"You don't have to reblog a post if you don't want to, don't be pressured to-"

There are multiple GENOCIDES happening right now as we type and we are supposed to be on strike and talk about it. This is not about reblogging things you don't want to; you have a moral obligation to stand up for what is right because tumblr, meta and tiktok are actively trying to supress these voices.

You should be uncomfortable for being silent in these moments. You should feel uncomfortable if you have seen dead people on your dash and that your mutual is talking about a genocide that is killing millions of people and using your tax money to fund all the while destroying the ecosystem and you refuse to say anything. You don't get to be comforted or coddled when people are dying and families are being wiped out.

Do you think the people of Congo are comfortable working in mines to produce your iphone? Or living in the dirty swamps? Do you think the people in Sudan are comfortable being displaced, having their properties stolen, starved and being murdered if they are not a specific race? Do you think the people of palestine dying of hunger and disease whilst being bombed everyday are comfortable ?

Anyways, what do I expect from an app full of white people -particularly americans- who do not care when it's not about them.

You deserve to be uncomfortable for being silent.

Exiled AU - Part Four

hey yall! wrote another part for @ghosta-r‘s exiled!varian au. you’ll find my most recent one here with links to the rest of the series. if you’re a new reader make sure to go to the first one i wrote! i’ll probably write one more after this, and then we’ll be caught up to the time the first one takes place. after that, it’ll just depend on if i get inspired to continue the series or not. please reblog/leave a comment if you enjoy!

(heads up, this chapter has a warning for some darker themes, more in line with stuff from the second oneshot.) - Aqua

Over the next two weeks, Varian fell into a routine of sorts.

He’d wake up early in the morning and help Jonathan set up the shop for the day. Most of his time was spent sweeping the relentless sawdust from the floor while Jonathan worked and met with customers. He didn’t mind it. The repetitive task lulled him into a sort of trance, and he didn’t have to think or feel anything. It was nice in the way that small talk was nice; so completely inconsequential that there was no risk involved.

Soon enough, though, Jonathan started involving him in other aspects. Cleaning, maintaining, and sharpening the work tools, gathering and preparing the wood, and running to the forge to pick up orders of nails, locks, and hinges.

Varian had been intending to keep a low profile, but there was something about being in a workshop again that made him… forget. Jonathan was working with a cabinet door that kept sticking one day, and the idea popped into Varian’s head without warning.

“A spring hinge might fix that.”

The second the words left Varian’s mouth he’d regretted it, the tips of his ears burning. It was virtually the first time he’d said anything without being spoken to first, certainly the first suggestion he’d made.

Jonathan had given him a considering look. “Oh? Good idea, I’ll try it out.”

After that, Jonathan started employing Varian in a more hands-on setting. Having him actually work on projects with him, asking his opinion on certain things. He seemed to, bit by bit, piece together that Varian had expertise in engineering.

Varian cursed himself for doing something to be noticed, and all the while he recognized the horrible irony of it; for his whole his life, he’d just wanted to be noticed for his achievements. But only now that being noticed was dangerous was he getting the attention he’d so badly wanted, once upon a time.

At one point, Varian considered feigning ignorance. Pretending not to know anything about engineering. But the thought made him uneasy; he didn’t want to fail the tasks Jonathan set him for fear of angering the man and being kicked out. The one saving grace was that Jonathan never asked Varian where he’d learned such things, or anything about where he’d come from. He’d simply examine Varian’s work with an approving nod and a clap on the back that Varian was slowly learning not to flinch from and a “good job, son” and then it was on to the next thing.

(And Varian would try to ignore how much it affected him.)

What surprised him the most, however, was that Jonathan insisted on paying him. Since he was getting food and board, it wasn’t a complete working wage, but it was more than he’d expected. He’d tried to politely decline, but Jonathan wasn’t hearing it. So Varian kept the coins in his satchel, slightly overwhelmed at the entire prospect.

Whenever things were slow at the shop, Jonathan would send Varian back to the house to help out there. His tasks ranged from dishes to laundry to cleaning up around the place. Once again, nothing that he minded. Alice would keep Cate entertained, the girl not yet old enough to attend the town’s only school, and Varian would check in after completing a chore to be handed the next one.

He made quick work of it all, and in one or two lulls in the day, he found himself wanting for something to keep busy with. It quickly built into him taking on small projects of his own, fixing a squeaky door hinge here or a loose floorboard there.

Alice noticed. She also commented on it the next time she saw Varian, with a bright smile and a generous thank you. Varian cursed himself again for being noticed. He was just here to do a job and make a living, he wasn’t supposed to… endear himself to anyone. Especially since getting close would just increase his chances of being exposed for the criminal he was.

(But at the same time… the praise was nice.)

The family member Varian least interacted with was Cate. The young girl hadn’t… warmed up to his presence, per say, but she wasn’t shy around him. She seemed to quickly accept him as a fixture in the house, but she didn’t have much need to talk with him.

That suited Varian just fine. He was uncertain around young children, and the last thing he wanted to do was make a mistake with the daughter of his hosts. If he upset her, or gave them reason to think him being around her was a bad idea, he’d be kicked out faster than hydrogen could bond to oxygen.

Varian would have been perfectly happy for his exchanges with Cate to remain few and far between. But, like with so many other things in Varian’s life, fate had different plans.

It was about a week after his arrival. Jonathan had sent Varian back to house for lunch. Cate was occupied with coloring, but had opted to spread out the paper all over the floor instead of settling for the table. Alice had been making friendly conversation, asking about how things were going in the shop, when she suddenly sighed.

“I need to grab something upstairs,” she told Varian. “Could you watch Cate for a moment?”

Varian’s heart jolted. Alone? “Uh-”

“Thanks, sweetheart!” Without waiting for his reaction, Alice vanished up the stairs.

The room was suddenly far too quiet. Varian glanced down at Cate, his pulse quickening. What was he supposed to do with a toddler? What did they even like to do for fun? When Varian was little he’d already taken an interest in alchemy, and in hindsight, that probably wasn’t the safest thing for-

“Hey! Come down here!”

Cate’s voice made Varian jump, the toddler looking up at him impatiently. At a loss for anything else to do, he slid out of his chair and knelt down to Cate’s level.

“… yes?” he asked uncertainly.

Cate pointed. “Why’s your hair blue?”

“Oh.” Absently, Varian reached a hand up to tug at the blue streak in his bangs. “I was born with it.”

“Cool!” Cate looked mildly impressed. “Can I be born with it, too?”

Varian blinked. “Uh, n- no, that’s… not really how it works.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry.”

Cate’s bottom lip stuck out in a pout, and she folded her arms. “No fair!”

Uh oh. “But- but orange is way cooler, anyways,” Varian said quickly, in anticipation of a tantrum.  

Cate squinted at him, suspicious. “Really?”

Varian nodded seriously. “Oh yeah, it’s like the color of the sun,” he said, as if that was something to be impressed by. “A- and pumpkins, and carrots, and wildflowers… very cool.”

“Huh.” Cate seemed to consider it. “That is a good color,” she decided.

Varian breathed a sigh of relief, a little smile tugging at his mouth. “Sure is.” With that little crisis averted, he turned his attention to the papers Cate had spread out before her. “What are you drawing?”

Cate pointed at a scribble of yellow. “This is our house.”

Varian’s heart gave a little skip at that. Our house. He quickly pushed the thought away, though. He wasn’t here to get attached to anyone, he was here so he didn’t starve to death. Besides, what kind of family would want him to be a part of it, anyways?

Varian cleared his throat. “It’s very nice,” he told her.

Cate preened slightly at the compliment. “Thanks.” She grabbed up one of the crayons and offered it to him. “Here.”

Varian took the crayon hesitantly, scanning the papers. “Uh, what do you want me to draw?” he asked.

Cate shook her head, her short pigtails swishing back and forth. “No, that’s for you. To have.”

“Oh,” Varian said, taken aback. “Um, a- are you sure?”

Cate nodded, leaning in conspiratorially and whispering behind her hand. “It’s the best color.”

It was then that Varian noticed the crayon was orange. A real smile spread across his face. “Thank you,” he said softly, oddly touched at the gesture.

“Don’t lose it!” Cate warned him.

“I won’t,” Varian assured her, tucking the crayon into his coat pocket. “There, see?”

“Good.” Cate flashed him a gap-toothed grin and handed him another crayon. “Let’s draw Daddy’s workshop now! But I can’t draw people, so you draw Daddy.”

Varian chuckled. “Alright.”

Alice returned a few minutes later to find them collaborating on a mural of the entire town. She lingered at the top of the stairs, watching them with a fond smile on her face.

(And Varian pretended not to notice.)

Varian stood before the court, shackles heavy on his wrists.

The throne room glistened, nearly blinding him. He was surrounded by faceless figures, their distorted whispers turning to white noise in his ears. The whole room had a golden sheen to it, like he was looking through colored glass. It was familiar, but he couldn’t remember where he’d seen it before.

‘Your most serious crime is enough to warrant execution.’

Varian had heard the words before. But this time, it was Dad saying them, Dad looking down at him with a face of stone. It was an oddly peaceful expression on him. The words fit in his mouth, somehow, though Varian was certain they’d come from someone else. He couldn’t remember who.

Wordlessly, Varian nodded.

Suddenly, they were outside. There was dirt beneath Varian’s boots, a breeze tugging at his hair. His shackles were gone, his hands bare of their gloves. Before him stood a wooden structure, a long rope dangling from its solitary arm. It swayed slightly in the wind. Gentle. Harmless.

‘A life for a life,’ Dad said emotionlessly. No hatred, no disdain, no pity. Just quiet judgement.

‘It should’ve been me,’ Varian agreed, just as calmly. He stepped onto the wooden platform, slipping the rope around his neck.

Dad pulled the lever, and the ground fell out from beneath Varian’s feet-

Varian woke up screaming.

He bolted upright in bed, his heart pounding and his scream ringing in his ears. His gloved hands flew to his throat, half expecting to feel coarse rope scratching his skin, choking him- no, Dad, please no, I’m sorry-

He curled in on himself, tucking his knees to his chest as a pained cry welled up in his chest. Tears ran down his face, blurring his vision, and they didn’t stop even as he told himself it was just a dream, it wasn’t real, he was alive. None of that mattered because it was right- he should’ve been the one to die, not Dad. It was his fault, his mistake, and it wasn’t fair-

The door opened, and Jonathan rushed into the room, half-dressed and wide-eyed.

“Varian? What happened?”

Alarm shot through Varian. He choked back a sob. “N- nothing, sir,” he managed, wiping at his tears. “I- I’m sor- sorry.”

Jonathan’s brow furrowed. “Hey, hey now, it’s alright,” he said softly, sitting down on the bed beside Varian. “It’s alright, what happened?”

“Bad d- dream,” Varian got out, struggling to stop his crying. “It’s- it’s nothing, I-”

Jonathan pulled him into a hug, and Varian broke.

He clung to Jonathan as he cried, burying his face in the man’s shoulder. He could barely catch his breath from the intensity of it, hot tears streaking down his face. Jonathan’s arms around him were both strange and familiar, and Varian’s head was dizzy at the implications.

It was such a small thing, but… when was the last time someone had embraced him like that?

He couldn’t remember.

Eventually, Varian’s sobs died down. His head was throbbing, his eyes burning and his throat hoarse, but there was almost a sense of relief that came with it, in each small tremor that ran through his body. He’d kept so much inside, made himself so numb since his exile that he hadn’t realized how heavy it all was to carry.

“Do you wanna tell me what happened?” Jonathan ventured finally.

It took Varian a while to gather himself enough to speak. “I… lost my dad a short while ago.” And it was my fault, he wanted to add, but that would lead to questions. Questions Varian didn’t want to answer.

“I’m sorry,” Jonathan said, his eyes sad. “We’d thought as much, that you were on your own, but…”

Varian shook his head. “I’m sorry for crying.” He shouldn’t be feeling sorry for himself. He’d been given a second chance. “I d- didn’t mean to wake you…”

“Hey, none of that, now,” Jonathan said gently. “It’s alright.”

A sudden thought occurred to Varian. “Did I w- wake Cate up?” he asked.

“Yes, but she’s fine,” Jonathan assured him. “Just a little spooked. Alice is with her.”

Varian sniffled. He was calmer now, but he found he had no desire to pull away from Jonathan, instead leaning further against the man. The adrenaline of his nightmare had quickly faded, leaving him exhausted.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Jonathan smiled at him. “You’re welcome, son,” he said.

(And maybe just this once, Varian would admit he didn’t mind it.)

Varian could get used to quiet evenings, he decided.

On the last day of the week, Jonathan would close up shop and give Varian the day off. The concept had confused him. To spend an entire day doing nothing? It hadn’t made sense- at least, not at first. But then Varian had watched the small family spending time together, and he understood.

Maybe he wouldn’t have, a few months ago. But now, he wished he’d spent more time with Dad.

At the moment, Alice was upstairs, taking a much-needed nap after a bout of sickness. Varian sat cross-legged on the floor beside Cate, listening to the toddler introduce her small collection of dolls. Jonathan sat at the table whittling detail into what was going to be a chair leg, because even though he claimed today was his day off he tended to bring work home with him.

The peaceful mood was disrupted by an abrupt knock on the door.

Jonathan rose from his chair, grumbling. “That better not be Alf asking after his rocking chair again. Can’t a man enjoy his day off?”

Whether it was Alf, Varian couldn’t say, but Jonathan seemed to recognize whoever was at the door, because he stepped outside, closing it behind him.

Varian glanced out the window, brows creasing. It was hard to see from this angle, but it looked like there were several men out there, talking to Jonathan. He could just barely hear the deep hum of their voices, but not enough to make anything out. At one point, someone gestured at the window.

Varian got a bad feeling in his stomach.

A small hand tugged at his sleeve. “What’s wrong?” Cate chirped. “Why’re you sad for?”

Varian looked away from the window and gave the toddler a smile. “It’s- it’s probably nothing, Catie,” he said reassuringly.

Cate tilted her head. “Okay. Do you wanna be the mama?” she asked simply, holding out a cloth doll.

“Sure.” Varian took the offered doll.

That was one thing he had found he liked about toddlers. Nothing was ever complicated. Varian didn’t have to second guess everything he said to Cate, didn’t have to try and puzzle out her intentions. The simplicity of it was refreshing; he was tired of mind games. After the accident with the amber, his life had become one big, chaotic chessboard, the schemes and the manipulation all culminating in a devastating checkmate he never could have anticipated.

Back then, Varian had told the queen that part of his actions were for revenge, that he’d still want his revenge after he freed his dad. Things had turned out so differently that he had no clue if that would’ve been the case. But he did know he wanted none of that now. It just wasn’t worth it.

“Hey, the baby’s hungry!” Cate said loudly, waving her smaller doll in Varian’s face.

“Oh, sorry.” Varian shook himself from his thoughts, lifting one of the doll’s little arms in mock-play. “Would baby like some porridge?”

“No!” Cate shrieked. “Baby wants cake!”

“Well, she can’t have any until she eats her porridge,” Varian said, his lip quirking up despite himself. “So you’re gonna have to-”

The front door opened, and Jonathan stepped back inside. He didn’t stop, walking with a purpose towards where Varian and Cate were sitting, his expression unreadable.

Varian put the doll down and scrambled to his feet, his stomach flipping anxiously. “Is- is something wrong, sir?”

Jonathan’s eyes betrayed nothing, studying Varian carefully. “Apparently, the kingdom of Corona just exiled a dangerous criminal. One they call the Alchemist. They say he’s done… horrible things. Unimaginable things. And they say he’s you.” He tilted his head. “Is it true?”

Varian’s breathing hitched. He knew. Jonathan knew. Ice cold panic crawled up into Varian’s chest, and he stood motionless as his mind tore at itself in an attempt to think of a way out. How was he supposed to explain himself?

Varian’s reaction must’ve been all the answer Jonathan needed, because his expression darkened. He took a step forward, deliberately putting himself between Varian and Cate as he pushed her behind him.

Varian stumbled backward, his back hitting the wall. “Please, I never meant to hurt anyone-”

“Get out,” Jonathan snapped.

Varian nearly bolted for the door but managed to control himself, just enough to remember to gather his things first. He moved quickly, only grabbing the things he’d arrived with. Above the roaring in his ears, he could hear Cate asking, “where’s Varian going, Daddy? Can I go too?” and goddamn it, it shouldn’t have hurt that much-

Varian hesitated at the door, his hand gripping the handle, and glanced over his shoulder. “Th- thank you for your hospitality.”

With that, he slipped outside.

Closing the door behind him, Varian turned away, and his heart gave a jolt. There was a small crowd of people standing in front the house. Some he recognized; the familiarity and kindness was gone, replaced by distrust, anger, loathing. Some he didn’t, but the hatred was just the same. Some were armed, with cooking pans and farmer’s tools and even a sword or two. Some weren’t, but their clenched fists spoke of just as much intention.

Swallowing hard, Varian lowered his gaze and stepped into the crowd. They parted for him, the air thick with tension. His footsteps echoed almost deafeningly in the dead silence, and he had to consciously turn his feet away from the center of town; he’d gotten so used to walking to the shop with Jonathan-

Focus. Don’t think about it. Varian kept his head down, ears pricked and aware for any movement towards him, almost shaking from how tense he was. He watched from the corners of his eyes, not daring to meet anyone’s gaze for fear of a challenge, but taking careful notice of his surroundings.

Everyone he passed on the streets stopped what they were doing to stare, some whispering to each other and some shying back in fear. Others glared, and some even started to follow, joining the initial crowd that was trailing behind him.

The rational part of Varian’s brain forced himself to walk calmly, because he knew that if he ran, the irrational parts of their brains would want to give chase. It didn’t stop him from clutching his staff tightly, as if it could somehow protect him should the mob decide to rush him.

Eventually, someone in the crowd grew bold. “Yeah, keep going, you freak!” they jeered.

More joined in. “Corona doesn’t want you, and we don’t want you here either!”

“Don’t come back!”

“Criminal scum!”

“Freak!”

Varian bit down on his lip until it bled, refusing to let his tears fall. He forced himself to keep moving, not letting his steps falter, keeping his back straight. He kept moving until he crossed the threshold of the town and the road led into forest once again and the last of the straggling followers finally relented and turned back, apparently satisfied he was leaving for good.

Only then did he let himself cry, pushing forward on stumbling feet once more into the dark unknown.

(And he tried to forget about the orange crayon in his coat pocket.)

My Dad's pigs

Well, strictly, there weren’t his.

OK, I’d better give you some more background hadn’t I? There’s already some words on my Mum in this blog from earlier, so it seems only right that he also gets a fair crack of the narrative whip in my ongoing pig tales. And I’m actually more than a little surprised that I’ve not got around to talking that much about them — except in passing — until now, some years after the blog was started. So, sorry to you both! I love you; it wasn’t a deliberate slight 🙂

But first, here’s a shot of the (in-)Famous Five. Not sure where this was taken but I’m the one on the right in the back row. By the way, you will note that my pristine discriminate suss vis a vis clothes, hair-cuts and general hard-core posing, has always been with me…

Dad had an interesting, varied life. He’d been a merchant sailor on the Russian Convoys in WWII. He’d graduated from the Royal College of Music as a pianist and, initially at least, taught piano, but after he’d met my Mum (met up again that is; they’d split up and gone their separate ways, until Mum went down to Devon and, so her version goes, “dragged him back to Oxford and away from that other woman”), five children came along in rapid succession and it was soon apparent that the measly pay offered a music teacher wasn’t enough to support us all. Taking a cue from his own Dad, he re-trained as an accountant and started working for firms up & down the country. We moved. A lot. By the first 10 years of my life, I think we’d had 4 or 5 different places we called home.

And a couple of early shots of them attending someone elses’ wedding and, in the second, their own.

[I’ve even recently attempted to map some of the houses — it’s available here as The Bulow Clan homes for any of you stalkers out there — and, using Street-view, took a look at how they’re doing now. It’s quite surprising quite how much hasn’t changed from my memories of them, memories in some cases, from over 40 years ago]

Whilst it meant that we were forever making & then saying good-bye to short-lived friendships (at first those children next door, or just along the road, then later, those at primary school), it also resulted in us becoming a superbly well-tuned and tight-knit fighting unit, skilled at packing up one day and then efficiently moving these 7 people, their dog and their furniture to a new location, the very next day. I think I said before that my Mum could easily have organised the Normandy landings — her grasp of logistics was that good. We were the civvie equivalent of the Royal Engineers, moving men, vehicles & supplies through a devastated wasteland.

Here’s a later retirement shot — from the back garden in their nice, newly built, modern house. Finally, my Mum got to have a house that she didn’t have to look after all the time. Didn’t stop her still doing so, mind you…

And then, just like that, Dad gave up the life of an accountant and became a pig farmer. Well, in my memory, it was like that. In all likelihood, it took probably a few weeks or months — at least — to convince my Mum that this wasn’t the most insane idea he’d ever had. Dad was bright (and funny and kind), but sometimes you wouldn’t know it. He also could (and did) drink. And that was a problem at times. I recall being driven by him (in retrospect, a very pissed him) at high-speed around Bournemouth, where we were visiting his parents and after he’d had a row with Mum. He was often pretty useless with money; rather surprising for an accountant and I recall Mum keeping separate little pots for each bill and, once or twice we kids and Mum had to hide silently under the bed and pretend that we weren’t in, when the milkman (or similar dunned debtor) came a’ knockin’.

But become a pig farmer he did. There were, I’m sure, some sharply hissed, unkind words from behind the closed bedroom door or from the front-room, as they discussed it, but again, in my memory, we just effortlessly and calmly segued into our new lives on farms. Dad had always loved pigs, working with them in Devon, so, whilst an unexpected change of tack — at least to us — maybe not a total bombshell for my Mum. Who knows now? But there we were. Living in farm cottages as Dad never owned his own farm; he was always a tenant farmer. But one big advantage of this was that the job came complete with a large house. I’m sure the wages were pretty crap but at least they didn’t have to find rent money and were able to have separate bed-rooms for (most) of us!

Here’s the place at Kingsdown, in Kent. We moved here when I was just 11, from the previous farm in Essex. This was the last one he worked at and it specialised in careful, highly skilled breeding programmes. Now. this pristine, white house is divided into two properties but when we were there, it was all ours. Complete with nests of rats under the garden shed. An endless source of fun for us and the family and farm dogs. Corn fields behind. Bluebell woods on the horizon. And an old Royal Marine training ground  further along the farm road — dangerous as all hell, full of collapsing tunnels, hidden drops and unstable sandy banks, so therefore irresistible to us.

And here, the farm buildings that housed the pigs, now looking almost deserted (and a likely asbestos health & safety nightmare), but these were where Dad worked, where we all ‘helped’ him and, from the concrete jetties, where the animals were loaded and off-loaded. The grain store and chute, at the back, was another treasure trove of rats for hunting. Oh, and it also had a large oil-drum sized tub of black molasses given to the pigs to supplement their diet. Scooping a fistful out when no one was looking, was a treat for all of us kids.

And so, as I said therefore, not his pigs. But as far as the porkers and we were concerned, they may as well have been. He loved them. He cared for them. He bedded them down when they were ill, supervised their births, farrowing, feeding, growth and deaths.  As a breeding experimental site, we had quite tight access controls (for that time); and the occasional foot & mouth outbreaks nearby meant we often went into lock-down and once — luckily only the once — we had to watch as all the animals there had to be killed and burnt. An horrific sight, sounds and a smell that lingered in the air and clothes and even the hedgerows for days afterward. A lot of us cried that day. Including my Dad.

An earlier farm was also the cause of more than one or two nightmares for me. The pig manure was swept into huge underground pits (using what were, in effect, giant rubberised Squeegee mops) from where it was rather (to me) ingeniously pumped out, through a network of pipes either onto the nearby fields or into tankers for disposal elsewhere. Leaning over the manhole covers, seeing the churning, stinking dark, seething mass below, made me wake screaming in the night as I ‘watched’ Dad slip into it and get sucked away.

Gentle reader? Of course, it never happened. For which I for one am profoundly grateful. He went on to live for another 30 years or so.

But “what about the pigs”, I hear you cry? “Tell us more about them”?

Despite (or rather because of) the intensive breeding attempts, these weren’t anything special — certainly not rare breed types, just pink & large — except in their ability to grow quickly to weight, to be low in fat, to produce large litters. You know, the same as everyone else, the same as almost the entire rest of the world was looking for. We (Dad and his fellow pig-herds) were ‘guilty’ of the crimes I’ve previously excoriated the English farmer for. I suppose we could claim that this was a different time and that we “knew no better”, and in all honesty, I think that’s pretty much the case. I don’t recall anyone then extolling the benefits of the old style pigs — hardier, tastier, able to live outside — whilst calling for them to be retained. The dash for profit was headlong and Dad’s employers weren’t immune to that siren call. So these ones weren’t kept outside; they lived in inside sties. The floors were concrete (although they had huge quantities of fresh straw changed twice daily to move around on, root round in, dig for their food in). Food was generally high-energy pellets. They got given some fruit on occasions. But precisely because this was a breeding farm and the owner was paranoid about infections or diseases from outside, pigs weren’t allowed the scraps and swill from school canteens that we saw used on the earlier farms.

Ideal? No. Unfeeling? Yes, pretty much I guess. The sows had large-ish farrowing crates even then, so the natural bonding that should occur was less likely to happen. We docked tails. We de-tusked the boars. They didn’t get to run around outside, to root, to dig, to play in the way that this most sociable of animals needs to. And whilst I never saw anyone treating them cruelly or unkindly, still, this was a processing operation. I’m not happy looking back at the lives these animals led because of us.  I’m unsure how to end this piece. For the time and place, they had a better life than some and Dad was uniformly caring of them. I suppose that’s the best I can say. Somehow though, it doesn’t seem a fitting epitaph for all the work and care and effort that he put into his animals. We never really spoke about this or how welfare for animals had changed when we’d both got older. And I regret that. And I miss him. Of course. But I think he’d have approved of my coming back to write about these lovely creatures. Thanks Bernie. For everything.

Oh, and one last thing? As far as I know, we’re not related to this branch of the extended Bulow Clan. We visited there whilst living in Florida. A beautiful place, calm, green, verdant. And yet. And yet. The stench of slavery — like burning pork — doesn’t wash away, even in the torrential Florida rains…

In 1821, Major Charles Wilhelm Bulow acquired 4,675 acres of wilderness bordering a tidal creek that would later bear his name. Using slave labor, he cleared 2,200 acres and planted sugar cane, cotton, rice and indigo. Major Bulow died in 1823, leaving the newly established plantation to his seventeen year old son, John Joachim Bulow.

After completing his education in Paris, John Bulow returned to the Territory of Florida to manage the plantation. Young Bulow proved to be very capable. John James Audubon, the famous naturalist, was a guest at the plantation during Christmas week 1831. In a letter to a patron, Audubon wrote:

“Mr. J.J. Bulow, a rich planter, at whose home myself and party have been for a whole week under the most hospitable and welcome treatment is now erecting some extensive buildings for a sugar house.” Bulowville, Florida December 31, 1831.

Bulow’s sugar mill, constructed of local “coquina” rock, was the largest mill in East Florida. At the boat slips, flatboats were loaded with barrels of raw sugar and molasses and floated down Bulow Creek to be shipped north. This frontier industry came to an abrupt end at the outbreak of the Second Seminole War. In January 1836, a band of raiding Seminole Indians, resisting removal to the West, looted and burned the plantation. It would never recover. Bulow returned to Paris where he died the same year.

Today, the coquina walls and chimneys of the sugar mill remain standing as a monument to the rise and fall of the sugar plantations of East Florida.

  My Dad’s pigs was originally published on Salute The Pig

New Post has been published on http://fitnessandhealthpros.com/beauty/has-conscious-consumption-peaked-why-its-not-saving-the-earth-honestly/

Has Conscious Consumption Peaked? Why It’s Not Saving The Earth, Honestly

Have you ever popped onto the Internet to search for an ethical, cruelty-free product only to find that everything available was way out of your price range? I’m talking $ 1,000+ Stella McCartney vegan handbags and $ 500 ethical lingerie. Or even “natural” lipsticks that cost more than your monthly phone bill and animal-friendly shoes that wouldn’t be worth the amount of wear you’d get from them before they fell apart.

Stella McCartney vegan leather purse–$ 1,585

The problem here isn’t simply that these products exist (at such an inflated price), but that many well-intentioned environmentalists recommend expensive purchases as the antidote for the environmental damage brought on by consumerism.

“You vote with your dollars” is a phrase thrown around loosely in consciously-minded communities. You hear vegans using this as an excuse to buy pricey, faux-leather boots and dine at upscale, health food cafes. Their thought is to buy better but not necessarily less, or for less money.

There is a $ 48 beauty and wellness tasting menu handpicked by the chef at Jean-Georges’s ABCV in Manhattan.

And while their reasoning may be valid to an extent, as demand does influence the market, there is also the reality that this is an approach driven by capitalism (i.e. an exploitative, exclusive, and often corrupt system). Yes–in theory, some companies are “better” and “holier” than others. They use organic resources and source materials from within a small proximity and pay their employees fair wages, and that is great. And there are definitely costs associated with running a morally-focused company that don’t exist in other types of production.

BUT, we cannot fail to acknowledge that buying name-brand, fair-trade, locally crafted goods is a privilege. At the best of times, the products cost more because they require more initial capital to make, and at the worst, they are so expensive because they are targeting a market who is likely to spend more on a purchase they think they can feel good about.

You may have noticed that most of the people romping around in $ 400 Rombaut trainers to spread the good word of “ethical consumption” are people who come from backgrounds of limited racial and social diversity. Yet in their minds, it seems, everyone can afford to drop hundreds or thousands on a quality product and if they don’t, then they’re living selfishly or unethically. To some, conscious consumption is the end-all-be-all, and an easy response to the nearly unavoidable issue of how, what, and where to buy.

The next topic of discussion, however, is how to grapple with ethics of the products we buy if spending our life savings on a non-essential isn’t an option.

I wouldn’t propose turning to fast fashion for a second–I think the impacts are far worse than the damage brought on by the privileged liberal elite and their consumerist agenda. But I do cherish the fact that I have found other ways to combat consumerism and its associated harm in my life, and that I do sometimes meet others on a similar path. Who appreciate the fact that eco-friendly shopping options exist, but also that they are not accessible for everyone.

In a perfect world, bloggers and social/environmental activists alike would be offering up alternatives like second-hand shopping as a means of limiting consumption and over-production. They would show their peers how rewarding it can be to find a vintage gem amongst masses or previously-owned items, or to buy a coat for $ 40 that would cost ten times as much new, or one that’s quality is superior to anything available in stores nowadays.

They would reference the early inhabitants of the land who made their own soaps and makeups and paints and dyes from naturally found ingredients. Not to then turn around and sell them on Etsy or hit a niche market, but because it was the practical, ethical, resourceful thing to do.

Again, even making your own products can be a privilege. It works under the assumption that someone has the time and ability to do so. But it is a substitute for more frivolous means of acquiring goods–and the more substitutes we can provide, the better.

There are times when we might have to go to Walmart to buy underwear because we don’t want to wear undergarments passed on from someone else, and more sustainable underwear is really expensive, and Walmart is right down the street whereas a slightly costlier but slightly more acceptable store is a drive or a bus or a train away, and we shouldn’t have to justify this decision or fall into shame because of it.

If we all just do what we can, focus on our own actions, and recognize that everyone has different standards of living and spending, then we can distinguish between the “better” and the “best.” We can accept that our interpretations of each are different than someone else’s, that consumption and ethicality are not so black and white–just because someone doesn’t do something one way, or live how you would choose to live, doesn’t mean they are wrong or bad or lesser-than.

I will admit that I can enjoy a good online browse. I have an appreciation of quality and aesthetic. Yet I also love a good flea market shop or dumpster dive. I know my monetary limitations, and I never want to impose those on others or have them imposed onto me. So I leave you with my plea for inclusivity–to stop acting like everyone has the means to live an idealistic, eco-conscious, Instagram-approved lifestyle and to cater to the large population of people who want and need alternatives.

Also by Quincy: 4 Media Stars Who Are Changing The Body Positivity Talk (We’re All Ears)

Here’s How “Creative Sex” Will Obliterate You (In The Best Way Possible)

Related: How Paris Turned Me On To Minimalism & 4 Ways to Do It Anywhere

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Photo: Pexels, Stella McCartney, ABC Kitchen

Quincy is an NC-based college student who is passionate about leading a healthy and compassionate life. Aside from classes, she fills her time with cooking, writing, travel, and yoga. You can find more from her on her blog Shugurcän and on Instagram.

Originally at :Peaceful Dumpling Written By : Quincy Malesovas

OMG . . . Judge Ellis took ArtMofo's advice . . .

Hey peeps, We're officially living in the alternate universe, where: Cold is hot, Wet is dry, Good is evil, and . . . Federal judges pay homage to the thoughts and feelings of Arthur Mofodopoulis, while sentencing a $30 million tax cheat and bank fraudster who built a career representing -- and rehabilitating the images of -- some of the most cruel and inhumane motherfuckers on Earth. "Blameless life" my ass! There's no need any longer for strong drink, or mind-bending drugs such as LSD, psilocybin or DMT. It cannot get any weirder. God help us all. --Art ----- Forwarded Message ----- From: Arthur Mofodopoulis Sent: Friday, March 1, 2019, 9:06:51 PM EST Subject: ArtMofo's sentencing memo in the Manafort case (Eastern District of Virginia) By snail mail ------------------------- The Honorable T.S. Ellis III U.S. District Court for the Eastern District of Virginia Albert V. Bryan Federal Courthouse 401 Courthouse Square Alexandria, VA 22314 February 19, 2019 Dear Judge Ellis, I'm writing about the upcoming sentencing of Paul Manafort, the former chairman of President Trump's 2016 presidential campaign. As a patriotic American with a keen interest in justice and fairness, I urge you to hand down the lightest sentence possible. That's because Mr. Manafort has worked his entire adult life to make the United States of America and planet Earth a better place. I do not personally know the defendant, although I've learned a few things about his upbringing over the years, and I've followed his career with a mixture of admiration and amazement. He's a devout Roman Catholic who was raised in Connecticut and attended a Catholic high school and Georgetown University. There, he also earned a law degree. He's a faithful husband who's been married to the same woman for 41 years and together they raised two daughters who are sturdy citizens and productive members of society. Until last year, Mr. Manafort had never been convicted of any criminal offense. During his career, Mr. Manafort remained far out of the limelight as he selflessly assisted many respected world leaders. Among them are President Ronald Reagan (who appointed you); U.S. Senator Robert Dole, a World War II hero and Republican presidential candidate; Philippine President Ferdinand Marcos, a beloved humanitarian; and two of Africa's greatest modern-day statesmen: Angolan freedom fighter Jonas Savimbi, and President Mobutu Sese Seko of Zaire. Mr. Manafort also worked closely with Viktor Yanukovych in Ukraine. Unfortunately, the popularly elected President Yanukovych was undemocratically overthrown in a coup orchestrated by a European-Union cabal composed of socialists, globalists and rootless cosmopolitans like George Soros. Against that enviable record, Judge Ellis, let us consider the crimes for which Mr. Manafort was convicted in your court: Tax fraud, bank fraud and failing to disclose a foreign bank account. On any broad scale of evildoing, such violations are laughably harmless. It's not difficult to wonder if they should even be crimes at all. Who hasn't occasionally made one or more simple bookkeeping errors while filling out tax forms, or misplaced some faith in an accountant whom they trusted? And who hasn't fudged a fact here or there on a loan application for the purpose of bettering chances of a bank's approval? The third charge is the most outrageous of all, because it's tantamount to a "memory" crime. In no way is it illegal for an American citizen to hold a bank account in a foreign country, and Mr. Manafort had many of those. During a globe-trotting career that was full of distractions, he apparently forgot to disclose a single account. Big deal! When failing to remember something becomes a federal crime, Judge Ellis, we're all in a heap of trouble. The jury verdicts in Mr. Manafort's trial obviously reflected notions outlined above. As you know, jurors found him innocent of more than half the offenses the government charged. There's a decent argument the guilty verdicts they did return resulted from some sort of untoward backroom "compromise." It's quite possible jurors felt they had to find Mr. Manafort guilty of something, lest they incur the government's wrath and wind up under investigation themselves. Or perhaps jurors' baser emotions got the better of them as they listened to irrelevant and highly prejudicial testimony about Mr. Manafort's purchase of a $15,000 ostrich-skin jacket, and his other spending on clothes, landscaping and real estate. With that evidence, the prosecutors repulsively waged class warfare against Mr. Manafort right there in your courtroom. In America, it shouldn't be a crime to get rich! Whatever the reason for those misguided convictions, the government's request that you impose a prison sentence of between 19 and 24 years is both unfathomable  and unconscionable. Judge Ellis, you yourself correctly called the government's bluff during Mr. Manafort's trial. From the bench, you basically noted the entire indictment against Mr. Manafort was tendered in bad faith. You said prosecutors brought those charges for no reason other than to pressure Mr. Manafort into "flipping" against President Trump, and becoming a government witness in the ongoing witch hunt led by Robert Mueller and his 13 Hillary Clinton-supporting assistants. In that respect, the Manafort trial was purely an act of political retribution. We both know Mr. Manafort was tried only because of the successful work he did leading President Trump's election campaign. In addition to all his other accomplishments (cited above), that was Mr. Manafort's greatest career triumph. President Trump's amazing victory has fundamentally improved America. Among other things, it eviscerated a collective shame that darkened our country during the Obama Administration's eight years. Obama rigged the American justice system in a stealthy campaign that allowed him to escape responsibility for any number of criminal scandals. One was Solyndra, through which friends of Obama sucked billions of Energy Department subsides out of the U.S. Treasury and into their pockets. Another was Uranium One, under which Obama and Hillary Clinton gave away the United States' complete stores of that strategic metal to Russia in exchange for a contribution to the Clinton Foundation. Yet a third was Fast and Furious -- in that one, Obama literally armed Mexican drug cartels with military-grade weapons from the United States, which created the southern border crisis President Trump is now trying to fix. Surely you haven't forgotten the Obama Internal Revenue Service's campaign against grassroots conservative organizations, and how Obama shut down legitimate inquiry as to whether he's a natural-born citizen (which could have disqualified him from the White House). And what about the four American heroes who lost their lives in Benghazi? To date, nobody has paid any price for that because of an obscene cover-up engineered by Hillary Clinton that thwarted the best efforts of Congressional investigators. Any other president would have been impeached and later prosecuted for such crimes. Instead, Obama is walking around happy, free and a lot wealthier than he was when he entered the White House. Meanwhile, President Trump is suffering through a politically motivated investigation, precisely because he's worked tirelessly to drain the Obama swamp and eliminate the disgraceful "Deep State." That dishonest investigation, along a treasonous coup plotted by some Obama leftovers in the Justice Department, are President Trump's "reward" for his great efforts. I have learned all of the above by carefully watching and analyzing the Sean Hannity show on Fox News for the past two years. I didn't take that stuff at face value, though. I thoroughly researched it -- and all of Hannity's information totally checks out. Top-notch investigative journalists such as John Solomon, Sara Carter and Gregg Jarrett have validated every bit of it. Which brings us to the bottom line: Mr. Manafort's prosecution -- for Fake Crimes -- is little more than an extension of corrupt and traitorous attempts to get rid of President Trump and halt his valiant efforts to Make America Great Again. Judge Ellis, my simple request is that you take all of the above into account for Mr. Manafort's upcoming sentencing hearing. If you cannot find it in your head and heart to throw out every one of those unfair and malicious convictions, the least you could do is sentence Mr. Manafort to "time served" and release him. Then, after the November 2020 election, President Trump can pardon Mr. Manafort and finally give him the justice he richly deserves. Obama, Hillary and Mueller are the people who truly ought to be before you at that sentencing hearing, rather than an upstanding citizen like Mr. Manafort, who at the worst may have cut a few inconsequential corners while trying to bring justice to America and peace to the world. Thank you for reading this heartfelt letter. Sincerely, Arthur Mofodopoulis 4807 Penn Wyne Dr. Greensboro, NC 27401

ArtMofo's sentencing memo in the Manafort case (Eastern District of Virginia)

By snail mail ------------------------- The Honorable T.S. Ellis III U.S. District Court for the Eastern District of Virginia Albert V. Bryan Federal Courthouse 401 Courthouse Square Alexandria, VA 22314 February 19, 2019 Dear Judge Ellis, I'm writing about the upcoming sentencing of Paul Manafort, the former chairman of President Trump's 2016 presidential campaign. As a patriotic American with a keen interest in justice and fairness, I urge you to hand down the lightest sentence possible. That's because Mr. Manafort has worked his entire adult life to make the United States of America and planet Earth a better place. I do not personally know the defendant, although I've learned a few things about his upbringing over the years, and I've followed his career with a mixture of admiration and amazement. He's a devout Roman Catholic who was raised in Connecticut and attended a Catholic high school and Georgetown University. There, he also earned a law degree. He's a faithful husband who's been married to the same woman for 41 years and together they raised two daughters who are sturdy citizens and productive members of society. Until last year, Mr. Manafort had never been convicted of any criminal offense. During his career, Mr. Manafort remained far out of the limelight as he selflessly assisted many respected world leaders. Among them are President Ronald Reagan (who appointed you); U.S. Senator Robert Dole, a World War II hero and Republican presidential candidate; Philippine President Ferdinand Marcos, a beloved humanitarian; and two of Africa's greatest modern-day statesmen: Angolan freedom fighter Jonas Savimbi, and President Mobutu Sese Seko of Zaire. Mr. Manafort also worked closely with Viktor Yanukovych in Ukraine. Unfortunately, the popularly elected President Yanukovych was undemocratically overthrown in a coup orchestrated by a European-Union cabal composed of socialists, globalists and rootless cosmopolitans like George Soros. Against that enviable record, Judge Ellis, let us consider the crimes for which Mr. Manafort was convicted in your court: Tax fraud, bank fraud and failing to disclose a foreign bank account. On any broad scale of evildoing, such violations are laughably harmless. It's not difficult to wonder if they should even be crimes at all. Who hasn't occasionally made one or more simple bookkeeping errors while filling out tax forms, or misplaced some faith in an accountant whom they trusted? And who hasn't fudged a fact here or there on a loan application for the purpose of bettering chances of a bank's approval? The third charge is the most outrageous of all, because it's tantamount to a "memory" crime. In no way is it illegal for an American citizen to hold a bank account in a foreign country, and Mr. Manafort had many of those. During a globe-trotting career that was full of distractions, he apparently forgot to disclose a single account. Big deal! When failing to remember something becomes a federal crime, Judge Ellis, we're all in a heap of trouble. The jury verdicts in Mr. Manafort's trial obviously reflected notions outlined above. As you know, jurors found him innocent of more than half the offenses the government charged. There's a decent argument the guilty verdicts they did return resulted from some sort of untoward backroom "compromise." It's quite possible jurors felt they had to find Mr. Manafort guilty of something, lest they incur the government's wrath and wind up under investigation themselves. Or perhaps jurors' baser emotions got the better of them as they listened to irrelevant and highly prejudicial testimony about Mr. Manafort's purchase of a $15,000 ostrich-skin jacket, and his other spending on clothes, landscaping and real estate. With that evidence, the prosecutors repulsively waged class warfare against Mr. Manafort right there in your courtroom. In America, it shouldn't be a crime to get rich! Whatever the reason for those misguided convictions, the government's request that you impose a prison sentence of between 19 and 24 years is both unfathomable  and unconscionable. Judge Ellis, you yourself correctly called the government's bluff during Mr. Manafort's trial. From the bench, you basically noted the entire indictment against Mr. Manafort was tendered in bad faith. You said prosecutors brought those charges for no reason other than to pressure Mr. Manafort into "flipping" against President Trump, and becoming a government witness in the ongoing witch hunt led by Robert Mueller and his 13 Hillary Clinton-supporting assistants. In that respect, the Manafort trial was purely an act of political retribution. We both know Mr. Manafort was tried only because of the successful work he did leading President Trump's election campaign. In addition to all his other accomplishments (cited above), that was Mr. Manafort's greatest career triumph. President Trump's amazing victory has fundamentally improved America. Among other things, it eviscerated a collective shame that darkened our country during the Obama Administration's eight years. Obama rigged the American justice system in a stealthy campaign that allowed him to escape responsibility for any number of criminal scandals. One was Solyndra, through which friends of Obama sucked billions of Energy Department subsides out of the U.S. Treasury and into their pockets. Another was Uranium One, under which Obama and Hillary Clinton gave away the United States' complete stores of that strategic metal to Russia in exchange for a contribution to the Clinton Foundation. Yet a third was Fast and Furious -- in that one, Obama literally armed Mexican drug cartels with military-grade weapons from the United States, which created the southern border crisis President Trump is now trying to fix. Surely you haven't forgotten the Obama Internal Revenue Service's campaign against grassroots conservative organizations, and how Obama shut down legitimate inquiry as to whether he's a natural-born citizen (which could have disqualified him from the White House). And what about the four American heroes who lost their lives in Benghazi? To date, nobody has paid any price for that because of an obscene cover-up engineered by Hillary Clinton that thwarted the best efforts of Congressional investigators. Any other president would have been impeached and later prosecuted for such crimes. Instead, Obama is walking around happy, free and a lot wealthier than he was when he entered the White House. Meanwhile, President Trump is suffering through a politically motivated investigation, precisely because he's worked tirelessly to drain the Obama swamp and eliminate the disgraceful "Deep State." That dishonest investigation, along a treasonous coup plotted by some Obama leftovers in the Justice Department, are President Trump's "reward" for his great efforts. I have learned all of the above by carefully watching and analyzing the Sean Hannity show on Fox News for the past two years. I didn't take that stuff at face value, though. I thoroughly researched it -- and all of Hannity's information totally checks out. Top-notch investigative journalists such as John Solomon, Sara Carter and Gregg Jarrett have validated every bit of it. Which brings us to the bottom line: Mr. Manafort's prosecution -- for Fake Crimes -- is little more than an extension of corrupt and traitorous attempts to get rid of President Trump and halt his valiant efforts to Make America Great Again. Judge Ellis, my simple request is that you take all of the above into account for Mr. Manafort's upcoming sentencing hearing. If you cannot find it in your head and heart to throw out every one of those unfair and malicious convictions, the least you could do is sentence Mr. Manafort to "time served" and release him. Then, after the November 2020 election, President Trump can pardon Mr. Manafort and finally give him the justice he richly deserves. Obama, Hillary and Mueller are the people who truly ought to be before you at that sentencing hearing, rather than an upstanding citizen like Mr. Manafort, who at the worst may have cut a few inconsequential corners while trying to bring justice to America and peace to the world. Thank you for reading this heartfelt letter. Sincerely, Arthur Mofodopoulis 4807 Penn Wyne Dr. Greensboro, NC 27401