Apollo Justice: After his mother’s mysterious disappearance and his father’s untimely death, Apollo Justice was adopted by the so-called God of Prosecution, Manfred von Karma. Quickly tapping into his perceive ability, Manfred raised Apollo to become a fierce and unrelenting prosecutor. His deep, hoarse scream can be heard throughout the entire courthouse, cowing defence-attorneys and judges alike. Deep down, however, Apollo is merely screaming to drown out the ghosts of his past.
Miles Edgeworth: Miles’ days spent at his childhood orphanage were full of tiny mysteries and whodunits. Miles honed his logic skills and eventually put them to good use in court. Though Miles is slightly awkward and a little socially-stunted, his conviction as an attorney is unwavering. No defendant will ever have to be alone like he once was.
Duality is the real root of our suffering and of all our conflicts. All our concepts and beliefs, no matter how profound they may seem, are like nets which trap us in dualism. When we discover our limits we have to try to overcome them, untying ourselves from whatever type of religious, political, or social conviction may contain us. We have to abandon such concepts as ‘enlightenment’, 'the nature of the mind’, and so on, until we no longer neglect to integrate our knowledge with our actual existence.
“As I have walked among the desperate, rejected, and angry young men, I have told them that Molotov cocktails and rifles would not solve their problems. I have tried to offer them my deepest compassion while maintaining my conviction that social change comes most meaningfully through nonviolent action. But they ask — and rightly so — what about Vietnam? They ask if our own nation wasn’t using massive doses of violence to solve its problems, to bring about the changes it wanted. Their questions hit home, and I knew that I could never again raise my voice against the violence of the oppressed in the ghettos without having first spoken clearly to the greatest purveyor of violence in the world today — my own government.” - Martin Luther King, Jr., A Time to Break the Silence: April 4, 1967
Once human society finally emerges as a distinct worldwide phenomenon, it becomes meaningless to speak of ecological issues in strictly biological terms. Indeed, like it or not, nearly every ecological issue is also a social issue. In fact, as we shall see, nearly all our present-day ecological dislocations have their basic sources in social dislocations. Hence my conviction that a serious environmental movement today must be based on social ecology if it is to be intellectually consistent, insightful, and environmentally relevant.
Murray Bookchin, The Ecology of Freedom.
Just started reading this today after it languished on my shelves for over a year.
Well, this is a weird one – but there is
something very pleasing about it, so I’ll follow my wickedness through. I hope
someone enjoys its quirkiness. This takes place in the very early part of the
XX century. It’s always so good to be back to these stories! <3
I hope this letter
finds you in exceptional good health. I read with enthusiasm the papers you’ve
sent me regarding hypnosis as a means to treat women with “man-sickness”, those
poor souls afflicted by a deep despise of the touch of a man. I have the utmost
faith that your work could cause a revolution and look forward to hearing your
preliminary results in order to apply them here in St. Lucius’ Hospital.
But the true motive
that forces me to seek your help is the utmost necessity of counsel for one of
my most challenging and, I must say, perplexing patients.
Two years ago one
young woman, née Claire Beauchamp, entered this institution brought by her
loving and distraught fiancé, Mister Frank Randall, a distinct man of London
and a University Professor himself. There are no points of contention in the
woman’s family history that I’m aware of; her being from an impeccable family,
pure in breeding with other decent and noble folks.
The patient seemed to
be fairing quite well until maybe six months afore her commitment; as a
suitable young lady she was only preoccupied with the arrangements for her
wedding to be. But according to Mister Randall’s description, Claire Beauchamp all
of the sudden started exhibiting disturbing behaviour without any further prodromal
symptoms – she slept very poorly at night and talked frequently of vivid
dreams. She became obsessed with this idea that she must leave him and search
for a man that she saw in her head. Supposedly, Miss Beauchamp was convinced
that this imaginary man was her soulmate and that she was destined to find him –
even that they had lived many lives together.
Since her institutionalization
here I’ve pursued every approach as per the state of the art – cold plunge
baths, at times with a prolonged immersion; administration of laxatives and
purgatives to rid her of any diseases of the bile or phlegm; sleep deprivation
to heighten the senses and open the mind; long sessions of talking to help her
deconstruct her ludicrous fantasy. It pains me to say none of these treatments
were successful, as the patient remains adamant and unwilling to deny this man’s
I’ve been made aware
of a new treatment in early testing stages, using electricity to induce
seizures upon which the patient comes awake more enlightened and lucid - they
call it “Electroshock Therapy”. I’m willing to try this new technique in this
case, if I have your agreement.
My best regards,
“Calman geal.” He
said, touching her cheek with his long fingers. She could feel them, hot and
real against her skin. He smiled, part tenderness and part mischief, as his
hand slid to reach her neck and then rummaged to caress her breast. He knew
her; knew the desires of her body and touched her every aching point, as if he
had been inside her all along. They shared something that needed no words to
find its meaning. He lifted her, holding her legs around his waist and laid her
down, gently. He whispered in a husky voice “Claire.””
She came abruptly awake. For a moment she was disoriented,
her mind adrift from the cell that
the nurses insisted to call “room”. This
one had no windows – her latest punishment for misbehaving during therapy with
Doctor Rawlings. If he insisted in prodding and commenting on her life and
intimate thoughts, she saw no objections to asking him if he used the
magnifying glass, which he had ornamentally displayed on his desk, to find his
Claire turned on the bed, seeking a more
comfortable position on the hard mattress. This dream was new; she knew her recurrent
dreams all too well. Sometimes she had difficulty puzzling them in the
different versions of herself she had identified by now; he always seemed the same to her – strong-hearted, warrior even in
times of peace, lover. Husband.
There were images that she thought belonged to
distant times – in those she saw them in earthy tones, faded and muted. But
some, like this one, were so present and immediate that were like images in technicolor.
More than dreams, they seemed like recent memories – an old life she wasn’t
prepared to let go.
The nurse knocked – the accurate term would be hammered – on the door, warning her
that it was time to escort her to the bathroom, where she would take a steaming
shower, too hot for her taste but apparently good for her mental health; brush
her teeth and have a chance to socialize with the other convicts – well, patients – of St. Lucius. It would be a
though choice though, choosing the company for the day with so many appealing
options – the lovely Lauren, a young woman of her own age, who strangled her
firstborn; the humorous Olivia, a paranoid schizophrenic who thought she was
trying to kill her half the time; or the lively Mrs. Duffield, a catatonic
middle-aged woman. Then she would suffer through two hours of pointless
conversations with the director and then she would finally be left alone, to
find freedom inside her own head.
When the dreams first started, she had been
scared. Her life was following the path she had determined; her marriage to
Frank, her sweetheart since her teenage years, would be the social event of the
season in London. She truly thought she was content with the life she had
envision for herself. Her first dream with him – Jamie – had been very erotic and she had woken up soaked in sweat,
a moan escaping from her lips as he thrusted inside her. She had attributed it
to a harmless fantasy of a woman about to pledge herself to a sole man for the
rest of her life.
But that first episode was like the drop that
anticipated the flood, the dam of her mind finally broken. Soon their shared
memories were the realest thing to her; the only thing. And finding Jamie had
become her quest.
Frank believed she was just anxious, that a weekend
in Cornwall would solve it. When that failed, a couple of weeks in Paris were the
thing in order. He became increasingly desperate and frustrated as she slipped
further and further away from him. Even though she deeply resented him for
placing her in the asylum, she had to concede that he had tried to mend things
to the best of his abilities. But no man accepts defeat easily, being passed
over by another; much more so when his opponent seems only to be found inside
her beloved’s heart.
Claire knew she could have spared herself from
this degrading life; but that implied that she had to renounce Jamie, to say
aloud that he wasn’t real. That she never loved him. That she wouldn’t find him. And that was
something she couldn’t begin to contemplate.
“Let’s go, Claire!” The nurse barked. “You’re
expected in the shock therapy later, so move along!”
Oh, the electroshock therapy – their hail Mary
to try and return her to the land of the sane. She had been frightened the
first time, and in spite of the drugs that they administrated her she had
suffered agonizing pain. But what they didn’t know was, that following that
session, she had had the most vivid and long dream with Jamie; a tantalizing reminiscence
of a wedding night.
She cackled, following the nurse that looked at
her with profound alarm. She was in a
mental hospital, after all – might as well have a little fun.
Claire was sitting by the big window, where she
could see the garden outside. It was her favourite place in the whole hospital;
standing there she could pretend she was in the outside world, watching the season’s
pass and life’s unending wheel. Here, she allowed herself to feel sometimes –
the loneliness in which her beliefs had placed her; the flicker of doubt; the
longing for him; the love she hadn’t experienced yet and that she already knew
“Rupert sends his love, he couldn’t come this
time.” She heard a male voice saying across the room. “But he wished me to say
he loves ye verra much and he will try to take ye home for Hogmanay, aye?”
Her heart clenched inside her chest like a
closed fist. She knew that voice better than her own - it had talked to her
throughout the veils of space, time and sanity; she had waited to hear it for
the past two years.
Afraid that she had actually lost her mind and
had started to have hallucinations, she turned.
Claire might have screamed; it was joy and pain
and relief coming together over her. She had to go to him, but arms were around
her now, trying to contain her and pull her to the hall. She resisted them,
struggling more than she ever had before, even during her first days there, before
she had realized the pointlessness of her efforts. Tears were streaming down
her face, as she saw him walking across the room to her, his brow furrowed in
“What is it, lass?” Jamie asked. “Ye called my
name, didn’t ye?”
“Yes.” She sobbed, still fighting the nurse’s
grip. “I need to talk to you. Please.”
His frown deepened, but he nodded. Jamie was
looking at her with a strange mixture of fascination and fear.
“The lass isna doing anything wrong that I can
see.” He gave the nurse at her right a hard long look. “She just wants to talk,
that’s all. Let her go.”
He was an imposing man, as she already knew he
was; and had an aura of authority and leadership around him - it took men much
more confident than those nurses to resist the urge to obey him.
“Do ye ken me, lass?” He asked softly, after they sat together near the window, finally alone. “Have we met before?”
“Yes.” Claire answered softly. “I know all
about you, Jamie.”
“Where did we meet?” He looked at her, serious,
his blue eyes boring into hers. “I would recall meeting ye, I’m sure of it.”
“You really don’t remember me, do you?” She questioned,
tears resuming their course down her cheeks. She had waited so long for him;
never once had she thought he wouldn’t share her dreams. In her mind’s eye they
always met and instantly recognized each other; their kisses were ardent; their
hands fitted together effortlessly.
“No.” He said with remorse. “No, I don’t.”
“That’s alright.” She laughed amidst tears. “I’m
just so glad to see you.”
Jamie smiled, giving her a puzzled look.
“Why are ye here?” He asked in a soft tone. “Ye
dinna seem like someone that…should be here.”
“I’m here because I dream.” Claire said,
looking at his hands. No wedding band in sight, at least. “It’s a dangerous
thing these days, or so it seems.”
“What do ye dream about?” He questioned and
seemed genuinely interested.
“A man.” She whispered, her fingers fidgeting
with a fold of her grey and unflattering uniform. “A man I loved. Still do.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Are you…grieving then, lass?
Is he dead and ye are here because yer heart is broken?”
“No.” Claire swallowed, avoiding his gaze. Although
they were meeting at an asylum, she was adamant in wishing he didn’t think her
crazy. “It’s a little more complicated than that, I’m afraid.”
“It almost always is.” He smiled. “I’m here to
see a friend’s mother. His wife is sick and he couldna come, so he wished me to
make sure she was well taken care of.”
“That’s very kind of you.” She glanced in the
old woman’s direction. It was Mrs. MacKenzie; she was one of the quiet ones. “I’ll
try to keep an eye on her.”
“There is something familiar about ye.” Jamie
said and she turned her head to find him studying her with intensity. “I can’t
quite place it. It’s not even an image. More like…a feeling. Like…there’s
something important about ye that I should remember.”
“Will you come and visit me? And bring me some
poetry - perhaps Catullus?” Claire asked. She hoped he would remember; the seed
had already been planted. She intended to water it and make it bloom; but if
she couldn’t, then she must find a way to reconnect with him. He had loved her,
time and time again – it was only reasonable to think he would again, in due
“Aye.” Jamie said softly. His fingers brushed
her hand. “I think I’d like that, Claire.”
Claire could see the nurses approaching to tell
them their time was up. She smiled at him and got up, starting to walk away to
escape their claws.
“Funny you knew that. I didn’t even give you my
He looked intrigued at her, but there was light
in his features, like the moon half shining during an eclipse.
“And about the man in the dream?” He called.
“I’ll leave that to another time.” Claire
winked. “I have to make sure you come back, don’t I?”
Claire breathed, waiting for Professor Rawlings
to arrive at his office. She was due to another session; and for the first time
she was actually eager to talk to him.
Jamie had finally come. He would remember her;
she was already inside him, waiting for him to find her. For all the times he
had waited for her to be ready, she would wait for him this time.
And now, finally free to become a lying sane
person again, she needed to prepare for the rest of her life outside the
“How are you this afternoon, Miss Beauchamp?”
Professor Rawlings greeted her sourly, upon entering his kingdom.
“Quite well, actually.” She gave him a sweet
and innocent smile. “I’ve been thinking deeply and perhaps you were right about
i probably can? although the thing is though - i am not the best person to go to for advice like this because 1. i am not professional, 2. i am not even METHODICAL, and 3. i’m constantly in a state of anxiety and insecurity about my own writing.
like the thing is - i’ve kind of noticed more and more that it’s a very personal process that each of us go through while writing. i used to put down every word really really easily because i felt like there was a style i could fall back on - a certain selection of words that are expected and while that does give you results, it always seemed too shallow and too circular. i’m trying to work my way out of that, be more ambitious and be more controlled and less stylized and more personal, and that’s kind of led me to believe that i cannot give you advice about writing, but maybe i can try to muse a little on the process of it?
so. let’s see if i can get this down into actual words.
know where you’re headed. yes, yes, i know. everyone and their mother have preconceptions of writing - or any creative thing, really - as being SPONTANEOUS and UNEXPECTED and UNPLANNED, and that the good writer is taken by inspiration instead of you know, making it. but here is the thing. unless you’re writing postmodern thinkpieces and literary shit (which like, yeah i can’t give you any advice on that front because my number one thought flipping through any of those is BLOW SOMETHING UP), stories have structure. stories have a beat, and a rhythm, and your job, if you’re going to write, is to listen to that beat and find the cadences of your story. you need structure. you need a beginning and a middle and an end that’s earned. one of my absolutely most hated things in any piece of fiction is a promising beginning, and then a spiralling middle and then the absolute ugh when you realize that the author has let their story get away from themselves. grrm said something about writers being either gardeners or architects, and i do think that the best balance is somewhere in between. i’m not saying you have to know exactly where and how to end anything, but it is important that you actually have an idea about a definitive stop. it could be a line, it could be a scene, it could even, fuck, be a tone, but you have to know where this is going, otherwise it’ll be aimless. sometimes gut feelings are great. sometimes, when the stars align and a wolf bays at the third moon of a leap year, you get an idea that makes your entire story slot together. that’s when you should listen to your gut - but sometimes what feels like that is actually just lack of sleep and overcaffeination and the need to get this shit over already. you have to be able to differentiate between what is a REAL godsend, and what’s just contrivance. that’s why you plan what you can, that’s why you figure out where you’re headed - remove all the extraneous variables.
don’t overdo it. this one is hard. this one is haaaarrrrd. i’m still trying to figure out how to get out of this myself, because one of my problems is falling back on the imagery that i’m familiar with, that you’re familiar with, that i know that you know that i’m familiar with, and letting that do the work for me. there’s a kind of… vocabulary, and a kind of aesthetic that you get inundated with on tumblr especially - or in any kind of writing community where we swap works back and forth, and it kind of makes everything into an echo chamber. while that’s not BAD, per se, it does create a style that’s instantly recognizable to anyone reading it. that’s what i am trying to avoid. because as much as i love overwrought and luxurious writing, where you can feel that sense of luxuriating and appreciating of words (i mean, kings, anyone) - style has to be earned. style has to be cultivated. the last thing you want is to sound the same as anyone else - but at the same time, don’t do something JUST for style, if that makes any sense. if your character says something - let them say it. don’t make them announce it or extrapolate it or sotto voce it. cut to the heart, but know when to circle. know when to pull back, but know when you need a hard hit of stylization. remember that stylization has to fit the story and the character and the setting, not the other way around. your story does not exist as a pulpit for you to vaunt or to show off. your style is a vehicle for the plot, not the other way around. think of it as a precision f bomb - don’t refrain for the sake of refraining. but when the time is right, when your reality warrants a dash of the surreal or the nostalgic or the forlorn, lay it on, and make it count.
precedent lends weight, but precedent is often full of old white dudes, so there’s a reason why classics are classics. why, you know, every new ya romance on the shelves tries to sell their love story as a ROMEO AND JULIET STAR CROSSED LOVERS story when like, romeo and juliet is about being YOUNG not being in love and this is hardly the best precedent unless both of them are gonna die in a misunderstanding at age 14. understand that classics are classics - meaning that there are certain things that we find in the Great Works that resonate today and that have always resonated, eg. who am i, why am i here, who/what am i willing to die for, who hasn’t had gay thoughts. but understand also that throughout history, the voices of those who are not old and white and male have been silenced, that as sad as it is, the 21st century is AS progressive as we’ve become, and that we should try to make sure that the future is even better. which is my kind of waffly way of saying, if you are writing fantasy you do not have to set it in medieval england a la tolkein. if you are writing crime, then your hardboiled detective does not have to look like humphrey bogart. if you are writing romance, your lead couple do not have to be young and white and straight. know what archetypes, what tropes, what - yes! - cliches are eternal: hubris? love? ambition? but know that these eternal things are not exclusive to that one subset of people. women can be angry. women can be selfish and unreliable and morally grey and anti-heroes. people of colour can be ruthlessly ambitious and martyristic and more than footnotes. lgbt people can have love stories where they are not hate crimed to death. we all have the potential for every type of story under the sun. just because a group of people have traditionally be oppressed in history does not mean that the only stories they are capable of is about their oppression.
find out what the absolute worst thing that you can do to a character is, and then do it. my faaaavoouuurrriiitee!!!!!! i really recommend you do this in your head first - or attempt to - before setting anything down on paper, because oftentimes where you end up in this little experiment can tell you what kind of story you’re writing - see: first point. most of the time i think we come up with a character before we come up with the plot, and while i am not a big fan of shaping plot around character - like, i believe in having your character be ACTIVE and not REACTIVE but actively shaping the circumstances around your character always rings untrue - this helps you figure out your plot points. think it through - the worst thing that can happen to your character is often not death. it could be a loss of faith, it could be rejection by the one they love, it could be a downward spiral from pre-eminence. they could lose their family, their convictions, their social standing, whatever. if we take the example of achilles - YES I KNOW. SHUT UP. IM EMBARRASSED TOO. - the worst thing to happen to him is NOT the arrow finding his heel. the worst thing to happen to him is the loss of patroclus, which prompts his killing of hector, which leads to his death. action and reaction. think it through in your head - is it possible that your character can recover from the worst thing to happen? is it possible that your character has the strength of will to pull him/herself up and start again? if it is possible, then you’re writing something akin to redemption. if it’s not, then you’re writing decay. throw them into the deep end - in your head! - and find out if they sink or swim.
In all societies, the stigma of criminal convictions and sentences of imprisonment creates difficulties for ex-offenders when they try to secure employment, find housing, form relationships, or resettle in the outside world. But in the United States, these de facto social consequences of conviction are exacerbated by a set of de jure legal consequences that extend and intensify the sanction in multiple ways. Disenfranchisement, either temporary or permanent; disqualification from public office and jury service; ineligibility for federal housing benefits, education benefits, and welfare assistance; liability to court costs and prison fees; exclusion from various licensed occupations; banishment from specified urban areas; and where the offender is a noncitizen, deportation-all of these concomitants of a criminal conviction for millions of individuals.
“Penality and the Penal State.” Criminology (2013) - David Garland
episode is being directed by Andrew McCarthy. Already managed to
humiliate myself on our first meeting. I gushed like a creepy little
girl. St Elmo’s Fire was a the coolest movie to me as a pre-teen.
Probably to young to be watching then but that’s what you get being an
adult-child with an iron will. I was determined to get my hands on the
cool stuff. Truly excited to be working with him.
First look at Hayley Atwell as
in ABC’s Conviction
‘A social agitator as cynical as she is smart. She is best known for her
wild teenage years in the White House and proclivity to wind up on TMZ.
But a cocaine bust is one misstep with consequences this former First
Daughter can’t dodge. Luckily Hayes’ powerful mother, Harper, along with
her occasional fling and former boss, Wallace, offer an ultimatum –
jail time, or run New York City’s new Conviction Integrity Unit. Never
one to be controlled, Hayes decides to use the opportunity and her
brilliant legal mind to challenge the status quo. Alongside her eclectic
and intelligent CIU team, Hayes will do whatever it takes to discover
the truth, fighting for those overlooked by a flawed and fractured