Latest Posts by eunuch-besties - Page 8

me when kendall is stuck in the cycle of abuse

FUCK

There's something to the picture that all this season and the release of the first three seasons' scripts have painted of Logan and Caroline's divorce not as one of maternal abandonment, but one of maternal dislocation and suffocating abuse that's ruining me right now.

The way Caroline tried to take her children and flee in the dead of the night to Morocco, the way Logan took meetings with every worth-its-salt law firm in the city to cut off Caroline's access to them, wielding the legal system like an axe to an umbilical cord, the way Caroline's one recourse was to try and keep their position in the company, to keep them with something even if she gave it away later as they rejected her in adulthood. The way she stayed for their adolescence in New York even as Logan froze her out, the way she had to bargain for Christmas even in their adulthood, the way she sat in the pews with the rest of the women Logan loved and hurt and discarded while her children cried, with no tools or ability to comfort them, the way she sat as her son wrote her out of her own motherhood as he gave their father sole credit in creating them, stood opposite her daughter as she told her she wouldn't see it, i'm just gonna do it the family way like it was on Caroline and not their father, that she never got to see them.

Something about the way it feels like Logan trained them how to bark at her scent, to make sure she stayed away from the door.

When Kendall & Roman team up it’s about the fate of Logan’s empire & the patriarchal line of succession and when Kendall & Shiv team up it’s about revenge & rage & destruction of the father as an idol and when Shiv & Roman team up it’s about relentlessly mocking Kendall for everything he does including walk and speak

so much of kendall and shiv's sisterly animosity is based on kendall never getting to be daddy's little girl and shiv never being his #1 boy... makes you ponder

I don’t know how to say this in a way that doesn’t sound insane but….

Anytime I see Logan touch Kendall it makes me wanna reach through the screen and throttle Him. Anytime it’s a shot where he puts his hands on his shoulders and his grip tightens, the scene where he caressed Ken’s cheek, god god GOD. There’s something abt it, that makes my blood cold and makes me physically ill. I mean I know what it is, it’s the physical manifestations of the grooming, the physical manifestation of the way Kendall is the son Logan is, to quote Brian Cox, in love w the most fiercely and yet hates so much. And the way he touches him captures this so well, OOO ITS SICK SICK SICK SICK

when matsson took his hoodie off and casually flashed his abs and roman and kendall were just standing there like 🧍🏻🧍🏻 that was lgbt history

‘You Have Been Weighed, You Have Been Found Wanting’: On Kendall as His Father (Or Not)

This is going to be another long post, so I apologise in advance, but as the world’s premier Kendall Royologist (jk), I had to give my take on where we are after episode four.

I want to start by saying that for me, when it comes down to it, ultimately, none of this is the fault of the Roy kids. For the siblings, whatever happens, wherever they end up, it’s not their fault. They are products of a lifetime of abuse, and I cannot stop having so much compassion (maybe too much, I’ll admit it) for them as they try and survive it, even though they do such heinous things.

I want to talk about Kendall. I say it all the time when it comes to him, but my poor boy. Oh, my poor babe. My heart aches. I spent the entire evening after watching ‘Honeymoon States’ thinking about all the new dark and terrifying avenues that have opened up, and feeling nauseous about it. None of it is satisfying for me, and objectively I don’t even find it to be a glorious, villainous volte-face. I can’t say ‘slay he’s in his villain era’, because it’s so sad to me. It’s just so sad. His behaviour in that episode shows how deeply rooted his trauma is, and how it might actually be an inescapable force. And that’s so sad.

This episode was about the two sides of Kendall. One, true Kendall; and two, the constructed Kendall. Both products of the abuse in different ways. Here they are, contrasted:

It’s so telling that we start and end the episode with these polar opposite moments.

The first, this is the real Kendall. We can see him. So broken, so bereft, so without identity, so lost without the person to whom he was trauma bonded, the person against whom he defined his entire being. What’s going to be easier, confronting that? Or - simply - just going mad? He’s going mad in the Othello and Macbeth sense, befitting for the end of a Shakespearean tragedy. And it’s Logan’s doing, even from beyond the grave. This is what I’m going to talk about in this post.

Kendall wasn’t born a “killer”. It’s not something etched into his soul. It’s something he’s learnt, an unnatural quality that he’s had to develop. When he ‘turns’ at the end of this episode, it’s not “Logan’s DNA showing through after all”. It’s not “he’s in his evil era”. This is a man who is so paralysed by the fear of confronting a life without Logan (due to their trauma bond) that he would prefer to become him as a form of coping, even though it will inevitably kill him.

His smile at the end is not one of liberation, it is the smile of a man who has been utterly psychologically broken.

Yeah, his initials spell ‘KLR’. But this isn’t merely a clumsy way of telling us that he’s a killer. It’s a way of signifying that his identity is so deeply entwined with Logan that he is (or feels as if he is) nothing without him. ‘Logan’ is at the heart of his name - right in the centre. He can’t be free of him, because the chain has been on him since he was named as a baby.

Who knows what was going on in that old man’s head when he edited that letter? I see that the underlined/crossed debate is going to dominate discourse for the week, but I think it’s utterly meaningless.

It does not matter at all what Logan INTENDED to write. It’s what Kendall perceives that counts. La mort de l’auteur, literally.

In that piece of paper, Kendall sees a potential confirmation of everything he ever wanted to hear, and he articulates these desires explicitly to Frank: he needs to believe it was underlined, because that means he was wanted, he was loved, he wasn’t a mistake, he wasn’t a failure.

He pretends to have already known that Logan did sudoku, to kid himself and everyone else into believing that they were close. He’s going mad - like all Shakespearean tragic protagonists are. He’s being driven mad by his need to believe that Logan wanted him.

Personally, I think it was underlined. Not because Kendall was his favourite all along, but because he was the one Logan most wanted to control. The role of CEO is a chain to them, it’s an embodiment of Logan’s hold on them. By dangling it in front of him, Logan can keep Kendall chained and controlled and under his thumb, even after death.

As @kaiyashunyata on Twitter phrased it: it doesn’t matter if Kendall’s name is underlined or crossed out. What matters is the uncertainty of it and how Logan can taunt his children and spark their ruin even after death.

And it’s why capitalism and the family are so intwined, and why it’s admirable that the show does a great job of showing this.

Jeremy Strong articulates this entire dynamic so insightfully and elegantly:

Your father makes you a promise: this is your destiny, this is your birthright. Capitalism promises people the same thing. Both are completely empty and misleading.

But Kendall is so desperate to feel as if his life has meaning, so desperate to know he was loved, that he’s willing to chase the false dream anyway.

Because - ever since childhood - CEO has been held up to all the children (but especially Kendall) as the only thing that gives you worth as a person. And Kendall needs to believe that he has worth in the eyes of his father because, without that, he’s nothing. Or at least he thinks he’s nothing, that’s the impact of a trauma bond.

We know that he’s not nothing. Stewy knows it. Rava knows it. Naomi knows it. His siblings and children know it. But he has been trauma bonded to someone who made his love a rare and valued commodity, and without it, he doesn’t feel like there’s any reason for him to exist at all.

It’s the often repeated metaphor again of Logan’s love as the sun - when you’re in it, you are covered in light and feel invincible. Without it, you are left to die in the dark.

I think that’s why the hug scene is significant but also tragic. It’s the only other time we see Kendall as himself in this episode, and in the company of another person at that. And he only lets it show for a few seconds, before the brave face returns. Stewy is so right when he skeptically perceives Kendall’s run for CEO as “diving into work”. That’s exactly what he’s doing, to avoid confronting the dark realities.

If Stewy’s love could save him, he would be saved already. But only Logan’s love is enough for him.

One of the cruelest things about the will letter is that it makes it so clear that ‘CEO’ is a stand-in for love, approval, acceptance. The kids (well the Strong Dogs at least, Kendall and Shiv) are ready to kill each other over it - days after tenderly holding each other outside Teterboro Airport - because they have been so brainwashed into seeing it as the be all and end all of their entire existences.

Kendall, who loves his baby sister. Who held her hand when she was crying and succumbs to her puppy dog eyes in seconds. Kendall, who is willing - in an instant - to go back to war with Shiv, because that’s all they’ve been taught to do. That’s their purpose. Their reason for life.

And Kendall is severely mentally ill, I think that needs to be made very clear.

Frank sees the danger of it. “You seem so well…” Frank says, and Kendall is for all appearances, for that beautiful bit of time when he’s free of the war.

But of course, despite Frank’s advice and reservations, Kendall can’t help but be drawn back into the war. Because he feels it’s the only way to define his identity now that his trauma bonded abuser isn’t there to do it for him.

And when he blackmails Hugo? When he uses Logan’s style of violent sexual language? This isn’t a new era for him. It’s not villainy. It’s the same Ken we saw at the very start of S1, trying so desperately to ape his father, to be his father, taking ideas right out of Logan’s playbook. But he’ll fail.

And he’ll fail because, at the end of the day, he isn’t Logan.

Kendall manipulates people. He emotionally blackmails Stewy and his siblings (especially Roman). Out of bitterness, he demands that Frank spread lies about two women being sluts and junkies. He withholds important information for his own use later. He threatens to “burn” Greg after showing him kindness. He uses violent sexual language in business settings. He calls the vote of no confidence. He makes the groundbreaking press conference. He goes in aggressive.

These are Logan’s lessons, this is what Logan means when he says “he learnt it from me”. However, they fail. They’ll always fail.

Whatever he does, he’ll never convince.

The sexually violent language is especially interesting, because it never hits the same. Kendall threatens to fuck Lawrence “with a silver dildo”, very similar to the way in which he threatens to use “the strap-on” with Hugo. False penises, artificial implements, unnatural, not part of his body. He threatens to cut Stewy’s dick off, another emasculating act that doesn’t involve him personally penetrating anyone. The only time he physically involves himself in his sexual metaphors is when he viscerally describes giving Lawrence a blowjob.

Like Tom says so succinctly in season three, Kendall is always the one who is going to get fucked.

Kendall isn’t Logan, no matter how much he thinks that achieving that goal will heal him. Kendall wasn’t hardened by poverty, or the suffocating patriarchal norms of the 1940s and 50s. He is sensitive and lonely and emotional and weak and insecure and vulnerable. He is desperate to be none of those things. In trying and failing to be Logan, he’s unwittingly showing who he really is.

But he is a fighter. And that’s the thing Logan always feared. That is the person Logan raised - yes, “the best of all of them”, but also someone with the grit to potentially escape. And that is what was unacceptable and terrifying.

We root for Kendall because we know - we have seen - that he has to ability to break free. We also know, from Chiantishire, that his deepest desire is to be free. To be unchained. To be released from this never-ending cycle of abuse and pain.

We’re terrified of that razor-thin tightrope he walks, because we know that it could (and probably is) going to all go wrong. We’re scared of the prospect that some people are doomed, are beyond help, are beyond saving. As with the best tragic Shakespeare protagonists, we love Kendall, but we know deep down that he can never be free. That is the crushing reality of abuse as a metaphor for capitalism. It’s heartbreaking.

Logan chose Kendall as CEO not because he was his ‘favourite’, but because Kendall was the one he most wanted to control. CEO is the perfect means by which to keep him chained, controlled and enthralled to the empty dream, even from beyond the grave.

For Logan, and for capitalism as a whole, to love is to control.

What do you think about it is about Kendall that’s it’s like, of course he’s the only one with a real friend?

It's lowkey one of my favourite choices on the show, anon, just because I think it's so revealing in more ways than one. Like, it makes sense, not just because of who Kendall is, but also who his siblings are, and the different ways they navigate their way through the world.

Interestingly, I think Connor and Shiv actually have the clearest boundary (or hurdle, depending on how you look at it) when it comes to fostering friendships, and while I think those things are different, I think they're both steeped in these factors of them as characters that shape their experiences of adulthood.

I think Connor's stems from an extremely disrupted childhood between his mother's mental health, her institutionalisation, his father's absence and reappearance, and then his being pushed into a parentified role to the golden trio at a formative age (canon explicitly tells us that too! Camping trips, fishing trips, fulfilling the father duties at Shiv's wedding before Logan decides to show up!) when he should've been away at college building his own relationships, in order to feel he had any sort of place in his family.

Similarly, I think Shiv has been soaked in hatred for her own gender since she's been born. Her relationship with her mother is strained and seems to have been weaponised by her father, she likely went to an all girls school (Spence, I imagine, which is basically the all girls equivalent of Buckley, the all boys school we know Kendall went to) and her own misogyny hampered any genuine friendship attempts. I think Shiv probably had frenemies, but nothing deeply meaningful, because vulnerability and emotional honesty is something she can't allow herself if she wants to survive in a male-dominated household festering in a male-dominated industry. I think male friendships were off the table in that sense too because Shiv seems to have always sought power in whatever way she could, and the two things she has to exert power are her name and her sexuality and at least her sexuality is hers.

I think Roman's a little harder to put a pin in in that sense, because I think he's a little bit of both of them, and a whole lot his own thing. I think he's experienced a part of Connor's disrupted childhood by having been shipped away to school and for his physical abuse, and I think he's experienced a part of Shiv's self-loathing for a part of his identity he can't face up to, but I also think Roman on paper should have friends. Roman's funny and insightful and (most of the time) the right sort of mean, and he's no more self-defensive than the rest of them, but I think the reason comes down to the biggest difference between him and Kendall:

Roman can be honest without being vulnerable, whereas Kendall can be vulnerable without being honest.

Roman as a character isn't actually particularly duplicitous. He can absolutely be an asshole, but he doesn't play to what people want in the way that both Kendall and Shiv (and even to an extent, Connor) do. His moments of vulnerability though are rare, often private, often, still, fleeting and guarded, while his moments of honesty are more frequent, yet often just ugly and naked and there. He fronts to it, and takes it, and usually tells the other person to take it too, which is what he did with Gerri and Tabitha and even Lawrence way back at the start of the series.

Kendall's not an honest person, but he is someone who's inherently vulnerable, and I think it pulls people to him, despite themselves. We've seen it in real time with Naomi and even Greg, and retrospectively with Rava, Stewy and Frank. He can break, he can curl in a lap or bury a head in a shoulder while still telling half truths or nothing at all. God, probably one of the best examples is in 2.04 when he pulls Shiv into a hug while talking around what she actually wants to hear.

Kendall lets people mop up the blood while he either tries to hide, ignore or justify the wound, and I think that vulnerability lets people feel a degree of intimacy with him and protectiveness of him that becomes muddied as they discover that Kendall is inherently a dishonest person and an addict, as it seems most characters in this show have learnt the hard way. After all, discovering that he's not told you a whole truth doesn't erase the memory of the weight of his head against your shoulder.

looking at the 'midseason trailer' and seeing roman fighting his siblings, roman shitting on gerri, roman working for fascists, roman walking proudly through ATN like logan did just two days prior... it's not surprising, but it is fucking sad.

logan's death will not free roman. instead, it will reforge the chains he's worn all his life, casting them in iron -- that's what roman deserves for thinking, for the first time in his life, that maybe he wants the chains off. that's what roman deserves for killing his father by not loving him enough, by not loving him correctly or at the right times. logan's death will not free roman at all. if anything, it will imprison him.

(as always, this got very long, so keep reading under the cut!)

this was the worst case scenario for roman. not just logan dying, but the exact way everything played out. he betrayed his siblings, he fired gerri -- for nothing. he could have been on the plane with his father in his last moments -- he refused. his last interaction with his father was leaving logan a voice message that called him a cunt -- the first time roman has ever, ever, questioned or stood up to his father, and also the last. we don't know what killed logan. we probably never will. but god if it won't feel awfully coincidental to roman: the one time he fought back against his father or even showed the slightest hint of doing so, his father died. is it likely that logan heard roman's voice memo and keeled over because he called him a cunt? no. but is it just as possible as anything else? entirely. roman might have killed his dad. roman murdered logan when he could've been on the plane with him holding his hand, if he were a good son. he didn't even tell logan he loved him. not that he needed to, it fucking oozed from his every pore and the desperate nature of that love was one of the reasons logan could never quite stand him -- but that's not the point. roman's one attempt at agency, at setting boundaries, at standing up for himself killed his fucking father.

logan dying would never have been good for roman, at least in his current state, no matter how the actual death came to pass. people often talk about abusive relationships as if the end-all-be-all fixer to abuse is independence, and it's not. independence isn't always enough to heal, especially not when it's forced upon you rather than something you choose. this is especially true for roman, i think. what roman needed was not just to gain his own independence, but to realize that independence and love are not mutually exclusive, that gaining one does not mean losing the other. logan's always hammered in roman's weakness, his wrongness; roman was never someone who deserved to be loved on his own terms. roman's never considered himself to be someone with agency and authority in his relationships -- he's been told over and over again that he isn't a real person, that there's something deeply wrong and unfixable in him, and he believes it. he's never set boundaries with his father or even his siblings because i don't think he really realizes he has the power to do that. he's simply there until people decide they no longer have use for him or want him around, and he'll always come crawling back after a kick because he doesn't realize he's not on a leash -- that he doesn't need to be on a leash. independence has been unreachable all his life, he isn't normal or real enough to be a real normal independent capable person, but if he grovels and shows his use enough, then maybe he can be loved. but his dependence and loyalty is all he's good for. independence means no love, no family, no relationships. and roman desperately wants, needs, those relationships in a way that none of the other characters do (or at least can admit to) -- he wants his father in his life, no matter what; he wants his siblings in his life, no matter what. but independence, being his own person, separating himself from logan's side means he'd lose everything else, everyone else. he's not good for anything anyways. it's not like he has other options.

...until the start of season four. that's why this is all so tragic -- more than anyone else, it seemed like roman was on the road to healing. it seemed like he was finally realizing that independence and love might not be as mutually exclusive as he's been made to think: maybe he could be independent while still having a relationship with his siblings and even his father. maybe he could have his cake and eat it too. he's realized that he's capable, that he has his own worth, and that he can be successful without living under logan's thumb -- and, more importantly, could still text him on his birthday and try to rebuild a relationship, this time outside of business. outside of "that room" in waystar royco. an actual fucking family relationship. that's what escaping the cycle would look like for roman — not complete separation, not a metaphorical killing of his father, but the ability to live alongside him, to have a life outside of him, to love his father without living for him. so simply removing logan from the equation wouldn’t help roman, not when what he needs most is to realize that self-respect is not mutually exclusive with love, that being your own person isn’t a betrayal, that family and love aren’t dependent on how low you can kneel and won’t be whisked away the moment you stand up. and for the first time in his life, it seemed like he was on track to discovering this. maybe he and the siblings could have the hundred, logan could keep going with atn, and in a few years down the line they'd all get together to talk shop and joke around and coexist -- for the first time, he had started to think of himself as enough of a real, okay person to be allowed to coexist with his family, rather than naturally subordinating himself in every interaction.

roman could’ve been his own person, could’ve escaped the cycle, could’ve started a business with his siblings and tried to heal, but now he won’t. he can’t. roman can’t become his own person now, not when his first attempt to do so is exactly what killed logan. it’s his fault. he fucked up and now there’s no dad. he gained his independence, but at what cost? love. that’s the cost. it always has been and always will be. nothing could be more detrimental to roman roy than the exact series of events that occurred in this episode, because just as he started to see a world beyond his father, logan dies -- proving once and for all that the only world beyond logan is one without him in it at all. that’s been roman’s fear all along and why he’s stuck so close to his side: roman loves and loves and loves and is terrified, terrified, of death. of loss. but in a moment of 'weakness,' roman wobbled (he tried to stand up to logan rather than just taking the kicks as he's supposed to, as he always has), and his father paid the ultimate price. there’s no more dad. there’s no reviving him.

…unless, of course, there is. unless roman can undo his error by choosing his father again, and again, and again. becoming logan is the closest roman can get to resurrecting him, after all. and besides, doesn’t he owe it to dad after killing him? after calling him a cunt, choosing not to be with him on that plane he ended up dying on? after forgetting to even say “i love you dad” before the end? roman needs to fix things. needs to make it like dad's still here. needs to make it like he didn't kill his own father by refusing him for the first time in his life. so roman will be the firebreather logan wanted -- he'll do ATN, he'll push for mencken, he'll do whatever it fucking takes to try and make things right. if it's his fault logan's no longer here, then he needs to do everything he possibly can to fulfill his dying wishes, to do what logan would've done, were he alive.

"dad can't die, he's dad." he can't ever die. he's immortal, and his immortality was solidified by the circumstances of his death -- logan will not die. he’ll live on in roman, as roman.

roman will make sure of it.

succession 4x03/cause of death: fox news by tony hoagland

momentarily logging back in to promote my silly little roman character study. do give it a read if that’s the sort of thing you’re into! pls do check tags and tws though, because it contains some potentially triggering topics

tl;dr some thoughts/speculation on– the insecurities logan has developed as a billionaire who didn’t come from money, his simultaneous loathing and longing for generational wealth and legacy, the significance of him leaving his first wife for an aristocrat, and how all of that affects his relationship with connor.

Keep reading

The effects of Tom & Shiv's relationship on the main plot

On a rewatch, I found it really crazy how much this dysfunctional relationship––which initially seemed to be nothing more than a b-plot about infidelity and a reversal of traditional marriage dynamics––has sneakily grown into the primary driver of events in the plot. And it started way before the S3 betrayal.

Many cite the beach scene from the S2 finale as one of the most emotionally cathartic scenes in the show. And I totally agree––its fire. BUT, I also think its larger story repercussions are often overlooked; especially how it basically caused the entire S3 civil war plot. Lets just run down the cause and effect:

1. When Tom finally stands up for himself, Shiv is sent into a bit of a guilt-spiral, confronted with just how awful she's been to him. She is reminded how much she NEEDS him, and that she has been taking his support for granted

2. The two main candidates for the sacrifice are Tom and Kendall. Logan says as much when he consults Shiv, and basically asks her to choose between them. If Tom hadn't shared his feelings with her MOMENTS before, she likely would have continued the objective/heartless mindset she showed towards him earlier in the episode. But, because her mistreatment of him is in the forefront of her mind, she decides to protect Tom. This could be read as a change of heart, but i think it's more accurate to say that she does it to make herself feel better; to mend her cognitive dissonance and affirm to herself that she IS a good person after all.

3. Her decision to protect Tom also serves as the final nail in the coffin for her succession aspirations. Logan says that this is the type of decision that she would need to be making if she were to replace him, and the way she frames it as "I cant choose" but also "please not Tom, for me" signifies a shift in the once-equal dynamic between her and Logan. He follows her wishes because he loves her/she's his favorite, and not because he respects her strategic opinions. I think this moment feeds into his complete lack of respect for her in S3.

4. Of course, Shiv's protection of Tom is what puts Kendall under the axe. I think it's clear that Kendall had no intention of going civil-war-mode before Logan deemed him as the sacrifice, and made the NRPI comment about the boy. Neither of these things would have happened without Tom dumping his emotions on Shiv

5. The beach confrontation is also what gives Tom more independence going into S3, tipping the relationship in his favor for a while until it's completely turned on its head in Italy.

I just think it's so cool that the seeds of an entire season's worth of story are sewn in one little scene of emotional confrontation. The Tom/Shiv dynamic has been just as impactful as the one between Logan and Kendall imo, and it's really exciting that the story has such unexpected engines of conflict––and that they all weave around each other in such beautiful ways.

Best show ever guys :,)

Bundle of Sticks

Nate

What would it take?

On the day of the shooting, Rebecca had driven up to DC to give an interview for the Post.

Ms. Nelson, your recent march in Charlotte has been criticized by politicians on both sides of the isle; some saying the “defund the police” movement is a brash reaction to singular human errors.

Yes… I’ve seen. Those criticizing it are largely establishment neoliberals, who have a financial interest in upholding the prison industrial complex. I encourage anyone who is concerned about ‘brashness’ to read what our platform really is.

[…]

Your stepbrother––republican senator David Nelson of North Carolina––is among the detractors. I can imagine your family gatherings are tense, if you don’t mind me asking? It’s uncommon for a progressive activist to be of the same ilk as a GOP member. Since our father passed away [the former congressman John Nelson] …we honestly haven’t had reason to see each other. My mom and I were never really part of the club, if you know what I mean. In fact, I haven’t spoken to him since he voted against legalizing gay marriage. For obvious reasons [laughing].

I see [smiling]. How has parenthood been treating you?

…Lizzy and I love our children very much. They’re who I’m fighting for. Having adopted them, I feel an extra responsibility to get it right––I’m not sure if that makes sense. But they’re my two little angels, Liam and Ella; I couldn’t have asked for better kids.

The reporter resumed her questions about police reform for a few minutes, until Rebecca was interrupted by a phone call from Lizzy. She politely excused herself from the table. As she walked towards the window listening to her wife’s voice, the publicity-smile died on her face. Confusion and fear took its place. Hand-over-mouth, she said, “Do they know what school?” The interview was never published.

…

Both dead.

Rebecca had refused to believe it…until she identified the bodies, that is. She doesn’t remember much from those first weeks. Her memory of them is a soup of shock and nausea: Lizzy wailing at Lego blocks, rotting care-packages, crying for so long that breathing became a chore. She couldn’t stop imagining their final moments––the confusion, the running, the fear-freezing…how they wouldn’t have understood what was happening, or why holes had been ripped through their soft little bodies, or why they were draining down into darkness––why she wasn’t there to protect them. Her life felt corrupted at the seams with evil. They didn’t leave the house for two weeks after the funeral. She was locked in a gas chamber of puerile horror; surrounded by unceasing absence. Any child-sized object was enough to poison her for hours with inky grief. They had released a public statement; she knew this would be a story. She hated every message of condolences that she received––each one was more evidence that the event had truly happened; each one pushing her further from the hope that things could go back. Most of all, she hated the letter from her stepbrother. She was blind to his words of sympathy, his “thoughts and prayers.” She obsessed over their past arguments on his policy: fighting gun-control bills on the floor, advocating for the very weapon her children’s shooter used; millions in campaign donations from the NRA. She didn’t invite him to the funeral. He called her on the day, but he couldn’t get a word in––she screamed at him about his liability until he hung up.

It was only after Rebecca had torn herself away from that sticky domestic agony, that she began to appreciate the moral power she now had over him. Endowed with a new purpose in life, she felt obligated to make something good come out of this; to make him pay for his professional sins. Had political leverage ever come in the form of guilt before? Unlikely, she thought, for such a shameless lot.

…

Four weeks passed. She waited outside his DC townhouse, squeezing and relaxing her strong fists. Her heart pounded. Bitter memories crushed in around her, accompanying the oppressive humidity. This city, this house––she knew nothing of them besides illegitimacy and exclusion. She remembered a teenage David referring to her as “daddy’s little bastard girl” at Christmas one year. David got dropped off by a black SUV, grinning at his iPhone as he walked. When he reached her at the door, his face looked agitated, as if at a loiterer; but upon recognizing her it became surprised, then guarded—on the defensive. “You’ve been hard to reach,” she said, pleased to have caught him out. She’d been calling him constantly in the past week, which he had started screening upon realizing that she wasn’t looking to him for comfort. He looked flustered, his mouth opened and closed. “…yes, I’ve been busy…very busy. Rebecca, I wish I could’ve seen you earlier… I’m so sorr––” “I read your letter already. No need to be redundant,” she said. A loaded silence passed, he looked at her blankly. She gestured to his house, “Fancy a drink? Old times sake.” Hesitation, ambivalence—could he really be afraid of her? She was elated to see him conflicted like this; for once she had the upper hand. Composing himself, he smiled. “I’d like that. I’ve missed you, Becky,” reaching out with a comforting touch. She played along, smiling sadly like the doe he saw her as. Hot blood rushed through her neck, she felt dangerous.

Once settled inside, she gestured to his phone and said, “not spoiling any evening plans, am I? I saw Christine is out of town.” His mouth smiled, his eyes didn’t. “…We’re having a rough patch, as you know.” His glare was steady––a warning. “And you? How’s your… y’all holding up?” “Ah, you know,” she shrugged. In reality, the marriage was quickly following their children to the grave. Too much damage had been done. But she wouldn’t dare tell him; for fear of sharing some bastardized solidarity. Icy minutes passed, and she hated him more with each one; he seemed inconvenienced by her presence, looking forward to resuming his unbothered life. She could feel evil radiating from everything––polished leather, antique tables, animal hides. His wealth made her sick, she felt her children’s death in every atom of his home. Her nerves were frayed, her vision was hot and red––she couldn’t wait any longer. He was facing the bar, pouring out a bourbon. “So, wanna talk about how you’re an accomplice to my children’s murder?” He stopped pouring. Her pulse quickened more. Finally, he turned around, and she was taken aback by the menace on his face–– “What did you just say?” “He used an AR-15 David. As I’m sure you know.” He smiled at her, as if he we’re looking at a child or a mental patient. “This is so typical.” She imagined kicking his teeth in. “I invite you into my home? And y––” “Tell me, how much money does the NRA stuff up your ass every year? Enough to blind you from the news? Or do you just enjoy sucking daddy’s dick so much you don’t have time to notice?” He laughs in her face. “The kid would’ve just used a different gun Rebecca! Is that not clear to you?? You really think if I had voted to ban AR-15s he wouldn’t have just got one illegally? Grow up. Don’t come to me playing politics when you’re clearly too emotional to think.” “Fuck you,” she spat. She hated that his condescension could bite her––he had the voice of her father. Childish tears filled her eyes, and she turned away; she couldn’t let him see her cry. She steadied herself against a chair. A few minutes passed. He sipped his bourbon. “Listen, Becky. I’m sorry…I–– I can’t imagine what you’re going through. To lose those kids, just––” “Save it.” Her words were thick with tears. Those kids. She couldn’t help but laugh. He hadn’t bothered to call them by name, just like her dad––again. Too brown, too poor. We’ll humor her little girlfriend, we’ll let her help these poor kids; but we mustn’t be seen with them. it doesn’t serve the party values. Hate pooled in her stomach. She faced him. “Just think for a second. What if it had been Adam and Luke when they were in school? Would you have done something then?” A few moments passed. He scrunched his nose––he seemed to be genuinely contemplating. “Now––I don’t mean to be rude; I hate to say it. These things are tragedies… truly. But they don’t happen in private schools.” She stared at him, shocked. She couldn’t speak…was he serious? She felt crazy. Was that all it took for them to sleep? A degree or two of separation? She almost laughed––the path forward was so simple. It struck her like a shaft of divine light. “Did you know that Liam was shot four times?” she asked him. “He was found crawling towards his sister’s classroom.” The words were corrosive; insane. How could they be true? Nothing was real; the room convulsed in violent anguish. Her life was forfeit long ago. She excused herself to the bathroom. She walked calmly to the hallway closet, where David had once flaunted the self-defense shotgun (locked and loaded!). Funny, she thought––if it wasn’t there for her to use, she would’ve just left.

…

Living out her days on a slab of concrete, Rebecca Nelson felt that she had completed her life’s work. Before she was arrested, she had posted a picture of David’s dead body, with the caption: Dear congress, the killings will continue until you take our guns away. Many would call the bluff, she knew. The media would chew her up and spit her out: a mental case, a far-left anarchist, a villain. But others would see the power in those words, the explosive potential. The fuse was lit, the ice broken. More than anything she had said before, at any rally or interview, that sentence had a real chance of inspiring some change. She could see them now, sitting in dim rooms––between bumps of coke, fingers drumming on mahogany. Hard to believe, man. Unbelievable. You know he went to Harvard with my brother, yeah? Lovely guy. I always knew she was a psycho. Say…you don’t think there will be others, do you?

Nate

What would it take?

the loneliness of existing

The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue — Mackenzi Lee // The Red Jacket — Holly Warburton \\ The Secret History — Donna Tartt // A Tale of Two Cities — Charles Dickens \\ Nighthawks — Edward Hopper // Ruin and Rising — Leigh Bardugo \\ Maurice (1987) // The Talented Mr Ripley — Patricia Highsmith \\ Train Station Isolation — Holly Warburton // Brideshead Revisited — Evelyn Waugh

Cherry blossoms

I read this too often

Raspberry Gummies

We arrived during the opener’s last song: lopsided indie rock. The backyard venue was buzzing with people I had never met, save for an oasis of familiarity near the middle which Tessa and I latched onto like a life raft—–rescued by smiling faces and friendliness. Eva, Aidan, Emily, Emilie… usual candied dynamics in a fun-sized portion.

We soon decided to both have another gummy––Are you feeling anything yet?

The sun slid steadily towards the earth­­––warm pink light clipping the top of the house––while an ambient glow trickled through the not-quite-blossoming branches of the Sakura tree to blanket us all in spring. A lull in the performance lineup left space for socialization. I finally learned the name of a person who I’d seen three times before on campus (all coincidences, and two of which was them complimenting me on my sweater), which I now know to be Sonia. I congregated with the band who was my reason for coming in the first place: Aidan, Micah, Isaac, Josh––when are you playing? will there be time? are you excited?

By the time the next band started I was feeling comfortable, things were a bit funnier than usual but otherwise I knew where I was. I was struck by the quality of the music; it was as if a professional rock and roll band had stumbled in from the alley in a drunken stupor, and had decided that the only way they would feel at home was by terraforming the unknown environment through the purity of their sound. The singer and lead guitar fancied themselves comedians, pausing between songs to tell stories and laugh at the crowd. One of the tracks featured a slow building lead-in to the chorus, where the singer led everyone to crouch down in a hushed conspiracy of anticipation; and all the while the drummer kept the beat pumping with a head-splitting veracity. The release into frenzy with everyone jumping up in unison was just as electrifying as you’d imagine. I realized during those bridges that drummers are the most moving musicians to watch; no other shows the life-and-death drama of their craft more clearly­––in every moment the body battles its physical limits with the lifeblood of the song on the line. There is something fatally attractive about it. It was near the end of their set when nighttime established itself over the yard, and it was under this cover of darkness that the gummies sprang their revenge.

Whenever I’m too high I tend to freak out, desperately grasping for continuity with every moment bringing a fresh wave of disorientation. I look at the person beside me singing along with the band, I search in my mind for what I should be doing, I try to copy them. I notice how the muscles of my face are being held, I am too aware of how air is hitting my arm right now. I swallow. It feels weird––my adam’s apple moving with its own agency. Someone catches my eye to the left, a guy around my height, wearing a denim jacket. His hair looks like mine did before I cut it, he nods coolly to the beat. The sporadic flashes of light illuminate his profile so I can see some of his face, and a numb horror washes over me as I realize that he is me. I feel foolish for having thought I was here as a person––no, I am a floating observer, a dreamy film camera here to capture my life from a few months ago. The more I look at myself the clearer this becomes. How strange it is to see yourself as others do––have I always looked that rigid? I’ve usually despised looking at myself in pictures, and while the hatred remained in person at first, it is starting to subside. Seeing myself in motion adds an element of sympathy that I could see people getting used to; a mouse face that announces its self-consciousness through animacy. I wonder what is so special about myself to get a filmic adaptation, but I make sure to frame the shot elegantly nonetheless. My trance begins to intensify, a dolly-zoom spinning sparks of parallax across my vision, when suddenly a hand grabs my shoulder and I whip around to see Tessa with an alarmed look on her face.

She said “what’s going on?” through wholesome giggles, and I immediately fell back into the evening as I previously knew it (back to past tense––thank god!). I told her that I saw another version of myself over there, and about my momentary freakout, and she laughs and I laugh, restorative light-headedness. She questioned me on it further, so I point him out to her, and he still looks exactly like me, but she says she can’t see him (wait wait, back again?). I’m quite a bit taller than her so she can’t see over the people between us and him, I lean over to give her room, and he turns away just as she looks at him. She says she can’t tell: it’s too dark.

We stood there gob-smacked and slack-jawed for a while, talking about how we couldn’t believe how high we were, before giving up on listening to the music and shuffling over to Kat––when did she get here? She was standing with Eva and Emily; we communicated our dismay to them and were met with amusement. Suddenly, in a non sequitur of consciousness, I found myself surprisingly deep into a conversation with Maggie about how her hair was shorter than it was last year, and I did my best to say what a normal human would in that situation. Returning to the druggy solidarity of Tessa and the others, we found enjoyment in saying the things we were thinking and marveling at how ridiculous they sounded out loud. Someone tells me to look down and before I know why or how, my vision becomes nothing but purplish white––an ocean of rods and cones crying out in pain. I exclaim and press my palms into my eyelids, the purple edges of the ocean start to recede and I finally realize that it was a camera flash: someone had taken a group photo from below of us all looking down. I can only imagine how goofy I must have looked. I open my eyes to find Tessa equally pained, waving her hands in front of her eyes––ohmygod ohmygod, and once again we are spurned into inescapable breathless laughter.

I noticed at some point that the bands had switched, now an alternative indie group whose name has slipped my mind. The camera flashes continued their assault on my retinas, but once I got used to them I found the beauty in their spectacle. Along with each one came my own personal snapshot from the moment of the light, a Polaroid negative printed in blue and green over my eyes. A figure with outstretched hands, a paintbrush hair-flip, Josh’s smiling face; a chemical slideshow of jubilation viewable by me and me alone. I felt a rush of gratitude for the magic of my sensory experience, that the illusory system produces beauty even when it is momentarily broken.

The light behind the band was steadily cycling through all the colors of the rainbow, and Tessa and I became transfixed by a pressing scientific discovery. We noticed that the leaves of the tree in the distance became more sharply detailed when the light was near the red end of the spectrum, and murkier on the blue end. I stared at those branches for way too long, riding the marry-go-round of visible light, running my imagination along the tactile crimson buds and stirring the indigo soup. It had been who-knows-how-long before I noticed the music building in the background, keyboard arpeggios dancing higher and higher, tickling my ears. I turned to Tessa to say “wait this sounds amazing!” and she nodded her head enthusiastically—Right?? The singer with dyed-red hair stepped away from the microphone to focus on their guitar solo, singing with metal rather than breath. Closing my eyes, I could feel the physical presence of the music, a rainbow orb spinning above the yard. Everything reaching crescendo, fierce melodies piercing my soul, I felt a white-hot ball of euphoria rising out of my spinal cord, before it was sling-shotted by the resolving note into my skull where it bounced around inside for longer than I thought possible. Vegas bulbs igniting with every supercharged pinball bounce, I made a noise halfway between a laugh and a scream, and I had to steady my dizziness against the tree, a floaty high made from the overwhelming distillation of the music and the people and the life into my brain. I told Tessa I couldn’t believe how good I felt at that moment, that I had no idea such a feeling was possible. And the best part about it was that the gummies weren’t what gave me that high; sure they might have helped a bit, but I had a confidence within me that it was produced by my environment, and the inconceivable effect it has on me when I’m able to truly appreciate it.

This is not to say the experience wasn’t scary. Early on, the host of the party grabbed the microphone and said his neighbors had called the cops for a noise complaint, which did wonders for my paranoia. From that moment on, any passing flashlight or unexpected movement was a SWAT team with guns drawn. Also, I would frequently fall back into my retrograde amnesia–whereamIohgod mindset, a sinkhole of unreality that came and went unceremoniously. All I had to do to trigger it was look across the yard at myself, unable to suppress my curiosity in this past version of me. Tessa later called my experience ego death, which seemed right. It certainly felt like dying––like this was my last opportunity to kiss my earthly body goodbye before pledging allegiance to the great nothing. There was so much I wanted to say to myself. And yet––like an estranged father on the run, I was condemned to make silent amends from a distance… observing my creation in all his damaged solitude through a one-way mirror, unable to salvage our relationship with words––I love you; I know you; I’m sorry. I made sure to keep my distance from him; it was hard to picture us interacting without one of us trying to kill the other. Tessa did well to diffuse my situation, repeating that the guy didn’t actually look like me at all, and approaching random friends to ask “are you nate? are you nate?” in a demonstration of my ridiculousness. She was right: when I eventually got close to him the effect vanished. But nothing could convince me that this wasn’t just another malevolent trick by whichever god was responsible for our meeting. There is strange part of me that refuses to recover from the existential test of that experience; some arcane allure to the idea that I am not the only version of myself in the world. Maybe it’s because it makes me feel less alone. It’s comforting to believe that there’s other ‘me’s bumbling around out there, making the same mistakes for the same non-reasons, who could join in on a collective shrug at our own expense. But then I remember that all of us––you and me––already have that in each other; all we need to do is cross the unknowable gulf that lies between us and have a chat on the dancefloor.

I was beginning to come down when Aidan’s band started their set. I had seen them play maybe eight times before, and this was up to their standard level of magnificence––no amount of complication could change my love and appreciation for them. To be in such close proximity to a creation so enlivening is enough to make me feel like the luckiest person in the world. They generate a sacred space at all their performances, one in which you can go bananas with your closest friends and give in to the insanity calling your name. Not only is it amazing to know a band so closely, but each of their concerts have been a gift—free of charge. They’re really out here making us all happy one weekend at a time, out of the kindness of their hearts and the strength of their art. The whole project has been oddly validating, as if it confirms the quality of our community. Part of me feels that the creation of something great from our friend-group was an inevitability; like a chemical process in which colliding enough interesting atoms together is bound to produce something beautiful––social alchemy.

By the time they finished, it was nearing eleven o’clock. Some people began to head for the alleyway exit, others shuffled forward in a congregation of thanks––this was when we’d ask for pictures and autographs if we weren’t already friends. After hugging everyone and doing my best to convey my appreciation, I noticed how fried my brain felt and decided it was time for me to leave as well. Of course, it only made sense to leave with Tessa––my comrade in the terrifying experience. I am endlessly thankful that she was there to keep me sane. As we were crossing the wooden threshold out of the yard, I couldn’t help but throw a glance back at myself, secretly hoping he was looking at me too. I saw him gazing up at the stars with a little smile on his face, breathing in the evening while it lasted. The smile was contagious, and I turned back contentedly to Tessa, ready to skip off into the darkness.

Nate

logan roy voice Was it gay manslaughter son? The manslaughter. Was it gay? Was it queer

Waddah culluh

—The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde

The Kaleidoscope of Political Depression

Staring vacantly at the clinical white walls of Dr. Cottril’s office, an emptiness blankets itself over everything. Like a damp sheet fresh from the dryer, not dry enough to keep you warm but not wet enough to warrant another tumble. She repeats the question back to me, aware of my obvious dissociation in trying to come up with an adequate response.

“But how does it make you feel” she repeats.

“You seem to complain frequently about the stifling nature of growing up in Canada, but I want to understand what about this country feels so suffocating?”

I take a moment to collect myself. It is almost a cliché of mine at this point to blame all my problems on the neo-liberal, late-stage capitalist, imperial, settler-colonial hegemony of 21st century Canada (a string of buzzwords I frequently strew together to invoke some sort of reaction from anyone who will listen). My parents see these complaints as just my brash undergraduate education rearing its ugly head. My sister sees it as a manner of escaping my own insecurities, blaming my personal mistakes on the larger system. “A nation-wide scapegoat,” she says.

“It feels like we are just set up since the day we are born, to be made so small that we eventually just allow this smallness to swallow us whole” I finally utter. “I mean it makes sense though, Canada is a nation whose entire human history has been near erased by the expansive colonial agenda. The only dominant history that remains is the one constructed by a capitalist narrative. Unlike countries with immortalised history, nations which have a record of their different forms of organisation, Canada erased everything.” Just uttering these words makes my palms begin to sweat.

I am quickly reminded of the fragility of my own discontent. How unlikely it is for things to change. I am reminded that Canada has been this way since its foundation and that the current state of climate breakdown is only the result of this system of inequality.

“Thank you for your honesty,” Dr. Cottril responds calmly. “I want to remind you that these feelings are not unique to you or your positionality. You are certainly not alone in feeling this way. I would say you are describing what is perhaps the consequences of a severe case of political depression”

Political depression? I ask myself. What on earth is political depression? I have never heard these two terms strung together before nor can I image the implications this combination of terms would mean to my psyche.

“As defined by Dr. Ann Cvetkovich, Political Depression is the feeling that systems of political action and critical analysis are no longer functioning to improve society or make us any happier. By examining where your depression and sense of ennui may stem from, it’s possible to create a more precise treatment plan that extends beyond typical medical intervention. Cvetkovich sees the current epidemic of depression not as a strictly chemical reaction in one’s brain, but as a symptom of the larger social and cultural inequalities ravaging the planet like racism, colonialism, homophobia, and capitalism. See, I don’t think your depression is entirely genetic or can be treated solely with talk therapy or medication, what your mind is reacting to is the need for social change.”

I sit with her comment, letting her words wash over me and soak into my past. Political depression: a feeling of helplessness and exhaustion in the face of social subjugation. Immediately, I think of Kant’s theory of the sublime. I think of how small it makes me feel to live in a world so grandiose and flagrant in its corruption and hostility. Yet where the beauty of the sublime should reside, I am instead confronted with fear and a sense of worry about where all this destruction will leave humanity. I find myself completely detached, unable to comprehend how to find art, poetry, or beauty in the outcome of our colonial past and capitalist future.

“How can I treat it? Political Depression?” I utter, eyes locked on the floor.

Dr. Cottril asks when I began to feel this way. Says the origin of these feelings will tell us where the best treatment lies. I respond that it was when I could no longer write. I had grown up with an active imagination, spending endless summer afternoons daydreaming along rocky shorelines, creating stories about magical forest nymphs and other creatures only my mind could conjure up. I remember seeing the world as a vast kaleidoscope, endless in its possibilities and combinations, ready for a new generation to discover all the wonderous symmetries and patterns that could be spun.

It was on these very same shorelines my fantasies came crumbling down. The Kaleidoscope stopped spinning. I remember the west side of White Rock beach, just past the train tracks where the landscape begins to curve, obscuring Salt Spring Island behind its towering trees. For the first time I feel my daydreams be punctured by the low rumble of churning engines and the stench of raw coal.

I spin the colours at random and discover anxiety. These trains which have rumbled my communities’ shorelines, sending ripples across our gentle bay, was killing us. Slowly but surreptitiously. I returned home distraught, crawled into my childhood bed, let the blankets crush me into the nothingness I felt on the inside. I wanted to scream but had no sounds to make. I wanted to cry but masculinity grabbed at my throat. The kaleidoscope became jammed in this pattern, unable to spin again. I tucked it away at the bottom of my junk drawer. Every once and a while, sunlight glimmers through and it shines once more. Coal trains are heavier than they look, harder to remove than a Prime Minister, especially when they come from America.

Why this impacted my writing, I’ll never know. Suddenly the words stopped coming to me. I left my journal under a duvet of dust for 5 years, only opened once again to document why I could no longer write for my future self to bring up in therapy. Like I am doing today.

I tell her this is what capitalism feels like. It’s the jammed kaleidoscope that keeps on shinning. The day you can no longer write. When self-expression becomes commodified, every move we make a form of productivity, all that survives is the dust covered journals of those who suffered before us. We study them. Name them the western cannon. If Ocean Vuong is right, and writing is a political act, I write to survive political depression. To cope with our politics in the hope that someone somewhere will read my words and find comfort in company.

“Then start writing again.” Dr. Cottril responds. “Write for yourself and no one else. Don’t just write about your emotions and feelings, but write stories, fables, tall-tales and fantasies! Revolution begins with a pen and paper. Resistance permeated by bleeding ink.”

Alicia Elliot wrote that her language, her voice, was stolen by both depression and colonialism, but that she doesn’t accept this. She writes as a radical act of self-preservation. Maybe writing in the age of anxiety, climate breakdown, and late-stage capitalism demands revolution of the personal kind. Sanctuary has never been more urgent. Writing becomes liberation in the face of adversity. I leave Dr. Cottril’s office and go to my junk drawer. I smash the kaleidoscope into a million pieces, rebuild something new, something unwritten. I build it to endure, I write us both back into existence.

Sam

Some friends and I are starting a writing blog!

Café poem

Nate

richard: francis is so intruiging. he looks like a mysterious prince, look at the way he eats his cherries. he’s a walking miracle.

richard: everything henry does needs to be worshipped. he’s an actual god. the physical manifestation of a celestial being. a deity not of this earth.

richard: i could watch charles all day. my favorite thing about camilla is how boyish she looks, and how much she looks like her brother. he’s the most fascinating person alive. I could literally stare at him 24/7.

richard: I, a heterosexual,

succession ships are so bonkers. a failing marriage between two blockheads stuck in a miscommunication void? a weird homoerotic power-play relationship between a woman’s husband and cousin? a shitty humiliation boy getting his world absolutely rocked by an authoritative milf? a manic addict and his on-again off-again thing with his old college (fuck)buddy? or that same addict and his new gf who happens to be the cousin of his dad’s biggest competition? incredible. breathtaking.