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whiskeyworen · 5 years

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Sonnya - Feline Friend

It felt good to be home again.

It had been so long since Sonnya had walked the familiar, symmetrically aligned, mathematically perfect cobble of Rata Sum. The gentle thrum and throb of energy conduits in the walls, in displays. The glorious golden sun leeching through the habitat illuminator passages, filling the Asuran city with natural glow. She couldn't help but pause for a moment near a planned waterfall, listening to the water flowing down over the specially-shaped platforms into the depths below. Someone had once told her that the positioning of the platforms the water met on its way down was set up to maximize the relaxing sound of the crashing falls without the need for dramatic splash, as well as to increase vaporization as the water misted every time it hit a platform.

She breathed deep, the petrichor scent making her smile. Sonnya personally loved that earthy, fresh smell. Almost as much as she loved the smell of ozone from electrical arcing. Just the scent of either reminded her of the amazing storms that sometimes swept through Maguuma, and the lightning she got to see. Natural lightning was so very different from the kind elementalists threw around. There was just...something...about a natural lightning strike that put one in awe.

The hustle and bustle of the city had not diminished in her absence. Citizens still walked the street, heading for personal destinations, or just relaxed, chatting amicably. The Peacemakers still patrolled the streets; you never knew when someone's lab experiment might 'get loose', or when lab drama might spill over. Sonnya wandered the streets, sidestepping apprentices that ran pell-mell between krewes. With a chuckle, she noted just how many had a frantic, terrified look on their faces. She remembered being an apprentice too, so long ago. How many years had it been?

Still, Rata Sum was a living city. A city full of a people that never liked to just sit still and never change. And so, the city itself was changing. When she'd arrived, she'd already noted that the exterior size of the city had expanded another hundred acres or so; new layers were being added to the outer edges of the city as it expanded and reconfigured internally. There had been a news report on the 'ticker' she had passed by; something about adapting the Rata Novan style of fiber-optic cabling to bring light inside to the city. From the jist of it, the Arcane Council was concerned that as the city, expanded, the illuminator passages would grow too long to permit proper internal lighting. To save cost, they were going to fill a number of the passages with optic cable.

It wasn't a bad idea, but she hoped they wouldn't entirely PLUG the holes with fiber optics; part of the wonderful part about Rata Sum was that those tunnels also permitted air circulation, and kept the air in the city fresh and clean. Maybe a partial fill would be suggested? Sonnya made a note mentally to send her Statics representative on the council a suggestion. It might not mean anything, but at least she'd have tried.

There were other changes, of course. Old bars and shops had closed down, to be replaced in turn by new shops and bars. Her old drinking hangout from college had been turned into a toy shop for progeny looking to build golems. That was a disappointment, but such was life.

As she turned the corner of a support pillar near Research Point, she blinked in surprise. Without realizing it, her new optic gear immediately had highlighted an unusual object in her vision. It was a simple book cart but... it wasn't Asuran made. It looked almost Krytan. Maybe Norn, but if it was Norn it was on the small size.

"Interesting..." She said thoughtfully, slowly walking up to it. There were at least a hundred books, maybe more, stacked chaotically on its shelves. The Obsessive-Compulsive cleaner in her instantly wanted to reorganize and straighten everything, and it took Sonnya a moment to reign in her instinct, instead settling on picking up a book.

It was a simple thing, bound in pressed wood-fiber rather than the traditional leather, but the reason for that became immediately clear. The fanciful, adorably cute, chubby cat on the cover, with his bright yellow eyes, monocle, and little bowler hat, dancing with an equally adorable quaggan pup was evidence enough; it was a child's book. " 'Chauncey and His Pal... Shooshadoo?' " Sonnya read aloud, more amused than anything else. It was not what she expected at all. The name of the quaggan rang a bell, but she couldn't put her finger on why. She couldn't help it. She flicked through the well-loved book, and felt a moment of nostalgic glee, remembering instantly what it felt like to read books like this when she was just a little one. There was a pang of sadness there too; Sonnya had so far passed that little tyke that she had been once, that she had almost forgotten those things that made her happy back then. With reluctance, she put the book down, and reached slowly for another. Surprisingly, it too, was another progeny's reader. This one was 'Chauncey and the Plush Pillar', a silly tale about the cat heading north to see, of all things, a big pillar covered in what seemed to be soft wool. The picture of the cat, done up in a fluffy, poofy winter parka, staring up in obvious awe at the pillar, eyes wide in a very recognizable 'I'm gonna claw that' expression, made her giggle in spite of herself. Was this cart nothing but children's books? Sonnya wondered a bit, reaching for another, then another book. It seemed it must be, which was fine with her; the progeny in Rata Sum should read something other than texts and manuals, after all. Let them have their childhood. There was a book cracked open under another one near the front end of the cart, where the tow bars were. She eased it out from under the pinning book and looked at it. The cover was ruined, unfortunately; whatever artwork had been on it had been scoured away by age and neglect. Flipping it open to a random page, she expected to see more child-level language, but was surprised to see what appeared to be a partial treatise on ley-line magical 'intoxication' and abberation in living things poisoned by ley energy. It was written in a dramatic prose, like some kind of hard, realistic novel, even though there were only a dozen or so pages to the book! "What the Cog?..." Sonnya muttered, puzzled, as she flicked back and forth through the pages, skimming text. Most of the pages were ruined too; entire segments had been washed away or scoured away, leaving a few words here or there. "What IS this?" "Having fun reading?" A voice playfully purred from somewhere above her. With a start, Sonnya stepped back, her eyes flaring blue as the optics flicked on again, isolating the speaker. It was... another Asura. She was lounging on top of the flat top of the book cart, one arm hanging lazily off the edge while the other propped her chin up. She smiled at Sonnya, and flicked the her hand that was hanging off the edge a little. "Well? Were you enjoying my collection?" There was something distinctly feline about her, Sonnya decided immediately. Everything from her posture on the cart, to the shape of her eyes and irises (were those contacts or was she born with slit eyes?), to the very coloration of the spots on her face screamed 'CAT'. Well, that and the pair of kitty ears attached to the headband the woman had on. That kind of was a giveaway too.

"I-uh." Sonnya stammered for a second, glancing down at the book in her hand. "Well, yeah, I suppose? They reminded me of when I was little. It was....nice to look at them. You know?" She tapped an armored finger on the cover of the book she still had in her hands. "But... this one doesn't seem to belong. I mean, if this is a cart of kids books, this one is...well... it seems more like it was meant for an older reader?" The cart owner rolled lazily off the roof, dropping with practiced ease onto her feet with an economy of motion that was quite impressive. She seemed to move like she was more like a fluid than a person. Once again, Sonnya was struck by how very feline that made her seem. Feline grace? She found herself attributing to this individual.

She meeped, jaw snapping shut as the cart owner suddenly sidled up to her, very much in her personal space, to take a look at the text in the book. By 'very much', she actually hooked an arm around Sonnya's armoured shoulders and leaned against her while looking at the book. "Hmm?... Oh yes, that one. Hehe. No, that's a kiddy's kitty book too."

Almost as an afterthought, she turned her head and looked at Sonnya directly. "Oh, I'm Netto, by the by."

Too close too close too close! was all that ran through Sonnya's mind. She could actually see her own heart rate skyrocket in the corner of her vision, because this Netto was almost nose to nose with her. What kind of person gets that close to a perfect stranger?? At the same time, a small part of her realized Sonnya herself wasn't remotely trying to step back to a safer 'personal space' distance. Which raised all kinds of questions in her own mind. Deal with that later!

"I-uh... I'm Sonnya?" She blinked awkwardly, ears back. "But... what do you mean, this is a kid's book?" Netto chuckled and slid around in front of her, clasping the book, and by chance, both of Sonnya's mailed hands (and causing another instant skyrocket heartrate), and began turning the pages, using Sonnya's hands like puppets. "Because it is. You didn't read far enough yet!"

She made Sonnya turn to one of the last pages, where, sure enough, there was a partial image of a very proud looking black and white cat, with hat and monocle standing before a very sneaky looking grey cat. Chauncey, once again. "See? There's Chauncey, and Shadow."

Sonnya's jaw dropped for the second time in as many minutes. How could something the seemed so seriously written be for mere progeny? "I...don't understand. This is a child's book? But the rest of the text in it that I can read is..."

Netto sighed, taking the book out of her hands, and closing it. She stroked the cover sadly. "Yeah, I know. It doesn't seem like the others. But it was written by the same author as the others! I think this might have been an attempt to break into a more 'adult' market, like tweens or young teenagers."

She pursed her lips, frowning. "This is the only copy I've been able to find so far. And it spent ITS time in a water-logged basement in Beetletun."

"It's that rare?"

Netto shrugged. "Maybe. Yes? No? I might find a better copy some day, but until then, this one is gonna stay in my collection." She waved a hand idly at the cart. "The others are all mass-produced regularly, so I can actually sell those. This one... is more for me." She smiled. "And to tempt people into reading more, like you!"

Before she could say anything, Netto was right up in her face again, eyes bright. "So, does that mean you like cats too? I mean, you were reading all through my Chauncey series!"

"Y-yes. I do like cats." Sonnya admitted nervously, blinking. "I can't own one though. I don't have a residence. And they don't let pets stay in Vigil Keep." She paused for a second, thinking, before shrugging. "except ranger pets. But those are different."

"Aw, that's such a shame! Cats are the best!" Netto spun away, the book clutched to her chest, before she put it back on the cart. "What was the first book you read here? Was it 'Plush Monolith'?"

"Uh, no, I think it was... Shooshadoo? Yes, it was Shooshadoo." Sonnya began to step closer, ready to point it out.

"Shooshadoo! One of my favorites!" Netto exclaimed gleefully. She was immediately back to hanging off Sonnya's shoulder, while she held up the book. "Every time I read this, I think of all the little adventures I used to dream up when I was little!"

Netto was so close she was almost talking directly into Sonnya's ear, which she desperately tried not to flick up or down or anything like that. She really hoped the cart owner couldn't see her blush, because of how close she was. If there was one thing in the world Sonnya wasn't used to, it was physical closeness like this. Especially from someone so... emotionally 'personable'. "Y-yeah. Me too. It made me think of when I was little and I'd read to my sisters." "Aw, that's so cute!" Netto purred, giving her shoulder an affectionate shake. She leaned in conspiratorially, this time actually whispering into Sonnya's ear. "Tell ya what. Because this book is both of our favorites, I'm gonna do something naughty."

"Naughty?" Sonnya squeaked, swallowing heavily. Netto's eyes were locked on her, and there was a deviousness buried there. "Like... what?"

"I'm going to give you the book." She whispered, carefully placing the book into Sonnya's hand and making sure to close her fingers over it. "Free of charge. From one cat fan to another. One nostalgia to another."

"You're just...giving it to me?" Sonnya asked, her puzzlement coloring her voice. She stared at the book now in her grasp. "But...why?"

"Because I saw the way your face lit up when you realized what you were reading." Netto explained, smiling. "And because it looked like you hadn't been happy in a while." She cocked her head to the side, the kitty ears almost seeming to twitch in thought along with her real ears. "I saw you walking around, and the smile you had on before was nice, but kind of surface-y. But the moment you started reading this book."

She grinned broadly, and moved in front of her. "It was like you became a whole other person."

Sonnya actually ducked her head in embarrassment at that. There was no way she was going to hide her blush at a comment like that. "Well... thanks. I feel a bit silly though, taking a kids book and adding it to my library."

Netto's smile faded and she looked Sonnya squarely in the eye. "There's nothing wrong with hanging on to the things that make you happy. The one thing people forget is how to BE happy. They think that they need to abandon the trappings of childhood to become an adult." She shook her head. "Even I did that, until I realized that the things that made me happy also helped balance me as an adult. We all need to decompress, to release and feel simple, happy, and free."

Her smile returned, and she swung an arm back at the book cart. "I realized I only needed to let my love of cats come to light, and not be shamed by such a 'childish impulse', to be happy. Now I collect and sell kitty books to kids...adults..." she said the word meaningfully, tapping the cover of the book. "...to make them happy as well. I also collect cat-related items, just for fun!"

"Cat related articles?" Sonnya repeated. She was still trying to process Netto's rather profound speech about maturity. It made sense, on some level...but could she pull it off too? Could she just...let go and be free like that? It felt almost impossible.

Netto reached up with both hands and tugged on her kitty headband's ears. "Like these! And statues, toys, holos, furniture!" She laughed. "Oh, if you were to see my residence... It's literally all cat now." "That sounds... actually kinda fun." Sonnya admitted, smiling. She tried to picture the typical asuran hab residence, all done up some how with cat related materials. "Kinda wish I could see it."

There was a momentary pause as Netto looked at her, considering her as if for the first time. "Well, in that case, how long are you in town, little miss Vigil?" That really caught Sonnya offguard. She hadn't expected a question like that at all. "Uh, I'm actually on extended leave. This is actually my first day back in Rata Sum... I haven't even arranged for lodging yet."

That glint was back in Netto's eyes, and it made Sonnya's heart skip a beat. Oh no. What is she planning?

"Interesting." Netto purred again. She tapped a finger against her lips, chuckling. "Well, it just so happens I have a spare room. It hasn't been cat-ified yet, but if you are up to it, you can bunk with me. Then I can show you all the different kitty-related things I've got. How does that sound?"

"You'd be willing to take in a perfect stranger?" Sonnya asked, unsure.

Netto shrugged blithely, raising an eyebrow. "You're Vigil. Don't come much more upstanding than that, am I right?"

"True, there IS that." Sonnya admitted, running a finger down the cover of the book while she thought. "Well... if you're offering..."

"And I am..." Netto supplied, smirking a bit.

"...Then I accept your offer." She tapped the book. "Both your offers, I mean. Including this gift."

Netto grinned and clapped her hands happily. "Wonderful. Simply wonderful."

She darted over to the cart and pulled a small device out, before stepping back to a safe distance. "Just let me lock down the cart, and we'll be off."

Before Sonnya could ask what she meant by 'lock down', Netto pressed a button on the device, and eight little pyramids shot out of the device, surrounding the cart. Once positioned, they seemed to link up with lasers, before reflective barriers were erected, sealing the cart in. "Just a bit of security. I don't like having to pack and unpack the cart every time I want to go do something or have a bite to eat. So I made this little projector set."

She offered Sonnya a grin over her shoulder. "The projectors are on the inside of the barrier, so you can't just break them on the outside. Gotta use the remote for that."

Putting the remote in her pocket, Netto slid back over to Sonnya and linked elbows with her, beginning to drag her off. "Now! Let's go show you your new room, roomie!" --- Writer’s note: There really was no purpose for this story. I was wandering around Rata Sum and found Netto, made some screenshots, had an impulsive story idea, and wrote it out. It’s not part of my canon...but it could be? I’m not sure. I usually don’t like using ‘real characters’ from the game as direct contacts with my own. Especially not hinting ships. Too high a chance of friggin’ Mary Sue-ing things. But this felt cute, so I did it. I still haven’t honestly decided what Sonnya’s interests are, so this could totally be true. XD What say you, reader? Should I make this part of my story world’s canon? Or leave it as a cute one-shot?

#gw2 fanfiction #gw2 #My characters #Sonnya Danae #Holomancer Netto #canon non-canon #just something cute #should I make it canon?#tyrias-library #cute #potential ship

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rosesisupposes · 6 years

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Destined, part 11

aka Help This Nerd

Character Tags: Virgil/Anixety ; Patton/Creativity ; Patton/Morality ; Logan/Logic ; Remy/Sleep ; Dante/Deceit

Chapter Pairings: Platonic Deceit with OC

Chapter Warnings: Sympathetic Deceit; mild swearing; threats/mentions of violence; allusion to character deaths

Reader Tags: @residentanchor @royally-anxious @sanderssidesfanblog @bewarethegrammarpolice

Summary: After centuries of acting as an oracle to heroes, quest-seekers, and villains alike, Virgil just wants to live as a normal, modern human. For someone who can see infinite probabilities, you’d think he’d know better.

<<Chapter 10 | Masterlist | Chapter 12>>

Read on Ao3

Flashback: late 1490s into early 1500s CE, near the Ural mountains

The seventh child of a seventh child. From the moment of his birth, Septimus had been guaranteed to be powerful in the ways of magic. But neither his parents nor his siblings had expected him to be a sorcerer.

After all his years in the continents’ best university, with all the acclaim he’d acquired, he still wished he had been born just a plain wizard, like all his colleagues and classmates. But when he had heard of a young sorcerer, newly arrived and seeking an apprenticeship, one who’d been turned down with the same wariness that Septimus himself had faced, he had known he had to do something.

Not for the first time did he wish the stigma wasn’t so strong. Sorcereri weren’t even a separate race from wizards. The only outwardly-discernible difference was golden or partially golden eyes. Septimus knew this particular trait stood out more in him than others - bright golden streaks through royal blue eyes were rather noticeable. He hadn’t actually needed the horn-rimmed glasses he wore until his third year of study, when staring at scrolls for hours on end had finally degraded his sight. The flash of the golden rims were a suitable distraction for many, especially if they hadn’t already heard of him.

By the current point in his career, luckily, people knew him for his deeds and accolades, not a quirk of birth.

Ever since he was a child, Septimus had been imbued with a healthy respect and fear for his own magical power. Unlike wizards, his ability hadn’t needed intense study and training to be vast and powerful. As a sorcerer, he had been born a natural conduit, able to channel ambient magic from his surroundings without needing to summon it from within himself. But study helped him modulate how carefully he conducted magic, and how effectively and efficiently he was able to use it. Plus, through study and knowledge he was able to control it.

He would never forget the fear in his mother’s eyes when he’d had a temper tantrum at five years old. He forgot why he’d been so upset, but just as he began to wail, a lightning bolt flashed from a cloudless sky to strike a sapling in their front yard. The poor plant had been split in two as it burst into flames. His mother had stepped back carefully, both hands out, eyes wide, speaking quietly like he was a bear or a monster about to attack. He’d overheard his brothers and siblings muttering about moving away, or sending him away to a secure location. That was the day he resolved to never again let his emotions get the best of him. He would be master of himself and his magic.

And he’d been successful. He’d learned meditation, calming techniques, anything that worked to keep himself stable and unemotional. Through studying these techniques, he’d learned how much a magical education might help him. At eleven, he’d convinced his father to send him to university. The wariness in the headmaster’s eyes had been apparent even then, but he did not allow himself to become self-conscious or self-doubting. He was there to learn.

Now, in his mid-twenties, Septimus the Azure was a prodigy, a proud graduate of the university and star in the field of magical research. His treatise on uses of dragon’s blood in potion-making, written while he was still a student, had become world-famous in magical circles. He was the youngest professor the university had ever had, and by far the youngest to be allowed his own laboratory and study in the university’s Tower. He had earned every bit of it, fighting every inch to be taken seriously for his demonstrated academic prowess and regimented use of magic, not his vast natural ability.

He’d thought maybe he’d need to contend with jealousy, but at least within the university, his potential power was seen as a literal threat to the lives of those around him, not as an ability to be desired or sought. Magical power, the thinking went, ought be earned through rigorous study and practice alone. And so that was what Septimus had done.

He sat up from his desk, where he’d been using an enormous magnifying glass to read records from ancient fairy colonies. The minuscule size of the tomes had deterred generations of wizards from learning about the tiny creatures, but Septimus was determined to change that.

Ah, that reminded him. He needed a scroll for reference. He stood, looking for his newly-chosen apprentice. The younger sorcerer had appeared starstruck when Septimus had introduced himself and asked him to come work with him. And he was a very hard worker, which Septimus appreciated. He just couldn’t remember his name. Guido? Petrarch? Something from the south of the continent. It would come to him, if he really needed it.

“Apprentice?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Can you find me the second volume of the Anthology of Fae Colonies and Lineages? It should be in the third case, fourth or fifth shelf. Near the Codex of Fairy Circles.”

“Of course, Master Septimus.”

Moments later, the apprentice had lugged over the several-pound tome to Septimus’ reading desk. It was his favorite invention, despite its simple nature, and it was entirely in tune with his particular frequency of magic. A large wooden wheel spun gently, each of its flat paddles holding a scroll or book open, each able to be pulled down onto his writing desk for better examination, or use with the fold-out magnifying glass. At any moment, he could call out a key phrase or word and the wheel would glow, moving the reference book most relevant to his request to be more easily viewed. He placed the fairy tome onto a paddle and secured it with the magical prongs that both held it in place as well as scanned its text to function with the spell. He prepared to delve back into his studies, but his apprentice was still looking at him.

He supposed the correct thing to do would be engage. The slightly-younger man had been working for him for a week now.

“Did you need something?”

“I was just wondering - could you tell me what your current project is?” the younger man asked, gold-and-brown eyes hopeful.

Septimus would normally have resented any interruption, but that flame in his eye was too familiar - the burning desire to learn.

“Of course. Have a seat, Apprentice,” he offered, before realizing every chair was covered in scrolls or books. Hiding a blush, he gestured crisply, and a royal blue light lifted them back into orderly stacks on the small shelves by his desks.

“Now. What have you learned in lectures about the lives of the fae folk, known colloquially as fairies?”

His apprentice sat and straightened to attention, the same movement required by most of Septimus’ colleagues and former teachers.

“They live in colonies of approximately fifty to two hundred, usually separated by large physical distances from one another, but are all considered family or kin. There do not appear to be any actual nuclear families, at least in part due to lack of sex or gender. Their society is highly hierarchical, with councils of Elders making decisions for each colony, including magical assignments,” the student said, speaking with his eyes partially closed as he recited. “In the past, fae folk had strong ties with humanity through the Godparent relationship, with a single fairy being assigned to a single human who usually has some fate or grand potential, or a particularly tragic existence. However, new reports of Godparent relationships in the last two centuries have been few and far between.”

Septimus nodded. “You’re clearly a dedicated student. Well done. Have your professors offered any reasons for the declining reports?”

His apprentice went to scratch his head, then caught himself and held his hands in his lap. “Only speculations. Professor Umber suggested there may have been an incident between humans and fairies that have made them less inclined to help. Professor Junipera believes that the fae colonies have simply been more subdued, finding less prominent humans to aid. But they don’t know for sure, that much is clear, no matter how confident they sound in their assertions.”

“Ah, you’ve learned the most important lessons of university,” Septimus said with a wry grin. “that is, how to see and hear through the academic babble. But it’s true - we are not sure why the number of Godparent reports have appeared to decrease. However, I believe our framing is the issue. It may be that the number of Godparents has decreased because the number of fairies has decreased. They live for many centuries, possibly as long as a millennium. But they do age, and die of age. It is very possible that the fae folk are aging out, without enough young fairies being born to take their place.”

His apprentice was shocked. “I… that’s possible? For magical beings to… die out?”

Septimus was somber yet measured in his response. “I do not know for sure. We have no recorded instances of such a thing. But I believe it may be occurring before our very eyes. As other populations grow, magical folk and creatures may be just as at risk of extinction as are non-magical animals. I myself found that, at least due to crowding of their natural habitats, dragons are becoming harder to find. Getting enough variety of dragons’ blood for my research to be able to generalize my findings to the genus as a whole… well. The particular pitfalls of my methodology are not relevant. The point is, I do think there is a not-infinitesimal chance that the fae folk are disappearing. If any knowledge of their history and culture is to be preserved, it must be done now, while the primary source still exists. That is what my current research focuses on - compiling what records we already have and seeking answers to those gaps in our existing knowledge.”

“Master Septimus, if you think such a thing is possible and happening now, why not do something to stop it? Don’t we have an obligation to our fellow magical beings to preserve their species?” the young sorcerer asked curiously, with a slight hint of indignation.

The sorcerer leaned back, fingertips touching in a tent as he considered the question. “I… don’t know that it would even be possible to reverse the trend, if such a trend exists. Nor do I know that it would be our place to interfere. To meddle in the process of reproduction, for another species no less! Not only do I worry about the ethical implications, but fairies are intensely private when it comes to the exact locations of their colonies and their inner workings. What documents we have here are mostly due to particularly studious Godchildren who convinced their Godparents to document their experiences and history. I would not presume to approach a fairy colony and insert myself into their population issues. No, my role is that of a historian. I will do what I can to preserve their story and culture for posterity, so that future generations may be educated if the fae should ever truly disappear.”

The young man looked down, clearly upset. “Master… could such a thing happen to us? To… sorcerers?”

“I… am unsure. So little is known about us, and how exactly we come to be. We are not a separate species from wizards, and the offspring of two sorcerers are not always sorcerers in turn. We are… anomalies. But regularly-recurring ones. And you and I both know that we are much more than merely flukes.”

Two pairs of gold-marked eyes met, one kind, the other determined.

“Thank you, Master Septimus. For explaining, but also for taking me on, and not treating me like a… liability.”

“Of course. I’ve been in your shoes, or pairs that looked a lot like them. And you can call me just Septimus if you wish.”

“Thank you, Mas- Septimus. And if you want, you can just call me Dante,” he replied with an impish grin.

“I will do so, Dante. Do let me know if there are any other burning questions I can answer for you. Even if you just need someone to vent to.”

Five years passed. Dante continued his studies at the university, taking after his mentor in his ability to push past the professors’ and fellow students’ assumptions about sorcery. Unlike his mentor, he found that his personality could be an equal asset to his academic achievement, charming his way through the stone towers and sneaking his way to just the right spots for opportunities and recognition.

He burst into Septimus’ tower laboratory one day, black hair flopping excitedly as he raced to greet his mentor and friend.

“TIMUS! Is it true? I go south for two months for fieldwork and you’ve suddenly acquired a new magical artifact?”

Septimus rose from his desk to embrace the younger man, ruffling his dark curls. His young friend was very particular about his appearance these days, but his mentor was the one person allowed to see him at anything less than perfectly coiffed. “Apologies, Dante, I should have known better to save all my arcane acquisitions for your return. How was the Harz?”

“Oh it was excellent, the sprites there were the friendliest I’ve met so far. I got the impression that they’ve a history of more cooperation with other magic folk, but you know sprites - keeping track of history isn’t exactly their strong suit. Why did you let me get myself into such a difficult dissertation topic?”

“Because you were determined to prove me wrong, and you are too good at talking your way out of conversations. Or into them,” Septimus grinned, one arm still around his younger friend. “I’m glad you’re back though - this place always gets a little too sane and complacent without you.”

Dante squeezed him with one arm, a genuine smile on his face. “Missed you too, Timus. But hey,” he interjected suddenly, “you distracted me! I came here to hear about the artifact!”

“Ah yes, of course. The staff. Come here.”

Septimus led his former apprentice and current mentee to his back room, where a table had been dedicated to a long and gnarled piece of wood. It would have looked like any tree branch twisted by an invasive vine if it hadn’t been for the dome of blue fire that surrounded it. Septimus lifted his hands as they began to glow with the same fire. A complex pass of his hands expanded the shield spell to include himself and Dante, who gasped audibly.

“That… aura! What is this thing?” he breathed.

“That’s just it. We’re not sure. The heir from one kingdom over killed Vignar the dragon. This was in his hoard. The victorious prince was bedridden for a month after touching it with his bare hands, thus, I would highly advise you don’t try, not unless you want me to have another nice chat with the headmaster about how I’m sure you’re not going to bring down the Tower on our heads.”

“Point taken,” Dante shuddered. “My stars, the emanations it gives off without contact - the whole school must feel it when it’s outside of this shield.”

“Not quite the whole school. Only those who have a high sensitivity to magic. You know,” he elbowed the younger man, who quirked a smile back. “The absolute oldest faculty, and us. Thus, it lives here, where I’ll sense any disturbance more quickly. Plus, I have the magical reserves to spend on keeping the spell up.”

Dante shivered. “You know I trust you far more than any of these graybeards anyway. Ugh, it’s going to give me a headache, can you close down the shield?”

Septimus nodded and reversed his gesture, re-linking thumbs and forefingers into his chest, passing palm over palm, and sending the fire back to a dense bubble once more.

“So. Theories of origin? You have at least one, I know you do,” Dante said with a grin.

Septimus cleared his throat. “Well, yes, actually. Based on what we know of Vignar’s life and raids, it appears that any sort of magical artifact of this caliber would be from one of the universities on the other side of the world, or from the sprites. And since we have communicated with our sibling institutions and they have only guesses at best, the sprites do seem to somehow have been the origin of this artifact. And yes,” he said, putting up a hand to stop Dante’s squawk of indignation, “before you ask, I was always going to show you the staff and share this exact theory. I would never willfully interfere in your dissertation, you know this. Which brings me to the disconcerting element.”

The two sorcerers settled back into Septimus’ study, a floating teapot zooming over from the hearth to fill their favorite mugs as the elder sorcerer continued.

“From my experimentation and that of the senior wizards here, we can find no purpose for this staff. There’s no affiliation with an element, or a certain frequency of spell. It doesn’t even appear to need a magically-abled being to wield it - the human prince was able to somehow fire an inadvertent blast of power before the magical aura knocked him out. An object with such raw, unfocused power being created intentionally seems unlikely. My hypothesis is that the staff, as we see it now, is not finished. This was not the intended final form. There was a final step or ritual not performed that would stabilize its magic in one direction or with one intention. And that means that its current level of power would be multiplied many time over in its final state.”

Dante gave a long, low whistle. “Can you imagine? That kind of power - that’s the kind of thing Mordred would have had wet dreams over.”

Septimus shuddered. “Yes, I know. Thank the stars he never knew of it. He could have ended the world or ruled it with just a gesture. Which is why I keep the staff safe.”

“Have you been researching what the intended purpose could be?”

“I would be content with definitively knowing its origins. If I knew more about its creation, I’d be able to deconstruct it, or at least stabilize the power to safer levels.”

“Really, Timus, you are no fun at all,” Dante drawled. “You see the sharpest sword in the world and think immediately ‘oh, gotta blunt that.’ Not even an itty bitty daydream of world domination?”

Septimus chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Oh, I’d never do such a thing. I’d hate to deprive you.”

“Say, Septimus - could I research it as part of my dissertation? Its origins, I mean. I’ve been struggling with a real focus to my research - it’s hard to know what questions to ask when the sprites are all so scattered.”

“You know what? That would be brilliant. This is why you make me so proud to be your advisor,” Septimus said. “But more importantly, I’m proud to call you my friend.” Dante ducked his head and flushed lightly. Timus had long ago stopped feeling like just a mentor. He was his most trusted friend at this university certainly, not to mention in the world.

“If I’m a great scholar, I owe it to my fine instruction, and the support of the best friend a sorcerer could ask for,” Dante returned warmly.

They toasted each other with their mugs of tea and settled in for the afternoon’s studies.

Septimus was worried. About several things, but mostly Dante.

He should have been pleased - after ten long years, the man’s dissertation was complete, and he’d single-handedly provided the strongest evidence so far that the staff was indeed of sprite origin. He’d cracked the question of “which kind of sprite” by showing that all four tribes - fire, tree, water, and ground - had convened once in their history, and that this was likely the moment of the staff’s creation.

Septimus was incredibly proud of his friend. But… every time the young man walked into Septimus’ tower study of late, there was shadow that flitted over his face. Only ever briefly - but it was like a mask was being taken off, if only for the space of a breath. And there were lines of tension in his shoulders that one would never notice unless they were lucky enough to ever see him fully relax. The charm offenses had become louder and more aggressive as Dante prepared to defend his dissertation and earn his title from the university. So, too, had the convenient conversations and ‘casual’ drop-bys to the highest-ranked members of the faculty. Only those close to him - so, only Septimus - could hear the rough edge in his voice as he spoke to those who would decide whether over ten years of study, from green newcomer to full apprentice to practically a full-time researcher, would yield any concrete title or achievements.

Septimus had even heard the edge when Dante spoke to him. Mentioning other magical races seemed to snap the taut rope that was the young man’s composure. Like the previous afternoon. Septimus had merely mentioned a successful interview with a fae Elder, an elderly but delightful creature who he’d found in a human bakery, to which they had apparently been devoted for generations.

“Glad you were able to write down their name before they collapse into pixie dust,” Dante had muttered.

“Dante, you know I’m just trying to do my best. And Baxter shared some fascinating information - the fae lifespans themselves are shrinking. They themself are only eight hundred years old but already starting to wither, when in generations past they would have expected to live one or two hundred years more. They aren’t sure why but they are spreading the word of my research so that the fae will never be entirely forgotten.”

“Septimus, how are you able to do this? To see them literally withering before your eyes and to do nothing?”

“Dant, there is nothing for me to do. These are forces beyond my control, beyond anyone’s control. Maybe this is just natural selection.”

“Yeah and maybe we’ll be next to be naturally selected out. And you know what?” The man’s golden-streaked eyes flashed in anger, the gold burning brighter in his fury as he gestured to the Tower around them. “This whole pile of stones, all these empty hats, they would let sorcerers die out tomorrow and breath a sigh of relief when we did, if they hadn’t been the reason in the first place.”

“Dante, we’ve been over this: sorcerers appear so randomly that there would be nothing any of our colleagues could do to help or hinder such an occurrence.”

“Your colleagues. They haven’t accepted me yet. And if they do, it will be because you, their great prodigy Septimus the Azure, convinced them that sorcerers can be worth the risk, not because they’ve accepted we’re no more or less dangerous than wizards.”

“I… yes. I know that. But won’t it be worth it, to have two sorcerers accepted? This is how we continue to pave the way for those after us. We’ll slowly bend their minds towards reason.”

Dante growled. “Unless the magical world dies off as we wait for them to accept us. And don’t pretend we don’t both know the cause.”

“We know nothing for sure. We can only hypothe-”

“It’s those thrice-damned humans and you know it,” Dante interrupted angrily. “They have not an ounce of magic in their blood, and they are spreading across the world like a disease. They cut down enchanted forests, kill dragons, crush fairy colonies… They are what is causing our world to shrink.”

Septimus stayed silent. There was no proof that humans actions were directly causing this, true, but the correlation was disturbingly high.

“I don’t care if it’s unpleasant to admit, but will we all just wait until they’ve arrived on our doorstep?” Dante continued. “Until they come pouring in to smash our astrolabes and burn our spellbooks? Do we even have a plan besides ‘wait?’”

“I’ve… floated the idea of cooperation. There could be a collaboration of sorts reached - let them know of the existence of magic and invite them to study it with us,” Septimus said quietly, fiddling with his glasses, golden rims glinting in the light of the hearth fire.

“And you’ve been turned down without a second thought, because the headmaster and his cronies hate the idea of sharing,” Dante sneered. “Their reasoning is dragonshit, as always, but their conclusion is right. Timus - if we go public with humans, you know it won’t be magic they’ll study. It will be us. They’ll be leeching us and cutting us up before we can say ‘I mean no harm.’ They fear what they don’t understand, and the more magic creatures disappear, the less they understand any of us.”

Septimus made eye contact, trying, willing Dante to understand. “Them fearing what they don’t understand is exactly why I want to reach out. If we plan it carefully, we won’t be a threat to them. I really believe there’s hope for peaceful coexistence, if we approach them with caution.”

Dante looked away, a vein shifting in the hard lines of his clenched jaw. At length, he replied “I hope you’re right, Septimus. I really do. But I strongly suspect you’re wrong.”

Septimus felt like he’d been waiting for just this moment for years.

The jolt of alarm, bringing him entirely out of a sound sleep. Running from his bedroom to his laboratory. Hearing the faint sounds of the senior professors stirring. Arriving at his study and backroom to see the aftermath.

The staff was gone. The magic aura was somewhere close. But it radiated so much power it was impossible to pinpoint where it was, particularly if it was indeed, as he feared, in the hands of a sorcerer.

Had he known that this would happen? Should he have taken more care to disguise the unlocking spell?

Perhaps.

But his hope had gotten the best of him.

Dante had disappeared for several months, almost a year. Research, he’d said. Only he’d finally finished his defense, and been officially named a graduate of the university and given his new title: Dante the Golden. What research would he need to be doing? And why wouldn’t he tell his oldest friend and mentor when he’d be back?

Because he didn’t want me to know, Septimus thought sadly. He knows that, whatever he plans now, I would not approve, nor would I let him go forward unimpeded. At least, I hope I wouldn’t.

He closed his eyes, trying to sense the epicenter of the staff’s emanations. Just as he started to feel the tug of a direction, the feeling vanished. The staff had been magically shielded once more, by another’s magic.

Septimus sat down hard in his study chair, head in hands. He massaged his own temples, and hoped against hope that his former student and dearest friend hadn’t made a horrible mistake, the likes from which he might never recover.

Chapter Notes

Septimus: Latin origin, means “born seventh/seventh son or child”

There were a lot of world-building details and magical mechanics, particularly about the staff, that I couldn’t find a way to fit in here or anywhere else, and the chapter is already over twice as long as I originally planned (whoops)

But if you’re the kind of person who is into that, send me and ask or message and I will happily spill.

#destined #fantasy au #modern fantasy au #deceit #writing #fanfic #sanders sides #fluff is over now sorry #help this poor nerd

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somethingdamnedgy-blog · 5 years

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Indian cinema: hundred gods, a million more possibilities

Here is an image: I’m lying down on my bed, I have a buzzing headache. The expression on my face is not one of pain, but interestingly, of bewilderment. I get up, scratch my head, and trod over to my bench that is roughly 5 feet away from my bed. I open my laptop, and begin watching something I’ve never seen before. I could say that was my first taste of ‘experimental’ film. I’d just seen Stom Sogo’s Ya Private Sky (2001) and my head was buzzing from the assault on my senses. I had the weirdest headache ever, because it didn’t hurt, but sort of buzzed with a curious puzzlement. Shortly after that, I began watching Kamal Swaroop’s masterpiece, Om Dar-B-Dar (1988). And you could say this was my first taste of Indian ‘experimental film.’ The imageries, setting, references to mythology, all distinctly Indian, but the narrative and idea, freakishly alien to someone who was just beginning to get into alternative film. I would go on to watch Om Dar-B-Dar four more times during the next few months, ecstatically sharing my experience with people, urging them to see for themselves that brilliant work of art. The few who did, scratched their heads and probably repeatedly muttered “what the fuck?”

It is possible that the first formal experiment in Indian cinema was Mani Kaul’s debut film, Uski Roti (1969). And it is also worth noting that because of it’s unconventional elements, it wasn’t exactly well received, it was attacked by popular media to the extent where it didn’t get a commercial release. It did however, go on to win the favour of the aesthetically aware critics who defended it and it even went on to win a Filmfare Critic’s award in 1970. This new movement of Parallel Cinema, or the “Indian New Wave,” interestingly, was possibly birthed by a bureaucratic decision, rather than a resistance against a tide of popular and commercial cinema. It is possible that this interest in fostering the growth of the film industry was a result of Satyajit Ray’s international success in the 1950’s. The state attempted to promote and advance a new Indian cinema as an alternative to commercial productions. During Nehru’s reign as PM, the Film Finance Corporation (FFC) was initiated, and would later go on to become the National Film Development Corporation (NFDC), a merger of two agencies (the FFC and the Film Export Corporation), which sought to diversify funding sources for filmmakers, promoting independent, “quality”, or art films. The effect of this public institutional aid was questionable, the financial aid was meagre and sometimes could not aid in the realisation of many a filmmakers vision. While many said it was a waste of funds that could otherwise be used for the development of far more serious things, state funded filmmakers scrupulously experimented with the camera and its possibilities. Parallel Cinema, as it was called, referenced the growth of a line of smaller, low budget, yet artistic films alongside larger, big budget commercial films for entertainment.

Fast forward to India today, and one can see some of the most peculiar cultural imageries and art that absolutely smashes any preset rules, and interestingly, a stark contrast on the cinema end, which shies away from any experimentation. Unfortunately, this lack of forward thinking work traces back to political and moral censorship because of pressure from different groups. Some might even argue that the so called B grade films are more interesting in their form, because it is possible a majority of the Westernised youth in India find commercial films lacking in any artistic thought, or perhaps even because of the hilariously tacky tropes and plots. It is no secret that this kind of resistance to forward thinking cinema or simply, cinema that is confrontational and personal, is stunting the growth of Indian cinema, which in all possibility has an incredible amount of artistic potential due to the evergreen cultures, languages, mythologies and ideas that surround it, both in the present and the past. The state funding for art like the 60’s and 70’s isn’t exactly ubiquitous, as it is apparent that the film industry is now developing towards a more capitalist structure. However, with this change of seasons, the development of individualised technology like digital video, where anyone can put forth their vision. Whether an audience for their vision exists or not, is another problem by itself. Amrit Gangar, Indian film scholar and writer (among other things) coined the term Cinema of Prayoga, which aims at recontextualising the English word ‘experimental’ which is inherently Euro-centric in its context. In a conversation with Shai Heredia, curator and filmmaker, Gangar said, “I thought the English word ‘experimental’ that is generally used in the film vocabulary especially in the West and accepted by the rest of the world is either not adequate or doesn’t represent the essence of a particular filmmaking praxis. So I thought our own Sanskrit word ‘prayoga’ could be a better alternative. The compound word prayog is made up of pra + yoga (pronounced yog), where ‘pra’ as a prefix to verbs would mean ‘forward’, ‘onward’ or ‘before’ and with adjectives it would mean ‘very’ ‘excessively’ and with nouns, whether derived from verbs or not, it is used in several senses. Among other means, ‘yog’ means a ‘deep and abstract meditation’. In a dramatic sense, ‘prayog’ also means ‘representation’.”

The term ‘experimental’ does often become problematic in this modern age, because so called experimental films are all done with clear intent, and not born out of mere experiments, as Gangar said, “there is an element of chance; there is a joy of an unexpected discovery of a relationship between images. But in a capital-intensive medium such as cinema, the risk-taking element plays a crucial role” The term Prayoga is a word that is more profound and dare I say, appropriate with respect to Indian cinema. But is there any hope for Indian Cinema at all? In a system that limits artistic parameters, where everything is market driven, can forward thinking alternative, inventive cinema still bloom? There is evidence that all is not lost. Filmmakers like Amit Dutta, Ashish Avikunthak, Kamal Swaroop, Vipin Vijay and many others continue to push the boundaries and create rich pieces of art that are equal parts impactful, surreal and personal. Amit Dutta’s Nainsukh (2010) is a visually spectacular, dreamy tribute to the Pahari painter of the same name, channels the same poetic spirit of Mani Kaul. It is also reminiscent of another master of poetic cinema, Sergei Parajanov, whose film Color of Pomegranates, is a work so ingrained into the psyche of its subject that it requires every cell in your body to be tuned to its wavelength, rewarding a viewer with some of the most breathtakingly beautiful images in the history of cinema. The same could be said for Nainsukh, which reminds me of being instantly transported to the inside of a painting. Ashish Avikunthak’s Katho Upanishad (2011) which is a metaphysical dialogue between Nachiketa, a young Brahmin boy and Yama, the God of Death. It is an adaptation of a two and half thousand years old Sanskrit treatise of the same name, where Yama instructs Nachiketa about the path towards enlightenment; or even his film Vakratunda Swaha (2010) a short film which could be described as a pilgrimage through the concurrent forwards and backwards of time, which Avikunthak himself calls a “requiem to a dead friend”

I often think about the possibilities in Indian cinema. What it could be. In a country that is rife with religion, mythology, culture and experience, the possibilities for inventive cinema are endless. There is so much scope to create intensely artistic, personal, deep and subjective work that uses all the spaces that the beautiful medium of film gives us. The deeply market driven film industry also limits the exposure of artists who actually committed to creating intensely personal, formally radical cinema. It is unfortunate, because it feels like artists do not aspire to create great work, to truly experiment and make art with their whole being rather than pander to the needs of an entertainment hungry audience.

Rouzbeh Rashidi, founder of the Dublin based Experimental Film Society explains this resistance against the growth of cinema in an interesting way, he says, “Perhaps this reaction of violent rejection is a natural defence mechanism that kicks in when someone is confronted with the shock of an idea that is so alien as to seem fundamentally inappropriate. Of course, the history of alternative cinema is also a history of such confrontations. When a filmmaker gets this type of response, unless he or she is interested in provoking the audience for the sheer sake of provocation, it is because the viewer’s received understanding of how to ‘communicate’ with a film has been thrown into crisis. As an experimental filmmaker, one hopes that if the film works, this confrontation will result in the viewer’s perception rising to the challenge and that ideally he or she will leave with an ‘opened’ mind or even an expanded consciousness. And not just with a broadened understanding of cinema but with a somehow enriched (or, indeed, disturbed) sense of perception itself.” One can only hope that people will begin to become aware of this side of cinema, that unknown artists who create art from within will soon become known and that this country with endless possibilities eventually develops a filmic pantheon of its own. Until then, I suppose we’ll continue to drop our panties every time a new Dhoom movie comes out. by Nisanth S

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shesey · 3 years

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Fragments of “Where Things Touch” by Bahar Orang

“And there is, somehow, the presence of beauty between us. A beauty that offers more than its playful glimmer; a beauty that opens its arms to us, considers stillness as its impermanent home. We could not rush to capture that beauty, such an impulse would be its opposite.” “But here I am, idealizing beauty, purifying beauty, as though it’s not wrapped up in the mess of desire and regret in which we live, as though beauty does not already reside in a home of fragmented language and memory.” “... only things felt can be known, can be beauty.” “What happens to beauty when it’s removed from its own dirt? If you pick a poppy, it withers within the hour. How simple a practice, then, to let flower, let flower, smelling its own earth.” “...a shifting sense of self.” “... Are they their personality or do they contain a personality?” “Beauty must be in conversation with care -- there can be no alternative for me! So when I say beauty, I mean the slow approach of alive things, meeting each other in all their complexity and longing.” “Can we imagine language as a sort of border of care? In which case my efforts here to describe beauty are acts of love. Though it’s a project with its own perils, sometimes language is only omission.” “It is one effect of beauty to soften contradiction; indeed, to offer another language where there is no contradiction to begin with, where a mountain’s solitude is necessary for its intimacy with the sun, where a viewer’s solitude brings them closer to the art, allowing the art to become a sentient, social being of its own.” “Desire, we often think, is about something lacking, about wanting, filling a hole. Desire, we might say at first, is in the empty spaces of Sappho’s poem-pieces. But what of desire as repetition, same and different, layers overlapping and shifting; Sappho’s poems whole as they are, but with an infinite number of possible relations with any reader, any strange molecule. And beauty here, in each engagement.” “I thought of spending the whole day with you, until it could be evening again, and we might sit on the porch, cold beers and paperbacks, but I couldn’t rearrange you any better even if I tried.” “I was in love with the ecosystem of where we were, and I only hoped it could love me back.” “How does one resolve oneself to the condition of unsayability? How does one accept that language is painful, that the practice of articulating by word, whether to express beauty or care, is a blemish on the page, a crack in the silence, a fragment working to recuperate all that exceeds it?” “Having a drink with you, I am caught between the impulse to say so many things, everything, and to say nothing at all, to treat our moment with diligence. At the very least, I want to invent a new language to address you, something that better expresses my ambivalence, but don’t get me wrong, the ambivalence is a pleasurable one. I want a new language, our secret, but the old words keep slipping in. I can neither escape nor resist them.” “What if language were to remember how fragile it is, how flawed?” “... the work of thinking and writing, the work of curiosity and consideration.” “Beauty is something opening, and if you are lucky, the thing opening is you, your body, your palms and your feet, so you are more surface to press against the earth.” “We’re walking quickly down a busy street at night, excited by our conversation, our hands bump into each other until finally you grab mine; every so often I trace my finger up the side of your arm before letting my hand fall back into yours, I glance up sometimes to admire your profile, your skin, the wind is warm, few things are better than a warm wind, we wanter in and out of shops, hardly noticing them, all our cells laughing, the whole of our skin trembling.” “Detachment and coolness, my usual games, are not possible between us.” “We talk about ethics. I offer that every manner of loving is an experiment, that the only way to love is by trial and error. But there are stakes for those errors. Each trial is a risky game, a continual dispossession of ourselves for another. With another, you suggest.” “Beauty always takes place in the particular, and how particular you are, how very singularly odd and attractive, appearing in my life without problem or precedent.” “One possible ethics of loving... to look away and return... to engage ethically with Sappho’s poems is to love fragments, to love in fragments, with no totalizing category, no interest in a lost whole, no disdain for flaws. Such an encounter between lovers is to bring together only the honest pieces that we are, to know indeterminancy as precious.” “Beauty shatters, makes fragments from anything, turns body to debris.” “I learn how many ways there are to spell home: your foot, your shoe, the lamp, the chair, creases in paper, unmade beds, our night.” “I feel that you’d be keeping a ghost, as perhaps I, too, would do if the gift had been for me from an ex-lover, whose ghosts, I suppose, are also the ghosts of our past selves, sweetbitter pieces we both love and despise, ghosts we want to forget or excise. I wonder if we’d do better to treat our ghosts with some kindness for the imperfect, trembling species they are.” “I think we must be these ceramic bodies, these shattered pieces hanging from lines of desire, desire that feels at once like affliction and freedom, like beauty and pain. Suddenly I realize that beauty is at times inextricable from pain, that beauty is nothing if not an essential detail of relation, of entanglement, and we are so fragile as we edge nearer and nearer to each other, inhabiting that third space, inhabiting a perpetual state of vulnerability, wavering between wreckage and repair.” “... the first impulse to testify against fixity, against the fallacy of a closed and unchangeable world.” “... straying from the established path to follow beauty into unknowingness.” “... the winter is breaking, the days are longer, the outside air has a new texture now, something balmy, something falling away, and I’m granted meaning, or is it pleasure, a distance and a closeness at once, I’m both lover and beloved, I face a setting sun, a rustling in my body, things clearer for the moment.” “Beauty is the pink twilight hours of lying in bed with you, laid bare of language or totality, curled open like orange blossoms of springtime, baharnarenj...” “I suppose I’m confusing terms here, but poetry, beauty, desire -- they are impossible to disentangle, and I feel deeply invested in the possibilities of their entanglement. What emerges from such a mess? Pain, surely. Freedom, maybe. When desire undoes you, when your aching parts open and glisten like gossamer, when poems of beauty fill you with stillness touched by longing, longing touched by stillness, when you traverse your own pain, its edges like pleasure, freedom conceivable.” “White people cite white people into banality and violence, and I’ve been known to follow, falling for their displays of liberal politics, for their reassurance that yes, Hegel matters less now, but White is still the moniker of sophistication, intellect, poetry, and beauty. And I feel like a cliche, a phone, a shape of imagination itself, as I stand there in Farokhzad’s wind, the wind will carry us -- breathing in dreams of Sepehri’s flowers, of orange blossoms I’ve never really known.” “well, we don’t want to say I love you / it might be too easy, too much / instead we get inside the words / to a naked centre / peeling off their paper / open in my hand, soft bones / what a lovely, / aching game it is: / finding all the ways to say / what you mean to me / (everything)” “... you can only deconstruct what you love. Because you are doing it from the inside, with real intimacy... you enter it.” “I hope you know, always, the pleasure of hot coffee, alone at sunrise, then again at noon.” “Maybe, then, beauty is where language fails, where language must give itself over to something else, to an embodiment that cannot be held by a slim treatise of words.” “And yet. Against these odds, there is language and poetry as beautiful as ocean or flower, there have been writings so particular, so impossibly beautiful.” “I have been gathering what falls for months, for years, in that search for beauty, but I write to you like someone unravelling, because this time I am what’s falling, and I see no reason to gather myself.” “Other times, I write to you, pleading: I want you to know I am filled with an exquisite longing - I’m wavering between several hundred small islands, I feel like a shuddering archipelago, I don’t want a boat or rope, I’m willing you to fill your cupped hands with water.” “Us, here, flat on our backs, like rocks our remains, / is the beautiful thing I hold in my mind, / an artwork that’s not abstraction. / We could make a habit of it, / the ritual of resting head into the earth, / arm hairs just inches from you; we’re not the same, / but we’re made of the same; eventually I roll into you, / the smell of your side like a salve. I pray it never causes me pain to smell you, to remember you.” “Is it frustrating or freeing or both to imagine that we might never truly articulate the meaning of anything, that we only ever write in synonym, all our poems somewhere slightly else, meaning as vagrant and open as our own little bodies, no remedy for fragility, only our ability to grapple, to reckon, and sometimes we do it with grace or with gratefulness.” “To devote oneself to the study of beauty is to offer footnotes to the universe for all the places and all the moments that one observes beauty. I can no longer grab beauty by her writes and demand articulation or meaning. I can only take account of where things touch.” “... The pursuit of clarity is noble and pleasurable.” “... the inexpressible space between myself and myself.” “When I write you, when I write to you, sometimes carelessly, sometimes with every intensity that I have.” “There’s a satisfaction, I know, in editing and eliminating, but we deny ourselves the feeling of letting things spill over, of using an unseemly string of adjectives, each both closer to and farther from some original idea.” “I wonder if some things, like beauty, can only be known obliquely, through language, but in the body, beauty is understood most acutely, most precisely.” “You’re interested in thinking more about what we’re doing with -- or what we’re doing to -- patriarchal relations. You ask: Can we write in a language outside of it? Can we touch in a language outside of it? My response never changes: Yes. So often we are alienated from our bodies, from our sensuality, and yet one thing I know for sure is that some realizations of desire leave little in their wake other than bodies marvelling at the possibility of address.” “Sometimes, beauty is restraint. Other times, beauty is the fruit of that restraint: releasing to sensation after the wait, celebrating, freely and without shame, all the sensual details of our daily lives.” “I can return again to Solmaz Sharif’s poem “Beauty,”, the part that goes:

Most mornings / No, not morning / Morning I am still new / Still possible, still possibly How to capture the feeling of possibly? How to make it last? But I get ahead of myself, this patient never asked for the feeling of morning in any tablet or vial.” “Her pain comes from everywhere and from nowhere. Her pain dislocates the Pangaea that she was, and the shards come together differently now.” “We cannot separate beauty from the unendurable, it does not soften or make pain palatable, it’s not to be used for cruel or paternalistic meaning-making; to know beauty, here, is to know, at the very least, the cacophony of excess and contradiction that is our lives.” “It would be violence to mine her for something that connects us, in order to love her or to care. As Virginia Woolf says about the person in pain, Kahlo opens herself up to me, or at me, or near me, to be just held in solitude.” “Even if the relationship shatters and ends, it continues to act in secret pathways, it doesn’t die, it doesn’t want to die.” “I accept that our new home is haunted by past loves, that our bodies have been known to others. I accept that even though you and I imagine we live, to use Anne Boyer’s phrase, in a communism of two, really, it’s an affair among many, each new embrace touched by historical embraces, each new disclosure in conversation with all the secrets we’ve shared with other people, each intimacy burning with its own specificity, but never in isolation from intimacies come to pass, intimacies still passing.

I discard the letters. Although the way forward is not clear, it is the only manner of burying I know.” “In our distance, I’m left to remember all the days before you.” “How easy to say that this was it, this was all it was, my life, and that you, my love, you were the beauty I had been waiting for. But as Sharif goes on to say: A life is a thing you have to start. And there were many starts in my aloneness.” “These were the things that allowed my life to start, habits at home that seemed at the time like repetitions without a cause and without meaning, but looking back, these were habits of beauty, of pleasure, how I knew connection.” “Facing homeward, our perpetual orientation. By any limerence or language, all our returns seem to be home, all our arrivals seem to be home. By home I don’t mean mother’s lap or mother’s land; I mean where air is clear, fire is light, earth is delicious, and our bodies are shores for the ocean. Where we sacrifice the ineffable for love.” “Beauty weighs less than pain; it doesn’t incinerate you or burn a hole through you. It is fleeting; it never stays long enough to damage you." “It’s the only way in: to bend toward beauty, to write into beauty, to know ourselves as embedded, bellies open like palms, making poems from pieces.” ...all I know is that this particular poem and these particular words are words of beauty, and they fill me with joy. The mystery gives peace to your longing and makes the road home, home.” “It is not that we cease to stand at the center of the world, for we never stood there. It is that we cease to stand even at the center of our own world. We willing cede our ground to the thing that stands before us. In other words, in the presence of beauty, we are beside even ourselves, the pull of self-interest loosens, and we feel called to the caretaking of beauty, and we act to protect or perpetuate a fragment of beauty already in the world.” “But intimacy is not always the sudden, waking force. Sometimes intimacy is the slow, daily habit of love, the rolling over of the body in bed, shifting the other ever closer to the edge, the buying of two litres of milk rather than one, washing their yellowing undershirts, and the occasional intrusive thought of, what if they die? What if today’s the day, on their bike ride home? For no other reason than by the slight of a momentarily distracted driver, what if they’re just: gone? And I’m left waiting, waiting for their touch, the touch that assures me I am here.” “And I’ve learned so much about care, the attentiveness it takes, the pleasure it makes, by thinking about, by caring for aesthetics. It’s an epistolary practice, really, they are like love letters to you.” “Offering attention, sustained and wide, to pomegranate or otherwise, is loving, I think.” “These days, I feel that, more often than not, meaning slowly emerges from a reading that allows the thing to remain as itself -- whole, having a life beyond my contact with it.” “You know, I’d trade my youth for this: to write a few poems of you, fewer than five even. To be sure, I’d trade my youth for less -- even just for knowing the L-shape your shoulder makes with your neck. Not to say that youth is somehow the most precious, and not to say that poems of you, your body’s corners, your arms, are not the most precious. Because they are.” “A poem is something to think deeply about, its construction filled with knowledge about the site of its emergence.” “Reading, we might remember, is a kind of ecological activity. Not just because wherever we read, and our particular situatedness, affects how we read: cafe or bedroom, aloud or silent, the city in which we read, the country in which we read, whether we hear sounds from the street, the way we sit, our embodiment, the weather, the climate, and so on. Not just because the materiality of what we read alters how we read: the feel of the printed page, new book or old book, stolen or borrowed, computer or hardcover.” “Reading is ecological for what it does to our ties to that which lie around us: what and how we see when we look up from the page.” “Maybe the search for beauty has just been my circular flight around one simple desire: to incorporate many more kinds of knowing into the work that I/we do as caregivers and caretakers of people, texts, other creatures.” “Because even as I ask myself to linger in the empty space of this page, or the space between each word and the meaning to which it gestures, or the wide breath of the wind that carries us - even as I imagine the in-between, the empty space, I know that the flesh, the stuff of it, is where I want to live.” “You know, despite everything I’ve said, I’m wary of wasting words on love. By which I mean, I have already written and rewritten letters of love to you in great repetition; by which I mean, I’ve repeated myself with negligible variation, but I’ve still been sincere, and you continue to listen and to care. When did our misdemeanours, our every encounter like a rupture in my life, begin to feel normal? Love has been our slow oscillation between the feeling of wrong, the feeling of right, a boredom, a quiet, a light.” “By way of habit, we compile what you call our own glossary of touch. Our routines, knowing how you wash your body, the little pile of socks on the floor, the way you always prefer to drink from one mug and not another, the walk we take, the silence after the fight like the silence after the rain -- these habits of intimacy are among the few freedoms we can offer each other.” Kiarostami, whose films I would never describe as cynical, says in an interview: love is misunderstanding. And we might still wonder whether this is indeed a cynical proposition, that we only love what we don’t understand, and once we do understand, the love ends. In this case, love is an illusion as we project our interpretations, insist upon them, fall in love with them, and then recoil as they shatter.”

#bahar orang #where things touch #a meditation on beauty #poetry

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lykegenia · 7 years

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The Things We Hide Ch. 5

The Southern Water Tribe stood for a hundred years against the Fire Nation, indomitable until Sozin’s Comet tipped the balance in Fire Lord Ozai’s favour. Now, as planned, the South is decimated, Chief Hakoda is a puppet on his throne, and Princess Katara is a political prisoner held in the Fire Nation capital to ensure his good behaviour. But Ozai has little time to gloat. A vigilante masquerading as the Blue Spirit is causing unrest among the people, rebel ships still hound his navy, and right under his nose the South’s most powerful waterbender waits with the patience of ice to strike at the very heart of his empire and bring it crashing down.

Chapter 1 on AO3

Words: 3048 Pairing: Zuko x Katara Chapter Summary: In the aftermath of the attack on the harbour, Zuko tries to find answers to who the mysterious waterbender is, and what she wants.

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Scrolls littered the long table in the royal library where Zuko had sat researching since even before the palace servants were awake. Every scrap of parchment on the Water Tribes the Fire Nation had archived lay in front of him in haphazard piles, from treatises on waterbending to collections of scholarly notes, but all they told him was how woefully ignorant his people were about those that lived at the ends of the world. Most of the accounts were second-hand or hearsay, and those that weren’t tended towards the sensational, and were so old that they offered nothing useful anyway.

Blearily, his rubbed his eyes and pulled yet another yellowed scroll towards him. This one was a military report written by a Lieutenant Sangon. It was about thirty years old, stained by saltwater, and told of the capture of a Southern Water Tribe ship.

Liuyue Twenty-sixth Day

In the night we came upon a bank of dense fog incongruent with the weather fifteen leagues off the shore of Whaletail Island, and knew our enemy lay within its depths, though not how many ships ranged against us. Captain Mei-Lin ordered a return to the commonly sailed patrol route, but by dawn the fog overtook us. General quarters were called, but as visibility lessened the captain decided to proceed with engines cut and fires doused so we would not give away our presence. It is well known the water vessels run on the wind and the currents they themselves manipulate, so I think her hope was we would run on the current before them.

The captain bid me consult our charts against compass and last known position in case they planned to sink us on shoals, but, reassured we were in deep waters still, she surmised their tactics would be more traditional icebergs and overwhelming waves. Our elite Cormorant Squadron stood ready to defend our sides and blast away ice attacks, while the ammunition for the prototype pivot trebuchets were readied with pitch and spark powder.

The Water Tribe attack came estimated an hour before sunrise. Our only warning was the crack of ‘lightning ice’ that froze the propellers solid, before two Southern Tribe ships breached the fog off our port stern.

Zuko found his fingers creasing the edges of the paper as he read on, only too able to imagine the fear those firebenders faced against enemies who could encase them in ice or send water whips out of the sea to pluck them to their doom. Only the unexpected power of the then-new deck mounted trebuchets had kept the ship from being totally lost, as the shot loaded into them had been designed to shatter and spread explosive flame on impact – more than a match for the flammable wooden hulls of the Water Tribe.

In the end, one of the enemy ships had sunk with a gaping hole in the starboard keel, and the other had suffered a lucky shot that brought down the mast and all but snapped the vessel in two. Lieutenant Sangon described the aftermath with unprofessionally graphic detail, but Zuko hardly noticed.

Under my orders the hands followed procedure in taking account of the casualties and clearing the deck of the debris from the forward trebuchet. The fog around us cleared enough to allow the sun to filter through, and it roused heartiness in us all. The light let us spot a figure among the flotsam of the destroyed ship, a young woman in the garb and war paint of a waterbender, though through my glass I saw her bleeding heavily from a wound on the scalp.

Thinking to create some return for the tragedy of Captain Mei-Lin’s death, I ordered the boat out, and the girl was brought back in chains, to many jeers from the men in the crew. Their display left a sour taste in my mouth, for all she had tried her best to kill us all not moments before.

I conclude my report with a note on the waterbender’s condition. It is lucky we picked her up in such an incoherent state, otherwise it is certain she would have followed the example of her captured brethren before we could begin to question her. Her wounds have been treated, but for her own safety and ours we are keeping her drugged with wortroot, which has the added bonus of supressing qi should she manage to shake off sleep.

We estimate Gaolong Harbour in three days, and will submit our guest to the port authorities at that time.

In my own hand

Acting Captain Sangon Zushin

Rubbing the back of his neck to ease the ache, Zuko sat back, tapping his fingers against the table. The report mentioned the Southern waterbender had her face painted, and that in the attack some of the crew were killed by strands of water rising from the ocean like the tentacles of a giant squid-topus. Although this was the best corroboration he had found so far, it was still a tenuous link to what he had observed two nights before at the docks.

Rumours had already begun to gust around the capital. Witnesses to the disaster swore it was the work of angry spirits; Officials scoffed and said it was an act of sabotage, committed by a group of rebel benders intent on destroying the lives of helpless Fire Nation citizens. Only time would tell which story the people would take as truth, but already the harbour swam with offerings of flowers and rice thrown down to try and appease whatever god was powerful enough to destroy three ten-deck troop carriers single-handed.

As for Zuko, he knew with certainty the woman the Blue Spirit confronted that night was human. This raised more questions than it answered, however. Was the saboteur alone or did she have a network of hidden waterbenders helping her? And if she did, why attack at night? Such power as she demonstrated would have made short work of any soldiers sent to stop her, so was it merely convenience that she had waited until the docks were quiet, or was it conscience? Considering the scale of the disaster, very few of the ships’ skeleton crews had been killed in the attack, and more than one report mentioned feeling the waves push them onto the breakwater, heavy armour and all.

Zuko groaned and buried his face in his hands.

“Prince Zuko?”

“Yes?”

The elderly librarian shuffled forward, a new stack of papers in his arms. “You wanted the tactical reports from the Southern Conquest.”

“Ah, thank you.” He pushed out of his chair so he could relieve the old man of his burden. “You know you could get one of your assistants to help me.”

“No, I could not,” the librarian replied, waving his prince’s concerns away. “It would dishonour you to have one of those bumbling children getting in the way of your research. Besides, it does these old bones some good to get about a bit.” He wheezed a laugh and cracked the stiffness out of his knuckles. “Might I ask what all of this is in aid of, Prince Zuko? I haven’t seen you this studious in years.”

“I’ve had other things to think about,” Zuko replied testily. “Do I need a reason?”

“Of course not, of course not.” The librarian held up his hands in good-natured surrender. “Just tell me if you require anything further.” He shuffled off again, leaving Zuko to his alcove and his privacy.

The biggest problem, the prince observed wryly to himself as he flitted through the newest stack of documents, was that nobody had any real clue about the capabilities of waterbenders. Every naval report spoke about them with a sort of reverent fear, and it had taken the power of Sozin’s Comet to finally bring their society to its knees, but there was no empirical value set on their abilities, either the range or the volume of water an individual could manipulate at any one time. He supposed that reflected the subtle nature of their element, but the Fire Nation’s lack of knowledge had more to do with lack of subjects – captured waterbenders never lived for very long.

Still, he found it difficult to believe one person could be powerful enough to cause so much destruction - apart from the avatar, of course. His uncle would have known. Once, before everything went wrong, Iroh had encouraged Zuko’s curiosity about the other nations. He had said understanding other cultures was the true key to bringing peace after conquest, but then Lu Ten had died at the siege of Ba Sing Se, and the once revered Dragon of the West had betrayed his own men, ordering a retreat when they could have pressed on and assured victory. When the soldiers rebelled, their general had been caught in the blast of the Avatar’s power, his body torn apart by the elements.

Official records left out the true circumstances of Crown Prince Iroh’s death, but afterwards Ozai made it clear to his son that an open-minded attitude towards the other cultures of the world would no longer be tolerated. Iroh’s weakness in the face of the cursed avatar became a lesson in the perils of mercy.

But the avatar was far away in the Earth Kingdom, the last of the Air Nomads alive and well, busy stirring up rebellion against Fire Nation colonisers. The bender he encountered at the harbour was definitely not an Air Nomad, and there was no mistaking her shape underneath her clothes. He felt his cheeks warm at the memory and fisted his hands on the table to try and regain control of his fire. Royal princes did not become flustered at the mere thought of beautiful women, especially ones who were such a threat to shipping.

Was she beautiful, though? Under the war paint, did she have dark skin like that of others of the Water Tribe? Was it smooth and soft, or chafed by sea winds? What shape were her lips? He hadn’t been able to see the colour of her eyes in the darkness, but they were fierce.

He groaned again and pinched his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

The lattices of Katara’s private chambers were all open, but no breeze could be tempted in from the baking garden. If anything, the scorching heat of the sun had only increased since the day before, as if trying to squeeze the last moisture from the earth before the arrival of the winter rains. The still, dry air made Katara fidget under her sweat-drenched sheets, her fever slow to cool.

The influence of the full moon and the rush of her own daring had allowed her to destroy not one but all three of the ships moored in the harbour. Even in her delirium she remembered the savagery of her joy at being able to unleash her full power and strike at the heart of her enemy. She felt again and again the scream of tearing metal as she smashed the Ryujo against the breakwater, only now the tremors lanced through her body instead.

At the time she hadn’t realised how much energy she was using, too busy focussed on the flow of water in her hands. Afterwards, though, when she dragged herself back through the dimming streets, she had felt the tug of fatigue slowing every step as if stones pulled at her feet.

She woke sometime the next afternoon to the caress of healing water on her forehead. Linara sat over her, the healer’s smooth face scrunched in concern as she tried to map the splintered lines of qi through Katara’s body. Hama stood at the foot of the bed, her hands framed into rigid lines as she froze the air into powdery ice over her charge’s wrists and ankles. That was how she remembered the hours, in snatches of consciousness as shadows from the window trailed across the room, with her guardians working in seamless, unending tandem to bring her back from the dark.

Now, Katara sat in a pile of cushions with the vile taste of some reviving tonic lingering at the back of her throat. She focussed on separating the dank flavours to work out what they forced down her throat, because the alternative was having to look Hama in the eye.

She had never seen the old woman so angry.

“What were you thinking?” the old general demanded. “It’s a blessing you weren’t seen – or captured! What do you think would happen to our people, to all our well-laid plans, if they find out it was you who destroyed those ships in the harbour?”

“I couldn’t sit by and do nothing! Those ships were going to take soldiers to the Earth Kingdom, and now they can’t,” Katara retorted. She glanced down at where her hands lay in her lap. “And nobody caught me,” she added sullenly. “So they aren’t going to find out it was me.”

Ham sniffed. “And how will you explain your current state when the guard comes to interrogate us?” She threw up her hands. “You never think things through! Always impetuous, always taking on more than you can handle. They’ll be looking for waterbenders, girl.”

“General, please,” interrupted Linara. “This can be saved for another time. Katara needs rest.”

“She needs sense knocked into her. Where’s a glacier when you need one.”

“I’m sorry, Sifu,” Katara mumbled as Hama turned to stomp out.

The general hesitated in the doorway. “No you’re not,” she grunted. “You’re pleased with yourself. I hope you still are when all of our sacrifices come to nothing.”

Katara watched her teacher cross the garden and round a corner towards the kitchens, the blue-clad form shimmering under the intensity of the sun. She bit her lip. Everyone had risked so much for her, and Hama was right: the lives of too many people depended on her staying in the good graces of the Fire Lord as a political hostage, too demure to be a threat and too important to be thrown away. To be found out as a waterbender…

Tomorrow, she would make a proper apology, when exhaustion no longer clawed at her bones and made her head swim.

Linara tactfully chose that moment to replace her healing water, running her fingers along the rim of the turtleshell bowl she had received when she attained the rank of Master Healer. At twenty-five, she was one of the most gifted students in the school, hand-chosen to be part of Katara’s entourage, to protect the young princess in the polar bear-dog’s den, and to keep the skills and talents of the Southern Water Tribe safe, hidden in plain sight in case Hama’s plan failed. The bone beads threaded into the locks at her temples clicked as she kneeled once more at Katara’s bedside.

“All that bluster is just worry for you,” she said kindly. “The general’s actually quite impressed. We all are.”

She lay her hands against Katara’s fevered skin, one on her abdomen while the other smoothed a healing glow along her legs and down over her feet. Tension eased out of the Water Tribe princess, resignation settling in its place.

“Dad’s going to be so angry when he finds out.”

“He may be angry that you put yourself in danger,” the healer calmly replied. “But nobody can deny how far this will set back the Fire Nation war effort. Each of those ships was worth two thousand soldiers at least, and now it’s unlikely they’ll get to the Earth Kingdom in time to relieve the soldiers already there. Mark my words, it’s a gap that’ll be exploited. If there’s anyone who can make the most of this, it’s -”

“Don’t remind me,” Katara interrupted, burying her head in her hands. “That’s another person who’s going to be mad at me.”

The healer grinned. “Not looking forward to Mimi’s next letter?”

“No.”

“It might not be so bad. The Fire Navy will be short three of its biggest assets until they can replace them. That’s at least six months of unchecked piracy. The Third Fleet will be busy.”

Katara pushed herself out of her pile of cushions, gnawed by an unexpected concern. “And how many people will be worked to death to get new ships ready in six months?”

Linara’s hands paused against Katara’s skin, her smile hardened into a frown as she brought her fingers up to touch the carved pendant at her throat. The once-beautiful image carved in the mother-of-pearl was marred by a deep, deliberate scratch.

“That’s not our problem.”

“Isn’t it? It’ll be my fault.”

“There’s more suffering in this place than any one person could hope to change,” Linara snorted. “Don’t make yourself responsible for a society where the nobility break the backs of peasants to avoid stepping in the mud.”

“But -”

“If you want to help them, see this through. Care if you must, but remember you’re the only one who will.”

They lapsed into silence, Linara’s thoughts her own and Katara’s wandering back to the moonlit pier and the man with the twin swords who had confronted her there. At the time, she had been too surprised to notice much more than the glint of moonlight on steel and the gruesome mask leering through the darkness, but when the guards stole his attention and allowed her to get away, she had looked back. He moved through them with perfect control, chaos poised by discipline. Her father’s troops were well trained, but she had never seen anyone fight like that. His black clothes were loose, made of material that wouldn’t rustle as he moved, but Katara could imagine the lithe muscles beneath. He would not be bulky, like Water Tribe men used to hauling fishing lines, fed a steady diet of fish and meat. Was he a native of the capital, or somewhere else? What colour were his eyes? Most importantly, what had he been doing at the harbour that night?

“Katara?”

She blinked and found Linara watching her.

“Are you alright?”

“I was just wondering…” Katara paused, finding the right smokescreen for her interest. “I heard some of the Fire Nation soldiers talking. You’ve been to the market. What are people saying about a man in a blue mask?”

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#zutara #zutara fanfic #atla #avatar: the last airbender #zuko #katara #zuko x katara #katara x zuko #My writing #story: the things we hide

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folklore-and-fairytales · 4 years

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A BEGGAR’S PALACE - a Free Story

A Free Story from the ebook Sylvie and Bruno, the sequel to Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carrol.

That I had said something, in the act of waking, I felt sure: the hoarse stifled cry was still ringing in my ears, even if the startled look of my fellow-traveler had not been evidence enough: but what could I possibly say by way of apology?

“I hope I didn’t frighten you?” I stammered out at last. “I have no idea what I said. I was dreaming.”

“You said ‘Uggug indeed!’” the young lady replied, with quivering lips that would curve themselves into a smile, in spite of all her efforts to look grave. “At least—you didn’t say it—you shouted it!”

“I’m very sorry,” was all I could say, feeling very penitent and helpless. “She has Sylvie’s eyes!” I thought to myself, half-doubting whether, even now, I were fairly awake. “And that sweet look of innocent wonder is all Sylvie’s, too. But Sylvie hasn’t got that calm resolute mouth—nor that far-away look of dreamy sadness, like one that has had some deep sorrow, very long ago——” And the thick-coming fancies almost prevented my hearing the lady’s next words.

“If you had had a ‘Shilling Dreadful’ in your hand,” she proceeded, “something about Ghosts—or Dynamite—or Midnight Murder—one could understand it: those things aren’t worth the shilling, unless they give one a Nightmare. But really—with only a medical treatise, you know——” and she glanced, with a pretty shrug of contempt, at the book over which I had fallen asleep.

Her friendliness, and utter unreserve, took me aback for a moment; yet there was no touch of forwardness, or boldness, about the child—for child, almost, she seemed to be: I guessed her at scarcely over twenty—all was the innocent frankness of some angelic visitant, new to the ways of earth and the conventionalisms—or, if you will, the barbarisms—of Society. “Even so,” I mused, “will Sylvie look and speak, in another ten years.”

“You don’t care for Ghosts, then,” I ventured to suggest, “unless they are really terrifying?”

“Quite so,” the lady assented. “The regular Railway-Ghosts—I mean the Ghosts of ordinary Railway-literature—are very poor affairs. I feel inclined to say, with Alexander Selkirk, ‘Their tameness is shocking to me’! And they never do any Midnight Murders. They couldn’t ‘welter in gore,’ to save their lives!”

“‘Weltering in gore’ is a very expressive phrase, certainly. Can it be done in any fluid, I wonder?”

“I think not,” the lady readily replied—quite as if she had thought it out, long ago. “It has to be something thick. For instance, you might welter in bread-sauce. That, being white, would be more suitable for a Ghost, supposing it wished to welter!”

“You have a real good terrifying Ghost in that book?” I hinted.

“How could you guess?” she exclaimed with the most engaging frankness, and placed the volume in my hands. I opened it eagerly, with a not unpleasant thrill (like what a good ghost-story gives one) at the ‘uncanny’ coincidence of my having so unexpectedly divined the subject of her studies.

It was a book of Domestic Cookery, open at the article ‘Bread Sauce.’

I returned the book, looking, I suppose, a little blank, as the lady laughed merrily at my discomfiture. “It’s far more exciting than some of the modern ghosts, I assure you! Now there was a Ghost last month—I don’t mean a real Ghost in—in Supernature—but in a Magazine. It was a perfectly flavourless Ghost. It wouldn’t have frightened a mouse! It wasn’t a Ghost that one would even offer a chair to!”

“Three score years and ten, baldness, and spectacles, have their advantages after all!” I said to myself. “Instead of a bashful youth and maiden, gasping out monosyllables at awful intervals, here we have an old man and a child, quite at their ease, talking as if they had known each other for years! Then you think,” I continued aloud, “that we ought sometimes to ask a Ghost to sit down? But have we any authority for it? In Shakespeare, for instance—there are plenty of ghosts there—does Shakespeare ever give the stage-direction ‘hands chair to Ghost’?”

The lady looked puzzled and thoughtful for a moment: then she almost clapped her hands. “Yes, yes, he does!” she cried. “He makes Hamlet say ‘Rest, rest, perturbed Spirit!’”

“And that, I suppose, means an easy-chair?”

“An American rocking-chair, I think——”

“Fayfield Junction, my Lady, change for Elveston!” the guard announced, flinging open the door of the carriage: and we soon found ourselves, with all our portable property around us, on the platform.

The accommodation, provided for passengers waiting at this Junction, was distinctly inadequate—a single wooden bench, apparently intended for three sitters only: and even this was already partially occupied by a very old man, in a smock frock, who sat, with rounded shoulders and drooping head, and with hands clasped on the top of his stick so as to make a sort of pillow for that wrinkled face with its look of patient weariness.

“Come, you be off!” the Station-master roughly accosted the poor old man. “You be off, and make way for your betters! This way, my Lady!” he added in a perfectly different tone. “If your Ladyship will take a seat, the train will be up in a few minutes.” The cringing servility of his manner was due, no doubt, to the address legible on the pile of luggage, which announced their owner to be “Lady Muriel Orme, passenger to Elveston, viâ Fayfield Junction.”

As I watched the old man slowly rise to his feet, and hobble a few paces down the platform, the lines came to my lips:—

“From sackcloth couch the Monk arose, With toil his stiffen’d limbs he rear’d; A hundred years had flung their snows On his thin locks and floating beard.”

But the lady scarcely noticed the little incident. After one glance at the ‘banished man,’ who stood tremulously leaning on his stick, she turned to me. “This is not an American rocking-chair, by any means! Yet may I say,” slightly changing her place, so as to make room for me beside her, “may I say, in Hamlet’s words, ‘Rest, rest——’” she broke off with a silvery laugh.

‘COME, YOU BE OFF!’

“‘—perturbed Spirit!’” I finished the sentence for her. “Yes, that describes a railway-traveler exactly! And here is an instance of it,” I added, as the tiny local train drew up alongside the platform, and the porters bustled about, opening carriage-doors—one of them helping the poor old man to hoist himself into a third-class carriage, while another of them obsequiously conducted the lady and myself into a first-class.

She paused, before following him, to watch the progress of the other passenger. “Poor old man!” she said. “How weak and ill he looks! It was a shame to let him be turned away like that. I’m very sorry——” At this moment it dawned on me that these words were not addressed to me, but that she was unconsciously thinking aloud. I moved away a few steps, and waited to follow her into the carriage, where I resumed the conversation.

“Shakespeare must have traveled by rail, if only in a dream: ‘perturbed Spirit’ is such a happy phrase.”

“‘Perturbed’ referring, no doubt,” she rejoined, “to the sensational booklets peculiar to the Rail. If Steam has done nothing else, it has at least added a whole new Species to English Literature!”

“No doubt of it,” I echoed. “The true origin of all our medical books—and all our cookery-books——”

“No, no!” she broke in merrily. “I didn’t mean our Literature! We are quite abnormal. But the booklets—the little thrilling romances, where the Murder comes at page fifteen, and the Wedding at page forty—surely they are due to Steam?”

“And when we travel by Electricity—if I may venture to develop your theory—we shall have leaflets instead of booklets, and the Murder and the Wedding will come on the same page.”

“A development worthy of Darwin!” the lady exclaimed enthusiastically. “Only you reverse his theory. Instead of developing a mouse into an elephant, you would develop an elephant into a mouse!” But here we plunged into a tunnel, and I leaned back and closed my eyes for a moment, trying to recall a few of the incidents of my recent dream.

“I thought I saw——” I murmured sleepily: and then the phrase insisted on conjugating itself, and ran into “you thought you saw—he thought he saw——” and then it suddenly went off into a song:—

“He thought he saw an Elephant, That practised on a fife: He looked again, and found it was A letter from his wife. ‘At length I realise,’ he said, ‘The bitterness of Life!’”

And what a wild being it was who sang these wild words! A Gardener he seemed to be—yet surely a mad one, by the way he brandished his rake—madder, by the way he broke, ever and anon, into a frantic jig—maddest of all, by the shriek in which he brought out the last words of the stanza!

It was so far a description of himself that he had the feet of an Elephant: but the rest of him was skin and bone: and the wisps of loose straw, that bristled all about him, suggested that he had been originally stuffed with it, and that nearly all the stuffing had come out.

Sylvie and Bruno waited patiently till the end of the first verse. Then Sylvie advanced alone (Bruno having suddenly turned shy) and timidly introduced herself with the words “Please, I’m Sylvie!”

“And who’s that other thing?” said the Gardener.

“What thing?” said Sylvie, looking round. “Oh, that’s Bruno. He’s my brother.”

“Was he your brother yesterday?” the Gardener anxiously enquired.

“Course I were!” cried Bruno, who had gradually crept nearer, and didn’t at all like being talked about without having his share in the conversation.

THE GARDENER

“Ah, well!” the Gardener said with a kind of groan. “Things change so, here. Whenever I look again, it’s sure to be something different! Yet I does my duty! I gets up wriggle-early at five——”

“If I was oo,” said Bruno, “I wouldn’t wriggle so early. It’s as bad as being a worm!” he added, in an undertone to Sylvie.

“But you shouldn’t be lazy in the morning, Bruno,” said Sylvie. “Remember, it’s the early bird that picks up the worm!”

“It may, if it likes!” Bruno said with a slight yawn. “I don’t like eating worms, one bit. I always stop in bed till the early bird has picked them up!”

“I wonder you’ve the face to tell me such fibs!” cried the Gardener.

To which Bruno wisely replied “Oo don’t want a face to tell fibs wiz—only a mouf.”

Sylvie discreetly changed the subject. “And did you plant all these flowers?” she said. “What a lovely garden you’ve made! Do you know, I’d like to live here always!”

“In the winter-nights——” the Gardener was beginning.

“But I’d nearly forgotten what we came about!” Sylvie interrupted. “Would you please let us through into the road? There’s a poor old beggar just gone out—and he’s very hungry—and Bruno wants to give him his cake, you know!”

“It’s as much as my place is worth!” the Gardener muttered, taking a key from his pocket, and beginning to unlock a door in the garden-wall.

“How much are it wurf?” Bruno innocently enquired.

But the Gardener only grinned. “That’s a secret!” he said. “Mind you come back quick!” he called after the children, as they passed out into the road. I had just time to follow them, before he shut the door again.

We hurried down the road, and very soon caught sight of the old Beggar, about a quarter of a mile ahead of us, and the children at once set off running to overtake him. Lightly and swiftly they skimmed over the ground, and I could not in the least understand how it was I kept up with them so easily. But the unsolved problem did not worry me so much as at another time it might have done, there were so many other things to attend to.

The old Beggar must have been very deaf, as he paid no attention whatever to Bruno’s eager shouting, but trudged wearily on, never pausing until the child got in front of him and held up the slice of cake. The poor little fellow was quite out of breath, and could only utter the one word “Cake!”—not with the gloomy decision with which Her Excellency had so lately pronounced it, but with a sweet childish timidity, looking up into the old man’s face with eyes that loved ‘all things both great and small.’

The old man snatched it from him, and devoured it greedily, as some hungry wild beast might have done, but never a word of thanks did he give his little benefactor—only growled “More, more!” and glared at the half-frightened children.

“There is no more!” Sylvie said with tears in her eyes. “I’d eaten mine. It was a shame to let you be turned away like that. I’m very sorry——”

I lost the rest of the sentence, for my mind had recurred, with a great shock of surprise, to Lady Muriel Orme, who had so lately uttered these very words of Sylvie’s—yes, and in Sylvie’s own voice, and with Sylvie’s gentle pleading eyes!

“Follow me!” were the next words I heard, as the old man waved his hand, with a dignified grace that ill suited his ragged dress, over a bush, that stood by the road side, which began instantly to sink into the earth. At another time I might have doubted the evidence of my eyes, or at least have felt some astonishment: but, in this strange scene, my whole being seemed absorbed in strong curiosity as to what would happen next.

When the bush had sunk quite out of our sight, marble steps were seen, leading downwards into darkness. The old man led the way, and we eagerly followed.

The staircase was so dark, at first, that I could only just see the forms of the children, as, hand-in-hand, they groped their way down after their guide: but it got lighter every moment, with a strange silvery brightness, that seemed to exist in the air, as there were no lamps visible; and, when at last we reached a level floor, the room, in which we found ourselves, was almost as light as day.

It was eight-sided, having in each angle a slender pillar, round which silken draperies were twined. The wall between the pillars was entirely covered, to the height of six or seven feet, with creepers, from which hung quantities of ripe fruit and of brilliant flowers, that almost hid the leaves.

In another place, perchance, I might have wondered to see fruit and flowers growing together: here, my chief wonder was that neither fruit nor flowers were such as I had ever seen before. Higher up, each wall contained a circular window of coloured glass; and over all was an arched roof, that seemed to be spangled all over with jewels.

<Image goes here> A BEGGAR’S PALACE

With hardly less wonder, I turned this way and that, trying to make out how in the world we had come in: for there was no door: and all the walls were thickly covered with the lovely creepers.

“We are safe here, my darlings!” said the old man, laying a hand on Sylvie’s shoulder, and bending down to kiss her. Sylvie drew back hastily, with an offended air: but in another moment, with a glad cry of “Why, it’s Father!”, she had run into his arms.

“Father! Father!” Bruno repeated: and, while the happy children were being hugged and kissed, I could but rub my eyes and say “Where, then, are the rags gone to?”; for the old man was now dressed in royal robes that glittered with jewels and gold embroidery, and wore a circlet of gold around his head.

==================

A Free Story from the ebook Sylvie and Bruno The sequel to Alice in Wonderland By Lewis Carrol – with just as much silliness and fantasy as Alice in Wonderland

ISBN: 9788834181546

URL/Download Link: https://bit.ly/2XCSsZo

==================

TAGS: #SylvieandBruno, #LewisCarroll, #folklore, #fairytales, #mythsandlegends, #childrensstories, #bedtime, #stories, #parentswithchildren, #fables, #storyteller, #aliceinwonderland, #sequel, #babies, #mothers, #fathers, #grandparents, #fables, #moraltale, #Bruno, #LadySylvie, #Alexander, #American, #angelic, #bald, #Beggar, #bitterness, #bold, #bones, #carriage, #children, #circlet, #Cooking, #drapes, #easy-chair, #Elephant, #Elveston, #Fayfield, #flowers, #garden, #Gardener, #garden-wall, #Ghost, #gold, #golden, #innocence, #innocent, #Junction, #lady, #Literature, #merrily, #mice, #Midnight, #mouse, #Muriel, #old man, #Orme, #Palace, #rocking-chair, #royal, #run, #running, #sackcloth, #sadness, #Selkirk, #Shakespeare, #Spirit, #steam train, #Sylvie and Bruno, #wriggle, #wrinkled, #young, #youth,

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notesfromthepen · 5 years

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THE REFORMATION OF AMERICAN INCARCERATION; An Inmates Perspective

INTRO

It's Not Like This is New.

There's no shortage of opinions these days—not even when it comes to something as complex, and formerly taboo, as prison reform. From the masterfully crafted philosophical treatises of antiquity to the late-night drunken posts of the Twittersphere, people are finally talking about prison reform.

Only never like this.

All you have to do is look and you'll find readied articles, posts, and blog entries, Sunday-morning sermons, YouTube documentaries, ill-informed water-cooler talk, and even feature pieces for the 24hr news cycle, all on criminal justice reform.

The broad strokes and generalizations of reform are easy to find. They're everywhere. The detailed pieces—though much fewer in number—are still out there if you take the time to look.

In researching this project I came across plenty of contributors willing to point out the failures of our current criminal justice system, less who were willing to take on the details of the problems they perceived; and I was only able to find a few articles, written by passionate and committed minds, that actually offered up some solutions to the fiasco of our current prison system. What I have NOT been able to find is someone on the inside, with first hand knowledge of the successes and failures of our prison system; someone who is willing to wrestle with it all, who starts with questioning the very need for reform, examines the resulting answers, explains the problems, offers in-depth solutions and even lays out the actual mechanisms of reform and what the results would look like.

Not-a-single-one.

It's easy to point out the failures. But I want to know what would you do different? Given the chance, how you, specifically, would you make things better?

Radio silence.

Electronic silence.

In this absence I figured I should start writing.

FML.

Upon coming to prison I've repeatedly heard some version of the following: "What are you doing here? You're not supposed to be here..." They mean it as a compliment, but it's bullshit. They like it to mean that I'm somehow beyond this place, beyond these walls—out of place in the best of ways—but they're wrong; their perspective is skewed.

I AM supposed to be here.

And I know EXACTLY what I'm doing.

However reluctant I may be, I'm here to add another voice to the cacophony of opinions and ideas that have already sounded on the matter of incarceration in America; to add one of OUR voices to the mix. And regardless of my purpose—perhaps in addition to it—I have no choice but to get this off of my chest. My only chance of breathing a little easier is knowing that, whether or not anyone hears these muted cries behind these automated steel doors and razor wire, that at least I said something while I still had breath in my lungs.

THIS is why I'm here.

With that being said, I am no social scientist, no statistician, no professor of law, psychologist, therapist, addiction counselor, behaviorist, or criminologist—or any other type of accredited specialist qualified to write this article.

I am however an experienced inmate serving a twelve-year sentence, for involuntary manslaughter, in the American prison system, with a penchant for subversive writing, delusions of grandeur, and big-picture ideas...

This is what I've learned so far.

Morality and Criminal Justice

If we are indeed a nation of laws, a nation that aspires to uphold a just and fair society, then it is our duty to fearlessly and frequently check the moral source of our laws, and consequences. If what we uncover is a spring that has remained pure then we must ensure that no entity, idea, or political movement—popular or otherwise—is allowed to corrupt the systems of justice that flow forth. However, if we discover a spring that has grown contaminated, whether by manipulation, short sightedness, ignorance of the electorate, the leadership, or any other fault that draws us away from a foundation of morality then we, as a society, must pledge to reestablish a more worthy source from which to our justice system flows—for nothing is more important to a society's health and validity than a genuine and upstanding moral foundation.

The Question of Reform

Like many things, self reflection comes down to a question, for which the answer must be sought with honesty and fearless diligence.

The question—the hundred BILLION DOLLAR question—at hand is whether or not our current criminal justice system is in need of reform.

Now I could assume that we all agree the answer is yes, and I could skip over this next section, but that would miss the point entirely. The problems we're trying to fix here were allowed to grow in the darkness of people not asking questions and seeking answers. This article will not be another in a long line of false assumptions.

As far as I can tell, a successful modern criminal justice system should be judge by two major criteria, both of which must be met for success to be claimed and reform to be deemed unnecessary.

1. Is our criminal justice system successfully and efficiently providing the safety and security of its citizens to exercise certain inalienable rights—in our case, set forth in the Bill of Rights—of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness?

2. Is our current criminal justice system, designed to protect the rights of citizens, true to the ideals, moral standing, and virtues this country was founded upon? And if so, can these original ideals carry us into a future with the same moral standing that lifted America up as a beacon for freedom & justice throughout the world? Or will our current path, left unchanged, lead us into a future again clouded by the shame and regret of the lesser moments of our history, such as the genocide of Native Americans, slavery, Jim Crow laws, segregation, the Japanese internment camps of WWII, and our lag in the human rights revolution in general?

If the answer to just one of these questions is no, then it proves to be an indictment of a system in need of reform. You can't have safety and security at the cost of humanitarian atrocities and Draconian rule and expect to call it a success. Inversely, you can't have a moral foundation so liberal that it paralyzes a state into a lawless free-for-all without consequence for criminals and call IT a win.

Answers

1. Success & Efficiency.

Considering America's "Tough on Crime" mentality this should be the easier of the two qualifiers to prove in the affirmative. But like nearly every question simply worded, it excludes a genuine answer from being anything but simple. The question itself is lacking in specificity; sure SOME people are provided with the security that our criminal justice system is intended to provide, yet still, many OTHERS are not.

It shouldn't surprise you to learn that affluent, predominantly white, areas enjoy some of the lowest crime rates in the country. Ask the members of an exclusive country club and they will likely tell you the prison system's success rate is nearing perfection. Ask the same question of in an impoverished neighborhood in DC, or a holler in West Virginia, and you would likely hear that the system is anything BUT successful at providing these basic so-called inalienable rights.

But even if the lower income areas were to somehow miraculously be redeemed into safety by extreme versions of mass incarceration and severe punishments—which they're not—that would only push the problem back, not solve it. For mass incarceration to be viewed as a truly "successful" solution to crime, there is an inherent assumption, that the inalienable rights of the millions of incarcerated American citizens somehow don't factor into the equation, that the failure to protect THEIR rights are not to be added to the scales of success.

Look close enough and the answer to this question is actually rather simple; if millions of citizens must lose their "inalienable rights" to ensure the rights of others then that, my friend, is a system of in need of reform.

To gauge efficiency, let's take a look at what our our current criminal justice system is costing us.

America spends roughly182 billion dollars annually, on criminal justice; just so you can see the zeros, that's 182,000,000,000 EVERY year. At this rate, every man woman and child in the county would have to kick in over $600 dollars every year. And a family of four would pitch $2,400 tax dollars into the coffers of the current criminal justice system.

Undoubtedly, there are many differing factors that go into determining the likelihood of criminality. But, many would argue, none more so than education. And our leaders know it. Studies show that as quality education rises, crime falls; and inversely, as incarceration rates rise, crime rates often follow. Still, education spending lags far behind funding for incarceration. In over thirty years, from 1980-2013, West Virginia increased its education budget by only 58% while its prison budget has grown 483%, out spending education eight fold. Arizona's education budget grew by 188% while its prison budget ballooned 491%, Colorado saw a 103% increase in education compared to 513% for incarceration, Oklahoma's difference was 60% 341% and Kentucky did slightly better with 102% to 259%, still more than double the investment into incarceration than education.

So what are we actually getting in terms of SAFTEY for all this spending? Oklahoma and Louisiana have some of the highest incarceration rates, yet maintain similarly high rates of crime in comparison with other states. In addition to the lack of correlation between spending and crime rate, is the ineffectiveness of actual incarceration. A 2005 study revealed that, after serving their sentence, nearly half of all inmates were rearrested within twelve months of their release. Another study showed that, within three years of release, two-thirds of inmates had reoffended. And given a nine year window the percentage of inmates who reoffend jumped to 80%. Yet instead of rethinking these outdated and ineffective policies, like a degenerate gambler, we consistently double down on our misguided efforts.

America's prison population has more than quadrupled since the early eighties. And though it is true that criminals tend not to commit crimes against society while they're incarcerated—mostly because they physically can’t—once they are released they're actually more likely to commit increasingly dangerous crimes after serving a prison sentence.

But just for arguments sake—taking into consideration the drop in violent crime since the 80’s—ignoring the numerous statistics pointing away from prison retribution and harsh sentencing as reasons for the drop in crime—let’s say that the criminal justice system, when it comes to providing the safety & stability for law abiding citizens is at least somewhat functioning, while being efficient is an undoubted failure. In this case we'll give America's prison system a generous C+, lest I come off as biased (when comparing America's crime rate to other western countries with a similar standard of living, studies suggest that most experts would agree this is indeed a generous mark). Nonetheless a C+ is a passing grade.

And thank god. If it wasn't I wouldn't have a high-school diploma stuffed in a junk drawer somewhere to use when I got out as a makeshift place-mat when I have company.

2. Morality and Incarceration.

These are just a few statistics to be added to the scales of morality when it comes to our criminal justice system.

America, the home of the free, has the highest incarceration rate on the planet.

2.3 million American citizens are currently incarcerated.

4.5 million are on probation or parole.

1 in 32 American citizens are under some form of state supervision or incarceration and 2.7 million children have parents currently incarcerated.

More than 10,000 US inmates are serving life sentences for nonviolent offenses.

Roughly 50% of all federal inmates are incarcerated for nonviolent drug offenses.

85-90% of those ensnared in the criminal justice system register below the poverty line.

With over 5,000 facilities of incarceration, America has more jails than colleges.

65% of households with an incarcerated family member are unable to meet their basic needs.

With the systematic closing of mental institutions, a considerable percentage of current inmates are mentally Ill. About 37% of people in prison have a history of mental health problems, according to a 2017 report from the U.S. Department of Justice.

These are just a fraction of the quantifiable statistics that point towards the moral failings of our current system. The tip of a terrifyingly deep iceberg.

The problem is, how do you really quantify suffering? How do you put a percentage on the hunger of an inmate who goes to bed without eating because a vindictive CO refused to unlock their door at chow time? How do you make a statistic of an inmate who has his visits permanently revoked because his cellmate had a bottle of spud juice hidden behind the toilet, in HIS designated area of "control"? How do you gauge the level of suffering on the years that pass without a parent seeing their kid, or a kid seeing their parent?

Forget the question of how these injustices could be quantified and, just for a second, ask yourself how they could ever be justified.

These aren't obscure examples collected by rumor and hearsay; these are all-too-common examples that I have witnessed or experienced first hand.

At this point, this could turn into a never-ending list of the moral failings I've witnessed since my incarceration, but since it is neither the sole purpose of this article, or entirely necessary, I digress. All we are doing here is determining if our justice system is operating on a morally upstanding ethos. I need only one example of a systematic moral failing of our current criminal justice system to show a need for reform.

No problem.

In 2010 Juan Méndez was appointed as the as the Special Rapporteur on torture and other cruel, degrading, and inhumane treatment by the United Nations. His specific mandate was to "expose and document torture wherever it exists on the plant today."

In 2011, Méndez wasted no time issuing a report criticizing the use of solitary confinement as a form of torture, stating that 22-23 hours a day of isolation for more than fifteen consecutive days can cause permanent, lasting, psychological damage. He also noted that extended and overly-used solitary confinement is particularly severe in the American prison system.

Méndez then sought to tour America's prison system to get a better understanding of it's excessive use of this practice. He has yet to be granted access to a single isolation unit by any U.S. prison.

But I have.

I spent years at OAKS, a facility infamous for their disciplinary practices and liberal use of the Hole. HALF of the six housing units were designated Segregation Units (Seg) with the sole purpose of isolating inmates for extended periods of time. Because there were so many cells dedicated to solitary confinement the institution, rather than using the THREAT of isolation as tool to dissuade inmates from committing more serious infractions, with the ultimate goal of the Seg units becoming increasingly empty due to the change in inmate behavior, making the practice of isolation less and less necessary, the facility began placing inmates in the hole for relatively minor infractions, just to make use of the facilities. I guess the mentality was, "Why have a hole if you're not gonna use it?…Even if you have to drum up the bullshit reasons."

The minimum stay in the hole, for the lesser infractions was 90 days. Tattoo equipment, substance abuse, disobeying a direct order, or a threatening behavior (which is never a physical altercation and is used as more of a loophole for correction officers to lock up the inmates they "feel" are a problem, or if they simply feel slighted, confronted, or embarrassed by an inmate who also happens to be right). Segregation is 23 to 24 hours a day on lock down, with no personal property, clothing, commissary items, shavers, TV, or radio. Showers are a brief ten minute affair, three days a week. You're shackled and led down the rock to and from the caged showers in shackles wearing nothing but a towel.

And remember, this is the punishment meated out to the inmates who commit the "less serious" disciplinary infractions.

I once saw an inmate pick up a traded chocolate chip cookie from another inmate's tray while in line for lunch. Upon witnessing this egregious act, a CO ordered him to throw out his entire tray and immediately return to his cell. Hunger is a very real struggle in prison. When the inmate explained what he was doing and why he should be allowed to eat, the CO pulled out his taser and ordered him to the ground. He was swarmed by five other COs and promptly disappeared.

It was almost five months before anyone saw him again. If I wasn't so familiar with the physical transformation caused by the hole, I wouldn't have recognized him. He was a gaunt thirty pounds lighter with sunken in eyes. He wore the distorted hue that human skin takes on in the complete absence of light. His face was covered in months of unchecked hair. But the most disturbing mark left on the inhabitants of solitary confinement is the thousand-yard stare. It's like the person in front of you is no longer the person you saw disappear into one of the many isolation units.

The mid level infractions would get you laid down (as they say) for longer stretches. A fight, which is nearly unavoidable in here, would most often get you six months to a year (though someone I knew did eighteen months in Seg for a rather violent altercation). The more serious infractions could land you in there indefinitely. A friend of mine, an inmate who was teaching a commutation class I took, served twelve consecutive years in solitary confinement.

As terrible as it is to admit, these are not isolated examples—on the contrary, they are so common that it was difficult for me to decide on just one example of unnecessary isolation to use

I wonder if Juan Méndez has ever gotten into a prison to see what time in the hole is like. If he did I hope it was at a distance and he was able to maintain his sanity.

If this does not persuade you of a moral failing of our criminal justice system, then I fear your heart has grown so callous, so compartmentalized, that no example would suffice. It remains clear that for justice to be fair, JUST, and moral it must be administered blindly. Hence the depiction of a blindfolded Lady Justice holding her set of scales. It has become impossible to ignore the overwhelming statistics that reveal our justice system is anything BUT blind, that it always has one eye open, and that it is increasingly unjust. When all else is equal, our criminal justice system out prosecutes and out convicts our poorest and darker hued citizens at a staggering rate. This system has deeply ingrained mechanisms that specifically target the poor, such as our cash bail system. Apparently if, while innocent until proven guilty, you're deemed releasable by a judge to await trial so you can maintain employment and take care and provide for your kids, we don't think it's a good idea for you to actually be released unless you have a few thousand dollars of spare cash and collateral lying around to grease a the wheels of justice. There is no other way to spin this other than to admit this is a blatant, unashamed, example of outright classicism. How is that moral justice?

And this is to say nothing of the fact that a system that has to incarcerate or monitor 1 in every 32 citizens in the name of safety, must be considered a moral failure by the use of simple arithmetic.

If our myopic analysis, made while weighing the SUCCESS and EFFICIENCY of our current prison system resulted in a passing grade of a C+, then the evaluation of the second aspect of reform, the MORAL success or failure of the same system, could only result in one conclusion:

America's current criminal justice system operates as an unmitigated moral failure on behalf of its citizens, perpetrated upon by its wards.

So where does that leave us? Moderately passing in one aspect, and miserably failing in the other. We've already established that a passing grade in a single category is no mark of actual success. A Totalitarian Dictatorship and a state of complete ANARCHY would both score stellar marks in one of the two categories. With that in mind, a failure on either side of the coin, moral or otherwise, makes for a worthless token of criminal justice.

Reformation then becomes the only logical solution.

The Problems

It's not enough to simply admit that our current system is in need of reform. Just ask any addict. There's a reason they say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. It's a great first step but it's not enough. That's why they have eleven more, pain-in-the-ass, steps to sobriety.

Before entertaining the idea of any solutions, we must first delve into the actual problems they are supposed to address. It is only through a deep understanding of the troubles you wish to conquer that you can gain the vantage point to clearly see the potentials solutions.

In an attempt to come to an analytical decision regarding the need for criminal justice reform, we've merely pointed out a few symptoms of a failing system. Each successive step in laying out the map of reform will grow in importance and as well as complexity as we work towards change—but one thing at a time. First, if we hope to find a cure, we must get to the deepest underlying causes of the problems belying our current system. Like any malady left untreated, an illness can cascade into many symptoms, making a swift diagnosis difficult to pinpoint.

Diagnostics

I've spent six years pulling at the strings of every systematic problem I've come across during my incarceration only to consistently—and rather surprisingly—find that they all led back to a single source. Only recently has this realization, nourished by intense contemplation, grown into the confidence to finally admit that there was indeed a preemptive root cause from which nearly every preventable problem facing our prison system arises.

Initially, a realization of this magnitude can seem daunting, but look close enough and you can find the upside. ONE overarching problem, though large in stature, provides the opportunity for ONE overarching solution. This means we can search for an actual cure rather than just treatments.

Every time I reverse engineered a problem back through the chains of cause and effect, I would always look up to see it wasn't an evil administrator, lack of money, corrupt corrections officer that had spawned the issue—not originally. For the first time, I saw clearly the preemptive flaw in our system. The entirety of our failures lie firmly in our PUNITIVE APPROACH to criminal justice. Retribution is the poison tainting the well of our justice system. A poison flowing from our choice of punishment over rehabilitation.

Since the inception of our county, our justice system, for all intents and purposes, has been operating on some form of punishment as a solution to crime.

Actually, this has been the dominant form of justice for most of recorded history. Although forward thinkers throughout time have long recognized the problems with this approach, these insightful minds were in the minority. As we've evolved culturally, over time, in nearly every area of human rights, science, technology, logic, reason, general knowledge and understanding, America has experienced a stagnation in our evolution of criminal justice to match the rest of the industrialized world.

Now I'm the first to admit that, in an attempt to keep up with popular movements, many of our practices have changed over time—especially as it pertains to types of punishment. In the case of the Humanist movement in Europe, which saw a sharp decrease in the use of torture as punishment, this evolution was a good thing. On the other hand, in the case of the Tough On Crime, fear-stoking, era of the 1990s, this regression was not such a good thing, as even the architects of the '94 Crime bill now ruefully admit. There are many current politicians who will be all-too-eager to tell you that the shift from punitive justice is, or has, taken place. But this is where theory departs from practice. Being in prison, I can tell you one thing for sure; Incarceration is NOT about rehabilitation. There are sparse and entirely ineffective programs tossed about here and there. I'm assuming, in an attempt to claim the progress of evolution. But on the ground level there has been no marked difference.

The reform I'm talking about isn't in simply addressing the individual methods of transportation here, those change over time with innovation, money, and technology. I'm talking about changing the actual destination.

Choices

Punitive Justice focuses on punishment as a deterrent to crime.

Rehabilitative Justice focuses on restoring the offender to the degree that criminality is abandoned.

Restorative Justice focuses on the offender-victim relationship in an attempt to repair any damages, monetarily, physically, or emotionally.

The fact that punitive justice is not the most efficient, effective, and definitely not the most humane form of criminal justice is an understatement that has become increasingly difficult to ignore.

The urge to treat illegal or unwanted behavior with harsh punishment is understandable on a base, instinctual level, just ask any parent (until very recently) what their preferred method of deterrence is. It wasn't until modern studies began to reveal that punishment alone, as a tool to curb behavior, is not only ineffective but actually harmful to the development of the child.

It is only through knowledge and insight, guided by logic, that we can overcome our baser instincts of our nature as factors in determining how to deal with the problems we face as a society. Violence as a teaching mechanism, murder as revenge, stoning adulterers, and pistol duels to project ones honor, are all real world examples of how following our lesser instincts over logic and reason can break bad.

Not only does punitive justice not work as a system, many studies show that jailing people without a focus on rehabilitation makes them more likely to commit increasingly serious crimes with the propensity to branch out into new ones. Not to mention the failing recidivism rates of inmates who have little opportunity and less capability to become productive members upon reentering society.

One only need look to a dog trainer, who's job is entirely dependent on the successful curbing of behavior, to understand the failure of our current thought process. Positive reinforcement works, negative reinforcement doesn’t—not in any meaningful way in which the positives outweigh the negatives. You don't beat a dog into a heel position and get to act surprised when it bites someone. You TEACH a dog that a heel position is a positive sum game in which all parties benefit; that a biscuit is better than a beating.

Save your hate mail, I'm allowed to compare inmates to dogs because I am one—an inmate, not a dog—though it's not too far off from the way we're treated in here.

Until we shift our current policy from a focus on punitive justice to a more effective and efficient mixture of rehabilitative and restorative justice we will be rendered incapable of accomplishing any reform worthy of donning the name JUSTICE.

As I mentioned earlier, our misguided approach to criminal justice is the cause from which all of our other related problems flow. Each consecutive problem, slightly smaller, leads to still more numerous and still smaller problems, and on and on, until an all encompassing solution seems impossible.

The initial problems spawned from punitive justice are the evil twins off, (1) mass incarceration and (2) lack of resources. And though they grew in the same womb, mass incarceration was the first to take breath.

Mass Incarceration & Warehousing

What inevitably happens with a system focused on punishment, is that our laws are drafted and passed with punishment in mind.

At the legislative level, this becomes a scatter-shot, or better-safe-than-sorry, approach to locking people up. Since the avalanche of mass incarceration, which reached a fever pitch with the 94 Crime Act, this has been the modus-operandi of lawmakers. Politicians who let killers, rapists, junkies, and thieves roam the streets don't often get reelected. Politicians who keep a few extra (thousand) people in prison, on the other hand, have little to fear in the form of political backlash.

This politically expedient approach has lead to a prison population rivaled by no other nation on the planet. Our prisons are pushed beyond capacity, both physically and financially, due to PUNITIVE policies. The three-strike laws, habitual sentencing guidelines, and mandatory minimums all but guaranteed that we would eventually find ourselves with a severely overpopulated prison system.

The real problem with Mass Incarceration is neglect. When you lock EVERYBODY up, the system is stretched so thin that NOBODY gets the proper attention needed for rehabilitation. Which, would be fine (effectively though not morally) if inmates were never released from prison. But mass incarceration cannot abide by indefinite detention of so many inmates. There simply isn't enough money or bed space. And so, when a system that's already pushed beyond capacity is expected to perpetually take in the new inmates demanded by punitive legislation, something has to give. This means that most inmates, far from being rehabilitated, are kicked back out onto the street as soon as they're eligible for parole, regardless of their readiness to return to society.

Statistics show that, in comparison to other westernized countries, we aren't any safer for our practice of mass incarceration. In addition we're out spending every other nation on the planet.

Unless we're willing to reinstitute the death penalty with a medieval fervor, or we some how find the funding, bed space, and utter lack of morality to lock people up for the rest of their lives for minor infractions, then we must move from a system focused on punishment, to one based on genuinely fixing people—not for some moral high ground, or a bleeding heart compassion alone but, at the very least, in a pragmatic attempt to ensure the duties that our elected officials have been elected to uphold are successfully met.

The fact remains that this society we're all a part of including you, me, and your loved ones, is infinitely safer when people are released from prison in better standing than when they came in, not worse.

Facts.

Lack of Resources

The latter born evil twin of Punitive justice goes by differing last names, depending on who you ask; "capital," "funding," "money," or "resources." Its first name, "Lack Of," is always the same.

First comes overcrowding then comes underfunding.

It didn't take long for states with overcrowded prisons to realize that their budgets couldn't keep up. Sure, most politicians did what they could to allocate resources, usually by cutting funding to sectors like education, infrastructure, and social programs. But it's never enough. At which point, their lack of "adequate" funding goes from a problem to a crutch. The go-to rally cry, or outright excuse, of every politician facing the results of failing policy and declining poll numbers is a lack of funding, resources, money, or capital...another "lack of" problem.

It's a good excuse. I understand why they use it ad nauseam. At first glance it does seem to come down to money; "If we just had more resources, we could solve these problems." But lack of funding isn't the problem.

Not really.

The REAL problem is where the money is going.

Michigan spends a higher percentage (20%) of its annual budget on its prison system than any other state in the Union, just short of $2 billion dollars, without much to show for it in lowered rates of violence or crime prevention when compared to states who spend much less. This is because, it's not LACK of funding, it’s the EFFICIENCY of the funding. If a train is on the wrong track, pointed in the wrong direction, no amount of coal heaped into the furnace is going to change the shitty town at the end of the line that no one wants to visit.

Money becomes a problem when you're using it in ineffective ways. Specifically, when you introduce a population, so massive, that the prison system is crippled into simply housing inmates rather than rehabilitating them. Then money IS a problem. However, more money is not always the solution—not a feasible one anyway. There isn't enough money in any state's budget to successfully address crime using our current technique of simply housing inmates until release—not without neglecting every other civic duty in the meantime.

Idle Hands

Left to their own devices, the twin children of punitive justice—mass incarceration and lack of resources—will come together in an incestuous affair to birth the ever-dangerous grandchild called Idle Hands. And you know what they say about idle hands. Though it's rather anticlimactic, apparently, they are the devil's play things.

If you were to contact a prison administrator they would likely be quick to tell you about all the programing they, not only offer inmates, but actually require for parole eligibility. Most prison systems have required programming based on the nature of your crime: violence prevention, substance abuse, thinking for a change, GED, and sexual offender class for instance. Which sounds good in theory.

This what it looks like in practice:

Due to overcrowding, the limited programming they do offer are in such high demand that you can't even be considered for enrollment eligibility until you're within 24 months of your ERD (Earliest Release Date). And then, you can only enroll in the programming courses specifically required in your classification paperwork. There is no space for a motivated inmate with a desire for self improvement to seek out additional programming.

Twenty years of idle hands warehoused under the negative influences of an inmate-designed prison subculture, is—apparently—supposed to be undone with a six week class on welding or a hundred hours of a violence prevention program taught by a former corrections officer a few months before release.

And even if you manage to get into a class in time for your first parole hearing, the level of commitment and expertise involved in the design and operation of these classes leaves something to be desired to say the least. Many classes have to be extended for weeks on end due to instructors taking off obscene amounts of personal days which further extends the wait time of the already strained resources. And when they do show up, the classes are basically guided workbook lessons taught by under qualified, apathetic, "Instructors" with all the enthusiasm and commitment of a second-rate funeral director.

Offering these programming opportunities in the hopes of actually rehabilitating inmates is like giving a hospice patient, with stage 4 pancreatic cancer, a handful of generic aspirin, a pat on the malnourished ass, and telling them to get well.

I've been down for six plus years and have yet to see the inside of a single classroom that offers any hope for actual rehabilitation. Trust me, in theory it might sound good but rehabilitation is not the prerogative of this prison system. The actual operating procedure of your average American prison system, though you might not find it etched into their mission statement, is to warehouse inmates until release and cross all fingers as they're pushed out the door.

Once incarcerated, aimless inmates, most of which have never had any structure in their lives, are left to fend for themselves—to choose what to do with their never ending time. To expect anything other than frivolous actions and impulsive decisions by these inmates is ridiculous. At best, they spend their time reading, working out, playing dominoes, cards, or chess in a state of suspended animation. At worst, the majority of inmates fall into gang culture and other vices (see "From Junkies to Gangbangers” at https://www.notesfromthepen.com) spending their time embroiled in a mixture of mob mentality, extremely negative peer pressure, violence, theft, addiction, substance abuse, and gambling, just to name a few traits we pick up on the inside. With idle-hands syndrome most inmates fall into a state of perpetual regression until it's time to see the parole board.

When 95% of the prison population will, one day, be released, the practice of simply warehousing these inmates is a dangerously short-sighted and reckless approach to criminal justice.

Parole

The next domino to be toppled by punitive justice, or whatever clunky metaphor tickles your fancy, is the current parole process.

The way it works here in Michigan is that a few months prior to your ERD you will be called in for your parole hearing. Most inmates spend the weeks leading up to this monumental event replaying every little detail of their case, analyzing their institutional record down to the simplest infraction, and painfully, fruitlessly, trying to predict the thoughts and attitude of the lone parole board member who will decide their fate. Many sleepless nights will pass leading up to that fateful day. When it finally comes, you'll head over to the control center with ten to twenty other inmates in the exact same shoes—literally. You'll line up, side by side, outside the door leading to the room where the hearing will take place, and wait. You'll watch, one by one, as each of your fellow, clammy handed, inmates head into the hearing room to plea their case of rehabilitation. You'll sit by and watch, hoping your heart won't explode before finally getting your long awaited chance to beg for mercy. As each bewildered inmate returns, their face painted in flop sweat, you'll try to guess their fate based on nothing but their expression. Finally, once it's your turn, you'll be lead into the room and sat down in front of a TV with a tiny camera perched on above the screen. This is the face of the parole board. The face you will plead to for mercy.

Currently there are over 40,000 inmates in the Michigan prison system and roughly a dozen parole board members. Each panel is made up of three members but you will only ever speak to the one on the screen who will then relay his or her thoughts to the other two members. The idea is that majority rule will decide parole or denial but the truth is that the likelihood of the other two going against the recommendation is highly unlikely.

So, there you are with the decider of your fate in front of you, his or her head three times its normal size on the TV screen, the decider flipping through your pre-sentence (PSI) report with all the interest of someone reading a weeks old newspaper in the waiting room of a dentist's office.

The PSI report is a document every inmate is issued covering the crime and ensuing investigation often written decades, earlier by a stranger with the same commitment to factual veracity as a Russian Twitter troll. My PSI, for instance, says that I'm Native America. I'm not. At least I wasn't before I came to prison. However, I WAS sentenced in a county where most of the brown people ARE Native American, and seeing as I'm part Korean, I guess it was close enough. Since coming to prison I've tried, numerous times, to correct this blatant, and slightly racist, mistake. I have been repeatedly told that, "There is nothing we can do. It's already in your PSI" as if it was etched in stone and laying next to the ten Commandments in the lost Arc of the Covenant. I make this point because the only two sources of information the parole board members have to go on when "determining" your parole is your PSI and your institutional record. Neither of which are exactly gospel.

The oversized head on the screen will then spend fifteen to twenty perfunctory minutes asking you questions that he or she already knows the answers to—or at least what the PSI is telling them is true. The one rule of parole hearings is to NEVER, EVER, contradict your PSI. If they ask me if I am Native American, I will have to, if I expect to get a parole, agree that I am. I just hope they don't ask me what tribe I'm from. The PSI never told me that. After your allotted time you will be dismissed with a ambiguous comment about your crime, your history in prison, and whatever you need to keep doing, or cease doing. After which you will then have to wait an indefinite amount of torturous, sleepless, time before receiving the fateful decision in the mail.

This is your run-of-the-mill Michigan parole hearing.

Just think about this for a second. An inmate comes to prison at 18 years old and does over a decade behind bars and, without any frame of reference as to who they were when they came in, we expect these parole board members to accurately determine if an inmate's subtle and meaningful personal evolution, if the shift in their thinking, their understanding, their compassion and self awareness is genuine. In the time it takes to check your email they're expected to decide if the inmate on the screen in front of them has undergone a deep, genuine, rehabilitation, or if they've just mastered the art of fifteen-minute deception.

I want to make clear, that the current parole process is not the fault of the individual board members. It's just another resulting flaw of this system. They parole board members are undoubtedly overwhelmed with the sheer number of inmates and equally underwhelmed with the options they have at their disposal.

But it is a problem nonetheless, in dire need of a solution.

The problems I've described are by no means the only issues facing our criminal justice system in need of reform. They are simply some of the larger problems that cascade down through the prison system. Thankfully, other writers with more expertise, experience, and general resources than yours truly, have addressed many of the problems I've been forced to omit in the name of crafting a (somewhat) readable piece of reasonable length.

Cheers to those writers.

Solutions

Now I'll be the first to admit that pointing out problems is the easy part of change. Solutions are difficult. Any halfwitted jackass at your local pub can give you a three hour dissertation on the problems of the NFL's ever-softening concussion rules or how the local plumbers union is actually run by a satanic sect of the Illuminati and why that's a bad thing. Ask these bar flies for CTE or plumbing-related solutions and, more often than not, you'll be greeted with silence. In fact, I often find the quickest way out of a marathon gripe session is to ask the runner for solutions. Make the mistake of asking me, on the other hand, and I'll give you the ear beating of a lifetime that usually starts with…"Actually I've given it some thought."

Yet Another Disclaimer:

Again, I am by no means claiming to be an expert criminologist, statistician, political scientist, or any other professionally qualified expert in handling the details and minutia of the changes in policy and procedure I will be proposing. I don't have access to the resources, research materials, or expertise to fully elaborate on each and every detail that a successful implementation would require. That being said, I stand by these proposals as honest and valuable insights into the possible solutions of our current state of criminal justice and mass incarceration. The proposals to follow should be viewed as the first broad chisel strikes to a block of marble, from which a more detailed and realistic depiction can be brought to life by sculptors with the tools and expertise far exceeding my access and abilities.

Now, let's get down to business.

The Rehabilitative Scale.

The first pebble to fall in the avalanche of criminal justice reform must be in the switch from PUNITIVE justice to REHABILITATIVE justice with a RESTORATIVE twist.

Rehabilitation focuses on fixing people rather than punishing them. The idea is that maybe we shouldn't define people by their worst moment, that change is—I don't know—entirely POSSIBLE if you work for it, and that in understanding the causes of shitty behavior we can do what it takes to successfully address the causes of these behaviors, and to make sure the people we release are actually ready to reenter society. This alternative form of justice serves a multitude of mechanisms for positive change, all of which are bolstered by the fact that it actually works.

Restorative justice focuses on victims and reparations. Offenders work towards repairing the damage they've inflicted on victims and society alike. The purpose of this process is for offenders to gain a better understanding of the up close and personal consequences of their actions. And to then be guided through the process of restitution, in which the offender makes a genuine attempt to give the victim whatever they need to be made as close to whole as possible, for what is, ideally, a healing experience for all involved.

To institute these changes we must learn to clearly differentiate between those who absolutely NEED to be incarcerated, those who are ready for release, and those who would best be served through alternative options. This shift in justice will serve as the source from which all other change flows. It will both free up the funding as well as establish a more streamline, moral, and ultimately effective criminal justice system to serve this country.

Being aware that the following proposals would lose credibility if its success was dependent on a larger budget than is currently available, I will make my proposals within the current fiscal limitations, or perhaps lighter, maybe even much lighter.

The final word will be for the economists and accountants to have, for even though I'm half Asian—the complete and comprehensive tabulations are slightly (entirely) beyond my abilities of calculation.

First, a few numbers.

In 2017 the Michigan Department of Corrections reported a prison population of 38,678 inmates with an annual cost $36,106 per inmate. For the fiscal year of 2017-18 the state allotted $1.95 billion to the Michigan Department of Corrections. These are the financial lines between which I will attempt to draw up the solutions to our problems of criminal justice as it pertains to incarceration.

The most obvious answer for allocating capital would be to simply let a bunch of inmates go. So that's my plan.

Gasp!

Now settle down. I'm not talking fast and loose widespread release. But if the ultimate goal is to lower the prison population, then that will eventually mean releasing inmates.

Before you grab your go-bag and retreat to your underground bunker, you should know that it's already happening. It's BEEN happening. Inmates are released from prison everyday, only currently it's done without a genuine attempt at reliably gauging rehabilitation.

Now, you can panic.

The way it currently works is that the prison system has been forced into a Faustian deal in which locking up all these people comes at the cost of a financial inability to keep most inmates past their first or second parole hearing. The terrifying reality is that the decision of who gets released is a rather arbitrary selection process. Ready or not, the system simply can't afford to keep inmates incarcerated beyond a certain point.

A wise man once said—a few pages ago—that when you choose to lock up EVERYBODY, you can't afford to truly help ANYBODY.

It is with this guiding realization that I will suggest a more in-depth, reliable, protocol for releasing inmates which would both free up the resources needed to begin addressing the fundamental problems of our current state of incarceration as well as to ensure the safety of our fellow citizens.

We need a better system.

And, as you may have guessed by now, I have a few ideas.

First we need information. I believe it was the great American hero, the immortal, GI Joe who said, "Knowing is half the battle."

The first step would be to undertake a federally funded study, where a panel of psychologists, sociologists, criminalists, behaviorists, addiction specialists, neurologists, social scientists, therapists, family counselors, psychiatrists, and any other pertinent experts in the surrounding fields would be formed with the primary purpose to design and oversee a comprehensive study on criminal recidivism, in an attempt to gain a more hearty understanding of the myriad of factors that come together in determining the success or failure after an inmate's release.

Next, we would use the results to come up with reliable methods for predicting each inmates chance of recidivism.

This information would then be entered into an algorithm that would also incorporate factors such as—I assume—the nature of crime, level of rehabilitation, mental health, familial and societal support system, meaningful remorse, level of education and any other aspects deemed necessary to make reliable determinations of rehabilitation. Each inmate would then be given a Release Eligibility Score, or RES. These results would then be used to create a graduating scale of rehabilitation.

The purpose of the scale would be two fold: (1) to allocate the funds for reform, by creating a safer mechanism for releasing inmates, there-by significantly lowering the prison population (2) while simultaneously providing the much needed incentive and structure for genuine rehabilitation and victim restoration. Both of which will provide a more effective criminal justice structure for a safer, more humane, society.

Adjusting the Scale; a brief aside.

If it sounds like this new scale could be too complex, I should tell you that the MDOC already operates using a scale system of its own (that, and "it's too complex" is the unofficial, all encompassing, excuse of the MDOC for everything from a mailroom policy that prevents me from getting my work mailed back into me for editing purposes, to why we can't get Good Time reinstated). The difference is that the current scale is a five tiered security classification scale based on a PUNITIVE approach. This system is a perfect example of ineffectiveness of negative reinforcement as a preferred tool of the MDOC for curbing behavior.

The individual prisons here are separated by security classifications 1-5, from minimum to super maximum institutions. Level 1 is minimum security, 2 is medium, 3 no longer exists, 4 is maximum, and 5 is super-max.

Inmates are separated into these varying security levels based on two factors: Disciplinary Points and Length of Sentence.

1. Points

Inmates are issued points for disciplinary infractions. A spectrum ranging from assault, to loaning & borrowing, and misuse of state property will result in disciplinary tickets and points being issued. Stack enough points and your security level will increase, and you will be relocated to a higher security facility This is one, of many, ways to get from a minimum, to a maximum security prison in the MDOC.

2. Length of prison sentence

This security classification tool is completely baffling. And frankly, it's ridiculously dumb! If you come to prison with a sentence of seven or more years you automatically go to a level 4 (maximum security) facility until you've either come within seven years of release OR until you've been in prison for at least three years. Which, coming down with a twelve year sentence, is how long I had to stay in a maximum security facility.

It doesn't matter what you do if you come to prison with over seven years—you CANNOT earn your way down to a lower level facility. No matter how closely you follow the rules, how much you changed or how many classes you complete, you're not getting out of max until you serve your three years or get below seven. In this reality, there is absolutely ZERO incentive for inmates to alter their behavior. So most don't. This is the reason level 4s and 5s become self-fulfilling prophecies of chaotic arenas of extreme violence and reckless behavior.

There is this unexplainable, almost mystical, quality of the MDOC that consistently reveals itself behind these walls. There is a total disconnect in the Department's ability to observe the natural relationship between cause & effect.

The stove is hot.

If I touch the stove it will burn me.

As far as the MDOC is concerned these are two entirely unrelated statements. The fact that they're both true is nothing more than coincidence to those tasked with the lives of over 40,000 of Michigans citizens.

It is terrifying, confusing, and utterly maddening to watch the administration willfully trigger a cause only to, later, show a genuine disbelief and confusion when the inevitable, and completely predictable, resulting EFFECT of their CAUSE takes place. For their first three years in prison, many inmates are forced into maximum security facilities that are populated by those hardened who've EARNED their residency through violence, gang affiliation, and countless other examples of a lack of manageability. Like the inmates in maximum security, the officers at these facilities have adapted their own demeanor and general lack of fucks-given, based on the environment and caliber of the inmates they're forced to interact with.

What a beautifully planned recipe for disaster.

How the MDOC can both, force this experience and then have the huevos to proclaim innocence and feign ignorance, to the causes of the inevitable effects of the continuing problems of the MDOC, is ridiculous.

I took this little aside to simply show that a newly scaled rehabilitative system is not something beyond the limited capabilities of the MDOC's current prison system when I unwittingly found myself with the perfect opportunity to demonstrate the frustrating, counterintuitive, and all-too-common policies of our current system of punitive justice.

Now where was I?…

Right! The rehabilitative scale.

The following is a mockup of a hypothetical scale of rehabilitation.

The Scale

Tier 1: Release eligible.

Those inmates with an RES (Release Eligibility Score) in the 90-99th percentile range of rehabilitation would be placed in the first tier, the highest category on the scale. These inmates, the truly reformed, would be eligible for unconditional release, as they if they'd served their maximum sentence. And in addition, after paying their debt to society, their rights would be reinstated.

Tier 2: Parole-able release.

The second-tier is for those inmates with A RES between 80-90%. They would be eligible for release with similar guidelines for current parolees: employment, reliable housing, no drugs, no guns...etc, and a parole officer to report to. The main difference is that, in the switch from a punitive standpoint, is that, if an inmate violates the conditions of parole (aside from new crimes) the de facto response wouldn't be to reincarnate but to find other methods of compliance.

Tier 3: Conditional Release.

Inmates with a RES of 70-80%. Upon release inmates would be subjected to stricter guidelines and safety measures, such as the use of electronic tethers, community supervision, frequent drug testing, employment requirements, counseling, community service, curfew, no alcohol consumption...etc. These stricter conditions must be designed as a TEMPORARY tool with reasonable and completable guidelines that, if failed to meet, are not then used as justifications to re-incarcerate.

Tier 4: Low security-level incarceration.

A RES between 60-70% These inmates who are on the cusp of working their way to conditional, or unconditional, release who, though still incarcerated, would have more access to family and social reentry programs, victim restoration projects, more visits, supervised furlough, conjugal visits (if married), AA/NA meetings, anger management, counseling, therapy, intensive training in trade and employment skills, education courses such budgeting, financial responsibility..etc

Tier 5: General population

RES of 0-59%.The last tier is for the remaining prison population and should be broken down into still smaller sub categories based on their individual Release Eligibility Scores. These subcategories should be designed with extensive behavioral, educational, victim restoration, employable trade and skill programming, and, ultimately, rehabilitation, all designed to MOTIVATE inmates, as well as give them the tools, the responsibility, and the freedom to graduate up the scale to gain a better understanding of the consequences of their previous actions all while gaining opportunities and privileges as they ascend the internal levels.

Level C: inmates scoring 40-60%

Level B: inmates scoring 20-40%

Level A: inmates scoring 0-20%

This rehabilitative scale, put into practice, would make just those inmates in the top three tiers, at the highest 70% of rehabilitation, eligible for release. In order to prevent a flood of newly released inmates, each of the three tiers would be addressed individually with a predetermined amount of time between each tier's release—six months to a year, for example—to allow for minimal disruption to society. Over the next few years, in Michigan alone, that would be roughly 11,600 rehabilitated people placed back in society. At a cost of $36,106 per inmate the initial savings would be $418.9 million.

Reallocation of funds

Safely lowering the prison population by nearly 12,000 inmates in under three years and approaching half a billion dollars saved is a decent start.

Now it’s time to get SOMETHING for our money.

The newly allocated funds should be divided into 3 categories for investment/distribution.

1. Alternatives to incarceration.

With the switch from Punitive justice we can let go of punishment as being a motivating factor for the policies we cultivate. Specifically, we can provide alternatives to incarceration for two widespread afflictions, both identified in the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual), that beg for more compassionate and effective policies: Mental Health and Addiction.

If only 10% of inmates (an extremely conservative number), with a history substance abuse and related charges, could be better served through intensive inpatient addiction treatment, and another 10% of mentally Ill patients (again, very conservative) could be eligible for inpatient psychiatric care as an alternative to incarceration, at 20% of current inmates, that would free up another 7,734 inmates. That's $279.2 million of the state's annual prison budget, more than enough to pay for the construction, personnel, and operation of these facilities.

2. Supervision requirements

This would be the funding needed to add and retrain personnel and provide equipment and service for inmates on conditional release and parole.

3. The actual institutional changes to make the transition from punitive justice to rehabilitative justice.

This is the big one. Most of the newly allocated funds would go to providing the resources, programing, and structure for the remaining inmates of tiers 4 & 5, as well as hiring the professionals, experts, and the additional staff needed, in addition to retraining the instructors, the corrections officers, parole board members, and the prison administrators in behavioral modification, sensitivity training, cultural and racial bias, deescalation techniques..etc, to equip the staff with the ability, knowledge, and mechanisms to implement this new directive.

Rehabilitation in action

The inmates in this reformed prison setting would have their Unit Parole Counselors (UPCs), caseworkers, psychiatrists, therapists, counselors, teachers and instructors to guide, monitor, and evaluate them. But it will ultimately be up to them to earn their way to freedom through action and progress. Inmates would be given the tools and assistance to change their lives, to prove they're ready and capable to be productive members of society.

If, for instance, you came to prison with a ten year sentence and you wanted to sleep all day, gang bang, gamble, fight, and steal, then you could do every single day of your sentence (possibly more). If you wanted to participate in the bare minimum of available classes and programming then you would do a portion of your sentence commiserate with your effort and progress. If, however you wanted to commit yourself to 10+ hours a day of education, counseling, group therapy, solo therapy, work detail, skill development, job training, communication courses…etc, you would have the ability to reduce your sentence significantly. This new system would be a proactive Rehabilitative Meritocracy.

The way I see it, from the inside looking in, there are a certain percentage of inmates that you could release today with little chance of recidivism (some of which are currently doing life sentences). There are still MANY more that need rehabilitation before being released. And a small minority, maybe 5-10% of inmates, deemed "unreleasable" who can, likely, never be released without posing an immanent danger to society. However, if these same inmates ever show the signs of change nothing would keep them from climbing the rehabilitative scale. The goal should then be to get the prison population down to as close to that unreleasable percentage as possible while rehabilitating those who need it.

After the initial release of the top 30% of inmates, as well as the 20% eligible for alternative treatments (addiction/psychiatric) the rehabilitative scale should then be incorporated into the guidelines for judicial sentencing to prevent the immediate return to mass incarceration. The remaining prison population would use the scale, as a ladder to climb, with yearly evaluations determining their progress. To prevent a system where nearly every inmate is placed on conditional release with supervision as soon a they reach the second or third tier, they would be given the option to stay and attempt to further progress until they reach unconditional release, surpassing the tiers of supervised release and avoiding the more stringent guidelines and regulations.

My experience in prison has lead me to wholeheartedly believe that the majority of inmates are looking for avenues—but more importantly—tangible reasons, to evolve and progress into better lives and better actions. It is on us, the electorate, as the mechanism that lifts our leaders into the positions of power, not to stop until we've given them the tools and motivation to do so.

Programming

I will keep this section on programming short in saying only that comprehensive overarching programs should be created combining many fields of expertise, presumably based on the original recidivism study, and customized to meet the rehabilitative needs of individual inmates, taking into consideration a variety of factors such as mental health history, criminal history, current criminal case, social development...etc.

This comprehensive programming comprised of a litany of courses, classes, and groups would serve as the rungs of the ladder inmates would use to ascend the rehabilitative scale towards release eligibility.

I'll leave it to the experts to create the actual mechanisms in which this aspect of reform will operate. Not that it has stopped me up to this point, but my lack of general knowledge when it comes to the fields such as behavioral science and criminology would undoubtedly make any hypothetical planning or specific ramblings in this area sound under informed at best and outright silly at worst.

Plus I can't do it all you lazy fucks. After all, I'm just a lowly convict.

Parole

The success of the switch to rehabilitative justice after the implementation of the rehabilitative scale would then be dependent on creating a more efficient and successful parole process.

We have to rethink the parole mechanism as a whole and redefine the service it provides in this updated system.

We must find a way to give the parole board the time, resources, and ability to gain a more comprehensive, hands-on, understanding of each inmate and their case file during their entire incarceration, if we expect them to make informed decisions. The parole board, in this new system, would see their responsibilities shift from that of glorified doormen to involved sponsors and advocates for inmates as well as qualified decision makers. In addition, certain positions would be created and designed to provide guides and gatekeepers to lead inmates through the rehabilitative scale.

This comprehensive shift would be impossible with just the dozen or so parole board member currently working for the MDOC. The entire department would need to be expanded, requiring many new positions and serving several different capacities in the rehabilitative process.

We would need to hire more Parole Board Members (PBM) and we would need to create new positions such as Unit Parole Counselors (UPC) who would work directly in the inmate housing units to serve as a more direct contact with the inmates (we have unit counselors now, only their job descriptions are very different and seem to be predicated on being constantly annoyed, dismissive, or outright indignant with the inmates they some their days trying to avoid).

The insight into the progress of rehabilitation should flow upwards through the parole structure, starting with unit officers and the programming professionals—the therapists, psychologists, instructors, and teachers who have daily interactions with the inmates, up to the UPCs, who would forward their recommendations up to the actual PBMs. The board members would still serve as decision makers in regards to release but as well as in determining the programming modifications tailored to individual inmates, all based on the recommendations of the UPCs.

Nuts & Bolts

The way I see it, in order to build and maintain a meaningful and informed relationship, the UPC would need to meet with each inmate in his caseload at least once a month. In addition, the board members would also have at least one annual session with each inmate in their caseload, in order to become familiar with those individuals as well as to gauge their progress throughout their entire incarceration.

I figure in an eight hour day a UPC could manage five inmate sessions, leaving a few hours for paperwork and personal time. That's 100 inmate sessions a month per UPC. The Board Members would only have to interview two inmates a day, allowing for more comprehensive sessions.

Even if we were to get the prison population back down to 20,000 inmates, as it was in 1985, we would still need 200 UPCs and an additional 35 Parole Board Members to meet these needs.

Not only would we need to hire significantly more parole board employees, we'd also need to pay them significantly more in order to ensure that enough exceptional, qualified, candidates would seek to fill the necessary positions.

The importance of quality control in this aspect of rehabilitative justice CANNOT be overstated. All it takes is one wrong hire to result in a system tainted by an abuse of power. It would be good policy to have the parole board members check the individual UPC recommendations against broader UPC averages of success rates on inmates on the rehabilitative scale in order to prevent some vindictive or simply misunderstood asshole from corrupting the system and refusing to advance deserving inmates. Not quotas, but a safeguard in place to spot anomalies. Remember, an institution is only as good as the people comprising it.

Two hundred new UPC hires, at competitive annual salaries of $70,000, comes to $14 million dollars a year, and the additional 35 PBMs at an annual salary of $100,000 comes to $3.5 million, for a grand total of $17.5 million dollars a year.

Sounds like a lot.

And it is a lot, depending on what you're spending it on; if it's beer money, then I agree, it's slightly too much; if it's for safe, practical, and effective criminal justice reform, then I'd argue it is a more than reasonable price. To put it in perspective, these expenditures, in TOTAL, with new hires and increased salaries amount to less than 1% of the MDOC's current annual budget.

An important benefit of a more manageable prison population is that, in addition to freeing up the resources to pay for these reforms, it would also free up the bed space that would allow the parole board to make actual decisions concerning the inmates assigned to their caseload. If an inmate proves to be too dangerous, at the time of their first, second—or twentieth parole hearing—to be released back into society then that option would now be effectively back on the table with the resources to make it sustainable.

The point is that the parole board should be genuinely involved throughout an inmates sentence not just at the very last moment of their incarceration. That's like telling someone to learn how to swim and leaving them to their own devices for years, with no tutorials, no instructor, not even a pool, and then, just before throwing them into the ocean, asking them if they ever figured out how to tread water.

I haven't thought of everything—far from it. These reforms are simply meant to be the backbone of a rehabilitative system of justice that will focus on providing the tools, opportunity, and—most importantly—the motivation for change, for the betterment of the institution and inmates alike, and, ultimately, society as a whole.

This piece cannot continue forever. And since I'm not doing a life bid, I only have so much time—roughly six years—to get these proposals accepted, hashed out, and put into practice if I want to witness the benefits or failure of this maddening need to truthfully convey this experience. Luckily, for you, it's almost over.

I promise.

Plugging the Holes

Federal prisons vs State prisons.

Federal prisons and state prisons are completely separate entities. The recently passed bipartisan prison reforms of the 1st Step Act took place at the federal level—affecting federal inmates and, ONLY, federal inmates. These reforms do nothing for the inmates in state prisons who account for 90% of America's total prison population.

The difference is a source of frequent heartbreak for those of us in state prison. Especially those of us in states that are exceedingly behind the curve of cultural and social progress in the way of affective prison reform run by politicians who drag their feet as a political practice.

My home state of Michigan currently makes Texas look like a liberal safe haven by comparison. That's right, I said gun toting, everything's bigger, more inmates executed than all other states combined, Texas.

Not a typo.

For meaningful change to spread to the individual states one of two things would have to happen; the passing of federal laws forcing states to adapt reformative prison policies (highly unlikely), or citizens—like YOU—demanding change from their elected officials (only slightly less unlikely. But still infinitely more possible.)

Restorative Justice

There has been a recent push for a switch to Restorative justice, and though aspects should undoubtedly be integrated into the Rehabilitative reforms of our current criminal justice system, a single minded focus on Restorative justice would, I fear, fall short of addressing the comprehensive change we need. Restoration should be one part of rehabilitation while attempting to make reparations, whenever possible, to the victims.

The SOLE focus on the victims of crime, however, is to miss the point. Rehabilitation HAS to take a prominent place in the hierarchy of justice to ensure the benefits of a lowered crime rate and safer societies can produce an outcome with ultimately LESS victims who would need restoration in the first place. This is by no means a dismissal of the benefits of restorative justice. On the contrary, it is an inclusion into the process as an indispensable tool for rehabilitation. I'm simply making the argument of "Yes...and then some" when it comes to the tools at our disposal

Reality and Perception

It's important that, in my descriptions of the prison experience, I don't perpetuate the narrative that where we are today, when it comes to criminal justice, comes from evil men by evil design.

If only it were that simple.

The roots of our criminal justice system, though misguided, are far from evil and even somewhat understandable when taken in the context in which they were created. The lack of perspective and understanding, the limited knowledge of the fearful men and women, the religious fanatics, the judgmental and injured citizens forged by daily hunger and struggle, and the outright lack of viable alternatives to crime prevention all came together to inform this now archaic form of punitive justice. Remember, it wasn't that long ago that we were holding witch trials in this country. The point is, we must not make the mistake of confusing the ignorance of our past as actual EVIL.

If evil does exist in our current criminal justice system it lies not in the ignorance of those men and women who came before us but in the clarity of those of us who no longer have the excuse of ignorance to stand aside and do nothing as injustice is perpetuated on a mass scale. Outdated concepts become evil when ignorance turns to understanding, when blindness gives way to sight, and when confusion resolves into clarity. Evil isn't in the misguided, unintended, creation that led to a system of oppression; it is in every moment that passes in which we sit ideally by and do nothing after the ignorance of our ways turns to clarity and we finally understand that there is a better way to do things, yet do nothing.

This is the only article of its kind. Trust me, I looked everywhere in an attempt to find a reason not to have to write this—to no avail. So I sat down and got started. While the rest of the prison yard swirled around me, I actively avoided gang fights, crooked COs, stabbing-happy convicts, buck-fifties artists, spud juice enemas, and lady boys with large hands—or I at least cut back a bit—while I wrote what needed to be written.

With that being said,

I am not perfect.

GASP!.

Neither is this piece.

Obviously.

There is no realistic way to address the cause, effect, and solution for every problem in our criminal justice system in a single article—no matter how verbose and drawn out it was originally written, or charismatic the author.

Admittedly, as in any system of change, many of the solutions I have proposed—all of them in fact—carry with them potential flaws. Even as I write this, I can think of details to be worked out before implementation. No system of change, no matter how necessary, has ever been instituted flawlessly. Slavery, desegregation, women's suffrage, and the civil rights movement all had detractors who stoked and exploited the fear of unforeseen problems in their attempt to lobby against change.

It's the mantra of the status quo, to accept the flaws we know rather than institute a change we don't.

This cannot be OUR mantra.

I'm OK knowing that perfection has not been drafted between these pages. This isn't about perfection. It's about recognizing the need for change, envisioning the possibilities of a better way, and putting forth the ideas to maybe, one day, get us there.

Let's be honest, the reformation of our criminal justice system will not lead us into a thousand-year utopia with us spinning through rolling green fields to the Sound of Music. Change isn't to be undertaken for the SAKE of perfection, it's to be undertaken in the DIRECTION of perfection. Which starts with incremental steps towards a better future—not a perfect one.

There will still be crime. And there will still be the need for mechanisms to deal with crime. The fact remains that, for the foreseeable future, some form of institutional segregation will likely be necessary. What is UNNECESSARY is the way in which we currently operate these mechanisms. Our knowledge, understanding, and insight to the factors leading to crime, as well as the rehabilitative techniques leading away from crime, has outgrown our mechanisms for dealing with crime. And so it is time to abandon this practice in place of something more compassionate, more efficient, more EFFECTIVE, and yes...MORE better!

That's all this is. The first few clumsy chisel marks on a slab of marble containing a criminal justice system we ALL deserve. It might not be pretty, it's definitely not done, but hopefully it will help you imagine the sculpture within.

In any case, I'm finally done! To never again broach the subject of prison reform, to never again opine on the theories of criminal justice..I'm finally FREE!...Right?…oh please tell me I'm right...

Now before you get back to binge watching the Bachelor or the next level of Candy Crush:

Call to Action

It all essentially comes down to what we are willing to accept, and at what cost. So I guess you have to ask yourself what it is you're willing to give up for an illusory sense of safety? Cash, votes, your fellow citizens...your moral integrity? How willing are you watch your money build prisons rather than fix schools? How willing are you to turn a blind eye to injustice as long as it's not happening to you? How willing are you to accept ideas because they're more comfortable than the truth? How willing are you to accept fuckery until it happens to you? How long are you willing to wait do something?...Until it’s too late?

And if you are willing to give all this up for a false sense of security, then I have to ask, what are you willing to sacrifice for a system that actually works? A system that can provide security without bankrupting the budget, our sense of self respect, or our humanity? Maybe it's not so much what we are willing to sacrifice but what were willing have taken from us.

But there is a better way—there has to be—we just have to make it happen.

The terrifying part is that NONE of this matters if we can't get the attention of those in the position to institute change.

If you've ever felt the NEED to fight against injustice, to help those who can't help themselves, or if you're just tired of politicians who won't stop taking your money under the guise of protection but who could give a shit less about you or yours as long as they can "count on your support," if you've ever given money to help a shivering puppy or malnourished cat but have stopped short of helping the actual people from your community, NOW is the time.

I don't want your credit card number.

We don't need your money.

We need your VOICE.

Please, spread, share, retweet, link, promote, do whatever it takes to make this thing go APE-SHIT viral—because it HAS to, and because we can't wait any longer! Write, text, email, snail mail, call, blog, drop a message in a bottle, or a smoke signal to everyone you know, your local representatives, morning radio DJs, Instagram models, any and all Kardashians, CNN anchors, Van Jones, Michigan governor Gretchen Whitmir, Johnny Depp, the ghost of Tom Joad, the President, or one of his kids, Bill Maher, the editors of Rolling Stone, Playboy, the New York Times, the Washington Post, your local newspaper, and any magazine, celebrity, or website who will post, rerun, or share this piece and let's FINALLY do SOMETHING.

I like to think of my self as somehow above leaning on other people's quotes to end a piece, but considering the source, and the fact that there's simply no better way to put it, I'll swallow my remaining pride and simply say that MLK, a man much better than me, once said that injustice ANYWHERE is a threat to justice EVERYWHERE.

This is one last plea from those of us in the darkest corners of ANYWHERE, for justice EVERYWHERE.

'Till next time, if there is a next time, remember to appreciate the small things. Now stand up and FIGHT!

Your friendly neighborhood convict…Now I gotta go, it's chocolate chip cookie night.

Please help share this important message. Listed below are just a few people who are committed to prison reform.

Michigan Governor Gretchen Whitmer Twitter: @gretchenwhitmer FB: @gretchenwhitmer Office: 517-373-3400

John Legend Twitter: @johnlegend

Meek Mills Twitter: @MeekMill

Van Jones Twitter: @VanJones68

Bill Maher Twitter: @billmaher

Jay-Z Twitter: Mr. Carter @S_C_

Michael Moore Twitter: @MMFlint

Geraldine Sealey (The Marshall Project) Twitter: @geraldinesealey

Joe Biden Twitter: @JoeBiden

Elizabeth Warren Twitter: @SenWarren

Bernie Sanders Twitter: @SenSanders

Senator Kamala Harris Twitter: @KamalaHarris

Pete Buttigieg Twitter: @PeteButtigieg

Contact info for Robert Caldwell: Twitter: @notesfromthepen FB: Notes From The Pen

Further prison reform pieces written by Robert Caldwell:

Good Time, Killers Monsters and Regular People Everywhere, From Junkies to Gangbangers, and Slavery. https://www.notesfromthepen.com

0 notes

tortuga-aak · 6 years

Text

'The Martian' author Andy Weir solved moon economics to make his new book 'Artemis' believable

Samantha Lee/Business Insider

"The Martian" author Andy Weir has a new novel about a heist on the moon called "Artemis."

The book, which goes on sale Tuesday, strives for a high level of scientific and economic realism to make its story believable.

The author used real-world economics to create a reason his fictional moon colony might exist.

According to Weir's calculations, in a few decades it may cost $70,000 for a two-week vacation to the moon.

Editor's note: "Artemis" is the second sci-fi novel written by Andy Weir, author of the blockbuster sci-fi novel "The Martian." The new book goes on sale Tuesday. Just as Weir accomplished with "The Martian," he strived for a high level of scientific realism with "Artemis."

But his new story is not a tale of survival like the first.

Instead, "Artemis" is a fictional heist story that takes place at the moon's first city (also called Artemis). Weir wanted to make the plot as believable as possible, so he became an "armchair economist" and drafted an in-depth financial argument for his lunar colony based on real-world market forces.

When Weir offered us a 3,000-word (and spoiler-free) treatise laying out the economics behind his fictional moon city, we couldn't resist. Here's why he thinks lunar vacations just might make the first permanent lunar colony a reality.

Introduction

Crown PublishingAre you a pedantic little s---? Do you ask questions like "Why does the Federation have starships if they can beam people hundreds of light-years?" or "Why don't the Galactic Empire and Rebel Alliance just mass-produce droids with piloting skills instead of risking their own lives?"

Well, good. So am I.

"Artemis" takes place in a city on the Moon. Lunar colonies in sci-fi usually have medium to high levels of bulls--- in their economics. Yeah, I know, nobody reads sci-fi for an economics lesson. But I want it to at least make sense.

So this paper is all about Artemis's economy and how it works. There are no spoilers for the story, so you can freely read it beforehand if you're the sort of person who likes bonus material so much you'll read it before you read the actual story.

Why isn't this in the book?

Because it's boring. Hell, if we learned anything from "The Phantom Menace" it's this: never start a sci-fi story with a description of complex macroeconomics.

You might not even make it through this paper. That's okay, it's not supposed to be entertaining. If you get bored, stop reading. This paper is for the one percenters — the folks who have nagging doubts in their suspension of belief because something sticks in their craw. I'm one of those people, and for me the economics has to make sense for a setting to work.

Price point

NASA/James Blair and Lauren HarnettIf you could have a lunar vacation for $70,000, would you do it? Many people would jump at the chance. They'd get a second mortgage just to pay for it. This, in a nutshell, is the economic foundation of Artemis. It's all about tourism, and it's based on the presumption that the price for that tourism can be driven down to the point that ordinary people can afford it.

The pricey part of anything space-related is getting it to space in the first place. It's incredibly expensive to put mass into LEO (Low Earth Orbit). And if you want to put something on the moon, you have to get a whole ship into LEO that can then travel to the moon. If that impediment were removed, or greatly reduced, we'd have a thriving space tourism industry.

My belief is that we are already on track to a commercial space industry that will do just that.

Money? What money?

I did the research for this in 2015, so all the monetary references in this paper refer to prices and values in 2015 US dollars.

Current cost to LEO

NASA

Before I talk about predictions, let's talk about reality. How much does it cost to put mass into LEO right now?

First off, I start with the assumption that this has to be an actual profitable system. Not something that only exists on government support or subsidy. So I'm disregarding launch systems that are government-run. They have no profit motive, so even if they charge for freight to LEO and even if that charge is low, those are not real economic values. The system would not scale or sustain itself.

The cheapest way to get mass to LEO (at the time of this writing) is with a SpaceX Falcon 9 booster. They charge $61.2 million for the launch, and it can put 13,150kg of mass into LEO. So right now, that means it costs $4,653 per kilogram.

Now you have some context for comparing the real world to the imagined one I'm about to show you.

My bulls--- assumption

REUTERS/Andy Clark

I have absolutely nothing to back this up but instinct. But here it is, the core assumption I have made that enables the world of "Artemis."

Assumption: The commercial space industry, through competition and engineering advances, will settle down to the same fuel-to-overhead ratio as the modern airline industry.

Okay, so what do I mean by that? How did airlines get into this?

The airline industry is a good parallel for the space industry. Both involve transporting people and freight. Both require extremely expensive, complex vehicles with maintenance overhead. Both consume fuel.

So I have assumed, right or wrong, that a fully profitable commercial space industry would eventually become very much like the commercial airline industry. So let's look at the airline industry for some clues as to what things cost.

Fuel overhead ratio

Airlines need staff to fly and maintain their aircraft. They need to pay applicable taxes and gate fees. They need to buy new planes, repair worn-out parts, manage their company pension plan, and everything else a service industry has to do. But by far, the largest chunk of their non-payroll operating budget goes to fuel. That's what costs the most for any given flight.

So the question is this: What percentage of an airline's total revenues ultimately goes toward buying fuel? That's what we're going to work out first.

I have no special understanding of the airline industry. I just went online and did my own research. I looked at ticket prices, noted the price of jet fuel, etc. This could be wildly flawed, but it's a good place to start.

First off, I had to choose an aircraft to work with. I selected the Boeing 777-300ER. It's one of the most popular aircraft in the world, servicing long-haul flights be all the major airlines. It's fuel efficient, effective, and has a stellar safety record.

Here are some stats for the 777-300ER:

Samantha Lee/Business Insider

The next thing I did was look as some long-haul flights around the world. I wanted to get an even spread of information, so I looked at three different routes, of differing lengths, flown by three different airlines. A more comprehensive study would have to include dozens or maybe hundreds, but I just did three — I'm just trying to make a foundation for a story, not get investor money.

So, to that end, I looked at a United Airlines flight from New York to London, an Air France from Paris to Tokyo, and a Qantas flight from Los Angeles to Sydney. Each of these flights are on 777-300ER aircraft, and their ticket prices are all for the same day in late 2015. Note: the United flight prices are rough averages based on samples of different rates – their web page at the time was cagey on actual ticket prices.

Here's what I learned:

Samantha Lee/Business Insider

For each flight, I noted the price of each class of ticket, then worked out the take — the total amount of money the airline gets if every seat on the plane is sold at its listed cost. The fuel consumed is based on the flight duration and the fuel consumption rate of the aircraft. The cost of that fuel is based on the market price of jet fuel on the day I looked up those tickets, which was $0.475/kg. (Actually, the price was 38 cents per liter, but I wanted price per kg and jet fuel has a density of 0.8kg/L).

I was surprised to see that they all has such similar fuel overhead ratios. It makes me feel like my crackpot theory might actually work out.

Yeah, I don't have enough data, but screw it. I'm going to use the value 16.5%, which is roughly the average of those three. So for the rest of this paper I'll assume a commercial airline spends 16.5% of its take on fuel.

A commercial spacecraft

SpaceX/Flickr (public domain)

Okay, great. I have a rough idea of fuel overhead. So what? What the hell would an efficient commercial spacecraft be like? What would it weigh? How many people could it carry? What would it use for fuel and how much would that fuel cost?

I don't have answers to any of that, of course. So I'll just pull a couple more assumptions right out of my ass.

Assumption: A passenger spacecraft would weigh the same as a passenger aircraft capable of carrying the same number of people.

Okay, yeah. That's a big assumption. But, to be clear, I'm talking about dry weight (not including fuel). And aircraft are pretty similar to spacecraft in a lot of ways. They're pressure vessels, they have life support systems to keep everyone on board alive, they have big heavy engines, pilots, etc. So that's what I'm going with.

And for my comparison I'll use, of course, the Boeing 777-300ER. Same as before. I'm also assuming this is a trip to a transfer ship or space station. So the spacecraft itself doesn't have to serve as home to the passengers. All it does is get them to orbit. This means there's really no need for first class at all. The 12-minute trip to orbit does not require high-end seating for anyone. So instead of its normal configuration, I'm going with the high-density version that can seat 550 people.

And now on to the final bit of guesswork.

Assumption: The commercial space industry will use hydrogen-oxygen fuel

The thing that matters most about rocket fuel is a property called "specific impulse." I don't want to bore you with physics (I'm here to bore you with economics) so I'll just say this: specific impulse is a measure of how efficient a rocket fuel is. The higher a fuel's specific impulse, the less of it you need to get a ship moving a given velocity. And hydrogen-oxygen fuel has the best specific impulse known. Also, it creates water as its exhaust, so there are no pollutants. And finally, it's cheap to produce.

Right now, there are engineering limitations to using hydrogen-oxygen fuel. The main one being that it burns very hot — hotter than any engine can handle. But again, I'm assuming all these challenges get researched and solved by a profit-hungry industry.

The final piece of the puzzle is the cost of hydrogen and oxygen. This was a little harder to find. I was able to find reliable data on the 2002 price of bulk hydrogen, so I adjusted the 2002 dollars into 2015 dollars and got $0.93/kg. As for oxygen, I used the publicly available data on what NASA pays for it — $0.16/kg in 2015 dollars. The reaction requires one part hydrogen and eight parts oxygen (by mass), so the total fuel cost is $0.245/kg.

That's the last bit of information we needed to calculate the…

Price of getting a person into space

NASA

Okay, we have a ship that weighs 165,500kg and we're going to put 550 passengers on it. We'll give them 100kg each for their bodies and luggage. That's a total mass of 215,500kg.

The specific impulse of hydrogen-oxygen fuel is 389s (yes, the unit for measuring specific impulse is "seconds". It makes no intuitive sense, just roll with it). To get to LEO you need to accelerate by 9,800m/s. LEO actually only requires 7,800m/s, but you lose around 2,000m/s during the ascent to air resistance and other inefficiencies.

Again, I'm skipping over the physics (Tsiolkovsky's Rocket Equation, if you're curious) but those numbers mean we'll need 12.04kg of fuel for every 1kg we want to put into LEO. We want to put 215,000kg into LEO, so we need 2,594,620kg of fuel.

At our calculated fuel cost ($0.245/kg) that means the total fuel cost for the launch is $637,200.

Now I get to use my airline fuel overhead figure. Airlines have 16.5% fuel overhead ratio and we're going to assume the space industry will as well. So $637,109 is 16.5% of our total ticket take. And that means our total take is $3,861,266.

Our ship carries 550 passengers, meaning each passenger will have to pay

$7,020.48

Sorry to put that in dramatic bold print with a box around it, but I thought it was exciting. Would you pay seven thousand bucks to go to low Earth orbit? Millions of people would say "yes."

What about freight?

I looked around at the prices for air freight and found that, on average, you can air mail 200kg of cargo for about the price it would take to send a person. This means people cost twice as much to ship as cargo. That makes sense — cargo doesn't need seats, air pressure, bathrooms, or complimentary peanuts. For space travel, the cargo ships also wouldn't need anywhere near as much safety. If a shipment of frozen food blows up on launch, replacing the cargo is trivial.

So I followed the aviation industry's general pattern and decided that freight to LEO would end up costing about half as much as a human. Or, more importantly, would cost $7,020.48 per 200kg. So that means you can get mass to LEO for

$35.10 per kg!

Again, I apologize for the drama, but holy s---! That's a hell of a lot less than the $4,653/kg it costs today.

Are such advances reasonable? Well, "Artemis" takes place in the 2080s, which is over 60 years from the time of this writing. Consider the advancements in the aviation industry from its beginnings in the 1930s to the 1990s. Yes, it's possible. When enough money is up for grabs, anything's possible.

What about getting from LEO to the Moon?

NASA Goddard Spaceflight Center

Okay, so we have people and cargo in LEO. So what? We want them on the Moon. Well, here's where things bifurcate.

To get people to the Moon, they would make lunar cyclers. These are space hotels in a ballistic orbit (meaning: it doesn't require fuel to maintain) that regularly visits Earth and the Moon. It would take 7 days to get to the Moon with this system. You still have to accelerate the people to catch up with the space hotel, but at least you don't have to accelerate the hotel itself over and over. So the fuel cost is minimized.

It's hard to say how much that would cost. But with a $35.10/kg cost to LEO, the mass of the hotel wouldn't be too much of a financial burden for whatever company built it. I admit I didn't work out the economics of the space hotel or what it would cost for your stay. But considering how cheap the cost of freight to LEO is, I'm sure it would be small compared to the rest of the trip. On the order of an actual hotel stay (and a hell of a lot more awesome).

But you still have to accelerate people up to the cycler and then decelerate them to land on the Moon.

According to my research, it takes a total of 5,930m/s of delta-v to get from LEO to the surface of the Moon. More physics and math happens here, but it means that for every kilogram of cargo you want to put on the lunar surface, you have to put 4.73kg of mass into LEO. 1kg of actual cargo, and 3.73kg of fuel to get that cargo to the Moon.

So what's it cost to put freight on the Moon? Well, it would cost 4.73 times what it would cost to put the cargo in LEO. So, while it costs $35.10 to put a kilogram into LEO, it would cost $166.02 to put it on the surface of the Moon.

So what's it cost to go to the moon!?

SpaceX/YouTube

You have to get your body to LEO ($7020), and then soft-landed on the moon. So you end up needing the same overhead – 4.73 times the LEO cost.

$33,206.87

Yeah, I did the box/bold thing again. Call the cops, I don't care. People would be very willing to pay $33,000 for a trip to the Moon.

What about the trip back? Well, it's much cheaper, because you're leaving the Moon's gravity, not Earth's. Plus, you don't have to use rocket fuel to dump velocity at Earth — you can use the atmosphere to brake with. And you would probably also be using fuel generated on the Moon (aluminum and oxygen, both in massive supply on the Moon, make a good monopropellant), so even it wouldn't have to be imported.

I didn't do the math on the return trip, but let's approximate it to half the trip out. So the round-trip is clocking in at about $45,000 (not including a total of 14 days' stay in the space hotel).

What does it cost to stay on the Moon?

You have to eat. You can eat Gunk if you want — that's a product created right in Artemis out of algae. It's nutritionally balanced and grown locally, so it's nice and cheap. But if you want real food, you'll have to eat imports. A typical person will eat 500 to 1000 grams of food per day (not including the water weight). We've established that lunar freight costs about $166/kg. So you'll spend $80 to $160 every day just to eat. Not bad for an extravagant vacation.

Total cost

Accommodation and meal prices would be comparable to high-end hotels and restaurants on Earth. Say $160/day for food and $500/day for a hotel. Of course you'll want to do stuff while you're there, which will cost more money. So call it $800/day.

However long you want to stay on the moon, add 14 days (for the space hotel that takes you there and back) and multiply by $800. That's your expenses on the trip itself. So let's say you want a two-week stay. That's a total of 28 days of expenses at $800, so $22,400. Round that up to $25,000 because vacations always cost more than you expect. That plus the $45,000 travel costs totals $70,000.

So I ask again: Would you pay $70,000 for a lunar vacation?

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ramialkarmi · 6 years

Text

'The Martian' author Andy Weir solved moon economics to make his new book 'Artemis' believable

"The Martian" author Andy Weir has a new novel about a heist on the moon called "Artemis".

The book, which goes on sale Tuesday, strives for a high level of scientific and economic realism to make its story believable.

The author used real-world economics to create a reason his fictional moon colony might exist.

According to Weir's calculations, in a few decades it may cost $70,000 for a two-week vacation to the moon.

Editor's note: "Artemis" is the second sci-fi novel written by Andy Weir, author of the blockbuster sci-fi novel "The Martian." The new book goes on sale Tuesday. Just as Weir accomplished with "The Martian", he strived for a high level of scientific realism with "Artemis".

But his new story is not a tale of survival like the first.

Introduction

Are you a pedantic little s---? Do you ask questions like "Why does the Federation have starships if they can beam people hundreds of light-years?" or "Why don't the Galactic Empire and Rebel Alliance just mass-produce droids with piloting skills instead of risking their own lives?"

Well, good. So am I.

Why isn't this in the book?

Because it's boring. Hell, if we learned anything from "The Phantom Menace" it's this: never start a sci-fi story with a description of complex macroeconomics.

Price point

If you could have a lunar vacation for $70,000, would you do it? Many people would jump at the chance. They'd get a second mortgage just to pay for it. This, in a nutshell, is the economic foundation of Artemis. It's all about tourism, and it's based on the presumption that the price for that tourism can be driven down to the point that ordinary people can afford it.

My belief is that we are already on track to a commercial space industry that will do just that.

Money? What money?

I did the research for this in 2015, so all the monetary references in this paper refer to prices and values in 2015 US dollars.

Current cost to LEO

Before I talk about predictions, let's talk about reality. How much does it cost to put mass into LEO right now?

Now you have some context for comparing the real world to the imagined one I'm about to show you.

My bulls--- assumption

I have absolutely nothing to back this up but instinct. But here it is, the core assumption I have made that enables the world of "Artemis."

Assumption: The commercial space industry, through competition and engineering advances, will settle down to the same fuel-to-overhead ratio as the modern airline industry.

Okay, so what do I mean by that? How did airlines get into this?

Fuel overhead ratio

So the question is this: What percentage of an airline's total revenues ultimately goes toward buying fuel? That's what we're going to work out first.

Here are some stats for the 777-300ER:

Here's what I learned:

I was surprised to see that they all has such similar fuel overhead ratios. It makes me feel like my crackpot theory might actually work out.

A commercial spacecraft

I don't have answers to any of that, of course. So I'll just pull a couple more assumptions right out of my ass.

Assumption: A passenger spacecraft would weigh the same as a passenger aircraft capable of carrying the same number of people.

And now on to the final bit of guesswork.

Assumption: The commercial space industry will use hydrogen-oxygen fuel

That's the last bit of information we needed to calculate the…

Price of getting a person into space

Okay, we have a ship that weighs 165,500kg and we're going to put 550 passengers on it. We'll give them 100kg each for their bodies and luggage. That's a total mass of 215,500kg.

At our calculated fuel cost ($0.245/kg) that means the total fuel cost for the launch is $637,200.

Our ship carries 550 passengers, meaning each passenger will have to pay

$7,020.48

Sorry to put that in dramatic bold print with a box around it, but I thought it was exciting. Would you pay seven thousand bucks to go to low Earth orbit? Millions of people would say "yes".

What about freight?

$35.10 per kg!

Again, I apologize for the drama, but holy s---! That's a hell of a lot less than the $4,653/kg it costs today.

What about getting from LEO to the Moon?

Okay, so we have people and cargo in LEO. So what? We want them on the Moon. Well, here's where things bifurcate.

But you still have to accelerate people up to the cycler and then decelerate them to land on the Moon.

So what's it cost to go to the moon!?

You have to get your body to LEO ($7020), and then soft-landed on the moon. So you end up needing the same overhead – 4.73 times the LEO cost.

$33,206.87

Yeah, I did the box/bold thing again. Call the cops, I don't care. People would be very willing to pay $33,000 for a trip to the Moon.

I didn't do the math on the return trip, but let's approximate it to half the trip out. So the round-trip is clocking in at about $45,000 (not including a total of 14 days' stay in the space hotel).

What does it cost to stay on the Moon?

Total cost

So I ask again: Would you pay $70,000 for a lunar vacation?

SEE ALSO: 'The Martian' author Andy Weir is convinced we'll colonize the moon — but says colonizing Mars doesn't make any sense

DON'T MISS: Here's the full presentation Elon Musk gave about colonizing Mars

Join the conversation about this story »

NOW WATCH: This company wants to mine the Moon using robots — and they could be doing it within three years

#Tech Insider #Arab #Entrepreneurship #sillicon alley insider

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tortuga-aak · 6 years

Text

'The Martian' author Andy Weir solved moon economics to make his new book 'Artemis' believable

Samantha Lee/Business Insider

"The Martian" author Andy Weir has a new novel about a heist on the moon called "Artemis".

The book, which goes on sale Tuesday, strives for a high level of scientific and economic realism to make its story believable.

The author used real-world economics to create a reason his fictional moon colony might exist.

According to Weir's calculations, in a few decades it may cost $70,000 for a two-week vacation to the moon.

Editor's note: "Artemis" is the second sci-fi novel written by Andy Weir, author of the blockbuster sci-fi novel "The Martian." The new book goes on sale Tuesday. Just as Weir accomplished with "The Martian", he strived for a high level of scientific realism with "Artemis".

But his new story is not a tale of survival like the first.

Introduction

Well, good. So am I.

Why isn't this in the book?

Because it's boring. Hell, if we learned anything from "The Phantom Menace" it's this: never start a sci-fi story with a description of complex macroeconomics.

Price point

My belief is that we are already on track to a commercial space industry that will do just that.

Money? What money?

I did the research for this in 2015, so all the monetary references in this paper refer to prices and values in 2015 US dollars.

Current cost to LEO

NASA

Before I talk about predictions, let's talk about reality. How much does it cost to put mass into LEO right now?

Now you have some context for comparing the real world to the imagined one I'm about to show you.

My bulls--- assumption

REUTERS/Andy Clark

I have absolutely nothing to back this up but instinct. But here it is, the core assumption I have made that enables the world of "Artemis."

Assumption: The commercial space industry, through competition and engineering advances, will settle down to the same fuel-to-overhead ratio as the modern airline industry.

Okay, so what do I mean by that? How did airlines get into this?

Fuel overhead ratio

So the question is this: What percentage of an airline's total revenues ultimately goes toward buying fuel? That's what we're going to work out first.

Here are some stats for the 777-300ER:

Samantha Lee/Business Insider

Here's what I learned:

Samantha Lee/Business Insider

I was surprised to see that they all has such similar fuel overhead ratios. It makes me feel like my crackpot theory might actually work out.

A commercial spacecraft

SpaceX/Flickr (public domain)

I don't have answers to any of that, of course. So I'll just pull a couple more assumptions right out of my ass.

Assumption: A passenger spacecraft would weigh the same as a passenger aircraft capable of carrying the same number of people.

And now on to the final bit of guesswork.

Assumption: The commercial space industry will use hydrogen-oxygen fuel

That's the last bit of information we needed to calculate the…

Price of getting a person into space

NASA

Okay, we have a ship that weighs 165,500kg and we're going to put 550 passengers on it. We'll give them 100kg each for their bodies and luggage. That's a total mass of 215,500kg.

At our calculated fuel cost ($0.245/kg) that means the total fuel cost for the launch is $637,200.

Our ship carries 550 passengers, meaning each passenger will have to pay

$7,020.48

Sorry to put that in dramatic bold print with a box around it, but I thought it was exciting. Would you pay seven thousand bucks to go to low Earth orbit? Millions of people would say "yes".

What about freight?

$35.10 per kg!

Again, I apologize for the drama, but holy s---! That's a hell of a lot less than the $4,653/kg it costs today.

What about getting from LEO to the Moon?

NASA Goddard Spaceflight Center

Okay, so we have people and cargo in LEO. So what? We want them on the Moon. Well, here's where things bifurcate.

But you still have to accelerate people up to the cycler and then decelerate them to land on the Moon.

So what's it cost to go to the moon!?

SpaceX/YouTube

You have to get your body to LEO ($7020), and then soft-landed on the moon. So you end up needing the same overhead – 4.73 times the LEO cost.

$33,206.87

Yeah, I did the box/bold thing again. Call the cops, I don't care. People would be very willing to pay $33,000 for a trip to the Moon.

I didn't do the math on the return trip, but let's approximate it to half the trip out. So the round-trip is clocking in at about $45,000 (not including a total of 14 days' stay in the space hotel).

What does it cost to stay on the Moon?

Total cost

So I ask again: Would you pay $70,000 for a lunar vacation?

NOW WATCH: This company wants to mine the Moon using robots — and they could be doing it within three years

from Feedburner http://ift.tt/2zSc019

#Feedburner

0 notes