#i cannot stop playing that entire quest in my head its driving me up the walls i adore his writting i adore him he's the man of all time.
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Chapter 1|| Stormbringer- Stray Kids Demigod AU
Pairing : Reader(fem.) X Felix
Word count : 2k+
Warnings : Profanity, descriptions of mythological monsters, monster killings, not edited.
Genre : Romance, Demigod AU, fluff, angst.
Description: Felix and you have your first encounter - but why did it have to be under life threatening circumstances?
A/N : I’m so sorry this chapter took so long skskskkksks ugh I’ve been having some personal issues as well as midterms. For those of you who waited, thank you!
Enjoy!
SERIES MASTERLIST || Click here for introduction to the story and glossary and here for the Stray Kids demigod diaries!
"So.. you are not allowed to use cellphones because it attracts deadly monsters?"
"Yes," you snicker at Zeus, "No thanks to you, dad."
Zeus - the king of all gods on Mount Olympus, the god of sky and lightning - sits on the couch beside you in a simple striped shirt and loose baggy jeans, his long hair tied in a braid.
He doesn't look anything like a Greek God or a king, he doesn't look grand or royal or powerful. He sits on your couch with his legs crossed, back slouched - like a normal father of a normal twenty one year old.
He rolls his eyes at you, "Yeah, yeah, blame it on your poor, old dad. " he's immortal, by the way.
You grab a cookie from the plate your mom had put on the coffee table before driving to work. You're kind of glad she's not here to see Zeus - your mom and Zeus didn't exactly part on good terms.
Of all the times you'd met your father, she's not been there to witness any of it, fortunately.
"What do you want, dad? I'm sure you're not here to eat cookies and talk about mortal technology with me. "
Zeus nods, sighing. The distressed expression clawing it's way back to his face.
"When are you going back to the camp?" He asks.
"I was about to leave before you decided to show up. "
"And with who exactly?"
"Oh, with Minho."
Zeus runs his fingers through his flowing beard, "The Dionysus kid?"
You nod - yes, Minho's father is the Greek God of Wine and fertility but your friend's never been much too proud of it. So you know better than to add to his insecurities, even behind his back.
"Dad, can you please tell me what you're here for?" You insist, now slightly annoyed.
"Ah, fine, fine," he nods, frowning like a little kid, "I actually need your help, y/n. I cannot ask this of anyone but my own child, which is why I have come here."
It's normal for God's to let their demigod children do the bidding on their behalf - it's nothing surprising or new, but you're taken aback since you're father has never asked you to do anything for him before.
Before you can reply, he continues, "It's Poseidon, y/n. He's...He's been sick."
Poseidon? Sick? Isn't he an immortal God? How could he ever fall sick!
"He can just drink some nectar and ambrosia and he'll be as good as new, dad." You deadpan.
"No, not this time. Poseidon's trident is lost. Someone stole it, apparently. And the trident holds in all his power. He's weak without it, and with him gone it's hard to control what goes on in the Oceans. The monsters and demons and even the Nymphs are out of control. "
"I would be very grateful if you could do something about it, y/n. Tell your camp director about it and go on a quest with your demigod friends. Find the trident, please. We need it back or else the mortals as well as the demigods will not be safe anymore. "
As if they'd ever been, "Okay, fine..I'll put in a word at camp."
Just before Zeus speaks again, you hear the loud honk of a car outside your house. Minho.
"I have to go now, " you quickly grab your bags, "And dad?"
He stops munching on the cookies to look at you.
"Please clean this place up and go back before mom comes home."
He winks at you as you close the door behind you, jogging to Minho's old Hyundai that stands near the side of the street.
He waves at you enthusiastically and you almost feel bad for your friend.
Oh, Minho, you’re not going to be happy with the news I have.
*
Halfway into the drive, you realise that you're not the only who has news - Minho too had information to share - more like rantings, but you liked to classify them as information.
"I fought with my parents again. " he sighs, his eyes focused on the road ahead, "They don't want me going back to camp every year. It scares them, y/n, can you believe it!"
Minho - unlike you - had never met his birth mother. He was adopted right from the hospital. Sadly, Dionysus visits him more often than he wishes he would.
"They're just worried because you keep getting yourself in trouble there. Try to keep calm, you'll do just fine." You mutter, shaking your leg, your mind running through numerous possibilities as to how you can break Poseidon's news to Minho.
"Well that's not all. So I fought with them and came to camp a month earlier. While I was out with the annoying Satyr, scouting for demigods, I found three more washed up on the shore of the beach where we first met you. They'd been attacked apparently, and we brought them to the camp and guess what, the youngest one is as old as you are! It's so fascinating for once to not have to deal with unruly teenagers."
You scoff, "First of all, the annoying Satyr has a name. He is called Eden. And second of all, how is it possible for demigods our age to make it this long without living behind a protective barrier?"
Minho shrugs, taking a sharp right to the road that leads home to Camp Levanter.
"Beats me, y/n. They must have lived like nomads without anyone to protect them from the monsters, but I'm glad we found them. You'll like them too. The other boys love them."
You nod, not giving too much thought to a bunch of new demigods. You've been with demigods all your life so there's nothing to worry about.
What you are worried about is Poseidon and his lost trident, because no matter what, this new development does put all mortals and half-bloods at risk.
"Um, Minho?" You start, playing with hem of your checkered shirt, "I might actually know why the new demigods were attacked by a sea monster- "
However before you can speak out the next word, your eyes land on a huge blue wave of water, as tall as a ten floored building, engulfing everything within it's vicinity. You see mortals run in alarm, screaming and crying. The cars rush away, trying to escape to a safer place.
The earth vibrates beneath you, as if to warn about an approaching danger.
"What the hell is that!"
"It's a sea monster... a Cetus."
Minho slams on the accelerator, speeding away from the approaching sea monster. The camp is only a two minute drive from the highway you are on so if the Gods are kind enough, the both of you might just make it before the monster catches your scent.
And if it does, then Minho and you are as good as dead.
"Can you see it, y/n?" Minho asks you in an urgent voice, his eyes fixed on the road ahead of him, "Do you think you could create lightning and kill that thing?"
You make the mistake of looking behind you, because as soon as you turn around, you see a gigantic dragon- like creature chasing close behind your car, baring it's fangs.
Your blood turns cold.
"Minho, drive faster! I think it has smelt us!" You yell in panic, "We're not enough to defeat a sea monster; even with your vine growing power and my electrokinesis."
Minho does as he is told, driving the car faster than the mortals do in their stupid car races, his hands tightly gripping the handle and handsome features twisted in agony.
You roll down the window and glance outside, estimating how much time you have to summon lightning before the monster catches upto your car.
Sucking in a deep breath, you pray to your father for help and thrust out your hand towards the sky, and see small electrical impulses begin at your fingertips. Rolling the window further down so as to be able to aim the lightning directly at the monster, you concentrate all your energy into your right hand.
The lightning may not kill it, but it’ll surely slow it down.
Electric sparks cover your entire arm like it were some kind of jewelry.
A deep breath, and you release.
“Its hurt,” you whisper as the monster stops on its tracks, its googly eyes closing as if in immense pain and in a spilt second, they open and stare right at you. The monster is angry. At you.
“Shit! Shit! Y/n!” Minho panics.
"Keep driving." You reassure Minho, "I'll slow it down."
You see dirty green scales of the monster when you glance at the rear view mirror and your immediate reaction is to grab your bow and arrows from the backseat of the car.
Minho nods and you position yourself such that only your arrow is pointed directly at the monster's direction while you squint one eye and careful peek out without showing too much of your face. Monsters have very good memory.
The monster hisses, his long, red tongue rolling out of his mouth as if in annoyance. The mortals do not bother coming in between your car and the Cetus - all thanks to the Mist.
The Mist creates an illusion that hides any supernatural beings like monsters or titans or giants from the mortal's sight so it is safe to believe that the mortals are perceiving the Cetus as something as simple as a huge storm.
"It's coming closer." You warn Minho.
"I can't go faster than this! Has no one from the camp received any news of a sea monster coming out of the water and roaming out in the streets yet?" He yells back.
You stretch the bow string, the arrow aimed right between the monster's two hideous eyes.
"Stop! Y/n!" Minho suddenly says, slowing down a bit, staring at the rear view mirror, "There's something on the monster's head."
His words seem to fade away in the background as you see the monster's tail - resembling that of a fish - flying up behind him, and then thrashing hard against the concrete road.
The ground shakes.
"I'm shooting." you mutter, "It's going to kill us all!"
"Y/n, no - don't."
"What! Why?"
You loosen the string and pull back the arrow, trusting Minho's judgement better than yours.
"Just trust me, okay?" Minho mutters, slowly pulling up by the sidewalk.
Propping yourself up on your elbows, you quickly glance out the window.
"What the.."
You catch sight of a blonde man, probably only as tall as Minho, standing on top of the monster's head and thrusting his shining bronze sword right into the Monster's forehead.
The man looks in your direction, as if he’s known you all along and nods, with what you perceive to be a smile on his lips.
"Shoot now, y/n." Minho says from beside you.
You immediately act on it, stretching the string tighter, the arrow pointed at the ugly monster that now cries desperately.
You let go of the string and the arrow cuts through the air and stabs the Cetus right at his neck.
A loud, thundering wail leaves it's mouth and then it disappears into millions of dust particles, on it's way to the depths of Tartarus ; the underground prison of all monsters.
"That's Felix, y/n." Minho says, unlocking the doors with a slight grin on his face. He looks proud. "He's one of the new demigods at the camp."
The said man quickly jogs up to your car, panting and huffing, and knocks at your window.
"Hey, can I have a ride back home, Minho?" He smiles, "And you must be y/n, right?"
And you sink back into your seat as you see his entire form up close.
Beautiful. Ethereal. And every other synonym of those words in the English dictionary fall weak if it ever comes to describing the man standing in front of you.
You don't even need to ask who his godly parent is because you already know now - Aphrodite, goddess of love, lust and beauty.
****
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Days Gone - Review (PS4)
8/19/20
Developed by SIE Bend Studio, released April 2019
Days Gone is an ambitious effort from the company that made the Syphon Filter and PS Vita Uncharted games. This is their first major title attempting to stand head and shoulders among other major open-world franchises. Days Gone is a game I had some interest in, but only picked up about a year later, curious to see if it brought anything significant to the genre. Combine Sons of Anarchy with The Walking Dead and throw it into a sandbox landscape, and that’s about what the elevator pitch must have been for this game. Days Gone is a huge accomplishment for what is a relatively small studio, but it needed a lot more polish and commitment to new ideas to be as good as the more well known franchises.
Deacon St John is a survivor of a zombie outbreak, and gets around on his motorcycle doing odd jobs for friends at fellow refugee camps. This game’s most unique aspect is how it centers around the chopper itself. You cannot simply hop into a random vehicle and drive anywhere you want. The motorcycle is the only mode of transportation in this game, and I thought that was a lot of fun at first. However, at no point does the game or story explain why trucks, cars, and other vehicles aren’t in use. Gasoline is clearly present, as it powers your motorcycle and the many generators found at most camp sites and settlements, so it seems a bit contrived without explanation. The gas tank is shamefully small, not able to go more than a couple kilometres without having to be refilled. This means you need to stop at virtually every abandoned gas station, government release camp, or other settlement to search for a gas can and fill up.
Having to constantly be on the lookout for more fuel felt extremely restricting, and kept me from exploring the map as much as I wanted. If you run out of gas on the highway, you physically have to walk the bike all the way until you find gas at a settlement before you can drive again. There was no way to fast travel or pay for a Uber in any way I could see, and running out of fuel a couple times were the low points of my experience. I get this game wants to have elements of the “survival” genre, but this aspect took it too far. Guns and ammo tend to be scarce as well, making you rely on improvised melee objects for weapons, and stealth kills to make up for the lack of an arsenal. Melee weapons degenerate quickly, but new ones can be found constantly. Chopping at human and zombie enemies works well enough, as you need to consider your stamina meter to keep from becoming exhausted. The shooting mechanics are nothing special, and each gun doesn’t feel like it packs a lot of punch.
Much of the routine activities will be very familiar to those who have played any Assassin’s Creed, or open-world RPG of late. The map itself is covered in fog until you visit new locations. Zombies (”freakers”) dot the landscape, especially at night, and burning zombie nests in small towns and settlements acts to reduce the random zombie population of an area. Bandit camps also fill many corners of the map, and killing all enemies in those also renders the area of the map safer (and unlocks fast travel). It’s really nothing you haven’t done a million times before. Camps can be cleared entirely with stealth (something I always tried to do), but with the slightly unreliable shooting and stealth mechanics, it didn’t always feel satisfying. Once I had cleared enough bad guy human settlements, I felt like I was beginning to spin my wheels and lost interest. The only other memorable aspect of this game are the zombie hoards themselves. Days Gone packs a surprising and intimidating amount of zombies in one spot, and having to work around or run from a hoard can be a scary and challenging experience.
SIE Bend Studio is based in Bend, OR, and is the same state this game takes place. As a fellow Oregonian myself, I’m disappointed more of Oregon’s locations aren’t taken advantage of. How cool would it have been to be able to access the coast and see something that resembles Haystack Rock, or perhaps a huge lake in the middle of the map representing Crater Lake National Park? I do like that half of this map is virtually desert; as most of Eastern Oregon (and where Bend is located) is fairly arid, but change the texts and this game’s would have resembled any generic mountainous location in North America. Even a distant inaccessible mountain resembling Mt Hood would have been easy and much appreciated. I don’t know how many major big budget games will ever take place specifically in Oregon, and its a shame the developers didn’t take more advantage of it.
Days Gone is yet another open-world action-RPG taking place in a zombie pandemic. Much of what works best about it are things you’ve seen in dozens of other games, and no single aspect stands out as the best within its genre or format. Its most unique aspect is its focus and center on the motorcycle itself, but its not enough to make this an all around great game. I actually lost so much interest and faced so many fetch-quests I gave up on trying to complete the game. With uninteresting characters and story, nothing kept me motivated to push onward. The story may or may not have an interesting outcome, but in the 20 or so hours I played, I hardly ever found the narrative or characters interesting. This is a decent open-world game, but if all your appetite calls for is clearing bandit camps, scavenging for spare parts, and unlocking achievements, you may enjoy Days Gone more than I did.
7/10
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An Ideal Date
In my late twenties, I made a vow to myself that I would keep social obligations.
It is hard to tell if it is an eventual progression that happens when all your friends are in their twenties, or if it is a generational progression and a sign of changing times, but I cannot even count the number of friends who have bailed on social plans at the last minute (or, for that matter, how many times I have bailed on somebody else). But I was tired of this pattern, and--assuming some semblance of adult responsibility--made a solemn vow to myself that if I made a commitment then I would be the kind of person who would show up.
I mean, maybe I’d go home after 30 minutes, but at least I’d honor my arrangements. That’s fair, right?
This little plan was going along splendidly. I was a reliable friend. I was someone to be counted on. I patted myself on the back for being such a responsible person.
The creeping feeling of wanting to bail on social plans didn’t go away. It is in my my introverted nature to prefer being at home, wearing sweatpants, and drinking wine on the porch. I’d welcome someone who’d want to join me at home, but going all the way out to a bar or a restaurant wearing pants with a defined waistband? How draining.
One day in early spring, I’d made commitments to see a live band play at a small venue. I had committed to this because I was invited to attend by a tall, handsome, single fellow whom I hadn’t known very long. The entire package was very appealing. I was really looking forward to this. (Maybe I was really looking forward to him.) I imagined a scenario in which we’d be standing side by side at the venue and “accidentally” bump into each other while swaying to the music, caught up in a sudden romantic haze. It would be enough for one of us to find the other’s hand and hold on. We’d stand there, mostly touching, dancing to the music together. At the end of the evening, one of us might muster enough courage to kiss the other, and a night that included kissing tall, handsome, single fellows was a good night in my book.
Anticipation is a feeling I come by honestly, and I was honestly looking forward to this.
The day of the concert, I carefully selected my work clothes. They needed to be office appropriate, but just edgy enough to be acceptable at a live concert with a vibe of “I just got off work, but I still come to shows. See how relatable and cool I am for a responsible corporate adult.”
The afternoon at work dragged by horribly. As the hours ticked forward, something strangely familiar began happening. I found myself looking forward to going home.
“No,” I immediately told myself. “You committed to this plan. You’re going to the concert.”
A second voice answered it from the very depths of myself. “But wouldn’t it be nicer to just go home?”
“Home is nice. But you promised to meet him at the concert.”
The second voice had an answer to that, too. “You’ll have to drive 40 minutes to get there. That’s a long way to drive. But home is only five minutes, and there’s wine there.”
“No. I made a vow to keep my promises.”
But as the clock crept closer and closer to 5:00, I started to resent the plans I had made. That possibility of kissing a tall, handsome, single fellow was way too unrealistic for this casual invitation. That hypothetical situation where we’d be dancing side by side was unlikely; I mean, the venue will probably have chairs or something. And these work clothes are ridiculous. (All black? How original.) Sweatpants would be way more comfortable. As would the couch in the living room, instead of driving all the way out to Rochester for a guy you don’t know very well.
I was actively talking myself out of the plan and started considering how I might bail on the commitment before I stopped myself. “You made a commitment,” I told myself, “and you’re going to keep it. You’re going to get off work, and you’re going to get into your car, and you’re going to drive straight to Rochester. You’re not even going to stop at home. If you go home, you know exactly what will happen: you’re going to take off your shoes. And if you take off your shoes, you’re going to get into sweatpants. And if you get into sweatpants, you’re not going to leave the house and then the whole night is canceled.”
These are the pep talks we give ourselves when we’re trying to become better people.
When the work day ended, I went straight into my car. I opened the text message from him that had the venue’s address, and pulled up a map. I drove to Rochester.
The entire 40 minute drive to the venue, the inner parts of me cloyed at going home. It is difficult to fight with your internal wiring, especially when it will be impossible to meet a partner and fall in love if every night is spent sitting on the porch drinking wine but that is exactly the thing your inner wiring wants to do. I was about 5 minutes from the destination when I pulled over to the side of the road and called my best friend.
“Jess, I need help,” I said.
I was so grateful she answered. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t want to go on this date.”
She laughed at me. “What, you have a date? Girl, with who?”
“With this tall, handsome, single fellow. I don’t know him very well. We met for coffee last weekend, and he invited me up to see this band play tonight.”
“Why don’t you want to go?”
“I don’t know,” I moaned pathetically. “I’d just rather be at home instead.”
“You’re not at home right now?” she asked.
“No, I promised myself that I would keep social obligations.” It sounded pathetic coming out of my own mouth. “But I knew that if I left work and went home that I’d never get back out again, so I got in my car and I drove to Rochester.”
“Well that was your first mistake,” she said.
“What do I do?”
“It looks like you have to keep your social obligations,” she said matter-of-factly. “Or, just turn around and go back home.”
“I’m five minutes away from the venue. Will you stay on the phone with me to make sure I get there?”
She laughed at me again. “Okay, sure.”
I pulled back out into traffic, chatting with her, filled with gratitude that there was someone in my life to help me on my own quest to try and become a better person, even when the methods for doing so were transparently flimsy. As I got closer to the venue, I started to grow suspicious.
“This is really weird, Jess,” I said. “The concert venue is a minute away, but I’m still in a very residential area.”
“How residential?”
“White picket fence residential,” I said. And then suddenly, the GPS updated to inform me that I had passed the venue.
“Hang on, I missed it somehow,” I said. “Can I call you back?”
“Sure,” she said, and hung up.
At the next opportunity to turn around, I checked the map. I checked the text message to make sure I copied the address correctly. Everything seemed to be in order, but as I made a second approach from the opposite direction I was perplexed to discover there was no venue. The address entered into the GPS wasn’t actually there.
“This is ridiculous,” I thought to myself, and took the next chance I could to pull over. I opened my phone to our text thread and stared at the address he sent me: an address that didn’t exist. I wrote, “I went to the address you sent me, but it doesn’t look like there’s a venue here.”
While waiting for the reply, I called Jess back.
“Did you find it?” she asked.
“It’s not actually here,” I explained. “He sent me an address that doesn’t exist.”
“That’s weird.”
“I’m just going to drive around until I hear back from him.”
By this time, the sun was low on the horizon. The sky was mostly dark blue and the street lights were turning on. I drove without direction, making aimless turns onto roads that looked promising or interesting, and found myself in a downtown district. Rochester had white Christmas lights in its trees that were just beginning to bud with the spring. Fountains were illuminated. Jess regaled me with stories from work, about how so-and-so was doing such-and-such but was definitely being unprofessional, and so on.
The sky was completely dark by the time I noticed I had a new text. It said, “Hey, sorry! I got that address from their website, but I’m not there either.”
That was it. There were no other questions, no other messages, no other information. That was enough for me to recognize that, whatever was going on in his mind, he probably wanted to bail on this social obligation, too.
“Hey Jess,” I said. “I’m going to start heading home.”
“You mean you were waiting all this time to hear back from him? He’s definitely not worth your time.”
I merged onto the interstate to begin the drive home. “This was a beautiful night. Thank you for talking to me. I got to see all the beautiful lights of Rochester, and I really enjoyed spending this time with you.”
“I’m glad to be your ideal date,” she said. “Drive safe.”
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This isn’t really a “theory”, in the sense that I think it’s a direction the show is actually going to take things, and I’m sure someone’s brought it up at some point before, but there’s a thought that keeps recurring to me, basically ever since 134.
(Since I have yet to do a full relisten, and I listened to most of the episodes for the first time while at work, it’s very possible that something’s come up that makes all of this moot, even for a crack idea, and I just missed it...)
134 is when we learned that the End and the Web have never (to Peter’s knowledge) attempted a ritual. According to Peter, both have a preference for the world the way it is in canon because it doesn’t matter to the End (so long as whatever world exists has entities capable of fearing their own death) and because the Web likes being able to manipulate things the way they are.
But that leads me to a question... if it’s possible for entities to choose not to have their followers attempt a ritual, why would the Beholding want its own ritual to go down? Because a lot of the fears of the Beholding require at least some, if not all, of the other powers in order to function at optimal capacity.
(More under the cut because this got a bit long...)
Maybe I’m missing something, but the fear of being watched/having your secrets exposed is not usually motivated out of, well, the fear of being seen, full stop. Because some people are scared of their secrets being revealed because they believe it will make their loved ones shun them (Lonely) or because they believe they could be used to manipulate them (Web), maybe they’re afraid of being tracked down for some reason (Hunt), etc.
Moreover, if the Beholding is the infinite drive to know more, regardless of the cost to oneself, what world could be better for that than the one that exists in canon right now? There’s so much unknown to explore and catalogue, and so many dangers and things to be afraid of in the process. Having things like the Dark, the Stranger, and the Vast is beneficial to the Beholding because they inherently cannot be fully known, and, thus, must be eternally quested after at great personal risk.
Not to mention the fact that the Eye apparently literally feeds off of the experiences the other powers enact on people. That makes sense if it’s also the fear of something watching you suffer for its own amusement, but it doesn’t explain what the Beholding would get out of its ritual that it doesn’t currently have.
And, I absolutely do not trust that the Web has no interest in its ritual. Unlike the End, which, as Peter points out, gets everybody eventually, the Web has to at least do some work for its prey. It could definitely get something out of a world where people were more easily manipulated or had more to fear from manipulation (and spiders) or whatever would happen if its ritual were completed.
And, in all honesty, Peter isn’t the most reliable narrator in regards to anything the Web. He’s an avatar of the Lonely. What does he really know? He assumes that the Web hasn’t attempted a ritual because it likes the world as-is, but assuming anything about a power that is blatantly associated with manipulation seems like just about the worst plan anybody could possibly have.
So, alright. Maybe the Web doesn’t have a ritual it intends to enact, or maybe it does and it’s just keeping it on the down low so no nosey Archivists step in and blow it up. Makes sense.
This is where my brain gets over excited and goes a little off the rails, because I can’t stop thinking about the connections between the Archives and the Web.
There have been a lot of theories about the recorders being Web-aligned, rather than Beholding-aligned. Jon’s first encounter with the fears was in relation to the Web. Martin loves spiders to the point that Web!Martin is a popular fandom idea. Jon carries a web lighter. The table that housed the NotThem (and was therefore, by proxy, protecting the archival staff from it) was of the Web. There are a number of theories about Jon having to collect a scar/experience from every power in order to bring about the Watcher’s Crown, and the Web seems to be playing both sides of that fight... although, by (seemingly) brining the Flesh to the Institute, it did lead to Jon losing a pair of ribs to Jared, so who knows what that really means.
(Not to mention, Gertrude mentioned being able to recommend a statement-giver the name of a good psychologist and now Melanie is seeing someone in that capacity who certainly wants to use a recorder, and Annabelle Cane was a psych student, I think, or at least was aware enough of psych experiments, as a student, to participate in a rather frightening and long-term one... it’s all very coincidental, if it’s not directly connected.)
Basically, for the Beholding’s seat of power, there’s a lot of Web stuff going on. Like, down in the coffin, it was the Buried and only the Buried, as far as we saw. But the Archives have lots of Web stuff and, unlike when other powers attack the place, nobody seems particularly interested in even trying to kick the spiders out.
And, you know who an archive would be really good for? Someone who needs/wants a record of past information in order to use it for future gain. Say, in order to manipulate someone.
Elias’ demonstrated powers include seeing things remotely (which he uses... to manipulate people) and implanting experiential memories into people’s heads (which he uses...... to manipulate people). Jon’s demonstrated powers are having “weird” body parts (whatever that means), manifesting tapes (maybe), and pulling information out of people’s heads, sometimes so hard it kills them (which he generally doesn’t do on purpose but, one very notable time when he did, he immediately used the information he got out of it for blackmail). All I’m saying is, their powers definitely make sense for the concept of being able to “watch” and “know” the world, and strike fear with those abilities, but... they also make sense in terms of being extremely useful as methods of working out exactly how to make someone do as you tell/blackmail/ask them to.
We currently believe that there are fifteen fears, because Smirke came up with a list of fourteen and we’ve added the Extinction to that. But when Gerry talks about it, he talks in terms of colours. Why isn’t pink a shade of red, when pale blue is just another shade of blue? Which mirrors what Leitner said about all of them being part of something incomprehensibly large, like a human sticking multiple appendages into an ant hive. So Smirke labeled the fears where he thought the labels ought to go, and everybody goes along with it because it’s handy, but just because Smirke saw distinctions doesn’t mean that those distinctions necessarily exist on a cosmic level.
Before we had that list, there were ideas about the things that became known as the Web being the “active” component of the Beholding. The things that went out and used the Beholding’s knowledge.
The fear of having your secrets revealed and turned against you.
And, what better trick? Convince the entire world that your entire fear is, in fact, two smaller ones. One that draws all the attention by being the annoying nerd who can’t stop asking questions (the Beholding) and the other that hangs out in the shadows, carefully pulling all the threads so everything works out just right (the Web). Why bother informing an Archivist who is more comfortable with the limits of the Beholding than they might be with the Web (Jon, possibly also Gertrude) that the distinction between those powers isn’t real at all?
(Though if the Web and the Beholding were one and the same, that could lead to a really fun payoff for Jared having Jon’s rib, where Jared turns up again, and it’s Jon who uses the fact that a part of him is inside the Boneturner to puppet him in some way.)
Also, the other, dumber reason that I keep thinking about this is because the Watcher’s Crown just makes me think of some sort of crown of eyes, and there are real life spiders with eyes arranged like that (a couple pictures of the peacock spider are in the link below-- I didn’t want to just add images to the post on the off chance that someone somehow made it through my ramblings to this point and didn’t want to be surprised with a sudden closeup of a spider).
https://geyserofawesome.com/post/125967598482/peacock-spiders-are-awesome-creatures-theyre
tldr: I have a crack theory that I can’t stop thinking about which basically amounts to “the Beholding is fake news made up by the Web”.
#the magnus archives#tma#wash writes#this is probably dumb#tma spoilers#sorry forgot to add that since I guess I reference the new episode?#not sure I need to add that anyway#since it's been released to the general public#but still
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It’s November, but I still want you part 3
Genre: Drama, romance, smut (eventually), werewolf AU, art school AU
Pairing: Artist!Jimin / Werewolf!Jimin x Reader
Warning: Mention of mating and knotting, toxic relationships
Summary: A first love is always bittersweet, but this time it is perchance the hardest pill to swallow. Especially when the aftermath can still be felt years after.
In the month of November.
Author’s Note: I sincerely apologize for the long period of waiting for this fanfic to finally update or announce it is discontinued. However, as you can see, the latter does, fortunately, not apply. Henceforth, I would like to say this fic is still up and running with this chapter likely being the second-to-last one. It is time to wrap up some old projects.
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 (yet to be written)
Masterlist
Two autumns without sketching the falling dying leaves together, three winters without sharing warm beverages in the usual spot in the same coffee shop every day, three springs eyes beheld the fall of cherry blossom without him and three summers passed with so much as a word.
Ever since the young artist left, nobody closely connected to him has seen the lad. Classes went by unattended, fingers nervously and softly ticking a pencil against the table surface in the exact spot that would have formed the workspace of the one who walked away for the safety of the heart it hurt. However, what was not given a thought at the time, was that the flight inflicted more harm than when everything had been as of old and the night we first laid down as lovers remained cloaked in silence.
Stayed our forbidden fruit.
Even during graduation, the raven-haired creator was not there to celebrate the end of endless study hours stained with paint, charcoal and cramped digits. Not even the six guys with whom a group of brothers was formed had the knowledge concerning the whereabouts of the wolf boy. Nevertheless, something had tainted sincerity for the older ones’ attitude stirred up a deep-rooted sense of suspicion within, but it could also have meant nothing at all. Regardless of the truth, they tried to remain in contact and lighten the mood as much as possible, elevating the gloom left behind by the dear friend turned lover turned... away.
Limits were pushed too much, the warnings and pleads should have been heeded but the mind was too naive to notice the danger lurking beneath the mask of a familiar face, skin flushed with the anticipation to have fingertips grab it tightly and possessively by the small hands that had held even smaller ones throughout many sleepless nights. The animalistic behaviour that needed to be repressed was foolishly underestimated, leading us to ruin.
Jimin has never had to carry the blame for the situation because the mistake is entirely that of the individual who thought to be able to handle what clearly could not be. The mirror shows the reminder of devastating stubbornness daily, still adorning the neck in the form of two pieces of jewellery. The gift that has become the last physical memory of a beautiful moment in life. One thin bronze chain with a crescent moon pendant made of the same metal hanging from it and one chain that is a tad longer and made of a mixture between silver and gold with a handcrafted wolf pendant crafted from tiger's eye matrix.
Only once have they been forgotten, when it was the youngest among the broken band of comrades - Jungkook - who held a soul devoid of love and craving it so badly it gripped the first source of simulacrum tightly to have a taste of it again. The morning brought the shame of having used the sweet guy’s hidden sentiments portrayed by gentle kisses and careful movements between the thighs wrapped around a slim waist after coming undone twice before even starting in earnest. The whined and panted ‘I love you’s were already a vague memory when the sun rose over haphazard sheets partially concealing a thoroughly dishevelled dark bedhead and back engraved with scratches that likely caused more pain than pleasure. Nevertheless, perchance it is because of the guilt of having played a sick game with genuine emotions that the decision to stay by the youth’s side was made.
Eventually, the self-loathing blame turned to a non-sustainable yet believable form of affection reserved for lovers. Almost akin to what was only temporarily had with Jimin.
Until he, too, walked away for the same reasons.
Funny.
History repeats itself.
But not today after finding a pamphlet for an art exhibition near the marketing office where a fortunate job as a graphic designer was picked up soon after graduation, the grand opening of which is tonight. Normally, similar events would have been evaded since too many bodies occupy a space which cannot possibly handle them all at once and the gallery visited at a later date when the hype has died down enough to allow for calmly enjoying the art. However, the default course of action does not form an option in this case due to the artist presenting his piece of art.
Because it is the work of an old friend who gave two beautiful necklaces as a gift a long time ago.
A refugee lover who bound a reckless girl to him with the jewellery.
An onyx wolf to whom an apology is in order and the guilt more than justified.
Park Jimin.
The low heels of ballerinas click on the marble linoleum floor of the bare brick space after finding a sign outside pointing towards the entrance of the grand creative event, eyes wavering to the sides to observe the sketches of faceless women while also frantically searching for the grand master himself. Shreds of murmured conversation compose a rumbling radiating flood when entering the edifice, making the discovery of the wanted man that much more difficult since a familiar voice could not possibly be recognized in this chaotic mess of speakers.
The quest is halted when the gaze wanders to the side entirely, the attention of the panicked thoughts about coming in vain and being rejected from the beginning of the conversation suddenly focusing on a grand featureless portrait. To any other person, it might signify the blank canvas an individual essentially forms, smithing yet another temporary identity to go by until it loses its beauty like its predecessors and repeating the process each time. Withal, the shape of the face is undeniable and cannot be unseen as its familiarity is unavoidable.
Self-hatred, unintended hurt, past mistakes and various trips of guilt are depicted in the simple though meaningful drawing.
It is mine.
My face.
‘It’s the biggest piece of the collection. I wanted to give this person an expression yet couldn’t because I didn’t know what it should look like. Hence, I settled for this.’ The casual tone betrays not knowing who the listener is or the artist is beating around the bush because he, too, cannot handle the strangeness of the circumstances caused by a mayhaps unwelcome visitor in the way it perhaps should be.
‘Your lines are still off.’ A slim index finger points to the traced shape of the jaw, indicating inherently nothing although the turn to bad humour somehow seems a logical direction to take in the situation. Just as it has always been since it functions as a shield against overwhelming emotions. An old habit rooted in days gone by which dies hard, as those kinds of things tend to do. ‘I thought you’d gotten better at drawing by now, Park Jimin.’
‘Y/N.’ The manner of speech indicates having recognized the admirer far before the conversation even started, relieved delight mixed with agonized graveness.
The scars still hurt.
The fumbling digits reaching out brush against those of the individual who remains focused on the image in front. Eventually, they entwine with those that had to be let go after fully committing to the steadfast faith of being a wolf, but after more hesitation upon noticing the awkward gesture than had ever been the case in the past. ‘Can you look at me?’
‘I’m sorry, Chim. For everything. I push- pushed you too far.’ The burning tears slowly begin to create small brooks over the cheeks, the unoccupied hand wiping them away as the other tries to free itself in order to make an escape. A plan that already comes too late. ‘I shou- shouldn’t even be here. I have to go.’
But the fingers of the once intimately loved beloved remain strongly wrapped around the others, their counterparts coming to rest where frantic digits endeavoured to stop the water, thumb gently continuing the attempts with affectionate sweeps. Gazes meet by means of forceful albeit kind-hearted compelling, the palm on the face of an unworthy mistress turning the head to do so and fulfil the earlier disregarded request. ‘That’s not how you apologize to someone, Y/N. You’re raised knowing better.’
Jimin has changed, not only on the inside - if there has been no help in the form of therapy to drive the insane beast out - but on the outside as well. Onyx has made place for pale sandstone which resembles limestone if the light falls on it in a specific angle, paint-stained shirts and jeans are replaced by a stylish nightly black outfit of which the shirt lights up in the purplish lilac shades of twilight whenever it is illuminated directly. Of course, this style has merely been chosen to conform to the formality of the event, though there is a suspicion former characteristic clothes and their sentiments have been abandoned aside from the casual ones that were often worn during a happening like this back in college.
The past has clearly been endeavoured to be erased.
Good.
I was not the only one trying.
Nonetheless, the most obvious physical change makes eyes widen in astonishment due to the uncharacteristic feature.
Purple flowing over in sickly yellow on cheekbones, a scar marring the left side of a sympathetic expression as full lips speak so kindly in spite of the immense wrongdoing three years ago, the bottom split in the middle by a healing scarlet wound.
Hurt.
Actual clear signs of pain.
Afraid of the impact that may or may not still be felt, two small hands - the left one slipping easily from the grip weakened by oddly loving renewed feelings - languidly rise to remove those framing a face the artist idiotically seems to adore still and trace the trail of inflicted harm with a slightly opened mouth. ‘What happened?’
A spark lights up the warm dark brown gaze of the lad who was thought never to even kill a fly, moved by the concern and showing this by the tiniest hasty smile. ‘It’s alright, Y/N. Just...’ Lashes flutter shut as the gesture is leaned into, briefly forgetting whatever coverup is created to not ignite any type of worry akin to the sort that has been tainting living in general since the first and last bittersweet night together. ‘Just business... nothing... serious.’
A warm teardrop slides down the wrist enveloped by the fingers which were good-naturedly removed, the narrow surface of skin snuggled against regardless of the barely audible pained whines the motions evoke. Teeth lightly grazing over the surface, just tangible enough to send shivers down the spine in a paradoxical mixture of pleasure and worry about the wolfish behaviour that essentially drove us apart. Furthermore, what circumstances could have asked for bodily harm, form the root for obvious pain? ‘Jimin, what’s going on? Talk to me.’
You never fought, bodily nor verbally. Did you get beat up? What happened to you? On the other hand, we both changed and know nothing anymore. Notwithstanding, just tell me. Tell me what caused this, what took place and of which the visible aftermath is so damn painful to witness without knowing the background.
The soft kiss on the pulse evokes a hitched breath, astonished by the blatant display of wishing for intimacy once more even though it brought nothing but misfortune in the past. ‘I still want you. I wish... I wish you could stay.’ The last word is a mere whisper, only audible to the ears of the listener and the speaker in the ocean of murmurs. ‘Stay with me, be mine again.’
More tears roll down the smooth skin of the forearm before watery solemn dark irises quickly turn from the former point of focus to two staring in wonder when the wrist manages to slip from the novel fairly firm hold, having made use of the temporary weak spot caused by sadness. Fast as lightning hands pull the artist into a tight embrace at seeing a quivering pillowy bottom lip, determined to keep the sobs dimmed as much as possible and to not lose face to any potential buyers or investors.
‘Don’t cry, Chim. You’re not at fault, never have been. You were right to walk away and I’m not even mad at you for doing it. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.’ Kindly, bleak sandy locks are affectionately stroked while nuzzling the old lover’s warm neck, growing drowsy, no, getting hypnotized by the heat radiating from the body still built like a dancer’s and the musky alluring scent containing hints of turpentine and summer flowers. ‘As I said, I pushed you too much and should’ve listened. But I didn’t. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’
The hug tightens, star-crossed lovers holding on to one another as if the only way to stay afloat in the turbulent sea of life is by clinging to the buoy in the shape of the other beloved.
And just for a split second, all seems well. Exactly like the old days, filled with hope for a future together.
However, the girl who ruined everything might as well drown in spite of the lifeline because the blonde lad lets go too soon, arms untangling and keeping the adored soul at bay by creating a new distance with shaking hands, just enough not to touch directly. The voice has gained a ghastly tone, speaking as if this time the farewell is permanent. ‘Let’s agree to disagree.’
A foot sweeps uncertainly over the alabaster marbled linoleum, acting as if removing a stain on it as locked gazes are briefly broken up while a hand combs through the strands that were lovingly caressed a split second ago. Withal, like is the case with the entire body, they shortly find each other again afterwards. ‘I really wish we could have a second chance, Y/N.’
‘If- If you want, we can still-’
A solitary head shake cuts off the desperate argument that was about to be given, nullifying every spark of hope which had collected and started a grand bright foolish fire within. ‘We can’t. You’re better off without me. Vice versa it’s not the case, but even though I still long for you, I know that a part of loving you comes with sacrifice and the desire for you to be happy.’
‘I was with you! In fact, I was the most cheery whenever we went out to the park to draw the flowers in the flowerbed or to the coffee shop. The most restful nights were those when you were lying beside me. Now, all that remains of those beautiful moments are these.’ Fingers clearly display the thin bronze chain with a crescent moon pendant and one that is a tad longer and made of a mixture between silver and gold with a tiger's eye matrix wolf pendant. ‘A daily reminder of what we had. Of you.’
A melancholic grin carves itself onto full plush roseate lips, an almost invisible nod acknowledging the meaning behind the jewellery which clearly does not add any convincing nor credible reason to change a stubborn mind set on its own opinion. ‘You still have them. I’m glad because I thought you’d have thrown them away. Or, if not you... never mind, I don’t want to think about that.’
‘Think about what? Jimin, you’re not making any sense. The last time you spoke in riddles, there was clearly something going on.’ The old Self awakens, having pushed aside the pathetic contemporary ego out of the overwhelming determination to not let things remain unresolved upon being compelled to part ways like before. To leave behind loose ends. ‘At least honestly tell me if everything is alright this time. Or just the reason for why you look like you fought a war and lost. Anything. Don’t send me away without a proper goodbye, fill up the distance with making this fucking lingering concern about you I’ve been living with for the past three years a heavier burden than it already is. Yes, I understand you don’t want me by your side anymore. But, I beg of you, grant me this last favour.’
‘I never said that, that I don’t want you by my side anymore so don’t put words in my mouth. Besides, if I did I wouldn’t wish for you to be mine again, would I? I can’t tell you what happened when I was gone, merely that it has to do with what caused our goodbye in the first place. As for the wounds, it’s nothing to be worried about. I’m fine.’ Hands mould into trembling fists, the emitted heat turning to menacing rage.
The made point is justified because the used wording which is reacted to never had any valid worth, to begin with. Rashness can push one’s own opinion despite the nullifications which are or are not already present, making the individual solely focused on their hellbent desire to drive their own beliefs through.
The realization of this calms the raging storm within, knowing that more yelling and arguing will lead nowhere. Instead, a deep steadying breath is taken and a new attempt at making amends undertaken. ‘Chim...’
A careful step forward is rewarded with a petrifying glance, feet immediately stuck in the place of the last retraced track. Stare wavers for a moment to the spot which was nuzzled against and kissed longingly, imagining what could have happened had the gesture advanced. Memories of the first and last night as more than friends resurface.
Even the worst event is no longer regarded in a negative light, a hidden absurd persona craving for it to happen again.
Get knotted, feel him again.
He is not a senseless beast, but a caring young man. Why do I long for that side of him, thinking in such terms? Furthermore, how did I get so carried away by just hugging? That’s never happened.
Nevertheless, the contemplating train of thoughts inherently boils down to the same wanton wish.
To be his.
‘Go.’
Simply have him back.
Resume our tale.
‘Please-’
We can work this out. We can get you help. Therapy. You’re not an animal, Jimin. You don’t have to hold back because of it. Come back. Come back to me.
‘Go!’ The command is growled like a wolf grown sick with the obligation to wait for a dumb opposing party to leave and giving a warning shot that any further provocation has consequences. The sternness rapidly fades, softening into sweet stained nostalgia when realizing what the hurtful impact of the chosen attitude is. ‘Go, Y/N. Just go. It’s better for us. For you. I have nothing to offer, nothing to be better than the man you belong to.’
‘I belong to nobody. I’m my own person.’ It is weird to hear the statement of essentially being some individual’s property being said with so much certainty when the speaker initially was the one to say a person should never be subject to another. ‘That’s what we artists are, independent and stubbornly liberated.’
A weak bubbly chuckle, no extravagant motions that express amusement as per habit. Instead, composure portrays not wanting this outcome to the circumstances either and come closer to make resume making amends as intended by the graphic designer who was once a free-spirited artist like him, continue where the mutual story abruptly ended. Yet, behaviour obviously gives away that the alternate route is not possible if it ever has been. ‘Goodbye.’
End of the line.
Don’t. Don’t do this, you bastard!
But the tongue is rendered silent, paralyzed with grieving shock and the ability to speak abandons the mute girl with the leaving footsteps of a sandstone wolf clad in black like the starry night sky.
The same heaven above a lonely head wandering the street again after leaving the gallery, fighting to tune out the repeating material of the emotional conversation while low heels click against the concrete. Regardless, the words are resonating as if freshly spoken and fingers have the remnants of touches by other ones clearly engraved in muscle memory.
But they have to take a moment to remember the hand grabbing them now for, although more recent than Jimin’s, it seems a longer period of time has passed since it was held by this particular one. Even longer so for the voice accompanying it, containing a strange sort of confidence that would have been quite uncharacteristic up until last January. ‘He left you again, didn’t he?’
Raven locks partially shroud feverish yet trusted doe eyes above a cute nose, a paradoxical bunny-like smile playing on pale pink lips seemingly belonging to a predator. But the person in front after accidentally bumping into them after being pulled flush against a well-trained chest is known to be better than that, never having had the aura of cunning dominance. Henceforth, looking down is the kind gentle boy with the scratched back who disappeared because of the reasons another had already given three years prior.
But Time has the ability to evoke a transformation in every aspect of and being in existence and it forms the cause for this grown-up version of a shy comic artist whose creative persona is a pink muscly rabbit. Although all former anticipating illusions are forever erased by the reflection, it is still a grand comfort to see a familiar face which holds the credible promise of staying. Thus, there is a glad surrender to the intoxicating heat scented with a delicious potion of peppermint, blue ink, markers, lily and jasmine.
To the hands framing the face perfectly and body pressing against one drunk on the temporary happiness offered by the situation.
To Jungkook.
#BTS#BTS smut#BTS x Reader#BANGTANARMYNET#btsguild#BTS Werewolf AU#Werewolf AU#Jimin#Park Jimin#Werewolf!Jimin#Artist!Jimin
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From the Archives: Unpacking Branson: A Thanksgiving Improbability
By Don Hall
For Thanksgiving in 2012, I was single and Mom decided that I should come out to my step-sister's place in Branson, Missouri for a good old-fashioned country Thanksgiving. The carrot was family. The stick was Missouri.
In the late 1960s it was pretty much a tiny city in the Ozarks known for roadside stands peddling wares that proliferated the hillbilly stereotype. And, sure enough, there are still today roadside stands that exist only to continue to make fun of that stereotype. It's an odd thing to walk into a business in the middle of the Ozarks that sells you the stereotype it tries to escape from. Like buying a taxi cab medallion from an East Indian store or an “I’m a Wetback” T-shirt in a store that sells Mexican merchandise.
It is said you cannot judge a book by its cover.
This is true most of the time, but there are some things you can judge immediately by its cover and pretty much know what your getting.
An Ann Coulter book.
Sean Hannity.
A FOX News broadcast.
Great America.
Applebee's.
I assumed that Branson, Missouri would fall into this latter category. I was right and wrong. And the complexities made it a real trip to remember.
Branson is where the Beverly Hillbillies came from before moving to California.
A winding series of roads littered with signs and theaters and restaurants. Lots of bumper stickers that declare “I’d Rather Be Dead Than SOCIALIST” and random tributes to past GOP glory. In the three days we trucked around the city, I counted perhaps one hundred people of color the entire time — I didn't start the trip by calculating this but after a bit, it was hard to escape. Thousands of old white people with canes and wheelchairs abounded but that doesn't really look that much different than Navy Pier or the audience at Chicago Shakes — old white people like to be tourists and Branson is, after all, a haven of tourism.
My step-sister, Hannah, tells me that the crack business booms among the residents of Branson and there is evidence around if you’re looking for it. The place is slightly schizophrenic in its place as a home to rednecks and hillbillies while trying desperately to distance itself from that by appealing to the tourist trade. There are places that stink of what one expects in Ozarks — a biker bar called the Hawg Trough that even my pro-GOP brother-in-law avoids and a Smoke Shop that doesn't sell cigarettes and has a pit bull guarding the door. But there are surprises that popped up during my three-day Thanksgiving vacation that defied my pre-judged expectations.
The surprises came in weird ways. When I arrived, we ate at a place called the Rowdy Beaver — a place with T-shirts that trumpeted “I Like Bald Beaver” and “That's A Mighty Nice Beaver” and had washboard walls. The thing that surprised was that the food was out of this world. It was delicious and well prepared and not at all what I expected. ��Our chef prepares everything from fresh ingredients,” trumpeted our waitress who seemed completely fine with her job at a place filled with such juvenile innuendo.
The Hollywood Wax Museum was fun but the wax figures left me a bit wanting — a frequent refrain of our visit was my niece saying “Who's that?” and me doing my best to figure it out. I tried to convince my family to go to Silver Dollar City so I could find and steal a urinal cake but it was $60 per person and even I couldn't argue that $300 was reasonable for me to complete a toilet cookie tale. We had tickets to a magic show billed as the World's Largest (by the way, every attraction in Branson is billed as “Show of the Year,” “The Most Amazing in the World,” and “Mindblowing”) but the show was cancelled due to illness. Turns out Kirby VanBurch’s greatest trick is to take your money and disappear.
Our replacement show for the afternoon was going to be either Jim Stafford (I desperately wanted to see this) or SIX (the nieces had heard it was awesome). Stafford only did an 8 p.m. show, so SIX at the Mickey Gilley Theater it was.
SIX is six middle-aged brothers who debuted on the Donnie and Marie Show and have fashioned themselves as sort of an older version of an a cappella boy band. As soon as they started with a cheeseball version of Don’t Stop Believin’, Hannah and I turned to each other with a look of pained resignation. These guys had pretty good voices and the arrangements were fine but the self-consciously hip pose and cornball attempts at cool banter was unbearable. I learned that wanting to see an awful Branson show and actually sitting through one are two different things. I also learned that I will never, as a middle-aged white guy, ever use the words “homie” or “peeps” ever again. To be fair, the second act was better — a selection of Christmas songs and a tribute to their dead mother. Apparently this tiny woman had ten children, all boys, and I suspect she isn't dead but just got the fuck out of there before having to bear an eleventh kid. But the damage of the first act left me scarred and a little terrified of that evening’s show — Legends at the Dick Clark American Bandstand Theater.
Legends is a show that debuted in Vegas and moved to Branson. It is a rotating cast of celebrity impersonators ranging from Barry White, Marilynn Monroe and Tim McGraw to the staples of Elvis Presley and Michael Jackson. Our bill was George Strait, Whitney Houston, the Blues Brothers, Liberace and Elvis. As we entered and sat down, once again surrounded by octogenarians, I steeled myself. This was going to be fucking awful.
And it wasn’t.
Really. In fact, it was a blast. The Whitney Houston knocked it out of the park, Liberace was funny but completely inappropriate in a callback to the dark days of The Gay Closet and the Elvis impersonator was so fucking good, if we had been sitting in the nose bleeds it would’ve been like actually seeing Elvis live. My mom, a huge Elvis fan from when he was alive, commented that he was the best Elvis impersonator she had ever seen. Hell, even my teenaged nieces enjoyed the show.
But we saved the best, most Branson-y show for Saturday. Yakov Smirnoff. Holy shit. I couldn’t wait. I was absolutely certain it would embody everything I expected Branson to be — cheesy, cloying, the very portrait of a has-been celebrity stretching out his 15 minutes of fame as paper thin as he could in the heart of the Vegas of the Ozarks. We were greeted by a giant Yakov head making awful jokes about... the size of his head! Inside, it turned out that Yakov was a painter and had his paintings for sale!
The beginning of the show was the longest version of the national anthem I’ve ever heard (who know there were, like, nine verses?) and then I was hit with another fucking surprise. On the video screens came an old Paul Harvey “The Rest of the Story” about a painter known as Jacob who painted and commissioned a painting in tribute to the fallen at Ground Zero in NYC following the Attacks of 9/11. Painted on the side of a building overlooking the rubble, it was the backdrop to the first anniversary of the attacks. The painter was an anonymous Yakov Smirnoff. He paid for the commission out of his own pocket.
Some of his show was what I expected: a revisitation of his “What a Country!” schtick from the ’80s—a sketch of him as the president answering questions from the audience, and he actually quoted the Lee Greenwood God Bless the U.S.A. as a closer. But other parts were not at all what I anticipated. Turns out that Yakov went out and got a Master's Degree in psychology and decided that his show could also serve as a relationship counseling session as well. Sort of like Defending the Caveman meets a less arrogant Dr. Phill with the takeaway being that we begin relationships laughing and giving each other little gifts and that, if we simply return to giving each other gifts and finding laughter in our relationships, we’ll be happier, healthier people.
Was it a great show? Not really. The dancers were cheesy and only there to fill time, the jokes were funny in a “Yeah, I remember that one” sort of way, the political stuff was tame (although at one point, Yakov asked the audience who was happy with the results of the latest election — a smattering of applause that included my mother and I enthusiastically cheering — and who was ticked off by it — a thundering, slightly ugly ovation — with the Russian comic commenting “Yeah, that's about even...”) and the recurring pro-America stuff was hard to hear after a while. But the thing is... I liked him.
I mean, I really liked the guy. He was so overwhelmingly sincere and genuine. Christ, I wanted to hug him. And, while his show is corny and inoffensive and gentle and perfect for the Branson tourist crowd, this is a guy who lives in Branson, Missouri suggesting that people spend time laughing and loving one another instead of being shitbags.
Prejudice is a funny thing. Judging books by their covers is what we do as people. I imagine it’s a hard drive instinct. But, as I am often heard saying, while we are all unique and precious snowflakes and each of us is completely distinct, we are all made of fucking snow. We all are simply people trying our best to get along in the world. Yes, that means that our baser, uglier instincts come to play like ordinary people rioting in a Walmart on Black Friday to get a discount on a portable DVD player. It also means that our better, more generous nature comes into play, and sometimes it's nice to be reminded that even in Red State Hell, Yakov Smirnoff is telling thousands of people every week to just be fucking nicer to each other.
On Thanksgiving, the point is to be with friends or family and celebrate those things in our lives we are (or should be) thankful for. Sure, the holiday is laden with cultural markers that include the genocide of the Native Americans and our national quest to bequeath every American with diabetes but the point is gratitude. Gratitude can come from a lot of places and I’m thankful to remember the lessons I learned in Branson.
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People of the Edwardian phase of the Hundred Years War as dril tweets
Philippe VI de France: Time and time Again. People on here Fuck me over and ruin my life. simply for starting the Dialouge.
Edward III of England: thinking of wrapping my entire body in barbed wire and becoming Sovereign.
Jehan II de France: a teen approached me at the food court and said “I see you wore your clown costume today” and i spent the next 9 hours processing the insult.
Jehanne de Bourgogne: CHILD: Papa.. tell me once more about WIFE’s DUTY. PAPA: it is WIFE’s DUTY to protect her husband from villains, always.
Jitka Lucemburská: Damn. the MomTown forums just started requiring 4 point Mom Verificaiton to be able to post there for some reason..anyone got a work around?
Philippa de Hainaut: my opinion on politics: my opinion on politics is that politidcs is extremely good, but sometimes it is bad.
Ludwig IV, Holy Roman Emperor: bigmouth fake priest telling me to “drink a shitload of holy water and kill yourself” as penance? this has happened at three churches now.
Pope Benedict XII: it is with a heavy heart that i must announce that the celebs are at it again.
Jehan III, duc de Bretagne: i just left an enormous pile of vomit behind golds gym for all of you abominable pig clowns to pick at #blackfridaydeals
Robert III d’Artois: (in really quiet, barely audible voice) hope your dick falls of bitch.
Hugues Quiéret: currently employed as Water Guru at the beach. it’s sort of like being a lifeguard except i have no inclination to touch the drowning people.
Geoffroy d’Harcourt: OH im so Fucking sorry “Your Majesty”, i didnt realize that dick rings were banished in this dystopian piss earth. Ur probably a 9gag poster.
Jacob van Artevelde: (in highly rational and cool voice) i have the higher follower count than them. i wiont let them undermine me.
Pope Clement VI: may the wind carry my tweets and soothte the sick, the wounded, the downtrodden of both man & beast, across the savage shit earth of trolls,
Jehanne de Valois, comtesse de Hainaut: startling how im the only person on this site with an actual human soul. you would think the other guys on here have one, but no.
Eudes IV, duc de Bourgogne: myth: making me mad is cool FACT: making me mad is a crap move& people who do it are all sociopathivc criminals with fucked up rotten brains.
Jehan de Montfort: turning my headlights off when driving at night,.. so that my Rivals cannot see me.
Jehanne de Flandre: i just want to find the optimal bra for sniper operations, but everoyne here is so rude, and pieces of shit.
Johann der Blinde of Bohemia: Q: If your post was proven by a counsil of wise men to be racist, or bullshit, would you bar it from the record? A: I do not delete my posts.
Charles II, comte d’Alençon: ((SPILLING BLOOD ALL OVER KEYBOARD) THIS IS WHAT U WANT. THIS IS WHAT U FUCKING BASTARDS WANT RIGHT (1 WEEK LATER) WHY ARE THE KEYS STICKING
Jehanne de Clisson: as far as im concerned the best revenge is ordering wolf piss online & pouring it into soneones car. “living well” is too hard.
Arnaud de Cervole: i will raze every forest and devour each city in blood tribute for the crime of 9/11!! please nbring back blue collar TV
Frank Hennequin: the jduge orders me to take off my anonymous v mask & im wearing the joker makeup underneath it. everyone in the courtroom groans at my shit.
William Montagu, 1st Earl of Salisbury: im at the point in my life where i cant relate to any popular fictional characters unless they use massive amounts of hair gel and steriods.
Antonio Doria: my name is Destyn. i build crossbows and sell weed to all your dads and im 15.
Gautier VI de Brienne: MYTH: my posts are for the Pauper REALITY: my posts are for the Prince.
Étienne Marcel: looked at a newspaper today. looks like we’re getting taxed out the wazoo, with this president. anyone else see this shit? tax out the wazoo.
Guillaume Cale: “FEAR IS USED 2 ENSLAVE THE MASSES,” I SAID AS I RIPPED THE FUCKIN DECORATIVE CARDBOARD SKELETON OFF OF THE COMMUNITY CENTERS BULLETIN BOARD
Edward Montagu, 1st Baron Montagu: girls always love to telling people not to“ Mansplain” but they do not care of, “Man's Pain”
Louis Iᵉʳ, comte de Flandre: 1) i do not owe you mother fuckers a damn thing 2) i will not hear any more questions or comments unless they pertain to MetroPCS, or Pepsi.
Philippe III de Navarre: the crusaders fire ballistas into my throbbing diaper- unlesashing a torrent of mustard yellow shit and poisoning the entire village.
Gaston II, comte de Foix: i am going to plunge a sword into our bed and officially end outr 40 yr marriage if you do not stop yelling while i am recording my stream’s.
Henry de Grosmont, 1st Duke of Lancaster: please help my cousin “Bruno_THought_Leader” who just had his account suspended for threatening to “Fuck” brexit.
Robert Le Coq, Bishop of Laon: i have absolutely zero interest in friendship, i have absolutely zero interest in jokes, i am simply here to collect data and earn respect.
Jehan Iᵉʳ, comte d’Armagnac: the joke is on you fuck face. i actually love getting screamed at and publicly shamed for my dumb-assed bull shit . I love apologizing.
Bardi and Peruzzi families: boy oh boy do i love purchasing large amounnts of Fool’s Gold. wait a minute... fools gold fucking sucks. this stuff is no good..!! Fuck !!!
Jehanne II de Navarre: i regret being tasked the emotional burden of maintaining the final bastion of morality and NIce manners in this endless ocean of human SHIT.
William de Bohun, 1st Earl of Northampton: if you have less than 1000 followers i can guarantee you that me and the boys share your posts in vip chat rooms and call you a "Muthafucka”.
William de la Pole: thinking about getting the dow jones back on track, simply by making a few phonecalls. but certain people have been a bitch to me, so i wont.
Thomas de Beauchamp, 11th Earl of Warwick: shutting computer down until the shitty moods & attitudes can fuck off., if you need me ill be on my other computer, sititng 60° to my right.
Thomas Holland, 1st Earl of Kent: ive heard from a reliable source that people arre putting their lips on to my girl friends avatars and going “muah muah muah.” cut it out.
Raoul II de Brienne, comte d’Eu: hate it when my boss knocks out the front leg of my desk with a baseball bat and funko pop lego shit flies every where.
Karel IV, Holy Roman Emperor: “RESULT You are the Serpant. YOu dislike loud places and people are constantly putting drama in your life. But you’re strong.” This is true.
Charles de Blois-Châtillon: torturing my damn dick with corn cob holders in Penance for the foul tone i took with the subway corporation today.
Jehanne de Penthièvre: i help every body, im not racist, i keep myself nice, and when i ask for a single re-tweet in return i am told to fuck off, fuck myself, etc.
Jacques Iᵉʳ de Bourbon, comte de La Marche: “ah boo hoo hoo i want to post Foul comments to content leaders” Fat Chance, Dimwit. I will annihilate you under bulwark of the Law and God.
John Chandos: DOCTOR: you cant keep doing this to yourself. being The Last True Good Boy online will destroy you. you must stop posting with honor ME: No,
Jehan d’Artos, comte d’Eu: , who had gone missing for 17 years and was presumed dead after failing to return from his ultimate dumpster diving life quest
William Douglas, 1st Earl of Douglas: i get emails. i get emails saying the trolls have won, and that i should bow to them, since i have lost the battle. to this i say FAT-CHANCE.
David II of Scotland: “jail isnt real,” i assure myself as i close my eyes and ram the hallmark gift shop with my shitty bronco.
Charles de La Cerda: i think that turning myself Gay in the summer of 2013 would really impress my overseas investors.
William de Montagu, 2nd Earl of Salisbury: my watch beeps whwich means its time to stand in front of my ex-wife’s house and play “Hit THe Road Jack” while dacning and licking her mail.
Edward the Black Prince: IF THE ZOO BANS ME FOR HOLLERING AT THE ANIMALS I WILL FACE GOD AND WALK BACKWARDS INTO HELL
Jehan III de Grailly: its fucked up how there are like 1000 christmas songs but only 1 song aboutr the boys being back in town.
Louis II, comte de Flandre: U Have Forced Me To Take Extreme Measures To Protect My Business And My Lifestyle.
Blanche de Navarre: the wise man bowed his head solemnly and spoke “theres actually zero difference between good & bad things. you imbecile. you fucking moron”
Charles II de Navarre: Sovereign Citizens Getting Owned Compilation
Philippe de Navarre: shooting off automatic rifles making horrible diarrhea shit noises as the recoil makes my tiny dick flop around. hell yeah. thats cool to me.
Charles, Dauphin de Viennois: surprise, dad. while you were witnessing the pennsylvania state lottery i tried on all your work gloves and they looked very handsome on me.
#hundred years' war#medieval#dril#english history#french history#european history#history#i should be making a rubric but this is way more fun
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Dream Journal: The Train
I had a dream I was playing an open world RPG and there as an achievement for completing this ‘train tour’ that was famous in the lore for being the best and greatest tour in the world. So I grinded until an enemy dropped a ‘ticket’ and I went to the nearest station to start the tour.
So I boarded the train, and noticed there were these weird little ledges up over the seats that everyone seemed to be fighting over. For whatever reason, they were considered more luxurious then normal seats, but unlike the seats, were first come first serve. Over the intercom the conductor told us that they had better seats up there in honor of African Americans who had to give up those seats on the bus, and were originally installed so anyone who faced prejudice would still be allowed to ride the train. However, since these extra seats were such a famous part of this renowned tour, everyone was fighting with each other to sit in the special seats. Including myself. Idk why I cared so much, but I did.
So the train gets rolling and I spend the entire time squabbling with others until suddenly the train lifts off the ground and begins to fly. I smile to myself and admire the beautiful landscape, and soon we arrive at a station in the clouds. The conductor announces that this is one of the many spots in the tour, but warns us that if we spend too much time at the stop the train will leave without us.
While everyone else floods out to see the shops and stuff, I just poke my head out to grab some candy and a snack and then try to go right back to the train, because I want to get a spot on the special seats. However, I dont know how to get back. A new quest pops above my head.
The Conductor’s Sneaky Brother
The quest states that the renowned conductor has a sneaky little brother who tries to prank his older sister by getting people lost at the stations so they cannot reboard the train. I see other player characters below desperately trying to do the mini quests that he forces us to do within the time limit, so they can get back to the train.
One of the main quests is that we have to transport bits of brittle colorful chalk to these little wooden bins, while the little brother explains:
“These are for my sister! And the chalk are like a promise! you wouldn't break a promise to my sister, would you?”
Timed challenges stress me out. I consider reseting the quest but this time just staying on the train, but I look online on a tutorial that says if I had stayed on the train the car would have been attacked by hornets and stung by their queen, and I would have had to pay 200 gold for an antidote. So while everyone else is hurriedly trying to transport the chalk without breaking it, I just walk to the very end where there is a pull elevator. I try to pull the elevator down and step onto it, but the brother jumps down with me to weigh down the elevator so I cant pull myself up.
Instead of trying to push him off, I teach the little brother how to climb the elevator ropes, and manage to BS my way past his quest.
The conductor’s mother comes across and asks what we’re doing, and the brother says that because I got past his prank so easily he wants to give up being a little shit and just ride his sister’s train. The mother looks to me and asks what I’m doing, and since I dont wanna have to replay the dumb mini game I insist that I just want to look after the little brother.
Immediately following, the station has transformed into a fire-and-brimstone level design, the train looking like some lovecraftian hell beast thing. Think Primordus. And I’m trying to run to get back on the train, but then the conductor speaks over the intercom.
“My little brother just tripped and fell and died. I can’t imagine someone so selfish who promises to watch him so they can get back on the train, then just abandons him. They deserve to be torn to bits!”
I see that three other player characters made the same mistake I did, and the train drives straight into a blender where we all die and have to reload.
I’m back at the brother cutscene, but this time I hold onto him and look after him the entire way back.
This time the station is made out of plants and flowers, and the train itself has transformed into a river of lilypads. A new quest pops up and the conductor says:
“You seem so invested in my family, what is your favorite thing about my mother, father, and little brother? It’d be a shame if you’re only pretending, and you dont really know them at all.”
And I’m like. “fuck” and look down at the options. There’s a prickly lilypad that I immediately chose for the brother. “I like how sharp he is” and then there’s a flower and a stem lily pad. I put the dad on the stem one and say “I like how sturdy he is” and the mom on the flower, “I like her petals.” and then hop on the remaining lilypad and wait for her to kill me. I’m sure I got it wrong, but it was a timed event so I couldn’t open up a walkthrough.
But weirdly enough, I didnt die, and was immediately placed in a private car on the train with the conductor’s family, me still having a protective arm curled around the little brother. The mother talks to me like I’m a new addition to the family, and I resolve to protect them as best I can from now on. I keep held tight to him throughout the bumpy ride, always terrified that either me or him will lose our grip and fall off.
Eventually we come to a brick tunnel, and the conductor explains over the comm:
“This was built for the homeless and starving, its a never ending feast!”
And we see all this food on a table, with people eating it. I speculate that taking food will just make the conductor angry for stealing it out of the mouths of the hungry, and just continue holding on to the little brother. We pass through this tunnel six times, until finally the train stops and we’re in this weird industrial yard.
I finally see the conductor, and she’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. She marches up to me and demands what I’m doing. The mother speaks up for me and says that I’m a part of her family now, but the conductor doesn’t buy it. She reveals, (which I had began to speculate by now) that the train tour was really just a way to weed out the most selfish, people who used and abused other’s to stay on the train would be killed horribly. Thats why she had her little brother try and keep people from getting back on, thats why she had all those moral tests, so she asked what kind of sick person I was to be so devoted to lying and pretending to be a good person that I’d join a new family just for a stupid train tour.
I said that I legitimately care about the family, and she asked if I cared about her little brother. I look down and see that he’s transformed into this weird plantlike snake that’s coiled around my arm, because apparently feelings of love spark their race into transforming into the next stage of their evolution. I freak out and set him down, thinking that if I just leave that he’ll go back to normal. The conductor mocks me for trying to abandon them, and says that I did hurt my brother, for pretending I cared about him just so I could pass some morality test, and then immediately trying to abandon him.
The mother stands up for me though, and tries to get us back aboard the train. I pick up the flower snake child and apologize to him, stroking his head and telling him I’ll always be there for him. I know that the last reveal about the train is going to be that the conductor is a lich or something, or that I’m the one turning into the conductor as I take her place, but I promised that I’d be there for the brother so I keep going.
We walked through the halls of this eerily quiet station, all the while the mother tells me that I’m a good person while the conductor tells me I’m a fraud.
I woke up before we got to reboard the train, because dreams dont have to have conclusive endings.
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Gehenna
31,536,000
Awake. I'm awake. So very awake. So very, very alive.
Awake. That makes no sense.
Alive. That makes even less sense…
How can I feel so alive when it is now the one thing I am not.
Oh. I forgot about death. So sudden and yet so comforting.
Death was a simple chain of events.
Cliff.
Running.
Slipping.
Falling.
Rocks.
Bleeding.
Fading.
Confusion.
I was so very confused. Am. Was. Am? Was. The fact that I was dying was clear. Accepted without a second thought. The end of life had always been inevitable: it was the extension that shocked me. I was confused by my shattered belief.
There is more after death.
Call it whatever you like, but there is more.
I had expected endless nothing. The drift of oblivion.
So why do I feel this alive?
31,532,000
I see them. The seconds. A literal countdown burning into my consciousness, branding my very existence, which is already questionable. As the numbers tick down so do the seconds, although what their final goal is, remains unknown. But still they tick down, millions of seconds, equating to so many minutes, hours, days, months, maybe even years? With every drop in digit comes a baffling sense of inevitability. The seconds are seared into my thoughts, screaming some form of impending consequence. As to what that consequence will be I do not know and am truly unsure as to whether I will want to.
31,531,816
Where am I? This place… nothing like the myths and legends, no resemblance to the descriptions in storybooks. No fire raging, no sharp edged caverns or distorted demons, no king of sin to dictate pain.
Under my hand the ground feels dry, not like hot sand, but instead dirt drained of moisture, cracks running in uncoordinated patterns, leaving trails just wide enough to barely accommodate my pinkie finger. The dust loosely hovers over the earth, with each whisper of a breath it rushes into the still air, the only disturbance for miles. I should get up, lying here is doing nothing. Pushing up from the ground is near impossible, almost futile. The feeling of energy consumes me as if I could run without end; but my body displays betrayal, my muscles straining to lift me from this dusty tomb. Energy without strength.
31,530,378
I doubt it has ever taken me this long to stand, even on the countless Monday mornings when waking is the most difficult of tasks. But this is something new. Muscles screaming when tensed in the slightest, losing all strength moments later, like jelly under a spoon, they have but seconds of resistance; the pattern is maddening.
Tense.
Breathe.
Push.
Breathe.
Fall.
Sigh.
Repeat.
At first, I have willpower. The need to stand, to feel in control, was all consuming. But soon futility takes over, corrupting my desire. For ages, I just lie there, overcome with self-pity. But there is another force at play. Agitation. Initially, it’s slight discomfort. But later it evolves. Drowning out every other sense, digging its way into my mind, cleaving its poisonous claws into what little comprehension of reality I have left.
Silence, the silence is deafening but deceptive. First a mumble in the distance, then a whisper, then hushed chatter, a nervous introvert, a confident extrovert, then a boisterous loudmouth, a call demanding attention, a shout to catch all ears, and then a roar of a battle cry. From the slightest disturbance to clawing through ears, tearing talons, tainted with the intent of bedlam into sane minds.
Irritation makes me stand. The boredom which has become unbearable, the hundredth trace of the same cracks, the identical flecks of dirt that rise with each breath and embed into my eyes. The flurry of repetition soon overrules all previous senses who fought for calm. I can no longer lie here.
31,529,427
Once standing I last for just a minute, or 57 seconds as the countdown mocks. I fall to my knees, arms hanging loosely behind me, brushing my feet, head lolling back, too heavy to support. I attempt to open my eyes, to at least see the hell I am trapped in, but the little strength I have left is used to stop me from revisiting the ground.
31,529,192
After a while, I can feel it burn, the dominant heat which lures the little moisture I have left into its embrace. My skin begins to crisp and sting, lips chapped, their splits crying as each fleck of dust joins in. And still, I cannot move.
31,528,986
I should have moved earlier. Skin tears at each other when I go to stand, the sweat like glue, pulling flakes of skin with it as it disconnects. Seared nerves gnaw at me, screaming between bites, demanding recognition. Dirt coats my shins in thick layers, any attempts to brush it away prove futile, clashing with the layers that already clings to my hand, erupting into puffs of blinding grit. Standing is tedious work, always on the edge of falling.
31,528,638
I'm not ready to open my eyes. What's seen cannot be unseen. And once I see the world which I now stand in, it will become reality. I do not really want to let go of the ‘Before’, but need surpasses desire. My eyes are soldered shut by clumps of earth, which have transformed my lashes into coats hardened clay by the searing heat. Gingerly I pinch them, striving to pull the chunks free. After several attempts and the loss of many lashes, my eyes are finally free.
31,528,411
The world is a smudge of oranges, browns, and ochres. My vision stubbornly refuses to adjust, leaving me drifting in blurred confusion. As my sight eventually slowly returns I see the unseen.
There is no horizon. No infinite path on which I can run. All I see is a wall, a wall that is boxed around me, that feels infinite in proportions. It is not made of brick nor concrete, wood nor metal, but just the dreary brown of the ground I stand on. The plates of dehydrated earth sprint for miles before abruptly shooting upwards, a seamless 90° turn. The four walls surround me on all sides, initiating a devastating sense of claustrophobia, regardless of the vast space.
31,528,288
The sky is not the one I know. Not the same as I played under as a child, bathed under, lived under. No sun nor clouds, no moon no stars, no resemblance to reality. Instead, I see but a void, a void of eternal darkness, a darkness which glows. In a way unknown the void emits light without a single change in shade, as much as I stare at it I do not see any familiar blue, nothing. I can no longer stare up and feel unexplainable freedom, undefinable loneliness. This ‘sky’ is not the escape which I treasured in life, but a gateway to sorrow and the fear of oblivion.
31,527,983
The need to escape is primal; I have to look for a way out, although, in truth, I doubt such saviour exists. Like a child following a trail of candy, I stagger forward to the closest wall, stumbling and tripping over the most prominent splits, causing a stampede of grit when I lose all balance, once again meeting the ground. But I’m getting close now and, fuelled by my desperation, I start to run.
31,524,735
I’m tasting freedom now and greet the wall with full force. I don’t even have the wherewithal to protect my face from impact. The slamming collision with the wall rattles what little cognition I have, letting me scrabble at the wall for a hold, leaving me reeling back onto the unrelenting ground.
31,524,151
My loss of consciousness is only temporary, induced by the dual impact of my head against, firstly, the wall and, secondly, the earth. Almost six hundred seconds out, proving to be more of a relief than a burden, a break from my twisted reality. But I have to wake up, to continue my quest to find an exit which my heart tells me I have no hope of finding.
31,524,028
Getting up is easier this time, clawing at the breaks in the wall to pull myself from the ground, leaning against it for support. Leaning heavily against the wall, waiting for my legs to find their strength, and my motivation to return. My right-hand stays pressed against the wall as I continue towards the nearest corner, sandpapering my skin as I walk. But I am too scared of failure to walk on my own, without my strange support. I’m sure the corner is getting closer, and with it, my freedom.
31,521,926
There is no exit at the corner. Just more of the same. So I continue. My hands now bloodied to the bone.
31,518,147
No exit. Still nothing different.
31,515,792
Wall. So much wall.
31,512,611
This is it. The last corner. Home run, the entire wall is just earth bled of its moisture, cracked and gritty. There is nothing here. Nothing but me and the torturing void which clouds my every thought. And the one feeling which has been tearing at my mind for every second I have been here, the one I have refused to acknowledge, the feeling slowly driving me insane. Thirst. Water, the force of life, the animalistic need to find hydration in this barren wasteland.
31,512,470
Now that my thirst it has been acknowledged it refuses to dissipate. Thirst is my puppeteer, my disembodied movements dictated by the need for hydration.
31,512,228
I can hear it. The sound of running water. The small trickle of a stream, echoing through the miniature canyons of the wall above me. It slowly trickles down from the top of the wall, as far as my eyes can see.
31,509,659
I’m finally here, after easily three thousand six hundred seconds of walking, three thousand six hundred seconds of watching water drip, drop by drop, closer and closer still. It is but half a meter from reaching distance, a tiny stream, a pathetic amount of water, but water nonetheless. Hooking my fingers into the earth, pulling up onto my tiptoes, stretching as far as I can reach, pressed as close to the stream as I can, pleading for just a drop. Nothing. There is nothing. As the water falls from the wall it evaporates in the heat, dry air as it’s only replacement.
31,505,925
I've been here for over seven thousand two hundred seconds now, crumpled on the floor, watching dirt crumbling in a dusty waterfall, disturbing the miniature structures of earth. Each new hairline crack in the plate sprouts a new split in my fragile sanity. My hands shake, I can no longer stand, my lips have grown canyons of their own, and my tongue mimics the earth beneath me. If I could cry, I’d drink my tears but my eyes are dry riverbeds of their own.
31,504,289
The cracked mirrors of my eyes perceive an impossibility. First one drop and then another. All that waiting for a single trickle and now water pours in gallons from the void above. I pull myself up with the aid of the wall; stumbling backwards, arms stretched out, head thrown back to the sky, my mouth as wide as possible, to drink until I can drink no more.
I wait for an eternity. The rain pours from the sky like an injured child’s tears, but I feel no water on my lips. Turning my head away from the void I see droplets of water perch on my skin before quickly racing away. As they run their colour stays clear, not a single speck of the earth coating my skin infects its clarity as if I am waterproof. In a desperate attempt to drink, I place my parched lips onto the skin of my forearm and try to suck the rain from my skin. Immediately I fall to the ground in a fit of uncontrollable coughs: the earth that was on my arm now coats my dry throat. There is no water; only tears which evaporate before leaving my eyes.
I throw my entire body backwards, landing spread-eagled on the ground, watching the rain fall, feeling it coat my entire being. The persisting thirst is now but a cause of my pain, for there are no thoughts in my mind but the counting of the seconds. 31,504,011; 31,504,010; 31,504,009……...
31,503,872
I scream a silent scream as each raindrop steals a piece of my remaining sanity. But with this bedlam comes a sense of clarity. These seconds equate a year, and a year of hell holds only one truth.
This is the wait of purgatory.
-L
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Unpacking Branson: A Thanksgiving Improbability
By Don Hall
For Thanksgiving in 2012, I was single and Mom decided that I should come out to my step-sister's place in Branson, Missouri for a good old-fashioned country Thanksgiving. The carrot was family. The stick was Missouri.
In the late 1960s it was pretty much a tiny city in the Ozarks known for roadside stands peddling wares that proliferated the hillbilly stereotype. And, sure enough, there are still today roadside stands that exist only to continue to make fun of that stereotype. It's an odd thing to walk into a business in the middle of the Ozarks that sells you the stereotype it tries to escape from. Like buying a taxi cab medallion from an East Indian store or an "I'm a Wetback" t-shirt in a store that sells Mexican merchandise.
It is said you cannot judge a book by its cover.
This is true most of the time, but there are some things you can judge immediately by its cover and pretty much know what your getting.
An Ann Coulter book.
Sean Hannity.
A FOX News broadcast.
Great America.
Applebee's.
I assumed that Branson, Missouri would fall into this latter category. I was right and wrong. And the complexities made it a real trip to remember.
Branson is where the Beverly Hillbillies came from before moving to California.
A winding series of roads littered with signs and theaters and restaurants. Lots of bumper stickers that declare "I'd Rather Be Dead Than SOCIALIST" and random tributes to past GOP glory. In the three days we trucked around the city, I counted perhaps one hundred people of color the entire time—I didn't start the trip by calculating this but after a bit, it was hard to escape. Thousands of old white people with canes and wheelchairs abounded but that doesn't really look that much different than Navy Pier or the audience at Chicago Shakes—old white people like to be tourists and Branson is, after all, a haven of tourism.
My step-sister, Hannah, tells me that the crack business booms among the residents of Branson and there is evidence around if you're looking for it. The place is slightly schizophrenic in its place as a home to rednecks and hillbillies while trying desperately to distance itself from that by appealing to the tourist trade. There are places that stink of what one expects in Ozarks—a biker bar called the Hawg Trough that even my pro-GOP brother-in-law avoids and a Smoke Shop that doesn't sell cigarettes and has a pit bull guarding the door. But there are surprises that popped up during my three-day Thanksgiving vacation that defied my pre-judged expectations.
The surprises came in weird ways. When I arrived, we ate at a place called the Rowdy Beaver—a place with t-shirts that trumpeted "I Like Bald Beaver" and "That's A Mighty Nice Beaver" and had washboard walls. The thing that surprised was that the food was out of this world. It was delicious and well prepared and not at all what I expected. "Our chef prepares everything from fresh ingredients," trumpeted our waitress who seemed completely fine with her job at a place filled with such juvenile innuendo.
The Hollywood Wax Museum was fun but the wax figures left me a bit wanting—a frequent refrain of our visit was my niece saying "Who's that?" and me doing my best to figure it out. I tried to convince my family to go to Silver Dollar City so I could find and steal a urinal cake but it was $60 per person and even I couldn't argue that $300 was reasonable for me to complete a toilet cookie tale. We had tickets to a magic show billed as the World's Largest (by the way, every attraction in Branson is billed as "Show of the Year," "The Most Amazing in the World," and "Mindblowing") but the show was cancelled due to illness. Turns out Kirby VanBurch's greatest trick is to take your money and disappear.
Our replacement show for the afternoon was going to be either Jim Stafford (I desperately wanted to see this) or SIX (the nieces had heard it was awesome). Stafford only did an 8 p.m. show, so SIX at the Mickey Gilley Theater it was.
SIX is six middle-aged brothers who debuted on the Donnie and Marie Show and have fashioned themselves as sort of an older version of an a cappella boy band. As soon as they started with a cheeseball version of Don't Stop Believin', Hannah and I turned to each other with a look of pained resignation. These guys had pretty good voices and the arrangements were fine but the self-consciously hip pose and cornball attempts at cool banter was unbearable. I learned that wanting to see an awful Branson show and actually sitting through one are two different things. I also learned that I will never, as a middle-aged white guy, ever use the words "homie" or "peeps" ever again. To be fair, the second act was better—a selection of Christmas songs and a tribute to their dead mother. Apparently this tiny woman had ten children, all boys, and I suspect she isn't dead but just got the fuck out of there before having to bear an eleventh kid. But the damage of the first act left me scarred and a little terrified of that evening's show—Legends at the Dick Clark American Bandstand Theater.
Legends is a show that debuted in Vegas and moved to Branson. It is a rotating cast of celebrity impersonators ranging from Barry White, Marilynn Monroe and Tim McGraw to the staples of Elvis Presley and Michael Jackson. Our bill was George Strait, Whitney Houston, the Blues Brothers, Liberace and Elvis. As we entered and sat down, once again surrounded by octogenarians, I steeled myself. This was going to be fucking awful.
And it wasn't.
Really. In fact, it was a blast. The Whitney Houston knocked it out of the park, Liberace was funny but completely inappropriate in a callback to the dark days of The Gay Closet and the Elvis impersonator was so fucking good, if we had been sitting in the nose bleeds it would've been like actually seeing Elvis live. My mom, a huge Elvis fan from when he was alive, commented that he was the best Elvis impersonator she had ever seen. Hell, even my teenaged nieces enjoyed the show.
But we saved the best, most Branson-y show for Saturday. Yakov Smirnoff. Holy shit. I couldn't wait. I was absolutely certain it would embody everything I expected Branson to be—cheesy, cloying, the very portrait of a has-been celebrity stretching out his 15 minutes of fame as paper thin as he could in the heart of the Vegas of the Ozarks. We were greeted by a giant Yakov head making awful jokes about... the size of his head! Inside, it turned out that Yakov was a painter and had his paintings for sale!
The beginning of the show was the longest version of the national anthem I've ever heard (who know there were, like, nine verses?) and then I was hit with another fucking surprise. On the video screens came an old Paul Harvey "The Rest of the Story" about a painter known as Jacob who painted and commissioned a painting in tribute to the fallen at Ground Zero in NYC following the Attacks of 9/11. Painted on the side of a building overlooking the rubble, it was the backdrop to the first anniversary of the attacks. The painter was an anonymous Yakov Smirnoff. He paid for the commission out of his own pocket.
Some of his show was what I expected: a revisitation of his "What a Country!" schtick from the '80s—a sketch of him as the president answering questions from the audience, and he actually quoted the Lee Greenwood God Bless the U.S.A. as a closer. But other parts were not at all what I anticipated. Turns out that Yakov went out and got a Master's Degree in psychology and decided that his show could also serve as a relationship counseling session as well. Sort of like Defending the Caveman meets a less arrogant Dr. Phill with the takeaway being that we begin relationships laughing and giving each other little gifts and that, if we simply return to giving each other gifts and finding laughter in our relationships, we'll be happier, healthier people.
Was it a great show? Not really. The dancers were cheesy and only there to fill time, the jokes were funny in a "Yeah, I remember that one" sort of way, the political stuff was tame (although at one point, Yakov asked the audience who was happy with the results of the latest election—a smattering of applause that included my mother and I enthusiastically cheering—and who was ticked off by it—a thundering, slightly ugly ovation—with the Russian comic commenting "Yeah, that's about even...") and the recurring pro-America stuff was hard to hear after a while. But the thing is... I liked him.
I mean, I really liked the guy. He was so overwhelmingly sincere and genuine. Christ, I wanted to hug him. And, while his show is corny and inoffensive and gentle and perfect for the Branson tourist crowd, this is a guy who lives in Branson, Missouri suggesting that people spend time laughing and loving one another instead of being shitbags.
Prejudice is a funny thing. Judging books by their covers is what we do as people. I imagine it's a hard drive instinct. But, as I am often heard saying, while we are all unique and precious snowflakes and each of us is completely distinct, we are all made of fucking snow. We all are simply people trying our best to get along in the world. Yes, that means that our baser, uglier instincts come to play like ordinary people rioting in a Walmart on Black Friday to get a discount on a portable DVD player. It also means that our better, more generous nature comes into play, and sometimes it's nice to be reminded that even in Red State Hell, Yakov Smirnoff is telling thousands of people every week to just be fucking nicer to each other.
On Thanksgiving, the point is to be with friends or family and celebrate those things in our lives we are (or should be) thankful for. Sure, the holiday is laden with cultural markers that include the genocide of the Native Americans and our national quest to bequeath every American with diabetes but the point is gratitude. Gratitude can come from a lot of places and I’m thankful to remember the lessons I learned in Branson.
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Chaos, Your Death Drive, & Fighting Thanos
Do you remember your first breakup?
And I’m not talking about the time you broke up with the Jenny in third grade so you could go out with another 8-year old girl on the same playground.
No, I’m talking about the first breakup that left you crumpled on the floor, tears flooding out of your eyes, and howling at the moon. You know, the one that hit you so hard you didn’t want to live anymore?
Yea, I’m talking about that breakup.
As the incredibly awkward high school nice guy who made it far too obvious he had a crush on you, I was, for the most part, single throughout high school. So my first real relationship didn’t happen until my sophomore year of college. Unlike some of my friends, I didn’t lose my virginity until I was 19.
Maybe it was because of the rose-colored glasses I wore, or a head full of naivety, or you could blame it on my youth and inexperience, but some part of me thought this girl, my first true girlfriend could be the one.
Not because she was the first girl I’d had sex with (alright, fine, maybe a little bit of that) but because at 19-fucking-years-old, I didn’t know the difference between love and the bubbly, oh-so-good feelings my brain and dick kept ricocheting between one another.
So, yea. I was getting laid — a lot — and for a kid who had gone pro as a third wheel for the last six years, I was finally in the big leagues. I was in a relationship (one that involved getting my penis touched).
Life couldn’t get any better heading into summer break.
And Then…
With both of us heading home for the summer of 2006, I had plans laid out for taking long weekend trips to see her in Delaware. And, sure, it would be awkward getting used to sleeping alone again and not having sex (nearly) every night, but the summer would be over soon, and we’d both be back on campus in no time.
I drove up for my birthday weekend in June and spent half a week in her hometown and sneaking in as much sex as possible while staying at her house. Everything felt fine. It felt like nothing had changed since we’d departed for summer vacation.
All of that started to crumble a few weeks later.
Shortly after the 4th of July, I noticed that something felt off during our conversations. Our typical late evening AOL Instant Messenger chats had stopped, completely. And our nightly-before-bed phone calls morphed into me leaving a voicemail saying, “goodnight, I love you.”
Still, for some reason, I felt a small disturbance in The Force — a stinging sensation in my gut, as if my stomach knew something my brain didn’t: “Robbie, she’s acting strange…I think she’s gonna break up with you.”
Nah, she loves me. I love her. We’re weeks away from being back on campus; our love is all that matters (stupid stomach, shut up).
Then it happened. Like a sucker punch to the back of the head.
“Robbie, I don’t think we should date anymore.”
In an instant, it felt as if she’d performed Kano’s famous fatality by ripping out my heart, throwing it on the ground, and walking away.
Dazed and lost in shock, I sat at my computer motionless, unable to think. Then, minutes later, with a gaping hole in my chest cavity, came the hot sting of molten agony.
I spent the next few days secluded under the covers in the fetal position, nearly choking on tears, and sucking at the teet of a bottle of whiskey while Dashboard played as loud as possible.
You can last two or three days on a steady diet of junk food, Domino’s pizza, booze, and the salty taste of your tears. But then it all changes; the bender morphs. Tears dry, anger builds, resentment envelopes you with its soft cloak. And revenge — the darkest and most dangerous of all emotions — begins to coalesce in your soul.
Until recently, I didn’t have a name for this period of darkness and time of constant self-destructive behavior. But as I re-read through some old comics, I realized that moments like this (and a more recent one I’ll touch on further below) puts us in direct touch with our most chaotic elements. Or what, thanks to one Marvel comic series, I’m calling: Thanos Moments.
Thanatos and Our Desire for Death
In Ancient Greek mythology, Thanatos was the personification of death. Millenia later, Sigmund Freud would theorize that all humans have two drives: Eros, or our life force, and a death drive, which leads us down a path of death and self-destruction. It was one of Freud’s early pupils, Wilhelm Stekel, who decided to refer to death drive as Thanatos.
Jim Starlin, in 1973, created one of the most iconic and destructive comic book characters of all time. Who, ironically enough, had a brother named Eros and not only brought about massive amounts of death to the universe, but worshiped Marvel comic’s own personification of Death aka Lady Death.
First appearing in an Iron Man comic, The Mad Titan Thanos is one of the most powerful characters in the Marvel Universe. For over 50 years, he’s found his way into numerous storylines (including the MCU) and in 1992-1993, he was the chief protagonist of one of the most iconic comic book storylines ever: The Infinity Gauntlet.
I could spend an entire article breaking down the Infinity Gauntlet series and the comics that led to the event in 1992. But, for those who haven’t read this required nerd reading, here’s what you need to know about Thanos:
He’s a miscreant, an outcast, a mutation of his perfect race (The Eternals) and since his introduction, he’s been hell bent on acquiring absolute power.
In most of the comics, Thanos has had but one goal: acquire the all-powerful Cosmic Cube. An ancient weapon that allowed whoever wielded it the ability to reshape reality around him. Meaning that anything its holder could think of was possible.
An instrument that you wouldn’t want in the hands of a nihilistic, nefarious, narcissist like Thanos.
Okay. Now that I’ve given you a brief look into who Thanos is, here’s why his quest for power is relevant to a gut-wrenching breakup.
Do It For The Ladies
The end goal for Thanos is to acquire enough power (the more infinite, the better) so that he can prove to Lady Death how much he loves her. Though there are many different storylines where Thanos shows up, what you need to know is that he fails multiple times to acquire limitless power and at one point is turned to stone.
Lady Death revives Thanos, endows him with more power, and leads him to believe that the universe is unbalanced between life and death. And that it’s his duty to restore said balance.
While peering into The Infinity Well, Thanos discovers that there’s still a way for him to prove his worth to Lady Death. And to do this, he must acquire The Infinity Stones. With these stones in his possession, Thanos is certain, this time, he’ll be able to prove his love, and worth, to Lady Death.
But there’s one problem.
Acquiring all of these stones makes Thanos the controller of reality, time, space, soul, power, and mind. Granting him complete omniscience, omnipotence, and omnipresence, which in turn, makes Thanos a more powerful entity than Lady Death.
This, Lady Death cannot stand for and refuses to accept Thanos’s love.
You’re as Subtle as a Brick in the Small of My Back
Unrequited love is an impenetrable fortress that drives the greatest of men and warriors straight into the bosom of insanity.
When Lady Death first tells Thanos that she cannot accept his love because he’s more powerful than she, he breaks. And it’s at that moment that he decides, with all of his acquired power, that he will destroy half the universe with a snap of his finger.
So think back to your first breakup. How much did you plead for that person to take you back? Did you promise to change for them?
Did you do tell them you’d drive 14 hours to talk to them in person? Spill your heart out and say words you’d never said out loud but only thought, all in a last-ditch effort to convince them to not breakup with you?
For awhile, you refuse to accept reality. It’s over. Done. Your once peaceful and ordered life has been thrown into chaos.
Where it All Leads
By now you’re probably wondering why I’m talking about breakups and Thanos.
So to prevent myself from going too far into the comics and dissecting them, let me (briefly) share what sparked all of this.
At the end of October, in less than 48 hours, I lost half my clients. Gone. Like a snap of Thanos’s fingers, half my income was obliterated.
Like those dark moments after a breakup, I began to question my worth. I began to doubt my skills and wonder if this was the moment where life was telling me to throw in the towel. It felt as if a levee had broken and fear, doubt, and the pain of failure began to surge forward.
My livelihood and business had been thrown into chaos and my first thought, like the first days after my first gut-wrenching breakup, were to engage in self-destructive behavior.
Like Thanos, this jump into chaos, into self-destructive tendencies, happens because we feel we need to take some form of power back. Immediate and intensely gratifying actions provide us with a short lived reclamation of power.
The terrifying downfall of all of this happens when we go too far, and we lose ourselves in the dark abyss of chaos. Something that isn’t uncommon after your heart is shattered.
The Hole You Need to Get Out Of
It could be a load of bullshit your friends tell you when you’re in your twenties and going through a breakup. But I’ve heard it a few times in my life: “The time it will take you to get over your relationship is equal to the total time you spent together.”
(Little did I know until my wife told me, but the above quote actually comes from an episode of Sex and the City.)
There’s a bit of truth in that line, though. Within those seven months of being single again, I opted to ignore my feelings and stuff them inside, and I threw myself full force onto a path of self-destruction.
I drank more than ever
Allowed malice, anger, and dreams of revenge to fuel my thoughts
Started smoking cigarettes
Smoked more pot than ever before
And I stopped caring about my actions towards other people
Full of spite, hatred, and contempt, I attempted to drown away and leave forgotten in the depths of my vacant heart all these painful feelings; I wanted everything around me to suffer — I became Thanos.
How to Know You’ve Become Thanos
Life isn’t easy. It’s a struggle. But so too are relationships. And breakups cloud not only our judgment and emotional state, but we often forget that another human being, who has their own feelings, emotions, and life goals are involved in this predicament.
But, as human beings, we’re selfish. And when chaotic moments arrive, and break our ordered lives into a million different pieces, it’s easy for us to place ourselves in a victim mindset.
You’ve seen the signs of someone trapped in a victim mindset before, they’re:
Self-absorbed
They feel entitled
Unwilling to take action to alleviate their situation
Easily paranoid that others are out to get them
Believe others are fundamentally happier, more talented, better off than they are
Any of this hitting home for you?
Who hasn’t been through a breakup (or another chaotic/traumatic event) and months later find themselves still absorbed in their own pain or rejection and unable to move past it?
How about the time you didn’t get that job and felt because of your skills, education, or knowledge that you should have gotten it?
“Yea, well since so-and-so has more money than me, I bet they’re happier. They never struggle like I do.”
“My friends are happier because they have girlfriends. I’ll never be happy if someone doesn’t love me.”
“I know I should get over him/her, but I can’t. I just can’t do it. I’m too hurt.”
The last bullet point above is one I know without a shadow of a doubt, that we’ve all thought, felt, or said out loud at some point.
Escaping a victim mindset isn’t easy. So please, don’t assume that I’m saying you’ll wake up the morning after an Earth-shattering event and everything will be fine and fucking dandy.
It probably won’t be. Depending on your situation, the next day might feel like the worst day of your life. And we’ve all (and if you haven’t, you’re an anomaly) felt those first moments the next morning where we try with all of our might to convince ourselves it was only a dream.
I’ve said it before in a previous post, but I believe pain is the harbinger of truth; and truth, like change, doesn’t come when you’re happy. You only make changes or discover the truth in your life because of pain. But too often than not, when these Thanos moments happen, most of us retreat and hide from our pain.
The thought of facing our problems is too much. And it’s here, hiding within the walls we construct in our minds, where we chain ourselves to a victim mindset.
The longer we avoid and the longer we numb, the more painful it will be when we finally do confront our issues. – Mark Manson from “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck“
But wait, Robbie, the comics make Thanos out to be a brooding, nihilistic, morose, psychopath from childhood. That’s true, and you may be an upstanding member of society, but the point is: you can still become a destructive force like Thanos — if you allow a victim mindset to take control of you.
If I’d Known What I Know Now
In the days, weeks, and months that followed my first breakup, what drove me deeper into the dark nether realm of my soul was the same demon, dragon, or being that I’ve been terrorized by my entire life: the feeling of not being good enough.
The victim mindset I found myself in during those seven months settled like concrete. I hardened this mindset by allowing my demon to whisper that I wasn’t good enough. Or that I wasn’t:
Adequate in bed
Didn’t listen to her enough
Wasn’t smart enough
Didn’t meet her “standards” (my family was too redneck)
Wasn’t as talented
To put it bluntly: she could do better, and I was a fucking loser.
During high school, I would have retreated within and stuffed these feelings of inadequacy deep in my heart — hidden all my pain — only letting it out while singing Brand New as loud as possible alone in my car. But this time, things were different.
Love, sex, and vulnerability were involved, and never before had I put myself out there with another human being; never had I felt what I thought was true love, until her.
For the next seven months, I allowed the dark ravenous emotions of chaos — resentment, jealousy, malice, and hopelessness — to gorge on my soul.
Why wasn’t I worthy enough of her love? Why couldn’t this be? How could she go from loving me to not?
Though he may have been a brute, I assume many of these questions swirled in the cranium of the Mad Titan himself when Death rejected his love.
The First Cut is the Deepest
It’s cliche, but it’s true: time heals all wounds. My first steps out of the shadow of chaos may have come seven months after that breakup, but my final departure from the outskirts of that land took a lot longer than that.
Much of the self-destructive behavior I started after that breakup remained with me for years in the form of smoking, drinking, and, because I was too afraid to be vulnerable and let down my defenses, I more or less became a bit of a dick towards women.
The Eternal Battle Between Order and Chaos
Dr. Jordan Peterson, a Canadian clinical psychologist and tenured professor of psychology at the University of Toronto, has spent much of his academic career (and now rising YouTube fame) talking about the delicate balance between order and chaos, and how going too far into one or the other leads to oppression or hopelessness.
Using the imagery of the Yin and Yang, JP (for short) believes that to have a balanced life, we must have one foot in order and one foot in chaos, precariously balancing between the two.
See the opposite colored dots in each section? There’re a hundred different ways to interpret those small dots. But in the case of this article, there are two that stand out to me:
There is life in death (or order in chaos). And there is death in life (or chaos in order)
If we are to believe as JP says that, for a balanced, virtuous life, you need one food in chaos and one in order, then those dots would mark where your feet must be placed.
This concept, or battle between order and chaos, goes back to the beginning of time. It’s a war that’s been waged since the first single celled organisms evolved into multicellular lifeforms.
Evolution introduced chaos through mutations, while natural selection played, and still plays, the role of establishing order by weeding out the weak and allowing the strong to survive. And evolution’s gift to humanity is the ability to make conscious choices, to feel pain and remorse, pride and joy, love and hate.
Revolution’s Effect on Evolution
Evolution is a slow progression. But change, whether in nature or our minds, cannot happen without some bit of stimulation; and ultimately, this stimulus must come from revolutions. Or as we often call it in the term of the mind, revelations.
Derived from the Latin word revolutio meaning “a turnaround;” revolutions (or revelations) are our Thanos moments: the time where chaos has suddenly, and many times, uninvitingly, entered our lives — leaving us with the choice of either improving and evolving, or stagnating and regressing.
Our biological processes are always looking for homeostasis. But the human body, if it’s one thing, is resilient and adaptable; but to become more resilient, you need some form of chaos introduced.
Autophagy is the process by which our cells (thanks to induced stress that comes during exercise, caloric restriction, or fasting) break down cellular components and rebuild.
Dr. Yoshinori Ohsumi won the Nobel Prize in Physiology in 2016 because of decades of research into the phenomenon of autophagy. As detailed in the press release for Dr. Ohsumi’s award, autophagy was described as: “[a process that can] rapidly provide fuel for energy and building blocks for renewal of cellular components, and is, therefore, essential for the cellular response to starvation and other types of stress.”
Exercise and restricting calories are both stressors on the orderly state of our bodies. Both of these throw our energy systems into a chaotic state where they’re forced to respond.
(At the same time that eating less is a stress on your body, following a structured set of rules in how much you eat, or if you practice intermittent fasting when you eat, helps provide your body with some sort of order within the stress (chaos) of a calorie deficit. See, one foot in order, one foot in chaos.)
So why did I just take a hard right turn out of the heartbreak hotel and start talking about yin/yang and an evolutionarily crucial biological process?
Well, like the opening scene from Die Hard where a guy tells John McClane to take his shoes off and make fists with his toes in the carpet, sometimes you need an extra scene that doesn’t look like it means much so that later on, the rest of the story makes sense.
The point for the right turn is this: where order provides us the rules or a roadmap, chaos is the autophagic process that helps reorder and improve our lives, business, relationships, and ideas.
Through the Mind’s Eye
Everyone reading this has at some point experienced the pain of rejection. And like Thanos, when something Earth-shattering happens, we catapult ourselves further into the realm of chaos. And for some, we lose a bit of ourselves in its dark abyss.
Like the small dots within the Yin/Yang, there is life in chaos: lessons that we can learn and take with us to become better. But those can only happen if we choose to face our fears, instead of hiding from them.
A Hidden Truth in a Comic Book
**Side note: I reached out to Marvel to get permission to post 3 images from the comic I reference below. They denied my request. And since I didn’t want to taint the spirit of the piece by drawing stick figure art, if you have Marvel Unlimited you can check out the comic I reference. If not, I’ll do my best to describe the panels below.**
As I dug deeper into the history of Thanos, I discovered an issue of Captain Marvel from 1973.
Hidden in this issue, issue #29, is one of the most profound life lessons you could ever learn. One that stopped me dead in my tracks. (and since I can’t post the image from the comic book, here’s my description)
The entity known as Eon whisks Captain Marvel away from Earth and into his domain. Once there, Eon explains to Marvel the story of Thano’s race and what Thanos is after (The Cosmic Cube).
For Captain Marvel, he feels he’s being tortured by this creature (Eon) while he’s educated on matters that terrify and shock him to his very core. And then Eon say this:
Knowledge is torture, and there must be awareness before there is change.
What Eon says to Captain Marvel is no different than what I said above:
Pain is the harbinger of truth; and truth, like change, doesn’t come when you’re happy.
It’s easier to remain blissfully ignorant. And when faced with a Thanos moment, we run, hide, and choose to ignore the problem. Thinking that if we give it no credence, it will go away; but it doesn’t; because the consciousness that you know you must accept at some point, is the torture you dare not face. And without facing it, you’ll never change; and you’ll remain stuck, possibly forever, in the realm of chaos.
As Eon shows Captain Marvel the errors of his ways, Captain Marvel has his own mental revolution, and he realizes his mistakes and what they’ve cost him.
Eon tells Marvel that he’s physically capable of handling the most daunting of issues. But explains that Marvel’s greatest challenge can only be dealt with once he becomes conscious and accepts his mistakes as a chance to grow and evolve — a process that can only happen mentally.
In the following pages of artwork, Captain Marvel defeats The Ravagers, which, for this article, we’ll call: Doubt, Fear, Failure, and Pain. For you as a reader, these are entities that after any traumatic event, like a breakup, ravage our minds and spirits.
Or as Dr. Jordan Peterson said:
What lurks underneath comes up to swallow you.
When you allow those ravaging emotions of doubt, fear, failure, and pain to lurk underneath, you allow those emotions to rob you of not only growth, but fulfillment, joy, happiness, and hope.
You Are Your Own Worst Enemy
In the final two pages of this Captain Marvel comic, a truth is revealed, one that echoes through all of life and rang out to me. After defeating The Ravagers, Captain Marvel is told he has one more task.
He must face his inner demon.
Or, as Eon explains to Captain Marvel:
“This is your cancerous other self. He is your hostility, your battle lust, the side of you which loves destruction, perpetuates hate, and seeks death. He is your personal Thanos. To truly live, you must overcome this within yourself.“
Death and rebirth are a common theme among ancient myths and even comics today. But they’re there for a reason.
For you to improve, in any way, some part of yourself must die. And through this death, only then, if you decide to face your inner Thanos, can a rebirth become possible.
There is, and will always be, order and chaos — yin and yang; Thanos and Eros; Mario and Bowser; Link and Ganon; you and your demon. And until the day you die, you will continue to battle with your innermost Thanos.
What I want you to take away from this piece is that to grow and be your best, physically or mentally, you need the occasional Thanos Moment.
If you’re too ordered, too focused on rigid rules, or try to be too streamlined all the time, so that you avoid hardship(s), you’ll never improve or evolve. Too much order breeds atrophy and apathy.
But catastrophic events shake us up and force us to make changes we otherwise would’ve never made. Because without these events, we’d never find ourselves evolving, growing, and working towards our highest self — or as the Ancient Greeks called it, apotheosis.
Man Becomes God
Nassim Talib’s idea of a modern Stoic, as outlined in his book Antifragile, is this: “[a] modern Stoic sage is someone who transforms fear into prudence, pain into information, mistakes into initiation, and desire into undertaking.”
Thanos did none of that. And I doubt he ever had a single Stoic bone in his body.
But when a Thanos moment happens to you, whether it’s a traumatic breakup, losing half your business, death, or being hurt by someone you care for, what good will revenge, or the immediate, gratifying feelings of a vitriolic response, or the drowning of your pain in a bottle of whiskey accomplish? What growth or self-evolution comes from that?
A balanced life, with one foot residing in the realm of order and the other in chaos, is more than likely, unattainable. But striving for that balance, as daunting and intimidating as it may seem, will lead to a far more virtuous, joyful, and meaningful life than one where you reside under the shadow of chaos, or hidden behind the veil of order.
We’re meant to carry loads heavy enough so that when we carry it, we can have some self-respect. But people do everything to try and lighten their load. The problem with this approach is that then you have nothing useful to do. And if you have nothing useful to do all you’ll have around you is meaningless suffering. – Dr. Jordan Peterson
**There would be another clip from the 29th issue of Captain Marvel here but since I can’t post it, here’s what happens. Captain Marvel is fighting his inner demon as Eon says:
“To live is to strive! To strive is to seek! In this sphere of existence….only one thing is worth seeking….that which gives life meaning…”
A Life of Ease, or a Life of Struggle?
On our way back from Christmas in New Orleans, my wife, as she is apt to do on long road trips, decided to probe me with a few “fun” questions. Including this one:
“Would you rather live to 100 and struggle all your life? Or would you rather live half that time with relative ease?”
To my wife’s surprise, I chose a life of strife. Because even though I could live with ease, without struggle, without a fight for something, what would it all be worth?
Thanos moments don’t knock on our doors and greet us with an effervescent singing telegram when it enters our lives. No. It rolls in shooting flames from the tailpipe of its eardrum demolishing monster truck that then proceeds to treat your life like a dilapidated 1995 Buick Century.
But when we hear the rumble of chaos’s engine, we run. We hide. Whether that hiding is done via drugs; alcohol; sex; or spending seven months consumed by anger and hate brooding with your broken heart in your hands, hiding from what we fear gets us nowhere.
Chaos is a chance for us to grow: to ascend to new heights.
Like the biological process of autophagy, Thanos moments allow us to reexamine not only the trajectory of our lives or business, but they’re instrumental in helping us reframe our beliefs or course correct our goals. And then, once we’ve become conscious, and faced that which we fear most, only then can we restructure and redirect ourselves towards rebirth.
Copyright: Image by StockUnlimited
I still vividly remember the moment I realized after seven months of heartache that it was time to start moving on. I remember standing on the stairs that went to my roommate’s room, listening to him groan about his current relationship issues and what he should or shouldn’t do. And then, out of nowhere, it came. Clarity. Epiphany. A revelation. A small part of the truth I had been looking for, finally, came to me and I took my first steps out of the shadows of chaos.
To Strive is to Have Meaning
The first few words of this article started as an exploration into why we commit acts of self-destruction. Why, when half my business and income vanished in the snap of a finger, were my first thoughts about getting drunk? What good would that have done?
“We control our reasoned choice and all acts that depend on that moral will. What’s not under our control are the body and any of its parts, our possessions, parents, siblings, children, or country—anything with which we might associate.” – Epictetus
Like Thanos, man’s greatest folly is that he desires to be God. And it’s easy to feel like God when things are in order. But throw in a little chaos, something that was not in our plan(s), and the first thing we’ll do is jump on the anger train and ride it into self-destruction town.
As I’ve been listening to Dr. Peterson, flipping through pages of comics on my phone, and compiling notes and thoughts about this concept for the last three months, what has stuck out to me is the importance of Thanos moments — moments that shake us to our core and challenge us to improve.
We have them every day. Every day some part of you dies and has the possibility of being reborn. It happens with red blood cells, hair cells, skin cells, but it also happens with our ideas, thoughts, and beliefs.
Man is meant to be God. But not an omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent being that rules over others. No. You must be God of your own mind. Ruler of your thoughts and actions. And if your actions are leading you towards killing half the universe with the snap of your fingers, or in a non-comic book sense, punching a wall with your fist because your heart is broken, is that initial self-destructive action worth it?
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Unpacking Branson: A Thanksgiving Improbability
By Don Hall
For Thanksgiving in 2012, I was single and Mom decided that I should come out to my step-sister's place in Branson, Missouri for a good old-fashioned country Thanksgiving. The carrot was family. The stick was Missouri.
In the late 1960s it was pretty much a tiny city in the Ozarks known for roadside stands peddling wares that proliferated the hillbilly stereotype. And, sure enough, there are still today roadside stands that exist only to continue to make fun of that stereotype. It's an odd thing to walk into a business in the middle of the Ozarks that sells you the stereotype it tries to escape from. Like buying a taxi cab medallion from an East Indian store or an "I'm a Wetback" t-shirt in a store that sells Mexican merchandise.
It is said you cannot judge a book by its cover.
This is true most of the time, but there are some things you can judge immediately by its cover and pretty much know what your getting.
An Ann Coulter book.
Sean Hannity.
A FOX News broadcast.
Great America.
Applebee's.
I assumed that Branson, Missouri would fall into this latter category. I was right and wrong. And the complexities made it a real trip to remember.
Branson is where the Beverly Hillbillies came from before moving to California.
A winding series of roads littered with signs and theaters and restaurants. Lots of bumper stickers that declare "I'd Rather Be Dead Than SOCIALIST" and random tributes to past GOP glory. In the three days we trucked around the city, I counted perhaps one hundred people of color the entire time—I didn't start the trip by calculating this but after a bit, it was hard to escape. Thousands of old white people with canes and wheelchairs abounded but that doesn't really look that much different than Navy Pier or the audience at Chicago Shakes—old white people like to be tourists and Branson is, after all, a haven of tourism.
My step-sister, Hannah, tells me that the crack business booms among the residents of Branson and there is evidence around if you're looking for it. The place is slightly schizophrenic in its place as a home to rednecks and hillbillies while trying desperately to distance itself from that by appealing to the tourist trade. There are places that stink of what one expects in Ozarks—a biker bar called the Hawg Trough that even my pro-GOP brother-in-law avoids and a Smoke Shop that doesn't sell cigarettes and has a pit bull guarding the door. But there are surprises that popped up during my three-day Thanksgiving vacation that defied my pre-judged expectations.
The surprises came in weird ways. When I arrived, we ate at a place called the Rowdy Beaver—a place with t-shirts that trumpeted "I Like Bald Beaver" and "That's A Mighty Nice Beaver" and had washboard walls. The thing that surprised was that the food was out of this world. It was delicious and well prepared and not at all what I expected. "Our chef prepares everything from fresh ingredients," trumpeted our waitress who seemed completely fine with her job at a place filled with such juvenile innuendo.
The Hollywood Wax Museum was fun but the wax figures left me a bit wanting—a frequent refrain of our visit was my niece saying "Who's that?" and me doing my best to figure it out. I tried to convince my family to go to Silver Dollar City so I could find and steal a urinal cake but it was $60 per person and even I couldn't argue that $300 was reasonable for me to complete a toilet cookie tale. We had tickets to a magic show billed as the World's Largest (by the way, every attraction in Branson is billed as "Show of the Year," "The Most Amazing in the World," and "Mindblowing") but the show was cancelled due to illness. Turns out Kirby VanBurch's greatest trick is to take your money and disappear.
Our replacement show for the afternoon was going to be either Jim Stafford (I desperately wanted to see this) or SIX (the nieces had heard it was awesome). Stafford only did an 8 p.m. show, so SIX at the Mickey Gilley Theater it was.
SIX is six middle-aged brothers who debuted on the Donnie and Marie Show and have fashioned themselves as sort of an older version of an a cappella boy band. As soon as they started with a cheeseball version of Don't Stop Believin', Hannah and I turned to each other with a look of pained resignation. These guys had pretty good voices and the arrangements were fine but the self-consciously hip pose and cornball attempts at cool banter was unbearable. I learned that wanting to see an awful Branson show and actually sitting through one are two different things. I also learned that I will never, as a middle-aged white guy, ever use the words "homie" or "peeps" ever again. To be fair, the second act was better—a selection of Christmas songs and a tribute to their dead mother. Apparently this tiny woman had ten children, all boys, and I suspect she isn't dead but just got the fuck out of there before having to bear an eleventh kid. But the damage of the first act left me scarred and a little terrified of that evening's show—Legends at the Dick Clark American Bandstand Theater.
Legends is a show that debuted in Vegas and moved to Branson. It is a rotating cast of celebrity impersonators ranging from Barry White, Marilynn Monroe and Tim McGraw to the staples of Elvis Presley and Michael Jackson. Our bill was George Strait, Whitney Houston, the Blues Brothers, Liberace and Elvis. As we entered and sat down, once again surrounded by octogenarians, I steeled myself. This was going to be fucking awful.
And it wasn't.
Really. In fact, it was a blast. The Whitney Houston knocked it out of the park, Liberace was funny but completely inappropriate in a callback to the dark days of The Gay Closet and the Elvis impersonator was so fucking good, if we had been sitting in the nose bleeds it would've been like actually seeing Elvis live. My mom, a huge Elvis fan from when he was alive, commented that he was the best Elvis impersonator she had ever seen. Hell, even my teenaged nieces enjoyed the show.
But we saved the best, most Branson-y show for Saturday. Yakov Smirnoff. Holy shit. I couldn't wait. I was absolutely certain it would embody everything I expected Branson to be—cheesy, cloying, the very portrait of a has-been celebrity stretching out his 15 minutes of fame as paper thin as he could in the heart of the Vegas of the Ozarks. We were greeted by a giant Yakov head making awful jokes about... the size of his head! Inside, it turned out that Yakov was a painter and had his paintings for sale!
The beginning of the show was the longest version of the national anthem I've ever heard (who know there were, like, nine verses?) and then I was hit with another fucking surprise. On the video screens came an old Paul Harvey "The Rest of the Story" about a painter known as Jacob who painted and commissioned a painting in tribute to the fallen at Ground Zero in NYC following the Attacks of 9/11. Painted on the side of a building overlooking the rubble, it was the backdrop to the first anniversary of the attacks. The painter was an anonymous Yakov Smirnoff. He paid for the commission out of his own pocket.
Some of his show was what I expected: a revisitation of his "What a Country!" schtick from the '80s—a sketch of him as the president answering questions from the audience, and he actually quoted the Lee Greenwood God Bless the U.S.A. as a closer. But other parts were not at all what I anticipated. Turns out that Yakov went out and got a Master's Degree in psychology and decided that his show could also serve as a relationship counseling session as well. Sort of like Defending the Caveman meets a less arrogant Dr. Phill with the takeaway being that we begin relationships laughing and giving each other little gifts and that, if we simply return to giving each other gifts and finding laughter in our relationships, we'll be happier, healthier people.
Was it a great show? Not really. The dancers were cheesy and only there to fill time, the jokes were funny in a "Yeah, I remember that one" sort of way, the political stuff was tame (although at one point, Yakov asked the audience who was happy with the results of the latest election—a smattering of applause that included my mother and I enthusiastically cheering—and who was ticked off by it—a thundering, slightly ugly ovation—with the Russian comic commenting "Yeah, that's about even...") and the recurring pro-America stuff was hard to hear after a while. But the thing is... I liked him.
I mean, I really liked the guy. He was so overwhelmingly sincere and genuine. Christ, I wanted to hug him. And, while his show is corny and inoffensive and gentle and perfect for the Branson tourist crowd, this is a guy who lives in Branson, Missouri suggesting that people spend time laughing and loving one another instead of being shitbags.
Prejudice is a funny thing. Judging books by their covers is what we do as people. I imagine it's a hard drive instinct. But, as I am often heard saying, while we are all unique and precious snowflakes and each of us is completely distinct, we are all made of fucking snow. We all are simply people trying our best to get along in the world. Yes, that means that our baser, uglier instincts come to play like ordinary people rioting in a Walmart on Black Friday to get a discount on a portable DVD player. It also means that our better, more generous nature comes into play, and sometimes it's nice to be reminded that even in Red State Hell, Yakov Smirnoff is telling thousands of people every week to just be fucking nicer to each other.
On Thanksgiving, the point is to be with friends or family and celebrate those things in our lives we are (or should be) thankful for. Sure, the holiday is laden with cultural markers that include the genocide of the Native Americans and our national quest to bequeath every American with diabetes but the point is gratitude. Gratitude can come from a lot of places and I’m thankful to remember the lessons I learned in Branson.
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