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slxsherwriter · 14 days

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Make Bad Decisions With Me

Fandom: Lake Placid

Pairings: None. Hinted at potential Jim Bickerman x Reader

Word Count: 5,248

Warnings: Injuries, death, blood, animal death, crocodiles, poaching

Author's Note: Apparently, I've been possessed by the muse, and this man's characters are just letting it all flow. If wanted, there could be a follow-up to this. I liked the way it ended up even if it's longer than expected. Tagging: @slashingdisneypasta Hope this one is just as good as the last one.

A warm shower. Scratch that. Scalding. A scalding shower was the only thing that you wanted out of life right now. Wash away the dirt, the blood, the guilt that pierce you in the gut over the lives that had been lost. How the hell did you get here?

*****

Dennis was an old colleague of yours, and when he had asked for help up in Maine on his study of the giant crocodiles of Black Lake, you agreed with some trepidation. There was a difference between doing work with dangerous animals and doing work with things that might as well have been prehistoric creatures. Experiences with crocodiles and alligators in your past could not have prepared you for seeing the massive, monstrous reptiles that resided in the lake.

What he had failed to tell you were the regulations and background checks and restrictions to be able to even get on site. The offense wasn't the most serious. It was more of an annoyance than anything else. Something that you would have dealt with as you collected the samples. Five foot? Not all that unusual. Manageable when it came to a croc. Hell, you were used to handling snakes now that were far larger. The EPA and police escort? Not the most common place but not exactly something brand new. All things that you could work around in an effort to help him out and give an idea of what these crocodiles actually were, if they were truly crocodiles or another species that was somehow an offshoot. Nothing occurred that you couldn't handle. Right up to the point of the twenty foot giant chased you all as you headed out. Now, that? That really got the heart rate going.

It was what happened after that threw you for a loop. You understood the need for additional samples and data. It was a commonplace problem that most researchers faced at one point or another at least once in their careers. Hiring poachers in exchange to collect that needed data and sneaking into a secured government site? That was not something that you could say you had ever come up against.

Yet, you had agreed to it. Even after being in there during the day and seeing what the crocs could do. Not without giving Dennis a dressing down over it all and dragging you into it. Because while you had agreed, even if you hadn't, it would have been too late to get yourself out of it. And, well, you didn't want to see him dead. Dennis was a good man.

The group of men that Dennis had hired looked pretty much as anticipated and expected. Maybe a little stereotypical, but if they could hold their own and were decent shots, then so be it. Hopefully, they were decent shots.

“I have the code to get in the gate. There shouldn't be any workers around the fence by now, so we should be in the clear.” Too many shoulds to instill a great sense of confidence. The men were arming themselves, and you waited for a rifle of your own. As much as you didn't want to kill an endangered and protected species, you weren't about to walk in there just armed with tranquilizers. There wasn't enough sedation in the world that could be jammed into these to stop a twenty foot croc. Not that a handgun would do the job either, but it would at least slow it down or cause it to second guess an attack if you could manage to hit the mark.

“Before we head in, what's the plan exactly here?” You spoke up, having joined in late, after everything had been sorted out. The men with you and Dennis were after the animals and animal parts while you and Dennis had the idea to collect data. One of the men shoved a gun in your hand without a word. Taking the rifle, you quickly shifted to shoulder it and check out the scope. Getting a feel for the sight was important if you wanted to actually be able to hit whatever you were aiming at.

“We aren't taking any more crocodiles. But we need eggs. And they are going to take what they want.” Multiple felonies. Good. That was great. The rifle dropped, and you let out a small sigh. Nothing about this was a good idea, but the turn back point had long passed you by.

“You aim that at something, you best be willing to shoot it.” Your eyes shot to the older man who seemed to be leading the group of poachers. A hat pulled low over his head and his rifle against his shoulder. He seemed fully relaxed. Far too relaxed for what was about to happen. Confidently, you chambered a bullet without looking. The safety was still on, but you didn't bother pointing it at any of them like there was an urge to do. There was no need for any accidents before you even got in there. Though it would have been amusing to see rheir reactions.

“If I'm aiming this at anything, I'm intending to kill it.” A wide smile appeared on his face at the comment before he was laughing.

“Well, shit. Don't think I've met a tree hugger like you before.” You rolled your eyes, deciding not to comment.

“Let's get this done.” The sooner you could get in there, the sooner you got out and were able to head back home. Rid your mind of all of this and try to get back to normal.

Getting in the gate had been far too easy. The lack of security was astounding. Maybe that was because they didn't expect anyone to be stupid enough to break into the site. It was meant to contain. Though with people like Jim, the older man's name was Jim, and his ragtag band of money hungry hunters, it really should have been a consideration.

Apparently, there was a cabin on the property that was going to be a rendezvous point after the group split a little bit later. You didn't know the land all that well, but Dennis had a decent idea, having worked here longer. For now, the group was sticking together. As you reached the edge of the water, the hair on the back of your neck stood. Immediately, you paid attention to the feeling and lifted your rifle. The men followed shortly after as you inched forward.

Jim called out to the thing like it was a damn cat. Both one of the most ridiculous and hysterical moments that you had ever bore witness to, admittedly. But, the thought was wiped away when a hissing sound came from your right. The crocodile that came crawling through the rocks had to be close to ten feet. The men all shot off rounds. A few hit but not enough to kill it before you squeezed the trigger and quickly fired off two rounds into the skull of the animal. That was abysmal and destroyed any sense of confidence that you had in any of them to actually make it through this. Or yourself for that matter if this was who you were with. At least Theresa and Reba had been good shots. Really damn good shots.

You stepped back and glanced at the men who were all looking at you, slightly wide-eyed. Yep, they definitely needed to get out more.

“Did you want anything from that, or are we leaving it for the other crocs?” It took a second for a response, but one stepped forward and began to harvest whatever was wanted from the animal. Guilt curled, but you pushed it back. Survival from this place meant this, and you had to be complicit.

“Gotta say, that's some impressive aiming, sweetheart.” You turned your attention from the sight before you to Jim. The smile held a hint of sleaze, not something that surprised you after spending three hours with the man.

“Just because I'm a scientist doesn't mean I don't have other skills….”

“Maybe you would like to show me some of those other skills.” That went from zero to sixty real fast. While there was a certain charm, if that was the word to actually use, about the man, there wasn't a chance that you were going to entertain such comments. Even more so because of the other men in the group. No need to be fighting them all off.

“You aren't even lucky enough for me to entertain that in your dreams.” His eyes seemingly brightened at the snap back. As if it was an invitation itself. You could have groaned.

“Oh, I don't have a doubt. I'll be dreaming about you.” Without a comeback ready, you simply opted to roll your eyes and walk off. Seems that he could get the best of you on occasion. That was twice now.

“I say we set up camp and then start on what we need to do.” That wasn't a bad idea. Though the one that had you rest on ground level with these crocodiles around wasn't all that comforting.

“We should start moving. Made a lot of noise there.”

***

Setting up camp proved to be a fairly quiet and mundane activity. As if you were all really out here just camping and hunting. Funny how going through the motions was like that. Dennis wanted to break off into your groups so that you could accomplish what he needed done. Making sure your backpack was ready, you grabbed some extra ammo when the men weren't looking. They had brought plenty. Though, with the way that they had shot, maybe not. Frankly, either way, if it was just you and Dennis, you weren't going out there without extra protection.

The day went fairly smoothly from there. No more run-ins with the crocs and a rather peaceful existence between you and the rest of the group. With camp set up, you were all led towards the older Bickerman cabin to know where it was since it was the decided meet point for when you split up. Jim and Dennis stayed behind for something as the rest of you made your way back to camp. That was not something that you were going to touch with a ten foot pole. Already, you were neck deep in this shit. The less you knew about whatever was going on between them. Some deniability would be nice.

Nighttime came, and straws were pulled to figure out a guard duty rotation. All of you sleeping at once was not the smartest of ideas unless you wanted to end up in a croc's belly. You had drawn the first shift, which was fine by you. You weren't entirely sure that you were going to sleep at all, trust lacking in everyone around you.

The fire crackled and kept any sounds from making you too paranoid as you settled down in the seat, rifle resting in your lap. The quiet of the area around you was settling and familiar, even if the threats out there were not. It gave you time by yourself to think through everything that was happening and where it was going to ultimately land you if you got caught. Not in a regretful sort of way but in that way of preparation so you wouldn't be thrown off or blindsided.

It was only about three hours before you were relieved of your duties. Sleep didn't come easily, and when it did, it was interrupted and not all that restful. You maybe got two good hours by the time the sun rose. Up and moving around, you grabbed your bag and tossed it over your shoulder, ready to get moving and get this all over with.

“We'll meet at the Bickerman cabin as planned.” Dennis agreed. “Try not to let yourself become a snack for the crocs kids.”

“Yeah, yeah. We'll see you there tomorrow.”

“Don't try to miss me too much, darling.”

“Dennis, let's go before I end up shooting an old man….” Dennis actually laughed at that and motioned for you to follow.

“Aww, no need to get that violent, darling.” His laugh followed the both of you out of camp.

“This was a really god damn stupid idea.” Dennis sighed.

“I know. I'm sorry I drug you into this. I just knew they wouldn't let me back in to get what I needed.”

“For good reason here, Dennis.” You rubbed your eyes. The sound of a branch breaking caught your attention, and simultaneously, you both raised your guns in the direction it came from. Nothing stood out or moved. You checked behind you just in case, trying to make sure that nothing snuck up on you. When no crocs appeared, there was a matching sigh of relief before you could continue onward. “It's dangerous. And I'm sure some liability with the town and the government. You know how they feel about that. Not to mention, the risk of death for the sake of research isn't worth it to the Sheriff's Department nor the EPA. They have other things that they could allow their officers to work on.”

“You're right.” He glanced back towards you as you worked your way down closer to the water. The search for a nest had begun. If you had guessed how badly things were going to hell from there, you would have hightailed it back to the fence.

It happened fast, far faster than you would have expected it. You were barely able to get out of the way of the crocodile that came lashing out of the water, while Denni wasn't so lucky. Thrown back, you came crashing down hard on the rocks, sending a jagged stone deep into your forearm. Dennis was struggling with the croc, and from the screams, he was not doing well.

“Fuck!” Doing your best to ignore your own pain, you scrambled to your feet and fired off a round. It missed and with the tingling in your left arm, it was hard to keep the injured arm lifted and aiming the rifle properly. The fumbling few seconds was long enough for Dennis to lose a few fingers. The second shot hit true and at least got the croc to back off into the water for now. “Shit…” Adrenaline kept you moving, quickly swinging your pack off of your back. You had to get his wounds bandaged before he potentially lost too much blood.

“Oh, god…”

“Dennis, look at me.” He was focused on his hand, the right missing all but his thumb and index finger now. “Stop and look at me. It's going to be okay.” The numbness and tingling were extending down to your fingers now. Something was damaged, and it wasn't good, but you could deal with your own wound after his had been bandaged, at least. You would need to use the tourniquet for his arm. It wasn't going to feel good, and as much as you attempted to relay that to him, he was too caught up in the moment.

You worked as quickly as you could, thankful for that class that you had taken all those years ago when you first started going into the field. He had passed out at some point, and you couldn't tell if it had been from the sight of his own blood or the shock and blood loss. It hadn't seemed like enough, but what did you know? There wasn't a chance that you would be able to carry him, and leaving him sounded like a horrific idea, but you weren’t sure what else you could do.

“Shit, shit, shit.” You groaned and worked the best that you could to wrap your own arm. Waiting here didn't seem like the smartest idea. Leaving him made you feel sick, but the best chance of getting help was moving. You agnozied over the decision for a few minutes, moving back from the water so that you were ready for another potential attack.

Ultimately, the best chance for survival for the both of you would be to get help. Hopefully, he would wake up soon and be able to get himself moved more. You had dragged him back the best that you could.

Picking your way through the woods towards where you had found the cabin yesterday took a little work and some second guessing of the direction, but luck seemed to be on your side. The clearing came into view, as did the dilapidated cabin.

“Thank god…” You murmured to yourself. Bodies were moving around, you could see that much. There wasn't mistaking Jim as he came into view.

“Dennis?” He called out before his eyes landed on you. it didn't take him any time to recognize the fact that you were alone. “What the hell happened?”

“Could ask you the same thing.” You had noticed the limp and the blood on his lower pant leg. It looked old and dried though.

“Shit, you're bleeding.” Glancing down, it was easy to see that he was right; blood was dripping off of your fingers, but you couldn't quite feel it.

“Not the easiest to wrap it myself.”

“Sit down.” He motioned towards the edge of the platform that had been built around the cabin. “Ya got any more bandage left?”

“Think a little.” Carefully, you shrugged off the bag, trying not to grimace as the motion brought about a lot of pain, fire burning in your upper arm. “Big pocket.”

“Where's Dennis?” Jim didn't bother asking and used a knife to tear the rest of your sleeve off of your shirt to get better access to the wound.

“He was worse off than I was and passed out. Couldn't carry his dead weight, so I had to leave him, figuring it was better to find help than wait for it to find us.” Not that you thought he would come looking for you at all. Finding help had really been Bickerman and his group first and getting to the fence second.

“Ah, shit.”

“Seems to be the theme of the day,” you offered, trying to use the conversation as a distraction from the pain as he used some of the bandage that you had already placed and the remaining that you had in the bag to properly wrap up the wound on your arm the best that he could. “Where are the rest of your guys?” He simply shook his head. No words were needed for that. Blowing out a slow breath, you felt like crying, but that wouldn't do any good right now. A breakdown could come after. So, instead, you bit down hard on the inside of your cheek and looked out towards the water.

“I'm going to look for eggs.” It shouldn't have been a surprise that he was still focused on getting something out of this. Money seemed to be his biggest driving force.

“Fuck that. I wanna get the fuck away from this lake.” He shook his head.

“I ain't letting this be a waste of a trip. That out there is a damn jackpot, big payday that I’m not walking away from.”

“Wouldn't expect you to.” It wasn't mean spirited when you spoke. It was simply one of those "of course" sort of statements. He blinked, eyeing you almost as if he was trying to make the determination if he was offended or not. “Just go on.” A quick wave indicated that he should get moving. Dennis was waiting for you to come back, and the sooner he got what he wanted, the sooner you would be able to go back for your fallen friend. He nodded, grabbing his own bag and headed off.

Sitting there in relative peace, something that couldn’t be trusted to remain, you felt the weight of everything come crashing down on you. It was a bad thing to be sitting there in the quiet. Your hand was shaky, something that was impossible not to notice, as you raised it to run it through your hair and then down your face.

Before much more thought could be given to it, there was a lot of shouting. Far too many voices or it to be Jim. Jumping to your feet, you quickly made your way towards the front of the cabin to see a group of four teens running towards the dock. Their shouting was mingling with that of the group of people coming from the dock. You immediately recognized the three adults. Ryan, Reba, and Theresa. You weren't sure that you had ever felt any sort of relief close to what coursed through you at that moment. There was a chance of getting out of here.

The loud hissing roar came, signaling that another crocodile was going to make itself known. Quickly, you raised your gun and fired at the beast that came flying out of the water at the same time as Reba did. As difficult as it was with the barely functioning arm. At least you could lift it and have it act as a bit of a brace for the rifle.

You joined the group.

“I would ask what the hell you are doing here, but I'm going to guess you came back with Dennis.” Reba glanced towards you.

“Might have been the worst decision of my life.”

“Wouldn't argue with that.” Theresa was hugging what you assumed was her daughter while one of the other girls seemed injured, chomped on by a crocodile given the blood coming from her abdomen. How she was standing was beyond you, but adrenaline was a wonderful thing.

“I just want to get the hell out of here and never see another crocodile again.”

“You and me both.”

“We'll find a way out.” One of the boys that was with Ryan turned and spotted Jim.

“Did you find Dennis?” Now that was odd. Had he said he had been looking for Dennis? You hadn't seen him with the teens when you had found him here.

“Dennis is dead.” The comment sent your stomach plummeting through your feet and bile rising in your throat.

“Who the hell is this?” Before you could offer any information, Theresa's daughter, Chloe, was speaking.

“He's a poacher. Jim Bickerman.” Well, she had that information correct. “I saw the picture of you with your mother. “Delores and Jimmy, 1960.” That was news to you. Though, it made sense then. Jim limped forward, rifle shoulders, but he still hadn't said a word. That was unusual, at least from what you had learned from him over the last day and a half.

“Oh, you're the nutbag cousin.” The comment from Reba brought a small snort from you before you could help it, too amused after everything. It sort of fit now, didn't it? Jim shot you a glare before responding.

“With all due respect, Miss Fish and Game, I'm the son of a bitch that saved these brats. Nutbag…” That comment had really irritated him. Though, you supposed if you were in his place, you would feel pretty irritated with it as well. “Is that what they're calling me back in town now?”

“No, that's what I'm calling you.” All right, maybe you liked Reba. She didn't take shit. First impressions weren’t always correct. Jim didn't seem to know how to take that right away. He didn't have a response. “Nathan Bickerman owned this cabin and before he skipped town, he told me that his cousin was suing him for it.” He probably hadn't been suing for sentimental reasons. You glanced at Jim and tried to determine where his mind was at but it was hard. Reba continued on, this time addressing Jim once more after she had explained what she knew.

“You’re not honestly pissed because you didn't inherit this shit house? Jimmy….can I call you Jimmy?” His shoulders relaxed, and lips twitched into a smile. You rolled your eyes, something that was commonplace it seemed when this man was around.

“Yeah…” The word was barely whispered, but the permission was there.

“Jimmy, the way I see it, not leaving you this place is about the nicest thing anyone could do for your crazy ass.” The hair on the back of your neck stood once more, and the hissing sound of the crocodile sounded out once more. You swung your gun towards the water, ignoring whatever else was going on once more.

“You tie that thing up?” Looking back, you realized that the crocodile was indeed chained to the dock. How the fuck did that happen?” Jim hesitated for a second.

“Um, Dennis did. I sorta helped.” Christ, this entire thing was going to sound utterly insane to an outsider. It sounded insane to you, and you had lived through it.

“Seriously?” He gave you a shrug, as if it hadn't been a big deal.

“Yeah, whatcha do that for?”

“Whatever, let's just get out of here.” Theresa was right. It really didn’t matter. What was done was done. There was nothing to do about it now, and considering that Dennis was dead, the reasoning behind it was rather moot. Getting out of there alive should be the focus of everyone here.

“You don’t want a full confession? Maybe you have changed.”

“It doesn't really matter much now, does it? It's done, and Dennis is dead. We should be getting out of here.” You still had your gun trained on it, but everyone suddenly did when the crocodile let out a roar and began to thrash around. The chain around its neck made a horrible sound as the movement tested the strength of the metal. But it wasn't able to get free just yet. Jim began to laugh, the first to lower his rifle. Old man really was crazy.

“Well, well, well. Now, that was some kind of fun, huh folks?” The tone of his voice had changed, like when he had been flirting with you. He was trying to get something. And as suspicious as it made you, you weren't comfortable moving your gun off of the bigger threat. “Listen, I’d love to just, huh, hang out here and chat with y'all but…Max!” He lunged forward and grabbed a hold of one of the teens. Was this really what we were doing? The muzzle of the rifle was settled just shy of Max's neck. Ryan immediately shifted forward but wasn't able to do anything about it right away. Now, with the gun trained on his son.

“You're coming with me.” Ryan demanded to have the boy let go, but you knew that Jim wasn't going to do that. “Excuse me, Daddy. I'm not going to get very far with just one wheel here. I need this tough guy to help me along the way.” Ryan drew his gun, but Jim promised that Max would be dead before he pulled the trigger. Finally, you forced yourself to turn your gun away from the crocodile, training it on Jim.

“You too, sweetheart? I'm hurt.”

“You want someone, take me. Not the kid.” Slowly, you inched forward, though not stepping close enough to appear a threat. Testing that line was something that you were not willing to do. Enough death had occurred because of stupid decisions that you had made. The kids needed to get out of here. The gun was carefully lowered before you set it down and held up your hands. Jim seemed intrigued for a moment. But he was still backpedaling. Max was trying to assure his dad that he was going to be fine. Just as you made one more attempt, the chain and the wood that it was attached to made the sort of sound that had you all turning your attention back to the massive crocodile that was letting it's displeasure at being chained known. Everyone was unloading their weapon onto and into it. It snapped off its anchor in the wood and snagged one of the boats that was just off shore. When everyone turned their attention back, Jim and Max were gone.

“I'll go after them. You get the other kids back to safety.” Though it seemed like panic was on their minds, one of the kids decided that he could outswim the croc, launching himself into the water like an idiot. “Get the hell out of the water, kid!” Max and Jim hadn't gotten that far away as you heard Max's voice shout out, asking the same damn thing.

Everything from there happened in a blur. Drew, the young man that had thrown himself into the water, ended up dead. Ryan knocked out Jim, got Max out of the water himself, and everyone was ready to move on.

“Are we really going to just leave him there?” You looked between Ryan, Theresa, and Reba. None of them seemed to have any issue with leaving Jim behind. As much as you wanted to leave, the idea of leaving the man to die didn't sit well. “There's been enough death hasn't there?” That seemed to catch their conscious, and Ryan groaned before turning around and heading back to where you had left the man. You would figure out how to get him out while Theresa and Reba got the kids back to the fence.

What you found when you arrived made you a little queasy. Jim was lying on the beach, bleeding severely. Son of a bitch. Quickly, you rushed forward. His left arm and left leg were mangled beyond recognition and something had happened to his left eye. You weren’t sure how that even happened.

“Can you get an evac out here?” You looked up at Ryan as you began to pull off your flannel, reaching for the knife that Jim had kept so that you could try and dress the wounds. The man was going to die of blood loss before you could get him out, likely, but guilt was going to make you try to get him out of there.

“It won't be quick enough.”

“I know he threatened your son, but we left him here.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll try. You're going to have to stay with him.”

“I got it. Just enough ammo to hopefully keep us safe. Go.” He nodded, giving you one more hard look and a chance to back out of it, but you were steadfast in your decision. Carefully, you pulled Jim as far away from the water as you could while Ryan took off running back in the direction of freedom.

“You're going to end up getting me killed, you crazy old bastard.”

“I knew you liked me…” He wheezed out with a laugh. If he kept talking, even if it was painful to listen to, it meant that he was alive. So you would take it.

“Yeah, I'll let you run with that right now because you look like utter shit.”

“Way to make a man feel good, sweetheart.” A small laugh left you, something you couldn't help as you settled his head in your lap, a small concession to try and offer some comfort. You just had to keep him conscious and talking until Ryan showed back up with an evac team.

#horror writing #creature feature writing #lake placid fic #lake placid #jim bickerman #jim bickerman x reader #robert englund characters

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mariacallous · 3 months

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The good folks at the Know Your Enemy podcast (Matthew Sitman and Sam Adler-Bell) did a recent episode w/ Erik Baker called “Bomb Power,” named after the 2010 book by Garry Wills, Bomb Power: The Modern Presidency and the National Security State.

As someone who spent the first half of his career doing guns-and-bombs security studies, I can’t believe I hadn’t heard of this book before listening to the podcast.

Upon Google-Scholar-ing Bomb Power, I discovered it had 166 citations—very, very modest for an author as well-known as Wills. And scanning through who’s been citing it, I see mostly historians (not international-relations or strategic studies scholars). So I suppose my ignorance about the book is normal within my field.

But their discussion on the episode triggered me in a few ways, leading me to ponder what happened to the conservatives who support peace—that used to be a thing.

A “Don’t Break Things” Conservative

Wills’s politics don’t map well onto our current context.

He had ties to William F. Buckley and the National Review crowd. And his prolific writing often went after liberals, especially Kennedy (though his book Nixon Agonistes was a masterclass and did not spare Nixon of his critical prose).

But Wills recognized that power had a tendency to corrupt. That America itself had been guilty of great evils whose consequences it never repaired. And that if a preference for limited government meant anything at all, it meant a commitment to limiting the power of the national security state—there was no military exemption from the “limited government” mantra.

When I was finishing my PhD at the Catholic University of America (I enrolled there having no idea about its very conservative reputation), I studied under and socialized with conservatives like Wills. They mostly hated the Bush administration, generally thought the Iraq War was insane, and were critical of what had become the imperial presidency. (Before you romanticize them too much, they also hosted Brett Kavanaugh and Newt Gingrich at various times, they largely believed in civilizational (as in clash of civilizations) politics, and some of them seemed to think race science had merit…)

These days, it’s fairly common for people to claim they’re progressive while actually being center-right economic liberals with limited tolerance for anything redistributive. Wills cut in the opposite direction. As the Know Your Enemy guys talk about in the episode, Wills at times took up policy positions that we would think of as progressive, but he identified as a conservative. Why?

Aside from personal affection for the label, I suspect this has to do with his Burkean “don’t break things” sensibility, as well as the sense that 1) the common good is achievable within the nation-state itself, 2) the Founding Fathers had something to teach us and/or were extraordinary, and 3) the Constitution is a holy-adjacent document.

I think that perspective is intellectually unsatisfying and a political dead end. But YMMV.

The important thing is that folks who believe that stuff are folks you can work with sometimes. And if you’re in mortal danger, they’re the kind of American who just might help you out. More importantly, if any part of the right is recruitable into an antifascist coalition, it’s the “don’t break things” conservatives.

An Endangered Species

You can still find conservatives like Wills out there in American society. I know of one or two pundits who would fit this category of principled, preservationist conservatism. And, funnily enough, there are a lot of these types in New Zealand (a country with every type of conservative).

But in Washington, this species of conservative doesn’t exist. Not a single Republican official can claim fidelity to the Willsian template. To a man—and they’re mostly men—the electoral GOP has repudiated everything meaningful in the “don’t break things” tradition.

Talking Like a Peacenik

The remarkable thing about Wills’s Bomb Power is how much it reads like a leftist critical text. It would go too far to call Wills a historical materialist, but his implicit philosophy is not incompatible with it.

His invocation of the national security state—a term with which any Un-Diplomatic reader is by now very familiar—originated with Marcus Raskin, a co-founder of the Institute for Policy Studies (the first progressive think tank in Washington). IPS was and remains an expressly antimilitarist presence in Washington, and one of the few institutions there that can claim ties to the peace progressives who constitute what I think are the grassroots of the Democratic Party.

Wills’s reference to permanent war and the economy that supports it owes to Seymour Melman, a left-aligned peace intellectual who popularized (and possibly coined) “permanent war economy” through a series of books and essays that deserve a much wider reading.

And Wills’s claim that nuclear weapons are fundamentally tools of despotism that have permanently disempowered democracy is a pretty common view on the left going back to George Orwell’s classic essay, “You and the Atom Bomb” (which I still teach!).

What all this suggests is that Wills was a conservative who read widely. You might even say he was open-minded.

As such, he made analytical use of the criticisms against the powerful rendered by people with whom he likely disagreed. And he did so, at least partly, in the name of peace. Good luck finding someone like that in the Republican Party today.

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aniron48 · 10 months

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close to the sun in lonely lands

Felix decides to take Bond's mind off his troubles by taking him eagle-watching. It goes about how you'd expect.

Coming in with a 00leiter fluff-adjacent ficlet for 007 Fest 2023, just in time for Felix Friday! This fulfills the 2023 Prompt Table entry "The great outdoors: the sun, the smoke, the bugs, the scenery. bring it on," and is also a Rare Pair and an entry for a Theme Day!

I apparently cannot get enough of writing Felix Leiter in Maryland doing Maryland things, so here you go. I hope you enjoy, friends--you can read on ao3, or after the cut. 💜 🦅

James Bond isn’t the only one who likes nice things.

Felix has been known to splash out on an immaculately tailored tux, when the occasion calls for it. He found his favorite cologne at an atelier in Paris on a temporary duty assignment years ago and has never looked back, and some of his shoes are, admittedly, statement pieces. His taste for fine things isn’t limited to the things he puts on his body, either—the sound system for his home in Annapolis is so state-of-the-art it’s got its own line item in Felix’s homeowner’s insurance.

But Felix knows himself, and he also knows that he thrives on balance. He sticks to a detailed budget for grocery shopping and eating out—a government salary only stretches so far. He drives a mid-level sedan that is modest but more than adequate, thank you very much, even if Bond turns up his nose at riding in anything less than an Aston Martin. And Felix is at his happiest in a pair of trunks and a faded Terps t-shirt, taking his boat out on the harbor.

Or, on a day like today, in cargo shorts and that same worn out Terps shirt, trying to get James Bond to shut the fuck up before he scares all the birds away from the nature preserve.

“I’m disappointed, Felix,” Bond says, lowering the binoculars that were trained on the enterprising bald eagle that has taken over the osprey platform in the middle of the marsh. “I thought it’d be bigger.”

Felix snorts, in spite of himself. “And they say Americans are obsessed with size.”

Bond takes the bait, as Felix knew he would.

“You can hardly say size is irrelevant, after last night. Not with a straight face, anyway.”

Felix chucks his water bottle at Bond, catching him in the sternum.

“My face hasn’t been straight since 1982.”

Bond chuckles at that, and Felix feels that familiar sense of vertigo that they’re here, that this is how it is between them. It’s ridiculous that one of the easiest things in his life would turn out to be the sometime-colleagues, sometime-rivals, always-with-benefits thing he has going on with James fucking Bond. And yet.

“I’m not sure why you were so keen on taking me eagle-spotting in the first place,” Bond says. “They’re your national symbol, not mine.”

Felix shrugs. “Thought you could use the peace and quiet. Besides, you’ve got a lot in common.”

“What things, exactly?”

Bond’s face is doing that thing where all the softness leaches from it, as if he’s preparing to take a punch. But Felix has seen the man in a fight a time or two, and the thing is, when he’s actually throwing punches, he looks relaxed. He only looks like this when he’s afraid you might do something really stupid, like be kind to him. It’s taken years, but Felix has finally learned that if you want to show Bond any tenderness, you have to go at it at an angle.

And so Felix refrains from saying resilience or strength or determination or any of the myriad things that the noble bald eagle, survivor of decades of overhunting followed by decimation at the hands of DDT, only to rebound right off the endangered species list, actually has in common with James Bond, himself a frequent returner from the dead and persistent bearer of loss after loss, and who, on this occasion, is fresh from burying Olivia Mansfield, his mentor and the most fucked-up version of a mother figure that Felix has ever had the dubious honor of meeting.

Instead, Felix says, “I’ll have you know that not all of the founding fathers liked the idea of having the eagle on the seal of the United States. Benjamin Franklin hated it because they steal fish from other birds of prey. He hated it so fucking much he wrote a letter to his daughter calling the bald eagle a ‘bird of bad moral character’ that was incapable of making an honest living.”

Bond is laughing, then, his eyes wrinkling at the corners in the way Felix loves best, and after a quick check to make sure there’s no homophobic prick with a hunting license waiting in the scrub to shoot them, he leans in to kiss him. Bond’s lips are warm and chapped and familiar against Felix’s own, and Felix pours everything Bond won’t let him say into the kiss. He likes Bond like this, sweaty and slightly rumpled in clothing he’s borrowed from Felix, far away from the demands of Queen and country and all the ghosts he’s refused to bury. He more than likes him like this, he’s afraid, but that’s a problem for another day.

After a moment, Bond breaks the kiss and lifts the binoculars again, looking for the eagle.

“I’ve revised my opinion,” Bond says. “He’s a majestic bastard, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Felix says, “yeah, he is,” and affectionate fool that he is, he isn’t even pretending to look at the bird.

Title comes from the Tennyson poem "The Eagle."

#00leiter #close to the sun in lonely lands #my fic #007 fest 2023 #team q branch #qb-a1 #Felix Friday #fluff adjacent #the great outdoors #bald eages #Benjamin Franklin (but not how you'd expect)

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science-from-a-bog · 2 years

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That Time My Mom Helped Me Defeat an Ecoterrorist Group.

The thing about my research is, bog bilberries often grow in protected areas and in Slovakia they are so rare that they are protected as an Endangered Species. Therefore, in order to go sample picking, I had to obtain a government approval.

Usually, it’s easy. You send a request, exchange a few emails and after a month, it’s usually approved. It’s for science and barely noticeable, it’s not like you are building a shopping mall on top of a protected wetland.

EXCEPT THIS TIME.

I sent my request, exchanged a few pleasant emails with the government lady. Suddenly one day, I found an email from her:

“I’m sorry, there’s been a cancellation request from This-And-This Organization, please call me.”

I called her asking Hey What The Fuck Is This and she basically said: there’s a group of eco-activists that submits cancellation requests to almost every single approval process at the Ministry of Environment. They don’t seem to follow any specific purpose, they just want to drag the processes as long as possible and cancel as many requests as possible. We don’t even know who is behind this all and what they gain from this, there are just Rumors I Am Not Allowed To Tell You. Please send me your written statement by post and we will take this to the Minister’s Office.

She forwarded me a copy of their request and it was a LOAD OF UTTER BOLLOCKS. They claimed that the bog bilberry is so rare and endangered that me carefully picking a box of fruits would seriously disrupt the population of rare butterflies that rely on the berries as their only source of food. I also tried to google the org and the only thing that came up was the P.O.Box address and the name of the signatory.

As I was sitting in my parents’ kitchen, seething and trying to write my statement, my mom suddenly stopped stirring the soup and said “Hey, wait a second, I’ve never seen a blueberry or bilberry with a worm inside, or eaten by a butterfly... Don’t all catterpillars eat leaves and butterflies only feed on nectar? You should check if they even have a valid point.”

Lo and behold, mom was right. The butterfly catterpillars (Colias palaeno and Vacciniina optilete if anyone’s interested) indeed feed on leaves and the berries are of no importance to them. I wrote a beautifully eloquent, passive-aggressive statement describing their falsehoods and demanding “a just decision that would not interfere with an international research project”.

Long story short, after 9 months of seething rage and frustrating bureaucracy, I got my approval. All thanks to my mom and her common sense insight. I really love my parents. <3

#bog witch science #science #sciblr #PLONTS #bog bilberry

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madmantechnologies · 20 hours

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Enhancing Conservation Efforts: The Smart Stick as Essential Forest and Wildlife Equipment

Introduction -

Here, in the heart of the wild, where each step utters a whisper of the grandeur of nature, walk conservationists and wildlife guardians dedicated to their cause. Their goal is to preserve the wide variety of animals that live in these environments as well as the delicate balance of ecosystems. Throughout this admirable project, the Smart Stick proves to be an invaluable resource, giving these protectors of the wild sophisticated tools to help them explore, observe, and protect the environment.

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For individuals dedicated to wildlife conservation, navigating through thick forests, rocky terrain, and unpredictable sceneries is a daily challenge. The Smart Stick serves as a guiding light in the maze of natural wonders because it is outfitted with cutting-edge GPS technology. Conservationists can confidently chart their itineraries and ensure they arrive at their destinations safely and effectively with the use of precise position tracking and mapping tools.

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When it comes to protecting wildlife, safety comes first. The Smart Stick protects environmentalists on their heroic mission, acting as a kind of guardian angel. When disaster strikes, its SOS feature serves as a lifeline, allowing for quick reaction and rescue efforts. Additionally, because it has integrated environmental sensors, it offers vital information about shifting conditions, enabling conservationists to modify their plans and remain one step ahead of possible threats.

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Serious risks to biodiversity include habitat degradation, poaching, and illicit logging. With its sophisticated surveillance features that allow it to identify and discourage illegal activity, the Smart Stick turns into a vigilante sentinel. Conservationists may covertly monitor animal habitats with the use of thermal imaging and motion detection technologies, acquiring vital intelligence to counter threats and protect vulnerable species.

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Conclusion:

The Smart Stick is a ray of hope and ingenuity in the never-ending fight to protect biodiversity on Earth. It is a vital piece of equipment for forest and wildlife conservationists' toolbox, providing them with the knowledge and skills to navigate the wild, save endangered species, and preserve delicate ecosystems. In addition to increasing the efficacy of conservation activities, the Smart Stick's cutting-edge features and revolutionary potential also encourage a greater sense of stewardship and duty towards the natural environment. Let the Smart Stick be our dependable guide as we continue to safeguard and conserve the environment, leading us toward a day when nature and humans coexist peacefully.

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#information technology #it products #it services #technology #itservices #it solutions #it technology #smartstick #forestandwildlife #forestryequipments #forest #security

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joshvandervoort · 5 months

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Cherishing the Earth - A Legacy of Conservation

Joshua Vandervoort New York, our protagonist, was born and raised in the heart of Rochester. His story is embedded deep in the wilderness he loves, a testament to his devotion to preserving nature for future generations. A native of the Empire State, his heart beats in sync with the rhythm of the western landscapes, mirroring the undulating waves of the Finger Lakes and the steep, rough terrain of the Southern Tier region. His childhood was spent hiking these hills on his family's land and sailing the serene waters. The Vandervoort family ethos, steeped in respect for the land and its preservation, was instrumental in shaping Joshua's perception of the world. Even today, you'll find him, when not engaged in his tireless work, on a fishing boat or backpacking through the awe-inspiring Adirondack and Catskill mountains, living testament to his ongoing commitment to environmental stewardship.

At the very core of this individual's mission lies an unwavering belief in the profound interconnectedness of all life forms and the intricate balance that sustains our precious planet. Driven by an insatiable passion, his journey embarked not merely as a profession, but as a deeply personal commitment to safeguard the awe-inspiring natural wonders that have captivated the hearts and minds of humanity for countless centuries. Through tireless dedication and a relentless pursuit of knowledge, he endeavors to unravel the mysteries of our intricate ecosystem, striving to ensure the continued preservation and harmony of our shared home.

In a world marred by deforestation, pollution, and the relentless exploitation of natural resources, our environmental steward recognized the urgent need for action. With a profound sense of responsibility, he embarked on a journey that would redefine his life's purpose. His advocacy for conservation is not a fleeting passion but a steadfast devotion to ensuring a sustainable future for generations yet unborn.

Joshua Vandervoort New York is a devoted environmentalist whose primary conservation focus revolves around reforestation initiatives. He appreciates the fundamental role forests play in the stabilization of the global climate a lesson embedded in him from his early days spent in the wilderness of Western New York. His unwavering dedication has resulted in a vast array of tree-planting campaigns, replenishing the earth's lungs with much-needed greenery. This work is a result of strategic alliances with local communities, government agencies, and nonprofit organizations, all sharing the common goal of ecological preservation. Vandervoort's efforts not only battle deforestation but also instill a sense of optimism in ecosystems teetering on the edge of desolation. His work continues to inspire others and offers a blueprint for future conservation efforts. Josh Vandervoort

Water, the elixir of life, occupies a paramount position in our environmentalist's agenda. In regions plagued by water scarcity, he has championed the cause of sustainable water management. Through the implementation of innovative irrigation techniques, rainwater harvesting projects, and awareness campaigns, he strives to mitigate the impact of drought and foster a renewed sense of responsibility towards this finite resource.

Recognizing the profound impact of pollution on biodiversity, Joshua Vandervoort New York has waged a relentless battle against the scourge of plastic waste. By advocating for responsible consumption and waste management practices, he aims to stem the tide of plastic pollution that threatens aquatic ecosystems and terrestrial habitats alike. His initiatives extend beyond rhetoric, encompassing educational programs that enlighten communities about the perils of single-use plastics and the imperative of adopting eco-friendly alternatives.

In the realm of wildlife conservation, our environmental champion has been a vocal advocate for the protection of endangered species. His endeavors go beyond traditional conservation approaches, delving into community engagement and education. By fostering a sense of pride and ownership among local communities, he endeavors to create a harmonious coexistence between humans and wildlife, mitigating conflicts that often result in the endangerment of species.

The fight against climate change is at the forefront of his endeavors. Armed with an understanding of the scientific consensus surrounding global warming, Joshua Vandervoort New York tirelessly endeavors to raise awareness and drive systemic change. From participating in international conferences to engaging with policymakers, his advocacy transcends borders and seeks to influence policies that will address the root causes of climate change.

Education forms a crucial cornerstone of his conservation legacy. With a deep conviction that true change begins with knowledge he has passionately established a wide range of educational programs. These programs not only aim to empower individuals and communities but also foster a profound connection with their environment. By instilling a sense of responsibility and cultivating a genuine appreciation for nature, he envisions creating a ripple effect that extends far beyond his individual efforts. Through these initiatives, he seeks to ignite a lifelong curiosity and commitment to environmental stewardship, ensuring a sustainable future for generations to come.

As we deeply reflect on the remarkable contributions of this visionary environmental steward, let us also humbly acknowledge the profound and collective responsibility we all bear in cherishing and nurturing our precious Earth. The extraordinary legacy of conservation and sustainability he leaves behind transcends the realm of individual actions, serving as an unparalleled inspiration that ignites a global movement towards a more harmonious and sustainable coexistence with our beloved planet. Let us draw strength from his unwavering dedication and strive towards a future where every choice we make honors the interconnectedness of all living beings and preserves the natural wonders that have graced our existence for countless generations.

In the face of daunting environmental challenges, it is individuals like Joshua Vandervoort New York who remind us that change is possible when guided by a sense of purpose and an unwavering commitment to the well-being of our planet. As we navigate the complexities of the modern world, let us draw inspiration from his legacy and collectively strive to cherish the Earth for generations to come.

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carolinemillerbooks · 5 months

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New Post has been published on Books by Caroline Miller

New Post has been published on https://www.booksbycarolinemiller.com/musings/thoughts-about-the-kitchen-table/

Thoughts About The Kitchen Table

At the retirement center, a woman approached me to compliment a blog I had written. My reply was to shrug and say the words hadn’t amounted to much. Later, I recanted, realizing my false humility had made light of her opinion. To be honest, I’d worked hard on that blog. Why pretend otherwise? And why stifle a conversation that could have been enlightening? I know the answer. I was striving to make an impression. What distinguishes humans from pebbles on the beach is our self-awareness. Mindfulness may never answer the question, “Why am I here,” but it builds better societies. When we understand our motivations and those of others, we allow ourselves to grow wiser and more tolerant. Narrow thinking leads to negative outcomes, like Hostile architecture. Slanted bus stops to discourage the homeless from taking a nap, or spikes set along a thoroughfare built for the same purpose may deter vagrants, but they are also impediments for people using walkers or wheelchairs and for the visually impaired. Shelters built for the homeless might be a better use of taxpayer dollars. Tyrants who focus on themselves are likewise vulnerable to narrow objectives. As former U. S. Secretary of State Robert Gates observed of Vladimir Putin, the Russian President so feared a democratic, modern, and prosperous Ukraine as an alternative model for Russians next door, [ ] he started a war with his neighbor. (“The Dysfunctional Superpower,” by Robert M. Gates, Foreign Affairs, Nov/Dec 2023, pg. 37.) Unable to assess his limitations, Putin now finds himself mired in a long and costly war. Unfortunately, some members of the United States Congress suffer the same myopia. Rather than compromise on the national budget, they force the government to survive on a series of continuing resolutions– a strategy that endangers the country’s creditworthiness and safety. China’s military budget is ballooning while continuing resolutions that hold government agencies to the previous year’s budget deprive our Defense Department of the money to innovate. (Ibid, pg 39.) Common sense would tell us war is a poor substitute for peace. Even victors are forced to live in fear of those they have conquered. Little wonder that power struggles seldom take us beyond the present. Hammas and Israelis slaughter one another for a strip of land. They fail to see the planet is already on fire. Twice in recent days, the earth’s temperature has crossed a threshold scientists warn will lead to catastrophic and irreversible impacts for homo sapiens. If all the soldiers in all the skirmishes that scar the planet manage to survive, their reward will be to witness the extermination of mankind. If we are honest, the faults of our leaders reflect our own. As a species, we prefer short-term solutions to long-term gains. That’s why would-be leaders talk to us about “kitchen table” issues. They pander to our self-interests rather than remind us of our duty as citizens. Yet what has the price of gasoline to do with democracy? Conflating one with the other reduces government to its lowest denominator, as if building a society dedicated to values like justice, liberty, and fraternity were secondary. A government based upon what we can get rather than what we can share makes no demands upon us. All we require are simple answers and tyrants specialize in those. These Pied Pipers would have us focus on them, encouraging us to believe the fate of the country rests upon their shoulders. And some among us do believe. One woman called former Fox News anchor Tucker Carlson a messenger from God. (“Outfoxed,” by Brian Stelter, Vanity Fair, Dec/Jan 2023/4, pg. 74.) Private truths like hers are impervious to facts. Too many in that frame of mind can form a cancer in the body politic. Left unchecked, we may one day wake to find ourselves in a country no longer united as “we the people,” but one divided between “them and us.” The cure for chaos begins at the cellular level. Each of us has a duty to our democracy. Without that commitment, no government of the people, by the people, and for the people will endure. Let us remember the words of John F. Kennedy at his first inauguration. … ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country. (inaugural address, 1961.)”

#false humility #hostile architecture #John F. Kennedy #pandering politicians #private beliefs vs. public fact #Robert Gates #short vision of tyrants #the curse of simple answers #Tucker Carlson #value of mindfulness #Vladimir Putin #War and climate change

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queerpyracy · 2 years

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"Our valley's chief export is not lumber, minerals nor cattle but, people, particularly the young. Nearly every family which survived the hard times despite staying her, has at least one child who, once on their own, left this small town for the city. I watch them go and hope perhaps they'll return eventually, better for the experience. Once in a while one of them does come back here to live, but not often enough.

There is a pull to cities, a sort of gravitational well like a black hole--the pull of money. It reaches into the farthest corners of the world, sucking the life out of rural communities through the horrors of environmental degradation, cultural impoverishment and population loss. It seems as inevitable as the seasons, as though it were due to some unquestionable law of nature, like water flowing downhill and carrying everything that falls into it out to sea.

[...]

A few years ago I met a man who'd spent the first twenty years of his adulthood living far away from the place where his cradle stood, first at college and then working for an environmental organization. He wanted to save the world from destruction and sacrificed much so that he could be free to do so. His work took him to Washington, D.C. where his organization had its offices, in order to lobby the federal government. There he lived out of a series of apartments while his organization sent him to remote villages in Asia, Africa, and South America to learn of the environmental and economic problems the native people faced.

He wrote reports on all those places and the people there and presented them at conferences in the world's centers of power--Washington, Tokyo, Stockholm, London, Rio de Janeiro. It was heady work, exciting and challenging. He and his colleagues drafted proposals that helped shape international agreements on trade, technology, pollution and the fate of endangered species of plants, fish and animals.

One day, in a remote jungle village, an old woman asked him to describe his home. It was a simple question but one he found he didn't know how to answer. What should he tell her? About his childhood home town, a place he'd left long ago and occasionally visited? About the latest set of rooms in a large building where he kept his goods and where he slept when he was between journeys? About the large city where he worked and which he simply endured as an inconvenient annoyance? He felt suddenly his own poverty and ignorance and was ashamed because he had no home which he knew intimately and cared deeply about.

Like many people, he had no allegiance to his daily world. He lived for a future world, one which he earnestly hoped and prayed would come about. He neglected his neighbors and knew only his colleagues. He had searched for metaphorical "common ground" but never really considered the ground beneath his feet. He could speak to large audiences about global issues but the simplest sidewalk conversation left him feeling inept, awkward and embarrassed. He'd dedicated his life to saving the planet but had never concerned himself about what was happening in the places where he lived.

The revelation, he told me, had a profound effect on his life. He'd discovered a concept which he called "community" and had returned to his home town to live. He'd written a book on this issue and founded and organization to promote "a sense of place."

I wished him good luck."

Robert Leo Heilman, "Turnover" from Overstory: Zero: Real Life in Timber Country

#robert leo heilman #overstory: zero #essays

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youthkenworld · 2 years

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What happened to$1.75-gal gas...?????

3. The Price of Gas Skyrockets

The price of gas has skyrocketed across America, up 40 cents a gallon in a week in many places. And at one Los Angeles station, regular was $6.99, with premium at $7.29 a gallon.

https://www.westernjournal.com/gas-sits-just-one-cent-away-7-days-record-price-jumps/

It may seem shocking, but this is precisely what the “green” left has long hoped for. For years, they’ve had a dream that if they can just make gas expensive enough, like $8 a gallon, that would cause the public to demand electric cars and mass transit. And somehow, without cheap oil, gas or coal, or any new nuclear power plants (because those are also bad for nostalgic reasons, even though they’re now much safer than they used to be and don’t emit CO2), we’ll magically have breakthroughs in “green” energy that will allow breezes and sunbeams to generate enough power to not only sustain our society and economy, but to charge tens of millions of new electric vehicles.

I didn’t say it made any sense; I said it was a longtime leftist dream. But it’s a nightmare for working Americans and consumers. Of course, there are things we could do right now to fix it, but President Biden refuses.

Last week, I suggested that Republicans in Congress introduce a real emergency bill to fast track the reinstatement of America’s energy independence that was killed by Biden’s executive orders in the name of his “climate change emergency.” I noted then that even if Biden were still stubborn enough to veto it in the face of the Russian oil crunch and skyrocketing gas prices, maybe enough Democrats would be terrified of their reelection prospects to vote for the bill and to override Biden’s veto.

Well, on Friday, Sen. Ted Cruz did pretty much what I suggested, introducing what he calls the “Energy Freedom Act.”

https://redstate.com/mike_miller/2022/03/05/ted-cruz-rolls-out-energy-freedom-act-as-bidens-energy-dependent-chickens-come-home-to-roost-n531835

It would fast-track making America energy-independent again by…well, basically going back to what Trump did that made America energy-independent before Biden bumbled into office. It also contains a sop to the left in the form of “generally speeding up solar, wind, and geothermal development.”

I have a feeling Sen. Joe Manchin would back it. As one of that very endangered species, a DC Democrat with common sense, he’s already talking about how fast and easy it would be to get American oil flowing and gas prices back down, if the government would just take its foot off the necks of energy producers.

https://redstate.com/nick-arama/2022/03/06/manchin-makes-biden-look-silly-with-common-sense-on-russia-n532522

But do enough Democrats in the House and Senate sense electoral Armageddon in those $7 gas prices to vote for common sense and (probably have to) override a Biden veto? I believe in miracles, but that’s harder for me to believe. On the other hand, with November elections growing closer, and the prospect of gas being even higher by then, maybe the wisdom of Samuel Johnson will prevail among a veto-proof majority of Congress members. He’s the one who wrote:

“Depend upon it, sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.”

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fatehbaz · 3 years

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Less than 400 Humboldt martens survive, with a special population living in dunes on the shore of the Pacific:

Most Pacific martens live in the mountains, but Humboldt martens -- a rare subspecies -- make their home along the coast. They once ranged from Northern California to the Oregon-Washington border, filling the ancient, towering forests that fringed the Pacific shore. Now, they’ve all but disappeared, and recently gained formal protection under the US Endangered Species Act. To everyone’s surprise, however, scientists discovered one of the few remaining populations here, on a strip of overgrown sand dunes 75 kilometers long and half a kilometer wide. This stand of moss-cloaked shore pine and punishing shrubs in the Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area [...] looks nothing like the majestic old-growth forests of yore. But the martens don’t seem to mind.

Indeed, this is the densest population anywhere on Earth. It’s also one of the most imperiled. The martens face threats from cars, development, and worst of all, isolation. More than 100 kilometers of fragmented forests and roads separates them from their nearest neighbors [...]. For decades, scientists feared that Humboldt martens had gone extinct. Then, in 1996, researchers spotted telltale prints on a track plate left in the woods of Northern California. In the years following, they found more signs of the animals. [...]

They constantly patrol the borders of their home range, traveling an average of six kilometers a day. “You have an animal that’s the size of a kitten,” Moriarty says. Yet “they are moving almost as much or more than a mountain lion on a daily basis.” [...]

By the time the naturalist Joseph Grinnell identified Humboldt martens as a distinct subspecies in 1926, demand for their luxurious pelts had already made the animals scarce. California banned trapping of coastal martens in 1946, but then came industrial logging. Timber companies harvested the biggest, oldest trees in which martens made their dens. And clearcuts left little protective cover on the landscape. Today, Humboldt martens occupy just seven percent of their historical range. [...]

Scientists now know of only four populations, each estimated to contain fewer than 100 adults. One resides just east of Redwood National and State Parks in Northern California. One straddles the California-Oregon border, and another hugs the southern Oregon coast near the Rogue River. In these three, most marten sightings have occurred in large patches of old-growth forest. [...]

[T]he dune martens haven’t always fit in. Their existence challenged the long-held belief that martens primarily live in old-growth forests of redwood or Douglas fir. The short, gnarled trees here are no bigger than a fir branch, and the forest itself is young and somewhat artificial. Rolling dunes used to cover the area, but in the early 1900s, government agencies and private landowners planted beach grass to stop sand from blowing onto coastal roads. The grass stabilized the ground enough for shrubs to root, including invasive Scotch broom. Trees eventually followed, and by the middle of the century, a scrubby forest had sprouted. [...]

Research by Moriarty and her team has revealed that the shore pine forest makes a good home for martens because of its dense understory and abundant food. In fact, the 70-odd martens here have the smallest home range of any in the world. [...]

She’s come to suspect that the martens’ presence in this strange environment is actually a window into their past. Similar stands may have grown along flat, sandy stretches of the Oregon coast before towns and housing developments replaced them. And martens likely used that habitat until it vanished. [...] The paradox of the dune martens is that, despite their high density, the population also teeters on the verge of annihilation. The dunes actually host two groups of martens, separated by the Umpqua River, and each has barely enough adults to remain viable. For both, losing just two to three adults per year could send the population spiraling toward extinction, according to a 2018 study [...].

And new threats continue to arise. A Canadian pipeline company hopes to build a liquified natural gas terminal on private land at the southern end of the dunes. The Jordan Cove Project recently gained a key federal approval [...].

-------

Headlines, images, captions, and all text published by: Julia Rosen. “Trapped between pavement and the Pacific.” Hakai Magazine. 10 November 2020.

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The bushy-tailed carnivores were once common, but now fewer than 100 of them survive in California, while an unknown but very small number are still found in Oregon. A slender mustelid related to minks and otters, the coastal marten survives only in three isolated populations in old-growth forest and dense coastal shrub in Northern California and southern and central coastal Oregon. The marten faces a barrage of threats, including logging, fire, climate change, trapping in Oregon, vehicle strikes, rodenticide poisoning and small population size. [...] The coastal martens’ historic range extended from Sonoma County in coastal California north through the coastal mountains of Oregon; in Oregon the marten now lives only in a small area within Siskiyou and Siuslaw national forests. Coastal martens were believed extinct in California -- with 95 percent of their old-growth forest habitat lost and a history of excessive trapping -- until they were rediscovered on the Six Rivers National Forest in 1996. In 2009, the first California marten to be photographed in recent times was detected in Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park by remote-sensing camera. [Text excerpt from: “Saving the coastal marten.” Earth Justice.]

Historical distribution of American marten (in blue) and Pacific marten (in red-ish). Within the contiguous US, both species of marten have been eliminated from much of this historical distribution. The Humboldt marten is a subspecies/sub-population of the Pacific marten.

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kevin-coleman · 2 years

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Not Anyone's Canada

It's a frigid -14 C up here in Ottawa this weekend. That doesn't seem to put a damper on the spirits of the "Freedom Convoy" truckers. They're still causing trouble downtown and elsewhere in the country.

It gives me no pleasure to write this essay. I never want my social media accounts to become political because I believe political and religious views are personal matters, but this "demonstration" is hurting a lot of folks that live near the core where they're "protesting". I have a voice, however meagre, and I want it to be heard.

The so-called "Freedom Convoy" purports to be a protest against the violation of truckers rights and Canadians' rights at large. They claim to oppose "tyrannical" and "unconstitutional" vaccine mandates. They claim to be fighting for the "freedom" of all Canadians. To call this a struggle against tyranny is a slap in the face of every refugee and immigrant in this country who has experienced real tyranny.

Let me be clear: freedom is not an endangered species in this country.

Given the week's events, I cannot say the same for common sense, decency, and respectful opposition. Freedom is in abundance in Canada. You are free to criticize the government. The "Freedom Convoy", it's organizers and supporters, were free to roll into Ottawa and any other Canadian city, and make their voices heard, so long as their protest was lawful and did not intimidate or harm the public. That's not what's happening here.

We have all suffered in this pandemic. Things are not normal and they may not return to normal for quite some time yet, but the vast majority of Canadians have done the sensible thing and gotten vaccinated. They wear masks. They support local restaurants and small businesses any way they can in accordance with public safety measures, but some of the population have decided that these measures don't pertain to them.

Enter the "freedom fighters."

These individuals are a small minority of truckers who refuse to get vaccinated and are opposed to the vaccine mandate imposed by the Canadian and U.S. governments on cross-border shipping. Vaccinated drivers (90% of the total drivers in Canada) are free to cross the border with the appropriate documentation. It's another health and safety measure among the dozens of measures they must already comply with to maintain their licenses. The obstinate few have decided to exercise their freedom to not get vaccinated, as is their right, but they refuse to accept that their freedom to oppose the rest of society comes with a consequence: limitations on their mobility and limitations on their employment.

But the movement has evolved beyond a group of disgruntled truckers who sought to criticize the government. It is no longer about the human rights of truckers. It isn't even about the fighting for the rights of "all Canadians" as they claim. The movement has become political.

I say that again for emphasis: the "Freedom Convoy" is political. Make no mistake. It has received backing from individuals linked to the Maverick Party and far-right groups, even some white supremacist groups. For reference, here's an article about Tamara Lich, one of the organizers of the occupation. I don't doubt Ms. Lich cares more about making some political clout than she does about trucker's rights.

Elected Conservative MPs like Pierre Poilievre have thrown their support behind the protest because they see an opportunity to expand their base. They've done so without understanding the movement's goals and objectives. No one really does except those at the heart of it. The truckers, many with legitimate fears and grievances, don't realize that they are pawns in a game they haven't yet fathomed.

A GoFundMe.com page had been setup that garnered nearly $10M. Who is behind all that money? What is it's ultimate aim? What would it have funded had the site not finally agreed to freeze the funds after they were convinced by authorities that the funds for the "freedom fighters" were not being used for peaceful purposes or to back hate.

"But we're peaceful," they say.

They want us to believe that. Desperately. They have their own propaganda machine that works 24/7 fogging the Twitter-verse and YouTube feeds with images and videos of dancing in the streets and brotherly love, but there's always two sides to the story. "We're a peaceful movement and we only want freedom for you and your children," they say all while citizens feel imprisoned in their homes, afraid to go outside to buy groceries.

"We're peaceful," the demonstrators say. A coworker of mine was harassed on her way home for exercising her freedom to wear a mask.

"We're peaceful."

I dare say the employees and community members at The Shepherds of Good Hope homeless shelter who were harassed and pressured for free food feel much at peace.

I dare say the citizens who live downtown and who have had to put up with near constant blaring horns all day and night feel much at peace.

I dare say the business owners and employees who have been harassed by "freedom fighters" for simply upholding public health mandates for their own safety and the safety of others feel much at peace.

I dare say the woman who was just trying to get to work who was propositioned with oral sex for pay by one the "freedom fighters" feels much at peace.

This is an occupation, maybe not an armed occupation, but certainly a hostile occupation. They claim that they'll stay until all Canadians are free. We are already free. The "freedom fighters" complain they feel like second-class citizens but the truth of the matter is that they have exercised their freedom of choice and are unwilling to accept the consequences. They're unwilling to accept their choice runs counter to the public good that the rest of the country accepts and supports. Subtlety and irony are birds some people just can't capture.

For those of you watching what is unfolding in Canada from far and wide: this is not my Canada. This is not anyone's Canada. This is not a "freedom movement". This is an occupation. The organizers have stated clearly that they are not leaving Parliament Hill and downtown Ottawa until their demands are met. Interesting language. Who else do we know who speaks in those tones? (Hint: You'll find the answer in Canada's Criminal Code, R.S.C. 1985, c. C-46, s. 83.01.)

#ottawaseige #OttawaOccupation

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terramythos · 3 years

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TerraMythos 2021 Reading Challenge - Book 21 of 26

Title: The Galaxy, and the Ground Within (Wayfarers #4) (2021)

Author: Becky Chambers

Genre/Tags: Science Fiction, Third-Person, Female Protagonists

Rating: 9/10

Date Began: 8/15/2021

Date Finished: 8/22/2021

Gora is an unremarkable planet. It has no natural life and few resources to speak of. In fact, its only use is its proximity to more interesting places. Over the years, it’s become a waystation, notable only as a temporary stop for travelers as they wait for their spot in the wormhole queue.

The Five-Hop One-Stop is a small, family-owned rest stop on Gora. Three travelers— a marginalized nomad, a military contractor, and an exiled artist-- lay over at the Five-Hop awaiting the next stage of their journeys. But everything goes horribly wrong when repair work on an orbital satellite causes a cascade event, destroying the planet’s communications. Now stranded on Gora with debris raining down from the sky, the travelers and hosts must live with each other while cut off from the rest of the galaxy. As they learn more about one another, each is forced to confront their personal struggles… and challenge their perspective on life.

Speaker had a word for how she felt right then: errekere. A moment of vulnerable understanding between strangers. It did not translate into Klip, but it was a feeling she knew well from gatherings among her people. There was no need being expressed here, no barter or haggling or problems that required the assistance of a Speaker, but errekere was what she felt all the same. She’d never felt it with an alien before. She embraced the new experience.

Content warnings and spoilers below the cut.

Content warnings for the book: Non-graphic sexual content, child endangerment, ableism (if you squint; it’s not malicious), references to warfare, discussions of intergenerational trauma re: colonization (not the scifi kind), prejudice and xenophobia, recreational drug use.

I’ve had a mixed experience with Wayfarers, which is unusual for me. I can’t remember the last series I read that fluctuated so much in terms of personal enjoyment and (in my opinion) quality. People as a whole seem to enjoy this series more than me, hence the multitude of awards and glowing reviews. I liked book two, A Closed and Common Orbit, because of the focused narrative and dedicated development of two lead characters. But the first and third books suffered from an overly large cast and reliance on generic archetypes. When a series is built on character development and plot is a secondary concern at best, those characters have to be outstanding. And to me, they usually weren’t.

But in this fourth and final book, I felt that Chambers finally hit her stride. On a surface level, The Galaxy, and the Ground Within has striking similarity to book three, Record of a Spaceborn Few. Both are virtually plotless novels which do deep dives into a cast of characters. What sets The Galaxy apart is its execution. All three leads have unique and compelling personal conflicts. An underutilized strength of the series is its creative aliens; something Chambers takes advantage of here with a fully alien cast. Finally, this book hinges upon interaction between the three leads, something sorely missing from the previous book.

In these reviews I often seem critical of ensemble casts. But when done well, I actually prefer them to singular narratives. The main hurdle is having consistently interesting characters across the board. When there’s one or two characters I prefer over the others, I usually struggle with the novel. There’s an inherent sense of disappointment when leaving a favored character’s POV. For me this affects my overall enjoyment of the story. But when I like all of the characters or they all have something interesting going on, ensemble casts are great. The Galaxy, and the Ground Within is successful in this regard because I thoroughly enjoyed all three perspective characters. In no particular order…

Speaker is an Akarak, a birdlike scavenger species introduced as sympathetic antagonists in the first book. Going in, we know their home planet was colonized by the Harmagians, which has caused irreparable harm to their culture. Robbed of their homeworld and forced into the margins of GC society, the Akarak are nomadic, and many of them rely on banditry in order to survive. We have seen very little of them besides that. The Galaxy expands their lore a lot; their short lifespans, their incompatible biology with other sapients, and the resulting generational trauma from centuries of colonial exploitation. Speaker’s arc in particular is about dealing with the prejudice she encounters daily, adjusting to acceptance after being othered for so long, seeing things from a new perspective, and persistent worry for her twin sister Tracker, who she’s been separated from due to the events on Gora.

The Aeluon Pei is actually a recurring character; she’s Ashby’s love interest from the first book. Here we get a more intimate view of her as a person. In particular, she struggles with living a double life. She works a prestigious yet dangerous job among her people, running cargo into critical warzones. But her affair with Ashby (a Human) is a huge cultural taboo among the Aeluons. If her colleagues discovered her romantic relationship, her life as a cargo runner would be over. The double life is wearing on her, because she loves both aspects of her life, but knows that it can’t go on like this forever. To make matters worse, she goes into “shimmer”, a once-in-a-lifetime fertility period, during the events on Gora. This adds a layer to her struggle; does she do her duty to her species and produce a child, or does she pursue what she really wants?

Finally, there’s Roveg, a Quelin. Like the Akarak, Quelin haven’t received a whole lot of development in the series. In the first book, they’re portrayed as a xenophobic insectoid race, and their role is unambiguously antagonistic. Roveg is the polar opposite of that. He’s something of a renaissance man; an appreciator of fine art and dining, who designs artistic sims by profession. He delights in meeting aliens, befriending them, and learning everything there is to know about them. His arc centers around his exile from Quelin society and all the hidden pains associated with that. Chief among these is a mysterious meeting he has to make— which the Gora disaster obviously complicates.

Complementing the three leads are the Five-Hop’s hosts; a Laru mother and child named Ouloo and Tupo. Similar to the Akarak and Quelin, we haven’t seen many of the Laru (who I always picture as fuzzy dog-giraffe hybrids). Ouloo struggles to be a kind and accommodating host in the wake of disaster. She’s also forced to confront her own prejudices, especially regarding Speaker, the first Akarak she’s ever met. The two initially have a lot of tension, but grow to be great friends over the course of the novel. Her child Tupo is a nonbinary character using xe/xyr pronouns throughout the novel. Xe’s basically a Laru teenager, and super endearing. I love xyr natural curiosity and naiveté. Definitely the “heart” of the group.

Interaction between these characters is the bread and butter of this novel. There’s very little action; instead it focuses on their differing perspectives and life experiences. It’s a gradual build as the characters grow more familiar with one another. The epilogue is brilliant, because we see the long-term effect of these characters meeting. Despite interpersonal conflict in the story, Speaker inspires Pei to make a specific decision. From this decision, Pei realizes she can help Roveg with his meeting. As a result of this, Roveg is inspired to help Speaker based on one of their earlier conversations. His help fundamentally alters Speaker’s perspective on life— and there’s an implication it will reach beyond that, to the Akarak as a whole. It’s a cascade effect, but rather than the disastrous version that happened on Gora, it’s a positive social change for the leads. That’s the kind of literary parallel that really fires me up.

I do have a few criticisms of this novel, minor and otherwise. The first is, I wish the tension between Speaker and Pei was more strongly built throughout. While I’m glad the novel isn’t all sunshine and rainbows when it comes to the character interactions, their conflict goes from an idea in the back of one’s mind to an explosive event. This is something of a nitpick because it’s otherwise well executed. I especially like that despite their interpersonal problems, they work together in the climactic events of the novel without sacrificing their respective principles.

My other criticism is a series-wide observation. Wayfarers is optimistic to a fault. As such, it’s pretty rare that we see true evil or even bad behavior in this series. On one hand, it’s nice to read something where the characters are people who want the best for everyone. But there’s a lot of dissonance here, because there are MASSIVE social problems with the GC at large. For example, we see the effects of xenophobia, war, slavery, and colonialism, but the ones who perpetuate these issues are faceless. If Chambers wants to portray good characters, that’s fine, but it strikes me as odd to build complex social issues into your society, yet exclusively portray groups of morally good people. Why would a society full of such nice, helpful groups also marginalize the Akarak, or create an entire caste of slave clones to sort through their junk? This approach comes off as a desire for nuance without committing to it.

This trend continues through the final book. The Galaxy, and the Ground Within is clearly a COVID-19 response novel (“we’re all in this together”!)— but everyone is blameless, and the government response is reasonable and timely. That’s just not how it worked in real life. So many people were (and still are!) selfish in response to COVID, often outright endangering others. Practically every government botched their response for the sake of money, leading to mass death worldwide. If Wayfarers has similar social issues to the real world, why would the response to a disaster be any different? It’s an ongoing contradiction; the Wayfarers society is simultaneously utopian and flawed, and it’s hard for me to suspend my disbelief.

As an individual novel, though, I really enjoyed The Galaxy, and the Ground Within. Like all the other books in the Wayfarers series, it’s a standalone and can be read on its own. My experience with this series has been up and down; I recommend the second and fourth books, but I’d skip one and three if I ever do a reread. There are things to like about Wayfarers in terms of worldbuilding and the creative ideas behind all the different aliens. Characterization is hit or miss, but the hits are great, and this book in particular knocked it out of the park. Chambers’ prose improves a lot over the series, and it’s nice to see how she develops as a writer. As I’ve mentioned, Wayfarers has gotten lots of positive feedback, so it’s possible you will enjoy it more than I did. But I’m looking forward to reading something new.

#taylor reads #2021 reading challenge #9/10

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bills-pokedex · 4 years

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I was wondering what sort of laws/regulations are in place in Kanto (or in general, might be moving to Sinnoh in a few years) regarding the keeping of particular Pokemon? Specifically Pokemon that might pose a hazard like poison types or ones that need a lot of space like a Rapidash or Arcanine, some of these seem like you'd need training & education to get to have one but I haven't had any luck figuring this out.

Believe it or not, there aren’t really that many laws and regulations regarding what pokémon you can and cannot keep or how you keep them beyond what you learn as a trainer (which, yes, include but are not limited to “don’t engage in pokémon abuse,” “don’t remove protected pokémon from designated habitats,” and “don’t let your pokémon endanger others”). The reason why is because pokémon are innumerable, and many of them are extremely fluid when it comes to their requirements. A pokémon that starts off tiny with very few space requirements may become gigantic creatures, or ones with a laundry list of specific needs. Likewise, pokémon that may not be a hazard in their most basic stages may be extreme hazards when fully evolved. (No, I’m not just talking about magikarp and gyarados with both of these sentences, but that’s an excellent example.)

Thus, training courses will often teach the bare basics on what pokémon abuse looks like, how to care for pokémon with specific requirements (for example, how to care for poison-types, how to care for fire-types, and so on), and most importantly, how to use both the pokédex and National Dex Database in order to obtain specific information on different species. If you’re not familiar with these courses or are interested in earning your license, then be sure to look up your regional requirements for trainer’s licensing. (Most regions will typically cover these subjects in elementary school, as most trainers will want to start out at ten, as per tradition in the various leagues. However, if you happened to miss these lessons or are in a region where pokémon care isn’t a subject covered in elementary, there are often specialized schools you can attend at any age. In rare cases, you may also be in a region where you’re simply meant to learn this from your family. If you’re not from a training family, it’s strongly suggested that you learn from a local gym leader or other pokémon expert.)

In any case, it’s required that you hold at least a handling license, which is a trainer’s license but without the authorization to participate in gym battles, to raise pokémon, which means you’ve passed the aforementioned courses and understand basic pokémon care. Most people will try for a trainer’s license, which allows one to participate in gym battles, as well as contests and other competitive pokémon sports; others may choose a breeder’s license instead, which proves they’ve passed additional courses that cover how to care for and breed pokémon for non-personal purposes.

I realize this is a lot about licenses and not all that much about your question in particular, but really ... that’s about it. Because of the breadth of pokémon, it’s impossible to make laws that govern what you can and can’t do with them, other than extremely general situations that often sound like common sense when you spell them out. In rare cases, a region may have specific laws concerning specific pokémon, but given how big this world is, it’s really not that easy to offer examples there, either. In any case, many laws and regulations are simply covered in training courses, which I suppose is a long way of strongly suggesting that if you’re interested in learning more, I would consider applying for a trainer’s permit (that is, a certificate that says you’re currently learning how to handle pokémon) if you haven’t already.

#Anonymous #pokemon headcanon #pokemon headcanons #pokemon worldbuilding #our world

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ill-will-editions · 4 years

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MARGINAL NOTES ON THE AGAMBEN SCANDAL

Originally published in Italian here.

“Soon afterwards, something else emerged – yet another justification for incorporating the ‘Children’s Songs’ into the ‘Poems from Exile’. Brecht, standing before me in the grass, spoke with rare forcefulness:‘In the struggle against them, it is vital that nothing be overlooked. They don’t think small. They plan thirty thousand years ahead. Horrendous things. Horrendous crimes. They will stop at nothing. They will attack anything. Every cell convulses under their blows. So we mustn’t forget a single one. They distort the child in the womb. We can under no circumstances forget the children.’ While he was talking, I felt moved by a power that was the equal of that of fascism – one that is no less deeply rooted in the depths of history than fascism’s power. It was a very strange feeling, wholly new to me.”

- Benjamin on a conversation with Brecht, 1938

It seems that what irritates many and persuades few about Giorgio Agamben's ongoing reflections, deep down, is his rendering of the image of passive consent to the state of exception imposed by the coronavirus pandemic. An image that manifests itself as a normalized adherence to the injunction of the absolute primacy of bare life, a life reduced to mere reproduction, deprived of any attributes of the experience of freedom. The image of this consent would suggest that bare life is revealed as the only horizon, or value, remaining of human experience, which is tantamount to saying that the human now denies itself any experience: it reveals itself as an intuited fact, a fact that emerges today in these circumstances, and which was therefore already present before.

Incidentally, it should be noted that something else is proven to be pre-existing or proemial to pandemic management—something that applies to the historical proletariat, i.e. the industrial worker, as much as to contemporary workers of all kinds; something that reveals itself in the mirror image of the majority of elderly people left to die alone under the legitimation of social protection from contagion, while the truth is that after years of state sanctioned austerity measures there are not enough hospital beds; something to do with the fact that Italy, “no country for young people”, is determined by the miserable distribution of income, ergo by the misery and predation of welfare—this pre-existing fact is that the injunction of biological reproduction is absolutely relative at a global scale according to different people’s privileges based on their geographical location, at a local scale, since social reproduction depends on the convenience of the economic machine, and finally at a time scale unique to each form of life with regards to the constant destructive forces of predation. So there is an experience of the thanatalogical power held by the present human society.

Yet in the present situation, the image given by Agamben, that is to say the one in which it would appear that the social cement to which we objectively seem to adhere is revealed to be the command of bare life alone, is not inexact. At least, as long as a mass consent to the suspension or disembodiment of social relations, under threat of losing basic biological reproduction, persists. But what does this mean?

In an important passage from 1955, Georges Canguilhem argued against identifying human social organizations with living organisms. Canguilhem argues that while every human society or rather human society in general is a collectivity of living beings, this collectivity is neither an individual, since it does not obey the laws of homeostasis of a singular biological organism, nor a species, since it cannot be confused with “humanity” which is always open to the search for its specific sociability, while society is by definition closed. Society is a means, a tool, says Canguilhem. It demands rules but has no capacity for self-regulation, and thus disorder is its only presumably normal state. For this reason, regulation cannot be left to an apparatus produced by society itself; it must come from elsewhere—and here, again through Bergson, Canguilhem goes back even more surprisingly to Plato on the same question Walter Benjamin had returned to in order to arrive at his critique of sovereignty and the law by philologically revealing its fiction: justice. Canguilhem uses justice according to Plato, a supreme form of society that is at the same time irreducible to its bodies, to make the Bergsonian opposition between wisdom and heroism work: unlike in the living organism, there is no wisdom in society, and the proof is that its normal state of crisis constantly gives rise to the need for heroes and heroisms who emerge in the background of a crisis situation and are then called upon to give it a solution—all of this of course legitimized by a representation of extreme danger that is the mirror image of the permanent sense of threat perceived by society in its precarious nature.

It is clear that, in spite of some contrived and astonishing Marxian syncretisms, which have unfortunately run their theoretical course, we are dealing with social reproduction in its materialistically determined distinction from simple reproduction.

Let us try to make Canguilhem work in what appears to be Agamben’s contradiction: between him capturing the political truth on the state of exception and an aporia of his current discourse on normality, the rule of exception as taught by the tradition of the oppressed—to borrow from Benjamin’s 8th thesis on the concept of history. What particular kind of adherence to the formal exception are we seeing in the face of this pandemic? Or rather, why is it that the injunction of bare life displays itself in this circumstance?

This pandemic is not the dengue, which still causes more infections and victims than the coronavirus in Latin America, or the yellow fever, that has made new massacres in the last two years from South East Asia to Africa. This pandemic is global because it threatens the definitive global relations of capitalist society. The virus starts in the central metropolis of the global construction industry, a haven for capital in the wake of the 2008 financial crisis, and then impacts primarily in China, Europe and the US, with the addition of the oil states and those engaged in conflicts in the Middle East. This explains the representation of the danger, but not yet the social acceptance that it is gaining: in order to grasp it, it is perhaps necessary to question whether this same support is in fact illusory. This does not exempt us from ascertaining the force of the historical reification of this apparent image and therefore from ascertaining, as Agamben does precisely by capturing the truth of this moment’s image as it presents itself to history, that adherence to the guarantee of bare life is the foundation of the social pact. But we know, precisely with Agamben and Benjamin, that both this guarantee and the social pact are a pair of fictions—in other words, a false synthesis of opposites: such as, in close kinship, that of sovereign legitimacy in relation to justice and law. What does the experience of the oppressed teach us about the relationship between the life-form of capitalist society and simple reproduction if not that this relationship is simply null and void? That the mission of capitalist society, reversed through thirty years of globalization, is precisely exclusion, disinterest, the power or profit to command freely, independently from any guarantee of biological reproduction? It is this truth, affirmed in the practice of governance and introjected by the oppressed, that is now laid bare: the injunction to isolate and the suspension of social life are accepted precisely because it is at the moment in which society—and, coincidentally but separately, biological life—is most endangered that the whole experience of the divorce between the two finally condenses. In other words, individuals suddenly become conscious that it was power itself that laid down the fiction of the social pact in the first place: and therefore, it is the reality of society itself that is laid bare, its pure coincidence with power, and its powerlessness to produce any stability, any healing for the sick, any protection for life.

It is true that in this instinctive recording of the truth about society and power the injunction to cling to bare life as the sole horizon of social behaviour is reproduced: but it would be better to say that it is reflected in it. On the one hand, in fact, power enjoins the suspension of social life as a necessary condition for its own re-legitimization; on the other hand, this same suspension finds acceptance among people only as a condition consciously forced upon them by the evident fact that power and its social organization have no capacity to defend life effectively. In this dichotomy and beyond the instantaneous image of a forced convergence we can glimpse the crossroads between forms-of-life that are being prepared. On one side of this crossroads, there is an emergent form-of-life which, accepting the nakedness of society and power, secedes from it in order to affirm the value of life as an encounter and the mutual aid of bodies in their affections, thereby re-opening the horizon of a free experience, and on the other side a form-of-life imposed as a reproduction of society and its command, reconfigured exactly on the acceptance of the truth of their substantial powerlessness to protect life, bodies, and affections as what is common to us, and indeed on the acceptance of their destiny to separate us in the face of a distribution of death. And it is all the more so true—as seems to be the case in our present situation—that the reconfiguration of capitalist society and its general relations of power take the form of a predominance of digital capitalism, of data capture and of a predictive function of the devices of control: that is, of a total grip on the biological that at the same time mineralizes it.

In this sense, as shocking as the image used by Agamben, the anonymous article, “What the Virus Said,” published by Lundimatin appears to be a discursive operation with a different effectiveness and power: precisely in its address to the current form—captured at this moment—of the average social behaviour and to place itself ahead of that choice. A choice that seems to take on a global body in many different signs of conflictual life, which tend to dispel the crystallized image of a common decision on life itself paralyzed in the capture by the naked thanatocracy to which corresponds the automaton that we have come to call the Leviathan.

-Correspondence and Translation Committee - Vitalist International (Roman Section)

Translated by the Vitalist International, Atlanta Section

#COVID19 #Agamben #italian #articles #Rome #Vitalist International

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youllallriseintheink · 4 years

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Like it Never Happened: Chapter 3.

This is a post ink-hell story, and contrary to its title, a major theme in it is that a return to normalcy is an uphill climb, often requiring one redefine what normalcy means to them.

This chapter focuses on Thomas Connor and Allison Pendle. It deals with some of the mechanics of how the trapped souls are making it out. There may be a fourth or possibly fifth chapter, but I’m not sure.

Jennifer Adams, one of the soldiers tasked with the rescue of the dozens of people whose souls were locked within the sketch dimension, had fucked up big time. To be more specific, she’d shot Allison Angel.

Not that shooting ink creatures in general was a big deal- you couldn’t collect an ink creature’s soul without killing them- but in Allison’s case, she and her partner, Peter Felman, should have been making a good rapport with her. While they were free to capture the souls in any order they found them, their first priority was to locate and bring back the soul of Thomas Connor, a mechanic who had been indispensable in designing and building the machine, and would no doubt be a valuable source of information on it. In Jennifer’s defense, another Alice had broken her last partner’s arm and put him out of commission just days before, not to mention all the trouble she’d caused back when they were solely tasked with finding the souls of lost ones, as the government research branch only recently discovered how to bring back those who were transformed into cartoons.

Right after she’d shot her, Peter had instinctively taken out the seeing tool in order to see her soul, and had snatched it up and put it into a small glass jar. Then, realizing whose soul they’d just snatched, he opened the jar and let it flow back to the ink machine, as all souls did down here.

All Jennifer could hope for now is that they could get the angel to speak using torture. She and Peter had been waiting by the ink machine for a few hours, playing cards, when it finally gurgled to life.

The two soldiers got up from their card game, Peter taking a rope with him. Allison came out slowly- it was almost like seeing a person be 3D-printed. Peter was incredible with knots, and her calves (already kicking!) were tied together within seconds of their appearance from the machine’s nozzle. Half a minute later, she fell to the ground, and Peter was tying up her arms as Jennifer held her down.

“Let me go! Why are you doing this?” she yelled, still struggling against the ropes, teeth gritted.

“Sorry about this, but we need to make sure you won’t run away or attack us. We aren’t here to hurt you. We are soldiers working for the US military, and we are the reason why there are no lost ones in this world anymore. We released them all. They are currently living outside this dimension, in a better, safer world. We understand that you’re very close with a Boris named ‘Tom.’ Is that true?”

“Why should I trust you or tell you anything?” Her tone was more curious than anything. At very least, she’d calmed down surprisingly quickly.

“I’d like for you to do that because we’re offering you a way out. But if you want to do things the hard way, we can.” Jennifer took out her handgun and pointed it to Allison kneecap.

“Wait-” Allison interjected, “What is that?”

“A gun.”

“No... I mean its colour. It’s like black, but lighter, and... and cooler somehow. I think Henry told me about this once. Is it blue?”

Jennifer kept the gun trained at her knee. “Yes. Now are you talking or are we going to have to make you talk?”

“I’ll talk. I don’t know how I didn’t see this before! You’re so detailed... and your hair almost matches my skin- just like Henry. You must be from the outside. Whatever you need to know, I’ll tell you!”

“Where is Tom?”

“He’s probably in our safehouse. It’ll be easier if I show you.”

Jennifer looked over to her partner, and they silently agreed to untie her legs. They followed behind her, guns still drawn, her sword still confiscated, her hands still bound.

“Do you mind if I ask a few more questions as we walk?” Allison asked.

“I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to answer them, but go ahead,” Jennifer replied.

“Well, I know that you’re letting everyone go, but aside from Tom, there’s one case that I was hoping you could focus on. You see, one of the people turned into a cartoon character is... well, a 17-year-old kid. Tom and I found the book he wrote. We tried finding him a couple times, but came up empty. I hate to think about him, all alone in this dangerous place. If I give you the book, can you promise me to try and find him quickly, and to let me know when he’s revived and reunited with his mother?”

“Well, not all of that is my directive, but I can promise you that I’ll try to find him, and that I’ll ask the appropriate people about the rest of that stuff.”

Allison’s whole face lit up. “Thank you! Oh, thank you. And for releasing us, too. I would be hugging you if I weren’t walking you through dangerous territory with my hands tied up!”

Jennifer smiled. She’d had a lot of encounters with ink creatures, but she’d never been thanked before. She’d never even been able to explain their aims before.

“Next question: am I poor? Buddy made being poor sound pretty bad. But, I don’t remember anything about the life I had before this. I... did have one, right? It seems like all toons did... right?”

“Well, almost all- and trust me, you’re not an exception. Memory loss is extremely common among ink creatures- they have ways of getting everything back. You’re Allison Connor, the wife of Thomas Connor. I don’t know anything else about you- I was just told enough to get through this mission. But I imagine that his work puts you above the poverty line, anyhow.”

Allison had apparently forgotten all about matters of poverty and spent the rest of their short trip gushing about being married to Thomas.

Once they reached the safehouse, Allison kept Tom from tearing their throats out and told him the good news. The room was quickly filled with feelings of celebration and camaraderie. They handed Jennifer a book entitled, “Dreams Come to Life.” Then, when their inky backs were turned, Jennifer and Peter filled Tom and Allison with bullets and collected their souls. It had been nice to be honest for once, but they couldn’t have been too honest about the process of coming back to life. Afterwards they immediately headed back to the surface to hand Thomas Connor’s soul over to the researchers, as had been their protocol.

---

A day later, Thomas Connor fell out of the ink machine, landing on his feet. The blue mat he’d fallen onto told him what had happened before he could even look at his detailed, brown, ungloved hands. Thomas collapsed to the floor, overwhelmed with relief.

Over the next few hours, Thomas filled the researchers in on everything he knew about the machine. They told him plenty as well- for starters, that Allison would come out of the machine the next day and would be entirely restored and ready to go home, and that they would immediately see about contacting Buddy’s mother. They found him a place to sleep for the night, handed him a pamphlet on his new body, and he was on his way.

Everything was fine now. Thomas had spent over a decade stewing in guilt over what damage his machine could have possibly caused, and he’d spent a year and a half seeing it first hand- the lives cut short and locked in this hellish landscape. That was over now. The damage was going to be repaired the best it could be. Who knew- maybe the government would even find a beneficial use for the ink machine: bringing back endangered species, making prosthetic limbs... there were obvious bad uses for it, too, but hey, none of it would be his fault. The ink machine was no longer on his shoulders, and soon, he and Allison would be back in their lovely California home, going back to their mundane, contented lives.

Then, the phone rang. Thomas picked it up. “Hello?”

“Hello. Is this Thomas Connor?” The voice sounded sympathetic. Bad sign.

“Yes.”

There was a heavy sigh. “I’m afraid I have two pieces of bad news. Firstly, Buddy’s mother died several years ago. He has no living family members.”

“Okay,” Thomas said, voice low. Well, he knew that not all the damage he’d done could be undone. The kid had lost the time he could have had with his mother. Fair. “What’s the second part?”

“We won’t be able to bring back Allison’s memories. Usually disentangling the individual from their other presence- in this case an Alice Angel toon- brings everything right back. Well, we did, but she still doesn’t remember anything from before her sacrifice. Her memories weren’t stored away where she couldn’t find them- they’re gone like erased marker off a whiteboard. I’m sorry. We have social workers who could hook her up with a living relative, if you want. Do you still want to take her home with you?”

“Of course I do!” Thomas yelled, furious both at the situation and at the question. “She’s my wife! She was my wife in the sketch dimension, and she’ll still be my wife now!” With that, Thomas slammed the phone down. Of course Joey would have taken this from him. He was sure that it was nothing personal- he had a sense that Allison had known things even he didn’t about that machine. Still, it hurt.

But, all they could do was try to carry on. The next day, Thomas watched Allison emerge from the ink machine. He was the first thing she saw in the real world.

“Hey, Allison. This is Tom.”

Allison stared at him a moment. “You aren’t Tom. I would remember my own husband- I don’t know who you are.”

Thomas nodded. “Yeah. You aren’t getting your memories back. I’ll explain why later. But anyhow, let’s go home.

It had been too long since he’d seen her true form. And Allison seemed to like it, too. The two of them flew back to California soon after. Thankfully, Allison did at least seem to remember most things about how the world worked- perhaps due to Alice, who’d had her memories of living in her cartoon world to draw on. What’s more, their house was still waiting for them- apparently Allison’s relatives hadn’t or had only recently given up the hunt for them. Eighteen months of dust covered all the surfaces, and the plants in the garden had all either overgrown or died, but Thomas was still grateful that they had been gone more briefly than most and could pick up their lives more easily. There was so much to do- relatives to call and say, “hey, I’m alive!” to topped the list. But that could wait until tomorrow. Today, it was late. As the two settled into bed, Allison said,

“Hey. I know this is going to take a lot of patience from you. But I’m going to try to be just like Allison was, alright? Tell me about her tomorrow. She has a nice body, and good taste in homes and husbands. That’s a good start.”

Thomas laughed a little. “Sure. Glad you like what she has, since you can’t exactly trade. I’ll do my best, too, with the readjusting. That’s a promise.”

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #my fanfiction #Like it Never Happened #Thomas Connor #allison pendle #Allison Angel

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