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dahlia-coccinea · 3 years

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Wuthering Heights - Chapter 3

This is a somewhat difficult chapter to discuss fully in a single post. It introduces so many important themes and has the first glimpse of the story of the earlier inhabitants of the Heights. Sorry if this is too long - I've tried to keep my comments concise. It is difficult for me to not mention every tiny detail I like lol

We learn that Zillah has worked at the house a year or two and is aware that Catherine’s old room is off-limits but seems to know little else. It shows that despite the emotional unloading that Heathcliff does to Nelly he is very reserved about all that has happened in the past.

It seems the house has been ruled by chaos for years and there is an instinctual need for the inhabits to defend themselves against it. We see this when Lockwood first climbs into the box bed and closes the doors he says he “felt secure against the vigilance of Heathcliff, and every one else.” The need to shut out the world and crawling into small spaces is repeated later in this chapter with Catherine's diary details how, with Heathcliff, in an attempt to avoid the cruelty of Hindley and Frances “made ourselves as snug as our means allowed in the arch of the dresser,” and closed off the world by fastening their pinafores together.

We get some other interesting glimpses of Catherine and Heathcliff early friendship. It is quite popular to say that Heathcliff is Catherine’s whip and he is a blank slate for her, but I think this diary entry is another example of their oddly egalitarian relationship. First, we have this scene of Catherine lashing out against their ill-treatment:

I took my dingy volume by the scroop, and hurled it into the dog-kennel, vowing I hated a good book. Heathcliff kicked his to the same place. Then there was a hubbub!

That Heathcliff swiftly follows her lead certainly shows a reciprocation of the other’s attitude and worldview - or simply that if one is going to get in trouble then the other will follow suit. Still, I do hold that he doesn’t just mimic her or do as she wishes. We get a number of examples that show neither play a clear leader in their antics with one happening shortly after this incident. Catherine's diary continues:

I have got the time on with writing for twenty minutes; but my companion is impatient, and proposes that we should appropriate the dairywoman’s cloak, and have a scamper on the moors, under its shelter. A pleasant suggestion—and then, if the surly old man come in, he may believe his prophecy verified—we cannot be damper, or colder, in the rain than we are here.

Here Heathcliff takes the lead in coming up with more plans to get further into trouble and it seems Catherine is more than pleased to go along with it.

There are other, now iconic, details of Catherine’s character in this chapter. Such as this description of the box bed from Lockwood:

The ledge, where I placed my candle, had a few mildewed books piled up in one corner; and it was covered with writing scratched on the paint. This writing, however, was nothing but a name repeated in all kinds of characters, large and small—Catherine Earnshaw, here and there varied to Catherine Heathcliff, and then again to Catherine Linton.

And later:

Catherine’s library was select, and its state of dilapidation proved it to have been well used, though not altogether for a legitimate purpose: scarcely one chapter had escaped a pen-and-ink commentary—at least the appearance of one—covering every morsel of blank that the printer had left. Some were detached sentences; other parts took the form of a regular diary, scrawled in an unformed, childish hand. At the top of an extra page (quite a treasure, probably, when first lighted on) I was greatly amused to behold an excellent caricature of my friend Joseph,—rudely, yet powerfully sketched. An immediate interest kindled within me for the unknown Catherine, and I began forthwith to decipher her faded hieroglyphics.

Catherine holed up in the box bed and writing on every spare bit of paper she can get her hands on and scratching her name in the paint, tell of someone who has no one to talk to. She’s alone and is compelled to at least make sense of herself with ink and paper. Nelly does say later on that “there was not a soul else that she might fashion into an adviser” beside Nelly herself. Which is a poor adviser, considering how Nelly disliked her throughout her childhood.

Adding to Catherine’s loneliness is the endless abuse of Heathcliff and herself, at the hands of seemingly everyone in the house. In this short excerpt from her diary, we are told Hindley’s treatment of Heathcliff is “atrocious,” and that now he is the new master they are no longer allowed to play, and “a mere titter is sufficient to send us into corners.” Heathcliff has his hair pulled by Frances, Catherine’s ears are boxed by Joseph and they’re both berated and verbally punished by him. Finally Hindley “seizing one of us by the collar, and the other by the arm, hurled both into the back-kitchen” where she says that outside on the moors “cannot be damper, or colder.” Upon their return and proceeding punishment she says she’s cried until her head ached. Consistent with what we later hear her tell Nelly, that Heathcliff’s miseries are her own, it is not her punishment or ill-treatment that makes her so upset but the casting out of Heathcliff. She writes:

“Poor Heathcliff! Hindley calls him a vagabond, and won’t let him sit with us, nor eat with us any more; and, he says, he and I must not play together, and threatens to turn him out of the house if we break his orders. He has been blaming our father (how dared he?) for treating H. too liberally; and swears he will reduce him to his right place—”

Critics that suggest Catherine is glassy-eyed and naive idealist really gloss over these excerpts in my opinion. There is a constant downplaying of her abuse compared to the other characters among those that seemingly think she’s the only character with moral agency and therefore the cause of all problems in the story.

I love how strange the encounter that Lockwood has with the book “Seventy Times Seven, and the First of the Seventy-First,” and the following dream is when first reading Wuthering Heights. Hardly anything in WH is superfluous and when rereading it this makes much more sense. This is quite an interesting segue into meeting Catherine’s ghost, and later learning more of her life. Forgiveness is such an important aspect in the book and will come up many times. Notably, while on her deathbed, Catherine tells Heathcliff she has forgiven him and that he should forgive her.

I think it is amusing and also very interesting how in Lockwood’s dream he’s walking with Joseph (in itself is very metaphorical) and Joseph tells him he should have brought a “pilgrim’s staff” and that Joseph’s staff is really just a “heavy-headed cudgel.”

It’s unsurprising the appearance of Catherine’s ghost is so iconic. It’s impossible to discern if it is merely Lockwood’s dream or him actually encountering her spirit. There are details about her that Lockwood, at this point, does not yet know. Still, he does make many attempts to logically explain what happens. Either way, the imagery of the scene is both frightening and tragic.

We get some really interesting glimpses of Heathcliff’s character in this scene. Normally he is very collected and if his emotions are out of control they tend towards anger, but here we see him truly terrified and unable to maintain composure after finding Lockwood in the room.

Heathcliff stood near the entrance, in his shirt and trousers; with a candle dripping over his fingers, and his face as white as the wall behind him. The first creak of the oak startled him like an electric shock: the light leaped from his hold to a distance of some feet, and his agitation was so extreme, that he could hardly pick it up.

Even after Lockwood identifies himself Heathcliff is said to have found it “impossible to hold it [the candle] steady” and was “crushing his nails into his palms, and grinding his teeth to subdue the maxillary convulsions.” It is interesting that Heathcliff doesn’t become so angry that he throws Lockwood out. It’s another oddly humanizing moment for him. An overly dramatic author would likely have him behave like a complete monster, but he instead tells him to finish the night there and not to scream like that again. This is a scene that I wish we could have some perspective from Heathcliff. Not only is he startled by a noise coming from Catherine’s old room but then Lockwood adds to his distress by rambling about Catherine saying:

And that minx, Catherine Linton, or Earnshaw, or however she was called—she must have been a changeling—wicked little soul! She told me she had been walking the earth these twenty years: a just punishment for her mortal transgressions, I’ve no doubt!

This and Lockwood’s further talk which makes it apparent he has snooped and glimpsed a little bit of Catherine’s and Heathcliff’s past, does set Heathcliff off:

“What can you mean by talking in this way to me!” thundered Heathcliff with savage vehemence. “How—how dare you, under my roof?—God! he’s mad to speak so!” And he struck his forehead with rage.

Lockwood doesn’t quite understand this reaction saying:

I did not know whether to resent this language or pursue my explanation; but he seemed so powerfully affected that I took pity and proceeded with my dreams; affirming I had never heard the appellation of “Catherine Linton” before, but reading it often over produced an impression which personified itself when I had no longer my imagination under control. Heathcliff gradually fell back into the shelter of the bed, as I spoke; finally sitting down almost concealed behind it. I guessed, however, by his irregular and intercepted breathing, that he struggled to vanquish an excess of violent emotion.

And later when watching Heathcliff call for Cathy through the window:

There was such anguish in the gush of grief that accompanied this raving, that my compassion made me overlook its folly, and I drew off, half angry to have listened at all, and vexed at having related my ridiculous nightmare, since it produced that agony; though why was beyond my comprehension.

At one point Lockwood also believes Heathcliff to be “dashing a tear from his eyes” during their conversation. Of course, he is confused because he doesn’t know that one of Heathcliff’s few fixations has been looking for signs of Catherine for the last 17ish years.

I’ve mentioned this before, but something that doesn’t happen in the book because Heathcliff never narrates it, but I think if someone retold the story or made a film adaptation it could be interesting to explore, is how Heathcliff came to find Catherine’s writing on the wall. She must have written it shortly before she talks to Nelly since she’s already considering marrying Linton, and Heathcliff must still be living at the Heights since his name is there also. When Heathcliff returns three years later we know that he takes over Catherine’s old room so really he should have discovered it the first night there, probably after having visited the Grange.

@astrangechoiceoffavourites has mentioned this in one their posts, but another great aspect of the book is the background happenings that are very realistic for the time and particularly farm life. Cats and dogs roam about, Heathcliff mentions that the house goes to bed at “nine in winter, and rise at four,” and there are mentions of chores, etc. The details create a realistic backdrop and ground the characters in reality. I feel like the novel is never overly sentimental because of this and it really strengthens it.

After Heathcliff comes down to the kitchen where the household is starting their day, we are instantly reminded how terrible Heathcliff can be when he swears at and threatens to hit Cathy for not making herself useful and working for her keep. Ironically, he tells her, “You shall pay me for the plague of having you eternally in my sight,” when, as I’ve mentioned before he has her sit at the dining table with everyone else. He also could just send her away if he despises her so much.

I see a lot of similarity between the glimpse we get of Catherine Earnshaw from her diary and the current situation Cathy Heathcliff is in. Their situations are certainly different but both are in a similar state of abuse and neglect and both are quite self-possessed and antagonistic towards those that try to control them. They also are associated with books (Catherine filling them up with writing and Cathy reading) and have an affinity for animals. In this chapter it is mentioned that while Cathy is reading she has “to push away a dog, now and then, that snoozled its nose overforwardly into her face.” There are other similar encounters, such as when the dogs at the Heights come to greet Catherine Earnshaw upon her return from the Lintons.

I’m sure I’m forgetting points I want to make in these posts. I’ll probably to a larger summary after I complete the book and try to tie together some of the ideas I’ve mentioned. Its also difficult because I keep wanting to bring up things that happen later in the book and I want to make a note of it now - but I’m also trying to reread as impartially as possible. Which is really an impossible task lol.

@astrangechoiceoffavourites

#wuthering heights #wh reread 2021 #wh reread #emily brontë #chapter 3 #tw abuse #omg i did it

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wolfcha1k · 3 years

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Fear Has No Sense, a Fanfic

"What if they're not what I expected?" Ratchet asked her, propping his fist on his chin, contemplating the question once again.

Rivet leaned back on her palms before casting him a little look. "Well, was I what you expected?"

Ratchet has some unfinished questions he needs to get off his chest, who better to understand than his other half of the rift?

Author's Note: Important note, only thing I know about this series is Rift Apart, so kept my horizons very small for this story. Just was a little plot bunny that was nagging me, so I spewed it out. I'm hoping its not too sappy or ends too abruptly, stuff like that, as well as the whole "plz sound like you guys are in character" thing. Lemme know what you think, I love feedback.

She found him sitting on top of his ship outside a good distance away, seeming lost in thought. There was a celebration to be had, it wasn't everyday you saved two worlds and many more in what felt like a few short days. It'd been suspicious when Ratchet had wandered off, passed the fan fair and practically evaporated from the scene. She thought him to be a guy who loved a good party.

If you had asked Rivet she would have thought he'd used that Dimensionator to scurry off somewhere.

But thankfully he hadn't, she was rather done with dimension chasing for a while. Now she just wanted to relax and digest the peace she never thought she could have ever lived to see. It'd cost her an arm quite literally but within her bones she knew she would sacrifice it again to know the world was safe.

She put a hand on her hip, hesitant on interrupting what seemed to be a private moment. Music played muffled behind them from the celebration being had, far too peppy for the mood he seemed to be in. He didn't look sad persay, merely deep and lost in his thoughts, whatever they might be they were clearly making him chase his own tail in circles.

Taking a courageous breath, she took the plunge into the metaphorical rip tide. "Hey!"

His orange head turned to look at her, slowly blinking at her once the surprise wore off. "Oh, uh, hey." The moonlight made Rivet's fur burn silver.

"Yeah, uh, hi." Smooth, she told herself with a strained grin, waving a hand as she gestured at the space next to him. "Mind if I join you?"

"Sure, knock yourself out," Ratchet replied, shuffling away to make room. Rivet began to climb up, jumping onto the ship to sit down beside him.

Neither said anything, just exchanged a quick smile before glancing away to look at something else. She sometimes wondered how they could both have seamless and awkward conversations all at once. It wasn't like either of them were shy people, so what was it? They were pretty familiar with each other now too, unlike back at their first face to face introduction at Zurkie’s.

Instead of lingering on the nagging thought and joining Ratchet in his wandering mind, she spoke. "Nice night, huh?"

"Yeah, it's great to look at the stars and not see time and space tearing apart for once," he mused, jokingly as he recalled their adventure.

"Yeah, it's a major bummer when the dimensions collapsing on themselves ruins a good full moon," she joked back, smiling.

"Ugh, tell me about it." He shuffled his weight to get more comfortable, drawing his knee up. "I'm not complaining about retirement again anytime soon. Meeting you and Kit was a nice compensation though."

"Are you saying that because you like my company or because I'm another Lombax?" She copied his casual posture a moment, tipping her head to the side coyly.

"Uh… both?" He scratched the fur at his neck absently, shrugging a shoulder. "I don't know, I think I'd still like you even if you were a three eyed frog."

She gave him a look, amused. "You would make for an odd three eyed frog since we gotta match and all, so good thing you and me are Lombaxes."

"Yeah, yeah," he scoffed, large ears flat as he suppressed a snort. "Either way… it's nice not being, yanno, alone."

"Alone is something I know all too well," she told him with empathy highlighting her face and words. Of course, her loneliness had been different from what she imagined his to be like. He gave her a sympathetic look, the starlight reflecting in his gaze. "I never thought I'd actually meet someone like me… uh you?” She made something of a comical face. “It’s a bit over–”

“It's a bit overwhelming, huh?” Ratchet grinned at her when he realized they’d jinxed each other yet again. He suppressed a chuckle best he could but it was all for naught. “I think I owe you a lot of sodas at this point, sorry.”

“I could use the sugar so I’ll take you up on that offer, it's fine,” she joked, rolling her eyes with a huff. “Anyway, It’s been an adjustment period, yeah,” she replied with a sheepish look, grasping her palms together to distract herself. “My first impression wasn’t the most brilliant.”

“At least you knew how to say hi at all,” he teased her. “I didn’t peg you as the shy type.”

“Hey, neither did you!” She started in a firmer tone before it broke off into a more trickling voice. ”I don’t think I would have been able to break the ice if I didn’t have Clank,” she admitted, lifting her palm to scrub it down the back of her neck, embarrassed.

Ratchet still looked at her with a mixture of amusement and fondness. “Am I really that scary?”

“Depends how you define scary,” Rivet replied, giving him something of a knowing look that suddenly made him uncomfortable. She decided now was as good a moment as any, curious of just why he was out here. “So… uh, I’m not the best at this but…”

He sighed, already knowing what was coming when his smile came back in a more somber fashion. “My head won’t shut up,” Ratchet told her, not bothering to deny anything.

“Well, there is a really smart mouth attached to it.”

“Har, har, har, you’re funny,” he quipped, nudging her with a childish huff and pout. “I know I promised our pit stop but–”

“Is this about the other Lombaxes?” She was never one to beat around the bush, always direct, somethings ruthlessly so. Her words weren’t spoken harshly though, a gentle inflection to the question.

“Ah, sorta?” Rivet arched a brow at him in a telltale manner that made him doubletake his answer, backpedaling. “Okay, maybe a lot sorta.”

“You wanna elaborate?” She encouraged him, cocking her head with a curious blink of her intelligent eyes.

There was a pause, Ratchet taking the moment to figure out what he wanted to say. Rivet was patient, shifting between focusing on the intense frown of his brows to the matching frown on his lips. He eventually took in a breath and faced her.

“What if they’re not what I expected?” He asked her, propping his fist on his chin, contemplating the question once again. His eyes looked at the starry expanse of sky, endlessly stretching farther than the mind could imagine.

She leaned back on the back of her palms before casting him a little look. “Well, was I what you expected?” The words were laced in good humor and she grinned once she saw his startled face.

He wasn’t expecting that, big eyes round as an owl before he gave a grin of his own. Rivet was relieved to see it there, melancholy didn’t do justice to his face. “No, actually, you weren’t.” The words were honest but hardly negative, some warmth tingling them.

“I’ll assume that’s a compliment,” she teased him, her robotic hand making contact with his arm in a playful punch of camaraderie. She was sitting up again, elbows on her knees as she continued to speak. “And before you ask…”

“Ask what?” He rubbed at the spot where she’d socked him, wondering if she had any idea how much strength she really had in that cyborg hand and arm of hers. She must be a champion arm wrestler. “I think you’re pretty solid too. Those other Lombax would be dumb to not see it,” Rivet assured him and this time it was him who bumped shoulders with her.

It was only the pressure against her shoulder she felt from the nerve endings pressed into the machine, she’d lost the ability to feel much else since losing that arm despite his warm arm brushing against her. It was strange but she was used to strange. She almost had a phantom sensation of his touch.

“Thanks,” he chuckled before arching a brow playfully. “Are you reading minds now too?”

“If I’m you and you’re me, it’s a pretty obvious conclusion, right?” She challenged him, ears pricked forward.

“Man, that still makes my head hurt,” he exclaimed, pushing a palm against his forehead with a chuckle.

He wondered if there was more to that besides being shadows of one another, recalling Mags' diary entries of how other Lombaxes had been cast out into different pockets of time and space. To say the least, his mind wasn't ready in the slightest to start going down that rabbit hole just yet. There would be plenty of down time now to do so later, the excitement of peril was done.

They filled the silence that followed with what felt like calm and peace a good friend brought, content in the lull of the conversation; it didn’t feel suffocating or awkward.

Ratchet broke the quiet moment, his voice musing. “Yanno… for someone who’s been a real lone wolf, you sure know how to talk to people.”

“Hey, lone wolf doesn’t equal socially degenerate,” she quipped, shaking her head with a smile at him lifting a hand in mock defense. “Besides, I honestly get how you feel about… the whole scared of the Lombax thing.” She let her face become serious, brows furrowed as she rubbed her hands together. Ratchet could hear the purr in the motors of her robotic arm as it moved. “It wasn’t fair I threw that in your face back at Zurkie’s–”

Automatically he interrupted her, shaking his head and catching her gaze. “No, it’s alright. It wasn’t right of me to call you a coward either when you had your own fears.”

“Yeah but fear does nobody any good when it hurts people,” she told him, lifting her eyes to glance at her arm, seeing her reflection on the golden sleek metal. She turned back to him not long after, somehow feeling a sense of peace wash over her despite some of the jitters. “Guess fear just doesn’t make no sense sometimes, huh?” They shared a look, a somber smile on each other's faces.

“Yeah,” he agreed, sighing with something that almost sounded like a chuckle.

She took a moment to find what she should say next, knowing the conversation wasn’t going to end right there. A good friend did what she could to support each other, not snuff out their insecurities and ignore their needs. Her thoughts absently flew to Kit and Rivet didn’t want to make that mistake again. “Meeting you was honestly one of the most intimidating things I ever did, I can’t imagine adding to it an entire race of who knows how many more of us out there,” she confessed at last. "Fighting Emperor Nefarious was a cakewalk compared to that."

He studied her curiously, a bit surprised. Considering their argument prior to the conclusion of this whole mess, he hadn’t really expected her to have her own qualms about finding their kin. “You worry about what they might think of you too?”

“I mean, maybe a little,” Rivet started, trying to sound casual, being vulnerable wasn’t her strong suit but she was going to try her hardest. Breathing a sigh, she found her words again that were heavy on her tongue, relaxing the tension that had suddenly found itself coiled down her spine. “Well, I don’t anymore, least not like I did before we met,” she replied, meeting his eyes, mischief twinkling like a star. “You like me well enough, right?”

“You seriously need to ask me that?” He rested his elbow on his knee that was curled up close to his chest, the other leg comfortably laying under his relaxed slouch.

“That answers that,” Rivet said, sighing extravagantly in good humor before taking on a more serious tone. “Anyway, if one Lombax thinks I’m good enough, then that must mean others will think of me that way too. If not, well, then I got just the one and your approval is plenty for me.”

He smiled at her. “You think that highly of me? I’m touched.”

“Yeah, I do, and I’m not saying that because you’re the only other Lombax I know,” she told him, returning his smile with one of her own.

Ratchet seemed to consider his words, quiet for only a moment before he said anything. “Hey, Rivet?”

“Yeah, Ratchet?” “Thanks, for tonight, I mean. It helps,” he told her, appreciative as he met her eyes. “Kit and me dished some talk but guess I hadn’t gotten it all out, too much mayhem at the time.”

“It’s what friends are for, right?”

“Right,” Ratchet said, nodding his head.

They fell into a short silence, just looking at each other before Rivet decided to speak. "So… think you're finally ready for that little pit stop soon you promised me?" She arched a brow at him, a challenge he met with a toothy smirk teetering on a grin.

"I've been ready." He reached a hand out to her, bicep raised as Rivet met him halfway, robotic palm pressed into the glove of his as they met in a firm clap.

She squeezed his hand, mindful to not crush it with their arms pressed together from the grip. "That's what I like to hear."

"Good, because you'll be hearing a lot more from where that's coming, Rivet."

#ratchet & clank #ratchet and clank #ratchet and clank rift apart #my writing #my fanfiction

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blackswaneuroparedux · 3 years

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It is always dangerous for soldiers, sailors, or airmen to play at politics. They enter a sphere in which the values are quite different from those to which they have hitherto been accustomed.

- Winston Churchill, The Gathering Storm

**Pictured above: Seated, left to right: Air Chief Marshal Sir Charles Portal; Field Marshal Sir Alan Brooke, the Rt Hon Winston Churchill; Admiral Sir Andrew Cunningham. Standing, left to right: the Secretary to the Chiefs of Staffs Committee, Major General L C Hollis; and the Chief of Staff to the Minister of Defence, General Sir Hastings Ismay.

No one serious has ever doubted the statesmanship of Winston Churchill. However a broad criticism of Churchill as warlord only came to light after the war. Many historians thought that he meddled, incurably and unforgivably, in the professional affairs of his military advisers.

The first surge of criticism came primarily from military authors, in particular Churchill’s own chairman of the Chiefs of Staff, and Chief of the Imperial General Staff, Alan Brooke. The publication of his diaries in the late 1950s shocked readers, who discovered in entries Brooke himself retrospectively described as “liverish” that all had not gone smoothly between Churchill and his generals.

On 10 September 1944 he wrote in his diary (an entry not known until the 2001 updated version was published:

“[Churchill] has only got half the picture in his mind, talks absurdities and makes my blood boil to listen to his nonsense. I find it hard to remain civil. And the wonderful thing is that 3/4 of the population of this world imagine that Winston Churchill is one of the Strategists of History, a second Marlborough, and the other 1/4 have no conception what a public menace he is and has been throughout the war! It is far better that the world should never know and never suspect the feet of clay on that otherwise superhuman being. Without him England was lost for a certainty, with him England has been on the verge of disaster time and again….Never have I admired and disliked a man simultaneously to the same extent.”

Many of the British field marshals and admirals of World War II came away nursing the bruises that inevitably came their way in dealing with Churchill. They deplored his excessive interest in what struck them as properly military detail; they feared his imagination and its restless probing for new courses of action. But perhaps they resented most of all his certainty of their fallibility.

Norman Brook, secretary of the Cabinet under Churchill, wrote to Hastings Ismay, the former secretary to the Chiefs of Staff, a revealing observation: “Churchill has said to me, in private conversation, that this was partly due to the extent to which the Generals had been discredited in the First War—which meant that, in the Second War, their successors could not pretend to be professionally infallible.”

Churchill’s uneasy relationship with his generals stemmed, in large part, from his willingness to pick commanders who disagreed with him—and who often did so violently. The two most forceful members of the Chiefs of Staff, Brooke and Cunningham, were evidence of that. If he dispensed with Field Marshal Sir John Greer Dill as Chief of Imperial General Staff, he did so with the silent approval of key officers, who shared his judgment that Dill did not have the spirit to fight the war through to victory.

As General Hastings Lionel "Pug" Ismay (later 1st Baron Ismay), Churchill’s chief military asdvisor and link to the CIG, and others privately admitted, however, Dill was a spent man by 1941, hardly up to the demanding chore of coping with Churchill. “The one thing that was necessary and indeed that Winston preferred, was someone to stand up to him, instead of which Jack Dill merely looked, and was, bitterly hurt.”If Churchill were to make a rude remark about the courage of the British Army, Ismay later recalled, the wise course was to laugh it off or to refer Churchill to his own writings. “Dill, on the other hand, was cut to the quick that anyone should insult his beloved Army and vowed he would never serve with him again, which of course was silly.”

It was not enough, of course, to pick good leaders; as a war leader, Churchill found himself compelled to prod them as well—an activity that occasioned more than a little resentment on their part. Indeed, in a private letter to General Claude Auchinleck shortly before he assumed command in the Middle East in June 1941, Dill warned of this, saying that “the Commander will always be subject to great and often undue pressure from his Government.”

The permeation of all war, even total war, by political concerns, should come as no surprise to the contemporary student of military history, who has usually been fed on a diet of Clausewitz and his disciples. But it is sometimes forgotten just how deep and pervasive political considerations in war are.

Take, for example, the question of the employment of air power in advance of the Normandy invasion.

As is well known, operational experts and commanders split over the most effective use of air power. Some favored the employment of tactical air power to sever the rail and road lines leading to the area of the proposed beachhead, while others proposed a systematic attack on the French rail network, leading to its ultimate collapse. This seemingly technical military issue had, however, political ramifications, because any attack (but particularly one targeted against French marshalling yards) promised to yield French civilian casualties. Churchill therefore intervened in the bombing dilute to secure a promise that French civilian casualties would be held to a bare minimum. “You are piling up an awful load of hatred,” Churchill wrote to Air Chief Marshal Tedder. He insisted that French civilian casualties be under 10,000 killed, and reports were submitted throughout May that listed the number of French civilians killed and (callously enough) “Credit Balance Remaining.”

This is not to say that Churchill’s military judgment was invariably or even frequently superior to that of his subordinates, although on occasion it clearly was. Rather, Churchill exercised one of his most important functions as war leader by holding their calculations and assertions up to the standards of a massive common sense, informed by wide reading and experience at war. When his military advisers could not come up with plausible answers to these harassing and inconvenient questions, they usually revised their views; when they could, Churchill revised his. In both cases, British strategy benefited.

In The World Crisis Churchill wrote: “At the summit, true strategy and politics are one.” The civil-military relationship and the formulation of strategy are inextricably intertwined. A study of Churchill’s tenure in high command of Britain during the Second World War suggests that the formulation of strategy is a matter more complex than the laying out of blueprints.

In the world of affairs, as any close observer of government or business knows, conception or vision make up at best a small percentage of what a leader does—the implementation of that vision requires unremitting effort. The debate about the wisdom of Churchill’s judgments (for example, his desire to see large amphibious operations in the East Indies) is largely beside the point. His activity as a strategist emerges in the totality of his efforts to shape Britain’s war policies, and to mold the peace that would follow the war.

The Churchillian model of civil-military relations is one of what one might call an uneven dialogue - an unsparing (if often affectionate) interaction with military subordinates about their activities. It flies in the face of the contemporary conventional wisdom, particularly in the United States, about how politicians should deal with their military advisers.25 In fact, however, Churchill’s pattern of relationships with his Generals resembles that of other great democratic war statesmen, including Lincoln, Clemenceau and Ben Gurion, each of whom drove their generals to distraction by their supposed meddling in military matters.

All four of these statesmen, Clausewitzians by instinct if not by education, recognized the indissolubility of political and military affairs, and refused to recognize any bounds to their authority in military activities. In the end, all four provided exceptional leadership in war not because their judgment was always superior to that of their military subordinates, but because they wove the many threads of operations and politics into a whole. And none of these leaders regarded any sphere of military policy as beyond the scope of his legitimate inspection.

The penalties for a failure to understand strategy as an all-encompassing task in war can be severe. The wretched history of the Vietnam War, in which civilian leaders never came to grips with the core of their strategic dilemma, illustrates as much. President Johnson, in particular, left strategy for the South Vietnamese part of the war in the hands of General William Westmoreland, an upright and limited general utterly unsuited for the kind of conflict in which he found himself. He did not find himself called to account for his operational choices, nor did his strategy of attrition receive any serious review for almost three years of bloody fighting. At the same time, the President and his civilian advisers ran an air war in isolation from their military advisers, on the basis of a weekly luncheon meeting from which men in uniform were excluded until halfway through the war.

A Churchillian leader fighting the Vietnam War would have had little patience, one suspects, with the smooth but ineffectual Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Earle Wheeler. He would, no doubt, have convened all of his military advisers (and not just one), to badger them constantly about the progress of the war, and about the intelligence with which the theatre commander was pursuing it. The arguments might have been unpleasant, but at least they would have taken place. Perhaps no strategy would have made the war a winnable one, but surely some strategic judgment would have been better than none. Nor can strategy simply be left to the generals, as they so often wish.

The Churchillian way of high command rests on an uneven dialogue between civilian leader and military chiefs (not, let it be noted, a single generalissimo). It is not comfortable for the military, who suffer the torments of perpetual interrogation; nor easy for the civilians, who must absorb vast quantities of technical, tactical and operational information and make sense of it. But in the end, it is difficult to quarrel with the results.

#churchill #winston churchill #quote #generals #military #leadership #command #world war two #war #strategy #politics #admirals #military high command #civil-military relations #history #britain #army

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ebookporn · 3 years

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Movies About Writers: 20 Great Examples Of Authors In Cinema

Best movies about writing: our 20 picks Let’s dive into our 20 picks.

We’ve chosen movies from different genres and ages. Our main criteria is what we already discussed. These movies about famous writers—or fictional ones—take you on a journey. Every movie will teach you something.

1. An Angel at My Table – Jane Campion This 1990 biography of Janet Frame is among Jane Campion’s earliest work. It’s filled with empathy among its three main stages. You’ll see how Janet goes through a troublesome childhood. The film takes you through an erroneous schizophrenia diagnosis, leading to tortuous therapy. However, her work literally saves her, much to our heart’s content.

2. Adaptation – Spike Jonze Jonze’s 2002 amazing comedy has Charlie Kaufman as the main character. Played by Nicolas Cage, he’s working to adapt The Orchid Thief by Susan Orlean’s. It deals with topics like writer’s block and drug usage. It’s a crazy tale—definitely one of the best roles by Cage.

3. Providence – Alain Resnais 1977’s Providence is a character study of a novelist’s mind. It’s an astonishing movie about writing at a psychological level. It’s an impressive fim detailing how real-life merges with the work of a writer.

4. Bright Star – Jane Campion If you’re a John Keats reader, this 2009 movie is for you. Jane Campion’s second film on this list is just as amazing as our first entry. Bright Star is more about the romance between Keats and Fanny Brawne. Honestly, it’s one of the sweetest films you’ll ever watch.

5. The Hours – Stephen Daldry Nicole Kidman is simply stunning in this 2002 title. Playing Virginia Woolf, it’s a slow-paced drama that’ll keep you hooked until it ends. It’s a powerful trip into Woolf’s mind as she prepares to meet her fate in the River Ouse.

6. Before Night Falls – Julian Schnabel Schnabel’s 2000 film about Reinaldo Arenas definitely earned its Academy Award nomination. It takes viewers into the shoes of the Cuban writer, but it’s not pretty. It’s a beautiful but infuriating movie about homophobia and political tensions in the 70’s.

7. Misery – Rob Reiner Of course, we can’t leave out this 1990 pioneer of the psychological thriller genre. If you haven’t seen it, you need to stop reading and do it. Kathy Bates kills this movie as the kidnapper of a famous writer. It’s a mind-blowing movie about writing and addiction that everyone should see at least once.

8. The Motorcycle Diaries – Walter Salles Somewhat similar to Schnable’s film, this one is also very political. However, it’s a great character study of Che Guevara before his uprising. It’s a retelling of his diary entries while he was still studying medicine. He wrote these as he travelled with his best friend around South America. It details how he grew his political ideals.

9. Shakespeare In Love – John Madden If you want light-hearted films about writers, this 1998 title is a must-watch. It details how Shakespeare got his inspiration for some of his greatest work. It’s hilarious while still winning over your heart.

10. The Shining – Stanley Kubrick We’re back with Stephen King now. Horror movies about writers aren’t too common. However, 1980’s The Shining more than makes up for it. It pictures the quick descent into madness for Jack Torrance. It quickly goes from a creepy movie about writer’s block to a spiral of frantic and horrific scenes, one after the other.

11. Reprise – Joachim Trier The 2006 film, Reprise, is a lovely story about success, struggle, and friendship. It takes unexpected twists and turns. You can’t really expect what’s about to throw at you. It’s also the perfect French new wave experience.

12. The World According To Garp – George Roy Hill Any film with Robin Williams is a great experience. This 1982 movie is one of the best films about writers if you’re looking for a twist. We’ll just say Garp is the main character. He’s a novelist. But, his mother is the one finding success. It’s also an interesting look into gender roles released almost four decades ago.

13. Midnight in Paris – Woody Allen Despite how you might feel about Allen, this 2011 film is great. It features Owen Wilson at its charmest. It’s also very nostalgic, and sometimes hilarious, in all the right ways. If you’re an aspiring writer, it might become one of your favorite movies.

14. Kill Your Darlings – John Krokidas Daniel Radcliffe spearheads this 2013 drama, which is a good sign. This film is interesting because it depicts incredibly successful artists. Yet, the plot is elsewhere. The main story follows a murder mystery. It’s perfect if you’re looking for twists and intricate plots.

15. The Royal Tenenbaums – Wes Anderson We have another film with Owen Wilson. Combined with Gwyneth Paltrow, they depict a depressed family. It’s hardly as sad as it sounds, though. Wilson’s character is an amazing parody of masculinity, and the film will make you smile often. The duo is simply perfect here.

16. The Pillow Book – Peter Greenaway This 1996 is actually about one of the oldest records of a “book.” It depicts a deep story about obsession, poetry, writing, and lust. It builds on Sei Shonagon’s (the original author) ideas to create one of the craziest art films ever.

17. Sylvia – Christine Jeffs Sylvia is one of the most interesting movies about writers. It’s basically the only true biopic, yet they failed to get her poetry’s rights. As is, it’s a beautiful film with a great mood. It might not be for everyone, but Plath readers should definitely give it a chance.

18. My Brilliant Career – Gillian Armstrong This 1979 film plays a surprising twist on the love triangle trope. The protagonist is a woman struggling to choose between two men. However, she goes for a much more promising third option. You just have to see the rest to find out more.

19. Sunset Boulevard – Billy Wilder We just had to include this 50’s film since noir and writers go hand-in-hand. It tells the tale of a faded star and an unsuccessful screenwriter, Joe Gillis. They end up together thanks to mere promises of stardom. That said, the film does begin with Gillis’ dead body. Why is it there? You’ll have to find out.

20. Certified Copy – Abbas Kiarostami If you enjoy pseudo-fourth-wall-breaking meta-commentary, then this film is for you. The film kicks off by telling us that authenticity in art is irrelevant. From there, it’s a unique experience you simply need to watch.

HERE IS ANOTHER LIST

I would also add:

21. Can You Ever Forgive Me? - Marielle Heller Melissa McCarthy stars in this true story of writer Lee Israel, who, despite being an accomplished author, earned the legacy of “forger” after embarking on a side career of writing fake letters from literary figures and selling them to collectors. The script is based on Israel’s memoir of the same name, and the story picks up in 1991, when she has fallen on hard times both financially and professionally. Through the forgeries, Israel finds a new way to both make money and restore a sense of pride in her work.

#authors #writers #film #movies #cinema #librarians #booksellers #literacy

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juliandev0rak · 3 years

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Happy Vianan day!

It’s been exactly a month since the first Vianan fic, Wine and Education was posted! In honor of Vianan’s one month anniversary I am here to offer an exclusive look into Beatrice’s diary.

Words: ~1630

Warnings: prepare for pining

Beatrice Viano belongs to me, Lysander Lonan belongs to @leila-of-ravens

note: there are links to the various fics we’ve written spread throughout the entries so you can see where they fit into the timeline

January 10th

Dear Diary,

I met Leila’s brother today! I suppose I met two of them, but one was a bit more memorable than the other. His name is Lysander, and I can see why Leila loves him so much. After knowing me for only a few minutes he offered to help sponsor the school, can you imagine that? In a few seconds all of my worries about the school were solved by this near stranger! We had such an interesting conversation, and I must admit it made the masquerade much more enjoyable.

Leila suggested I show him the library and I was more than happy to get away from the party. I only go to those events to make Nadia happy, if Leila and Ella hadn’t been there I wouldn’t have gone at all. As it was, I brought a novel with me, it’s really quite good- but I’ll leave my notes on the book for my reading journal instead.

We went to the library and I’ve never seen someone so excited to be surrounded by books before, it was a bit like looking into a mirror. I remember how excited I was to visit the Palace library for the first time. Lysander offered to help me research curriculum for the school as well, and we’ve decided to meet up tomorrow to begin work. He’s here on a diplomacy visit from Umbra, and I’m very glad Leila thought to introduce us.

further reading: Three Dresses

————-　♡　————-

January 30th

Dear Diary,

I think I’m in love with Lysander.

I say “I think” because I’ve never really been in love before. I think I’m supposed to feel happy, but instead I just feel stressed, and I have no appetite or desire to do anything other than think of him. I don’t think he’ll ever notice me, and no amount of wishful thinking will change that.

Everywhere I go I find myself looking for him. Every time I close my eyes I see him, he’s even in my dreams now. I don’t think I even knew how deeply I felt for him until last night.

He’s going back to Umbra tomorrow, and last night was our last time working in the library together. He walked me back to my room as usual and when he turned to leave I nearly burst into tears. I know I’ll see him and Leila today, and tomorrow before he goes, but I can’t help but feel like I’ve lost my chance with him forever.

He hasn’t given any indication that he likes me as anything more than a research partner, or perhaps a friend if I’m lucky. It hurt to watch him walk away and to know that’s the last time he’ll ever walk me back to my door. It’s such a silly thing really, I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up, but I have,

He’s so much more comfortable around me now, he smiles, he laughs, he jokes with me, Every smile just gives me hope that I know I shouldn’t rely on. Leila’s still trying to help but honestly it’s no use. I think maybe I’ll just have to love him from afar, like I do fictional characters from my novels, or historical figures. (It’s not my fault that the hall of portraits in Vesuvia has some very attractive portraits...)

————-　♡　————-

February 1st

Dear Diary,

I’m in love with Lysander.

He’s gone back to Umbra and he’s taken my heart with him. Though he promised to write me letters, I know it won’t be the type of letters I hope for. Still, I want to have him in my life in any way possible. I lent him one of my favorite books. I hope he thinks of me when he reads it, even in passing, even just a little.

I noticed as he was leaving that he had a spot of chalk on his sleeve, as he turned around to wave at me one final time. That’s the image of him that I’ll remember when I miss him, when I lie awake at night unable to think of anything but him- his face, his voice, the feel of his hands brushing against mine, the smell of the tea he always drinks, the way I imagine he would feel lying next to me.

I’m in love with Lysander, and though I know better than to assume he has any affection for me, I still send my love with him across the sea. I hope one day I can follow.

#happy vianan day hehe #sorry to expose your diary like this beatrice #vianan shall rise #i just really love them ahh #vianan #lysander lonan x beatrice viano #lysander lonan #apprentice beatrice #she’s like... research colleague is hot? is funny? does not compute #i feel like this took on such a sad tone but 👀 don’t worry they’ll be fine #yes beatrice fell in love fast but who could blame her it’s LYSANDER 💗

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orenstern · 3 years

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I’d like to admit that I’ve never in my life read the Diary of Anne Frank. I’ve stood outside her house before, almost 14 years ago, and could feel something of her echoes, but never had before or since seen her words or witnessed her mind.

Up until a week ago, that is, when I chanced upon a copy of her diary. I picked it up the very moment I saw it, an instant reaction and so quick I forgot to realize I’d always been innately afraid to read her work, her letters to self. Because it somehow always seemed to me like, of all the work available by now-dead writers, her diary entries would feel the most like ghost stories, like real life talking to a ghost. It’s always scared me, the notion of talking to this particular ghost. No other ghost ever proposed to raise in me the slightest feather of a concern let alone fear.

But she always had.

And I can’t even remember having seen a portrait of her until last week. As hard as that might be to believe.

Where she was concerned, it has been like living in a house where all of the mirrors had blankets covering them. And believe you me, I’ve been in many houses where real life people were still living there and it was just precisely that, blankets over the mirrors, and the inhabitants were just looking at me without a hint of shame, sorrow or remorse in their eyes. Without any hint of knowledge of the display they had erected. If it fact it was them who had erected it. Just, this is the way it is here looks in their eyes.

The fucking things you see over a life. The understated non-plussed near-miss, oh boy did it hit though I am yet unstruck, horror you sometimes see. And how often it doesn’t even faze you. You just step over it like you would any old mound of dirt, not at all an active grave, except the low key and surpressed knowledge reminding you that all the earth is an active 5 billion year old Grave and Tomb and Monument and Pyre all wrapped into one, and all the universe a 20 billion year old same thing.

So I picked up the book. And I gazed at the front cover for a good long while. At her portrait. At Anne. I looked at her portrait for the first time, and I transported my mind back to her house, and I imagined she and I were standing there together, side by side. Outside. Looking at her own house in silence, together. And we both walked away, together, headed for a fast train to Paris, by way of a stroll along the Prisengracht, and short interlude at the Van Gogh museum. No other manifestations than that. I did not even imagine our bodies or our faces. I just remembered having done that before, peering out from the windows of my own eyes, with a companion by my side, and imagined this time, Anne was there with me doing the same.

And then after these thoughts, I opened the book. But I turned immediately to her very final entry. And I read only this Tuesday, August 1st, 1944 entry.

I’m sure I am not the only one who has read her writings and recognized themself in her words. But for certain, what she had written seemed and felt like something I’d written at least a thousand times. Her precise sentiments, and word choices, her very style. Parts of her style is my style. I must have picked that up either from writers who were familiar with her writings or just plucked it out of the wind somehow or some other way. But still that was not the eerie part.

The eerie part was the last two paragraphs. Which I copied down by hand into one of my own journals, with a blunt non-sharpened 3 inch pencil with no eraser no less, was all I had at the time. It was eerie because for at least a decade but more and more lately like the curvings of a quadratic formula, I’ve been hearing the phrase “Set Intentions” like you might hear during guided meditation or whenever someone wants to Exalt the Secret of Manifestation to you.

And I wasn’t at all going to share any of this with anyone. I had no plans to say any of this outloud to write anything on it or engage it any further or even ever again. I wrote the passage in my journal and I’d figured I was fully intending to never ever look back at that passage, or talk about it, or allow myself to recall it, and otherwise resolved to keep the blankets over this mirror forever.

But then I was scrolling this evening and just saw someone had shared a picture of Anne. And that too was a first for me to witness. Now I saw her face twice in a week, at the bookends of the week, both on Wednesdays at roughly about the same time of day. Happy to call that coincidence. Very happy to call it that.

But, I had also been just on a smoke break from my own writings, a letter I was writing to a loved one and the tenor of the letter of where I had left off when I stopped for my smoke break had just moved onto omens.

Oh boy, right?

Well now, still happy to be coincidentally maybe now just only synchronistically having this experience. But given it all, I’d resolved to share.

And by share, I’m not sure I can bring this all into any firm sense of things that could make it any less eerie. Though I will try. And if I don’t fully strike the right note in this attempt, I will know it, you won’t have to tell me, but I will publish the attempt anyway as an earmark of this encounter, and double back on it maybe whenever it is that I have found the right note or chord to strike or strum.

I’m thinking of two things, one I was going to save for my letter when I moved past omens. And one I was going to tell a friend of mine after watching a movie he recommended that I still have not told him. So I will choose neither and tell you both of them in this writing.

Most importantly, this is not at all about victim blaming, please have the courage to see past that, as Anne apparently might say that, at least, one of your two voices, if you only had two, would have such ability. And this, even if that means this courageous voice disappears after only 15 minutes.

First, I can remember back to a time when I am not more than a few months older than my son is now, maybe six months older. I am lying in my little boy bed, in my little boy bedroom in the house I grew up in, a little cape style enhanced cottage. It is night. The walls are blue. The headboard is all white and soft and plush to the touch, and riveted by silken buttons, smooth to the touch and shiny to the eye, though woven round by very fine white thread.

I am laying on top of the covers. This is colorful Snoopy and the Peanuts bedding. It’s not exactly yet bed time. But it must still be before the Vernal Equinox because the sun has been down for a good while and its not yet past my little boy bedtime. And the room is lit golden by a single 40 maybe 60 but really probably 40 watt incandescent bulb. It’s gold in there, it’s almost orange that low gold glow. And I’m laying at angle on the bed. And I’m pointed feet first at the east corner of the bedroom, which is also precisely lined up with Cardinal East. And I shit you not, but on this evening, a few weeks before my actual birthday and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was on my original due date, I was thinking to myself, “I must be dreaming in this life. I am going to remember this moment forever. When I get older. And I believe I am going to wake up someday from the distant future back here in this moment, back here in the age, back here just the way I am now.”

I’ve not tampered with this memory at all since then. I’ve remembered it precisely and often ever since. I’ve referred back to it thousands of times. In a sense, I in fact have never left that room or that night. I built it into every single night since. Like one of Tom Riddle’s horcruxes. And this before I had ever heard Row Row Row Your Boat. And this before I had enough speaking skills to say these thoughts outloud even if I wanted to but enough language understanding to think them and remember.

So that’s the first thought.

The second thought, it’s about that movie my friend suggested I watch over the summer. It was a horror movie, a new one. You may have watched it yourself. Called Ghosts of War.

My feedback to him the day after I watched it was pretty simple. A. I enjoyed it. B. The sniper I think is my favorite. C. It reminds me I have another horror movie That I do not mention to him by name then, but I only say that it is in the genre of horror that is not shriekingly scary, or rather does not rely on shriekingly scary moments. Because it does contain a couple of those potentially frightful jolts. But that is not it’s best foot forward. This type of horror is not the exciting amusement park kind. This type of horror is the kind that enters your bloodstream and stays with you and haunts you over a long period of time, long afterwards. The kind of horror you might find yourself waking up from sleep even a year or more later and not feeling right and having witnessed. D. I might get back to him someday with more commentary. Oh and E. I really enjoyed seeing Billy Zane. Particularly as the dichotomy of American Doctor and SS Colonel.

But wouldn’t you know shortly after I finished writing down that passage from Anne Frank’s final entry, pledging to not look at it ever again, I found myself in another room talking to a person about that actual movie that ghost of war reminded me of that I didn’t tell my friend what that movie was. To this new person I did say its name. It is paranormal activity. The first one. I said that movie is the first time I had witnessed a genuine horror film, That has the capability of genuinely haunting me for a long long period of time, in my adult years. And it doesn’t contain hardly any,if at all, shriek moments.

The horror of that movie is it’s power to slowly and steadily and surely wrap itself around your heart with fear and anxiety, and with full command, Sustain you in that state while flexing and relaxing it’s own valves, to show you who’s boss and who is in command.

Furthermore I told this person, that such a film as this paranormal activity is is not a film to watch when you are in a heightened state of consciousness. You’ve got to be half asleep at the wheel half dead inside to properly survive that film. Because in the final moment, and I admitted this to that person, when you see the demon at last, he jumps straight into your eyes. Straight into you. That movie is perhaps the ultimate act of transgression, that I’d ever seen to that date. And I admitted to this person that it took me a good long while of concerted and methodical effort, to rid myself of that motherfucking demon. Such is the exquisite accomplishment of that particular horror movie. I spared my friend this story, because I’m pretty sure he would’ve shit his pants if I told it to him in person. I think I’m only about 30% joking about that.

But tomorrow being that some stories stay with you longer than others. Some stories you actually have to exorcise from your mind. it’s very good training. Especially if you happen to frequently find yourself in other peoples houses and those houses have all the mirrors draped over by blankets. And those other people walk about aimlessly as though they have no idea how odd that appears to be. if you know what I’m saying. And if you can believe what I’m saying is actually true.

But no I don’t think I’ll ever tell my friend about the paranormal activity story. What I will tell him is another thought I had about ghosts of war. That I think on some level in someway we are all ghosts of every war. Wars that we’ve seen and wars that we haven’t seen, either depicted in books or movies or for trade for real on the news both of foreign lands and domestic. And even wars in our own mind, common place words with our neighbors or friends or family or loved ones. I think in someway we just are ghosts of it. Carrying the crosses of it.

And I remember a story I wrote or a poem maybe it was about a universal snake and a universal monkey. The universal snake head swallowed the universal monkey. Seemingly defeated him in battle. Seemingly killed him. Seemingly was digesting him. But unseeming to the universal snake, the universal monkey to this day will not die. And for all eternity the universal snake has had indigestion on account of the universal monkey’s eternal will not to be extinguished. They say it ain’t over til it’s over. They say don’t stop believing. I say that’s probably very good advice and we should all listen to it. The Monkey is listening to it right now, and has been forever. That monkey won’t quit. That monkey is in a pickle but he’s got a slim to none chance and yet he won’t quit.

How this works back to ghosts to war and how we’re ghosts of war with everyone, and how this works back to Anne Frank. It’s up to you what you wanna believe in, I believe in the fact that God won’t ever let us really kill each other. We might see it happen with our own eyes. Right before us. But I believe that even as it happens it also instantly unhappens.

We have the ability to look backwards in time and forecast forwards in time but we only have the ability to live in one moment of time at a time and that we called the present. We have no idea what actually happens in previous moments of time once we’ve moved past them. Except how they exist in our mind. But for all we know in a moment that someone apparently kills another, whether it’s a person to a person or an animal to an animal. How do we know it doesn’t on happen once we’ve left that moment? Natural law has a place in this world. So natural law gets its way in this world. But there are such things as the overlapping thesis of all the different laws. And divine law is a thing in that overlapping thesis. Just as well as natural law is. So it is totally possible that once we make a mess of things, the Custodian comes along to fix it.

It’s possible along the same probabilities or maybe even slightly better than Lloyd Christmas’ chances of getting the red head which he eventually did.

To another person who overheard me talking to that first person last week about paranormal activity, the next day she came to me with concerns. I listened to these concerns. And my response was what you do is up to you. Including whether or not you trust yourself or not. If I were in your shoes I would try to trust myself. Even as everyone around me might seem intent on leading me to betray my own trust. if I were in your shoes, I would choose to believe that no one actually has the power to do that. No one actually has the will to want to see you fail, to fail yourself. Because that would be them wishing them to fail themselves. And while they might get away with that in one moment in the next that moment is wiped clean. If I were in your shoes I’d be telling that to myself every moment I had these concerns you are telling me about.

I further said, and I stop talking about if I were in her shoes. I further said what you think is happening is happening. What you understand about what is happening is only ever coming into focus more and more. You may not have all the Time in the world, but you do always have the luxury of patience. There’s no rush when it comes to the process of understanding. Something tells me we’ll repeat the lesson infinitely if necessary. something also tells me that won’t actually be necessary. The lesson will come clear eventually. Have faith in that and likely all of your fears and concerns will be abolished. The probability of it being otherwise, however great it seems, as Pascal very effectively demonstrated, infinitely pales to the seemingly tiny probability, the Boson particle infinitesimally small and impossible to fathom yet there it is nonetheless almost something you can now actually reach out and grab but even still something you can see if only by way of prediction probability, of it not being otherwise.

So that in other words no sword actually ever really falls upon the neck but he’s only ever caught by the Hand.

I’ve been waiting to wake up to this reality ever since my two-year-old self woke up to that reality and said I will be waking up here someday again.

But I did tell that second person, be careful the stories you tell yourself. They could be like that movie demon that enters your mind and poisons your body, like that story I told last night. The mind can make almost anything real. That’s a quote from a movie also, but it comes from somewhere. Didn’t it? So possibly probably in all likelihood whatever story you tell yourself whatever imaginary though you have as an objective: if somewhere in this universe. Somehow manifest itself. Somehow find a way to be born and become true. Often a lot faster and more hellishly than you thought possible.

The mind is it’s own place. It can make heaven out of hell and hell a heaven. I don’t need to read the whole diary of Anne Frank, to know beyond what her final entry says. That she was equally gifted at doing both. And that, my friends, is not victim blaming. That is just what it is.

And so behold the final two paragraphs of her final passage:

As I’ve told you, what I say is not what I feel, which is why I have a reputation for being boy-crazy as well as a flirt, a smart aleck and a reader of romances. The happy-go-lucky Anne laughs, gives a flippant reply, shrugs her shoulders and pretends she doesn’t give a darn. The quiet Anne reacts in just the opposite way. If I’m being completely honest, I’ll have to admit that it does matter to me, that I’m trying very hard to change myself, but that I I’m always up against a more powerful enemy. A voice within me is sobbing, “You see, that’s what’s become of you. You’re surrounded by negative opinions, dismayed looks and mocking faces, people, who dislike you, and all because you don’t listen to the advice of your own better half.”

Believe me, I’d like to listen, but it doesn’t work, because if I’m quiet and serious, everyone thinks I’m putting on a new act and I have to save myself with a joke, and then I’m not even talking about my own family, who assume I must be sick, stuff me with aspirins and sedatives, feel my neck and forehead to see if I have a temperature, ask about my bowel movements and berate me for being in a bad mood, until I just can’t keep it up anymore, because when everybody starts hovering over me, I get cross, then sad, and finally end up turning my heart inside g out, the bad part on the outside and the good part on the inside, and keep trying to find a way to become what I’d like to be and what I could be if… if only there were no other people in the world.

Yours, Anne M. Frank

#Anne Frank #Diary of Anne Frank #set intentions #Ghosts of War #manfesting #summoning #positivity #be careful what you wish for #mysticism #book review #movie review

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magioffire · 3 years

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13. entry made featuring mention of (sender’s) muse. :^)

dear diary prompt ; accepting

(the strikeouts are vali crossing shit out very angrily because he doesnt know how to spell a word the first time or not wanting to acknowledge something to even his diary after hes written it)

‘my traveling partner, octavo and i have been traveling westward for two fortnights and his being an incessant nusiance nuciance? nuisance has hindered me from keeping track of anything within this journal. it is exceptionally difficult to concentrate in the presence of a man who is so enamoured with the sound of his own voice. granted i cannot blame him, his voice is particularly nice and i can see how he became a court musician despite his contemptous contemptuous attitude and lack of noble birth. i am among the first to know if a man is to be audacious and yet lacking in blue blood and natural refinement, he must justify his insolence with raw talent. i respected octavo in that regard immediately, he and i are similar in that regard.’

week later

‘instead of traveling through the much safer south-west route through the forests, we were forced to make a detour when we were blocked off by a horde of undead infesting the forest we intended to travel through and destroying all the villages in their wake. octavo saved my life by manipulating the creatures with his bardic magic, controlling and fending off the undead, long enough for us to high tail it northward through a much more hazardous mountain pass. for two days we traveled through the mountain pass and the weather increasingly moved against us until we were caught behind a blizzard. if we had horses we might have outran the storm, but on foot we were much too slow to even have much time to seek shelter before the storm came upon us. neither of us are very suited for the cold, but he even less so being all skin and bones and barely any sinew and muscle to hold it all together (yet he still manages to hold himself like hes a man twice as strong).

it wasn’t long before he fell to the cold, i was sure i would lose my traveling partner and dare i say friend then, but even if i was sure he might die i wouldn’t have just left his body to freeze in the storm. so i picked him up, he forced me to let him walk for a while, until i found an outcropping between two junctions of the mountain that hardly could be called a cave, but it was enough. thankfully i had acted quick enough to save his life, but it has changed our relationship in some way. i did what i knew to do for someone suffering from hypothermia, and it is a very intimate procedure. i wont lie to even myself, i felt some sort of strange thrill being so close between straddling the line between life and death, precious warmth and eternal chill, being so close and our bodies pressed up against eachother.

i took on a much different perspective of him then, being exposed to another’s vulnerability tends to do that. yet i do not look upon him as weak, i just want to be close to him, like we were that night, but perhaps without the threat of death. it would be nice to feel his skin under my hands again but i would fear to brouch broach the subject for fear of being rejected and seen as an aggressor, or as desperate for the tiniest sliver of love. the last thing i want to appear foolish and desperate. i mean, i am a rather prideful person, just like him. after all, its just the two of us out here in the wilderness, who is here to judge? i feel myself wanting to play a role of protector, and protectee (is that even a word?), playing upon primal instincts maybe? does that even make sense? it doesnt make sense to me logically but in an emotional way, it does clearly make sense. it would be strange to even talk of such things with octavo, but i know it will have to get brought up eventually, i like to think of him as a fool but he is not. and it will happen again, its just a matter of whether or not either of us will admit to it.’

#bransles #ic.#ask.#you get TWO WHOLE journal entries #also it took me forever to find vali's writing voice

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soracities · 5 years

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Do you keep a diary? I keep thinking about starting to write in one, but the moment I put pen to paper it feels so grossly wrong that I immediately stop.

Why does it feel wrong? Who’s in your head every time you try to write, telling you it’s wrong?

I don’t have a ‘diary’ diary (for the exact same reason you mentioned), but I do have a very loosely arranged journal. I always felt so fake when I tried to keep a proper diary because there was always (ironically) this strange sense of performance I kept bringing to it. For that reason it never felt like anything that could ever be truly personal to me, so I stopped and went with my gut instead. What I keep now is incredibly fragmented and a wide variety of things: errant lines of poetry, lyrics, passing observations, brief drawings and sketches. It’s not a ‘proper’ diary but it is personal in a different way.

Granted, some days my entries are personal - very personal (though admittedly in a very cryptic and roundabout way) - but other times it may be weeks and weeks of absolutely nothing personal at all - weeks and weeks without anything, even. I simply go by what works for me and what feels right for me. I love to record little moments that touch me or quotes that really strike me, but otherwise I don’t believe in forcing anything, not anymore.

That said, that was what I found worked for me. You may be different and it could very easily be a number of other things: maybe your mind hits block because you’ve associated keeping a diary as some very special form of art that only “gifted” writers should do, or maybe you see it through the eyes of whoever may end up reading it and so can’t ever relax about it, or maybe it’s just difficult to convince yourself that your feelings and your thoughts matter enough to be worthy of being written down (and if that’s the case, I’m telling you now: it’s not a matter of worth. No one person’s feelings or way of expressing themselves is any better than someone else’s. These are your thoughts, your feelings and they are important to you. That is all that matters. It isn’t anything you can, or should, quantify).

In any case, if you find it daunting then my suggestion would be to ease into it. You do not need to bare your heart and soul in the first entry. You don’t even have to make it personal at all. Maybe you overheard an interesting conversation on the bus or in a café. Maybe you heard a group of kids laughing in the park and reminded you of something from when you were younger. Maybe one of your friends said something that had you in stitches. It doesn’t need to be paragraphs. Two, three lines, even, will do. Once you get comfortable recording these small instances, over time, I think your own personal voice will show through, in whatever way is most natural for you (and in the end, maybe that isn’t keeping a diary, it might become something else entirely).

I know for some people a diary is a deeply personal space where you can spill out everything and that’s generally what we associate with it - it has a specific structure and a specific ‘tone’ but, honestly? A diary, as long as it’s true to you, can be absolutely anything. It took me a long time to realise that the ‘diary’ I was keeping, when I had it, wasn’t really me. I only realised because, in the interim, I was keeping a second notebook where I took down all the little things that struck me. The second one filled up very quickly. The first one hardly at all. When I looked back on them both, it became very clear which one was me.

This is a very old (angsty) entry, but just to remind you: you can put whatever tf you want. All that matters is that it is true to who you are (even when you don’t know who that is)

#ask #anonymous #notes from elsewhere #beginner guides

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codezeta-liveblog-blog · 5 years

Text

Damages 2.1 - Council of Future Plotpoints

Damages huh. To what or to who? Probably to everyone, to the balance itself. If Blake is to continue being the protagonist, he has to get some yet to be seen advantage over everyone else. Which no one expects. Which will probably fuck everyone up. Cant wait, lets go.

> The pen scribbled across the paper. > > Weapons. A knife, a larger weapon if I could manage it. A gun would be ideal but hard to find. Different Others had different drawbacks and weaknesses. Ideally I’d be able to pick up an assortment of weapons in a variety of materials. The problem was, I wasn’t sure where I could get those things. > > That raised several more questions. I needed a better way to get information. Internet. I needed a way to buy supplies, if my cash reserve ran out. Money. > > I switched to another piece of paper, this one headed with the word ‘Needs’. Beneath clothes and a brief shopping list of food staples that would last me a while, I added the two new points about internet access and needing to contact the lawyers. I hesitated, then added other points. Joel’s car and keys, which I had borrowed, needed to be returned, if they weren’t already. Rose needed assistance. I needed allies. > > The council meeting was this afternoon. Three hours before sunset and three hours after, I would be free from interference. I needed a way to get some control over this situation. Enemies at the gates, I’d phrased it.

Man, its freaking today. Here I thought he still had more time. Yeah he cant be harmed, but this has been building up and itll probably be an opportunity for everyone to throw around their threats. Very smart to think of buying the mundane stuff in the meantime. Makes me think, how does a practitioner meeting in the market generally goes?

> I tried to write down everything I could possibly need or need to do. Stumped, stalled, I put the pen down and stood from the couch, stretching my back where I’d been hunched over the coffee table. > > The mirror beside me was empty. My reflection was absent, as was Rose’s. I saw only a living room where the books weren’t quite so scattered, where the shelves were full and no cardboard boxes sat beneath. There wasn’t a pile of dishes in the corner where I’d left them on my side of things. Oatmeal, again. If I didn’t manage a good shopping run, I’d be moving on to wild rice and cans of black beans.

Quick question. Do americans and canadians get black beans that arent canned? Like the ones you actually boil and make the beans yourself? I never hear of it. Me and over half the brazillian population eat rice and beans that way everyday in every major meal, but I have yet to see in any american or english media any of you ever actually boiling bean seeds and preparing them to, you know, actually add flavor and stuff with your own condiments and spices.

> The house felt a little more claustrophobic than it had, before. As large as the house was, it was old fashioned with a very closed concept, every room separated from other rooms by walls and doors. Were it the furniture and furniture alone, I wouldn’t have a problem. But Molly had made a long series of messes in packing up grandmother’s things, leaving the job half done, and her things were still here, untouched. Navigating between furniture and over the boxes and piles of books made me constantly aware of the space around me.

I can definitely see how that doesnt exactly make you paranoid, but rather self conscious about how paranoid you must look.

> When I had some time, I could do some tidying up. For the time being, though, I had too much to do. I settled for a breather. > > I stood in the window, my back against the windowframe, helping to hold the curtains and sheers out of the way. > > With my newly acquired second sight, I could make out the spirits that infused everything. Just as I might focus my eyes, I could focus this sight. I could train it. According to Essentials, some practitioners would train their sight to focus on things better suited to their talents. Imagery would take hold. > > Spirits were the most basic and oldest option when it came to manipulating the physical world through the esoteric. One object as simple as a pencil could have a host of spirits inside it, representations of the purposes the object had, its nature, its elemental makeup, ownership, and many, many other qualities. > > Shamans, then, were practitioners who worked more or less exclusively with spirits. They would be able to find and interact with more powerful spirits. Not simply the spirit of one particular stone, but the spirit of all stones for an area. > > I was thinking along those lines because I couldn’t help but wonder if what I saw was one of those shamans at work.

So shamans are more of controllers of the elements in a way. But also of their surroundings as in the objects around them.

> A boiling cloud of what might have been vapor, a haze, sat over the city. It was as though stormclouds were rolling in, and they were doing it at ground level. At times there was a fluidity to it, as though the nearby lake had swelled and swamped the area, waves rising and falling, only periodically allowing buildings to be seen, where they dipped low enough. > > This wasn’t water or water vapor. It was spirits. > > I shut off the sight. > > The scene I saw without magical aid was an ordinary one, a simple snowfall, with clouds in the proper places. My view of the buildings was still limited, periodically obscured, but only by snow. > > There were things outside, as there had been last night. Daylight wasn’t safety. It only meant that the Others without human forms had to stay out of the public eye. > > I sighed. I wasn’t big on plans. I wasn’t the type to use lists or keep to them. It helped to frame what I was doing in my head, but it wasn’t me. > > Better if I figured out the high points I needed to hit and then winged it. I’d figure out what I needed to shop for when the time came. > > I sat down with what I saw as the little black book. I filled myself in on the local practitioners. > > When I got to the Others, however, I found the entries got a little more complicated and short form. Latin classifications, short form that necessitated I look it up, measures and linking to reference material instead of explaining them outright. > > Grandmother, it seemed, was more interested in Others than people.

After the diary we now know how she hated having to read to whole books to get to the point, how it was hard to look for information for her at a younger age, so sit makes sense that she would just hyperlink everything, make it as simple and to the point as possible, organize things alphabetically and just... easy to get into all of this, or at least as easy as it gets with no one to teach you.

> “Rose!” I called out. > > There was no reply. > > I made my way through the house, searching each of the mirrors. I found her in the library. > > “Rose,” I said. > > She sat on the floor. Her hair had pulled free of the brooch, and she was surrounded by books. Damn, she looked worn out. Not tired, per se, but like she’d been through the wringer. > > “What do you want, Blake?” > > “First of all, I want to make sure you’re okay.” > > “Let’s say I’m not,” she said. She carefully set books aside and climbed to her feet. She didn’t seem willing to meet my eyes, biting her lip, thoughts clearly elsewhere. > > “What can I do?” > > It wasn’t a hard question, but it seemed to bother her. “Survive the meeting? We survive, there’s always room for things to get better.” > > “I’m on board with that,” I said. > > Why did it look like I was upsetting her more? > > “Listen,” I said. “I’ve done the reading. The sections on the Others in the little black book are kind of dense, but I got the gist of it, and I think I can put names to most of the important faces. I know the practitioners I’m up against.” > > “That’s good,” she said. “I read through all of that too.” > > “I’ve also memorized a few of the basic sigils. Driving people away, like Laird Behaim did in the coffee shop, moving things like I did with the mug, and protecting objects. I’ve got salt and chalk if I need it.” > > “I wouldn’t rely on that, if I was in your shoes,” she said. > > I frowned, “Why?” > > “The books say that generally, spirits aren’t that smart. They’re more like small animals, in terms of their capacity to understand things. Like animals, you can train or bait them. In an area trafficked by people who use spirits a great deal, you can trust they’re going to listen.” > > “This is that type of area.” > > “But who are they listening to? Remember how Laird said the spirits of community listen to him because of his role? Out there, they aren’t just listening to you. Their loyalties are divided.”

Ironic that I kept wishing for Rose to get attention and get better and she just kinda... broke after the ritual. She is looking and acting like she is quite done.

> “I think I follow,” I said. “What’s the end result? What happens if they aren’t all in the same camp?” > > “I think it’ll be slower, or fuzzier. You might get nothing, or it might backfire.” > > That took some of the wind out of my sails. “I’m still powerless?” > > “Powerless until you get enough clout to bully them or convince them to play along. It might be that grandmother’s name gives you some of the oomph you need. But if you reach for their help in a bind,” Rose said, “It’s going to be-” > > “-a crapshoot,” I said, in the same instant Rose did. > > I smiled a bit, but Rose didn’t. Her eyes dropped to the ground. > > I sighed. I could hardly blame her for not being in a smiling mood. Rose had her own concerns. Ones I couldn’t even wrap my head around. We didn’t have enough information on what she was or why grandmother had gone to the trouble of creating her. > > Problem was, I didn’t know how to fix this. When in doubt, the strategy was to empathize. As a rule, people wanted their feelings recognized more than they wanted fixes. > > “I can’t imagine how you feel,” I said. It was the truth. “You’ve been put in a horrible situation, with-” > > “Don’t do that,” she said. “Not if you’re using it like they taught it to you.” > > “Huh?” > > “Dad taught us that. How to get on people’s good side. Which may be something he picked up from grandmother.” > > “Grandfather,” I said. “It fits what we know of him.” > > “Don’t manipulate me, Blake. Don’t use strategies to deal with me. I was raised the same way you were, up to a point, I know the tricks.” > > “I do care, Rose. I want to help you. If I’m drawing from what I know to try-” > > “Blake,” Rose said. “It’s fine. It’s done, you’re in charge, I’m the backup. You want me to keep the criticisms to the most vital points? Fine. You want me to do the research and supplement what you’re doing, fine. You win.”

Nooo Rose dont you do the you win thing. Its more frustrating than anything.

t. abusive relationships involving me or people around me. The “you win” phrase still strikes some chords inside me when it comes up in a conversation or discussion or anything really.

> “I don’t want to win. I want us to be on the same page.” > > “The same page? You got the power, I got… this. How do you have a partnership if things are this unequal? Let’s face it. Look at what happened to Molly. Grandmother is willing to use us as expendable assets. I’m nothing more than a piece in a greater puzzle. I’ll serve my role, and the road ends there. I’m the most expendable one of us.” > > “I don’t think she made you as some expendable asset,” I said. > > “I’ve been reading. Everything referencing diabolists says they’re dangerous lunatics, except for the stuff that was written by grandmother and other diabolists. The temptation to offer pieces of yourself for obvious gains sucks all of them in eventually. The guys who unleash some of the worst stuff out there? The guys who meet the worst ends? They’re in the same category as her. Our grandmother. Over and over, they become monsters. Literally, or generally monstrous people that might use their kids or grandkids as sacrificial pawns to get what they need.”

I dont exactly see what Grandmother would have to gain from creating an entirely new person as Rose. Only if the plan was to in some way reincarnate in the mirror body. It would make sense with what we know of Grandma, but we dont exactly know of magics and spells to dismiss this point as impossible.

> “I don’t deny that they’re fucked up. But grandmother lived. She hit the ripe old age of eighty-five, and I doubt you do that while messing with stuff like this if you’re dumb. Besides, dumb people aren’t the type to spend the kind of power it takes to make a sapient being, only to throw it away like you’re talking about.” > > That actually seemed to help. Not that she looked happy, but maybe the way didn’t look so dark. > > “There isn’t a book we can read to figure out why I was created,” Rose said. Her eyes were still downcast. “I looked at the earliest diary entries, and the most recent.”

Ah, so maybe the pages we read were some that Rose perused.

> “Anything useful in the most recent?” I asked. > > She shook her head. “No. Nothing. The early ones… I sort of skipped past the earliest diaries, because a child’s writing is hard to read in big doses. Some stuff on the relationships between the different groups here. But if you’re looking for tips on where to focus our studies, we may have to look a bit further.” > > “Relationships,” I said. > > “It wasn’t all friendly or peaceful, though it sounds like there was more of an equilibrium a while back.” > > “Like Laird said,” I thought aloud, “It’s starting to change. If the house sells, Jacob’s Bell grows past a threshold. It’s thrown things a bit out of balance.” > > “You’ve got the two big circles joining in marriage, maybe rebuilding that balance.” > > “Status quo for the Duchamp family, it sounds like,” I said. Which was a reminder of the matter at hand. “Listen, The council meeting starts in three and a half hours. I wanted to check you were up for it.” > > “I’m up for it,” she said. She met my eyes, but that only made it clearer how worn out she was. > > “Be careful,” I said. “If you lie-” > > “I know,” she said. Nervously, she started fiddling with her hair, trying to get it sorted out. “I might lose my powers, or be forsworn. And I don’t want to lose any protections I might have, if things like Padraic can reach in here to get me. Not that I have much else to lose.” > > I nodded. > > “Don’t worry about me if you’re not going to worry about yourself,” Rose said. “You look as tired as I feel, and since you’re the one making the big decisions, like when to go out and-” > > “Woah,” I said. “Woah, woah. You’re talking about this?” > > “About going out with Laird.” > > “I thought we weren’t fighting.” > > I could see her expression change. Barely restrained frustration, slowly but surely being covered up, hidden behind a mask. “We’re not. Nevermind. I got carried away. I’ll meet you downstairs in a bit, and then we’ll go?” > > A big part of me wanted to argue. To press the issue. To air grievances and get things on a more even keel. To convince her that I didn’t want her as a slave or a servant.

But if you press the issue you will be yet agains forcing her to do something, in this case, discuss the issue.

> Except we had more pressing matters. Better to find a way to show it to her rather than tell her. > > “Sure,” I said. > > ■ > > The spirits parted. I knew when it was time, because of the way the surroundings changed. A moment of rest, where the snow wasn’t so hard, the spirits were settled, and an entire area was almost clear, in magical terms. In regular terms, the snowstorm let up a touch. It was dark, but that was more to do with cloud cover than time of day. > > I was on the move the moment the coast was clear, but I didn’t go to the meeting. > > I headed for the downtown area, backpack empty, pockets full. Everything I could think I might need on hand. > > Fireplaces and stoves. No. Dollar store? No. An old-school ice-cream shop complete with the benches and the tall glasses for fondues and ice cream floats. > > I settled on a general mens store. > > Knives were on sale, but I didn’t like the idea of using them. Too short a reach, against the sorts of things I would be fighting. > > I did like the look of the ice picks and hatchets. Prices on the picks hit the hundreds, while I could manage a hatchet for as little as forty. > > Wooden baseball bat, a touch less expensive. > > I added the weight of a loop of chain to the cart as well. > > Then I stepped into the corner of the shop where they handled bicycle stuff. > > Cheap side-mirrors were about four dollars for a pair, round mirrors about six inches across. I checked that I could see Rose inside and grabbed twenty. > > I think she might have actually smiled, when I glimpsed her. > > I did another circuit of the store. There were rifles and guns, but those started at a hundred and fifty dollars, and I had little doubt they’d stop working in a pinch. Many Others would be immune or too hard to kill with a regular gun. In terms of cost benefit, I’d rather have more mirrors. > > If I couldn’t get a gun at this point, the bow and arrow set stood out as a tempting alternative. It helped that there were Others who were vulnerable to wood and not metal. There were problems in terms of cost, though. At ninety dollars minimum, it was just outside of the range I was willing to pay. > > And, when I thought about it, it would be hell to practice if my movements were limited to the interior of Hillsglade House. It would take too long to learn. > > I had basic weapons for self defense, plus a few tools, which would have to tide me over until I got further in my studies over the magic stuff. > > When I approached the counter to pay, I got stares. It made me wonder if the process of awakening had changed anything about me. Or if they were enemies.

I dont doubt Blake's enemies would be slightly amused about him making an attempt to protect himself.

> I made my way to the next store. A general catch-all bargain shop, a little better than the dollar store I had passed. Expanding beyond the one pair of jeans would go a long way for my sanity. So would having decent soap and shampoo. Even different laundry detergent would help. I grabbed all of the toiletries, a few spare t-shirts, a sweatshirt and added a thirty dollar pair of jeans, just so I had something besides underwear to wear in a pinch. > > It made me feel better, knowing I had the stuff, feeling the weight of it in the shopping basket. It left me roughly twenty bucks to get food, but I could stretch a little money a long way on that front. I was happier having permanent things, new things. Even if they were cheap shirts for 75% off. If I had more money in general, I would be a shopaholic or a hoarder.

Makes sense, him having a homeless background and all that

> When I headed to the front of the store, a young boy got in my way. Just past the brink of entering adolescence, pale and brown haired. > > My first thought was Other. The memories of the things that had attacked the fake delivery man were fresh in my mind. It wasn’t. Very much human. > > “You’re Blake, aren’t you?” > > I nodded. > > “Do you recognize me?” > > I nodded again. Molly’s younger brother.

Oh-oh? What are you doing in town?

> When he didn’t say anything, giving me a death glare, I said, “Christoff. Hey, listen. I’m sorry about your sister.” > > “Why are you sorry?” he asked. “Did you do it?” > > God damn, the way he could say it as if I had… with a hardness in his voice? That had to have been something that the family had imbued in him over the years of fighting. Something he would have picked up. It was the kind of accusation that had enough weight to it that even an innocent target could be put off balance and made to consider the question. > > “No, Christoff. The police already cleared me.” > > “That doesn’t mean anything. Did you kill my sister?” > > “No,” I said. Not unless murder by omission is possible. “I didn’t.” > > I could see Callan approaching, giving me a bit of a wary look. His mother wasn’t far behind.

Shut up Callan.

> Callan was almost thirty. His mother was forty and looked ten years older, by the condition of her skin and hair, her arms full with a bundle of shirts with superheroes on them. I couldn’t help but see Aunt Irene as the type of person who had faced hardships every day and had emerged just a fraction weaker from each crisis. Worrying about money and work and all of that tended to eat you up inside. I knew, even if I had lived it for only a short time, what that was like. > > All that said, it didn’t mean I was a fan of her as a person. > > Callan frowned as stopped behind Christoff, putting his hands on his little brother’s shoulders. > > “I was just saying to Christoff,” I said, “I’m sorry about Molly. You have my condolences.” > > “But you still didn’t waste any time in taking the house,” Callan said. His glare matched those of Christoff and my aunt. > > “Ah, someone told you?” > > “It’s in the papers,” he said. “Every day, talking about Molly, talking about you. Who’s the new heir, that sort of thing.” > > “I didn’t have much of a choice in any of it,” I said. “I don’t want the house or the baggage that comes with it. At this point, I’d be pretty happy give up all the money and walk away from all of this… without anyone getting hurt.” > > “But you’re living there,” Callan said. “So you must want some part of it.” > > “It’s complicated,” I said. > > “Your parents said you were homeless. I bet you fucked up, and this is the only place you have to live. Squatting in my sister’s house before her body’s even cold.”

Oh SHUT the fuck up Callan.

> I expected his mother to rebuke him, to respond to the callous comment about Molly. > > She was cold before she died, I thought. > > What I said was, “She was one of the very few family members I ever liked, honestly. She was a friend to me. I meant it when I said I’m sorry.” > > “She wasn’t your friend,” Aunt Irene said, and her voice had that accusatory hardness that Christoff had picked up. Her eyes narrowed, an expression to match her tone, “Every other second I look at you, I wonder how you’re responsible.” > > How, not if. > > “You keep saying you’re sorry, and I believe it a little less each time,” Callan said. “Tell you what. Go. Don’t ever fucking talk about my sister again, just go, and we won’t have a problem.” > > I didn’t say anything, out of concern it would be taken as binding. Instead, I circled around to walk past him. > > He took a step to the side, getting in my way. “I didn’t say pay and leave. I said leave.” > > “You said go,” I said. “I’m going.” > > “Not this way,” he said. “Not with this shit you need to keep squatting in my sister’s house.” > > Heads were turning. We had the attention of every shopper and employee in the store, now. > > I thought of Rose’s recent surrender. I didn’t agree with it. It wasn’t what I wanted… but I didn’t want an issue here, either. > > “Fine,” I said. “Let me give the basket to the cashier-” > > “Don’t be an asshole,” Callan said. “Go put it all back on the shelves and racks.” > > I dropped the basket. “No. But I’ll leave, without buying, without incident. You win, Callan.” > > He smirked, but when I turned to go around him, he reached out and put his hand on my shoulder, maybe to slow me down so he could get in my way again. > > I shoved him, hard enough he stumbled three steps back. > > Before anything further could happen, I headed for the doors. More for his sake than mine. I wasn’t forgetting the consequences of missing the council meeting, as I thought that. I was- > > The sound of running footsteps made me stop. The expressions of the cashiers to my right clued me in. > > I reacted, half-turning, bringing my arm up. The arm wasn’t in position to deflect the worst of the hit, but I was more or less ready as Callan did his damndest to sucker-punch me. It hurt, but it was only pain. No disorientation, no loss of consciousness. > > My retaliation was automatic. I hit him, fist to face. He reeled, bending over to the point that I thought he was going to do a somersault. But I was already swinging the follow-up strike, waist-level. > > He hit the ground, rolled onto his back, and he didn’t get up. His mouth was open, lip split, and he stared, blinking hard, looking in a different direction each time he opened his eyes. > > Fuck, my hands hurt like a bitch. > > Employees came running, as well as one or two male customers. I backed away, hands raised. > > But when they reached us, two employees dropped to their knees beside Callan, and the rest of the intervening bystanders put themselves between us, forming a protective half-circle around Callan. Six of them, and another fourteen or so bystanders. > > “He hit me first,” I said. > > “You shoved him,” a man said. He looked fifty or so, but had a walker, oddly out of tune with his age. > > “That’s not how it happened and you know it,” I said. > > The man said, “I know you’re that guy in the Hillsglade place right now. You selling it anytime soon?” > > “No, the contract-” > > “Then I think I know what we’re telling the police,” he said. He looked around, and slowly, each other member of the small crowd started nodding in agreement.

I do not have words to how angry this is making me. And it is reflecting in the liveblog.

> Too coincidental. Too much fuckery, for this to happen now. I switched to my other way of seeing. > > Nothing stood out, no strange glows or images that weren’t supposed to be here. No Others were in the area. > > When I turned to more basic elements, I could see how active the spirits were. Nothing too unusual, though this was my first opportunity seeing how the spirits traveled back and forth between people, maintaining relationships. If I unfocused a bit, they almost looked like ribbons or cords, connecting people throughout the area. > > Three of the ribbons stood out from the rest. Too straight, too narrow. They were like spears that had penetrated Callan, Aunt Irene and Christoff and plunged into me. > > Forced connections between us. Too direct to be natural. Someone had aimed them at me. > > Fuckery. > > There were rules, though. No interfering with or attacking anyone else in the time leading up to, during, or after the meeting. > > Had this been done beforehand? Had things been set up so that they’d get in my way at the first available opportunity? > > Or had someone found a loophole? > > I wasn’t sure I had a chance to debate it. A cashier was dialing on the phone, her eyes on me. > > In that moment, I saw Laird enter the store, not in uniform, but wearing a long coat, cheeks red from the cold. He surveyed the situation. > > “Mr. Thorburn,” he said. > > “Officer,” I said. “Pretty prompt response to a call that hasn’t been made yet.” > > “Are you getting smart with me?” he asked. > > I shook my head. “Only stating the truth.” > > He gave me an appraising look. “Yes. I imagine you are. Katie, you can put the phone down. He’s right, there isn’t a point.” > > “He had a few harsh words for the fellow there,” the guy with the walker said, “Then shoved him, they exchanged blows.” > > “That so?” Laird asked. He surveyed the room very slowly. His eyes settled on Katie. “I’m asking. Is it, Katie?” > > She looked at the crowd. > > “Katie?” > > “No, sir.” > > “No. I didn’t think so. I’ll tell you what. You guys go on about your business, and I’ll see that Mr. Thorburn gets to his destination. Deal?” > > “Yes sir,” a few nearby people mumbled. > > “Mr. Thorburn?” he asked, giving me a sharp look. > > “Sounds good,” I said. > > “I don’t think I heard that clearly enough,” he said. His stare was a level one. > > Right. He wanted to play this game. > > I wouldn’t be buying clothes, toiletries or groceries, it seemed.

Wait, weren't the things from different stores? Nice touch on the possibility of loopholes already in the safety guaranteed thing, but then that is fishy as fuck. How can you meddle with someone in such a way and it not count as... ah well, w/e. I’m not going to lie and pretend I remember the exact wording that goes for the Meeting Truce.

> “I’ll go with you,” I said. > > “Good,” he responded, smiling. > > We went on our way. I hadn’t turned off my second sight, and I saw how the spirits were shifting. People were milling around the area, which was more like an extended strip mall than a true downtown, but the spirits diverted them from taking one side street. > > We turned down that street, and were soon joined by Andy and Eva. The witch hunters. > > “I assume they aren’t bound by any neutrality rules,” I said. > > “No,” Laird said. “But if they wanted to kill you, they could enter your home and murder you in their sleep.” > > The girl smiled, giving me a look. Confident, brash, if I remembered right from the vision. Her brother kept his eyes straight forward, watching the ground for slick patches and lumps of snow he might stumble on. He was burdened down with bags of stuff, while she strutted. > > I’d read up on the locals. What had the little black book said? They were witch hunters in service to Jacob’s Bell. Killing or punishing any Other or practitioner who strayed too far from the rules and made life inconvenient. Half of their payment came in the form of hard cash. Half was in either trinkets they could use on their job or knowledge. > > We approached a church. The area was desolate. > > I saw the woman with a blur for a face pause outside, waiting for a man to hold the door open. She was the one who’d molded the other who’d pretended to be a delivery driver. I saw her deliberately put the little ever-lit cigarette out before entering. > > A church wasn’t my first guess for a meeting place. > > Inside, Laird walked me to the front, where his family sat in the front row of pews. He paused, bending down to talk to his wife, and I walked on, my eyes taking it in. > > All eyes were on me, in turn. It made for a kind of pressure. Like all of the bad parts of public speaking without the ability to say something and give off a better impression.

Finally time for the meeting with everyone. Finding out our enemies, the who's who of the town.

> Behaim Circle, chronomancers. Demesnes situated in scattered residences across the city. I was familiar enough with them. > > Sitting in the aisles opposite the Behaims was the Duchamp Coven. According to the little black book, their line was purely female, and their craft was taught to women only. Easy enough, when any Duchamp woman would give birth girls only. A large family with strong ties to many of the surrounding areas, the family had earned a measure of prestige and power by marrying off their daughters and cousins to others in Ontario, Quebec, and the Northeastern States. Enchantresses. > > What were enchantresses? Essentials had filled me in on the basics. They would be focused on altering relationships. Influencing people, influencing things. An object could have its owner reassigned, so it might find its way into someone else’s hands, or be tethered to a location, so it would continually end up there. On the higher end of things, people could be altered, with an enchantress literally stealing someone’s love. On the veryhigh end of things, familiars could be claimed by an enchantress that didn’t already have one, among other general bends and twists in more fundamental rules. > > In short, they were the most likely culprits for sending Aunt Irene’s family my way.

Or maybe sending a group of girls, their own daughters mayhaps, to beat up Rose when she was small, even before they were turned practitioners.

> A middle-aged aboriginal woman sat alone, and nobody sat near her. Mara Angnakak. She straddled the line between practitioner and Other. When Jacob’s Bell was first settled by colonists, she was already here. The notes had marked that she was very reserved, but she harbored a horrendous amount of hatred for the rest of us. Grandmother had written out suspicions that she was illiterate; arguing it would explain why her talents seem to be limited to what she could teach herself. Centuries of such teaching and experimentation, but limited nonetheless. > > Being a practitioner inevitably meant losing a bit of your humanity and becoming a bit more Other. My new eyesight was a part of that, one step along what could be a long journey. Mara Angnakak had nearly finished that journey before stopping. Or she had to have, if she was that old. > > She was here before Europeans came to Canada and chances were good that she intended to be here well after we were gone.

Protecting her land in a way probably. Taking care of old beings that dont even hold an identity any more. I'd put money on her having access to things like Barba-whatsis, as in, unknown beings that have lost meaning to most.

> A girl slouched in a seat. Her familiar wasn’t in its mortal form, but was ethereal, with all of the mass of a grizzly on the front end, and a tail end that looked like that of a fish, the features an incoherent blend of different animals and plants, different features being emphasized as I looked longer. Her stick tapped the floor with no rhythm at all. She’d seated herself nearer the Others at the back than the two big families. I recognized her as the one who’d been shouting at the rabbit. > > She would be the Briar Girl. No other name. A recent addition to the local population, as of six years ago. She apparently lived full-time in the woods and marshes behind Hillsglade House. Grandmother’s suspicion? She had contracted with a familiar too powerful for her to handle, creating something that was less a partnership than a practitioner dominated by the spirit. The bear-thing would be the familiar, the stick her implement.

I'm going to bet it is something like that, but missing some keypoint. Like maybe she took the spirit as a familiar willing to be controlled. A stick for implement, so maybe guidance, strenght in many? Balance, equilibrium, reach, stability. Safety? Halted Growth? I really think something mutual is going on with them both.

> Johannes, the sorcerer from the north end, was already sitting, but he’d chosen to sit among the Others, near the back, rather than anywhere near the two families. His dog sat beside him, a breed that could easily look silly, given the chance, but it managed to look noble. > > It helped that the lights behind the dog seemed somehow brighter, the rest of the room darker by contrast. > > Others continued to appear, and it seemed as though they had been arriving for a while. They avoided the pews and stood around the edges. Where they clustered, their bodies blocked the wall-mounted lights behind them, and the room darkened. > > I found an empty row and sat. I put the backpack down on the pew beside me and fished out a pair of bike mirrors. I adjusted the zipper, and zipped up around the prong where the mirror was supposed to fit into the bike handle. It stuck up, facing forward. > > Easily an hour passed before the influx of Others started to taper off. My mouth was dry, my heart pounding, my face hurt where I’d been hit, and my hands hurt more. > > Above all else, I was realizing what I was up against. These weren’t pages in the little black book. They were enemies of mine. Virtually all of them. > > A lot of them would kill me. > > A good few would probably do worse things than kill me.

Like press their hands against your skin and tie pieces of you together in a nice little bow.

> This wasn’t quite what I had expected. I’d expected a few practitioners. Not everyone. > > “Blake,” Rose whispered. > > “What?” I asked, leaning closer. > > “Don’t tell anyone that I did the ritual,” she said. > > I nodded. > > Keep cards up our sleeves. That was how we needed to think.

I still dont understand if her doing the ritual put them in a disadvantage or no. We'll have to wait and see.

> But we couldn’t be wilting flowers, bowing over if someone so much as looked at us the wrong way. I could do that for Callan, but not here. > > A woman from the Duchamp family was talking to Laird, off to the side. She might have been the one who was talking in the vision I’d had. Not the oldest Duchamp woman here, but she had a kind of presence. They both cast glances my way as they talked, making me the obvious topic of conversation. > > I went out of my way to look like I wasn’t terrified. > > All of these people were my enemies. > > “Beautiful Rose,” Padraic purred. “Both of them, here. A good night, I’m sure.” > > He’d entered alongside his two regular companions, two other companions of similar attractiveness, and Maggie Holt, the girl with the checkered scarf. She was a teenager, making her slightly younger than the Briar Girl, and her eyebrows made her look perpetually angry, helped by a swift, graceless manner of walking. > > She sat to my right, across the aisle. Padraic and his group sat around her, instantly and automatically settling into comfortable seating positions that could have doubled for poses. > > “Padraic, as usual, is the last to enter,” Laird said. “We can begin a little early tonight. Please, Mr. Thorburn. You’re at the center of attention. Would you please step up to the front and introduce yourself?” > > Every set of eyes in the room > > “Say no,” Rose said. > > “I said I’d run impulsive plans by you, right?” I asked. > > “Blake?” > > “Mr. Thorburn?” Laird asked, his voice ringing down the length of the church. > > “If I had a way to divert our enemies from us and to each other?” I asked. “Yes or no?” > > “Blake, you can’t expect me to-”

What the fuck is the plan. I'm expecting it to be in the cliffhanger.

> “Blake Thorburn, grandson of Mrs. Rose D. Thorburn, Diabolist of Hillsglade House,” Laird said. “I would like a response.” > > Making someone repeat themselves, in some cases, would make them look weaker. Laird was getting more intimidating each time he spoke. > > “Yes,” she said. > > I stood. > > There was no murmur of conversation as I walked down the aisle. There were hundredshere, but most were Others, and they were all exceptionally good at being quiet. Goblins, disgusting to look at, as though they were distilled versions of human ugliness, squat and all of them armed with weapons forged together from scrap. Ghosts, etheral and exaggerated in appearance, forever marked with their causes of death, twisted by an imperfect recollection of what they looked like and who they were, before. Faerie, in myriad shapes and forms, and spirits. The other half of the Others were impossible to identify. > > Funny, how many others with the appearances of children were around Johannes. > > Andy and Eva sat on the stairs to the right of the stage, facing down everyone. Like bailiffs or guards, a reminder to keep the peace. The other set of stairs was blocked by the crowd. I stood at the very end of the aisle, and gripped the railing. > > In the midst of the faces, of the twenty or so members of the Duchamp coven and thirty-ish members of Laird’s family, all of the Others, I had to search to find the tiny round mirror that Rose would be peering out of. > > “I’m Blake Thorburn,” I said. “I doubt you really care about that, or about who I am. I imagine Molly Walker did her own speech here. I can’t even guess how she handled it, or what she said. I’m an obstacle for you to remove, to get power. I know this. I know you might see me as one number on a countdown clock, with prosperity waiting when there’s nothing left. When there are no successors. But you need to know, that thing so many of you are terrified of? That I might learn enough to summon something problematic? It’s already summoned.” > > I could see Laird react to that. A shift in the crowd. Some of the kids went pale, in the Duchamp family. > > Johannes smiled. Mara the immortal, for her part, didn’t say or do anything. Most Others didn’t seem to care one way or another.

Johannes probably already knows what is up, and I somehow doubt he is expecting more power. He strikes me as someone who already has what he wants. But I also barely know anything about him.

> “Not my choice. I also didn’t choose the arrangements my grandmother put in place,” I said. > > I was thinking of Rose, but I didn’t need to elaborate on that. > > “Some of you have been baiting me, trying to get me to retaliate. I don’t know why, but I imagine there’s something at play. I’m not going to do what they want. I’m going to make you guys a deal. I’ll make three deals. If you approach me and offer a ceasefire, an agreement you won’t attack me or help anyone who might, if you make a good offer, I’ll take the demon off the table for you and yours.” > > I could see people exchanging glances. > > That was a maxim, right? A rule of war? > > Divide and conquer.

I didnt get the feeling Barbatholomeus was the sole reason peole were worried, but if that is enough to get people to get paranoid, then I'm happy. I'm binging a lot of chapters right now, so I'll dive right into the next one. With this in the ending, I'm heavily leaning towards someone bringing a major point against Blake. Let's a go.

2019 Addendum: Next liveblog on Friday!

#CodeZeta liveblogs #pact #PactArc2 #Pact2.1

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mageinabarrel · 6 years

Text

Despair is a reality with which we must contend.

Ordinarily, when you finish a show like Fate/Extra LAST ENCORE, you’re left thinking something like, “Ah, this was a show about hope!” The negative, pessimistic, defeatist attitudes of those who have given up have been conquered by the hero’s belief in the future – in its ascendency from the mire of the past – and hope reigns. Hurrah for that!

And to be sure, LAST ENCORE is, in the end, a tale of hope. By the show’s finale, the Dead Face reincarnation of Hakuno Kishinami has not only overcome his miserable origins to become more than a mockery of humanity and reset the Moon Cell, revitalizing an Earth 1,000 years since debilitated by humanity’s sins. And although this Hakuno disappears along with the valiant Saber of Red, Nero Claudius, they leave behind for Rin Tousaka a future worth running toward.

But when I look back on the show as a whole, I cannot help feel that at the core of LAST ENCORE is, in fact…

despair.

The opening episode of LAST ENCORE is a brooding, even dreadful affair. It begins with the sense that something unknown is most profoundly wrong. Inexplicable things occur, one friend murders another in ghastly fashion, and a resurrected incarnation of hate itself meets his partner at the lowest of seven strata of a frightening digital world. Certainly, the reference to the Inferno is easily apprehended.

Welcome to hell, Hakuno Kishinami.

You have been born from the pit of humanity’s misery.

As Hakuno and Saber ascend toward the Moon Cell, they encounter person after person who has succumbed to the workings of despair. Some, like Shinji, have been effectively broken by it. Shinji designs and maintains a hollow perpetuation of a meaningless status quo for those Masters who have fled the Holy Grail War, a giving up is nestled inside the further meaningless of the Masters’ continued existence within a system that has shattered and left them with an ontological, although not physical, death. Admirably, Shinji does as best he can in the midst of his despair until he is freed by his defeat to Hakuno.

Although the expectation might be to see Shinji’s release and death as a triumph of hope over existential apathy, the nature of Hakuno himself contradicts such rosy notions. Although Hakuno’s true identity as a Dead Face has not been revealed at the time of his battle with Shinji and Francis Drake, what we do know is that he possesses an unspeakable hatred. Hatred triumphing over despair is no such grand thing as the crowning of hope as the victor.

And yet, at the same time, the catharsis in Shinji’s passing is palpable. It is not so much the excitement of hope arising as it is the relief of a despair that can finally be let go.

In like-yet-unlike pattern, Dan Blackmore’s despair is one he is hardly aware of himself – although Robin Hood, his servant, sees the futility of his struggle in stark clarity. Like Shinji, he lingers as he is only because the system has failed, has given him a false hope that only defeat can quench. And, once again, catharsis is the timbre of the lost Master’s end – the scene of Robin Hood gratefully evaporating next to the gravestone of his Master’s body, loyal to the end, a poignant expression of release.

Despair and catharsis.

This is the dynamic which generally defines LAST ENCORE until its final conflict. Yet, there’s one clear exception to the rule, one that reinforces over the series’ midway point the prevailing nature of despair in the failed world of SE.RA.PH. Of course, this is episodes 6 and 7, “The Queen’s Glass Game” and “Nursery Rhyme.” Here, Hakuno encounters a girl who, like Dan Blackmore, is already dead, but unlike the second stratum’s Floor Master, was dead from the start.

Alice is an interloper even in the disintegrating Moon Cell, a ghost who belongs nowhere yet is somewhere. And although Hakuno, Rin, and Saber defeat the Noble Phantasm that haunts the floor to ascend, Alice is not released. In a cruel twist, her childishness blinds her to everything besides her desire for companionship, although Hakuno is more than aware of the tragedy. There is no catharsis here, and it’s easy to see how the despair creeps into the supposedly immovable Dead Face’s heart, even as he lies to Alice to continue his journey.

LAST ENCORE is intelligent in that it delivers the most personal of its despair/catharsis arcs – the awful story of Rin and Rani VII, two characters both audience and Hakuno have become endeared to – before the final conflict begins. The cycle is of the recognizable type. SE.RA.PH, failed without regard for its inhabitants, has trapped them in an unending battle of futility. The despair of their situation is nearly overwhelming, not least because they have both assisted in Hakuno’s ascent (seemingly at their own expense). They are, in fact, the final expression in personal terms of the despair of the world before LAST ENCORE turns toward its final, grandly abstract destination.

“We have no choice but to give up on humanity.”

It is at this point that LAST ENCORE begins to ask us to truly consider the validity of despair. Certainly, Shinji, a Master who sacrificed his dignity and friendships for the sake of a war that ended prematurely, was within his rights to despair, though he made the best of it. Alice may have despaired as well, were she a little older. Rin and Rani hope against hope for, not a future, but release from their despair. And as Hakuno and Saber arrive on the doorstep of the failed savior of humanity, Leonardo B. Harwey, we come to understand that the broken state of SE.RA.PH. is itself an expression of despair.

With what are we dealing when it comes to despair? Hopelessness, to which is appended an inability to create change. This is where Twice Pieceman has arrived after his long journey, and he has, ironically, inflicted the brokenness of Earth upon humanity’s final hope. As Pieceman argues, persuades, cajoles, we are forced to consider his point of view. The perhaps frightening thing about this is that the darkness and failures of humanity that have caused him to consider humanity worthless beyond resentment, they are not unreal.

And here is where LAST ENCORE makes its case in this diary of despair.

Pieceman is not wrong to despair. Leo was not wrong to share in his despair, and neither could any of the other previous floor masters be blamed for having lost hope. Pieceman destroys the Moon Cell system because he has given up on humanity. It is a function of his despair, and it infects everyone below him. The despair that flows out from his decision to ruin the Moon Cell into everyone who has been trapped in the broken system – Rin, Rani, Leo, Blackmore, and so on – is justified as well.

How deep my respect runs for LAST ENCORE‘s willingness to acknowledge and accept this truth. Despair is not evil. It is a condition of our humanity. Perhaps we are all destined to make our own entry in this sour journal, to write our own despairs about our lives, the state of our world, even existence itself next to all those who accompany us here on this world.

Where is our catharsis?

Again, LAST ENCORE is not about hope per se. Certainly hope exists within the story, but it feels far more the result at the end of the journey rather than the antidote to the poison. And maybe it’s a bit trite that said antidote, really, comes in such small and personal terms – “I should do what I am capable of. That is all anyone can do.” – but frankly the small steps of personal capacity and ability are far more empowering than grand yet vague statements to trust in hope.

So, in the end, catharsis against despair arises not out of hope, but out of the simple act of living. Saber’s grand elegy for Hakuno as she puts her energies into her final efforts concludes with the moving line, “Your’s was a life most admirable, and most tragic.” Yes, continuing to live is the antidote to despair and its cousin, stasis. The Hakuno who was Saber’s first master fell short of her goal, but Saber professes her admiration for a person who lived to her utmost.

Again, it may be trite, but the catharsis of LAST ENCORE as a whole comes not through a profession of hope, but through action. And, sure, it is a glorious burst of action, complete with heroic sacrifice and bright lights and grand exploits – the birth of a star.

Despair is a reality with which me must contend, and to contend with it at all and struggle against it is admirable.

Let the pavilion fall!

Fate/Extra LAST ENCORE’s Grand Journal of Despair Despair is a reality with which we must contend.

#Fate #Fate/Extra #I can&039;t believe I&039;m actually writing about Fate #LAST ENCORE #Reflection

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oh-my-otome · 7 years

Text

Let’s explore!: Nobuyuki

Humans have more than six senses, but humor me for a second, corner-buddy.

You know your “sixth” sense, that little nagging feeling like there’s more to a situation or a person than meets the eye?

The one that’s all ‘there’s got to be something else going on with Nobuyuki, and even if there isn’t, I will ride that ikemen all the way into the sunset?’

That sense.

Well congrats, you’re right. He’s yandere AF!

If you’ve been observant, you’ll know that he’s not the only yandere in the game.

Joining the likes of Kenshin, and Masamune, he’s in good company when it comes to sharing some of the SLBP characters’ more manipulative and possessive tendencies.

However, Nobuyuki outclasses those two on ambition alone, as he coerces you into marrying him at the end of his event.

So now that you’ve become Lady Sanada, let’s take a look at his Draughts of Starlight epilogue!

*Side note

Nobuyuki does in fact get you drunk on purpose in order to facilitate you thinking, incorrectly, that you’ve not only slept with him the night before, but that you may also be pregnant, all so he can marry you.

The tone of this epilogue is in no way the same as Ieyasu’s, which I covered here. I had gotten questions about Nobuyuki’s event route and epilogue, so I hope this helps. Not everyone likes yanderes, some people appreciate a heads up, others are just curious. Whatever it is, I hope you find this review helpful.

We open with Nobuyuki inspiring the Power Puff Girls as he tells us the ingredients needed for the perfect bride:

Sugar, spice, and duct tape

He flashes back to when you declared that you’re not looking to be saved by anyone. Instead, you want to save your family with your own strength.

You didn’t realize it at the time, but you flipped tf out of his switch.

In fact, you’re now elevated to the highest category of mate, in his eyes, surpassing every eligible match he’s had so far, in all areas but one:

But Nobuyuki is willing to overlook your lowborn peasant upbringing, in order to make you his.

Remember this scene, after Yahiko tells you that he heard a rumor that Nobuyuki was skipping town this evening?:

You ask him what he said, but Nobuyuki brushes off your question with a careful sidestep.

Turns out, he was evaluating just how quickly you’d come running to him, after his kicked puppy act, when you rejected his offer of marriage and he walked out of the restaurant, some days before.

The origin of the rumor was Nobuyuki himself:

Just a regular evening of talking to oneself and burning documents, as one does. You know, the yooj.

Nobuyuki, probably: “And by ‘metaphorically speaking,’ I mean ‘bitch, you thought!’”:

The magistrate had better run like Sonic.

Man Bun-san Nobuyuki’s father is confused when his son comes back to the castle with an unknown bride in tow:

Yandere-kun says that it takes awhile to get from Kyoto to his home. A journey of several days. In all this time, not once has he said “hey, you know what we didn’t do? Fuck!”

The whole epilogue you’re never told the truth about anything. In fact, you barely speak. While all four epilogues are in the suitor’s pov, you hardly have any lines in Nobuyuki’s. And you’re dissatisfied for almost all of it.

But anyyoumighthavebeenbetteroffwiththemagistrate, you blush upon being complimented, which prompts Yukimura to become twitterpated:

Yukimura had better watch his ass! Nobuyuki seems like the type to grab the nearest bible-toting Portuguese missionary just to make them read from Genesis 4.

Saizo, meanwhile, tries to subtly clue Yukkin in to the fact that his brother will murderlate him good if he doesn’t stop staring lustfully at his bride:

He knows what’s up! he’s probably helped Nobuyandere hide a few bodies

Let’s stop here and discuss both Sanada bros, really quickly.

Nobuyuki is clearly all the way into yandere territory, but he’s not the only one that has some issues. You’ve got two different children, of two different ages, who have very obviously been brought up to believe certain things.

That doesn’t mean that it’s not their fault that they behave in a particular way, but there is clearly a common denominator:

Both Sanada brothers reveal that the way they view the world, and the way they view women in particular, comes from one source: their father.

Although we learn that Yukimura’s views on women come from his own internalized feelings of being the “cause” of his mother’s death, we know that he knows that he actually had nothing to do with her death at all.

But where did he hear about it? His father, who lets he go right on believing it even into adulthood.

Nobuyuki is looking for a woman with a particular set of skills in order to be his bride. Where did he hear that from? His father.

Yukimura himself won’t take “no” for an answer, when he absolutely insists, for much of his route, that you marry him for you own good. Certainly, there is a solution to you not being outed as a spy to the Takeda: go home.

Especially since you were never a spy in the first place!

Yukimura insisting that marrying you was the “only way” could have been dealt with like an ephemeral Vegas wedding. Marry you and divorce you almost immediately, much like Nobunaga did, and return you to your home.

Instead, both Sanada brothers are intent on keeping your around and lineage is the core reasoning for both of them: Nobuyuki to carry on the bloodline, and Yukimura to uphold the standard of the Sanada clan-- which never goes back on its word.

And where did they learn all of this from? Their father.

Throughout the epilogue, we see Jinpachi, one of the Sanada Ten Braves. Nobuyuki gives him varies orders relating to you.

For instance, we learn that he is the one who was tasked with keeping an eye on you, to prevent you from leaving:

Throughout the event story and in the epilogue as well, Nobuyuki is overly concerned with you escaping his grasp somehow.

He makes several trips to the magistrate to keep him at bay so that you don’t feel pressured and run off with him. He has Jinpachi lurking in the background watching you daily, he purposefully spreads rumors so that you will come looking for him, and he has Jinpachi shadow you again after you become his bride so that you don’t try to go back to Kyoto unnoticed.

In the midst of him doing these over-the-top things, Nobuyuki is concerned about something:

See, he’s fallen into the same trap like Nobunaga and Ieyasu: unwanted gifts. If you’ve read Toshiie’s route, you’ve probably come the Omiai diary entry, narrated by Yukimura, of all derps, that talks about how those who go to war don’t have time to go out and meet women.

It’s no wonder that they don’t really know how to act. You’re not the type to be impressed by exquisite kimono and fancy restaurants right off the bat, like what has clearly been suggested to them by others.

And what’s the first thing Nobuyuki does to curry favor?:

Genius!

Spotting you out in the garden, he stealthily guides you into revealing your interests by surreptitiously playing on your roles as the older siblings, getting you to drop your guard.

You tell him about how you used to argue with Yahiko about what to put on the menu, and mention that burdock roots are coming into season:

Just run.

Later that evening, Nobuyuki calls Jinpachi again, and asks him to gather 100 burdock roots or else face Frieza’s wrath. Or something:

See, while Nobuyuki has no intention of ever letting you leave, he does want to take care of you. For a regular person, that would make no sense-- if he cared about you, he wouldn’t want to keep you against your will, but to a yandere they are one in the same.

*important side note: if you find yourself in a situation like that in real life, lace tf out of your track shoes and get the hell out of there! No, it will not get better.

It is precisely because he is a yandere that Nobuyuki comes to this erroneous conclusion:

Here, the story got on my nerves a little bit:

You have one note. You love cooking and seeing people’s reactions to your food. Girl, broaden your horizons! Do something else-- anything else for once!

You don’t know that he’s thinking this, but you inadvertently confirm his crazy suspicion that you “love cooking better than anything else,” by predictably enthusing about some plants and spices, thereby solidifying that his assumptions about you are correct when they’re not!

Not that it’s your fault, since you can’t have known, but it does give us some insight into how Nobuyuki thinks, which is abnormal:

We end with Nobuyuki feeling very pleased with himself, and you still being non-the-wise that you’ve been had:

Over all, I didn’t think it was bad. Like Mitsunari and Ieyasu’s epilogues, I expected some humor, but there’s really none to be had.

At first glance, it appears that Saizo is making a joke at Yukimura’s expense, but when you look at it again, Saizo is actually warning his friend, because he cares about him, not to mess with his brother’s woman.

From reading Yukimura’s route, I had already suspected Nobuyuki to have something else going on with his character, so I wasn’t at all surprised that he turned out to be a canon yandere. Particularly since he’s open before about not letting his woman get away from him.

#samurai love ballad party #sanada nobuyuki #sanada yukimura #sanada masayuki #sanada ten braves

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trazskil · 5 years

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Creatures of the Night

The Land Between Worlds Anthology: Issue #5

The following is an excerpt of the transcription from the lost diary of the crone known as Sirael. Found shortly after she assassinated Mast, the last of the Messar Priests, and the massacre at the Docks some thirty miles outside of Ichiké. The book itself was found next to her corpse in an acceptable condition (much of her blood had spilled onto its pages). The ink, however, was found miraculously impeccable.

The diary itself was then placed carefully into a burlap sack (as to not touch the accursed blood, as even when dry can make one’s skin itch) and carried to an undisclosed location in Chalice to be purged of the poisonous red substance. Thanks to many brave souls we now know about many creatures of the night, an advantage we did not have before and have been using since to rid the world of such beings known as shapeshifters, wendigos, crones, and other like abominations.

Make no mistake, the crone who originally wrote the words you are about to read makes it seem as though we—humans and elves that is—are in the wrong. I find it my duty to inform you that Sirael is more than incorrect in this assumption. As a studied historian, I can assure you I know what I am talking about.

Notes are written in brackets by the mysterious man of few words known as Cedar. (That is all he allowed me to write about him here).

Enjoy,

-Professor D. D. Highfork

Telling, 33rd of Jin, 734 O.T.B. [O.T.B. means “Of The Barriers.” Some would argue it means something crude, but I can assure you it does not.]

Killing the priest was easier than I had anticipated. Not that getting into the chapel was difficult, nor was paying the boy to take all of his holy acid and dump it into the stream. I did more than half expect him to be carrying some sort of dagger—or at least a shiv—coated in holy acid. I was counting on it, in fact, so you can imagine my face as I strolled easily out of the chapel, leaving the poor bastard to choke.

Now, I’m off to the small town known as the Docks. One more errand I need to run before I make the journey back to Stregge. At least this time it’s an errand for my sisters and me. Not that I mind doing Dozii’s bidding, but I certainly cannot take his mundane orders all the time. [Dozii is one of the new gods known as the god of death, decay, destruction, etc. here in the Land Between Worlds. She has many names, however, and I do not just mean variations like; Doz, Doz’ll, Dozirii, Do, Doxill’m, etc. Her other names are too horrid to mention here, even in written text. Thus I refrain from doing so.] So simple all the time. “Kill this person.” “Kill that person.” “Make sure no one sees you and your target knows who it’s coming from.” “This time, simply leave a note on the wall, painted in their daughter’s blood. They’ll back off.”

I have one word for you. Monotonous! Of course, it’s important work, but there’s no passion in it. No fun!

At least it’s almost over now, my master’s work, that is. Just one more task before it’s ready, but before we get on that, it’s off to the Docks. One little town has been a little too rude to our friends in the dark. Not to mention small towns always have the most bored young people, perfect for recruiting.

Anyway, I’m getting off topic, and the sun will be up soon. Time for bed. Can’t be caught skulking around in the human’s and elves’ precious daylight! How I miss it though. The sun rejuvenating my skin would turn me back into the young, perky woman I was when I first started my life as a crone. But instead, I wear this saggy bag of bones. At least I have a Knockaround for such occasions that I do need to show myself in the daylight. Otherwise, it would look extremely odd shedding my saggy human-like skin and changing it for beautiful, soft baby-like skin.

Tremm, 34th of Jin, 734 O.T.B.

I passed a wraith this evening. It’s been a while since I’ve seen one, but this far out in the country I guess I shouldn’t have been so surprised. We glanced at each other and went our separate ways. The wraith seemed to be having a splendid time waiting for someone to haunt, so I didn’t interrupt and continued my way toward the Docks. I’ll be there within an hour of nightfall. Perfect amount of time to set up and prepare.

Leg, 1st of Minge, 734 O.T.B.

Just before I began the night’s plans, I knew that I would need to change my appearance to something a little less… disgusting. I pulled out my Knockaround and muttered a little something into it. In seven seconds I transformed into a beautiful, pale-skinned, raven-haired, woman. My lips were redder than any rose and my cheeks were flushed and full. I was ready.

It wasn’t hard finding the youth. Many snuck out to play hide and seek or go for a romp in the woods. Some were apprehensive, at first, meeting a stranger in the woods is hard to trust right off. When they heard what I had to offer, however, they could not refuse.

“Magic?” they all asked, a light burning in their eyes. “Real magic?”

In the seven total, there were three that stood out the most. Bronny was apprehensive and untrusting as a stray cat in Chalice. He didn’t want anything to do with, as he put it, “witchy things.” Good thing his friends were there. Nothing like good ol’ fashioned peer pressure.

But once they got into it, Bronny didn’t hesitate and he showed his true colors. He even promised to bring his little brother sometime. I told him not yet and that they would need to wait until the time was right and if all went well, great things would happen to them.

Kappie is my favorite. So bright and full of life. Hardly had to tell her what she needed to do. It was as if she was meant to be a crone. Too bad she probably won’t make it. Jemmy on the other hand, now she has the right stuff! Just as bright as Kappie, but ruthless and willing to do whatever it takes. The others, well, their names aren’t exactly worth mentioning. They’re more like pawns that will play exactly as I tell them. No need to push or pull. They’ll simply do.

Now onto how I lured them in…

It was late, well past midnight, the moon was nearly full and I had a full fire going. Over it, I hung my traveling cauldron and began to brew. Nothing sinister, just some herbs, spices, and rabbit meat that I had acquired earlier. I’m sure it smelled delicious because it drew Jemmy right to me. I told her a quick bit of folklore and shared my fire with her. She was so intrigued and her smile was so wide anyone could have seen it for miles.

I asked her if she had any friends that might like to hear similar stories and have dinner around the fire with me. She nodded and bolted off into the night, returning minutes later with the entire slew of them. Oooh, I get giddy just thinking about it!

I told them a few stories and had them eat all my stew and shared the warmth of my fire. Not that I would have wanted any of the food. Horrid stuff, cooked meat is. I’d much rather it raw, not alive, but raw. With blood dripping down my chin and neck. Yummy!

Once they were satisfied, heads filled with fantasy [When she says fantasy, she refers to truth. There is often very little difference between the two.] and bellies full with food, I sent them off and invited them back tomorrow night. If all goes well, which it should—nothing could go as horribly as Glosvee a few years ago. What a catastrophe that was. [If you feel you must know what she refers to here, see Horrid Happenstances at Home by Berry Soule; pp. 254. The entry entitled Glosvee: A Town of Wretches will tell you everything you think you want to know.]

Dozii, 2nd of Minge, 734 O.T.B.

I’ve gained their trust.

I showed them a bit of Tripping, what they call “magic” and they were all very impressed. [What is known as “Tripping” is a type of magic. I do not understand why she refuses to call it as such as it is just as much magic as a Knockaround is.] Even Bronny wants to learn something. So I taught them all… something. A Sparks Tripping. Nothing advanced, by any means, but it will definitely get the snowball rolling. Maybe even get some of them into trouble with the townsfolk. It will be interesting to see who comes back tomorrow night.

I made sure each of them knew to not use the “magic” in the day time. Forbade it, in fact, but I know children and they will disobey. They will want to know why they shouldn’t use it in the day time and they will find out one way or another.

I explained what they could use the sparks for; lighting a fire, creating a distraction, etc. and warned them once again to not get caught by anyone, or else there would be trouble. We will see who is clever tomorrow, though. We will see who is clever and around my fire once more and we will see who is dead.

Gathering, 3rd of Minge, 734 O.T.B.

Only two were caught yesterday. Luckily not my favorite. But now there were only Jemmy, Bronny, and Kappie and two others whose names I have not bothered to learn. May they be caught quickly, so I have no need to worry about them. Bronny told me that their parents found them using the sparks. One was beaten to death and the other was drowned as an example to the rest of them.

This bit of knowledge made me extra curious as to why Bronny was even still there. Jemmy and Kappie I understood. But Bronny? What was a skittish boy doing here with someone who is obviously a witch? Oh well, he’ll be gone soon and it won’t be my problem.

The other two wanted to leave and never come back to my fire and I told them that it was their choice, but once I explained that the knowledge they knew was with them forever, they decided to stay. No sense in having only one piece of the puzzle…

So tonight I taught them a little more. I asked them what each of them wanted to be able to do. If they could possess any one power, what would it be? Each one said something different, Bronny wanted to learn how to become invisible, so I taught him a Shadow Tripping. Kappie learned to further her pyromancy, so I showed her a Flame Tripping. The other two were boring and wanted as much candy as they could eat. But Jemmy? Jemmy wanted to learn how to bend people to her will.

She was a little nervous about asking it of me and she did so in private so that none of her friends might hear what she had to say. But I taught them each what they wanted. One by one, I took them deep into the forest where we practiced for hours and hours and when the sun was beginning to rise, I sent them all home. No need for them to see my haggard old self. Besides, I needed to give the Knockaround a rest, mostly for my own sake.

[For those of you who are unfamiliar with Knockarounds; they are a type of amulet that almost anyone can use to transform one’s visage into something completely different, including clothing and gender. It takes immense amounts of concentration and the perfect knowledge of a dead language, the name of which, I cannot write here. Think of it as an entire wardrobe of disguises that weighs half a pound and is worth more than you want to pay. Trust me, even if you could afford to buy one of these relics, you wouldn’t want one. They attract the worst kind of attention from the worst kind of company.]

I told them not to return tomorrow night as I will need to rest. And I do. Which means I will not be writing tomorrow for Sierra, 4th of Minge, 734 O.T.B. Great things are coming.

Creddling, 5th of Minge, 734 O.T.B. (Day)

It’s been a while since I’ve walked around in daylight. If it wasn’t for my Knockaround, I don’t think it would be possible. Perhaps with a powerful bit of Tripping, but I have far better things to spend my energy on as it is.

The town known as the Docks goes without much description, but I’ll go into it a little anyway, for prosperity and all that.

The Docks is a one road town that has all its buildings on either side. Cottages, a smith’s forge, an abandoned church which appears to have been turned into a sort of townhouse. And at the end of it all, the docks for fishing craft and the occasional cargo import and export across the lake. [In case you don’t have a map handy or have never seen a map of the Land Between Worlds, the lake she is referring to here is Death’s Lake.]

A few people noticed me as I walked through their town, but hardly anyone said anything unless I approached them at their work. Then it was the usual greetings, but every so often there would be a, “Never seen you before.” or “Long way from home?” or “Piss off! I ain’t got time for strangers mucking about my business.” No need to take offense at this, so I kept going about my day. Waiting for something to happen.

It eventually did a couple of hours after midday. I was sitting at the docks, dangling my feet in the cool freshwater when a large group of people was causing quite the commotion. They made their way over to where I was sitting and—not wanting to get in the way—I slid to the back of the crowd to watch what I had been waiting for.

Two children were produced from the crowd, the same two who wanted endless amounts of sweets. They were terrified as the people whooped and hollered for testing. They threw the boy in first, his ankles bound together with a chord, the slack of which was tied to many stones he made a lame splash and the crowd waited.

They waited, and waited, and waited some more. Then, after about five minutes, they pulled the corpse out of the water and was declared not a witch. Next, was the girls turn because surely they must have gotten the sweets from somewhere. And if he wasn’t the witch, then surely she was!

At that moment, I looked around me to make sure no one was watching and muttered a little something into my Knockaround and changed into the woman the girl knew from the campfire in the forest. We locked eyes and I smiled at her, but before she was able to say anything from her screams of terror, she too was thrown into the water with the same stones anchored to her feet. Another five minutes later they brought her up and pronounced her lifeless body, “Not a witch.”

But at least they were sure now. Even if they were not sure where the sweets came from. Not to worry though, they are in for quite the surprise. I’m sure of it.

Creddling, 5th of Minge, 734 O.T.B. (Night)

Bronny, Kappie, and Jemmy were all late tonight. But it was understandable. Four children in two days suspected, arrested, tried, and killed for witchcraft wasn’t unheard of, but it certainly made for a jumpy town. Once they were all settled in around the campfire, I asked them what they wanted to learn tonight. Bronny was the first to speak up.

“I think I speak for everyone when I say there’s nothing else we want from you, witch. You may think no one saw you at the docks today, but I did. I saw you change and watch as Milly and Jared drowned. You stood there and did nothing! You could have helped, but you did nothing!”

“Using your new skill, I see,” I nodded approvingly. “You impress me, Bronny. I honestly didn’t think too much of you. Tell me, do you still want to bring me your little brother? That would really speed things—”

“Shut up!” Kappie snapped, cutting me off.

I looked at her, incredulous. “Or what?”

“Nothing,” Kappie retracted. “But we are leaving. All of us. Go poison some other town, crone. C’mon, Bronny, and Jemmy.”

She turned to leave and Bronny followed, but Jemmy did not. Jemmy stayed seated staring into the fire, casually warming her fingers by it. It took a few steps, but Kappie finally realized her friend wasn’t at her side and she turned to look at her, but when Jemmy didn’t even flinch, Kappie stamped her foot in the soft dirt, making an underwhelming thud and stormed off with Bronny.

Once we were alone, I knelt across from her and waited for her to speak. We sat for hours, listening to the wood crackle as the fire died down and rose again when I stacked more logs onto it. Eventually, she spoke.

“I made them leave, you know.”

I nodded. “I am aware, and very impressed. Your skills have increased greatly in a day.”

Jemmy nodded.

“Are you ready for more?”

She nodded again, her eyes glued to the waving embers at the bottom of the fire.

“How much more?” I asked, knowing full well what she would say.

“All of it…” she said. I detected no reluctance, no apprehension in her voice. It was cold and calculated. It was impossible for her to know exactly what she would have to do, but she knew it would not be pleasant and she was right.

[It’s important to note here, I think, that the training each one of these children went through was not as easy as she made it seem. Sirael glossed over the details because she knew better than to write down these things. They are a sort of “trade secret” amongst the Sisterhood of Crones and if anyone were to have stumbled upon her diary—which someone obviously did—those secrets would be out. Which is also why she cut off the day above right then and there. Suffice it to say, what Jemmy went through was painful, horrible, and above all, damning to the soul… or to anyone else that has or will go through the same trial. Dozii is not one to make deals with.]

Wicker and Idle, 6th and 7th of Minge, 734 O.T.B.

It’s been a few days, but things have been busy. So I’m going to cram as little about what happened on Wicker and Idle into a paragraph each then go to bed.

Wicker: Once Jemmy made the deal, she became much easier to train. Just like most crones, she was able to pick up on any concept of using different Trippings and within an hour have something close to mastery over it. Some would consider that cheating, however, we know the brutality of what happens during the deal or how common it is for one to die in the process, it is a fair trade.

Idle: By the end of the night, Jemmy was ready to become a crone. Well, almost… she still needed to be accepted into the sisterhood back at Stregge, as well as make the deal. Her knowledge of Trippings is impressive, though lacking. But, she is ready. There was only one more test before I could take her back to Stregge, she needed to bring me the traitors’ heads. Or rather, Bronny’s and Kappie’s heads. I told her this and she understood. In fact, she did one better and brought them back to me alive before the sunrise and did the deed right then and there. Tomorrow night, we’ll head back to Stregge and finish what we started.

Nitel, 8th of Minge, 734 O.T.B.

Sisters, if you are reading this, I am sorry. In truth, I have failed you. Not entirely, but know that there is not much more that I can do here at the Docks.

Allow me to elaborate…

When Jemmy went back to her home that dawn to pack a few things for the journey back to you, I felt something was wrong. Knowing to never distrust my stomach, I used some Tripping to get my adrenaline pumping, allowing myself to stay awake. Then, I muttered a little something into my Knockaround to change my appearance. I know what you’re thinking. I’ve used it too many times in one spot, but I had to. Something was going to happen to Jemmy and I needed to be discrete.

I bolted into the small town and as I got closer, I heard the angry voices of a crowd. Mixed in were the wails of babes and children crying, doing their best to find their mothers and in the middle of it all was Jemmy. She had been tied up and strung to the back of a horse which pulled her on the ground. I wasn’t sure how they got to her this way, she had been trained by myself, after all, and should have been able to defend herself without a problem. I suspect that they got behind her and waited for the right moment. It’s happened even to the best of us.

I used a Blink Tripping and appeared on one of the roofs and hid behind the chimney to watched as they took my girl and dragged her to the docks as her muffled screams were drowned by the shouts and yells of the crowd. Tears of fear streamed down her face and soaked the gag they put in her mouth.

I saw her eyes darting every which way and eventually mine met hers and she recognized me. Even through the charm of my Knockaround! Such a bright girl. I nodded to her, reassuring her that everything would be alright and she took some sniffled breaths and waited.

They were getting ready to drown her now, bringing large stones to the docks and knotting them to her bonds. They lifted her up, heaving her to the water and tears began to stream down Jemmy’s cheeks again. I used Sharp Tripping and the tight chords holding her down released from her arms and legs. The stones dropped and a rather large one managed to smash one of the men’s feet, causing him to let go of Jemmy, leaving the rest to struggle and fail to hold her up.

Jemmy fell into the water but was back up in a flash with no gag on. She rose from the lake, dripping and soaked as she floated up then hovered there. You see, sisters? I taught her well in Trippings.

The overcast sky began to sprinkle rain but quickly turned into a downpour and slowly each of the townspeople turned their heads to see their Jemmy. The little girl they had known all their lives and watch as she grew into a beautiful young woman, now hovered above them in dripping wet clothing, her hair hung over eyes that glared at the world she once loved. It must have been terrifying to the humans. To me, it was glorious.

I watched her mouth move and one of the houses, perhaps it was even her own, burst into flame! Despite the enormous drops of pounding rain, it did not cease in any way. In fact, it soon spread to its neighboring houses. Then she did the same to the other side of the one road town. I hopped down into a crowd of people running in every direction imaginable and made my way to Jemmy.

She looked down at me and I held my hand out to her. She began to float downward and reached out her own hand they almost touched when the noise of something terrible infiltrated our ears. The groan was loud and long and very familiar to me, but not to Jemmy. I had not the time to teach her in the bestiary yet, not that I was permitted to do so anyway.

Her head jerked up and looked down the hellish road to see a fifteen-foot tall figure with the head of a buck’s skull. Its antlers protruded out past the length of a full grown man’s height and its legs appeared to be backward, but when taking a closer look, I’m sure she saw that they were more like a deer’s legs. You know, sisters, just as well as I do what we were looking at.

A wendigo had caught my scent via my Knockaround and hunted me to the Docks. I knew the dangers and risks of using the tool. I just never expected to be hunted so soon and much, much less in the day time. It knew better than to show itself then, but there it was, a creature of the night in the light of day.

My best guess to why it was able to show itself then was because of the heavy rain. I cursed and brought Jemmy the rest of the way down onto the old and rough hardwood. I looked her in the eyes and told her where she needed to go to find you and told her to run. That I would handle the beast. She was reluctant but did as she was told and bolted.

The wendigo bellowed its roar, mixed somewhere between a human voice and a deer call a hunter might use to attract his prey. The sound reverberated off the buildings that still stood and punched me hard in the chest—causing me to fly backward! I used the Hover and Stop Trippings and froze in mid-air. By the time I had my bearings, however, the beast was already at the docks. Its legs must have carried it in less than a second. Perhaps just as fast as a Blink Tripping, faster even!

I have never seen one this big, sisters, and I hope none of you have to either. I hope that not one of you ever has to face this creature….

Using a variety of Blink Trippings and Adrenaline Trippings, I was able to escape the beast, even if momentarily. I am taking the time to write this last bit, so you know what happened and how it happened.

The wendigo has my scent now and it is not going to let me go. But I also knew that I could not lead it back to you. We have hunted wendigos and other creatures in the past, sisters, but we were always together and it was never like this. I do not think that it could end any other way and I leave this with you so that in some way you may find solace in my passing. I hope that Jemmy finds her way to you, sisters and if she does, accept her readily and with open arms. She is ready, she is right.

Goodbye.

-Sirael

A group of soldiers found Sirael’s body—or rather what was left of it—just a day later on Telling, 9th of Minge, 734 O.T.B. The Crone’s diary was found in the mix of tattered clothes and ripped strips of flesh left over. The diary was brought from there to Chalice where I translated it and sent it off to be printed and sold. Later, Cedar approached me and let me know that he could shed some insight on the subject of the magic known as Tripping as well as a few other notes. Naturally, I accepted. Anything to have the upper hand on some of the creatures of the night.

As you may have gathered, Cedar did not deliver as I had hoped, but the insights were interesting; thus, I had the book reprinted and redistributed. You may find copies of the entire diary with Cedar’s annotations right here at the University of Chalice where I teach, as well as select book shops in these cities; Ø, Tahgattah, Tü, and Yamilla.

Sincerely,

-Professor D. D. Highfork

#fantasy fiction creativewriting writer author blogger worldbuilding

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stopkingobama · 7 years

Text

Is the Fed deadly, lifesaving, or just useless?

Image: CC0

To read (and agree with) Danielle DiMartino Booth’s Fed Up is to believe that the Fed centrally plans nearly every economic outcome, and that the problem with our central bank today isn’t its intervention in the economy as much as those in its employ are the wrong people to intervene in the natural workings of the marketplace. Advertised as yet another anti-Fed book, the real goal of the book is to make you believe it is the most indispensable institution in government today.

If we ignore Booth’s weak economic analysis, her overstating of the Fed’s power by a mile, and her awe-inspiring self-regard whereby she regularly sees into the future in ways that would humble the world’s greatest investors, we can’t ignore that she learned all the wrong lessons from her time as a researcher at the Dallas Fed. Booth thinks the Fed is necessary, but only if people like her are running it.

A scary thought indeed.

“Damn Ron Paul,” writes Booth. “The congressman’s 2009 book End the Fed called the bank corrupt and unconstitutional and urged its abolition. Though Paul made some good points, America is not a banana republic. It needs a strong and independent central bank.”

She speaks as a former researcher at the Dallas Fed, and Fed Up is her Cliff’s Notes history of the central bank, an economic argument in between, and a memoir of her time on both Wall Street and in the bank’s employ.

Booth doesn’t succeed in making a case that the Fed is necessary. Precisely because we’re not a banana republic, we don’t need a central bank acting as lender of last resort to insolvent banks (solvent ones don’t need the Fed), regulator of the banking system (if Fed officials could reliably detect future trouble spots they wouldn’t work at the central bank), or as planner of an overnight borrowing rate that is a price like any other.

Though I’ve argued that the belief that the Fed is the source of myriad U.S. economic ills doesn’t stand up to basic scrutiny, neither does Booth’s argument that its existence is good for the economy, or that it’s necessary.

The Fed Is Useless

Much more than the Fed’s critics and supporters would like us to believe, the Fed quite simply isn’t that relevant. It deals with massively overregulated and antiquated banks that represent a small – and declining (15%) – percentage of total credit in the U.S. economy, not to mention that banks are easily the least dynamic source of credit for what is the most dynamic economy in the world.

As for the popular notion that the Fed creates credit, let’s be serious. The pursuit of credit isn’t the pursuit of dollars created by the Fed as much as it’s the pursuit of real resources like trucks, tractors, computers, desks, chairs, buildings, labor, etc. The Fed can’t create, increase, or shrink what borrowers of dollars are in need of as much as it can distort the direction of credit.

Booth thinks that the Fed is “the most important, powerful institution in the world,” but spends much of the book pointing to the incompetence of the economists in the middle and at the top of the central bank. Ok, but incompetence combined with world-leading power would logically signal a “banana republic” U.S. economy, as opposed to the world’s largest. If the Fed mattered and were as powerful as Booth presumes, the U.S. economy wouldn’t matter. But it does.

Booth’s story succeeds insofar as she provides nice tidbits of information throughout, but it’s overly self-regarding as a memoir, weak as a document meant to provide economic analysis, and then it makes grand statements throughout that are never proven. A book that is at times entertaining is unlikely to change the central-banking discussion one way or the other.

Economic Growth Does Not Cause Inflation

This analysis comes from a writer who wholeheartedly agrees with Booth that the Fed’s economists are impressive in their witlessness. We’re talking about economists who believe, despite voluminous evidence, that economic growth causes inflation. Booth references former British chancellor of the exchequer Geoffrey Howe’s brilliant assertion that an economist is a “man who knows 364 ways of making love but doesn’t know any women” to make her point that the economists in the Fed’s employ have lots of theories; theories bereft of practical reality.

She adds that Fed economists aren’t ever fired. So true. The Fed is a full employment act for insight-bereft individuals with PhDs next to their name, but that’s where she should stop. The problem is that Booth believes the Fed would make sense were its staffers more in touch with reality (presumably like her), if they’d ever worked in the private sector (as she has), if they ever watched CNBC (as she does with great regularity), and if copies of the Financial Times didn’t sit unread inside the walls of the central bank.

Again, she’s right about the incompetence at the Fed, but her belief that the right people could make the Fed useful amounts to a fatal conceit that doesn’t stand up to scrutiny any more than Paul’s view that the Fed is behind much of what weakens the U.S. economically. Why would anyone take seriously that which channels its influence through that which is dying (the U.S. banking system)? Booth has no answer, but in fairness to her, there’s no book and little media attention if she acknowledges that the Fed’s always overstated importance is in rapid decline.

As mentioned previously, Booth doesn’t lack in the self-regard department. Fed Up, while ostensibly a short story about America’s central bank in the 21st century, is very much Booth’s personal story. And as the author of her own story, Booth manages to always position herself on the right side of history; the seer extraordinaire whose vision and common sense causes her to see ‘around the corner’ in ways that would make her the envy of the world’s most skilled investors.

Why Is She Always Right?

While working on Wall Street from the late 90s to the early part of the 2000s, when excitement about internet stocks reached its peak, Booth writes that “I didn’t encourage my clients to ride the NASDAQ wave and never steered them into stuff that would have torpedoed their assets.” When presented with the option to purchase “unregulated” (Booth attacks the idea of deregulation as unwise throughout the book) CDOs for clients in January of 2001, the always ahead of the curve Booth, able to see the difference between “money good” and lousy debt security tranches within the CDOs, asked “Who would buy this crap?”

After leaving Wall Street for the Dallas Morning News, Booth reports that then Dallas Fed President Richard Fisher, seemingly wowed by her reporting, called to tell her “You should be writing for the Wall Street Journal. You could be a Jon Hilsenrath or Greg Ip.” About the rush into housing in the 2000s, the always future-seeing Booth notes that “by August 2003, I was truly alarmed.” Fast forward to 2006, Booth references “two back-to-back columns I wrote in March 2006 about escalating systemic risk make it appear that I had psychic powers.”

With the Dallas Fed’s research head Harvey Rosenblum plainly blown away by Booth’s vision, her logical next step would be to join the Fed itself. As Booth describes it, Rosenblum “was reading my stories and saying, ‘My God, what if she’s right?’” Of course, Booth, ever eager to save a world blind to what was obvious to her, decided to “serve my country” by taking a job at the Fed’s Dallas branch in research.

And as readers can probably imagine, her departure from the Dallas Morning News naturally led to an “avalanche of e-mails from readers” praising her vision that “was humbling.” Even a former critic, the “Linoleum Lady,” had to admit that Booth was right about housing, but figure the world beyond Dallas awaited her insights since she, quite unlike anyone at the Fed (and most investors apparently, too), could see that “the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression was about to break over their heads…”

She Was Not Alone

About all this, no doubt Booth could produce the columns and diary entries revealing her uneasiness. But then she was hardly alone in the 2000s. Most any investor or columnist could point to all manner of client letters and opinion pieces (including this writer) indicating something amiss; the difference is that most don’t position themselves as seers in the way that Booth does. The bigger problem is that her economic analysis doesn’t stand up to what she claims to have known before those around her.

Figure that the Great Depression, despite the protests of Ben Bernanke and Booth (Booth writes of the Fed’s “mishandling of that tragic period”), was not financial. Lest we forget, the Fed’s rather slim mandate as of the 1930s was as lender of last resort to solvent banks with quality assets in need of near-term cash. The problem is that solvent banks in the 30s were just that.

If the Fed had acted in support of insolvent banks, it would have caused a greater “financial crisis” for the central bank by propping up what should have logically been allowed to fail. The banking system is weaker in modern times precisely because the Fed’s mandate changed to reflect the truth that solvent banks don’t need the Fed. It exists to aid those institutions that market lenders have properly left for dead.

The Fed’s non-action in the 30s was correct. The Fed couldn’t have boosted “money supply” in weakened areas even on its very best day. Money, and the resources exchangeable for money, always migrates to where there’s productivity and migrates away from where productivity is undetectable. No amount of Fed meddling can change that. Booth is peddling a commonly accepted, but logically false history about the Fed during the Great Depression.

Failure Is a Feature

Booth’s implicit assertion that the eventual failure of mortgage loans and banks caused a crisis is misguided. Failure is a feature of any capitalist system, not a bug. This goes for financial institutions as well. Despite what economists would like us to believe, banks and investment banks are hardly unique or sacred. They can fail and should be allowed to fail with the health of both sectors very much in mind.

A lack of failure, on the other hand, would be real economic “crisis” as it would signal horrid stagnation. Absent the allowance of errors that cause poor stewards of limited resources to be relieved of their ability to misuse them, life would be marked by unrelenting drudgery. Failure is as essential to progress as success is, simply because the former ensures that misallocated capital will be redirected in short order to a higher use.

Absent the intervention of central banks and governments in 2008 to blunt the impact of what was healthy, there quite simply is no crisis. The crises of the 30s and ’08 weren’t financial as much as they were a creation of government getting in the way of what was necessary for the U.S. economy to rebound.

Economies gain strength from periods of weakness, and the Great Depression, like the slow-growth aftermath of 2008, was a creation of government intervention. Recessions signal the boom on the way, but in both instances, legislators and central bankers (in ’08, not the 30s) wasted resources taken from the private sector to block the cleansing necessary for a raging rebound.

The problem is that Booth is convinced that bank failure is what caused 2008, as opposed to it being an effect of previous policy error. Her solution is more regulation. While she never supports her assertion midway through Fed Up that “shadow banking is what caused the financial crisis of 2008,” her vague and oft-stated solution is more government oversight. Seemingly lost on the author is that “shadow banking” is a logical effect of a financial and banking sector suffocated by the very regulation she deems wise.

Regulation Can’t Work

Booth wants to bring back a “modern-day version of the Glass-Steagall Act” given her view that regulators should “leave the gambling to the investment banks, and call it a day.” An empty proposal if there ever was one. If we ignore how much such a regulation would weaken U.S. banks forced to compete in a global economy with banks not shackled by what makes no sense, we can’t ignore that it wasn’t investment banking practices that caused banking’s troubles in the 2000s.

By her own admission, a rush of housing debt was the problem, but banks have always been a part of the housing loan market. Furthermore, and as banking history makes very clear, allegedly vanilla lending has time after time proven the industry’s Achilles Heel. Goodness, inside sources at the Fed have told me that the central bank has bailed out Citigroup alone five times in the last twenty-five years. The solution is more failure in a free marketplace, as opposed to symbolic moves like a modern Glass-Steagall that wouldn’t even be symbolic when we consider how it would suffocate banks already struggling to compete in a world of low margins.

Regarding the slow-growth rush into housing that preceded the eventual correction, Booth asserts that Alan Greenspan’s Fed “blew another bubble” with a low Fed funds rate that led to a housing boom. In Booth’s defense, her analysis is broadly shared by most in the economics commentariat despite it being easy to disprove.

What Caused the Boom?

Indeed, a read of Sebastian Mallaby’s mostly weak and misanalyzed biography of Greenspan reveals that interest rates from the Fed were a sideshow when it came to the 21st-century housing boom. Booth felt she was bringing unique knowledge to the Greenspan Fed about what it was doing, but as Mallaby makes clear, Greenspan had seen this housing boom movie before in the 1970s, and it had nothing to do with the Fed’s target rate meant to influence the cost of overnight lending.

Mallaby writes that when Greenspan returned from the Gerald Ford administration to his Townsend-Greenspan economic consultancy in 1977, employee Kathryn Eickhoff “had been telling clients that a hot housing market was driving consumer spending: people were taking out second mortgages on their homes and using the proceeds to remodel their kitchens or purchase new cars, turbocharging the economy.” So while Eickhoff’s belief that housing consumption could drive economic growth was as wrongheaded in the 1970s as it was in the 2000s, her research is yet another reminder that the Fed’s low-rate policies had little to do with the housing boom of more recent vintage. We know this because the Fed’s funds rate was soaring in the 70s.

Interesting about all this is that when initially told of what his employee had been reporting to clients, the empiricist in Greenspan grumbled that Eickhoff failed to “get the data” to prove her argument. Greenspan proceeded to gather up the numbers only to admit to Eickhoff that she “had absolutely no idea of the size of this phenomenon.” We’ve once again seen the housing froth movie of the 2000s before; albeit in the 1970s when the Fed was aggressively hiking rates.

Gilder’s Take

Indeed, further on in his re-telling of the late 70s that Greenspan plainly saw, Mallaby writes that despite the fact that “the Fed had just increased the short-term interest rate to 9 percent….mortgages were still easy to come by and house prices were booming.” Mallaby adds on the same page that “One decade earlier [in the 60s], new mortgage creation had seldom exceeded $15 billion per year. Now six times that quantity was normal.” Later on, Mallaby noted that “home prices had nearly tripled during the 1970s.”

The money quote regularly used by this reviewer to reveal conventional wisdom about the Fed and housing vitality as wanting comes care of George Gilder. Observing the 70s housing boom alongside a soaring Fed funds rate much as Greenspan did in his 1981 book Wealth and Poverty, Gilder wrote “What happened was that citizens speculated on their homes…Not only did their houses tend to rise in value about 20 percent faster than the price index, but with their small equity exposure they could gain higher percentage returns than all the but the most phenomenally lucky shareholders.”

The 70s reveal popular arguments about the Fed’s role in the slow-growth housing rush of the 2000s as wildly false. Not only does consumption of housing shrink economic growth (the latter the principal flaw in the Townsend-Greenspan thesis which said housing consumption was a stimulant), it soars for reasons unrelated to the central bank’s rate target. Getting into specifics, hard assets do well during periods of currency weakness. The U.S. Treasury devalued the dollar in both the 70s and 2000s. So while the Fed employed interest rate policies in the 2000s that were the exact opposite of how it operated in the 70s, the result was the same. The Fed was and is largely a sideshow when it comes to housing health (or lack thereof) despite what we’re frequently told.

Volcker Revisionism

All of which brings us to the dollar question. Historically inflation has been viewed as a devaluation of any currency; gold often used (or stable fiat currencies) as the objective measure of the currency’s decline. About this, it’s commonly believed that the Fed controls the dollar’s exchange rate. So while towards the book’s end Booth embraces the false notion that economic growth and rising incomes cause inflation (“You cannot force inflation higher if incomes aren’t rising”), earlier she properly alludes to it as a monetary, dollar concept. Booth writes that Paul Volcker is “widely regarded as one of the best Fed Chairman in history because he vanquished double-digit inflation (created by Burns [Fed Chairman Arthur]) during the 1980s.” The problem here is that history doesn’t support her admittedly popular contention. Indeed, as Burns’ diaries reveal rather plainly, he begged President Nixon and his top advisers to not sever the dollar’s link to gold; the latter an implicit devaluation that gave us the 1970s inflation wrongly associated with Burns.

Taking this further, Volcker took over at the Fed in 1979, only to begin a failed three-year monetarist experiment whereby an always inept Fed would presume to plan economic growth by virtue of it vainly trying to plan “money supply.” Volcker’s timing is instructive simply because the dollar price of gold sat at roughly $260 when he began his alleged “tight money” experiment only for the dollar to plummet; gold hitting a then all-time high of $875 in January of 1980.

More than Fed critics and supporters would ever like to admit, and beyond the fact that the dollar’s exchange value is not a Fed function, history is clear that currency devaluation, stability, or rising currency values are more than anything a political concept. Figure that the Fed opened its doors in 1913, and the dollar generally held its value until 1933 when FDR, against the protests of Fed Chairman Eugene Meyer, devalued the dollar from the 1/20th of a gold ounce to 1/33rd. Meyer resigned over FDR’s decision.

Nixon, as mentioned, devalued the dollar in 1971 despite the protests of Burns. Ronald Reagan ran on a strong dollar, and perhaps surprising to some, Bill Clinton’s Treasury was the most pro-dollar of any since the greenback was floated in ’71. The dollar sank in value in the 2000s (thus a housing boom that mirrored the one that took place in the weak-dollar 70s), but this didn’t reflect a change in Fed policy (Greenspan was still running the show) as much as the Bush administration made plain its preference for a weak dollar.

Debasing the Money

Nowadays Fed officials wrongly define inflation as too much growth, but if analyzed by its traditional definition of currency devaluation, the Fed’s inflation role since 1913 is greatly oversold. All that, plus there were substantial devaluations of the dollar in the 19th century despite the lack of a central bank. The dollar is once again a political concept, and the existence of a central bank is not required for it to be debased.

What about quantitative easing (QE) and a zero funds rate from the Fed? Booth takes the latter literally and suggests that in pushing the overnight borrowing rate down to zero, the Fed magically gave us “cheap money.” Supposedly this was especially great for “Wall Street” despite the fact that staffing in finance is still below 1990s levels; levels artificially higher today than they otherwise would be thanks to a surge in compliance officers within suffocated financial institutions.

Wall Street has historically prospered precisely because credit is never cheap in the real world. Booth fancies herself as in touch with reality, so the “cheap money” commentary signaled to this reviewer the excess influence of an editor eager to create an ‘us vs. them’ memoir. Again, in the real world credit is always difficult to attain.

In Hollywood, even the best movie producers have their requests for credit to make films turned down 90 percent of the time. In Silicon Valley credit is so expensive that start-up visionaries must give up a big portion of their business to venture capitalists in order to attain credit, only for them to give up even more of the business in the form of stock options to lure quality employees.

On Wall Street, investment bankers are paid well precisely because credit is so hard to find for even blue chip businesses. Goodness, even Apple, the most valuable company in the world, pays 3 percent to borrow. “Cheap money” is a fun concept, but it’s not real. This reviewer believes Booth intuitively knows the latter is true.

Is the Fed Fueling the Boom?

And perhaps unsurprisingly given her fairly conventional critique of the Fed, Booth promotes the popular notion that modern Fed policies “have fueled skyrocketing valuations across the full spectrum of asset classes.” Despite her correct analysis of a central bank populated by the inept, she asserts that monetary engineering by these same incompetents tricked the most sophisticated investors in the world (according to Booth, the common investor is out of the market thanks to the ‘little guy’ having been tricked too many times) into an “increasingly desperate search for yield.” Booth ultimately concludes that “As long as the Fed kept its QE machine up and running, the markets were pleased.” In Booth’s defense yet again, what she writes about the markets is what is regularly asserted. But is it true? A basic analysis says no.

According to Booth, thanks to quantitative easing “investors would party, under the assumption that the Fed had their backs.” Somehow a collection of witless economists channeling the Fed’s influence through anachronistic banks could stimulate an impressive, 200%+ rally? Let’s unpack this.

If what Booth writes is true, why is the Japanese stock market still half of what it was in the late 1980s despite at least eleven doses of QE by the Bank of Japan (BOJ) ever since? Booth might reply that low-interest rates made the U.S. rally inevitable, but Japan’s story stands in the way of what makes little sense in the first place. Figure that the BOJ was at zero for years and years, Japanese rates across the yield curve were much lower than they were in the U.S., but with no corresponding equity rally. Ok, but with rates on Treasuries and high-grade corporates so low, doesn’t logic dictate a rush into equities and a “desperate search for yield”?

It’s a nice theory, but if true then it’s also true that there would have been a correction in Treasuries and high-grade corporates to reflect a rotation out of low-yielding bonds and into stocks. But it never occurred; the major correction occurred years into the rally, and after the election of Donald Trump. But wasn’t the Fed printing trillions that had to find a home? There’s debate about the latter, but even if true, for $4 trillion to enter the stock market, $4 trillion must exit by definition. For every buyer there’s a seller, so for every QE optimistic buyer to express that optimism, a QE skeptic must be able to express an equal amount of pessimism.

But the main truth that Booth’s commonly stated argument ignores is that just as economies gain essential strength from periods of weakness when bad ideas, bad habits, bad investments and bad businesses are cleansed from the economy on the way to a rebound, so is this true with equity markets. It’s when markets are correcting that investors are starving bad and marginal companies of investment, only to direct precious resources to better companies.

In short, even if Booth’s widely shared theory is true, it only serves to remind us that by acting at all the Fed robbed us of what would have been a much bigger market rally had it simply done nothing. Of course, the QE/market theory isn’t true, and even Booth alludes to it. As she notes on p. 160 of Fed Up, “The Fed was following the Bank of Japan into territory that, so far, hadn’t worked for them.”

Well, of course it didn’t. Not only is the power of central banks vastly overrated, even if they could artificially create equity rallies the damage would be fairly immediate owing to massive amounts of precious capital remaining lodged in the hands of the imprudent. Investors would correct what is economically harmful in short order.

Not Entirely Without Merit

So while there’s much to criticize about Fed Up, Booth tells an interesting story. Her writing is entertaining, if at times a little (“I felt a knot as big as one of my Italian grandmother’s meatballs lodged in my gut”) over the top and profane. Readers will find lots of good information if they’re willing to look.

For instance, the “$10 bill has the shortest life span, surviving only a little over 4.5 years before it must be replaced.” $100 bills, according to Booth, last over 15 years, while coins stay in circulation for decades.

Booth has unearthed a letter “published in the Times of London on March 30, 1981, signed by 364 prominent economists, [which] predicted that Margaret Thatcher’s stringent fiscal policies would be disastrous.”! This reader will be using that gem for years and years!

While each resists the notion that they were bailed out, Booth notes that Morgan Stanley and Goldman Sachs both regularly borrowed from the Fed from March of 2008 to March of 2009. It seems Morgan Stanley borrowed overnight 212 times, while Goldman did so 84 times for a total of $600 billion.

Yellen the Ridiculous

And then her various quotes from Janet Yellen are positively priceless. There are too many to list, but in 2007 Yellen, the allegedly great forecaster, said, “I think the prospects for a really serious housing collapse that spreads to consumer spending have diminished substantially.”

Booth rightly has little respect for Yellen, and about the Fed Chairman, she also unearths the sad truth that Yellen and her husband (Nobel Laureate George Akerlof) generally agree on everything economic. This alone is terrifying for anyone who has ever read the 2015 book Akerlof co-authored with Robert Shiller, Phishing for Phools. It would be hard to find a greater modern indictment of the economics profession than this insight-free, most worthless of books.

Can the Fed Unfreeze the Frozen?

Of course, all of this speaks to the broad truth glossed over by Booth that, while the Fed is once again staffed with economists who aren’t in any way troubled by common sense, they don’t have that much power. If they did, the U.S. economy would be a basket case. But Booth is convinced that the U.S. economy is a basket case despite the fact that more of the world’s plenty is directed to the U.S. than any other country.

That the latter is true, that the businesses of the world fight aggressively to attain U.S. market share, calls into question Booth’s Trumpian argument about carnage, but she spends the early part of the book vainly painting a picture of Dickensian American suffering that’s belied by the incessant desire of the world’s poorest to get to the United States. For Booth to be correct about American economic agony, the rest of the world must be stupid. This is doubtful. But that’s her take. Her economic analysis does Fed Up no favors.

According to Booth, the Fed has the U.S. economy “frozen in motion.” Really? The Fed that deals with banks which by her own admission are being worked around by the “shadow banking” system? If frozen in motion, why does the world continue to ship us so much? Booth can suggest “cheap money,” but according to her, only Wall Street has access to the Fed’s “cheap money.”

Booth writes that the Fed’s “high interest rates in the 1980s killed” Erie, PA’s “steel and auto industries.” Ok, but in the first third of the 20th century, New York City and Los Angeles ranked 1st and 4th in the U.S. as manufacturing locales. They’re not anymore, but are they both poor like Erie? Did the Fed have it in solely for the formerly robust Pennsylvania town, or are Erie’s troubles unrelated to the Fed and more a function of a town that didn’t evolve as others did?

Booth laments the situation of millennials apparently made worse by the Fed and writes that “Nearly half of males and 36 percent of females age eighteen to thirty-four live with their parents, the highest level since the 1940s.” Interesting stuff, but last this reviewer read, every major hotel chain is starting up all new brands to appeal to millennial tastes. Are the hotel companies blind to the economic chances of the millennials in ways that Booth isn’t?

The Fed once again deals with banks, but banks are increasingly losing market share in the mortgage market. Despite this truth, Booth claims that Fed machinations are “killing the move-up housing market.” Long-term investment? According to Booth, the all-powerful Fed has “pulled the plug.” The latter might interest investors in Silicon Valley who regularly back start-ups that history says have a 90 percent chance of failure.

The Fed Can’t Manage Anything

All of her economic analysis speaks to the biggest problem with Fed Up: nearly every word written by her about the central bank reveals a presumption that it’s the Fed’s job to manage the economy. But it’s not. Thank goodness it’s not. And Booth knows why. The economists at the Fed wouldn’t have a clue about how to manage anything, but the greater point is that no human, or collection of humans, could manage the economy. That this includes the plainly talented and world-wise Booth should in no way be construed as an insult to the author.

Still, as mentioned at this review’s beginning, Booth doesn’t call for ending what serves no useful purpose. Booth thinks the Fed necessary. Because she does, her reform solution is that the Fed should get a spending increase from Congress in order to “Hire brilliant people” (presumably like her) to run it. In proposing this, Booth reveals that she learned less than she thinks during her time at the Fed.

By her analysis the Fed’s problem is that there aren’t enough people from the real world in its employ, but as former trader Nick Kokonas (firmly entrenched in the real world as an owner of numerous restaurants helmed by master chef Grant Achatz) explained about trading in a 2012 book he co-authored with Achatz (Life, On the Line), “If you are good, 49 percent of your decisions will be wrong. Even if you are great, something just short of a majority will be losers.”

Kokonas helpfully revealed that even the truly talented err with great frequency. This basic truth has seemingly eluded Booth on the way to the mistaken belief that what makes no sense can be fixed through reforms of her liking. No. Contrary to what Booth believes, the Fed’s problem isn’t about personnel as much as the fact interventions in the natural workings of the marketplace never work.

Better Off Without

It’s likely true that Booth can run circles around Fed economists when it comes to common sense, but as a human being, she’s still fallible. So is everyone. In the real world, we’re wrong all the time. What it comes down to is that the Fed’s problem is not the people as much as the problem is intervention itself by the humans who staff the central bank. Though the Fed’s power is thankfully overstated, what Booth misses is that we don’t need the Fed at all. We’d be better off without it, but somehow that lesson didn’t sink in during her decade on the inside.

Early in Fed Up, but just after she’d begun working at the Dallas Fed, Booth expressed surprise about Wall Street fascination with the Federal Reserve. She asked herself “Did they know people on the FOMC were mere mortals?” That’s how she might have been advised to end her book. These people are mortals, highly fallible ones at that. But so is Danielle DiMartino Booth mortal. Reform of the Fed won’t alter this reality, and it won’t alter the truth that no matter who is in charge, the Fed’s existence will never add to the economy, but it may sometimes bring damage to it.

John Tamny

John Tamny is a Forbes contributor, editor of RealClearMarkets, a senior fellow in economics at Reason, and a senior economic adviser to Toreador Research & Trading. He’s the author of the 2016 book Who Needs the Fed? (Encounter), along with Popular Economics (Regnery Publishing, 2015).

This article was originally published on FEE.org. Read the original article.

#Big Government #Federal Reserve #Regulations

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Personality Crisis: The Radical Fluidity of Todd Haynes’ ‘Velvet Goldmine’ by Judy Berman

[This month, Musings pays homage to Produced and Abandoned: The Best Films You’ve Never Seen, a review anthology from the National Society of Film Critics that championed studio orphans from the ‘70s and ‘80s. In the days before the Internet, young cinephiles like myself relied on reference books and anthologies to lead us to film we might not have discovered otherwise. Released in 1990, Produced and Abandoned was a foundational piece of work, introducing me to such wonders as Cutter’s Way, Lost in America, High Tide, Choose Me, Housekeeping, and Fat City. (You can find the full list of entries here.) Over the next four weeks, Musings will offer its own selection of tarnished gems, in the hope they’ll get a second look. Or, more likely, a first. —Scott Tobias, editor.]

Like the glam rockers it gazes upon through the smoke-clouded lens of memory, Velvet Goldmine is most beautiful when it descends into chaos.

Stolen, the way great artists do, from Citizen Kane, the skeleton of Todd Haynes’ 1998 film is a chain of interlocking reminiscences of Brian Slade (Jonathan Rhys Meyers), a David Bowie-like glam rocker who fakes his own onstage death in the mid-’70s. A decade later—in that most dystopic of years, 1984—his ex-wife Mandy (Toni Collette) and former manager Cecil (Michael Feast) relate their bitter tales of betrayal to a journalist (Christian Bale) whose assignment has him reluctantly reliving his own teenage sexual awakening under the influence of Brian’s music. Between the interviews, musical numbers, and onscreen epigrams, there’s also a mysterious female narrator who sometimes surfaces, like a teacher reading a subversive storybook, with dreamy exposition that reaches back a century to invoke glam’s patron saint, Oscar Wilde.

The film climaxes with a propulsive sequence of scenes that are exhilarating precisely because they merge all of these points of view, subjective and omniscient, into one collective fantasy. Brian and his new conquest, the Iggy Pop/Lou Reed composite Curt Wild (Ewan McGregor), ride mini spaceships at a carnival to Reed’s “Satellite of Love.” Two random schoolgirls, their faces obscured, act out a love scene between a Curt doll and a Brian doll. In a posh hotel lobby, Brian’s entourage, styled like Old Hollywood starlets on the Weimar Germany set of a fin-de-siècle period film, recites pilfered sound bites about art. Then Brian and Curt are kissing on a circus stage, surrounded by old men in suits. They play Brian Eno’s “Baby’s on Fire” as Haynes cuts between the performance, an orgy in their hotel suite, and Bale’s hapless, young Arthur Stuart masturbating over a newspaper photo of Brian fellating Curt’s guitar. Stripped of narration—not to mention narrative—the film seems to be running on its own amorous fumes, its story fragmenting into a heap of glittering images as it hurtles from set piece to set piece.

Visual pleasure aside, it’s a perfect way of translating into cinematic language the argument that underlies Haynes’ script—that glam’s revelations about the radical fluidity of human identity go far beyond sex and gender. As the apotheosis of teen pop audiences’ thirst for outsize personae, fictional characters like Ziggy Stardust (who Velvet Goldmine further fictionalizes as Slade’s alter ego, Maxwell Demon) melded the symbiotic identities of artist and fan into a single, tantalizing vision of hedonism and transgression. Kids imitated idols they didn’t quite recognize as pure manifestations of their own inchoate desires. Musician and fan became each other’s mirror, and both could become entirely new people simply by changing costumes or names.

But it’s pretty much impossible to imagine Velvet Goldmine’s distributor and co-producer, Harvey Weinstein, appreciating this as he watched the film for the first time—or seeing anything in it, really, besides an expensive mess.

Haynes and his loyal producing partner, Killer Films head Christine Vachon, had already been through hell with Velvet Goldmine by the time they delivered a cut to Miramax. Bowie had refused Haynes’ repeated requests for permission to use six Ziggy-era songs in the film, claiming that he had a glam movie of his own in the works. And in a production diary that appears in her book Shooting to Kill, Vachon points out one unique challenge of making a film about queer male sexuality: “The MPAA seems to have a number of double standards. Naked females get R ratings, but pickle shots tend to get NC-17s. Our Miramax contract obligates us to an R.” She also mentions that an investor pulled $1 million of funding just weeks before filming.

The shoot was even more harrowing than the two veteran indie filmmakers could’ve predicted. As they fell behind schedule, a production executive started nagging Vachon to make cuts. “Todd is miserable,” she wrote in her diary the night before they wrapped. “He says that making movies this way is awful and he doesn’t want to do it.” In an interview that accompanies the published screenplay for Velvet Goldmine, Oren Moverman asks Haynes, “Was the making of the film joyful for you?” “I’m afraid not,” he replies. “We were trying very hard to cut scenes while shooting, knowing that we were behind and we didn’t have the money for the overloaded schedule. But there was hardly a scene we could cut without losing essential narrative information.” It’s remarkable that he managed to capture 123 usable minutes’ worth of meticulously art-directed ‘70s excess (and ‘80s bleakness) in just nine weeks, under so much external pressure, on a budget of $7 million.

When the film finally reached Harvey Scissorhands, after months of editing, Weinstein told Haynes it was too long and the structure didn’t work. “He made suggestions that I didn’t follow, and then he just buried it,” the director told Down and Dirty Pictures author Peter Biskind. What happened next comes straight from the Weinstein playbook: “Even afterward,” Haynes remembered, “they threw out a DVD, they didn’t ask for a director commentary, my name wasn’t on the cover of it, it was buried in the minuscule billing block. He can’t even do the really small things that don’t cost anything—he never shows any respect.” (That Haynes never found a distributor he preferred to Weinstein, with whom he reunited for I’m Not There and Carol, speaks volumes about the way Hollywood treats ambitious filmmakers.)

After it failed to blow audiences away at the 1998 Cannes Film Festival, Miramax effectively dumped Velvet Goldmine. It debuted on just 85 screens that November, ultimately grossing about $1 million stateside. Its ridiculous theatrical trailer might well be a glimpse at the movie Weinstein was expecting: a “magical trip back to the ‘70s” with 100% more murder mystery and 100% less gay sex.

Critics were just as ambivalent about the film as festival audiences. While forward-thinking reviewers wanted to love it for its visual beauty and openly queer aesthetic, many lamented that its plot was slight and its characters hollow. David Ansen of Newsweek complained that “Haynes is unwilling to get too close to his characters. Slade, in particular, is a blank”—failing to see that Brian is a cypher by design. Like the Barbie-doll Karen Carpenter of Haynes’ debut feature, Superstar, and the fragments of Bob Dylan diffused across I’m Not There, Velvet Goldmine’s Bowie is less a portrait of the real person than a screen on which fans project their own fantasies about him.

At The Nation, Stuart Klawans rightly identified Arthur, not Brian, as the film’s protagonist. But he also wondered why he grows up to be such an unhappy adult. “Why is Haynes so tough on Arthur?” Klawans wanted to know. “Why, through the character, is he so tough on himself? It’s apparent everywhere in Velvet Goldmine that Haynes, like Arthur, loves Glitter Rock. He, too, fell for a mass-marketed product, which was no more likely than Mr. Clean to carry out a world-transforming promise. But instead of honoring the truth of his enthusiasm, so that he might look back on its object with a smile and a sigh…Haynes does penance for being a sap.”

Others found the film’s collage of ideas and allusions cumbersome. “Velvet Goldmine is weighed down with self-important messages, but it’s also splashily opulent,” Stephanie Zacharek wrote at Salon. “It’s as if Todd Haynes had plunged his hand into a pile of clothes at a jumble sale and come out with a handful that was half velvet finery, half polyester rejectables.”

All of these reactions make sense, coming from adult critics who had probably seen the film just once, after reading months’ worth of reports about its troubled birth, in the sterile environment of a press screening. But what’s clear from a distance of nearly two decades, during which Velvet Goldmine has become a low-key cult classic, is that few films are so poorly suited to be judged on the basis of a single dispassionate viewing. If you’re looking for tight plotting and complex characters, you’re not going to find them in this mixtape of music videos, aphorisms, and waking dream sequences. There is no actual murder mystery, and Arthur’s investigation into Slade’s disappearance isn’t a source of suspense so much as an excuse to keep contrasting an incandescent past with a dull, gray present.

I’m lucky enough to have first encountered Velvet Goldmine under what turned out to be ideal circumstances: at age 15, on premium cable, late enough at night that it easily bypassed my rational mind en route to my adolescent subconscious. I had no idea how many details it cribbed from the biographies of Bowie and his contemporaries, or how much of the dialogue was quoted from their (and their heroes’) most memorable utterances. I bought the soundtrack without realizing that it put ‘70s originals side-by-side with contemporary covers and new songs by younger bands like Pulp and Shudder to Think in yet another glam pastiche. It wouldn’t have occurred to me to find the 1984 scenes unsatisfying because I got so instantly immersed in the ‘70s spectacles that they barely existed for me.

Not that the film only works on an emotional level. Haynes’ ideas about fandom, politics, sexuality, and identity become even more profound once you can see the organizing principle behind what might initially seem like a jumble of indulgent images. Like the death hoax Brian Slade uses to escape a fantasy life that’s grown too real for comfort, Velvet Goldmine’s loose plot is classic misdirection, obscuring a tight and purposeful structure that delays the resolution of the ‘80s storyline until it’s primed you to feel the loss of the liberated ‘70s viscerally. But you’ll never get that far into dissecting the film if you don’t fall in love with it at first viewing. And that’s easiest to do when you’re as impressionable as young Arthur, who watches Brian Slade flaunt his queerness in a televised press conference and imagines himself shouting to his parents, “That is me!”

Revisit it as you grow older, though, and you might discover that the disillusioned 30-something characters now feel as rich as their idealistic former selves. Velvet Goldmine is often called a gay film, but that obscures the universal resonance of its queer coming-of-age narrative. Better to think of it as a bisexual film that uses non-binary sexuality as a metaphor for the boundless possibilities of youth—the promise of a future constrained only by the limits of one’s own ambitions and appetites. Its characters can’t achieve permanent liberation by “coming out”; to maintain lifestyles that match their desires, they would have to reject the monogamy that defines adulthood for most people. Particularly amid the AIDS crisis of the 1980s, which haunts the film’s dreary present on a purely subtextual level, it’s obvious why they (like the real glam rockers they’re modeled after) retreat from the liberated lives they staked out for themselves.

But you don’t need to buy in to the incendiary claim Brian makes at his press conference, that everyone is bisexual, to see how this storyline reflects the many kinds of disappointments that await most starry-eyed fans in adulthood. Klawans’ objection to Haynes’ treatment of Arthur feels naive because it assumes people should be able to peacefully coexist with their shattered dreams. Why shouldn’t he feel bitter about having joined a sexual revolution that didn’t, finally, set him free? “It gets better” for Arthur when he leaves his homophobic family to move in with a latter-day glam act in London, but sometime after he hooks up with an unmoored Curt Wild at a tribute concert called the Death of Glitter, “it” just gets boring as the world gets worse.

And the world really does sometimes get worse, though audiences in the relatively peaceful, prosperous late ‘90s might have forgotten about that. Watching Velvet Goldmine for perhaps the 25th time, two weeks before Donald Trump’s inauguration, at the end of an era that has brought unprecedented freedom of sexual and gender expression, I was struck by how vividly Haynes captures a culture’s flight from progress, and how rare it is to see that kind of transition depicted on film. His argument about fluidity turns out to be even more potent when applied to societies than individuals (or, at least, it seems that way in 2017). Our capacity for transformation may be infinite, but that doesn’t mean those changes are always for the best.

#todd haynes #velvet goldmine #ewan mcgregor #christian bale #jonathan rhys meyers #toni collette #michael feast #citizen kane #produced and abandoned #David Bowie #lou reed #oscar wilde #killer films #christine vachon #Musings #Oscilloscope Laboratories

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Travel Diaries: Places That Stole The Heart in 2019

(Bloomberg) –Full disclosure: 2019 was not my typical travel year. Where I traveled, how I got there, how frequently I hit the road—everything was different. In no small part, that’s because I spent the year either pregnant or caring for a newborn.

By January the globe shrunk down to places where the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention had no active Zika classification—in other words, a handful of options outside Europe. In March it shrunk further, when I was no longer allowed to fly. (How does a travel editor survive?) Finally, in the first two months of my new daughter’s life—up until her first vaccines—I practically fenced myself into the neighborhoods around my home. It was an exercise in appreciating the treasures in my own backyard rather than the far-flung spots that have typically struck my fancy.

It was surprisingly lovely, but it didn’t last. My baby had her passport—and Global Entry—before she turned 4 months old. (Yes, she had to go to JFK for an “interview” screening. It was ludicrous.) And I’ve already broadened her world across the Atlantic. Next year will be promising for both of us; so far we plan to travel together every month until at least June, mostly internationally. One day, I hope, she’ll look back on this and realize how lucky she was. (Perhaps when she loosely retraces our footsteps in her own adulthood.) But right now, here are the five places that I’m most grateful to have explored in this life-changing year.

Brooklyn, N.Y.

Drop your eyebrows. People from all around the world come to see what the fuss is about my home turf, and it’s easy to take that for granted when life moves at a punishingly fast pace. But the six months I spent on maternity leave (thanks, Bloomberg!) were full of slow, leisurely days pushing a stroller up and down every block within a three-mile radius, from the old Italian neighborhood of Carroll Gardens to touristy Dumbo, from brownstone-filled Clinton Hill to the elevated waterfront promenade of Brooklyn Heights. And when I say every block, I mean it. After discovering a handful of tiny hidden streets flanked with stunning historic homes, I took to Google Maps and charted out every minuscule lane, place, or mews I could find, then beelined there while my kiddo dozed in her UppaBaby snug seat. (These adventures often included one-handed treats, like dirty chai lattes and croissants from Bien Cuit or chicken teriyaki onigiri from JuJu, a no-frills Japanese bodega in Cobble Hill.) What I found were troves of history, unique styles of architecture, and tons of secret gardens—an idyllic, picturesque, and little-known Brooklyn that’s so worth seeking out.

Read: These Are the World’s Most Liveable Cities in 2019

St. Barts

I’ll never forget what it felt like to sit down in the lobby of Villa Marie and look at photos of the same room in the same hotel, only months earlier, when it had no roof and wind-swept furnishings were strewn about. St. Barts is a place that I hold dear, and I’m hardly alone in the sentiment—it’s the rare island of which my sun-phobic husband approves, and its varied topographical charms give it far more dimension than your typical fly-and-flop beach retreat. This time around, my visit was equal parts sobering and inspiring. I mourned the loss of small beachside businesses that were literally blown away by Hurricane Irma and celebrated the rebirth of iconic spots like Nikki Beach and Eden Roc, which were all coming back better than ever. It was a first-hand lesson in resilience that left me feeling more optimistic and hopeful than any other trip I took all year.

The Bahamas

It feels especially ironic now, in hindsight, to compare the Bahamas to St. Barts in 2019. While the latter’s Irma-inflicted wounds didn’t become mainstream media fodder, the Bahamas took a far harder hit from Hurricane Dorian, and the damage to its tourism economy ended up fully in the public eye. Yes, $8 billion in damages were sustained as a result of the storm, mainly in the northwestern Abaco Islands. But the vast majority of the archipelago went unharmed—a fact that most travelers have failed to understand. As a result, tourism has plummeted, right when it’s needed most.

I visited in February, five months before the 185-mile-per-hour winds swept through. My destination: Kamalame Cay, a relaxed private island resort off the coast of Andros. Getting there negates the easy-access appeal of Nassau; after landing in the capital, you have to take another short flight, get driven to a ferry dock, then sail across a channel before arriving on property. But being there is one of the most relaxed experiences anywhere—luxury here means getting to know staff on a first-name basis, finding tidy breakfast baskets outside your room before sunrise, leaving your bungalow door unlocked, “hijacking” the resort puppies for in-room cuddles, and watching rays zoom through the clearest waters you’ve ever seen. It’s less like being at a fussy, five-star oasis and more like visiting your wealthy friends at their home away from home.

Read: Dubai clinches top travel & business destination awards for 2019

The Berkshires

When I first learned about Tourists Welcome, a converted motel in the tiny town of North Adams, Mass., I tried hard not to roll my eyes. Despite being a reference to the signs once donned by the area’s roadside inns, the name pained me, and the fact that it was owned by Wilco’s bassist and his friends made me skeptical of how it might deliver on anything other than Instagram bait. But I was curious, and a location within driving distance—plus last-minute availability over the Fourth of July—made it ideal for baby’s first vacation.

It took less than an hour for me to toss aside my assumptions and start drinking the Kool-Aid. Tourists Welcome brims with summer camp conviviality: Between outdoor cookouts, an indie-folk soundtrack, and a canteenlike front desk, it’s chill in all the right ways. It fosters an atmosphere where it’s oddly easy to strike up conversation with total strangers—and where families with kids of all ages can coexist seamlessly with weekending couples and celebrities. (In the spirit of the place, I’ll stay mum on which major TV star we ran into.) The service was unbuttoned but not slow; the design was comfortable but endlessly photogenic; and the saltwater pool was so warm, I watched my 2-month-old fall asleep in it (while lounging in a flamingo-shaped baby float, natch). Plus, there’s loads to do. We hiked a section of the Appalachian Trail one day and ogled giant Sol LeWitt murals at Mass MoCa the next.

It’s no wonder this single hotel became the must-visit spot of the summer for anyone within driving distance. The appeal is undeniable; it just happens to look good on Instagram, too.

Mallorca (and Barcelona)

While I initially thought a destination in a nearby time zone would make sense for our first big trip as a family of three, my desire to expose our daughter to Spanish—my first language—and love for Europe set us on a more ambitious track. Now Mallorca is the place I can’t get out of my head. Its rocky, Tramuntana mountain range cuts along the northwest coast, and within its craggy peaks are nestled tiny, cobblestoned villages that look like Van Gogh paintings washed in Mediterranean light.

We split our time between Deia, a picturesque speck of a town where the spectacular Belmond La Residencia is based, and Port Soller, a slightly larger coastal village that’s especially popular with German beach-going families. At the former, we took lazy walks through olive groves and bought orange jam from a woman’s front porch—made with fruit from her own citrus trees. At the latter, we spent pool days at the cliff-top and family-friendly Jumeirah Port Soller, ate paella by the sea, and watched a particularly charming, 100-year-old tram pass by the boardwalk a few times a day.

Read: Golden trip hacks from a Guinness World Record holder for travel

The trip also marked baby’s first missed flight, thanks to an hourslong weather delay on our return flight to New York. And yet, getting stranded in Barcelona may have been the biggest blessing of all. We’d already spent a few days there at the beginning of our trip, happily cocooned in luxury at the spectacular new Almanac Hotel. But our delay coincided with the city’s biggest annual holiday, La Mercè, and all of the bustling streets we’d strolled were shut down to car traffic and filled with all sorts of festivities from concerts to parades. In a stroke of serendipity we witnessed competitions for traditional sardana dancing and gigantic human pyramids outside the city’s namesake cathedral—one of the coolest cultural experiences I’ve ever seen. For a planning-obsessed new mom, it was a refreshing reminder that the best things in life are often unscripted—and fully left to chance.

The post Travel Diaries: Places That Stole The Heart in 2019 appeared first on Businessliveme.com.

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