I had a strange relationship with deconstruction as my dad was trained at a university level to do apologetics. He was an LDS chaplain in the Army, and every night for scripture study, we got discourses on the nuances of our faith and justifications for every question we ever had. I didn’t swear until I was 18 years old, or drink caffinated anything until about that time as well, because it was never a matter of justification. It was what my family, my tribe, my people did, to go to church on Sunday, and to be worthy. I was senior patrol leader and assistant to the bishop if that clarifies who I was. I didn’t have “God will reveal it in due time” parents. I had “Here’s the answer, here’s contemporary discussion about it. Here’s some reading material if you want to learn more” parents, except for they were wicked smart, and had biased conclusions.
I was called to serve in the Mexico City East mission. Shortly before opening my mission call, I broke up with my girlfriend at the time. i left BYU-I and went home to prepare. I received my endowments after lying to my stake president about my worthiness to enter the house of the lord. I came clean, and he threatened to not let me go out for a year because I was unclean. The prick made me talk to a therapist to be cleared for the mission field. The therapist had a brain and let me go out. When I was giving my mission farewell speech, I wrote it to include the teachings of many religions in it. I had drawn inspiration from the 13th article of faith “We believe all things, hope all things-“ and wrote a poem about how Adam and Eve related to the Resurection and Atonement of christ. My dad tells me the stake president was shifting in his seat like he wanted to pull me down from the pulpit. Prick.
The CCM was a pleasure to attend because of my district. The guys in my district there held a secret thanksgiving feast after hours when we were supposed to be in bed with food we had smuggled out of the cafeteria. We had look outs so we wouldn’t be caught by the patrolling teachers. My district was placed under surveillance because of politics against our spanish teacher who we could tell actually cared about us, and we were transferred into a classroom with one sided mirrors, and microphones hanging from the ceiling. An apostle came to speak to the entire CCM, and I thought we would get a chance to meet with him directly, or that he would be even remotely accessible in some way. He was kept away from us, separate and removed even though we had the same mission. I played a lot of volley ball, and got into shape enough that I touched the rim of a basketball hoop for the first time while I was there.
My first companion was a native speaker, and liked to spend the mornings in the cyber (Internet Cafe). He would make sure I was on LDS.org while he looked at softcore porn on instagram. We would spend hours there, and I was disappointed that this was the mission.
We went to a previous investigators house, and while there, we saw preparations for an animal sacrifice. These guys were putting alcohol, cocaine, and blowing smoke onto a white chicken, and placed in into a cardboard box with a bunch of black chickens. They showed us a room full of weapons, with blood and feathers strewn all over the floor. We noped the fuck out, and went home.
I requested an emergency transfer after spending most days in the cyber, watching my companion deface JW’s property, and being an all around dick to me by telling me how to shower and how to sleep.
For his replacement, the person that would help me with his bastion of knowledge, they gave me a white guy who spoke as much Spanish as I did because he was only a transfer further into his mission than me. They made this poor kid senior companion to me before his first transfer was over. Why? Because the kid was a workaholic.
The first thing this elder and I did when we got to our apartment was to pick up and leave to go to the house of a member who had just died. We sang at the wake. I sang in a language I didn’t know, for people I didn’t know, with a companion I didn’t know. We sounded pretty damn good. The elder began setting appointments with the non-believing family members during the service. I just sat and watched the mindless kids chase the family dog.
This elder skipped lunch every day, and made me do the same. We knocked every door in our area twice that transfer. One time, he got very sick, and was delirious out in the sun with me while we were walking. I made us go home for lunch that day, and he made me promise to wake him up after thirty minutes so we could get back to the Lord’s work. Three hours later he woke up, chewed me out for letting him sleep that long, and then begrudgingly thanked me for making him rest.
One time, while walking, this Elder expressed to me that he also had some questions, but he was afraid to share the details because he knew my own testimony was fragile. I pressed him for details of his plight, and he revealed to me the darkest part of church history that he had learned while we were in the CCM, that Joseph Smith had drank alcohol while in Carthage Jail before he died. Thoughts of Fanny Alger, of Mountain Meadows Massacre, and of my own mother’s rather recently implemented looser interpretation of the word of wisdom all flashed through my head. This guy was supposed to be my teacher? All I could do was express how sorry I was for his confusion, and told him to have faith. Heaven knew I couldn’t help him.
One night with this companion, it was storming hard, and the streets were flooded. This guy refused to let us go home. We climbed along fences to avoid getting our already wet shoes soaked, and waded through a foot of water to get to the doors that were slammed in our faces. There was a loose wire on a door bell, and when I rang it, I was shocked by the completed circuit the water made. Rejection after rejection piled up. Finally, my “senior” companion said that this was the last row of houses. On the last house of the last row, there was a family that was all deaf. The father opened the door, and was suprised to see us and didn’t know who we were. I remembered the sign for Jesus from my grandparents who started and ran the ASL endowment ceremony in the Saint George temple. The family was thrilled we knew the sign. When I asked if we could come in, the family politely waved goodbye and closed the door on our faces.
Another time when it rained, something fell into my eye. It was one of those freak nature accidents, and small enough that I couldn’t figure out how to get it out without a mirror. The thing stayed wedged in the corner of my eye for hours before we got home and I could finally get the foreign object out. Looking at it on my finger, I could see it was a small green spider. Days later, still in pain, I pulled what I can only assume was accumulated webbing from the spider that I’d crushed against my eyeball off of my lower eye lid. The pain stopped after that.
I bought a $500 camera. It was stolen within a month.
This Elder and I had the good luck before transfers to baptize two children. They would have been baptized anyways, so I didn’t do any actual converting, but I taught a few lessons, got in the water and did the dunk. Bucket list item, check.
I didn’t have enough time for laundry on P-Day, so I’d wash my outfit and dry in on the radiator through the night. Transfers happen, and my new companion lied to our land lords about the electricity bill, paying it in full but not giving a reason as to why it was so high. I didn’t care anymore, I just needed something clean to wear, but these land lord had treated me and my previous companion well, better than the previous landlord who had stolen our cleaning supplies. I felt these people deserved honesty. My senior companion capitulated eventually, and he and I butted heads regularly after that on the morality of things. I think in hindsight he was a smarter and better man than I was.
The new land lords, the “Lagunez Family”, were wonderful. They included us in their activities, and I felt like I had some people in my corner. When I eventually came home from my mission, a daughter of the family had written me a goodbye letter. She is currently serving a mission. They made some great music, and I have “Infiltradors” on CD, the official name of the band the father of the family was a part of (he was the drummer).
I knew the whole area by heart by that point, so I navigated us to our appointments. Half of the landmarks I watched for to know our location were interesting buildings with unique colors. The other half of my landmarks were dead dogs whose decaying corpses had become second nature to see. I began marking how much time had passed by how deeply a certain dog on a certain dirt path’s chest was caved in.
There was an apartment complex in my area that I had been told not to proselytize in because “It’s dangerous.” Turns out, those people didn’t have any money, so the church didn’t want them. That complex was past the dog and to the east about ten blocks.
My companion and I knocked on a door, and visited a man who was missing his legs. His daughter was there, putting dirty water on the aching wounds. He had a single room for a house, and wheezed when he spoke. He couldn’t afford medication. He still went out and worked all day for his daughter, and gave her whatever money he made, trusting her to keep him alive somehow. The church expected this man to pay tithing. The church expected me to tell this man to pay tithing.
I got the chance to hike up a mountain. At the top, I played chess with a chess set I’d procured from one of the best rapid chess players I’ve ever met. He had been the ward mission leader. He was a good man, a good father, and I wish him the best.
I found another man who was deaf and spoke sign language. I sat with him, and convinced him to come to church all by myself while my companion talked with some tienda tender. I was so excited because this was my own personal project and it was going well. The man came to church, and I sat with him through sacrament meeting. In Sunday school (I can’t believe I did this), I accidentally drooled on the guy. I was just talking so he could read my lips, and I guess I forgot to swallow at some point because a dolup of spit landed on his arm. I apologized profusely, and he played it off, but I never saw that investigator again.
My companion and I knocked a door one day, and a man answered. He wore tattered clothes, and maggots were burrowing into and out of his feet. He muttered something about the stars, missing his wife, and he began to tear up. My eyes stung from the stench. The door closed. Somehow, I knew the man would be dead in a matter of weeks.
I had lost hope that I was doing anything worth while. I looked down on the Doc Martins that had stayed with me five months at this point. I was angry with myself for being so useless in the field, angry with the church for giving me leaders that didn’t listen to my needs or perspective, angry with my mom for drinking while I had to teach people that it was a sin, angry with my dad for giving me the skills and knowledge to justify anything, even pedophilia in the early days of the church, to the point where I could look someone in the eye, and knowing the kind of man Smith was, tell them he was a good man and a true prophet of God. Suddenly a man approached us. He said he recognized us as missionaries, and asked about our message. This never happened. People didn’t just come up to us unless they were crazy or dangerous. But this was a public place, and this guy was genuine. My companion talked to him, and gathered his story, but I was plotting something else. I was done with not caring about these people in a way that mattered. I was tired of walking in another man’s shoes, a man who wasn’t me, who believed different things than me. The chopped leg, the rotting dogs, the infested feet, it all swirled into a single thought in that moment.
What would Jesus do?
I walked over to the man, and in broken Spanish asked him to stand next to me. He did so, and I compared my shoe size to his foot. It was a perfect match. He protested, but I didn’t let him get a word in edge wise. I took off my shoes, put them on his dirty feet, and laced them up nice and tight. Those shoes had cost a ton, and had been meant to last the whole mission. All I had left at this point were my fancy dress shoes that gave my blisters back at the apartment. I didn’t care. I walked home in my socks that day, happy as a lark.
Covid-19 hit a month later. I was one of the few they brought home instead of quarantining. After having served only 6 months. I told God if he wanted me to stay home, he’d have to make them release me.
They released me. I think I was one of maybe a hundred missionaries that were released due to Covid. The church realized their mistake pretty soon after I was released. Once Covid infrastructure began to develop, they didn’t release any more. I guess I didn’t serve a full two years, but I did serve a full mission.
My brother served, and he nearly killed himself due to intense depression brought on by Covid quarantine and poor leadership (I’ve got a few mission president stories, but those are for another time).
I learned lying to someone’s face from my mission, and spent the rest of my time at BYU-I as “nuanced” until the last two years, over which the most epic hoe phase imaginable became my new mission. I spent those years terrified of getting a call from the honor code office.
I’m married now, with my degree irrevocably in my possession. I have friends and loved ones that are in the church and are working on their mission papers. I’m beginning to feel powerless again. I’m seeing the decay again, not on legs, feet, or dogs anymore, but in the souls of the people who the church raises to do their dirty volunteer work. I see them like the animal sacrifices I saw being prepared. I’m not sure what shoes I have left to give to those people that I know are going to be in pain.
My parents are out completely now. It was a long time coming, but they are out and so much happier. I’m working on building a new relationship with my family, one based off of the fact that we won’t be together forever, so we have to make the most of our time together now.
Happy Sunday guys, best of luck to you all. And most importantly, chupa la piña.

Tissue
Polysemous title- Tissue • Tissue- paper + skin (human life is fragile [criticises arrogance, encourages us to protect]) • Also paper (not alive) + skin (alive)- criticises monotony of life, not really living • Tissue paper- found in bibles and holy texts, but fragile (overinflated importance of identity causing wars and discrimination, really it’s very fragile and identity isn’t real, we’re all just people (tissue as in skin)) • Tissue- used to wipe away tears, togetherness can reduce suffering • Tissue- medical term for deep skin- poem shows deeper nature of humans and our potential for goodness, can be wounded and damaged by outside influences but can always heal
"Paper that lets the light shine through, this is what could alter things" - reference to religious texts paper, light as Jesus and Allah (power of religion) - or coexistence with nature (Dharker is a Muslim Calvinist)
Enjambment- freedom, lack of control of humans, rejecting constraints
Free verse- same thing
"Let the daylight break through capitals and monoliths" - power of nature, criticism of authority, weakness of humans- “break” violent personification, destroying authority, daylight + break = sunrise + hope
"The sun shines through their borderlines" - nature overcomes human segregation identity, criticism of war, power of nature) sibilance shows power, “their” still shows separation, criticise that
"fly our lives like paper kites" - childish metaphor, mocking control of money over life (criticism of authority)
"the back of the Koran" - “the” repetition shows importance, “back” shows it is hidden/shunned by society, still holding onto identity
"Transparent" - repetition, criticism of dishonesty of authority
Exposure
"Merciless iced east winds that knive us" - personification of wind shanking people (first line not about war but nature- more significant) (power of nature)- subtle sibilance (just as dangerous as bullets but most people don’t realise)- Germans were in the east, but the only thing from there is wind
ABBAC rhyme, structure is built only to be taken down (tension of soldiers expecting fight but let down)
Pararhyme- unsatisfying for reader, reflects how the soldiers are always nervous but never get to chill
“What are we doing here?” Rhetorical question to criticise authority, or actual question to show PTSD confusion, can be asking what they are DOING or why they are HERE
"For love of God seems dying" ok 1. The soldier's love of God is dying 2. God's love for the soldiers is dying 3. To show love of God, you should die
"forgotten dreams" - juxtaposition, loss of hope, forgotten dreams on purpose to be less sad? war made them forget? “forgotten” disassociated from PTSD, “dreams” as happiness from the past that seems unreal
“a dull rumour of some other war" reference to the Bible and Armageddon, metaphorical end of the world for the soldiers be suffering "sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence" - sibilance represents sound of bullets, jolting reader out of relative lack of noises, feel like soldiers
Epistrophe "but nothing happens" cyclical structure, stuck in suffering
“we” “us” “our” collective pronouns, shared experience, comradeship, loss of identity, relatable to all soldiers
Kamikaze
Title- single word, only military rank- only seen as a kamikaze pilot by others
Structure- 6 lines per stanza but free verse and lots of enjambment- conflict between control and freedom (military/social expectations/duty vs love for family/nature/memories/life)
Constant shifts between first person and third person- disconnect from family due to shame
“Her father embarked at sunrise” -sunrise as power of nature + Japan’s military flag- conflict
“a shaven head full of powerful incantations” -incantations are deliberately vague- orders from military? prayers? inner conscience against it? It’s “powerful” tho and influences him, and it’s “full” showing his distress, shaved head like most kamikaze pilots
“green-blue translucent sea” beautiful imagery, “translucent” shows how things are unclear but getting clearer- nature helps him decide what to do
Describes fishes “like a huge flag”- patriotic semantic field shows brainwashing, but reduces as the poem goes on, simile shows how he is starting to disconnect and change his mind,
also as “a figure of eight”- shows thoughts of pride and prosperity-
“The dark shoals of fishes/flashing silver as their bellies/swivelled towards the sun” - • sibilance shows ocean noises and beauty, “dark” -> “flashing silver” things get brighter and easier to see- knows what to do thanks to nature • “Silver”- medals he would have gotten for being a kamikaze pilot, but true reward is in nature • “Sun”- represents beauty of nature and also Japanese flag- conflict but now there’s also nature in the mix • Belly up- death on his mind
“bringing their father’s home safe/-yes, grandfather’s boat- safe” repetition of “safe” shows reason to come back- wants to return to family, memories
“a tuna, the dark prince, muscular, dangerous.” • first mention of danger = power in the whole poem, danger to the mission as it causes the pilot to have doubts, true power is in nature and memory • First full stop in the poem and lots of commas- makes us stop and think like the pilot about what he’s abt to do
“laughed” “loved” at the end of the poem- all in past tense- nothing left for the soldier
“we too learned to be silent”- “learned” should be positive but contrasts with what they learnt- criticises how they were taught shame by the older generations- but it’s said in first person, the daughter is criticising this and teaching her children not to think that way
Poppies
Title- honours and grieves dead soldiers, short single word title shows full intent of the poem and how the mother’s life is consumed by grief
Dramatic monologue- emphasis on the domestic impact and how the soldier isn’t present in the poem
Free verse, enjambment- chaotic, lack of control over the son, distressed
Domestic + military semantic fields- life has been ruined by war
“Spasms of paper red, disrupting a blockade of yellow bias”- mix between war + domestic • “spasms” and “red” is injury and pain- mother is worried or is hurt by letting go (spasms is involuntary muscle action- involuntary letting go), • “paper” is the fragility of the son • “blockade” is military language showing her worry abt the conflict, how she wants to “block” her son from going into the military • “disrupting” the fabric - the son becoming a soldier disrupts the peace or she is trying to disrupt him from going to war
“The dove pulled freely against the sky, / an ornamental stitch”- dove represents peace and grief- she and her son is at peace with death, “pulled freely” is an oxymoron- inner conflict with grief or letting her son go, the comma shows a pause to reflect on the grief, the “ornamental stitch” metaphor for the mother (pretends to hold it together)
“I was brave”- takes down ideas of just the soldier’s bravery but also the mother’s, but past tense shows current weakness from grief
“Sellotape bandaged around my hand” • Bandage shows wounds • Sticks them together one last time- cat hairs are removed, no more reason to stay • Claustrophobic feeling- stuck in the domestic role, can’t go and protect the son
“Blackthorns of your hair”- religious connotations of Jesus on the cross, sacrificed for the country- metaphor for the son
History Boys
"Enemy of education" war metaphor and alliteration, opposition between true understanding of literature and grades only used shallowly “Cheat’s Visa”
"a fact of life" indisputable and unchangable, in opposition with Irwin's views on history (truth does not matter to him until now?)
Drummer Hodge: Intertextuality, Tom Hardy (the poet) represents Hector, sympathising with the ordeal of the youth, Drummer Hodge represents the Boys, thrown into the chaos of life without proper guidance
"She's my western front" war metaphor objectifies Fiona, personal pronoun further expresses how women were seen as objects to be owned
“... all the other shrunken violets you people line up" [you people] segregates gay people, [shrunken violets] derogatory language
"Some of the literature says it will pass" looking to literature for solace and comfort during a sexuality crisis
"All literature is consolation" Dakin changes his mind on literature symbolising him changing to Irwin's side. No need to look for solace in literature when he can pursue Irwin
Parallels with "all knowledge is precious" from Hector - A.E. Housman, one of the first intertextualities and used in the intro to establish his character
“cunt-struck” “a cunt”- Mrs Lintott repeats the colloquialism “cunt” twice, to describe Dakin as “cunt-struck” and Headmaster as “a cunt”. This is the hardest swear in the play and is used show that it wasn’t a slip of the tongue, and to break down stereotypes of women being gentle and passive
“history is women following behind with the bucket” - her big scene about women in history at the end of the play (which is typical for Alan Benett’s plays such as “Kafka’s Dick”) so it would be recent and stay in the audience’s mind when the show ended
Irwin intro as politician in the future "etc., etc." while talking abt freedom- that man gives no fucks about freedom really, just waffling on (first impression for the audience too!!)
Parallel with Holocaust debate- Lockwood uses the SAME EXACT PHRASE while talking abt how the holocaust was bad, (dismissiveness of mass genocide? in this education system? it’s more likely than you think) then goes on to argue that they should be unique with their arguments- Irwin passed on thr mindset even on such an important subject
Hector is set up to be looking cool and all (motorcycle scene dramaticness, greek name connotations, fav teacher) but is absolutely uncool when we get to know him- purposeful? "studied eccentricity" and all. clinging onto youth?
Posner is actually rather helpful as the "dictionary person" bc i doubt the audiences know what "otiose" means
SCRIPPS IS THE MOST RELIGIOUS ONE AND CLOSEST TO POSNER it can dismantle the idea that religion is against queerness
Irwin didnt know how nietzche was pronounced bc from what we know of him he would call Dakin out on that

My Dad is bringing up a very important word,
"No"
Actually, I think that was his favorite word.
I had a great habit of using it when I was under his roof. What he said is usually what happens first. He was the head of the house and the leader of his own reality. When he was intoxicated or not, what he saw and thought in his mind came to life, even when it never took place in real time.
Why did I give him so much respect when he clearly was showing me toxicity in our relationship at home?
He pretended to be a person of high stature when we are in public. No one would have guessed his bad habits with substances at home and the way he acted behind closed doors. When I reached out for emotional support at school or church, I was mostly shunned by anyone that listened to my story. They taught me that my feelings were wrong and asking for help gets me in trouble. When I told my mom anything, she was busy at work and came home tired. She trusted everything my father would tell her and I got in trouble for speaking out for his behavior. I was kept at home and if anything that could get me out of the house was already planned to be declined if I asked to do anything.
It was hard to please anyone at this point.
I kept my room spotless and vacuumed everyday, just so my dad couldn't say no and tell me to clean my room if I had a friend standing next to me wanting to hang out.
I had one friend in my life that saw my father for who he really is and he scared her pretty bad. He chased me to her car when I was trying to leave my house, he was on oxy at the time. My friend hesitated and kept the car in the driveway and told me to go do what he said. I wanted her to drive as fast as she could away from him, because he took the battery out of my car and I couldn't leave to be with Suz.
Well, after that incident, I lost my friend. She told her parents what happened and she broke all contact with me and stopped talking to me at church. Rumors went around and her mom I sang with on stage started to be disrespectful towards me.
I learned a valuable lesson that day....
When you feel safe enough to speak out and let someone see your true self, you scare people away.
When I trusted someone, I was abandoned when they saw my life for what it is.
The truth was hard to swallow and I had to stay around my father regardless of trying to find help in some form of way I felt heard. I tried to be emancipated, I went to church and sought out resources, I researched about how to prevent suicidal tendencies, I was speaking to a child psychologist. I was working on being more respectful towards my parents, but when my dad got high and made up stories to be angry and attack me. I had no way to protect myself and prove that it was just my father being an addict going through a psychotic episode.
This is why the Lord forced me into psychology.
I didn't want anything to do with it! (Working in a psych ward.... It sucked.)
Suz was the first person to really allow me to learn how to understand it with her version of explaining reality. She is a psychic medium. A very good one! She was very outspoken, rude and funny.... I can take the hard criticism. Nothing amounted to the trauma my father already caused me to feel. I survived high school band.... My director was exactly like my father and I was verbally abused at school by certain individuals.
I kept it all to myself and I planned very strategically my way to "heaven". I kept a journal on purpose for someone to find later. I wrote about everything I was feeling and how I was being treated, my poems, other interesting facts about spirituality, death and dying.
Suz taught me how to have a "book of shadows"..... Well, she is a witch..... It shouldn't be scary when I say that, she was a very proud "light witch". She only worked for the good of humanity. Christianity shuns such practices, but it really is part of the culture before religion became a thing. She taught me so many things that my Dad made me swear I would never get involved in.....
My Dad went into psychology after he decided he wasn't going to be a pastor. His past marriage was a major roadblock for him that he lost faith in God and didn't feel it was right for him to lie on stage to other believers when he wasn't being honest about his own walk in faith anymore.
A divorce would literally kill my soul. I can't imagine what betrayal feels like until you promise your life in vows to someone and it doesn't work out....My Dad made sure to show me that marriage is a special connection and I had to be very cautious who I accept as my spouse. I never forgotten how important it was for him to see me with the right man, but he was so overprotective, he never allowed me to learn how to date or even go to a school dance.
I blame the drugs for interfering in our relationship as a family. My Father was a very smart man, until he took a pill, shot up, or drink... My dad worked in anesthesia, he knew how to mix his own concoction and by pass the system to get his fix. He was forced to retire don't worry, but his knowledge to get drugs was phenomenal all that he knew about medicine.
It really sucked that he knew psychology and ways to manipulate people to get what he wanted. He was a very skilled hypnotherapist on top of that. My family is the result of a head narcissist raising more products of himself.
If you see my family now, we are estranged for good reasons, but they still hurt me personally. I really tried to keep us together after my father passed away, but the rest of my family chose to ignore my advances to keep in contact. I'm not even invited to the family reunions.
It's okay, because we have a lot of family history of incest and "S.A." and I understand why we are not invited.... I know a lot of things about our family after my father passed away. I know why he turned to be a pastor and then went in psychology to help himself and others, but then he lost his way and turned to drugs to mask his pain. The enemy stepped in and my Dad gave into his weaknesses..... He tried and he fought hard. Even when he attacked me my whole life. I still sat there and listened to him and I was forced to listen and not leave the room, but then God showed me to talk back to my Dad.....
So, I started to read more about the Bible and relate to him.
That's why I went to church...
I went to church 4 times a week to get away from the house, but to also just understand why I want to end my life and know that I would go to heaven if I actually tried it.....I was worried about my Mom and how my actions would affect her, she was a big reason why I stalled my plans and then my Dad had this wise idea to get me to work at a mortuary. Told me to walk into one and ask for a job.
Crazy how I jump topics all of a sudden, but this is how my Dad and I got along with each other. Weird and comical. lol
If it wasn't about music, it was about spirituality. I was into a lot of death related shows because I was suicidal. If you remember any of these, they came out around the time I was in high school.
Six Feet Under
Dead Like Me
Dr. G Medical Examiner
1000 Ways to Die
Ghost hunters
Crime Scene Clean Up Crew shows.
I would walk in the dining room while he was chillin in his hospital bed. Watching Finding Big Foot.
"Hey DAD! check this out."
It was a nice distraction to his day. It brought up his own fears with common daily interactions because of my odd obsession with the topic of dying.
My father at this point in his cancer diagnosis, he was on something they call,
Palliative care.
My mom explained to me that it means he was going to die. Lovely how blunt my mother is, but that's how she said it without sugar coating it....
But it was in a way it would be under his terms. My father at this point died once while receiving radiation therapy. His heart stopped and was revived. When he woke up angry and violent towards at the medical team. He yelled at my mom that he was ready to "go". So, after that incident he got the right person to sign him up for his new journey to his death.
That was a weird way of telling you what palliative care is, but that's how I found out and understood that he had a "DNR" to his name after that incident. Sometimes he was in a hospice home for a few months to give us a break at home dealing with his drama.
My Dad was surrounded by death, so it made me really research death and dying very deeply. I was afraid for anyone to see the books I read because they were about taboo topics you shouldn't see a teenager obsessing over. Death and dying, crossing over, letting go of loved ones, suicide survivors, decomposition of human remains, the death process, how a body is embalmed, what medical examiners while cutting open a corpse.
Then I got into the spiritual side of things that involve the devil and crossing over. How to avoid walking back towards hell when you are deceived by dark forces. How to fight your inner hell and not be trapped in that mindset when you are passing away.
I would have the craziest dreams after learning about these topics. But in a weird way, all I wanted to do was sleep to escape my reality. I would talk to my Dad about the stuff I found about those topics and it helped him be closer to me as a father. Something my little brother doesn't understand and ridiculed about me when he criticized my relationship with him. He had his own way to being with Dad, but my way, was with deeper meaning and serious topics. Stuff only Dad and I knew what that meant. It wasn't supposed to make sense to my mom or brother the special talks we had when he was in pain laying in bed.
I showed my Dad the other side to life....
I helped my Dad not be afraid to die, and do it with dignity and strength.
I helped my Dad understand that his addictions didn't ruin our connection as father and daughter and that I wanted to forgive him for his past before he died. He really appreciated my understanding that the drugs turned him into a different person, but inside of him, God was always there. My father told me, because of me, I allowed him to find love for God again and he was closer to his Mom because I showed him to not be afraid of my friend Suz.
That my friend wasn't evil and she taught me so much about angels and spirits, he was learning about them because I had the best mentor in the world. She helped me find my relationship with my Dad, that brought me to be closer to God and because I learned about God in a metaphysical way, I helped myself grow in my own understanding to where I wasn't going to end my life.
I found a reason to live even through the pain of watching the enemy run through my family and take away everyone and everything that means something to me.....
(I would like to post this, but I know it's not ready. I have so much to say and I know my story will help someone else not be afraid.)
I am still writing my story.
This is the book I was supposed to write about....
The one about death and dying.
Not about my background in psychology.
*That is a message for someone else. hint hint... That is your topic to write about. I hope you receive that message with understanding and go forth wisely. You asked me to remind you, so I am, quietly...
I am working with others in a way the Lord leads me.
It takes up my energy from writing and I have to prioritize what is more important. When it comes to someone's transition. I feel led to help someone cross over. I've done this since I was a child. No one taught me to understand how I do this. I also dream about meeting certain individuals and speak to them about life and death, God allows me to remember my dreams and I share them with the people it is about.
Most times, God will send people to talk to me and then I learn about them dying or having a terminal illness that is difficult to get through. That is where I am reminded of my life with my father and my jobs in the medical field and bring up all that I learned about death, dying, spirituality, religion, crossing over, eastern medicine, etc....
Then I become friends, or we have nice conversations that are very engaging and healing in general. I am later told that I have helped them in some way and they are happy to have met me. Then my dad shows up in my presence and shows me how I am doing what I am supposed to and to trust my gut feelings from now on. He promised me when he was alive, he was always going to be by my side and teach me about life.
Now I finally understand what he meant by that and I now that I know how to
"Listen with my HEART"
That is how he spoke to his mom before he crossed over. I taught him how and he was able to go deeper with it since his soul was ascending and leaving the physical body. The dream state plays a big part of crossing over and communicating with loved ones. That is where my gifts come into play. I am sensitive enough to feel him and learn his lessons that he encourages me to write it all down.
I'm not the writer I wish to become yet, but as long as it's getting out there for someone to find, that's all that matters.
Don't forget to realize that we are all dying. Don't allow your diagnosis or reality to have you feel stuck in misery until you die. Don't allow the pain and confusion to stop you from gaining understanding to the karma you're experiencing.Being a medium for me has been traumatizing, because I had to earn my way to understanding. I had to experience hell in order to seek solitude and want to create peace with my sanity and not let the forces around me cause me to go insane. I went "within" so I can heal my trauma and know what triggers me to thinking about the negative side to things.
That is all the enemy fighting with you spiritually.
When we die, we lose our vessel, not our spirit.
We are the spirit having the human experience.
This isn't forever.
Thank God for that!
Pain does end, but learn what the pain wants to teach you about life around you. You will help someone else with your story when you're meant to cross paths.
Everyone in your life is there to teach you something.
Are you ready for the lesson?
Are you ready to understand your lesson?
So, it's crazy how I end up writing these posts, but they are all for a reason that I don't understand right now, but I'm doing as I'm told.
I'm not afraid of death, I'm not afraid of anyone stalking me because I speak of life in a way no one else has, because this is my story.
I don't know why I wrote it this way before I got here.
My destiny, I mean.....
I know my purpose now and of all the things I pushed away in my life, God forced me to go back into it and learn more about myself. The things I didn't want to face and be reminded about my Dad.... I just want to live my life in peace. I didn't want to think about my past love, but I meet people that remind me of my life back home and that person in particular.....
So, it's all hitting at once. It's a slow process, my father has been gone for 11 years now. I'm getting the hang of it now...... Writing this isn't a race for me, the lessons are exciting to finally understand why I went through them, but again.... Time helps me explain things better when I see it in a different perspective. I couldn't have accomplished that goal until I went through the pain and worked on my character to change my outcomes to my problems. I had to change myself first.
I hope those that are part of this journey with me understand that I am only putting out there tools to help them succeed.
I'm not going out of my way to create another trauma bond or narcissistic injury towards anyone. I love them very much and I want them to work on themselves and gain abundance correctly, not with the use of black magic and occult practices.
That's another story for another day. Suz wants them to know that she was in my life to warn me about my lessons in my future, but I can't run from them. I am here to learn lessons and teach others how to learn theirs.
That's all this is about.
Life is a stage, how do you want to play it?
I choose to grow and allow myself to see the positive to where I feel the emotion of bliss, love, joy and acceptance of all things coexisting together.
I be back soon,
I hope you have a nice weekend.
<3,
Tina,

Hi, so I'm very new to Hellenic polytheism, and I've really only worked with the Lady Athena, and only twice at that.
Today, I prayed to her for help, and since I don't have an altar or any offerings, I told her I would write three poems in her honour within one day as thanks. I usually manage to write one decent poem every few months, so I have no idea how I pulled this off, but I did. I don't really have anyone in real life to show these to, but I don't want to keep them hidden. So I thought I might share them here, where maybe some other devotees of Lady Athena might get to read them and hopefully like them. I hope She likes them.
They are, respectively, written about her domains over craftsmanship, wisdom, and battle.
O, my lady Ergane, my lady of creation
Whose divinity taught us to weave By whose grace, we spin our memories
Whose divinity taught us to mold clay By whose grace, we craft the earth
Whose divinity taught us to calculate By whose grace, we create order of chaos
Whose deft hands created the flute By whose grace, we whistle with the wind
Whose deft hands created the trumpet By whose grace, we dance to our melodies
Whose deft hands created the rake By whose grace, we cultivate our gardens
Whose strength gifted us the bit and bridle By whose grace, we ride with the stallions
Whose strength gifted us the chariot By whose grace, we race into battle
Whose strength gifted us the ship By whose grace, we trade over oceans
O, my lady Ergane, my lady of creation Praise be!
O Goddess of Athens Of a clever mind
Whose wisdom remains untarnished Whose wisdom remains unsullied
Sharp of wit, sharp of eye Of a calculating mind
Whose mind creates music Whose mind creates victory
A fount of knowledge Of a strategic mind
Let the light of your eyes Uncloud our sight
Let the light of your eyes Uncloud our souls
Praise be.
O Athena Promachos
Fearsome warrior, wielder of spear, wielder of sword Soldier with bones forged out of steel
Who could stand against your armies? Who could stand against your judgement?
O Athena Parthenos
Liberated maiden, untouched by carnality, untouched by desire Favoured daughter of the King of Olympus
Who would not praise your freedom? Who would not praise your strength?
O Athena Pallas
Honorable protector, the shield of Perseus, the shield of Odysseus Defender of the citadel of Athens
Who should not sing your praises? Who should not sing your worship?
Okay, that's it, I hope you guys like it 😭 Like I said, I'm very new to Hellenic polytheism, and although I tried to stay accurate to Lady Athena's mythology (if that's the correct word), please tell me if I got something wrong.

For tdlr scroll down
I know this is wholesome sub but sunno mohalle walo meri aap biti 😂
I have been a good academically and a decent person. I met so many good women in my life, too, whom I dated casually and had a few serious relationships. Except for two times, I exited those serious relationships very early because I didn’t feel anything, so we parted ways on good terms. But do baar mujhe pyaar hua. I will tell you about them only.

1. This is my first love and someone I have known since my childhood. She was the daughter of a relative (I mean my bua’s relative, actually). She used to study at my school too. In high school, she chased me for a year, and finally, I gave in. We started dating; it was my first love, and I was happy. Kasme, waade, sapne bohot dekhe. I was a sort of grounded person; I live in the present and enjoy it thoroughly, but she was futuristic with lots of promises and future dreams. "I will have your kids, we will travel the world," blah blah. I did everything to keep her happy. I used to cook for her, I used to write poems for her, we used to go on dates often, and we traveled. But one fine day, I got an invitation to a wedding. Guess what? It was her wedding. I had so many questions: why, how, when? But I got no closure. I never asked for it. I went to the wedding because it was a family thing, and yeah, I never looked back (this was my longest relationship).
   
2. After few years and meeting so many people, I fell in love again. To be honest, this time we fell for each other during the initial conversations. Again, there were dreams, sapne, waade. She moved to North America for me, and we moved together into a single house. By this time, I had become a pro at cooking, so I used to go to study, then the office, then back home to cook something delicious for us. I can cook any cuisine irrespective of the continent or country. Till now, I have learned many other skills like piano and guitar, so I used to sing for her, play for her, and we used to dance together. Everything was good; we had mutual friends, and we knew a guy mutually. That guy didn’t like me, and I didn’t like him. I did have a problem with things because my ex told me he does not like me. But I don’t own her; I don’t own anyone. Actually, anyone can do anything in their life.
   

So, one fine day, I got a video message. It was them doing the deeds. I was shocked and broken and didn’t understand a thing. I tried to gather courage and be rational. She came back and was trying to talk to me. Then I told her I wanted to break up. She asked me why, and I said I was out of love. She started crying and begging, saying that she loves me. Then she started accusing me and some of my other female friends, implying something was going on. She said, "You used to love me and now want to throw me out. Where would I go? I came here from India for you," and all that stuff. I tried to control myself, but then I gave in and showed her the video. Then she was like, "I am sorry, I love you a lot. You are my life; I want to marry you. He made me drunk and took advantage of me. Please forgive me." At that point, I firmly decided this was it. I told her she could stay till she found accommodation, then I went to my friend's home and stayed there for a few days. But she kept pursuing me. I canceled the lease and changed my house; still, she did the same thing. During this whole ordeal, I had to change my house twice and delete my Instagram, and finally, now I am free.
I don’t know why all this happened. I don’t know what else I could have done so that they didn’t do that to me. Maybe I was not a good partner. There could be any other reasons. But I don’t hold any grudges against them. I wish wherever they are, they are happy.
These experiences were very important for me; they made me who I am today. I don't hold anything against anyone. These are just two instances. In my life, I have met so many amazing women and am friends with them too.
What’s next? I am kinda hopeful that I will find love. But Thik hai, nahi mila to mami Jo karegi Accha hi karegi. But whoever I have in my life, I will look for two qualities in them, no matter how they look or other things: loyalty and the ability to stand for what they believe in. If they leave, they should leave being brave and open about it. I don’t care about other things like distance, looks, status, or whatever else.
TL;DR: I've had a few serious relationships, but two major ones stood out. The first was with my childhood love who suddenly got married to someone else without any closure for me. The second was with someone who moved to North America for me, but she cheated on me with a mutual friend. After discovering this, I ended the relationship and had to move houses and delete social media to get away from her.

For tdlr scroll down
I know this sub is for Tinder or dating apps, and my life stories may not have a place here, but I have been following this sub for a long time. So, I wanted to share with you guys. I don’t think I was wrong, but let’s see your perspective too.
I have been a good academically and a decent person. I met so many good women in my life, too, whom I dated casually and had a few serious relationships. Except for two times, I exited those serious relationships very early because I didn’t feel anything, so we parted ways on good terms. But do baar mujhe pyaar hua. I will tell you about them only.
1.This is my first love and someone I have known since my childhood. She was the daughter of a relative (I mean my bua’s relative, actually). She used to study at my school too. In high school, she chased me for a year, and finally, I gave in. We started dating; it was my first love, and I was happy. Kasme, waade, sapne bohot dekhe. I was a sort of grounded person; I live in the present and enjoy it thoroughly, but she was futuristic with lots of promises and future dreams. "I will have your kids, we will travel the world," blah blah. I did everything to keep her happy. I used to cook for her, I used to write poems for her, we used to go on dates often, and we traveled. But one fine day, I got an invitation to a wedding. Guess what? It was her wedding. I had so many questions: why, how, when? But I got no closure. I never asked for it. I went to the wedding because it was a family thing, and yeah, I never looked back (this was my longest relationship).
2.After a few years and meeting so many people, I fell in love again. To be honest, this time we fell for each other during the initial conversations. Again, there were dreams, sapne, waade. She moved to North America for me, and we moved together into a single house. By this time, I had become a pro at cooking, so I used to go to study, then the office, then back home to cook something delicious for us. I can cook any cuisine irrespective of the continent or country. Till now, I have learned many other skills like piano and guitar, so I used to sing for her, play for her, and we used to dance together. Everything was good; we had mutual friends, and we knew a guy mutually. That guy didn’t like me, and I didn’t like him. I did have a problem with things because my ex told me he does not like me. But I don’t own her; I don’t own anyone. Actually, anyone can do anything in their life.
So, one fine day, I got a video message. It was them doing the deeds. I was shocked and broken and didn’t understand a thing. I tried to gather courage and be rational. She came back and was trying to talk to me. Then I told her I wanted to break up. She asked me why, and I said I was out of love. She started crying and begging, saying that she loves me. Then she started accusing me and some of my other female friends, implying something was going on. She said, "You used to love me and now want to throw me out. Where would I go? I came here from India for you," and all that stuff. I tried to control myself, but then I gave in and showed her the video. Then she was like, "I am sorry, I love you a lot. You are my life; I want to marry you. He made me drunk and took advantage of me. Please forgive me." At that point, I firmly decided this was it. I told her she could stay till she found accommodation, then I went to my friend's home and stayed there for a few days. But she kept pursuing me. I canceled the lease and changed my house; still, she did the same thing. During this whole ordeal, I had to change my house twice and delete my Instagram, and finally, now I am free.
I don’t know why all this happened. I don’t know what else I could have done so that they didn’t do that to me. Maybe I was not a good partner. There could be any other reasons. But I don’t hold any grudges against them. I wish wherever they are, they are happy.
These experiences were very important for me; they made me who I am today. I don't hold anything against anyone. These are just two instances. In my life, I have met so many amazing women and am friends with them too.
What’s next? I am kinda hopeful that I will find love. But Thik hai, nahi mila to mami Jo karegi Accha hi karegi. But whoever I have in my life, I will look for two qualities in them, no matter how they look or other things: loyalty and the ability to stand for what they believe in. If they leave, they should leave being brave and open about it. I don’t care about other things like distance, looks, status, or whatever else.
TL;DR: I've had a few serious relationships, but two major ones stood out. The first was with my childhood love who suddenly got married to someone else without any closure for me. The second was with someone who moved to North America for me, but she cheated on me with a mutual friend. After discovering this, I ended the relationship and had to move houses and delete social media to get away from her. These experiences were tough but important, shaping who I am today.

Searching for a poem
Hi. I hope this post is okay. I'm searching for a poem I recently saw on fb but didn't save. It's a daughter writing about her fisherman father, comparing him to a zen master. It contains the line "there is no word for satori in Gaelic" and talks about the river, the sky, osprey, and her father's ability to act on intuition. If anyone comes across it, or knows it, that would be amazing!
Thank you!

Spoilers ahead…
Dear Karthik Subbaraj,
Congratulations on yet another interesting movie, and for resisting the impulse to name this one, too, after a food item. Iraivi is an unusual feminist film, in the sense that it’s seen entirely through the prism of sympathetic male characters. Your men aren’t monsters who drink or cheat on their wives or subject them to torture. They do these things, yes, but… differently. Arul (SJ Surya) drinks, but only to drown out his sense of failure – he’s a director and his film is in the cans, being held hostage by a sadistic producer. Michael (Vijay Sethupathi) has sex with Malarvizhi (Pooja Devariya), and he continues to lust after her after his marriage to Ponni (Anjali) – I love that all your women have names that suggest classical heroines, including Arul’s wife Yazhini (Kamalini Mukherjee) – but it’s a marriage he committed to in a hurry and he still hasn’t reconciled himself to it. He’s being a bastard, certainly, but he’s not a one-note villain. And the torture they inflict isn’t the stubbing-a-cigarette-into-the-wife’s-bare-arm variety. It’s more mental than physical.
So we get women who are collateral damage – and I include Arul’s comatose mother (Vadivukkarasi), and the nurse who’s not allowed to do her duty – of men being men. They’re being babies, really. Yazhini tells Arul that he should get on with his life, write another story, make another movie. He says it’s like her trying to have another child while still pregnant with their daughter. (Yes, all these men end up with girl children.) He’s a wallower – but maybe all artists are. You like to do that, don’t you Karthik? Even in a film like this, you deliver a commentary about filmmaking and the artist. Why, even Arul’s father is a sculptor, and though we never see him ill-treating his wife (thank you for sparing us the clichés of raised hands and raised voices), we’re informed that he’s responsible for her state. His son’s following the father’s footsteps. Maybe you’re trying to say that the wives of obsessed artists are doomed to become collateral damage. Your films make us think, Karthik, so thank you for that.
All your stories have at their centre a filmmaker, or at least (in the case of your first film, Pizza) a storyteller. And through them, we seem to hear your voice. “Works of art should not be in places where they are not respected.” “Namma padam pesanum, naama pesa koodadhu.” You compare masala movies to a massage with a happy ending. (I laughed, but please don’t judge me when I say I rather like massages with happy endings – I refer to masala movies, of course.) We even get a line of dialogue about Dolby Atmos. (What will the B/C-centre audience make of this, Karthik? But then you don’t really give a shit, do you? More power to you.) And you like your insider jokes. That crass, egoistic producer who does not care about art – he reminded me of the crass producer from your earlier film, Jigarthanda. You like Rajinikanth too. You referenced Thillu Mullu in Pizza, Thalapathi in Jigarthanda, and now you have Arul singing Malayala karayoram, Michael singing Oorai therinjikitten.
Or is that more of an Ilayaraja homage? You like to keep the audience guessing, right? When the Bobby Simha character in Jigarthanda said he was a Shankar-Ganesh fan, it appeared that you were mocking the endless Ilayaraja nods in Tamil cinema, but here you are, doffing your hat to the maestro. “Raja Raja dhaan.” Arul says this… twice. (By the way, which is that nightclub which plays Maanguyile poonguyile? Do let us know.) And the reuse of Unnai thaane – first in a scene between Michael and Malarvizhi; later in a scene between Michael and Ponni – is the kind of Easter egg we come to your films for. Let me list some others, though I’ll probably need to watch the film a second (or third) time to get them all. The name of the bachelors’ quarters is Ambal Mansion – it goes with your theme and title. I didn’t get the bit about the windmills (something connected to the gust of wind that makes the row of cycles fall over in the first scene?), or why you showcased the book of Shanta Shishunala Sharif’s poems. (I confess. I Googled up that name. I can’t remember the last time a Tamil film made me Google something up. Madras, maybe.) And despite your note at the beginning that Iraivi is inspired by the works of K Balachander (he made female-centric films, but I don’t know if I’d call them feminist films), this is really more of an ode to Mani Ratnam, isn’t it? Specifically, Aayidha Ezhuthu. The three men, one of them – the impulsive one – named Michael. The film starting out as Arul’s story, then becoming Michael’s story, and finally Jagan’s (Bobby Simha) story. The finale with the woman on the train. Plus, the arc of the Madhavan-Meera Jasmine plot was essentially about being easily misled (in the case of the man) and becoming collateral damage (in the case of the woman.) And yes, the rain. All that rain. As though the skies were weeping for these women.
Am I digressing, Karthik? If I am, I’m just following your style, which is the opposite of simple and linear. As a result, I find your films longer than they need to be. (You may feel the same about my reviews.) For instance, I did not care for the scene in the nightclub where a director is felicitated. I realise it was there as a last straw for Yazhini, but it felt redundant. But I suppose they couldn’t be any other way, because you like these shaggy-dog stories that you then embellish with novelistic detail. I love the way you introduce your characters, the time you take with them. Our films lay out characters and their relationship to each other the minute we set eyes on them, but you make us wait to know how Arul is related to Jagan and where Michael fits in and so on. And when it appeared that a semblance of a plot was kicking in (something about Arul needing money to buy back his film), I dug out my phone and checked: it was a whole hour into the movie. Borrowing an image from Malarvizhi’s profession (oh wait, she’s an artist too; she’s literally an artist), it’s like daubs of paint slowly forming a bigger picture.
And you really like an expansive canvas. Not only does the crass producer have a brother, you also bring in his wife later on, to conclude a deal he began making. These segments practically form a mini-movie, with another woman left reeling by the actions of her man. Your films have this… density. They’re packed – with characters, with complications, with information doled out in bits and pieces. (A character says, “Un kitta onnu sollanum.” And instead of hearing what he has to say, we cut to someone else.) Take the scene where Michael asks Arul for money he is owed. You just need to get Michael to Arul’s antiques shop, so the next part of the plot can be staged. Arul could have told Michael to collect the money at the shop. Instead, this is what we get. Arul tells Michael to wait for a week, when he can get the 50 lakhs he is owed. Michael says he wants only 10 lakhs. Arul says he has only 8 lakhs, he’ll give the remainder later. Michael goes to Arul’s father, in the hospital. He has only 5 lakhs. And he directs Michael to the shop, to get the remaining 3 lakhs. Your signature intercutting adds to this texture, Karthik. Shots of Michael and Arul’s father in the hospital are intercut with shots of Arul hunting for booze. Shots of Michael and Jagan outside a courtroom are intercut with shots of Arul being consoled by his father. Happenings are stretched and meshed the way they would be in real life, and not compacted according to the page-per-minute requirement of screenplay-writing textbooks.
I could never predict where the film was going (win!), what these people were going to do (again, win!) –though I must admit I found this to be the weakest of your “twists.” The subplot about stealing sculptures, too, I found rather conceit-y, something half-heartedly cooked up to fit with the title and the theme, rather than something plausible, something these people would do. When Michael, here, commits murder, with a hammer, I went, “This mild-mannered chap? Really?” But then, even in Jigarthanda, I wasn’t quite convinced that the characters would do the things they did. They seemed to be puppets of a screenplay rather than credible human beings, whose actions evolve organically from who they are (or at least, who they seem to be).
But even if I am not convinced by the overall trajectory of your characters, I love how fleshed-out they are on a moment-to-moment basis. I loved the scene where Arul barges into Yazhini’s house, after their separation, on the day of her engagement to someone else. In a lesser film, she would have asked him to get out, and he’d have dug his heels in, and she’d have cooled down and… But here, she rushes straight into his arms. And you make us see why. She was frustrated, fed up with him. But she’s also confused. Was she hasty in abandoning this man? Should she move on with another man? Does she even need a man? With just this one scene, you’ve compensated for the underwritten heroine of Jigarthanda. The story arc may be Arul’s, but Yazhini registers as a fully formed character. Similarly, Michael’s arc allows for the delineation of Ponni and Malarvizhi, and through Jagan, we get glimpses of his mother, and possibly of all womanhood as viewed by a compassionate man. And then you say that women don’t need even this compassionate man (poor chap!), that they have to emancipate themselves instead of looking for a penis-wielding emancipator. What delicious irony, given that you begin the film with women talking about marriage, tying themselves to a man!
Or not, in the case of Malarvizhi, who is easily the film’s most interesting character. Her husband is dead, and she doesn’t want love anymore – only sex. When Michael buys her a diamond necklace, she gives it back to him – she can buy her own trinkets, thank you very much. But the character feels shoe-horned into the film, Karthik. I felt betrayed – and I bet she did too – that after a point, she was used simply as a plot device to get Michael and Ponni together, and also to illustrate Michael’s (who is now standing in for all of mankind) hypocrisy. I felt she deserved more. And yet, I appreciated your generosity in fleshing her out like all the others, without judging her. She gets to be the rare woman in Tamil cinema who dumps the man, and the way she lets go of Michael is echoed in the way Arul lets go of Yazhini, with a heavy heart and some playacting. A side effect of the Malarvizhi subplot is the reassurance that Vijay Sethupathi is still interested in making cinema, rather than just massy entertainers targeted at the box office.
Ponni gets a better deal (and Anjali is terrific, raw and expressive in a way she has never been). In a great scene – rather, a set of book-ending scenes – Michael tells Ponni that he was forced to marry her, and she’s going to have to “adjust” to this if she wants to be with him. Much later, she throws the “adjust” word back on his bearded face when he asks her if she slept with someone else. In a different kind of movie, we’d be invited to see this symmetry, stand up and applaud. But you’re too subtle for that, Karthik. Iraivi is your subtlest film. Which is why I winced at the melodramatic lines about men and women, most of which came towards the end. Aan, using the long-sounding vowel, versus penn, with the shorter one – for such a visual filmmaker (this is another outstandingly shot film, less showy than Jigarthanda and probably richer for that), do you really need the crutch of linguistic special effects from another era of filmmaking? Also, when the rest of your film is so allusive, isn’t there another way you can explain the twist without having a character resort to such an inelegant information dump?
And why is it that your films come together more in the head than in the heart? Why are they easier to admire than love wholeheartedly? I used to think it was because your characters are essentially deceitful, self-serving and unsympathetic, so though we were invested in what they did, we didn’t really warm up to them. But here, you have Ponni and Yazhini and Malarvizhi – and they’re still remote. But perhaps this is bound to happen when there are so many people, so many strands, when we don’t follow one person’s simplistic “you go, girl” journey like we do in, say, 36 Vayadhinile? But when the parts are so well-crafted, we don’t complain as much about their sum not adding up to a satisfying whole. I am sure that you will, one day, make that wholly satisfying film, but for now, thank you for these parts. Thank you for the ambition. I felt there were too many songs (some good work by Santhosh Narayanan), but thank you for ensuring that they don’t break character, the way songs usually do when a character speaking in his or her voice suddenly segues into the playback singer’s voice. Thank you for giving us SJ Surya, the actor – I never dreamed he had such a capacity to hold a scene, to hold the screen. Thank you for continuing not to sell out. Thank you for trying to do so much, even if not all of it needed to have been tried. And thank you for making me fight with myself, for not making it easy to decide if you’ve made a “good” film or a merely “okay” film. For now, Iraivi is a fascinating film, and that’s enough.
Sincerely, etc.

Dear Poetry Fanciers,
Welcome back for a special Victorian edition of Poetry Corner, brought to you by u/NightAngelRogue and a splendid accompaniment for our upcoming read of The Thrilling Adventures of Lovelace and Babbage. Just a reminder, if there is a special poem you would like to feature in Poetry Corner, just send me a message and we'll get it the schedule!
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Q: Nelson Mandela, Tuberculosis and Long John Silver walk in a bar. Who are they talking about as they go in?
A: Probably William Ernest Henley (1849-1903).
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Poet, journalist, literary critic, editor, publisher, translator and Victorian-extraordinaire, Henley, was a good friend to Robert Louis Stevenson, who he inspired to write the character "Long John Silver" in Treasure Island. Stevenson, writing to Henley-" I will now make a confession: It was the sight of your maimed strength and masterfulness that begot Long John Silver ... the idea of the maimed man, ruling and dreaded by the sound, was entirely taken from you". The friendship was a tumultuous and long one.
Henley's sickly daughter, Margaret, was the inspiration of "Wendy" in J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan. She would not live long past her 5th birthday, the only child Henley had with his wife, Hannah "Anna" Johnston Boyle. Tragedy had long painted his life even before this sad event. He was diagnosed with a rare form of tuberculosis at age 12, that affected his bones. His left leg had to be amputated below the knee when Henley was a young man, and he was often in the hospital with various abscesses that need to be drained. Frequent illness kept him out of school and interrupted his professional work. Henley eventually sought out the advice of Joseph Lister, who was pioneering new techniques, including antiseptic operating conditions and doing groundbreaking research on wounds, when his right foot become affected by the tuberculosis. Still, his ill-health did not keep him from practicing his art. While Lister kept him under observation at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh, from 1873-75, Henly wrote and published a collection of poems, which includes today's selection, In Hospital (1903). This collection of poems is notable also because it was one of the earliest examples of free verse in English poetry. Henley and others in his group became known as the "Henley Regatta" for their championing of realism, such as the poor working conditions in the Victorian underbelly, in opposition to the Decadent movement in France and the Aesthetic movement closer to home. This would be the last collection of poetry and the most impactful of his work; his death would follow later that year. Unfortunately, a fall from a carriage reawakened the latent tuberculosis hiding inside him, which carried him off age 53. He was buried next to his daughter, in Cockaney Hatley, Bedfordshire. His wife would later also be buried alongside her family.
His legacy is one that is both inspiring and rather dispiriting. His poetry was used for jingoistic and imperialist causes, and to champion war, though much of it was about personal striving and inner resolve-the mythical "Stiff Upper Lip" of the Victorian era. This led to push back in the literary world, as D.H. Lawrence's short story, "England, My England and Other Stories" took flight from one of the lines from "Pro Rege Nostro", which is more patriotic than his usual work. Admittedly, he counted himself as a conservative and supported the imperial effort, as much of Victorian society did at this time. Still, his work fell into obscurity, with the main exception of "Invictus"-Latin for "unconquered". It is well known that Nelson Mandela recited this poem to his fellow inmates in Robben Island as a reminder to stay strong and keep one's dignity. There are also, of course, the Invictus Games, which are held for injured and sick service men and women and veterans in the UK.
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Winston Churchill to the House of Commons, September 9, 1941:
"“The mood of Britain is wisely and rightly averse from every form of shallow or premature exultation. This is no time for boasts or glowing prophecies, but there is this—a year ago our position looked forlorn, and well nigh desperate, to all eyes but our own. Today we may say aloud before an awe-struck world, ‘We are still masters of our fate. We still are captain of our souls.'” (link)
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Sidney Low, in "Some Memories and Impressions – William Ernest Henley". The Living Age (1897–1941) describing his friend:
"... to me he was the startling image of Pan come to Earth and clothed—the great god Pan...with halting foot and flaming shaggy hair, and arms and shoulders huge and threatening, like those of some Faun or Satyr of the ancient woods, and the brow and eyes of the Olympians." (link)
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Andrzej Diniejko on Henley as "poet as a patient" and his work predating modern forms of poetry "not only in form, as experiments in free verse containing abrasive narrative shifts and internal monologue, but also in subject matter". (link)
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"Invictus"
by William Ernest Henley
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
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This poem is in the public domain.
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Some things to discuss might be the title. How does the defiant spirit of this "Unconquered" opening play throughout the lines of the poem? There is also a reference to the Bible Verse Matthew 7:14 in the poem, "Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it". Why do you think this is included? What lines stand out to you? How do you see him fit into the Victorian literary furniture, if you will? Have you heard this poem before? How does this fit in with the melancholy feel of the Bonus Poem, if you read it? What other poets do you enjoy from this era of literature?
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Bonus Poem: We'll Go No More a-Roving
Bonus Link #1: "Love Blows As the Wind Blows" (1911) song-cycle by George Butterworth, with Henley's poetry put to music and song.
Bonus Link #2: A literary review of the Victorian Era.
Bonus Link #3: Read the other poems included in the collection, In Hospital.
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If you missed last's month poem, you can find it here.

I have difficulty with routine/time management at home. I am home from work around 4pm M-F. My husband handles the kids, school drop off/pick-up, most of the cleaning and cooking. I have a toddler and kindergartner.
I always struggle with when to do my kid’s homework and piano practice. My daughter is ONLY in Kindergarten but I can’t get consistent with her tasks. she has to read a tiny bit nightly, learn a new sentence-poem by memory every week, and study some sight words every week. We aim to do piano practice for 10-15m each day. However, we usually end up practicing piano 1-2x a week so her progress is super slow. We do her homework reading also 1-2x a week. It sounds ridiculous but I can’t figure out how to get consistent with this.
Usually by the time I finish work, she’ll be playing outside or be doing some screen time (educational stuff). And I want a little break after work, too. Then the kids want to play/connect, which I think is healthy to do after school so we do that. And then it’s just about dinner time.. after dinner often I want to do some chores/cleaning.. and then I’ll realize we’re out of time to do homework/music or I just feel tired. Keep in mind my husband does most the cooking so I don’t even have to do that.
On top of this, I have a self-paced course I’ve been meaning to get to for professional development but I keep putting it off because I feel like I have no time.
Should I make a schedule? I’ve never been good at sticking to that.. I don’t know ahead of time which exact day we’ll bathe the kids or which exact day I’ll wash my hair.. or which day we’ll end up playing outside for hours eally enjoying ourselves..

I've been alienated by mom from my 8 year old daughter for 5 years now. I've been fighting through the courts to see her again and, needless to say, it has been a painfully slow process. I feel like we're just now starting to make progress, but I've learned to temper my expectations.
Here is a poem I read that has given me encouragement in my darkest of moments over these years that, I believe, is especially applicable to PA. I've almost committed it to memory at this point. I don't know if I'm allowed to post something like this here, but I just wanted to give everyone (in particular, the dads) something to help keep them fighting the good fight.
. . . .
"If" by Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired of waiting, Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or, being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build them up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch; If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son.

I’m looking for a poem that I heard on TikTok. I accidentally unsaved it, and would love to find it again. Its s by a woman. It’s a fairly long poem, so I’ll just share what I remember from the beginning:
‘One: your father talks like an ocean spilling words like a spilled drink.. covering.. everything. Your mother… doesn’t say anything.’
… can’t remember this part
‘You only hear about you mother’s premarital life from your father, he talks of how he tamed her, saved her.’
Something about how ‘Icarus could have just as well drowned as burned - and your mothers mouth is a saltwater darkness’
Later in the poem it’s about the daughter’s own struggles with trusting men:
‘leave before they realise you’re not worth staying for (and later in the poem: before they realise you’re not worth scaring for.’)
Hope someone knows it🤞

TLDR uBPD Mum wrote her twin daughters a birthday poem but sent it twelve days late, full of innacuracies and with a request to visit one of them. The request is for a fictional exhibition in a specific date range. She forwarded her original message to the other twin without to editing out the visit request or making an attempt to cover the fact it was written for the first twin and sent to the other as an after thought.
Context A birthday poem sent to me an hour after it was sent to my twin sister. It was also 12 days after our actual birthday, neither of us heard from uBPD mum on the day (I've asked her not to contact me but she thinks that my sister & I are 1 entity so even though my sister is still in contact with her, mum treats her like she is not). My sister (Twin1) trained in fine art in the city she now works in. She is not currently making art so has no idea what exhibition uBPD mum refers to in the poem. I have marked lies/inaccuracies with an * I've asterisked the line about being a proud mum and gran because if she was so proud, why does she make no mention of wanting to see her 2 grand sons on this trip to the city to see my sister at her exhibition? She hasn't seen her grandsons in at least a year despite visiting near by their city in our small country twice last year. She didn't even tell my sister she was in the area until my sister phoned to wish uBPD mum happy birthday on her birthday February this year.
Poem
Twin1 and Twin2 38 today * That's just not possible no way Where has the time gone Times flies sadly that's so true Doesn't seem that long ago when Myself and Twin2 went to the zoo.
You were and are my sunshine of Hometown on Gala My beautiful twin daughters living in bonnie Hometown Bay A prouder mum I could not be how you both excelled and now you both have your own family You get to experience the love and joy like I had and still have as I reflect on my wonderful family tree When you hurried home excitedly to show all the things you had lovingly made for me
You were always caring and sharing Even at such a young age so helpful too. Remember girls I was on the phone to uBPD Gran When you flushed Twin2 nappy down the loo I was panic stricken and mortified when the neighbour below said it had flooded her too.
I loved my plants* .it was a not easy to maintain with two Mischieves monkeys who tipped them upside down . It was funny but I also did frown Before you knew it we were back to laughing and getting along Happy again and full of song
Love shack was your favourite tune I loved that song too you could sing it to the moon Love shack baby love shack Oh to hear you sing that song would bring It all right back
The time we all got such a fright Twin 1 When you accidentally bumped into a light Well lamp post * Out of the three of us who was startled the most?
You were fine ,you got a war wound scar Was it the left or right side I can't remember I think it was your right eye It was so long ago at the time you were very shy
Twin 2 walked into a gate * I was dumstruck only seconds too late* You got a scar on your eyes too By then I was beside myself and did not know what to do !
Almost in the space of a year You each have a scar by your eye Which side they are on your eye is unclear Now you parents yourself you know what I mean How quickly things can happen Even when your close by to the scene
Bless the wee lady above is in Hometown She used to shout girls you whoo seconds later it was raining milkyways all over you I could only chuckle when I realised I too Along with uBPD dister we went to our neighbour for our daily rations of sweeties too * And to this day I believe my mum never knew.
Remember when you got up early and Oh my you got hold of the butter I think I was in a flutter Butter in the rods of the Wendy house it was everywhere If I recall righghtly it was in your hair.
You used to trick people switching places * Sometimes you did trip up on your laces You tried to fool me but that was not so easy * However tricking your pals and strangers was easy peasy.*
The things you have done this uBPD Mum and gran could not be more proud of you You won a camera for your ambulance picture Twin2 you designed the school logo in highschool too Is there no end to your talents You both excelled and followed your career Which I never regretted not being able to As th minute I knew I was expecting I always prioritised you* and am a proud mum of twins with 5 wonderful grandchildren too*
The trips we went to beech and picnics with aunt The endless pictures are wonderful memories of happy times with you I still have her special multi coloured umbrella Where we often seemed shelter under it too
So many more memories this is some of them I just want to ask you Twin 1 can I come with my friend M or F and see your exhibition* city between 23 rd and 29 th Sept I love seeing all that you can do and have done
Your pictures in the cafe The story about wellies and where they travelled from faraway I believe it was Canada And you made a wellington cast Now it's a focal point for tourists and everyone to see.*
I often look at the screen you both made me made before I moved country All the gifts over the years cards and mementos each one speaks words to me When you gave me the picture and chair for my birthday .
That incredible exhibition in the gallery when you made a clear curtain and even there there is a story
I understand if you say no don't come .I hope and pray one day we will all Be together again surrounded by my family.Until that joyous day comes remember I carry love in my heart for you all eternally❤️

Edit: If you are going to comment on the length of this post, please don't. This is not a simple snark but rather an actual critical think piece about feminism and Taylor Swift.

Introduction

Pertaining to Taylor Swift, "Female Rage" has deviated from its intended meaning after Swift debuted a new performance of The Tortured Poets Department during the Eras Tour. Now, according to Swift's use of the phrase, female rage is interpreted as public backlash against Swift's dating choices rather than as a response to the broader injustices against women and women's rights. This post examines Taylor Swift's flawed feminism, philanthropy, branding, and the controversial trademark petition for the phrase "Female Rage: The Musical". Swift's background as an entertainer, indeterminate politics, and alignment with capitalism over feminism pervades her legacy, again threatening her public tolerance as not just an individual but as a brand.

Once Upon a Female Rage...

If you were cognizant in the early 2010's, you've heard countless jabs at Taylor Swift in the media. Magazines, radio, or online. Music critics did not take her seriously as a songwriter; parents put a woman on an unrealistic pedestal as the ideal role model for their children; she dated too much and used men as lyrical fodder. No matter the story, it inevitably spread, conjoined with everyone's respective opinions, and you'd be left to wonder, "Why does everyone hate this girl so much?"
Taylor's target demographic has always been young or adolescent girls, more so when Swift herself was one. She made music that spoke to the awkward misfit, cultivating a para-social relationship with fans on MySpace, then later twitter, Instagram, and YouTube, where Taylor posted relatable vlogs showcasing the life of a homegrown American girl. Taylor had a delayed public "growing up" and, compared to her female pop contemporaries, Swift never "gratuitously sexualized her image and seems pathologically averse to controversy" (and, apparently, never even had a sip of alcohol until she turned 21). She was more than happy to spin this narrative to allude to an inherent moral superiority above other women in the industry (Better Than Revenge, heard of it?), engaging in the very slut-shaming that she herself endured (the Madonna and Whore archetypes). The victim complex arose with the need to prove Taylor as a different type of pop girl. Based upon her holy and clean image, Swift had been dubbed "a feminist's nightmare", and that "[To Swift] other girls are obstacles; undeserving enemies who steal Taylor’s soulmates with their bewitching good looks and sexual availability." Feminism and Tennessee-Christian country values don't exactly mix, it seems.
Years later, Swift befriended Lena Dunham and thus experienced white feminism osmosis, where Dunham taught Swift that real feminists defend rapists, makes insensitive jokes about rape and abortion, and prioritize all-white casts. Swift then declared herself a feminist in 2014, saying,

"Becoming friends with Lena – without her preaching to me, but just seeing why she believes what she believes, why she says what she says, why she stands for what she stands for – has made me realize that I’ve been taking a feminist stance without actually saying so."

I suppose the male-centric songwriting subject that permeates Swift's discography contained covert feminism and that we just didn't see that. Perhaps, the "Bad Blood" song and music video were written only in jest and not about poor Katy Perry, for Swift, as a feminist, would "never make it a girl fight" or tear other women down (though all Katy did was date your terrible ex-boyfriend and allegedly steal three backup dancers from your tour). In 2013, Swift said, in response to Tina Fey and Amy Poehler's joke towards her serial dating, "There is a special place in hell for women who don't help other women."
There was that time in 2015 Taylor said that Nicki Minaj was "invited to any stage [she is] on" (as if Taylor expects to have access to every stage, award, and platform that Nicki might not otherwise have as a black female artist...yikes!) in response to Nicki's criticism of the white + thin VMA nominations. Later, Nicki responded with confusion, as Swift continued, "It’s unlike you to pit women against each other. Maybe one of the men took your slot..". Of course, this 'beef' was 'squashed' when Nicki performed with Taylor at the VMAs, with Nicki quite literally only having 38 seconds of stage time without Taylor. Maybe all that parading around with a legion of famous white women - similar to the way Taylor might've done with her numerous 1989-era handbags - was in fact a stance against gender inequality, and that this display of "girl power" should be enough to constitute Swift as a feminist icon.
Even while Swift says that Dunham informed her feminist outlook, she dances around the exact contents of those beliefs: "what she believes, what she says, what she stands for" is not exactly insightful towards what beliefs Swift might have inherited. Taylor never broaches women's rights topics such femicide, FGM, forced pregnancy & marriage, sex trafficking, women in slavery, women's financial and political oppression, women's educational rights, women's health, or women's autonomy, so we can assume she only gives a fuck about "girls supporting girls" (whatever that fucking means).
Despite some questionable (and sometimes vindictive) behavior, Taylor as a young woman did not deserve every media lashing that she received. We cannot deny that most headlines and criticisms perpetuated a misogynistic rhetoric which has plagued Swift for a majority of her career. Acknowledging events such as the development of her ED, her sexual assault trial, "Famous" lyric and MV depiction of Taylor, and the explicit Twitter deepfakes, for example, as both disgusting and unfortunate things that happened to a young woman in Hollywood does not negate the fact that Taylor is mostly a performative feminist.

Get Your Fucking Ass Up and Be a Philanthropist, It Seems Like Nobody Wants to Be a Philanthropist These Days

In 2013, Taylor Swift cut the ribbon at the grand opening of the Taylor Swift Education Center at the Country Music Hall of Fame in Nashville, Tennessee. The donation amount - $4 million - was the largest individual artist gift ever donated to the Country Music Hall of Fame, which is, of course, mentioned on Swift's website. The two-story facility features three classrooms, an instrument room, and an interactive children's exhibit gallery. Swift also performed at "All for the Hall" charity shows and has donated numerous artifacts from her career (such as notable guitars, tour costumes, etc) to the museum.
This was over 11 years ago, and it is still the only notable philanthropic contribution Taylor Swift has made.
For a woman of her net worth and stature, and a woman who recognizes the difficulties for women in film and music, you would think that Taylor Swift might establish a scholarship program for women to study the arts or something. Perhaps Swift might even consider becoming a member of organizations that support female artists, or one that supports LGBTQ+ causes (since she is now proudly an ally), yet she remains superficial with her graces. Broader philanthropy, such as donating relief aid to Palestinian women or women impacted by violence and discrimination will probably never receive any financial support from Miss Swift because then she'd be using her money towards philanthropies involving anyone but white entertainers.
She even says herself in Miss Americana, "My entire moral code as a kid and now is a need to be thought of as 'good'." Well, she's certainly thought of as good, though her actions say otherwise. She's more than happy to do a vaguely altruistic song and dance for a clip-worthy interview quote and mass appeasement, then fuck off to one of her mansions on a 20 minute private jet flight, rather than actually contribute to anything pertaining to the causes she has endorsed. Yet, far too many people continue to give a woman such as her their money, time, and energy, and she hoards these resources to herself.

I Like Some of the Taylor's Songs, But What the Fuck Does She Know About Feminism?

Swift continued with her self-proclaimed feminist campaign, positioning herself as a political activist and LGBTQ+ ally in the Miss Americana documentary. The primary focus of the documentary consists of the sexual assault trial, Andrea Swift's cancer diagnosis, Taylor's ED and body dysmorphia, media scrutiny, and, largely, finally speaking up about her politics publicly, mostly her opposition to the 2018 Tennessee Republican senate candidate, Marsha Blackburn, and Blackburn's beliefs. Swift says, following a scene discussing her experience during the trial,

"I just couldn't really stop thinking about it. And I just thought to myself, next time there is any opportunity to change anything, you had better know what you stand for and what you want to say."

We must ask ourselves, though: when has Swift ever spoken up to change anything? Okay, pulling her entire catalogue from Spotify because they didn't pay their artists enough and similarly pulling her catalogue from Apple Music are changes that she leveraged due to her revenue potential and power, but they are not pertinent to the average woman's rights. Moreover, these are issues that directly impacted Taylor's income, which was enough reason for her to protest in the first place. Swift has sold the most units for a female artist in first week sales, is the first female artist with 100k monthly Spotify listeners, is the first female artist to win the Album of the Year Grammy 4 times, and is the first female artist to do X, Y, and Z, all while being inoffensive and family-friendly to boot. The actual Taylor Swift seems unwilling to compromise the brand of Taylor Swift by contributing in meaningful ways to feminist causes, especially if it is for women outside of America and Hollywood.
The reason political anthems such as "The Man" and "Only the Young" of the Lover era feel disingenuous and corporate is because, well, it is. Taylor has taken every opportunity to advance her career or public image at the expense of other women. What is truly genuine to Taylor's outlook on other women is vying for male attention, taking down female competition, and vocalizing feminist injustices only if they directly impact her and her money. Some will argue that it's satisfactory for a woman with such a huge platform to even TALK about feminism, but that just isn't enough. It's even less impressive when you candidly look at the scope of her feminist lens: "If I was the man, then I'd be THE MAN", or "I really resent the ‘Be careful, buddy, she’s going to write a song about you’ angle, because it trivialises what I do", and, of course, "We all got crowns". Feminism, but only when it happens to me. It gets worse when you look at Taylor's track record of copying other famous women and removing other female artists as potential threats to her pop prowess.
It's good for PR to align yourself with certain blanket feminist and political beliefs, therefore good for branding, therefore good for ticketing and merchandise sales, therefore good for business. And Taylor Swift is a business.
She's not a feminist. Taylor Swift is a capitalist.

I Can't Pay Those Sweatshop Workers a Livable Wage or Benefits! How Else Would I Make My Billions?

Recently, Taylor's team filed to trademark the phrase "Female Rage: The Musical" after Taylor said during Paris N1 of the Eras Tour,

"So you were the first ones to see The Tortured Poets at the Eras Tour...or as I like to call it, 'Female Rage: The Musical'."

This trademark petition was filed last week on Saturday, and news comes about just as numerous unofficial fan-made merch designs have cropped up with this phrase plastered on Fruit of the Loom basics. I'm of the opinion Swift's team motioned for a trademark so that they can send out cease & desists to all those that make knockoff merch, which disrupts potential sales for Bravado, UMG's choice merchandising company; however, since it was filed earlier, perhaps Swift has bigger plans with the bizarre use of the gendered phrase. One Swiftie referred to the phrase "female rage" as "a funny Eras Tour joke". Could it be a possible fourth version of the Eras Tour Movie? Whatever the reason, the motion to capitalize off of such a concept is disgusting, but not unsurprising, for a woman that profits on her vain feminism.
Swift, through her company, TAS Rights Managements, has also trademarked over 200 phrases, including "1989", where she owns the property rights to this calendar year on keychains, phone cases, sunglasses, stationary, bags, beverage ware, clothing, entertainment services, your subconscious, and, of course, Christmas ornaments.
The vapid consumerism in Swiftie culture is, frankly, disgusting. Bravado's sustainability statement is non-existent, the quality control is abysmal, and the materials they use are horrible. The materials, such as acrylic and polyester, are made from petrochemicals. This means they are non-renewable, shed microplastics, and are quite toxic in production. The manufacturing process to make all of those lazy-rushed Eras Tour logo graphic tees is a huge blow to environmental well-being. Apparently, though, Swifties don't give a fuck. They sell out products in seconds and either have to face the manufactured scarcity or buy from a scalper that resells for 200% of the already ridiculous retail price. This doesn't include the environmental impact of vinyl records, CD, and cassette production, of which Taylor produces many variants that sell unsustainable amounts.
If we're talking about women's rights violations, why is no one acknowledging the women that work in the inhumane sweatshop conditions that have to pump out fugly t-shirts and hats? The millions of plastic microfiber dander they are inhaling, or the toxic dyes that touch their bare skin? Are they being compensated fairly for their skilled labour and are they in safe working environments? Do these women have minimal bargaining power, and do they have authority over their worker's rights? Is Taylor Swift female raging at their injustices? Does Taylor Swift ever feels bad that her wealth was built on the backs of women of color, disadvantaged by the demands of the global economy and garment industry? Do you think she ever says a little white feminist prayer for them before she goes to sleep at night?
What's even crazier is not that Taylor herself doesn't care, it's that Swifties don't care. There CANNOT BE ethical billionaires. You only make a billion dollars if you are exploiting other human beings for capital gain. Based on public perception of the possible "Female Rage: The Musical" trademark, it seems like Swifties are already asking for merch with this phrase. "If Taylor made it, I'd buy it." Oh, cool. So not only do you champion Miss Swift's avarice and billionaire status, but you also are unashamed to admit to your blind consumption of her music and merchandise, no matter where they might originate in production or sincerity. Just as Swift takes and takes and takes, Swifties' consumerism of Taylor Swift cannot be quelled.
The tortured artist's most vulnerable and sincere poetry...available now in 21 different versions!

I Am Tortured Poet, Hear Me Whinge

Look - even if Taylor's intention is to characterize TTPD as more "tortured" and "angry", the main thread of the album is "I was ghosted by my decade-long situationship with a controversial indie boy and my fucking stupid fans wrote a 'Speak Up Now' open letter prompting me to drop him" anger, which is adequately expressed in the lyrics and performances. The extent of Taylor's "female rage" on TTPD is on tracks such as "Who's Afraid of Little Old Me?", which contends with relentless media scrutiny; "But Daddy I Love Him", where Swift firmly states she'll date whoever she likes no matter how "Sarahs and Hannahs" may react; and "The Albatross", a track mythologizing her reputation and the consequences of dating her. Of course, these coincide with deep psychological wounds that formed during Swift's early years in the media, and so, from her feminist perspective, these subjects tackle the misogyny and double standards that she faced.
Yet Taylor Swift still has no grounds to be claiming that TTPD best exemplifies female rage and therefore she, in the context of this album, is female rage incarnate. As the daughter of a stock broker and mutual fund marketing executive, Taylor was born into wealth and allowed privileges like trips and subsequent relocation to Nashville all so that she might get a record deal. Her father even invested at least $120,000 into the then-fledgling label, Big Machine Records, which ensured Taylor's place with Borchetta after leaving her dead-end development deal with Sony. The fact that her parents were able to buy her a fucking brand new guitar for Christmas and pay for music lessons says so much about the financial security and safety of her childhood.
Money is privilege and protection, and despite Swift's experiences with misogyny and loser boyfriends, she does not know what female rage is.
Her rage is derived from her frustrations with her obsessive fans pulling the moral superiority card on Taylor in response to her rebound with Matty Healy. That's literally it. She's just pissed that the monster she created is no longer obediant, it's become a feral, sovereign entity that depletes the world of its natural resources and thinks it is more intelligent than it actually is because it's mommy has started to talk to it with big words. Apparently, 'illicit', 'elegy', 'nonchalant', and 'precocious' are considerably big words for the oafish monster, and I find it strange that this level of literacy is present in a group of fans that allegedly have GPAs of 3.5 or higher, but I digress.
Taylor Swift has never been one paycheck away from destitution. Taylor Swift has never experienced racial discrimination. She may have instances of gender discrimination, but she possesses the ideal white, blonde American beauty standard and therefore reaps the benefits of being a conventionally attractive woman. Taylor Swift has sufficient social capital. Taylor Swift is a billionaire woman prolonging her victimhood though she, as a woman, has mostly had control over her image and music (unlike her contemporaries). Taylor Swift is NOT entitled to be championed for her "female rage", nor should she be. Taylor Swift has never even been the struggling artist, for fuck's sake. I don't give a fuck if she's trying to fill the empty lunch tables of her past. Taylor Swift purporting herself, her unpolished album, and her lukewarm feminism as a musical bleeding with female rage is asinine.

Sigh Try and Come For My Job, Poors

Out there in the world right now is a 23-year-old woman, a recent college grad, who works as a barista. She has to wake up and get ready to go into a minimum wage job because she cannot get a job in her field. She doesn't have healthcare benefits or sick time, so she has to go into work no matter how she's feeling. All day long she is berated by vicious customers and creepy men, and, exhausted from being on her feet, she knows she has to go home to her shitty roommate that never does the dishes and her roommate's shitty dog. To comfort herself, she considers getting a treat, but thinks against it when she remembers that matcha lattes cost $15 and they taste like milky dirt. She knows that she needs to buy groceries this week, and so the woman resolves to go home, but notices that her gas tank is low. She goes to put gas in the car, but the pump stops at $27.86 because that's all that she has in her checking account. The woman, bereft and reeling, sinks into the driver's seat. "Well," she thinks, her head in her hands, "at least I don't have Taylor Swift's job. I just couldn't imagine."
Fame is somewhat of a choice. If at any moment Taylor feels that she is misunderstood, misconstrued, or overwhelmed by public opinion, she can LEAVE the public eye - Lord knows she has the retirement fund and residuals to do so. In "I Can Do It With a Broken Heart", the TTPD song about meeting the demands of your career-zenith mega-tour while in the relationship trenches, Taylor ends the song by rambling,

"You know you're good when you can even do it with a broken heart...you know you're good...and I'm good, cause I'm miserable, and no one even knows!...try and come for my job."

Yeah, obviously we wouldn't know, you recently passed the billionaire threshold and are the most famous and in-demand performer in the world right now. Taylor Swift makes an estimated $10 to $13 million dollars A NIGHT on the Eras Tour. Furthermore, the Eras Tour movie grossed $261.6 million globally, (which, as the producer, Taylor takes home 57% of the ticket sales) not counting the streaming revenue from Amazon Prime Video and the estimated $75 million deal that Disney paid to have it on Disney+. We're not even considering the income from cheap plastic popcorn buckets and drink cups plastered with colored squares in her Era-specific likeness.
It's funny. Taylor Swift often said that being famous wasn't hard, that she "isn't complaining". I'm sure it is difficult to always have to present in a good mood, else you'll end up misrepresented in the media, and I'm sure it's invasive to virtually have no privacy or semblance of anonymity. Still, Taylor Swift shows up each night of tour and performs. For a majority of her career, she has penned her sad songs while on the road. Most of "Red", her breakup album, was written in the thick of the Speak Now World tour. Now, some Swifties say they almost "feel bad" for attending the Eras Tour with Swift's revelations in this song, that they have had a 'dimmed experience' upon hearing Taylor's misery whilst performing. Despite the fact that Taylor said that "this was the happiest she's ever been" at Gilette Stadium in May, the lyrics "boohoo, woe is me, smile for the cameras and make the fans happy!!!" are jarring for Eras attendees.
While Taylor Swift was making double-digit millions a night in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil and feeling miserable, Ana Clara Benevides Machado passed away due to heat exposure. The concert promoters, Time For Fun, are now the subject of a criminal investigation due to their lack of adequate hydration and safety. Taylor Swift cancelled the Sunday show that was to follow and offered VIP tent tickets to Benevides Marchado's family, which was a kind gesture, but perhaps incongruous to the incident of which they were offered as consolation. Everyone grieves differently, of course, but I'm not sure attending the very show at the very same venue that my daughter or sister passed away in two days prior, where the singer CONTINUED the show despite her death, would be healthy for closure.
There was no female rage at the show as Swift never saw Benevides Machado pass out. There was no female rage towards the disregard for fans as humans while Swift elected to proceed with her Brazil tour dates despite the country being in historic heatwaves (at risk of overheatting herself). If Taylor Swift was so shaken by touring with a broken heart or a fan's passing, she wouldn't have added an additional North American leg of Eras just two months after the Matty breakup. She's brokenhearted but willing to mend the cracks with your money and move onward with her worldwide female rage induced pillaging.
No matter what happens, even if you die at a Taylor Swift concert, Taylor collects a big fat check and flies away. She doesn't know you as anything other than a conversion rate or earning potential despite what her nearly 20-year long parasocial relationship with fans might otherwise indicate. She knows that, while some Swifties are without disposable income, they feel obligated to spend on a "48 Hours Only!" exclusive vinyl variant instead of necessities because they are so entrenched in Taylor Swift's intoxicating celebrity, they'll prioritize materialistic fandom before their needs. This is good enough for her because this means she can expand her real estate portfolio and finance her cat's lavish lifestyles. They're worth an estimated $100 million dollars. Her three cats could pool their net worth and solve world hunger.
While you and I might be denied bereavement leave and barely surviving the current political and economic climate, Taylor Swift has to, instead of gets to, perform for stadiums at full attendance for three nights in a row across the globe. You and I might be replaced by AI at our longtime jobs, but Taylor Swift is threatened with losing more and more money each time you listen to a "Stolen Version" of her songs. If we don't buy every variant of all of her albums, then who is going to pay for the fucking cats?
It is tone deaf to spend as she spends and lives as she lives in this economy, but this is her reality. She was able to donate $100,000 to all of her tour truck drivers, and that's wonderful, but it leads me to wonder about the ethos of the 2020s where one woman can hoard such life-changing amounts of money. Remember in 2014 when she gave a fan $90 ($120 in today's money) to get Chipotle because she had no fucking clue how much it cost? This is a 34-year-old woman who is increasingly out of touch with the reality for working class people and women in general. Normal everyday adults must wake up and go to their thankless jobs, and yet Taylor Swift, despite all her riches, incessantly references the lows of her life and career as a public figure and entertainer to farm sympathy and drive sales. And still, the corporate women have latched onto "I cry a lot, but I am so productive! It's an art!" as their cubicle battle cry.
Do you think that, from up in her private jet, Taylor Swift gazes at the world through her poetic, tortured eyes, and thinks, "All the little people, in their cars, walking, going about their lives...all those girls that don't support girls...do they know that I've made an album about female rage?"

Conclusion/TLDR

Thank you for reading. I would love to hear your critical insights towards this entire ordeal: TTPD, the trademark, the implications of it all.
TLDR: Taylor Swift is a bad feminist and is delusional to think that the TTPD eras set exemplifies female rage at women's injustice.

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The novel begins September 3, 2006, a Sunday. In "physical time," our reality, Andre Agassi played and lost his final match of his career. Steve Irwin, the croc hunter, would die the following day from a stingray's three barbed venomous spinal blades puncturing his heart. Senator Barak Obama was still denying he was intending to run for President (he would announce in February 2007.) The number 1 song in America and the UK is Sexyback by Justin Timberlake. Egypt warned of Palestinian terror attacks against Israelis vacationing in Sinai. Charlie Sheen turned 41. 200 Taliban are killed in a major battle in Kandahar, Afghanistan. Iraqi leaders announce the capture of the #2 leader of Al Qaeda. Europe's space agency purposely crash-lands a lunar probe into the moon.
In short, nothing, on balance seems to have happened in the world that has any particular world-historical or even US-historical import. Just a day. Even searching back 4 extra days from September 3 - since we are told that the man viewing the art installation is now on his fifth straight day in the museum - nothing all that *important* seems to have happened on any of those dates, the way saying a novel is starting on June 6, 1944, or (obviously) September 10, 2001, or July 16, 1945 or November 22, 1962 would be of course trying to tell us something.
Q: why is Delillo's purpose (is there one?) for telling us this specific date? Why is it important that the man is there on September 3, 2006 watching this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a31q2ZQcETw over and over.
Q: who is the man? Delillo himself? Just a random unnamed character? Is it definitely Finley and Elster who are the two men who come into the room? The description of the older man "long white hair braided at the nape" [p.7, Scribner] certainly seems to suggest it is Elster, described in Ch. 1 as a man "with silvery hair, as always, was braided down into a short ponytail." If it is definitely them, what does it mean they attended a museum show together? Anything?
This is not the first Delillo novel to open with a scene where a movie, and anonymous characters' responses to watching it, is central to the narrative - Players opens with a movie being shown on a plane that is basically a silent movie of a terrorist machine-gun attack on waspy golfers, only accompanied by a pianist (yes a pianist) in the airplane bar filling in the suspense with improvised show tunes - and it is not the first to open with an examination of an art installation - Underworld, after the fantastic baseball game section - opens at Klara Sax's airplane bomber art installation commune. But this opening seems to introduce two characters obliquely, and of course only if you've paid close attention to the description of Elster's hair could you think back to it being him, perhaps.
"The nature of the film permitted total concentration and also depended on it." "The less there was to see, the harder he looked, the more he saw." [p.5, Scribner]
Q:Who is this person watching and why should we care?
Q: Did the opening sequence provide you any insight other than , perhaps, confusion? Something other than "what the hell did I just read?" What? Does your reaction to the opening sequence change when you know (if you did before this post) that the Psycho installation was and is real?
Moving on to Chapter 1 [p. 17, Scribner], we learn that we are on Day 10 of a 12-day period of time that relates the initial relationship between Elster and Finley. Finley, who is probably in his early to mid-30s and 73-year-old Elster are spending time at Elster's house in the desert to record a one-take movie of Elster's testimony of what it was like to serve in an administration that went to war under less than honest circumstances.
Our narrator is Jim Finley, a documentary filmmaker who has made exactly one film about Jerry Lewis's telethon appearances - Lewis, a "rampaging comic" to whom Elster would merely be a "straight man." [p.27] Elster, who Finley also describes as "not a man who might make space for even the gentlest correction," [p.22] is a non-political theorist being brought in to an administration to provide narrative to their war. I've seen references to him being based on Paul Wolfowitz, the political scientists who became Deputy SecDef in the Bush II Administration who famously nearly swallowed his comb to wet it to comb his hair in an image that likely sealed his fate in D.C. as unserious and ridiculous who was then shuffled off to the World Bank, but would Delillo ape the man AND mention him in the narrative? If so, that seems clumsy.
Q: Do you even take Elster serious as a character or believable as a "brain" behind the narrative of an administration going to war? A man who speaks in bad koans and aphorisms like "Time becomes blind." [p.23] and who reads Louis Zukovsky into the night? (Zukovsky famously worked on an epic poem called "A" for over almost 50 years, finally finishing it a few years before his death in 1978.)
Finley tells us: "To Elster, sunset was human invention, our perceptual arrangement of light and space into elements of wonder." [p.18, Scribner]. Elster has come to the desert to seek - something - we know not what and are not told definitively - but his narrative of what his role was in Washington was to create a interpretation of the "closed world" for the "plotters, the strategists" [p. 28] and ends up delivering to Finley what I think Finley was after - the cynical idea that Elster was giving form and shape to the government's bullshit narrative - "The state has to lie. There is no lie in war or in preparation for war that can't be defended. We went beyond this. We tried to create new realities overnight, careful sets of words that resemble advertising slogans in memorability and repeatability."
Q: Is Elster ultimately right? Did the country have a "shadowy need" [p.34] for such a narrative? See, for instance: "Let's roll." [probably in reality, "Let's roll it" referring to a beverage cart to break into the cockpit.]
"Shock and awe." "Global War on Terror" "Slam dunk" "WMDs" "The Surge" And perhaps most infamously "Enhanced Interrogation Techniques"
At the ends of the chapter, we get what counts as a cliffhanger in this slim novel: Elster's adult daughter would be coming for a visit, Jessie who was "otherworldly" [p. 36].

Hey girls!
I wrote this poem last year about my experience as a trans girl and didn't really have anywhere to share it. I thought this might resonate with somebody. TW: References to Transphobia
Her
Didn't you know she's a freak?
A twisted pervert in disguise
Insatiable in libido and debauchery
She carries more than meets the eyes
Didn't you know when she cums,
even the angels shriek?
Demons summoned with every kiss
Her cunning pillow talk so sweet
Didn't you know she's snipped and botched
Always drinking crack and snorting wine
This is how she stomachs herself
A chimera worse than Frankenstein
Didn't you know she peels the girls?
Wears them like an ill-fitting suit
Mockingly she parades around
Their birthright, her loot
Didn't you know she dabbles the children?
Stealing their innocence, their youth
They say she smells of rotting flesh
Who cares if it's the truth
Don't you know to be wary of her?
Depravity and deception in every breath
She's disgusting and worthless
A danger only acceptable in death
Horrid, putrid, sordid, lurid,
the lies we weave to excuse our hate
For cruelty cannot be worn with pride
Nor unfairness, a namesake
It's easy to burn the witch,
Stake the vamp, mock the shrew
Their guilt so clear you'll never question
If they're more innocent than you
Who is she? Who am I?
I am her, she is me.
A woman, a daughter, a soul
Trapped in psychosocial duality
The me that haunts their minds
The me that haunts my own
Both enemy and protagonist
Two narratives that can't atone
Everyone's story needs a villian
Someone to battle and defeat
I seem to play the role well
They say my performance can't be beat
So I will play the role,
Reluctantly accept the acclaim
As their showering roses
Turn to stones bringing bloodied pain
Maybe when the act is over
And curtain is finally drawn
They'll see the error of their belief
They'll see that they were wrong

I don't see a thread about it, maybe I missed since I just recetly joined, and I need to vent, so I hope it's ok.
In the first days and weeks after the oct 7th my instagram have been blasted with religious figures and preachers trying to use the tragedy for their own sake. Just of the top of my head - people blaming the music festival goers for "dancing around a budha statue", people claiming that the shabat saved a couple of religious communities near the gaza border, people burning tank tops for being non-modest, etc. And one thing that have flooded my feed was a campaign of religous parents of a party victim calling for people to light shabat candles and keeping shabat because "that's the mitzva their daughter loved the most". Now, i don't know this partygoer, maybe she loved shabat, but it was a nature music festival in the very day of simchat torah (which happened to be shabat as well), someone who grew up religious and went there chose to distance themselves from jewish traditions, so I think it's more likely she didn't love shabat so much anymore, and that her family chose to remember her as the tzadikah she maybe was before leaving religion. And she wasn't the only one. There were many ex-jews in that festival because this kind of parties is kind of popular among ex-jews here in israel. You must've seen some of those "tehilim for iluy nishmat Moshe" or "keep shabath for Sarah" (fake names of course). I've also seen tweets of Haredi journalists about Yeshive buchers that were killed, ignoring the fact these boys left religion and suffered negligence from their families and friends. These stuff angered me to my core, in the first week I wrote some sort of a poem to post on facebook as a protest but ended up keeping it to myself, out of leftover fear in my agnostic mind that there may be a god and they may have a twisted kind of humor
But today this anger rose up again, it is memorial day in Israel so my feed is once again filled with victims faces and stories. One of the festival massacre victims was a good friend of my sister (and my whole family through that), i didn't really talked to her that much since high school, but i do know through social media and through my sister that she left religion and had an intense journey to find happiness and meaning in this world. So when I saw that the memorial projects for her had religious quotes about "god's glory across the earth" and how "god only puts you through tests you can overcome", and spreading Birkot Hashachar with her picture, all those feelings came up for an epic meltdown.
And yes, i'm obviously reflecting my fears or at least connecting to these victims through my own personal experience, I can't really assume stuff about someone I don't personally know. but Last week I found out my dad is in deep denial about me (he thinks I wouldn't eat a cheeseburger, Let alone pork), so i keep thinking, if I died in oct 7th or in any other way, would this be the way people remember me by? Prayers and psukim from tehilim and other stuff I don't believe in? Did I run away from religion and conservative values just for my realtives to erase everything i was by building a beit midrash in my name? Because I know they would. I don't have a family of my own yet and friends don't have the socially accepted justification to protest acts of religion of grieving parents.
I don't know why it bothers me so much, i'm very skeptical about an afterlife so why would I care about something that happens after i'm dead, but for some reason my living self can't stand the thought of my death being used to spread religious values. Would these ex-jew victims have felt the same if they knew? Is there even a way for me to fight for their memory as secular individuals without just inflicting my own believes and basically doing the same as the religious spreaders?
I don't realy have answers, as I said, it's a rant, I needed to share and it seems like the right place. Sorry for any grammar or spelling mistakes, it's the first time i wrote something this long in english.

Shame, a heavy weight upon my chest; All her love, my heart cannot digest.
Am I too distant, too cold to care? Or is there still warmth, buried somewhere?
How can I even repay the debts I owe, When my heart is infertile, and love won’t grow? I’ve longed to hold her hands– and at her eyes, say: “For you, I feel, I care, in every way.”
In her look, I see my reflection, A wandering hollow, where love should find affection.
Through the struggle we find our way, A mother’s love, a daughter’s stray. No matter how bad, we make amends, In her arms, a love that mends.
With each sunrise, a new beginning, A new chance to heal, a new living.
In her solace, I find my guide, A unique love, yet never denied. Shame may weigh upon my chest, But in the end, in her love I find my rest.
I wrote this poem and it is about the shame for struggling to express feelings to your loving mother. I’m just a freshman still learning how to write poems so pls be nice 😅🥲

Saw a tiktok video I can’t find again about a daughter who brought home a card for mother’s day and glued inside was a very emotional poem about your child growing up one year at a time until they graduate and become an adult. It went along the lines of that poem “when i turn six” where it outlined each year but it was much longer and more so about your child growing up faster than you realized. If anyone can find it I would be very appreciative!!