monument for nothing

Earlier this week I went to a hearing about the confederate monument in front of my city’s courthouse, and the mental gymnastics the neo-confederates in attendance had to perform to justify the further existence of the monument was nothing short of incredible. At one point, a man with a PhD in history from a local university spoke in order to demolish the mythology that surrounds the monument. He provided the context for the erection of the statue, which was the “lost cause” ideology that emerged in face of the defeat of the confederate military, an ideology that sought to whitewash history by ignoring the actual cause of the civil war: the southern states’ desire to preserve the institution of slavery.

Not a single neo-confederate in attendance listened. Not only did they not listen, several spoke up after to denigrate them while they were still in attendance. One lady got up to speak and said “I guess they got their degrees from Berkeley”, which made the neo-confederates erupt into laughter and applause. I thought it was weird, because they outright said they got their degrees from a university in this state. One man took the floor to say “we’ll never reach a consensus about the cause of the Civil War”, although professional historians already have: the articles of secession for every state that produced them mention the preservation of the institution of slavery explicitly as their reason for secession.

It really clarified the anti-intellectualism that drives the neo-confederate cause. These are people who simply have an emotional attachment to the symbols of the confederacy. They grew up with them. They formed these attachments long before they were capable of thinking about them critically (if they ever formed the capacity for critical thought at all). This is clearly not a debate between two rational parties. This is debate between people who recognize the scholarly consensus on the confederacy, and people who outright deny history because to do so would require shedding their cultural conditioning.

anonymous asked:

Do you mind elaborating on ur Gotham opinions? I wanna hear your thoughts if it's not too much trouble

not at all! so, in my opinion, i feel gotham’s problems - from what i’ve seen of the show - are structural. there’s good character moments, but the meat of the show, it’s weak. i think, personally, that’s because it fails as a prequel. it just associates too strongly with the source material.

the first thing that happens is the murder of bruce’s parents, which is the defining moment of every batman story ever told - but we’re not telling a batman story. we’re telling a jim gordon story. in an ideal world, gotham is a story that focuses on jim gordon’s rise to commissioner and gotham’s fall from grace, taking characters from the comics or adding new ones to craft the story of a city being crushed by the weight of corruption. in the comics, the waynes’ deaths are connected to the worsening of gotham city. their deaths mark the end of an era - ideally, they would die near the end of the first season, as we’re watching gotham become the cesspit we know it to later be. that’s the reason people would be invested in this prequel, is to watch gotham become the city only batman can save. 

but the show is physically incapable of leaving bruce out of it, which means he dominates the show. we’re not watching a tragic prequel about the failure of gotham, we’re watching Batman But Shorter. the rogues are packed into the narrative, choking out the actual potential of people seeing a gotham without batman and his rogues gallery. the writers are relying on the novelty of seeing all of your favorites onscreen without actually crafting an exploratory, provocative plot, because, well, it’s bad writing. i can understand the difficulty, because writing is hard, but it’s still bad.

the structure of stuffing rogues in wherever there’s space has led to their characters being crippled, and the future of these characters being crippled - who the hell is bruce going to fight? does batman of the future just punch old people in the face? and are we ever going to really believe gordon wouldn’t immediately know, this clown-punching bitch in a batsuit is bruce wayne, almost immediately in this universe? gotham has created a narrative that can’t sustain the one it was supposed to serve as a prequel to, making it a massive, massive waste of time. 

Chinese Food and Confessions (Lin-Manuel x Reader)

Summary: You’ve been Lin’s friend for years and after a bottle of wine and some pressing questions you learn he’s in love with someone.

Word Count:1,904

Warnings: I’m getting increasingly more cliche so that’s a good one to start with. Drinking. Swearing.

A/N: Did anybody order a lame “you said you were in love and I’m too dense to realize you meant with me so I’ve been moping all week” fic? No? Well here, have this one on the house. Someone feel free to stop me at any time. You’re gonna keep getting these halfhearted ideas until I finish battling this one fic I’m working on. It’s angst. I’m bad at writing angst. I have a blurb I’ll post later to make up for how lame this one turned out though.

“C’mon, you have to tell me something! There has to be something I don’t know about you.” you pushed, swinging your legs up onto Lin’s lap. His hand wrapped around your calf, adjusting your placement. The wine in your glass sloshed around but managed to stay where it was - your couch eternally grateful for that.

“I think you know just about everything about me at this point. This game seems kind of moot.” Lin chuckled at you.

“Just about. But not everything.” you countered and he paused to think of something that might be enough to satisfy your sudden pressing need to know every deep, dark secret he had - which wasn’t many. His hand absentmindedly traced patterns on your leg as the thought.

“Alright, I have something but there’s conditions if I tell you.” Lin posed and you frowned.

Keep reading


Today we remember the 75th anniversary of one of the greatest and most profound tragedies in our country´s history. 

On 10th June 1942 a small village of 500 people was brutally wiped out of the map. The men were shot, the women sent to a concentration camp. 7 children were whisked off to be raised as German, the rest of them - 82 in total - were dragged into Poland, where they were eventually murdered by gas. The live stock from the village was herded off, the cats and dogs shot, the pigeons burned in their lofts. The village itself was completely destroyed: the houses were torn down, the church blown up and burned, the graves in the cemetery dug up and the tombstones used to pave new German roads. Where once a prosperous village stood the Germans created a field. The name of Lidice was removed from all new maps and from all signs. Everything and everyone was to be wiped out completely.

Lidice lives though. In a way. It lives in the heart of every person who has heard its story. A story about people who lived far away from the fighting lines, who had no weapons and no resistance movement, who hid no enemies and commited no crime whatsoever. People, who were chosen at random by the Nazis to be an example of what happens to those who dare to oppose nazism.

Please, watch the above mini-documentary (it was almost exatly 15 minutes) to know more and hear the few survivors speak about the event.

The Kitchens

part v

It appeared to be all consuming, the act of kissing someone. Sirius was slightly surprised by this. He’d kissed loads of girls before, in fact he’d done quite a bit more than simply kiss them. But he questioned it now… had he kissed them? He didn’t think so, not really.

It had never been like this before.

It had never been that each and ever act or thought his body and mind performed somehow stemmed back to the kiss, to Remus. It hadn’t even been particularly long. It had been rushed, lost in the heat of the moment. Wonderful, but nothing monumental as far as kissing goes. Sirius had led him to bed afterwards and forced himself to walk away. He’d apologized afterwards and taken it back. As far as kissing goes, it honestly should be considered rather awful. But it wasn’t.

Sirius felt slightly sick with nerves, standing there surrounded by the whirling action of of the First Bloom Ball preparations. Stray petals scattered themselves on the floors of the long hallways, having fallen off of the millions of bouquets that were being transported into every part of the castle imaginable. Noble and servant girls alike stood around in groups, chattering and working excitedly, hoping desperately that they would receive a bloom from whichever boy it was they dreamt about. It was rumored that the one who gave you the bloom was the one who remained yours forever. Sirius allowed himself a small smile at this. The idea had never appealed to him until now. Then again, the idea had never applied to him either. It still didn’t but he allowed the smile all the same.

Sirius felt the eyes of many on him as he strode about the room. He knew it was because of the party, but he couldn’t help but notice the eyes lingering on his head more than his face, or, more specifically, his crown. He didn’t make a habit of wearing it about but it was one of those days that his mother had insisted. She did that occasionally. He liked it fine and all. It sat comfortably, if not a bit heavily, but he could definitely do without the attention—something he knew his mother valued above all else. He only made the mistake of making eye contact twice before the barely repressed squeals that followed taught him to keep his eyes pleasantly aloof from any one person, discreetly searching for the dark mass of hair that was James. He finally spotted it peaking out from behind a particularly large bouquet. He pulled on his jacket some, straightening it, before all but speed walking over to him, waiting by the double doorway then falling into step with his stride.


James’ face appeared between two pink peonies, “S-“ His face straightened, eyes glancing around, “Your Royal Highne-“

“My mum isn’t here. Can you come?”

James heaved out a sigh as he let the vase carefully down on the table, dusting various shades of what looked like pollen from his shirt. Sirius distastefully glanced only briefly at the yellow stains it left behind.

James raised an eyebrow, “I’m thinking you’re forgetting that status of our relationship.”

Sirius blinked, “What?”

James raised both eyebrows now, offering a smile, “Sirius, it isn’t a matter of if I can come. If you want me somewhere, I go.”

Sirius knew this wasn’t meant as a blow. James was probably joking, relieved that he was getting out of work. But it was true. James couldn’t refuse. Sirius thought briefly back to the way Remus had kicked him out that night of the chocolate cake. The heat that was becoming familiar to him very quickly filled his chest at the memory and he motioned his head for James to follow him. He was doing this. He could do this. This was James.

Sirius walked until they were nearly half way across the castle, in the predictably quiet West parlor. He motioned for James to shut the door.

“What’s this about? I can’t be gone for too long. My mum would have my head.”

Sirius could have laughed at his particular choice of words if he hadn’t been so bloody nervous.

“Well, I’m certainly about to tell you something that could cost me mine.”

James froze half way between standing and sitting on the couch. He rose again, “Come again?”

Sirius sighed and pushed on his shoulders until he plopped down on the cushions, then sat on the lean wooden table across from him. He took a shaky breath, lacing his fingers together across his knees. He went to open his mouth, but suddenly found that his jaw wouldn’t cooperate.

James spluttered, “Mate, you can’t lead with a phrase like that then sit on it.” He waited a moment more then shoved Sirius’ shoulder, “Come on.”

“I kissed someone.”

James blinked, mouth falling open in surprise. Sirius suddenly wished there was a fire crackling, or a rainstorm outside, anything to fill the silence.

“Oh.” James shook his head a little then laughed, “Well, what’s so bad about that? Your mum doesn’t approve of her?”

Sirius looked at him.

The realization spread quickly over James face and he nodded again, “Oh… Oh. Does- Does she know?”

“No one knows.” Sirius said quickly, “You know, I know, and- and… she knows.” Sirius swallowed.

Sirius felt like he was swallowing over his heart. He surprised himself with just how desperate he was to shout that it wasn’t a she, and that it hadn’t felt like just a kiss.

James went to speak again, but Sirius held up his hand, suddenly glad he had some power of James. He didn’t know how many questions he could lie his way through.

“Just listen, alright?” He sat back, letting his hand rest nervously against his thigh once more, “I need you to do something.”


Remus had spent the better part of the minutes between three and four in the morning running his hands over the soft fur of Sirius’ slippers over and over. By the time he had to get ready, he almost felt guilty stashing them away in his tiny moldy trunk at the base of his bed, underneath a pile of old shirts. The flower too, that had somehow remained tucked into his hair, got flattened between the pages of an old book he found in there. Maybe it was more sadness than guilt. Things so wonderful shouldn’t even been associated with such items, much less wedged between them.

He missed the feeling of the soft leather against his heels. He swallowed. He missed the feeling of Sirius’ hands on his skin. His mouth…

There was a hiss from in front of him and he jolted backwards at the steam issuing from the nearly over boiling pot of tomato soup.

“Shit.” He crouched, using the long iron tongs to push the heavy pan to the side, away from the flames, causing the bubbling to subside.

“Since when are you such a day dreamer?”

Remus turned his head to Mrs. Potter who was giving him a sly smile over her steadily growing mound of peeled potatoes. He offered her a slightly sheepish, slightly tight one of his own, “No. I mean- yes. I mean, sorry. I don’t know where I was.”

Mrs. Potter laughed, “Don’t apologize for dreaming, Remus. If anything apologize for the swearing.” Her eyes were kind and reflected the firelight warmly, “But never for the dreaming.”

Remus had to turn his head away. He didn’t want her to see his face fall, his grin succumb to uneasiness. He let the soup swing back into place and eased the fire down to a bluish flicker, then stood and dusted his hands on his apron.

He hesitated a moment, hands pressed to his thighs, before turning around slowly on his heel, “Um. While we’re… I… Just, about dreaming…”

Mrs. Potter’s knife flew on the potatoes and she didn’t look up, but hummed in a way that let him know he had her complete attention. Remus was glad for the lack of eye contact.

“If you…” He paused, desperately trying to think of his words carefully and quickly at the same time, “If you… have something. A dream. Something good, but you know…” he walked forward, pressing his hands to the cool counter top, “you know it isn’t going to last, this dream. This something good…” Mrs. Potter finally looked up at him, fingers stilling, and Remus swallowed before finishing, “do you think it’s worth it? Dreaming it up at all?”

Mrs. Potter looked at him for a moment thoughtfully, then went right back to peeling, “Hm.” She took a breath, “There’s a tale of two brothers. They’re walking in the forest and they come across a stone.” Remus looked at her quizzically but she pressed on, “On the stone are instructions on how to live ten years of pure bliss and happiness, full of riches and power. One brother follows them. He climbs a mountain, he wrestles a bear, he crosses a stream until he comes to a house that holds an enchantress that gives him what he came for. The brother becomes king of a large village with all the money and happiness one could want.” She hands Remus a few potatoes of his own and a knife then continues, “It lasts for ten years, just as the stone said. After his ten years of bliss, his kingdom falls, the woman he loves leaves him, his people turn against him. He is left powerless, loveless, and friendless. He has nothing to do but turn to the only person who knew him before he became what he was.”

“His brother.” Remus supplied, peeling slowly, more intent on listening.

Mrs. Potter nodded slightly in his direction, the pile beside her growing as she spoke, words rich and purposeful, “Exactly. Now, his brother had refused to take the instructions. He claimed that he was happy right then, with the life he was living. He didn’t know what would happen after ten years, so why risk it? He had a modest home, a good wife, had enough money to put basic food on his table. Why take the risk?”

“Well, he’d be happy for a time, at least. Truly happy.” Remus twirled his knife thoughtfully against the wooden counter, the point creating a small indent in the wood, “Why would he settle for something that he was just… content with when he could have something fantastic like his brother did, for even a little while…”

Remus trailed off, suddenly realizing what he was saying. Mrs. Potter was looking somewhat knowingly at him, almost too knowingly for Remus’ comfort.

“Well, I do believe you’ve just answered your own question, love.”

Remus felt his cheeks flush and he smiled, flicking a potato skin in her direction and making her laugh, eyes crinkling. They worked in silence after that, the soft scraping being the only sound that filled the room.

Remus supposed he had answered his own question. He had something good right now. Something better than anything he’d ever had in his life. He had someone. Or at least he was beginning too. Would he really be able to give that up, to give Sirius up, out of, what, fear? Fear of the future? It was there. It was definitely a real fear. There was no hope for them. They had kissed, Sirius had smiled, Sirius had apologized, Sirius had taken it back, Sirius had left. That in itself said it, right there: They both knew, if this began, how it would end. Remus closed his eyes briefly. If it hadn’t been for the remembered feeling of Sirius’ hands on his skin, Sirius’ lips on his own, he would have been decided right there. End it. Sooner rather than later. But logic was consumed by emotion, planning consumed by memories.

Remus’ voice sounded louder when he spoke again, hands slowing, “He’d have the memories, at least.” Remus swallowed, “When it was all over, I mean.” He felt Mrs. Potter’s eyes on him and looked up too, “That’s worth something, isn’t it? He’d remember the happiness. That’s worth the risk?”

She thought for a moment, her own hands slowing as well, knife gliding smoothly, “Memories are tricky, I think. Remembering them is okay, good even. They can take us back to that time, that place. We can feel what we felt again, or almost what we felt. But living in them… it gets dangerous. I suppose it depends on the person, and how valuable they think the memories will be to them. If they would value the memories over their own present happiness.” She looked at him again, eyes slightly more serious but not alarmingly so, “That past can be a tempting thing, Remus.”

And Remus probably knew then. He could feel a ghost of what unbearable weight could eventually settle on his heart if he let this happen, if he let this happen until it…couldn’t anymore. Until it stopped. And it would stop. But he isn’t in the past yet. He’s in the present. And aren’t people always saying to ‘live in the now’?

What a dangerous expression that is, and perhaps the most tempting thing of all.


The already hot air rose about ten degrees when Sirius swung open the door to the kitchens. He probably should have noticed the pies cooling by the window first, or the sharp smell of spices and butter in the air, or the obscenely large pile of white potatoes on the island. But he zeroed in on Remus almost instantaneously, and for a moment all he could feel was him, was last night. His frostbitten skin that turned to warm cheeks and soft kisses and tangled hair-

“Oh my. Your Royal Highness.”

Sirius blinked away from the wide amber eyes and to Mrs. Potter standing next to him. And yes, he definitely should have noticed that.

He tried to shake off his surprise and gave his best yes-I-am-your-charming-prince smile, only to wince a little at remembering how that smile made Remus frown. His expression most likely turned out rather odd.

“I- hello.”

Mrs. Potter smiled kindly at him and bowed her head respectfully. Sirius glanced at Remus, whose eyes were still fixed on him, hoping desperately he wouldn’t do the same, but knowing he had too. It felt odd, wrong, to see Remus acting like a subject in front of him. Sirius straightened uncomfortably as Remus bowed too, a male’s bow, lower and one had behind his back. Sirius wanted to grip his shoulders and stop him, maybe with a kiss if he was lucky-

“My prince, what might we help you with this evening?” When Sirius just stood there after a moment, Mrs. Potter glanced at Remus, confused, “Or… Or have you come on behalf of the Queen, perhaps?”

“No.” Sirius said quickly, snapping back into himself, what he was brought up to be, “No, nothing of the sort. I’m hear on purely…” he glanced at Remus once more, “physical business.” He had to fight off the smirk at Remus’ flushed cheeks, and looked back to Mrs. Potter, “I require you to fetch Nurse Pomfrey, if you would. Quickly please. I fear my cheek is rather infected.”

Mrs. Potter squinted slightly, obviously worrying over the gash on Sirius’ upper cheek, before nodding, bowing again, and rushing out of the room.

Sirius wasted no time.

It had it perks, being tall, and he closed the distance between him and Remus in just four strides, pressing his hands to Remus’ cheeks at the same time as Remus’ went to his hair. And if Sirius had thought the last kiss had been good, he felt nearly knocked off balance by this one. Remus fingers wound tightly into his hair, pulling and knocking the crown slightly askew as he kissed him, breath hot and needing, filling Sirius to the brim with relief and he doesn’t regret this, he wants this as much as you do.

“Jesus, the one time you choose not to be alone.” Sirius sighs into his mouth, thumbs stroking over Remus’ cheeks, imagining he can feel each freckle there and keep them.

“The one time you choose to wear this bloody thing.”

Sirius laughs. He noses gently along Remus’ cheek, relishing in how fucking natural it feels, like he’d been doing it for months and years and eternity.

Remus laughs too, “Honestly, the first time I get to kiss you without being nervous and you restrict me with this.”

“Excuse you, you had James’ mum next to you. Who’s restricting whom?”

Remus smiles, leaning into the place where Sirius presses a kiss to his cheek, and straightens the crown atop Sirius’ head before letting his hands fall to his neck, “Hm. I suppose you’re right.”

Sirius just lets their foreheads rests together, already dreading having to pull away, “Did you just say you were nervous to kiss me?”

He practically feels Remus roll his eyes, “We were both nervous.”

“I wasn’t nervous.”

Sirius feels a little pinch on his shoulder, “Yes, you were.”

He smiles, “Yeah, I was.”

Remus laughs again then lets out a long breath, nudging their faces closer together. They’re silent for a few moments, just enjoying the other being there.

Sirius feels reluctant to break the quiet. It feels like they’re in their own little bubble, protected from whatever this world would throw at them. But he has to ask before Mrs. Potter comes back with Pomfrey.

“Will you meet me? Tonight.”

“Tonight?” Remus questions, “Tonight’s the ball.”

“Tonight.” Sirius slides his hands from Remus’ cheeks, to his waist, feeling the well worn linen beneath his fingertips, “West parlor. Where we met.”

Remus smiled at the memory, “What a pompous little prick you were.”

Sirius laughed, hands tightening around Remus’ shirt and pulling their chests together. He didn’t miss the small gasp Remus let out, “I’m still a pompous little prick. Just not around you.” He tilted his head to the side, lips hovering over Remus’, “And I’m not so sure about little.”

Remus hummed, seeming more intent on closing the distance between their mouths than actually answering.

The sound of footsteps made them both jump terribly, but Sirius pulled Remus back against him, just for a moment, savoring, needing, “Say you’ll come.” He whispered.

Remus pressed his palms once against Sirius’ cheeks, lips quick to steal one more kiss, “Of course I’ll come.”

They stepped apart, Sirius moving to the other side of the table. Mrs. Potter entered, alone.

Sirius raised an eyebrow at her, “And Pomfrey?”

Mrs. Potter looked absolutely bewildered to see him still standing in the kitchen. She glanced at Remus who had turned away, pretending to tend to the fire. Sirius longed to glance too, maybe get a quick view of-

“You- Your Highness, I didn’t expect you to be here. I would have thought you would return to your chambers, I’ve sent Pomfrey there. My greatest apologies-“

Sirius rolled his eyes a little and then, with the way her face fell and mouth snapped shut, he wished he hadn’t. He was suddenly desperately glad Remus wasn’t looking.

The truth was that Remus was correct. He was a pompous prick. It seemed to go along with his inheritance. But he didn’t want to be. He had to let Remus know he was trying, he was changing.

“No matter.” He supplied, “I will seek her there.” He almost turned, then stopped himself. He had to try, “The- The food smells wonderful, by the way.” He hesitated, shifting uncomfortably, then dipped his head, just slightly, “Thank you, Mrs. Potter.”

He turned on his heel and left, leaving a wide eyed Mrs. Potter in his wake.

She turned to Remus, who was still desperately stoking the fire.

“Well. That- That was rather kind of him, wasn’t it?”

Remus kept himself turned away, hiding the grin that felt like it was nearly splitting his cheeks in two.

“It was. Maybe he’s having a good day.”

Sorry it’s a bit shorter! I just felt like I got a lot across in this chapter that should be separate from what is coming in the next. I hope you enjoy! I’ll definitely try to be more regular at updating now that school is over! Thanks for sticking with me <3 <3 <3 <3

talkin about Spirit Phone

It’s getting mathematically improbable that I will listen to any album this year more times than I have listened to “Spirit Phone” by Lemon Demon.  This comes as something of a surprise to me, I tell you what, because I am a serious music person with serious music tastes, and this is an album by a man who is mostly Jokes, by inclination, by profession and by weight.   But it’s brilliant? It’s both secretly and not very secretly brilliant.

The thing about this album is that it has a concept, which is all well and good, but it also has a secret concept, which is great, because the secret concept is about secrets.  The first half hour is all about cryptids and conspiracies of the Coast to Coast AM variety, which is fine, sure - the internet loves weird animals and dead people, seems like a solid choice.  Ten songs in, though, it suddenly becomes an album about the 80s, and specifically about your dad.  This was jarring to me on my first listen - I assumed Neil had run out of dead narrators and was falling back on his obsession with dead culture, that his wikipedia walk down conspiracy lane had run dry.   But it turned out to be one of those things where the seeming weakness is the key to the secret strength, and after weeks with the album on repeat it all fell into place for me and I saw the dread pattern behind the laughs.  Which was both a great and a thematically appropriate thing to experience.

There’s only one story on this album: something beyond comprehension exists, and it wants to fuck with your life, yours, specifically.  It may be hostile or benign, it may be the singer or the subject of the song, it may or may not be everything it says it is, but it is there, and it’s powerful and confident and secret and real.   It’s an album about awe, or the place where awe and terror meet - and it’s not a coincidence that most of these songs about the awesome and terrible are love songs.  There’s a comfort in the imminence of things which are beyond your comprehension, a lifting of responsibility, and the knowledge that you’re constantly under surveillance by a hidden power means that you’re never alone. The resurrectionists, the creepypasta boogeymen, the eighth wonder and the no-eyed girl - they all care about you, are focused on you, and are ready for you to take your hands off the wheel.   So when the songs stop being about ancient aliens and start being about your dad, the revelatory thing is not the change of subject, but the fact that the subject hasn’t changed at all.  Capitalism, it turns out, is a conspiracy created to take away your choices. Ronald Reagan is the ambient man.  By the time the penultimate track rolls around, the distinction between belief in capital and belief in the occult has been demolished completely, as a rich man prepares to build a monument to nothing, maddened by the moon.

Everything is systems. You are entrained.  If the aliens are a lie, does that mean Reagan never existed?   If the extradimensional being you were in love with doesn’t exist, does that mean there’s something wrong with love?   Songs that register on a first listen as a joke - it’s funny that the song about your “sweet bod” is actually about your candied, mummified corpse and its healing properties - get an extra layer of sinister vibes on a repeat listen, as it becomes clear that it’s all about commodification of the body, health as commodification of the body, sex as commodification of the body - is funk commodification? Holy shit.  How deep does this rabbit hole go?

This turn is served by Neil’s vocal performance and by the music itself, both of which are delivered with an impenetrable ironic swagger that makes it easy to believe that something more powerful and more intelligent than you is at work here.  Nothing is allowed to stay still - every theme is tweaked, doodled on, revoiced or overdubbed as it repeats itself, lending each song a sense of building complexity that keeps the attention of the listener ruthlessly engaged. It’s a maddening density of production, evidence of something worked over unsparingly, and there’s a busyness (and an infernal catchiness) to it that is definitely going to turn some people off on a first listen.  But if you’ve got a part of your brain that is ready to receive slapstick baroque tango and squelching death funk, it’s easy to give in to the momentum and stick the album on repeat forever.  The final track serves as an invitation to that repetition - in the spiral of ants, it promises, when you’ve forgotten everything, all you need to do is surrender completely to the circle and it will all end up making sense. In the end the music and the lyrics say the same thing: it’s easier when you give up control.

It’s not a perfect album - “When He Died” is kind of a dud, a break from the intense first-person confessional style of the rest of the songs and a return to the list-of-wacky-jokes Lemon Demon model of yesteryear - but god dang is there a lot of reward to be had here.  It’s like Mouth Sounds and Mouth Silence were the journeyman pieces the dude had to make before he could achieve mastery of his chosen idiom, labors strange and obscure which left him with certain powers.  They were my favorite albums of 2014 and this one’s gonna be my favorite of 2016, which, again, is ridiculous, but it’s out of my hands.  The circle rules my life.

The occupants of these graves had died for something. In the sunset glow, in the rising of the moon, in the taste of the cigar, in the warmth that comes from sheer exhaustion, Vimes saw it.
History finds a way. The nature of events changed, but the nature of the dead had not. It had been a mean, shameful little fight that ended them, a flyspecked footnote of history, but they hadn’t been mean or shameful men. They hadn’t run, and they could have run with honour. They’d stayed, and he wondered if the path had seemed as clear to them then as it did to him now. They’d stayed not because they wanted to be heroes, but because they chose to think of it as their job, and it was in front of them–
‘I’ll be off, then, sir,’ said Reg, shouldering his shovel. He seemed a long way away. ‘Sir?’
'Yeah, right. Right, Reg. Thank you,’ mumbled Vimes, and in the pink glow of the moment watched the corporal march down the darkening path and out into the city.
John Keel, Billy Wiglet, Horace Nancyball, Dai Dickins, Cecil 'Snouty’ Clapman, Ned Coates and, technically, Reg Shoe. Probably there were no more than twenty people in the city now who knew all the names, because there were no statues, no monuments, nothing written down anywhere. You had to have been there.
He felt privileged to have been there twice.

Night Watch by Terry Pratchett

all the little angels rise up, rise up
all the little angels rise up high

Ratatouille MBTI

Remy – ISFP

“If you are what you eat, then I only want to eat the good stuff.”

Remy follows his heart.  Though he loves his family and tries his best to oblige them, his clear omnipresent desire to explore what he really loves shows his strong Introverted Feeling.  He is fairly outgoing in some ways, but he seems most himself and happiest when he can go off on his own and satisfy his personal interests, showing detailed thoughts on the nuances of good foods in his highly imaginative mind.  Remy is also quite naturally able to tune into his physical environment, which is especially apparent with his talents around food and the physical senses.  Introverted Intuition is also used, which can be seen through his ceaselessly pursuing his dream in whatever we he can, as well as his desire to learn more deeply about his one main love–cooking.  He is always eager to look deeper, to sense and discover more in food.  Extraverted Thinking seems to be fairly well developed also–Remy can take command of his situations when he needs to.

Alfredo Linguini – ISFP

“Don’t look at me like that! You aren’t the only one who’s trapped, they expect me to cook it again! I mean, I’m not ambitious, I wasn’t trying to cook, I was just trying to stay out of trouble! You’re the one who was gettin’ fancy with the spices!”

Linguini may not have as strong a passion through most of the movie as does his little rat friend, but their personalities are not all that dissimilar.  Linguini is more on the reserved side.  He is kind hearted and perceptive, and a bit more open to a bit of a wild idea than many others might be.  Before he is going to throw Remy into the water, Linguini is moved by the rat’s pleading eyes and proceeds to project his own internal state on the animal, which indicates his Introverted Feeling.  He can get a bit caught up in his own world and sometimes has trouble controlling the outer world, but he finds a passion in the end and along with this, more strength in personality.

Collette Tatou – ISTJ

“Food doesn’t go, orders pile up, disaster! I’ll make this easier to remember: keep your station clear, or I WILL KILL YOU!”

Introverted Feeling is also a function of Collette’s.  Like Remy, her passion is cooking, and she works tirelessly to make her dreams in that world come true.  Collette is good at sticking to a plan and getting things done very well, down to the last important detail, and she doesn’t appreciate her hard work and great skill being interfered with.  Collette came to her cooking position by following the system, diligently and rigorously, and she strictly follows Gusteau’s original recipe’s–all indicators of strong Introverted Sensing.  As an introvert and a thinker, especially a Te user, she is good at presenting an organized and commanding exterior, but she is happiest when she can follow her true passions as well.

Anton Ego – INTJ

“We [critics] thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face, is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so.”

Things had better go Anton Ego’s way–his word is powerful and can determine the future of any great restaurant.  Ego has the commanding presence of Te, and the classic deep concern for quality that comes with an Ni and Se combination (especially prominent in INxJ types).  He enjoys thoughtful reflections on the subjects of his critiques, and he thinks deeply to find the truth.  Through his honest and thorough thought into the matter, he comes to break not difficultly but drastically from tradition, praising the artistry of a rat and even becoming a most frequent diner.  

Skinner – ESTJ

“You are COOKING? How DARE you cook in MY kitchen! Where do you get the gall to even attempt something so monumentally idiotic?”

Nothing is more infuriating and bewildering to skinner than things getting out of his control–especially if he suspects someone is playing games.  This chef is an ESTJ of a particularly unforgiving and controlling sort, one could almost say an exaggerated caricature of dominant Te (not to mention the other functions in his stacking).    

Django – ISTJ

“Food is fuel. You get picky about what you put in the tank, your engine is gonna die. Now shut up and eat your garbage.”

Django has been through a lot and feels great responsibility for his large rat family.  He’s learned from experience and lives accordingly to how the world has shown itself to be.  It is this and his caring nature towards his loved ones that has him holding his son from following what understandably seem like dangerous and unrealistic dreams.

Emile – ISTP

“I don’t like secrets. All this cooking and-and reading and TV-watching, while we…read, and…cook. It’s like you’re involving me in crime, and I let you. Why do I let you?”

Emile likes his food too, but unlike his brother, he’s not terribly picky.  Emile is happy to go along with things how they are, and he’s hesitant to do anything that might put him in unnecessary danger or upset his father, also skeptical of Remy’s unusual habits and interests.  

Auguste Gusteau – ENFJ

“If you focus on what you left behind you will never see what lies ahead!”

Though for most of the movie Gusteau is only a figment of Remy’s imagination, we still can see his personality enough for a rough typing.  The chef is jovial and extraverted, and he is a great encourager of others, as a living man as well as for Remy, helping others follow their dreams.  The Ni/Se combination is also quite plausible in this case, considering Gusteau’s excellent taste and naturally strong appreciation for the finer things.

John Keel, Billy Wiglet, Horace Nancyball, Dai Dickins, Cecil ‘Snouty’ Clapman, Ned Coates and, technically, Reg Shoe. Probably there were no more than twenty people in the city now who knew all the names, because there were no statues, no monuments, nothing written down anywhere. You had to have been there.

– the names | Terry Pratchett, Night Watch

Confederate monuments have literally nothing to do with “learning from mistakes” they’re fucking participation trophies to the losers in a Civil War that centred around the economics of owning human beings as property.

“B-but Germany has Holocaust monum–”

Are you fucking stupid? Do you have a brain? The Holocaust monuments exist as a.) Proof that the Holocaust fucking happened since till today people adamantly deny that it ever took place, and b.) a lesson from the past so that we do not repeat the same atrocities.

If Confederate monuments are actually about “learning from mistakes” and not about “muh heritage” then where do Confederate flags play a role in that? Hm? You’re telling me y’all wave that technicolored turd on cloth around as a cautionary tale? Fuck off.

anonymous asked:

“It reminded me of you.” or “Call me when you get home.” or “Stay there. I’m coming to get you.” Dealer's choice!

Call me when you get home

Bleary eyed, Oliver watched the credits of the movie they just watched roll by. He wasn’t sure why he hasn’t pressed pause yet, for there was nothing happening on screen anymore. Was he really that interested in finding out who did the character design for Villager #3? No.

Instead, he turned his attention to Connor, absentmindedly scrolling through his phone, ignoring the list of names that were making their way up Oliver’s TV. He looked at the clock on the cable box: 1:30AM. Jesus, where did the time go?

Oliver reached for the remote and paused the TV finally, stopping the credits just before we learned about all the film locations. The apartment living room fell into silence, save for the soft ticking of the clock in the kitchen. At the noise, or lack thereof, Connor looked up and around, putting down his phone.

Connor and Oliver were…something. Though they’ve been seeing each other for upwards of our months, Connor was still weary of calling themselves dating. Oliver respected that, simply being happy to get to know the other man some more. They agreed to take things slow, so that’s what they were going to do.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Almost two,” said Oliver, getting up from the couch and stretching, appreciating the pop in his back.

“Shit, I didn’t know it was so late.”

“You’d better get going,” Oliver said as he walked to the kitchen to clean after their dinner.

“You want me to help you?” asked Connor following Oliver to the sink.

“I can handle it, it’s fine.”

“Are you sure? I did eat it after all.”

“You just said you had to get going,” Oliver said, turning away from the sink.

“No, I just said I didn’t know it was so late. What’s a few dishes? I’m probably not gonna sleep until 3:30 anyway,” replied Connor, picking up the plates they left on the counter.

“Yeah, that’s not good for you,” Oliver said flatly.

“I live dangerously, Ollie. Now, do you want me to scrub or dry?”

Despite himself, Oliver felt a grin spread on his lips, “dry.”

Together, they quickly got the dishes washed and dried in fifteen minutes. In those minutes, Oliver had the pleasure of learning that Connor hummed little tunes when he dried; whether or not Connor was aware of that, he couldn’t tell, but it helped break the silence over the clacking of plates and pots.

“Next time, I’ll cook you something,” Connor said after the last dish was stacked away.

“Please don’t,” Oliver begged, though there was no malice in his voice.

“Didn’t even hesitate this time, wow okay,” Connor said dryly, moving away from the kitchen.

“You always ask and you know what I’m going to say. Plus, for some reason you insist on wanting to make complicated stuff,” said Oliver, wiping his hands on his pants.

“I can cook easy stuff too!”

“I would hardly call Easy Mac cooking but sure.”

“Keep this up, and I’ll never come over again. I won’t visit somewhere I’m not welcome,” joked Connor.

Oliver put his hands up in mock surrender, “Okay, okay I’ll stop mocking your lack of cooking skills. I like when you’re over it gives me an excuse to keep the place clean.”

Connor stuck out his tongue before smirking as he grabbed his phone from the coffee table and got his coat from the closet. Oliver opened the door, Connor standing on the other side of the threshold.

“This was fun, thanks for dinner,” said Connor, leaning up for a quick kiss.

“Anytime,” replied Oliver as he watched Connor head for the elevator.

“Call me when you get home!” he blurted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

Connor froze in the hallway and turned back around. “What?”

“Uh, c-call me when you get home, so I know you got there alright? It-it’s late, and I just want to know if you get home safe,” he stammered, praying Connor didn’t think he was a doting mother or worse.

Instead, Connor gave a small smile. “Okay, I will. Talk to you later,” he said as the elevator doors opened, stepping inside.

Oliver closed the door behind him and leant against it, rubbing his face into his hands. Why did he say that? Why did he think it? He should have just kept his mouth shut, Connor probably wasn’t going to call him. Sighing, he turned off the lights in the living room and headed to get ready for bed, hoping he didn’t weird out the other man too much.

Connor ended up going home without a hitch, the lack of people on the road at this hour being a big help for that. That one sentence Oliver uttered buzzed in his mind the whole way there. Why? It wasn’t a big deal. He just asked that he call him later. There was nothing monumental about that.


As Connor made his way up to his apartment, he thought back to every boyf—relationship he’s had. Did any of them ask him to let them know that he was safe, that he was alive after they parted ways? Maybe Aiden, but he was dead to Connor so he didn’t count. He flicked on the light in his bedroom, tossing his phone on the bed and stared at it. All it took was one simple request and he was left reeling.

A slow warmth crept in the pit of Connor’s stomach. Oliver cared about him, truly, genuinely cared about him, and wanted to see him again. Connor couldn’t help the smile that spread on his lips.

He picked up the phone, looked for the keypad, and dialed.

Is it not cruel to let our city die by degree, stripped of all her proud monuments, until there will be nothing left of all her history and beauty to inspire our children? If they are not inspired by the past of our city, where will they find the strength to fight for her future?
—  Jackie Kennedy Onassis, while advocating against the removal of the Grand Central Station in New York, 1975
Coming Home Chapter 12 (Shalaska) - Jem

AN: I apologize profusely for the wait. I know I said last chapter that I was back, but I guess I’m not as good at sorting my life as I hoped I would be. That being said, thank you all for sticking by me and giving me feedback on where you’d like to see this story go. Special shout out to @thewritingnymph for advice and support!

Keep reading

making a name for myself

I am the statue in the middle of
my own town square
a monument to nothing much
I spend my days
intimidating squirrels and
attempting to decipher the
inscription on the plaque
next to my feet
but almost all the words
have been obscured
by years of pigeon shit

so all this time I’ve been
whatever you believed I was
and I am never sure
exactly what that is
it must be what it is
except for when it’s not
and then it’s not quite what
it used to be
so no one’s sure of what
it has turned into, but
the nice thing is
the pigeons just don’t care

still, lately I’ve been thinking that
I might sneak over to the library
one of these cloudy nights
I could research the possibilities
and maybe even settle on
an answer that will suit me or
at least be something I could hang
my hat on, if I ever get a hat

my hope is that I will turn out to be
less like the squirrels and
the passers-by,
more like those pigeons, who
you may recall
prefer to sit above it all
and keep an eye on things
without a thought to what
they are supposed to be and do

and then I might just make myself
a brand new plaque
before I get back on my pedestal
to wait until the sun
decides to shine

okay so i couldn’t stop thinking of andrew and aaron’s joint sessions and their relationship (god i will never be over this), and so this hc was born:

  • imagine if something small really happened, like you know how betsy likes to make hot cocoa and offer beverages in general?? once she offered a cup to aaron asking him something barely relevant to their situation at all, “with marshmallows or without marshmallows?" 
  • and he just shrugs and goes "with. helps with the stress.” and looks at Andrew for a moment (he pretends to not notice)
  • and imagine also if nothing particularly great happened during those sessions, nothing monumental (well, getting them there together was monumental enough in its own right (always celebrate even the small victories)) so once it was over they just went back to how they used to be, quiet and barely acknowledging the other’s presence unless needed
  • but flashforward to when katelyn’s suddenly in the hospital for whatever reason, and naturally aaron is worried out of his mind, and the team decides to show up for support, and aaron and neil even manage a civil conversation for a few moments 
  • aaron is just sitting there with the team, completely wrecked and barely even taking a notice of Andrew’s absence; he didn’t really expect him to show up in the first place
  • so when he sees pale hands and black armbands in front of his face, he was slightly taken aback
  • and even more so, when he places a mug of hot cocoa in between Aaron’s hands, marshmallows already beginning to melt
  • “helps with the stress”
  • aaron barely hears him say it before Andrew plops himself down next to neil
  • nicky is silently screaming into his fist because oh look it’s another Moment We Aren’t Allowed To Talk About
  • and andrew minyard, however heartless one could take it, didn’t really give a single shit about katelyn at that moment, but his brother, though he would never state it outright, was another matter
  • he always was, though he could never form it into words, or graceful actions
  • but it was also at that moment when aaron began to really understand
I Need You To Remember This

What about that time you said we’d just keep driving and never stop? You remember that, the wind in our hair, the blast of a thermonuclear explosion tainting the skylight a furious glowing green haze that still persists to this day?

We were laughing and staring up at the sky and all around us, cars were busting into flames and running headlong into ruin. Only we survived, us and a few like us, hardened crazies who wouldn’t say no to speed or yes to brakes.

I remember wanting to wrap my arms around the sun so I could crush it against my heart. I remember wanting to piss gasoline into the soil so I could make the whole world combust all at once. I remember you, and me, and the way we used to fight and laugh, usually at the same time.

Now we’re just moving through landscapes of ashes that look like cities or things that used to be giant civilizations that are now just mud and bones, bones of people, bones of buildings, sticking up haphazardly, a monument to chaos and how nothing ever really stays the same.

On a long enough timeline, everything fades into obscurity. Dates, people, memories, all of it.

Hold this note close. Then let it go.


It was definitely the scariest thing I’ve ever done, telling my dad about the nightmares. But you know, I don’t think I regret it. I’ve finally been able to catch up on all my lost sleep. And I was really surprised by how gentle and supportive my dad can actually be…I guess he’s not a sarcastic, cocky nerfherder all of the time.

Keep reading

The Very Thought // Obi Wan x Reader

Three anons asked :

1. Can you do an imagine where obi wan has to protect you so you go back to your home planet and to not raise suspicions that you are being protected you have to introduce him as your boyfriend and obi wan takes advantage of the situation? Thanks! 2. Can I request (AND IM SORRY ABOUT THIS) and obi wan and reader where it’s like the episode two but instead of anakin protecting you (as padame) it’s obi wan 3. Can I ask for someone telling Obi-Wan you like him, and he tried to talk to you but you keep avoiding him easily. Later, he finally finds you privately and has to grab you by the arms kinda angrily bc he likes you back and is frustrated at you

I combined all three to make ONE EPIC OBI WAN IMAGINE FTW!!!!!!! I’m fucking insane I noticed.

I’d like to dedicate this imagine to @blackbloodcells because she is so incredibly sweet and she made my night!

“Obi Wan, she confided in me. I know she likes you for a fact!” Anakin tells his Master, as they waited for your arrival.

“Are you absolutely sure? Because I’m not one who likes making a fool out of myself”, Obi Wan responds to Anakin’s pleads.

“Yes, Master. You better stop talking about her because here she comes” Anakin states as he spots you from across the landing along with Master Windu. Anakin leaves his Master as he returns to more training.

When you reach Obi Wan with Mace Windu,  Master Windu speaks, “Master Kenobi, Senator (Y/L/N) will explain the details of the mission to you on the ship. Good luck and may the force be with you.”

You smile and bow to Mace as he leaves.

“Master Kenobi, always a pleasure” you greet him with a smile.

“The pleasure is all mine, Senator. Follow me” Obi Wan smiles back, leading you to the ship you will be taking. You were always fond of Master Kenobi and over the past year, you developed a small crush on him. Nothing monumental.

As you both boarded the ship and prepared for take off, Obi Wans asks, “So the details of the mission?”

“Yes. So, you just need to make sure I’m safe at all times. It’s been rumored that there is an organization trying to assassinate the Senators of my family. Sound simple enough?” you ask. He nods his head. “But here’s the catch. My family cannot know you are protecting us. If they do, the more obvious our location and blah blah blah” you mock, causing him to laugh. “So, you have to pretend to be my…boyfriend” you say hesitantly.

Obi Wan’s eyes widen. “Oh, okay. Uh, no problem.”

“I hope this doesn’t weird you out, I just want my family to remain safe under all circumstances” you try to explain.

“No, of course”, Obi Wan responds, understanding your logic as you let out a sigh of relief.

One can only imagine what Obi Wan was thinking. Anakin was right. Maybe she is just saying this, so I can develop feelings for her. Maybe she made this all up and is introducing me to the family.

As the ship lands on your home planet, you walk off with Obi Wan. In Obi Wan’s mind, he wondered if he should take the situation seriously or take advantage of the situation he was in. Yes, he always found you an intriguing person and gorgeous to the eyes, so he decided to have some fun. Maybe really delve into the part of the boyfriend to see how you would react. He then speaks, “Senator (Y/L/N)?”

“Oh please, Obi Wan call me (Y/N)” you smile.

“(Y/N), uh if your family does ask, how did we meet?” he asks you. You think for a minute. He was actually taking this seriously, you thought.

“Oh, well you could say we met because you were a secretary in hopes to one day become a Senate?” you ask, almost at your parents house.

When you arrive to your parents house, you knock on the door and your mother stands before you with open arms. “(Y/N), dear!” you laugh and hug your mother tightly. “Who is this?”

“Oh, Mom. I’d like you to meet my boyfriend..” you say, hoping Obi wan would jump in with a fake name.

“Ben. Lovely to meet you, Mrs.” he shakes your mother’s hand who looks impressed with the man you brought home. You introduce ‘Ben’ to the rest of your family including your father, older brother, and finally, younger sister.

“(Y/N)!” she squeal as she runs to you.

“Livia!” you see her run into your arms as you pick her up into a tight embrace. “Obi-Ahem. Ben, this is my sister, Livia” you introduce her to Obi Wan.

“Lovely to meet you, Livia.” He takes her hand and places a small kiss on it, causing her to erupt into a mess of giggles.

The rest of the day you spend talking about family, government decisions, so on and so forth. At one moment, you dismiss you and Obi Wan to go play with Livia. As Obi Wan watches you interact with your smaller sister, he thinks of how beautiful you are. Your smile when you laugh illuminates the entire room and your laugh is music. The way you tuck your hair behind your ear he finds adorable and when you look up at him smiling, he can’t help but smile to.

All of a sudden, a strange thought occurs in his mind. How would you interact with your children? Wait, what? he thinks. The more he sits on the thought, the more he realizes that he likes you back. The very thought of you makes him happy and he smiles at the thought.

As night draws near, you bid your farewells to your family and leave the house.

“Your family is very kind and they seem like wonderful people”, Obi Wan tells you. You smile at him; the same smile that has been driving him mad for the past few hours. You have to tell her what Anakin told you, he thinks to himself. “Uh, (Y/N). There is something I need to tell you” he speaks.

You turn around before you board the ship, “yes?”

Obi Wan breathes in. “Before we came here,” he starts, “Anakin told me that you confided in him. He revealed to me that you have feelings for me” he admits.

Your heart drops. Oh no. He isn’t supposed to know that. Why did he tell you sooner? You must have sounded like a fool when you asked him to pretend to be your boyfriend! “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I must have sounded like an idiot!” you exclaim, boarding the ship.

“(Y/N), I jus-”

“This is so embarrassing. I can’t believe you Obi Wan! How could you!” you yell.

“Can I say my part of the story now?” he asks you. You huff and he walks over to you and takes your hands.

“I like you, too.”

“You what?” you say in shock.  

“After spending the say with you I realize that I like you more than anyone could imagine. You are loving, and kind, and beautiful and I want to be with you.” he says, sincerely.

You don’t have words. You stutter out a few miscellaneous words before he laugh and reaches down to cup your cheeks and kiss you. You melt into him and wrap your arms around his neck. When he pulls away, he says, “Now do you believe me?”

“Oh yes!” you laugh as you pull him in for another tender kiss before you take off for home.

darling we fell, in the midsummer across the miles and the rolling highways bridged with letters (pen to paper to my lap in the sunlight and your messy scrawl, that i hold with reverent hands and devour like the wolves) (from my heart to my chest to the blood red ground) (i can resist anything except hunger and temptation)

darling we ran, we ran far away. we stopped when we got to the riverside, drank the water, drops running down beautiful chins to beautiful throats and back to the earth (you looked like dutch flowers) and (starry nights) and (the hole i picked in the dark of the cinema, trying not to be aware and all too knowing)

we loved in that midsummer, we loved amidst the broken glass on your rooftop watching the stars and trading promises, back and forth. we fell into pages and letters and arms that didn’t belong to either of us but came right back here. i have nothing but the shape, the slope of your limbs and the cascade of your eyes, the curtains of your hair (wisps pulling away in the wind) (there is water beneath the picture frame and everything is soft, too close, and too personal) to lessen the ache of nights when we are not one person but two

{ i love you i love you i love you }

—  there is no half of my soul, just where it has been torn apart and returned to me and taken away again // l.b.