you start sticking holes in them.
We had to haul the bodies away in the morning. Apparently the dead ones will attract more during the night, so we had to get them away from Exchange. We have a couple of those trolley things they use to move big boxes around, so we loaded them up and took them over to Pickup. Apparently people just name everything in here after whatever sign is hanging overhead.
Pickup was grisly. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of dead staff all piled up. There was no smell, which was a blessing. Apparently in addition to not bleeding, these things don't rot either. My curiosity got the better of me while we were unloading them, so I took a look at one of the more cut-up ones. They're just skin, or something that looks like skin, all the way through. No muscle, no bone, no organs. Are they even really alive in the first place? They certainly seem like they have bones when they are moving around, pounding on the walls. And I'm sure I felt more resistance than just skin when the knife went in during the night. Maybe something happens to them when they die. Just one more thing on the ever-increasing list of Weird Shit that goes on in here, I guess.
Something occurred to me, after the staff attack the other night. Every time you see a situation like this on TV or in a film, like its the end of the world or everyone is trapped on an island or whatever, once groups like ours start to form people always seem to turn on each other. Fighting for food or dominance or whatever else. That hasn't happened here. Apparently people from other towns come by from time to time, just to check in or occasionally to trade if they are short on something. But everything is always cordial. Friendly, even. Maybe its the threat of the staff, or perhaps the constant restocking of supplies in the shops means there's nothing much to fight over.
Maybe people are just better than they are generally given credit for. That's a nice thought. I think I'll go with that one.
A dozen people showed up at the gates this afternoon from a town called Trolleys. Apparently the staff broke through the walls and tore the town apart during the night. These 12 are the only survivors out of over a hundred. We let them in, obviously. One more point in the human decency column. Later, I asked if anyone knew how many of these towns there were out there. Between us and the new folks, we managed to come up with over 20 names. 20 towns filled with people, and who knows how many beyond that.
The motto for this place should be "How Is That Even Possible". Surely someone, somewhere must be looking for the thousands of people that must be in here.
I've been here for a little over 2 months now. Not that much changes, as it turns out. A couple of new people showed up, same story as the rest of us. Nice little trip to Ikea and suddenly they're trapped in Billy Bookcase's House of Faceless Weirdos. The staff attack the Exchange once or twice a week. We kill them and haul their bodies off, sometimes they hurt some of us first. They killed a guy called Jared a couple of weeks back. It was awful, frankly. Turns out regular humans still bleed in here, even if the staff don't. We tried our best, but none of us are doctors.
Jared was a good guy. He deserved better. We all do.
It occurred to me a couple of days after that, none of us were really looking for a way out of here. I don't even know where we'd start.
One of those quad copter things with a camera attached buzzed passed Exchange today. I thought it meant that someone was finally looking for us, that help was on the way. Apparently it's not the first time this has happened, though. Same thing happened a few months ago, and everyone is still here.
No idea if it saw us, it didn't stop if it did. Just kept flying until we could no longer see it.
Note: Based on recovery time of the journal, this entry appears to line up approximately with our first successful test piloting a drone inside SCP-3008-1. Analysis of footage shows a walled settlement under a sign labelled "Exchange and Returns". Attempts to relocate the settlement failed. Origin of previously sighted drones is unknown.
I started talking to people about the stuff they miss from home during dinner today. Probably not the best idea I've ever had, everyone seemed pretty down after. A bunch of people here have families. Husbands and wives, kids. Dogs. Franklin apparently has a pet llama, though I'm not sure I buy that.
But apparently some of the people here have some seriously odd gaps in their knowledge. 3 of them had never heard of the International Space Station, 2 of them seemed to think █████ ███████ was the Prime Minister, and one of them had apparently never heard of the Statue of Liberty. I believe them, too. They seemed just as confused as the rest of us.
The more I thought about it though, the more it started to explain a few things. What if the reason no one is looking for all us missing people is because we haven't all come from the same place. This is going to sound weird (maybe that should be the motto for this place) but what if all the people here have come from different dimensions? Realities? Whatever you call it. I've seen enough TV shows to know the drill. Sarah comes from a place where there is no Statue of Liberty. They didn't launch a space station where Wasim is from. If everyone here came from different places, even from ones that seem identical, there'd be no huge missing persons panic. No mass search. We'd just be a blip, a single missing person in a world of non-stop news.
Well. That was a fun train of thought.
Just realised that yesterday was the six month anniversary of my arrival here. I wonder if Ikea sells party hats. The routine around here has remained more or less the same. More new folk show up, one every couple of weeks or so. Food supplies go up and down, but we've never actually had a major shortage. Occasionally we get a visitor from one of the nearby towns, usually Checkouts or Aisle 630. We check in with each other from time to time, occasionally trade supplies if someone gets particularly low on something. It's comforting, in a way. A reminder that we aren't alone in here, some small glimmer of civilisation. Sometimes they bring medical supplies. Apparently there's a pharmacy a few towns down from Checkouts that gets restocked every now and then, so they share out what they can. I've never heard of an Ikea with a pharmacy before but at this point I wouldn't be surprised if someone stumbled on an Ikea Organ Harvesting Lab. Would certainly explain the staff.
Speaking of our faceless jailers, their attacks have been getting worse lately. 3 or 4 times a week now, with twice as many staff as there used to be. No idea where they all come from, or why the attacks have increased. We tried following one of them during the day a few weeks ago, me and Sarah. Wanted to see if they lead back to a staff room or something. Didn't seem to go anywhere though, just randomly walked through the aisles. We had to turn back before we found anything.
We've been reinforcing the walls, trying to arm ourselves better. Certainly no lack of materials to use. Wasim has been making more crossbows, but it's pretty slow going.
Too bad Ikea doesn't sell guns.
Note: No new personnel have entered SCP-3008 at Site-██ in the time span indicated in this entry.
The attacks are getting bad now. Almost every night, and with so many staff that the bodies almost pile high enough for others to climb the walls. I think we're in real trouble here.
Exchange is
I think Exchange is done. We got hit pretty bad last night. Not many casualties, but the wall is wrecked. We finally figured out why the attacks had been escalating, too. A box of supplies had a chunk of one of the staff in there. No idea how it happened but apparently a piece of one will draw them as well as a full body. Too late now in any case, there's too many bodies for us to haul away and still have time to fix the wall before night. Candace has called a meeting. I suspect there will be talk of abandoning Exchange, maybe try and get shelter at Checkouts or something.
It's already getting late though. I don't think we'll have time to make it. Maybe some of us will. I was fine for that first week out in the dark, after all. But then, how often can I keep getting lucky.
I'm only writing this for a sense of closure, I guess. For me, or for anyone who finds this. If this is the final entry here, I hope whoever is reading this is doing so from outside of this place.
My biggest fear? If I do die tonight, I'll just wake up here again in the morning.
Note: This is the last entry. It is assumed that while attempting to reach the "Checkouts" settlement he was separated from the rest of his group by a pursuing SCP-3008-2 instance and happened upon the exit.
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HOMILY for the 20th Sunday per annum (C)
Jer 38:4-6, 8-10; Ps 39; Heb 12:1-4; Luke 12:49-53
One of the greatest saints of the Church, St Augustine of Hippo, knew well the ravaging effect of sin on the individual, on our relationships, on a community, and on a civilisation. He knew this because he himself had personally lived deep in sin, enslaved to bodily pleasures and captivated by erroneous thinking for decades, until his conversion to Christianity when he was in his 30s, due in no small part to the fervent prayers and tears of his mother St Monica. His honest appraisal of his own deep psychological struggle against sinful addictions and habits, his struggle to reject wrong ideas about God and so to find the truth, and the divided-ness of his affections are all movingly laid open in his autobiography, a long conversation with God in which he details his conversion experience. This book is now called ‘The Confessions of St Augustine’ and it’s one of the most important books a Christian could read besides the Bible – if you haven’t read it yet, I encourage you to! But, while his ‘Confessions’ was about the personal struggle for holiness, he wrote another great work, the ‘City of God’ which is about this struggle on a social scale; it is about the fight against sin, against false, sinful ideas, and about the final victory of God’s grace in the world, in our political life, in societies, families, homes, and civilisations. But this victory does not come easily: there is a struggle, real spiritual (and even physical) combat, and divisions and war both in our own hearts and even between people.
For as St Augustine said: “Only truth and virtue can offer a centre of resistance against turbulent and degraded passions.” Because, when most of the world and its powers denies that there is such a thing as objective universal truth, or human nature, and when, instead, the popular culture and influencers of the world promote virtual realities, advance ideologies based on falsehood, and eschews rational arguments for emotivism, then there will be a definite resistance between truth and the ruling “dictatorship of relativism”. Indeed, there is a clash between the powers of the world, and the God-given and unchanging truths about the human person and his nature, and about the meaning and goal of the classic virtues of prudence, fortitude, justice, and temperance. These are meant to incline us towards God, who is the source of all that is good and true; truth and virtue makes for our human flourishing as individuals and as a community.
However, many of our contemporaries oppose truth and virtue in the name of the dogmas of toleration, love, and freedom. But these are words appropriated from the classical Christian thought that built our Western civilisation, and then they were emptied of their true meaning, and they became slogans with novel, warped significance. Like the king’s men who opposed the prophet Jeremiah, so the media, the Twitterati, and the powers of the world oppose the Church and good Christians who are trying to follow the teaching of Jesus Christ. The powers of the world say: “These fellows do not have the welfare of our people at heart so much as its ruin”, and so they try to shut Christians up, or forbid us from teaching in schools, or speaking in the public square. Just yesterday, there was news from Scotland that a motion was tabled in a local council to “remove the voting rights of religious representatives on education boards” so as to effectively shut them out of the conversation. If they could perhaps they’d treat those religious representatives like Jeremiah and stick him in the mud too!
So, if we are attentive and if we open our eyes to what is happening around us, we will see the obvious fact of what Jesus says in the Gospel. His words shouldn’t really surprise or shock us: “Do you think that I have come to give peace on earth? No, I tell you, but rather division” (Lk 12:51). If we had a sentimental and false idea of Christ, then, perhaps, we would find these words surprising. But every Christian, like St Augustine, would know that when we decided to take our faith in Jesus seriously, then we would have to make hard decisions. Christ comes to divide us from our sins, from our old sinful habits and ways of thinking, from our former behaviour, and even from the people who lead us into sin. And sometimes this includes classmates, colleagues, friends, and even, family members.
I have an old friend, for example, whose father has not spoken to her for almost 30 years, since the day she told him she was baptised as a Christian; he’s a Hindu. I know several others, university students who I have catechized, whose parents and family strongly disapprove of their becoming Catholic because they recognize that many of the moral teachings of our one true Faith contrast with theirs, with the liberal mores of our Western society. And we have several Dominican brothers in our Province whose parents, likewise, resist and object to their entry into the Order.
But to stand with Christ and to choose him, even at great cost to our personal relationships is to choose truth and virtue, and ultimately, to choose eternal life and the embrace of divine love. And no earthly thing is to be preferred above God. And yet, the fire of love for God doesn’t yet burn brightly in our hearts, thus we find the struggle, the vacillation, the battle with sin and our consciences that St Augustine had experienced in his own life. Indeed, St Paul knew this struggle too, and we read in today’s reading from Hebrews of the “fight against sin” and the need to “throw off everything that hinders us” in our journey of faith, in our quest for God.
What we all need, therefore, is fire – the kind of spiritual fire that Jesus says he desires to give us. He is speaking of the Holy Spirit, who we recall came down upon the apostles like tongues of fire at Pentecost. This is the fire of love, an ardent burning consuming love for God. And the Spirit will burn away all our attachments to sin, shed light on our falsehood, and bring warmth to our cold hearts so that we will love God more intensely and fully. This love empowered the "great cloud of witnesses" mentioned in Hebrews, ie, the Saints to oppose sin, to rebuke false ideologies, to learn languages and bring the Gospel to wild and strange new frontiers, to feed the hungry and clothe the naked and educate the orphan and cure the sick in hostels and hospitals. Let us pray, then, for this fire to ignite our hearts, and to convert our friends and families too. For then we would be united together in Christ rather than divided from them.
What does conversion look like? How does grace changes our lives? Let me end with St Augustine’s experience – conversion to God, he tells us, is sensual, bodily, and moves the whole human person. So, in one of the most famous passages in his Confessions he writes: “You were within and I was in the external world and sought you there, and in my unlovely state I plunged into those lovely created things which you made. You were with me, and I was not with you. The lovely things kept me far from you… You called and cried out loud and shattered my deafness. You were radiant and resplendent, you put to flight my blindness. you were fragrant, and I drew in my breath and now I pant after you. I tasted you, and I feel but hunger and thirst for you. You touched me, and I am set on fire, I burned for your peace.”
If we desire peace, true peace, which comes only with freedom from sin and union with God, then pray that God will touch you also, and set you on fire with his divine love.
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