#( i watched nightmare before christmas yesterday and now i am suffering )

[let-me-luve-you]

I’m Proud of You

Tom Holland x Sister

Summary: The reader is in the military and encourages Tom to take the role of Cherry. Now that the movie is coming out, everyone expresses how proud they are.

Warnings: Not too descriptive but mentions of ptsd and addiction, angst, supportive friends and family, talks of the movie Cherry, talks of military

A/N: Hey guys, this is so late and I’m sorry. Just been going through it a little bit but I’m okay. Thank you to those that reached out. I hope you enjoy this.

MASTERLIST       BUY ME A COFFEE     REDBUBBLE

When Tom was pulled aside by the Russo Brothers when he was filming End Game and was given the plot line of the movie Cherry, Tom immediately thought of you. You were his baby sister that served in the military. Tom was hesitant to take the role of an army medic that has PTSD and struggles with addiction. This character would hit home in a way.

You had been home leading to Tom leaving for Atlanta to film the final Avengers movie, but you left shortly after he did to go back on deployment. Tom was never fully calm when he knew you weren’t home. He constantly worried.

When the Russo’s came to him, they knew he would have to consider everything from career to personal. They knew you served your country. What they didn’t know was that you were already suffering from PTSD. Tom knew, which is why it took him all of filming to give them an answer.

One morning when Tom was talking to you, he mentioned the role and how he didn’t know if he should take it. It discussed heavy issues. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to bring it justice. You encouraged him to take the role. You told him you knew he could do the role. That he was an amazing actor. You included that doing this movie could help start a conversation about mental health and addiction within soldiers and veterans.

Tom remembered the conversation like it was yesterday. Now the trailer is being released and he is starting the virtual press tour. You had just come home right before Christmas. Your Christmas present to your family was telling them you were retiring from the military. Tom was ecstatic at the news. He hated worrying about you when you were gone. He was constantly thinking that the next phone call he got was going to be his parents telling him you weren’t coming home.

A month later, you were currently staying with Tom until you found your own place. When Tom was sent the trailer to Cherry for him to post on his own social media the next day, he brought his computer to your room. He knocked on the door and opened it when he heard a quiet “come in.”

“Hey Y/N?” You looked up from your iPad when he spoke.

“Yeah?” You asked, confused.

“I have the trailer for Cherry. They just sent it over. Want to watch?” He asked hopefully. You could see the slight fear in his eyes, but you didn’t understand why.

“Sure.” You smiled at him and set your iPad on your night stand. Tom smiled back at you and sat down on the other side of the bed. He quickly made it full screen and hit play. He had already watched it so Tom watched you through the corner of his eye. He noticed that when it showed the war scenes, you tensed.

When the trailer was over, Tom slowly exited out and shut his computer screen. “What did you think? They are going to send over the movie this weekend. Figured me and you could make a movie night out of it with the whole family.”

“I liked it. You look like you did a good job so far. I can’t wait to watch it.” You smiled at him. Tom immediately knew you were putting on your fake smile.

“Everything okay?” He asked, concerned.

“Yeah. I just…” You sighed and looked away from Tom. “Just still adjusting to everything. You know that I’m going to therapy, right?”

Tom shook his head, “No, I just thought you were going to mum’s and dad’s.”

“No. I’ve been going to therapy. I’m at three days a week right now. The nightmares are just too much to handle. Then I hear sounds during the day and it just flashes me back to there.”

“I’m sorry y/n/n. You know you can talk to me. I want you to know you can talk to me. No matter what time. I talked with veterans, I don’t know what you went through, but I know it wasn’t good. After playing this character, I don’t want to see that happen to you. Did they prescribe medicine?” He asked.

You shook your head.

“Okay. If they feel you need to, please let me know. I really, really don’t want you to go through addiction. I don’t even want to risk it for you to even get close to addiction.” He said seriously. You knew he was. You didn’t want the medicine anyways.

“I can’t wait to see the movie.” You said with a smile. “But can I ask if we can start it early? I already know, I’ll probably need to pause it and take a minute when it gets to those scenes.” You said. You didn’t even need to specify which ones. Tom knew already that watching the military scenes were going to be hard for you.

“Yeah. We can. And if you want it to be just us, that’s perfectly okay. I can watch it with everyone else the next night.” He said giving you options.

You shook your head to turn down the new option, “that’s okay. I can watch it with them. Just let them know I will need to pause it.” Tom smiled at you and nodded before kissing your head and getting off your bed. Tom left to go show everyone else the trailer. 

After he posted the trailer to his Instagram a few days later, positive comments started flooding his Instagram and Twitter. You scrolled through the comments from Harry, Haz, the Russo Brothers, and more people Tom knew and worked with and like all of them. You were so happy to see them support Tom. He had the right people in his corner.Next you saw a post from Tuwaine. First you scrolled through the photos. They were of Tom as Cherry throughout the different times in the characters life.

It’s funny, cos when I see bae do a role like this, I’m reminded again and again of how talented he truly is. I don’t think the world can look at you the same way once this is out.

He added that the trailer link was in his bio and you smiled. Not many people would do that, but Tuwaine has been one of Tom’s day 1s. You loved Tuwaine like a brother. You couldn’t ask for a better best friend for your brother.

You knew Tuwaine’s words were 100% correct. People saw Tom as a kid. They saw him like he is this sweet, innocent teenager like Peter Parker. He didn’t hate that, but he also hated being seen as a kid. Don’t get him wrong, he loves Spider-Man and he would love to play that character for the rest of his life, but he’s 24. He wanted to be taken seriously and no one takes a kid seriously.

You remember getting the selfie Tom sent to your phone when he was filming. You didn’t get it until you returned home, but he loved to text your phone when things happened so you could stay up to date with him. The selfie Tom sent you was when he was in Morocco. He was in all of his military gear. The text under it was,

I put this suit on and I feel like I’m an imposter. I feel like I don’t deserve to wear this. I’m just an actor, you are the real hero in this world. But when I feel like this, I remember what you told me. “If anyone can play this role, it’s you Tom. You have a connection to the military. You see what it can do to the family and friends around the soldier. You know what it has done to me. If anyone can bring this character to the screen and help start a conversation about PTSD and addiction, it’s you. I don’t know another actor that would take it seriously and give it 110%.” I hope this movie does start that conversation. I hope people see this character and realize the severity of it. Thank you for pushing me to do this role. I love you. I can’t wait to see you again. Stay safe y/n/n. I love you.

You decided to post the picture he sent you plus a screenshot of the text. You wanted them to see Tom as Tom. You were so incredibly proud of him and you wanted the world to see that.

Tom, I honestly don’t know what words to say right now, you know I’m not good at them, but I’m proud of you. I’m proud of you for going outside your comfort zone. You went into this movie to show people you can be more than the nerdy high school kid and to start a conversation. I read all the text you sent me when filming this. I know the hardships you went through. I cannot wait to watch Cherry with you to see all the hard work pay off. I already know you were absolutely amazing in it. I love you and I’m proud of you!

When Tom got the notification that he was tagged in a post by you, he smiled. He smiled even bigger seeing the photos you used and as he read the caption. He was the luckiest brother in the world to have a sister like you. He quickly comment thank you and love you with a kiss and heart emojis.

“Tom?” You asked as you walked into his room to see him lying on the bed.

“Yeah?” He questioned.

“I really am proud of you. Let’s go out for lunch. My treat.” You smiled. Tom got out of bed and walked to you.

“Thank you for pushing me to do this role. I’m really glad I did it.” He said and gave you a kiss on the head. “Now go get dressed, I’m paying.” He said with an arrogant tone and walked towards his bathroom. You left to get dressed while laughing. Knowing it was going to be a fight to see who actually paid for lunch.

[drarrysinful]

Happy Drarry prompt! Harry and Draco are happily married to each other, no one dies. No one gets sick or injured either. Same if they have pets. No one's cheating, physically nor emotionally. It's also neither a dream nor hallucination, nor an AU they've stumbled into nor witnessing from a 3rd person perspective. I dare you to try making this angsty, as I'm pretty sure I've covered all the bases. Oh wait! They're only talking about wonderful and nice things. Now I'm sure it's impossible lol.

Happily Ever After

“We finally did it!” Harry said with a laugh as Draco struggled to open the door to their new flat. “We’re finally married!”

Draco huffed, but with a bright smile on his face as he carried Harry over the threshold. “Yes, we did. And you’re immediately going on a diet, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Hey!”

“You weigh a ton! How did I get roped into being the one that carries you, you’re the quidditch player!”

“Oh excuse me, Professor Malfoy, but you insisted!”

They both glared at each other, but with none of the coldness of their youth. There was nothing but warmth and affection in their eyes.

“Oi!” Harry suddenly exclaimed as Draco made it over to the couch and unceremoniously dropped him on it.

Draco just laughed and dodged one of the cushions as Harry pelted it at him.

“Come on, Harry. Help me get dinner ready.”

Harry groaned and feigned melting off of the couch, “Nooooo, you’re such a task master in the kitchen.”

“Food should be prepared with the same care and precision as a potion.”

“Yea, and I was always pants at potions.”

“That’s cause you didn’t have me helping. Up you get.” Draco reached down and pulled Harry up to his feet

“Yes, Professor,” Harry grumbled good-naturedly, letting Draco pull him to his feet and then dutifully following him into the kitchen.

————————-

Weeks later, Harry walked into the kitchen to find Draco sitting at the table, sipping on his tea and reading the Daily Prophet. A steaming mug of coffee awaited Harry in his usual spot.

“Welcome to the land of the living,” Draco chuckled, his eyes not leaving the paper.

Harry groaned and sat down, rubbing his sleep fogged eyes and taking the first blessed sip of liquid life, “You would be tired to if you spent all of yesterday doing bludger drills with some of the best beaters in the league.”

“You may do physically taxing, but I spend my days doing mentally taxing.” Draco set his paper down and rubbed his forehead, “With all those numbskulls in my classroom, I can see why Snape was so grumpy.”

Harry glanced down at headline on the paper Draco had been reading.

EX-DEATH EATERS. WHERE ARE THEY? WHAT ARE THEY DOING?

“Of course we all know about the infamous Draco Malfoy, and how he managed to steal away the famous Harry Potter (Malfoy). How did he do it? Our reporters now look into some evidence of dark magi—“

“Why do you even read that rag?” Harry asked in disgust, “It’s utter rubbish.”

“I like to keep informed.” Draco said simply, before standing. “I’ll get breakfast ready.”

“I can do it!” Harry protested.

Draco pointed a spatula that he had just pulled out in Harry’s direction, “After you tried to burn the kitchen down last time? You are no longer allowed in my kitchen.”

Harry just laughed and went back to his coffee.

After breakfast, Draco spelled the dishes into the sink to clean themselves and stood again, “I need to go prepare more for this year’s lessons. Have a good day training.” Draco gave a smile, leaning down to give his husband a kiss before sweeping out of the room and into his study.

“You too.” Harry said, draining his coffee and then heading out for another day of dodging bludgers.

—————————

Months later, Draco came in through the floo, home from Hogwarts for the Christmas Holidays. He was immediately pounced on and showered with kisses by a laughing Harry.

“I missed you!” Harry exclaimed.

Draco gave a small smile, “Yea, me too.”

Harry tilted his head, “What’s wrong?”

“Parents.” Draco shrugged, “They can be a nightmare.”

“Well, I know what will cheer you up!” Harry exclaimed, gesturing at a half put together Christmas tree and various ornaments littering the living room.

Draco arched a brow, “You call making a disaster out of my living room something that would cheer me up?”

Harry laughed and pushed Draco toward the mess, “No! Helping me put up the Christmas tree!”

Draco just smiled, sitting on the floor and starting to sort through the piles of way-too many ornaments “There’s no way we’re getting these on the tree.”

“Watch me!”

—————————

Harry woke up the day after Christmas and glanced over at Draco, still in bed. He frowned slightly, not used to being the first one awake. Brushing it off as Draco being tired from an all Weasley Christmas Dinner, Harry got up and went into the kitchen. He made himself a cup of coffee and then made Draco’s tea as he sipped on his coffee.

He had finished his coffee before Draco emerged from their bedroom, tossing the Daily Prophet into the bin as he came in.

“Welcome to the land of the living.” Harry teased.

Draco just waved Harry off and sat down to drink his tea.

“Want to make breakfast?” Harry tried.

“You can make it.” Draco said passively into his tea.

Harry nodded and got up to make breakfast.

—————————

“Draco?” It was the summer holidays now and Harry glanced into their bedroom, holding a hot cup of tea. Draco didn’t respond, only rolled over and drew the blankets tighter over himself.

“I’ll just leave this here for you.” Harry said with a smile, leaving the tea on the bedside table, “And I’ll make you breakfast.”

Again, Draco didn’t respond.

Harry shut the door and sighed. They had spent the whole year just fine... what had happened?

Harry walked into Draco’s study, a room he rarely visited. When he walked in he found stacks of the Daily Prophet. The paper Draco had stopped reading in front of him, and that Harry had never bothered to read. Going through the papers he found a years worth of headlines claiming deceit, dark magic, and other equally dark and ridiculous ways that Draco had managed to marry him. Articles about Draco’s family and his and their involvement in the war. Harry threw the papers to the floor and looked around the room some more. In Draco’s desk Harry found hundreds of letters from parents disgusted that a former death-eater teaching their kids, many mentioning the articles from the daily prophet. He found more from scorned people who felt that he had been stolen away from the wizarding world and telling Draco how much of an awful person they thought he was.

Harry crumpled the letters in his hands.

Why hadn’t Draco told him? Every time they talked by floo-call, Draco only ever told him about the good things, the happy things. He suffered alone. Hid his pain so as not to worry Harry.

Harry went back into the bedroom and sat next to Draco on the bed, noticing that his tea hadn’t been touched.

“Draco? You remember when we first moved here? You insisted on carrying me into the flat, then complained about my weight.” Harry gave a small laugh at the memory. “Then you forced me to cook with you. You’re so much better than me in the kitchen.”

Harry glanced down at Draco, he hadn’t moved, just continued to stare at nothing.

“How about when you would tease me about waking up late, but you always had my coffee ready for me.”

Harry glanced over at Draco’s untouched tea. “Of course you’re much better at tea and coffee than I am.”

Harry sat in silence, Draco only shifting to stare absently up at the ceiling. Harry shifted to lay next to Draco, wrapping an arm around him. “And on Christmas, when you told me I couldn’t get all those ornaments on the tree? I sure showed you.” Harry forced a laugh, watching Draco’s unchanging face, “You hated it and redecorated the whole thing while lecturing me that you can’t just ‘cram a whole bunch of stuff together and call it decorating.’ That was so much fun.”

Draco just looked at him, but stayed silent, his defense mechanism, the Malfoy Mask firmly affixed upon his face.

“I need to get to work.” Harry said, fixing a smile on his face. He leaned in and gave Draco a soft kiss before exiting the room.

As he shut the door, Harry all but collapsed against it, sinking to the floor as he felt tears sliding down his cheeks. When had this happened? How had he not noticed the bits of Draco’s soul breaking apart as he sank into depression, leaving him but a shell of himself. Every time Harry had asked, Draco had brushed it off and changed the subject to a happy one, or Harry himself had tried to make Draco happy by only talking about happy things. But Draco had been suffering by himself and sinking this whole time.

How could he not have noticed?

Why was he so oblivious?

And how would he get his happily ever after back...

[sserpente]

A/N: Heyho there my lovelies! How have you been? Since Valentine’s Day is coming up, I am now officially prepared… to spend the whole day in bed eating chocolate, cuddling with my cat and catching up with Doctor Who. Are you ready? Oh, listen to this song while you’re reading.

Words: 2300 Warnings: fluff

“Stop looking at me like that.” You complained, biting your lower lip as you eyed Loki from the corners of your eye, passing him in the hallway.

The God of Mischief smirked. “Like what?”

“Like you’re going to eat me alive, I can ensure you, I don’t taste good.”

It had been like this for weeks. Loki and you were dancing around each other, not quite friends but not quite enemies either. He was usually indifferent and cool to everyone, allowing no one to get close to him. Honestly, you did not blame him, who were you to judge?

“I beg to differ, little mortal.” He muttered under his breath before disappearing around the corner.

Opening up to people took a lot of courage, confidence and trust. You had been there. You had done it. You had paid the price. Never before, however, had you met a man whom you so desperately wanted to talk to you about his feelings.

He was hurting, of course he was. They all were, in a way, with Thanos having vaporised their loved ones and friends with but a single snap. Perhaps it was you getting closer and closer to your period this month that you wanted to comfort and cry with him all the while stroking his beautiful raven hair, or perhaps it was the fact Valentine’s Day was coming up… but who were you kidding?

Hardly anyone cared about holidays anymore. Christmas and New Year’s Eve had passed by without notice, with no one being able to celebrate the merry times. There was no reason for you to be cheerful either, really but given there was no one you had had left to lose, you were emotionally… detached from what was happening in the world around you.

Whether this was a good thing or much rather a disadvantage, you did not know yet. Anyhow, it did not change the fact you felt compassion towards the superheroes, especially towards Loki. Well, was he? A superhero? Probably not. If anything, Loki was a cheeky antihero but that only made him all the more interesting.

You met Clint and Thor when you entered the kitchen to get yourself a cup of tea. You might not be as mentally drained as the others, but you still had trouble falling asleep night after night. Tea usually helped.

Clint was staring out of the window, presumably thinking about his dead wife whom he would have surprised with heart-shaped chocolate and a bouquet of flowers tomorrow. At times like this, you were better off not to break the silence, get your cup of tea and leave again.

“(Y/N),” Thor murmured with a nod. He was, most likely, the only one who had been lucky. Loki was back. He was alive, safe and sound—well, more or less. You had seen through him by now. His lies and arrogance protected him, a hard and impenetrable layer shielding his tainted heart from any more pain. A sigh escaped your lips. What made it even worse was that Thor still could not see how much his brother was hurting.

Tossing and turning on your bed, you threw back your blanket and breathed out audibly. Frustration spread in your limbs as you sat up and hugged your knees. Perhaps you had been wrong and what was happening around you did actually affect you, for why else would you be unable to sleep until early in the morning day in and out?

Was it the darkness around you? The fact the black left you alone with your thoughts? Another sigh. You should just give up for tonight and head to the kitchen to make yourself another cup of tea. As soon as you entered the pitch-black hallway, however, there was a silent moan catching your attention.

Tensing up, you halted and listened, biting your lower lip in the process. Hearing strange noises at night was never a good sign, every single horror movie you had ever watched had taught you that. If Thanos decided now to attack again, you were pretty much screwed. You didn’t want to die wearing only an oversized t-shirt and black knickers.

There it was again! It sounded more than a mere moan this time. Someone was crying for help, whining. It came from Loki’s room. Was he being attacked? Were you right after all and Thanos had come back tonight?

Grabbing the closest object you could use as a weapon—a still moist umbrella—you tiptoed across the hallway and carefully opened the door to his bedroom. There was no Thanos, no trace of a fight… only a panting God of Mischief jerking on the bed.

“No… no… no!” Sweat was pooling on his forehead, his breathing shallow and rapid. Loki’s fists clenched at the creamy white bed sheets, desperate to hold on to reality but unable to escape the demons in his mind. “Stop! I can’t… I can’t… NO!”

Even now, he was incredibly beautiful. His chest, not as muscly as Thor’s but still well defined was pale, almost reflecting the moonlight shining through his open window and forming a breath-taking contrast to his raven hair falling over his shoulders.

It was chilly. Naturally, as a Frost Giant, he did not seem to bother. His lower body half was still covered by the bed sheets, leaving little to nothing to your imagination. You wondered, instantly, whether he was sleeping naked. But that was not a priority right now.

Loki was still twitching and it broke your heart to see him suffer. The frown on his face was deep, cutting into his beautiful features.

“Shhhh… Loki, wake up, you’re having a bad dream.”

But the God of Mischief did not react, almost as if he had already descended to the madness inside of his own mind, devouring him from the inside out.

“Loki, please, wake up.” Forgetting yourself, you sat down on his bed, reaching for his hair to stroke it lightly. He looked… so innocent, vulnerable. It almost appeared as if in his dreams, he showed his real, raw emotions clawing at him mercilessly. You wanted to help him so desperately you felt your own heart ache. Whatever it was he was dreaming, it was hell.

So you did the first and last thing that came to your mind. If you could not reach his conscious, then perhaps you could reach his unconscious. Putting the umbrella down, you began to sing.

“Fríða náttin er ein eimur, stjørnugrús, nú vaknar heimur…“ Eivør was a Faroese musician whose music you adored. Her songs had helped you improve your Icelandic and Faroese skills so much you were now able to hold entire conversations and even read tiny snippets from the Edda.

Funny, you realised, how the lyrics of the song applied to you. The beautiful night is glowing ashes, in a mass of stars the world awakes.

“Nakin standi eg, eina her… maður vakur men so styggur… nærkast varisliga, hyggur… taradimt er hár, tinnuhúð.”

Naked I stand, alone on this spot. A man so fine but so timid warily approaches, watches. His hair as dark as seaweed, his skin as fair as crystalline stone… you smiled. You were singing about Loki. Much importantly, however, it seemed to work. The God of Mischief began to relax, his frown disappearing. He had stopped thrashing, his breathing slowly calming down again. He did not wake but now, you did not want him to anymore. Now, he seemed at peace again.

“Verð mín, verð mín, verð mín…” Be mine, be mine, be mine, my world. You kept singing for a while longer, until you had reached the end of the song all the while playing with Loki’s black hair. Only then, after making sure he was sleeping peacefully again, you retreated and returned to your own room to finally drift off yourself.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Loki.” You muttered before you picked up the umbrella, left his room and quietly closed the door behind you.

Naturally, you didn’t expect Loki to remember you had come to his room last night to stop his nightmare, nor did you want to remind him. He had been vulnerable as is and you were by far not close enough for you to pry into his personal matters. You had felt sorry for him though, you had wanted to help.

Sighing tiredly, you marched into the bathroom and took off your clothes, ready for a hot shower to start the day and humming absentmindedly in the process. Ever since yesterday, the song you had sung to Loki was stuck in your head and there was something about showers… as soon as you had turned on the water and stepped underneath the warm spurts, you began to sing again.

You took your time washing your body, letting the water wake up your muscles and skin. Your eyes fell shut as you sang, leaning your head back to wet your hair.

When you opened them again, you shrieked. Loki was standing right in front of you behind the glass door of the shower, his expression both curious and astonished.

“Loki, what the fuck! I’m naked!”

The God of Mischief only tilted his head in response, seemingly unimpressed while you desperately attempted to cover your private parts with your hands to not much avail.

“I recognise this song. It sounds like the ones Mother used to sing to us as children and yet… this one I remember not. Do tell me, how are you able to speak Old Norse?”

“It’s not Old Norse, it’s Faroese and it’s a very modern song, actually!” You replied hysterically.

He shrugged. “Faroese… a mere descendant of the original language then. That does not answer my question.”

“I studied it. I study Icelandic and Faroese because I like Scandinavian culture and history. How do you think I know so much about the Norse myths? Now get the fuck out, I’m taking a shower!”

You knew of course, how he recognised the song but you were certainly not going to discuss it with him now… not while one of you was stark naked and dripping wet.

“I have seen naked women before, little mortal.” He retorted smirking mischievously. Finally, his blue eyes darted up and down, taking in your whole form. You felt heat creeping up your cheeks. You were shy, that for sure, yet at the very same time, having him examine you so intimately was an incredible turn on. What was he thinking, you wondered? Did he like what he saw?

Blinking, you shook your head. This was not the time to ponder over sexual fantasies.

“That’s not the point and you know that! Get out!” You yelled, making him chuckle darkly. Much to your surprise, however, he did as he was told.

You should have known better. As soon as you left the bathroom again, dressed only in a white towel covering your naked body, you found him sitting on your bed with slightly spread legs, playing with his fingers as if he was nervous.

“I do not like not knowing things.” He began before you could scold him. “And that song is familiar. I demand to know where it is from. I am genuinely interested.”

Sighing, you crossed your arms and sat down next to him, looking at your naked toes for a while. You must have made quite an impact on him last night if he remembered the song so well and on top of that, was desperate to learn why it was so familiar to him.

“You demand to know, huh?” Giggling, you looked up at him and shook your head. He still looked peaceful. Like he had slept well for the first time in a long while. “Well, uh… Loki, I…”

Should you really tell him? What if he yelled at you for invading his privacy? But then again, you had not harmed him, now had you? So much for keeping your visit a secret.

“I heard you last night. Screaming. You were having a nightmare.”

Loki tensed up. Avoiding your gaze, you found his lips parting, waiting for you to continue. What did he expect you to do? Mock him?

“I… tried to wake you up but it didn’t work, so I… I sang.”

He breathed out audibly.

“I thought you wouldn’t remember but clearly, you do.”

For a while, Loki simply said nothing. He sat there in silence, leaving you hanging nervously. Then, just when you thought he would say no more and leave without another word, he suddenly opened his mouth.

“Thank you.” He uttered, barely audible. You could tell immediately he did not express his gratitude often—it made him about as vulnerable as he had been yesterday. In response, you simple leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him, hugging him tightly for what felt like half an eternity.

Loki inhaled deeply, relishing your scent. You had used coconut shampoo, he could tell. The urge to slip his hands underneath the towel rose with every passing second. Loki quickly drew away before it overwhelmed him.

“(Y/N)…” He murmured. Your name from his lips sounded like liquid honey you wanted to kiss and taste him.

“I’m not going to tell anyone.” You promised before he could even finish.

The God of Mischief smirked.

“Is it not Valentine’s Day today?” He asked cheekily then.

“Um, yes?”

“And what do mortal men usually do to court their women on this day?”

“They, uh… buy them flowers and chocolate.”

Loki raised his eyebrows, clearly unimpressed.

“Now, that will not do. Wear a warm coat. I shall pick you up in half an hour. Surely, you have never seen the famous Northern Lights with your own eyes.” He decided, standing and leaving you behind with your eyes wide and your mouth hanging open.

A/N: Let me just add here that I envy those of you who can actually speak Faroese and/or Icelandic. Such beautiful languages I definitely want to learn at some point.

Guys, if you liked this story, I would appreciate so much if you supported me and my work on KoFi! It’s easy, it’s anonymous and you can do it from all over the world! ♥ ko-fi.com/sserpente

[marvelous-writer]

#100 on fic prompts?

100. “You can only suffer through my whining for so long until you get up and make me a sandwich.”

Tony still didn’t know how he got here, stuck on the couch with his feet propped up on the long chaise, two pillows underneath his leg that was wrapped up in an obnoxious red and yellow cast, colors that were chosen by his five year old daughter.

He always use to get injured whenever he was in the suit but ever since he retired from being Iron Man and settled into this provincial life he’s made for himself… it’s been pretty dull and painfully uneventful.

That is until he tripped over his own two feet and fell down a flight of stairs in his own home.

Thankfully, Happy had been there yesterday afternoon when it happened and Pepper was out with Morgan shopping. The last thing he’d ever want is for his daughter to be traumatized from the sight of her old man being peeled off from the floor by Happy with a horrifyingly not normal shape to his right leg.

A trip to the ER and multiple x-rays and scans later discovered that it was a clean break, not bad but definitely not good. The doctor estimated the recovery time to be six to eight weeks and it was an absolute miracle he didn’t need surgery, which he was immensely thankful for.

He just wasn’t feeling so thankful now, however, and being trapped on the couch certainly wasn’t helping him.

“I seriously feel like I’m going insane.” Tony said, staring blankly at the TV on the wall as it played yet another episode of MythBusters.

He heard a sigh beside him, causing him to tilt his head, taking in Peter’s slightly amused expression as he watched the show.

“What am I going to do for six weeks? I have projects that I need to get to in the lab and I was supposed to bring Morgan horseback riding next Friday.” Tony complained, earning another sigh from the kid.

“And I already told you that I’m fine with going with her and Pepper. And if you’re talking about building Morgan that electric sled for the winter, Pepper already said no, like twice.”

“Yeah, but I know you’d get a kick out of using it.” Tony threw him a grin.

Peter smiled and shook his head, choosing not to answer to that, which was a complete dead giveaway. Tony could only imagine the fun the two of them would have on those things when the winter came, zipping around the yard on their electric sleds, sliding down those steep hills amongst their thirty acres of property.

Was he trying to bribe the kid into letting him get off the couch? Yes. Yes indeed because Tony was surely to lose his mind before the end of the day.

Pepper had to go to work, Happy bringing her, and Rhodey was away on an Avengers mission, and Pepper had brought Morgan to work with her so he wouldn’t have to worry about taking care of anyone but himself, plus he wasn’t exactly in the condition to. So, that was how Peter showed up a few hours earlier right before Pepper left, given strict instructions of keeping Tony off his leg and not letting him do anything stupid.

So basically he was on house arrest.

Tony let out an annoyed sigh and crossed his arms over his chest, focusing back on the TV.

“You’re pouting.” Peter pointed out.

“Am not.”

“Yes you are.”

Tony half-heartedly glared over at him before dropping his arms at his sides, letting his head fall back against the pillows he was propped up against. Of all the forms of torture he’s been through, being trapped on the couch seemed like the worst of them all right now. He always needed to move around and work, whether it be tinker in the garage, fix something around the house, or even whip up something relatively edible in the kitchen.

“Yeah, well just be grateful that you have that super fast healing ability of yours. A break like this would be healed in at least three or four days for you. I don’t suppose you could share any of it with your old man?” Tony asked, rolling his head to the side towards Peter, who just smirked at his comment.

“I would if I could.” He said. “And it actually took me two days the last time.” He smirked.

Tony closed his eyes, trying to get the memory of Peter in the medbay after a particularly bad patroll that had gone south when he ran out of web fluid mid swing. “Yeah don’t remind me. I still get nightmares about that.”

“Sorry.” Peter softly said, sounding guilty.

The room went silent for a few minutes, except for the TV. Rain was lightly tapping against the windows outside, giving the atmosphere a slightly relaxed vibe despite his anxiety clawing away at his chest.

“Gerald should probably be in with it raining…” Tony said as he began to push himself up, only for a firm hand to gently push him back to the couch.

“I’ll go bring him in if he’s not. Just stay here and don’t move.” Peter said as he stood up from the couch, already making his way over to the front door, picking his jacket up from the rack and slipping his sneakers on.

“But-”

“Nope! No buts. I’ll be back in a second.” Peter told him as he opened the door, turning around with a finger pointed at him. “Stay.”

Tony’s face scrunched up in displeasure at that. “Did you really just tell me to stay? I’m not a dog, kid.”

Peter rolled his eyes with a smile before he stepped out on the front porch and closed the door behind himself, leaving Tony alone in the living room.

He blew out a breath through his mouth, folding his arms over his chest as he sat there. It wasn’t even a few moments later when the front door opened again and Peter walked in, his jacket completely soaked.

“He was already in there so I closed the door a bit.” Peter told him as he toed his shoes off as he peeled his jacket off, hanging it back up on the coat rack.

“Thanks.”

Peter hummed in response as he made his way back over and settled on the couch beside him, tucking against Tony’s side without any warning, earning a soft chuckle from him. He wrapped an arm around the kid’s shoulders, his lips pulling into a small smile as he breathed in the kid’s vanilla shampoo scented hair.

“Do you need anything?” Peter asked after a few moments of peaceful silence passed by as they listened to the rain.

“I need off of this couch, like yesterday.”

Peter breathed out a laugh into his shoulder.

“I’m not kidding. I need to get up and move around. I’ll even use the crutches, just like the doctor told me to.”

“Pepper gave me strict instructions to make sure you stayed off your feet, the only exception being the bathroom.”

“You practically carried me to the bathroom the last time I asked.”

“Just following orders.” Peter mumbled into his side and Tony could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

“Yeah, sure you were. Sure.” Tony grumbled, running a hand through the teen’s curls.

They stayed like that for some time after that, switching from the Discovery Channel to Hallmark, where one of the new June Weddings movies was playing. It was no secret that Peter enjoyed watching Hallmark movies because May and him always seemed to watch the movie marathons around Christmas time, as well as Thanksgiving. And May’s obsession had bled over to Pepper becoming obsessed when the two had their weekly phone calls. Ever since, they’ve had the Hallmark channel favorited on their television network, alongside Tony’s subscription of American Heroes.

“Why can’t she see that this guy’s a complete dick?” Tony asked, raising a hand towards the TV. “Just look at him. Why take a lady out on a date if you can’t take a minute to stop looking at your phone?”

“Seriously.” Peter agreed next to him, still leaning against him.

They were about a quarter into the movie when Tony glanced at the clock on the wall, seeing that it was well past noon time.

“You hungry? When was the last time you ate?” Tony asked, tilting his head down to look at the kid.

“Uh, since Happy picked me up from the apartment this morning I guess? But yeah, I could eat. What do you want?”

“I’m thinkingsandwiches.” Tony said as he began to sit up more so he could swing his casted leg over the side of the couch, feeling the limb pulsate with a dull ache, despite him being on some hefty pain meds.

Peter put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him. “Nuhuh. Sit down. I’ll go make it.”

“Kid. I really don’t need you doing everything for me. I’ve broken a lot more bones before, some that were a lot worse than this. And this... is nothing.” Tony gestured to his casted leg. “C’mon just let me up.” He said as he tried to take the kid’s hand off but he wouldn’t budge.

He looked over at him, lip pulled to the side with an eyebrow raised, only to find Peter with a determined expression on his face, starting at him in a silent warning, which was a bit uncharacteristic of the kid. Was this him being overprotective or something? Was a sixteen year old seriously mother henning him right now?

Tony stared at him for a few more moments before giving in, letting out a defeated sigh, slumping back against the couch. “You can only suffer through my whining for so long until you get up and make me a sandwich.” He said, meeting the kid’s eyes once again.

Peter smiled and stood up from the couch, helping him by lifting his good leg back onto the chaise, as well as adjusting the pillows his broken leg was elevated on.

“Turkey and cheese?” Peter called over his shoulder as he walked towards the kitchen to the refrigerator.

“Smoked ham, too please.” Tony begrudgingly answered from his spot on the couch.

When Peter came back in the living room with the sandwiches and their beverages, he handed Tony his plate before resuming his spot curled up beside him, digging into one of his two sandwiches. Tony smiled to himself as he stole a few glances over at the kid throughout the remainder of the movie. While he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, maybe being confined to the couch wasn’t such a bad thing, especially if it meant he got to spend some quality one-on-one time with his kid.

[ladybuvelle]

// Sona-mun tells a stream-of-consciousness personal story and reflection about going to the piers this morning and thinking about life. Reader discretion advised.

This morning, just as the sun was starting to rise, I decided I wanted to go out to the piers. Early morning is a good time to walk around my neighborhood since most people are either still sleeping or just heading to bed. The park and pier were nearly empty - save only a small, weird group of people doing god-knows-what drugs, but they were friendly enough (the woman in the group said good morning to me, gave me a thumbs up, and told me I looked lovely).

One of the piers is a designated fishing area, but no one was there that early. I had the spot all to myself for awhile, just looking at the water and the city and the clouds covering the sunrise that bloomed from orange to pink on its way to daylight blue. It was quiet save for the wind rushing over my ears. It smelled slightly sweet yet briny, like seashells from the beach when you bring them home but don’t wash them off and the smell turns to this kind of sea-musk, only not as concentrated. Like salty old wood and city smog and wind that’s been everywhere, humid but not warm yet because the sun’s still waking up.

I love the smell of water. I love the smell of the sea, and watching waves, and listening to the rush of foam hitting the sides of walls or under the docks. I love the beach and the ocean and how big it is and how terrifying it is, because there’s fucking squids out there somewhere and fuck squids, man. But I can’t go to the beach by myself, and I have no one to go with me, so I’m blessed to have the pier. I’ve never gone by myself so early. I needed to clear my head and think.

In a small way I think I tumbled into a slow breakdown yesterday. And by a “slow breakdown” I mean I was broken up but I never let myself fully freak out and break down crying in a pile like the world’s going to end (as one does). I cried, off and on, but rarely do I ever let myself just lose it. In a way I think I’ve never felt like I was allowed. I’m too rational. Too level-headed. Or maybe it’s just that I feel if I really let myself go I’d be left too vulnerable. You can never be left too vulnerable. That’s when they get you.

But things like that? That gets mistaken for strength. Because I keep myself away from the edge as much as I can, people call me “strong” or say I’m a “rock” - unmovable, steady, sturdy, dependable, reliable, stable and clear-headed.

It’s easy to seem like a rock stuck in place when the rest of the world seems like it’s tumbling around me. I once got praised when I was younger at how thoughtful I was and how I carefully considered situations and gave honest answers; but to me it always seemed like other people just rush things and don’t think anything through, and they all just end up lying anyway.

People lie for no reason at all. My mom lies to me about having the fan on in her room as if to trick me into turning off my own, because she “doesn’t want to use too much electricity”. She could just say that. She doesn’t need to lie.

So when nothing feels real or truthful or stable, it’s little wonder I keep having nightmares really. Because I’m stuck. I’m constantly stuck in an abusive cycle that I can’t escape from, even when the abuser isn’t here anymore. The echoes remain. The ripples, like in the river by the pier, are violent and never ending.

To me, the feeling of anxiety is the feeling that something in my fault. That I’m in trouble. That I did something ‘bad’. That feeling when you get sent to the principal’s office but you don’t even know what you did to deserve it. In that limbo of waiting to be seen, that’s how I feel. Waiting. Nervous. Dreading. What have I done? What’ll happen to me? What will I lose because of it?

Will it be a friend? A community? A chance? Someone’s respect? A family member? A life?

Will it be my fault someone dies because I wasn’t there enough? I didn’t say the right thing? I just didn’t try hard enough? Is it my fault my father drank? Was I a bad kid? Did my grandmother resent me because I was willful? Too much like my mom? Even though I was never like my mom.

Where do I fit in? Where is the space for me? Am I just being selfish to want to have space to breathe, when there’s so much suffering and so many grasping hands around me begging for my stability while pulling me down? The answer should be “of course not!”, but the world doesn’t work like that. Life doesn’t slow down so you can get used to the speed. You either sink or swim, and truthfully I never learned how to swim properly. I just know how not to drown for awhile. I know how to float if I need to. You won’t see me doing a backstroke or anything like that, though I’m sure I could learn if I wanted to.

The thing about feeling like the only “stable” one though is it puts me in a weird position. Maybe I’m not actually as steady as I think I am? I.E., maybe I’m actually crazy and nobody has the heart to tell me. Or I’m beyond understanding it. Or really good at hiding it. I’d say “high functioning” but that’s hardly true; I’m well-spoken and I can do a good ol’ objective think-session, but I can’t hold a regular job or do most things “functional” adults are expected to do. So what is it? Am I actually nuts? Am I lazy?

I have so many questions. And in the slow-fall of gently breaking down, I have no answers.

When I was little my neighborhood was really quiet. Lots of abandoned factories all around, or ones that were sweatshops so they were hush-hush anyway. Not a lot of people walking around. I used to pretend I was the only person left; that it was some post-apocalyptic landscape and it was just me and my dog in whatever was left. It felt so peaceful to pretend that. I still covet that feeling.

At the pier, alone, I tried to put myself in that mindset for a moment. That it was just me and no one else. I couldn’t do it. I’m too old. I know better. I can’t let go of my worries like I used to for a little while, I guess. I used to escape into my own mind and imagination so easily. Maybe that’s part of my problem these recent years? My mind is what I want to escape from. And I can’t. There’s nowhere left to go.

I tried wondering, for the sake of it, what it would be like if I jumped off the pier into the water. It’s not a long jump. The water’s only maybe two yards away, and it’s deep enough that I probably wouldn’t get hurt. The only real danger to me would be the water isn’t clean and I’m not sure how I’d get back out. I imagined putting my bag down and taking off my sandals before jumping in, because I wouldn’t want to break my phone or lose my keys or my shoes, right? I imagined what it would look like when someone finally found my discarded bag and sandals. No one would probably go to that spot for hours after. I’d probably have found a way back up long before then, soaked and stupid and gathering my things before headed home anyway for a shower and then going to bed.

I’m too grounded for a real suicidal thought, I think. I’m more afraid of dying than anything. Even squids aren’t that scary by comparison. And I’ve almost died several times over the course of my life, too. I’ve been at the edge. I don’t like it.

I think the only time I’ve ever had anything close to a “suicidal” thought was sitting in my closet crying and begging God to take me. Back when I still sort of believed in God. Even then it’s not that I wanted to die, I just wanted the pain to stop. My father to stop yelling at me, hitting me, telling me how worthless I was. I wanted to get away.

I never thought I’d live past 18. I remember sitting there in my new room at my mom’s house, finally out of dad’s grasp, and the guilt was so great I couldn’t even get off my bed. He told me the whole way there I was making the wrong choice. I was leaving him all alone. She wouldn’t take care of me like he did. This was my fault. This was my fault. I was leaving him all alone when he needed me most. There were literally hills of his laundry in the basement that I could never get all the way through. He never did the dishes because he has eczema on his hands. He had guns in the basement I didn’t even know about. He had no one to talk to. No one to cook dinner. No one to love him after he was done yelling to forgive him.

I can’t stop thinking about how many times he could have killed me, but he didn’t, because he loved me.

Is that really even love? When someone can destroy you but they don’t? When someone stops themselves from their raging because you can’t breathe anymore?

There’s so much I went through that I took - and still take - in stride. There’s so much I haven’t told people because why would I? It happened. That was my “normal”. And the life I have now is so far away from that cage of despair, so why should it matter?

Why do I keep having nightmares about Christmas’ past? Where I couldn’t afford presents for people. Where I forgot my dad’s birthday. Where he yelled and threw things like a child in a 5′10″ man’s body.

He once told me he’d always tried to treat me like an adult. And really, by 4th grade I’d already grown to my full height of 5′9″. I was nearly as tall as him. Some people thought I was his wife.

It makes me want to vomit. The dreams make me want to vomit acid.

When I told my mom one of my nightmares I immediately regretted it. She always blames herself for everything. I’m sure once she left to go upstairs to bed she cried about it, because that’s just how she is. She couldn’t stop him from hurting me.

Maybe part of it was her fault. I’d ran away from home once to go to her, afraid for my life and wearing my dad’s clothes because I was sick and couldn’t get my own at my grandma’s apartment without her knowing. She just sent me back home. I would have gotten beaten if my grandma didn’t tell him to stop.

I still know what he smells like. Metal and exhaust and sweat and oil. He worked as an engineer. I have oily hair just like him.

When I pull my hair back, I can see him on my face in the mirror.

People often said I looked like my father. That used to make me so happy.

It’s been what... 5 years? Almost? Since I last saw or spoke to him. I saw him last at my grandmother’s funeral - the ‘good’ grandmother who loved me so, so much. He touched my face. I wanted to crawl in with her and hug her and whisper in her ear to take me too. She wouldn’t have though.

Life is worth living. She lived so much, and she suffered so much, and she hurt people too. But if she hadn’t kept going then I wouldn’t have known her. She wouldn’t have stopped a crazy man on the street and bought him a coffee. She wouldn’t have shown me seagulls flocking in for a bucket of fish on a cold winter day, or the way she would dance, or her laugh.

So for all the skin-crawling and suffering of it, I endured it. And I’m here. And I’m guilty. But I keep going.

At the pier, I laid on the empty bench for awhile. The sky was mostly cloudless save for along the skyline, so directly above it was just an endless void of blue. I used to get dizzy when I was a kid looking up at the sky. I’d lay in the middle of the baseball field at the park and look up. At night it feels like the sky has a big hole in it and it’ll suck you up. But the blue sky just felt empty. No stars left, no moon, no clouds. Just the tall lamp post next to me that was still lit despite there being plenty of light. Something was tapping under my seat. Probably a plastic bag or something stuck there.

The sun was taking its time when I looked to my side. But I knew in an hour it would be up and bright and hot. Time to go. Don’t want someone to come by and think I’m homeless or something.

I usually try to come up with some comforting resolution after sorting myself out. That it’ll be ok, or that things will get better, or that everything rights itself eventually. And I do believe that. I believe that will all my heart. But my heart, right now, as it was when I was walking home, is so tired. Tired of feeling guilty. Tired of worrying. Tired of losing. Tired of being used. I just want to rest by the water, surrounded by the sound of wind and waves, with the sun coming up and the promise of something better on the horizon. The city so far away, but it looks like I could reach out and touch it.

I just want to sleep. And wake up. And feel better.

[thorntonkrell-blog-blog]

Non-Fiction is the New Faction

I chose my Christmas gift 25 years before I was born. I chose wisely. On that day, Mary Keenan, who had just arrived bag and baggage in Rochester, New York from County Cork Ireland, gave birth to her first child...and named her Mary.  I sent that child the twinkle in her Irish eyes.

Young Mary went on to celebrate another 91 Christmas birthdays. I was around for 67 of them as she was glad to see my father and her husband who saw my twinkle when he returned from the Phillipines at the end of WW2 which made me part of a significant demographic excess known as the Baby Boom. When my father was in the Phillipines and during his entire time in the service, my mother wrote him a letter every day.

I am an early Boomer and a late bloomer.

When she was child, she raised her brother and two sisters as her father died suddenly when she was in high school. She lived to be near the bedside of all of 'em when they passed. Same with my father, she comforted him till he died in her arms.

I was the oldest of her three children.

She loved me and supported us, every day of our lives.

I never bothered to ask her to thank me for choosing her above millions of candidates to be my mother while I was in my first infinity before my vacation before my next and final infinity.

And I know I'll see her again.

The stars twinkle

Mary's grandaughter is our youngest child.

Of course we named her Mary.

Yes, Mary Dear. Your twinkle brought your Mom and I together thirty years ago.

Thank you for that.

There is a theory which states that if ever anybody discovers exactly what the universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable.

Yes, there's ANOTHER theory that this has already happened.

I have a theory that it happens over 300 millions times every day in the United States alone.

The initial discovery is called death and the something even more bizarre and wonderful is called birth. The vacation in between is called life or some say "lipstick land."

All of us on earth at this moment share a common state of inexplicability which we project as the "universe" or "reality". We create this reality as we go along living our lives in a state of mass hypnosis, love and wonder. Eventually we straighten things out, kick the bucket and re-awaken with only a vague memory of what we knew before.

This vague memory is called our subconscious.

With each awakening we discover a brand new universal puzzle to contemplate along with a brand new set of people also contemplating the same puzzle with slightly different kaleidoscopes. The most immediate, influential people we call our parents.

And you, dear Mary, call me Dad.

The tools that worked best the last time, even though we don't remember them, are called aptitudes.

When we discover them, we use them to explain the universe to ourselves and others particularly our children.

I get the feeling I've written this before.

I get the feeling this is what all writers are writing about all the time.

All singers singing about all the time etc.

I get the feeling you've read this before, Mary.

Of course it's all just a theory.

I am still alive, honey.

Aren't I ?

AVA’S SHOWER

When we moved to Tumbleweed, we had to enroll Mary in a brand new school. She was in third grade and had a broken leg. She arrived in time for school pictures. When the class pictures came out, I noticed this little girl with big glasses. Her name was Ava. I pointed her out to Mary and said "She looks like she'd be a good friend." Sure enough, they became besties and remain so to this day almost 30 years later.

This is the story of Ava's shower

I know this wasn't a dream because when I dream I always try to get the picture but the camera never works.

It was my bridal first shower. My gender had always rendered me ineligible but this shower was co-ed. We were enjoying our drinks and conversation downstairs when I noticed that the main female stars were missing.

Ava was trying on her wedding gown upstairs. I'm not sure who invited me but somehow through the grapevine I came too know that I would be welcome in this room and so would my camera.

This happens often in my dreams but in my dreams, the camera she don't work.

I walked up the stairs and entered the room. I was the only male but everyone seemed to welcome me.

Everyone was admiring Ava in her dress. Ava was radiating joy and reflecting the admiring glances that were coming her way. The dress was perfect. Everybody knew it.

I've been taking Ava's picture ever since she was a little girl.  I wanted to get a great picture of Ava at this moment. All of my years of photography had led to this moment. It wasn't gonna come again.

Ava noticed me. She looked into the camera. I snapped. The camera worked.

This was no dream.

Mine wasn't the only camera in the room. Ava seemingly picked up on all of the lenses by not concentrating on any of them but rather enjoying her moment of celebration.

A model of decorum

I got my pictures. Everybody got their pictures. The cameras disappeared. I lingered with my lens.

At that moment, at that second, in about the time it takes a car to swerve a deadly swerve, Ava's expression changed. For an instant memory, vulnerability and pain flashed through her entire being in a collision of joy and pain.

I imagine she was thinking of her older sister who was not in the room. The older sister Abby who ended up on the deadly end of an unsignalled swerve on a dark Halloween night almost 10 years ago. A tragedy that changed everyone.

Suddenly Abby was in the room.

I didn't see Abby but I did see Ava seeing Abby as did my camera.

For one split second grief and recognition flashed across Ava's glowing face. In that split second I had to make the decision whether or not to snap the picture and "capture" this exceedingly private, candid, personal and vulnerable moment.

I was almost certain that the camera was going to malfunction revealing the entire scene as one more dream forever undocumented.

I snapped.

The camera worked.

Ava's expression returned to joy.

A few weeks later, I told Ava about the picture. I told her this story. I told her I wanted to write about it but couldn't do that unless she approved.

She said it would be an honor.

The wedding is this weekend.

This writing  is in honor of Ava

and of Abby.

HEADING FOR FRONTIER AT LAST

Today's the day. Last night was the night. I only had to steal one mirror last night so I got my first half way decent shuteye in months.

At this moment I am resisting the urge to hit the sack and indulge in fatigue.

I'm thinking about the original Invasion of the Body Snatchers and Nightmare on Elm Street. In both of those flicks, sleep was to be avoided unless you wanted Freddy to slash through your walls or wake up as a pod, a poisoned pod.

Those movies always bothered me.

I hate the feeling of falling asleep when I don't want to fall asleep. This used to happen to me all the time, particularly on Wednesday nights when I was young.

Because I was big fan of horror films, my parents used to let me stay up "late" to watch Shock Theater which played all of the Lugosi, Karloff and Chaney films. Frankenstein, Dracula, the Wolfman, the Raven, the Mummy, the Black Cat, The Invisible Ray,The Ghoul,The Werewolf of London etc. The show came on  came on past my bedtime so it was quite a privilege and quite a challenge.

Plus, I was actually scared by the movies or at least I expected to be.

I would take my position on the carpet in front of our timy teevee set. The movie would start and before too long, I would realize that I was falling asleep. I learned to recognize the feeling and the "oh no" that accompanied it. I would invariably choose to "rest my eyes" for just a minute during a commercial. I learned after awhile that once I started to rest my eyes, the rest periods would increase in frequency and duration until at last I was asleep on the floor and had to be carted of to bed all the time insisting "I'm awake, I'm awake"

The morning came and I awoke with a sense of failure and a determination to make it all the way through the next week. I realized that once I started to "rest my eyes", it was all over. I would make a conscious effort to "resist the rest" but week after week I failed.

I wasn't used to failure back in those days and it frightened me more than the movies did. I was learning about temptation and my inability to resist it.

This was my first previews of fatigue but I really didn't know what fatigue was until a few months ago. There's a difference between fatigue and being tired, passing out, blacking out, dozing off or being exhausted.

For the past few months, I've suffered fatigue and it's a lot different from "resting my eyes" because in fatigue I'm not even interested in the "movie" that is my life. All I want to do is sleep, well not exactly sleep but more like escape but evdn in the escaping there is the over-riding sense of failure and guilt as days melt away and merge with nights.

Fatigue sucks.

So as I write these words, I am resisting the urge to "rest my eyes" and to go downstairs to my cave/pit. The urtge is strong but not as strong as yesterday and yesterday wasn't as strong as the day before.

They told me after my last blast of radiation that sometimes the fatigue starts to go away after a week and a half but sometimes it can continue for three or four months or in some cases forever.

Today is exactly a week and a half since my last blast. I'm gonna go the distance. I'm not goin' downstairs. I'm not gonna turn into a pod person again today. No way. I've charged up my camera. I'm snapping flowers. I'll be leaving for the ballpark in three hours. I'm gonna look good. This is the day I marked down on my calendar for the beginning of my comeback and I'm not gonna rest my eyes until I get back from Frontier Field.

My brother is my best friend and I haven't seen him during this whole situation. I want to see him now. I want him to see me snapping pictures, keeping score, drinking a beer and rooting for the old home team.

Freddy Fatigue can't get me at Frontier Field if I keep my eyes on the ball.

THE OLD BALLGAME

One of my colleagues, a guy named Fred, got into as much trouble as I did for having classrooms that were not quiet.

Neither Fred nor I thought the criticism and penalization were justified but we did have "long hair" at the time and we were considered "popular" by the students.

Fred was a great teacher.

Eventually, thank God,  the concept of beautiful noise in the classroom began to take hold. Beautiful noise means the kids were buzzing and working with each other and with the teacher. Nothing on earth sounds like productive buzzing.

It was a far cry from the spray and pray method formerly preferred by the fearful badgers of the ruling realm and their supportive administrators.

Quiet in the classroom was no longer a guaranteed good thing.

Suddenly, Fred and I were seen as "innovators". People started imitating us and when they got good at it, they began to instruct us on how to do what we had been doing all along, since we had already moved on to the next thing which they were currently against but soon would be imitating and then instructing.

On and on and on and on etc.

Meanwhile, my classes were getting busier and buzzyer so I was headed for trouble. Quiet is so much quieter when it's surrounded by buzz.

One day Fred and I and about fifty teachers were at a workshop run by a consultant who hadn't taught a public school class in years but who was paid more than we were to look at our watches and tell us what time it was. The consultant was also on the lookout for new ideas which he could steal and profit from when he took his carnival on the road., always searching for a new parade to jump in front of and declare himself the leader etc.

So the consultant called on teachers to "share" new ideas that they had. Most of the "sharing" consisted of ideas that people like Fred and I had been criticized for by the same people who were now "experts" at whatever "technique" they were sharing.

The consultant ooohed and aaahed over every "insight" no matter how unremarkable.

Meanwhile, Fred was in the back of the room trying to stay serious.

Fred was a big, dark haired dark eyed handsome guy who wasn't lacking in self confidence and didn't need or want to be drawn into this festival of self congratulation.

Even though Fred hadn't raised his hand to volunteer a response, the consultant decided to call on him.

"Do you have a technique, Fred, that you'd like to share?", the consultant asked in an overly friendly way.

Fred said "Well, I guess I could share what I call 'the old ball game'.

The consultant perked up. "I've never heard of that technique, Fred. It sounds very interesting. How does it work?"

Possibly a new parade was forming.

"Well" said Fred, "if I see a kid's not paying attention, I throw a tennis ball at him/her. That usually gets their attention."

Fred was serious.

I looked at Fred's face. Fred was looking at the consultant's face. The consultant had no idea what to say.

Nobody ooohed or aaahed.

I burst out laughing which broke the silence.(I had used the same "technique" myself" on quite a few occasions except I didn't use a tennis ball. I used a bunch of tinfoil that I had rolled up in a ball for my version of "the old ball game". I called my tin foil ball "the egg of unexpected courage". The kids called it THE EGG.)

Back to the seminar......

Fred started laughing.

The consultant sorta smiled

Once again, Fred and I were operating on the same page even though we weren't aware that we were until Fred answered the consultant. I had no idea that Fred  also used "the old ball game".

This is one of my fondest moments because "the old ball game be it tennis or tinfoil" actually worked and probably still does today

I am afraid, however, that a few months after this moment.....some consultant somewhere was instructing teachers on the effective use of what has become known as "the old ball game".

Beautiful.

ADVERB ANGST

Call me Very.

I'm an adverb. I'm angry about that. I'm common. I'm used and abused all the time. I don't even get the complimentary "ly" that some of my mates get. My ancestors had it for awhile when people knew how to talk. Remember "verily" or "yea verily".

Those days are gone.

Now, I have to submit to those fancy pants "ly" adverbs e.g. "very quickly".

"Quickly" at least gets to modify a verb, an action word of some kind, maybe even a passionate action like "kissed". Then I arrive. I diminish the kiss by making it even less soul driven, less selfless, less sensual, more furtive, dismissive and distracted.

See, I hate situations like that. I'm jealous of "quickly" who's nothing but a verblicking sycophant passing himself off as an expression of time.

It's a bit more tolerable when I submit to an adjective. At least an adjective bows to a person, place, idea or thing; tangible, usually visible, often alive, occasionally intelligent almost always miraculous.

Action verbs are my cup of tea but let's face it action verbs ain't exactly nouns. Action verbs need nouns to give them meaning. Nouns don't need action verbs they can exist quite well lthank you on verbs of being. After all, what is a human but "being".

Even when modifying an action verb I usually need an "ly" to make any sense

I am uncomfortable modifying verbs of being. "very are" won't cut it. Neither will "very is", "very was" nor wishes neither not v"very could" or "very would".

Speaking of the subjunctive, I wish  i was more existential. Hell I'm barely essential. I'm actually an add on although ever since teehee came along and people forgot how to talk, a lot more "very" are in use today.

I'm designated Very Mask Neg Neutral which means I am the very that can be only used to describe Masculine Negative to Neutral Adjectives, verbs or other adverbs such as

cumbersome lethargic immature uncommunicative incompetent self-absorbed smarmy frantically and sloppy Making them each a little worse.

My girlfriend is also an add on. She's a Very designated Fem Neg Neutral. She gets to work with feminine negative to neutral adjectives, verbs such as

bitchy bloated perfunctory over-sensitive Superficial Moody Slutty Vengeful and air headed.

The classes above us are Very Mask Positive And Fem Positive. They work with

courageous dedicated authentic Athletic Intelligent Capable gorgeous resplendent intuitive sensual supportive nurturing and erotic

Do you see why I'm upset? Very upset.

They'll terminate us low class adverbs when and if we stop being over used. When and if people stop watching teevee and texting. When and if people start articulating and valuing vocabulary rather than gloss.

In other words, we'll be around a long time.

A very long time.

Some of the higher class verbs were even used as adjectives for a bright, shining, glossy time as in "She is soooo very"

I once had to modify a very Pompous adjective, negative implication of course as in "He's very, VERY"

Thank God that particular trend, that monstrosity has retreated for awhile.

My woman, Very Fem Neg Neutral has a real bad attitude. She gets it from her job. Look what she works with bitchy, bloated, hyper-critical etc. Still between my anger and her attitude we still managed to get busy and have babies. Our babies are the "kindas". They're even more inarticulate than my woman and me.

I'm kinda afraid. Kindas are the adverbs of the future.

I am very kinda afraid.

CROSSWORDS

Way back in another lifetime, when I was teaching kids how to write, my class used to do the New York Times crossword puzzle together every other Monday. The puzzle gets more cryptic, arcane and oblique as the week continues. Monday is fair game for high schoolers working in tandem. Tuesday's puzzle maybe. Saturday's forget about it. Maybe that's why we don't have school on Saturdays except for Breakfast Clubbers who are puzzled and puzzling enough with or without crosswords.

I always told my writing students that writers need to know something about everything and then need the vocabulary to articulate what they know by choosing the exact right word for the right place. Close is good but no cigar. Crossword puzzles serve as an exercise not only in vocabulary and exactitude but also in breadth of knowledge.

Crossword puzzles are to writers what shadow boxing is to boxers or what ping pong is to tennis players or driving ranges to golfers, a truncated version of a more pervasive obsession. Aside from their value as literary barbells, crosswords teach one of life's most valuable lessons. If you have one wrong word or a right word in the wrong place, it screws up the rest of the puzzle. We can't insist that a word is right if it is wrong. Will power only extends so far. It can't be right simply because we want it to be right and we're good people. That's called willfullness. In the words of Johnny C, "if it don't fit, you must acquit". Somewhere in all puzzles, before we abandon original thinking or stick with our misconceptions, we confront wavering allegiance to a shady word choice. Since most of our lives are spent re-inforcing our own biases, wavering allegiance is a frightening flourish of vulnerability. In America, especially in politics, it's all about being "right" first and then sticking with that righteousness in the face of hell or high water, fire and fury.

Wavering allegiance is a forerunner to change. All change includes loss and all loss requires mourning. Who wants to mourn? Who wants to admit a mistake? In politics, to flip is to flop.

So when we stick with wrong words in Crosswords, we never solve the puzzle or the problem contained within the puzzle, a problem that grows more pressing with every passing day. Usually national problems come in the form of dollars and cents, bread and butter, black and white , war and peace, red and blue.

Hey if we come to a cross roads where we should turn right and instead turn left, don't worry if we drive completely around the world we'll end up going the right, right way.

Once upon a time on my way to Iowa from South Dakota, I made a wrong turn and drove halfway through Minnesota.

With a crossword puzzle, we can just take out an eraser. With a war, with poverty, with racism, with recession, with division we need something more than rubber at the forgiveness end of a pointed stick of lead. Every day seems like a Saturday crossword.

ALI, FRAZIER, CHUVALO AND EVELYN

Slides.

Remember slides?

You'd throw your slides into a Kodak Carousel and voila...a slide show up against the wall.

Needless to say I threw quite a few slides against quite a few walls over the years as I told my Ali stories.

I liked one of the slides in particular.

I made a nice 11 by 14 print from that negative.

Ali and Joe exchanging punches during their second fight at Madison Square Garden.

We all got older as the years passed. It seemed like Ali and Joe got older faster than everybody else. What else could we have expected?

During this time of great decline, George Chuvalo added to the pugilistic tragedy.

George Chuvalo

The Croatian Crusader.

The Heavyweight Champion of Canada.

The human punching bag and common opponent for the vastly more talented Ali and Frazier.

The man who could not be knocked down.

The man whose face had launched a thousand fists.

George Chuvalo had a face that had been sculpted by other fists into the face of a fist.

And then after George retired, life stepped in and continued the battering.

He lost his wife and sons to suicide. Heroin was very involved.

Still George refused to hit the canvas.

Word got through to his old opponents, Ali and Joe, that George was hurt and staggering but that he refused to go down.

A boxing organization in Rochester decided to throw a benefit dinner for George. Yeah it was a band aid on a shotgun wound but every little bit helps.

Joe Frazier decided to attend and waive any fee.

So did another wounded warrior name of Muhammad Ali.

Ali was shaking from Parkinsons and Joe could barely see.

Joe and Ali didn't usually appear together.

Bad blood existed.

People wondered why after all these years bad blood still existed between Ali and Frazier.

The answer is simple. These guys tried to kill each other three times in front of the whole world and they damned near succeeded.

He jest at scars who's never felt a wound.

There was a lot of laughter that night but nobody was laughing at the scars.

I was there too.

The Chuvalo benefit cost a hundred bucks to attend. My ringside seat at Ali-Frazier fight also cost $100.

So much had changed.

One thing hadn't changed.

The 11 by 14 photograph that I took at Ali Frazier 2 looked exactly the same. The two of them stalking each other in the middle of the ring, youg and heallthy and with all the lights shining on them.

I brought the picture to the benefit.

I  had met Muhammad, Joe and George individually but I never thought that I'd see all three of them in the same room at the same time.

Yet, here we were for the common good of Chuvalo

In the lobby, I got a chance to visit with boxing expert Burt Sugar and HBO analyst Larry Merchant. They both reacted to me as if I had pissed myself while wearing a white suit.. Arrogant and a million miles away from Ali in terms of engagement and humility, these two vampires brushed off my questions about the sweet science with an insolence worth mentioning here.

Vampires

I left those "famous guys".

I was relieved to leave.

I entered the main room. I found my table. My name was still not Sinatra nor for that matter Sugar or Merchant so my $100 dollar table resembled my "ringside" seat in terms of physical distance from the action.

And I wasn't even at the same table as the Son of Sanford.

I shared a "way in the back" table with another human who also had connection/complexion problems; a stunning middle aged African American woman named Evelyn. We had the only two seat table in the place. Evelyn and I chatted for awhile about the value of our $100 as compared to the $100 spent by the more connected, very Caucasian, very male attendees flaunting upfront and uptight.

We figured we were outsiders. We bonded.

I showed her my 11 by 14 photo. She liked it and said "be careful with that. It's valuable".

Evelyn had a mission of her own.

Evelyn told me that she knew Joe Frazier and the last time Joe was in town, she really got to know him and he got to know her. She planned on having a little chat with Joe later in the evening about his previous method of leaving town. She assured me that Joe would be paying attention.

All the stars were already seated miles away at the main table. All the stars that is except for Ali.

It's only fitting that the champ enters last.

All of the other guys had entered from the front of the venue.

When Ali and his entourage entered the room, they came in from the back. As soon as he entered the room, the whole environment changed for the better. He walked very, very slowly. Since he came in from the back, the first table he passed was the distant table for two. He stopped at our table. He looked right at me and although it seemed impossible, I got the distinct feeling that he remembered me from our morning at Deer Lake decades before.

Evelyn noticed the look and asked me after Ali had passed us, "does he know you".

I told Evelyn that I had spent some time with him a long time ago.

Whether he recognized me or not, he once again gave me that wonderful feeling that I was cool with him and that our table was the best table in the house.

and that, once again, made me feel cool with myself

He couldn't possibly have remembered.

I guess that's what charisma is all about.

Like I said, I had met Sugar and Merchant, ten minutes before they took their upfront seats. I'm sure they had already forgotten about me and their vibe would have amplified that disregard.

Not with Ali.

I started feeling great.

Important

The whole room turned back to see the old champ. I got the feeling that everybody in the room started feeling great for different reasons.

Uplifiting

Transcendent

Eliciting smiles and cheers with every step, the Champ caned his way to the front. Everybody in the place was experiencing rampant, contact joy.

I don't think that Frazier was feeling that joy although he probably remembered feeling a lot of contact. It was obvious that Joe was feeling pretty dang great before he even entered the place, if ya know what I mean.

Obviously, a lot of feelings fly around a room when Ali enters that room and walks toward a partying Joe Frazier.

The dinner began.

Neither Ali nor Frazier addressed the audience; for different reasons.

Chuvalo expressed his gratitude towards both men for showing up and making his benefit such a success. Weirdly enough if a three man boxing match broke out, Chuvalo would probaly win even though both Joe and Ali had batterred him in the past.

I assume Merchant and Sugar blabbed some and sucked a bit of energy from the room although their wisdom has slipped beneath the radar screen of both my memory and contempt.

When the program concluded, the master of ceremonies, a born bullshitter named Jerry Flynn announced that for a half an hour the head table participants would be willing to sign autographs.

Immediately the rush to the front began led by the people sitting in the front.

From the way back table, we watched the crowd in front gain full advantage.

We only had a half hour and it looked as if there were two hours of people in front of us.

We did a little spontaneous human calculus.

Evelyn headed towards Joe.

She had more than an autograph in mind.

She had a piece of her mind in mind and she was about to give that to Joe.

I headed for Ali, by far the longer of the two lines.

Somehow, my 11 by 14 print caught the eye of somone in Ali's entourage. He asked me to identify the picture.

"Ringside, Madison Square Garden, Ali-Frazier II"

"Diju take dat picture?"

"Yes I did"

"Champ prolly like to see it. C'mon"

He escorted me towards the front of the line, not the very front but a definite improvement on my table rank. Ali and I were in the same force field. I knew he'd have time for me even as the minutes ticked away. With about 10 minutes left in the opportunity, our chance came. I put my picture in front of the Champ. He considered it carefully. He was in no rush whatsoever. Then the familiar whisper that he either said or sent. I'll never know which but the message was clear..."choo take this?"

"Yeah Champ I did'

Another whisper/send "it's good"

Then the eye contact. Ali and me eyeball to eyeball again. Same eyeballs that had been eyeball to eyeball with Martin King, John Lennon, Sonny Liston, Elvis Presley, Nelson Mandella, Joe Louis, James Brown, Stallone, Duvall, Carson, Borgnine, Malcolm X, Ross, Chamberlain and infinite others were inviting me to come on in and stay a minute.

Make yourself comfortable

Join the crowd.

Maybe u been here before

He gave me his beautiful Parkinson's signature. Very slow, very painful, looking up every few seconds directly in my eyes as if this were the first signature of his career given to his best friend. Ali had signed another piece for me at Deer Lake decades before. Like the man himself, Ali's signature had changed dramatically over the years. His Parkinson's signature took a good twenty seconds to make with five separate lookups and included only the fragments of four letters..... M...a...l....i. Ironically he made his mark over Joe Frazier's image in the ring in my picture.

He hit me with the feint again although this feint was very faint yet still overwhelming.

I thanked the champ. Again the eyes. Again the illusion of recognition. Again the electricity.

So long champ.

Still five minutes of the half hour remained.

Wow

Pause

Shift

Recalculate

I got a shot at Joe.

Where's Evelyn.

There she be.

Evelyn chillin' with Joe

"Hey Evelyn" from fity feet away with four minutes left.

"Hey Ice, c'mon up here and meet Joe."

Once again the Red Sea miraculoulsy parted.

The Red Sea thought Evelyn was Joe's wife and I was a friend of Joe's family.

I got to the table with time to spare.

Evelyn said "Joe, this is my friend. Sign his picture"

I put my picture in front of Joe.

Joe looked at my picture.

"dijoo take this picture" "Yeah I did, Champ"

"good picture"

Ironically, Joe signed over the image of Ali in the ring in the light at Madison Square Garden, young and beautiful.

Floating

Getting ready to sting forever.

Evelyn gave Joe a peck on the cheek.

Joe took a sip from his beer.

I gave Evelyn a peck on her cheek.

It was the last time that I ever saw any of them.

Time was up. Ring the bell.

FAMOUS MIKE CAN DRAW

Some stories are so lovely that I hesitate to write them. Some legends are so fragile and delicate that I'm reluctant to reveal them. Here's a lovely story and a delicate legend all in one.

I'll try to do them justice before the memories fade completely as the blur increases every day.

I remember his first day in class. He was fresh off the boat. I mean that literally. He was a boat person from Viet Nam. He was in my English class.

He didn't speak a word of English.

I didn't know what to do with him that first day so I somehow signalled/sent him to the main office to pick up an attendance sheet.

The secretary at the main office was expecting a student from another class named Mike. When my student arrived, whatever his name was, it wasn't Mike. Helen asked my new student if his name was Mike. He didn't know what Helen was saying but he knew a question when he heard one.

He nodded his head up and down.

Helen said "Here, Mike", and gave him the papers.

He returned to my classroom a few minutes later without the attendance sheet but with whatever administrivia Helen was supposed to give to "Mike". I took the paper from him. I said thanks and asked  him what his name was. He said "Mike"

I said "Hi, Mike"

That's how Mike got his name.

Aside from the single word "Mike", Mike spoke no English. We were a pair, Mike and I.

Mike would come into class, take his seat and listen with great patience and attention to the academic tumult engulfing him. I knew something of the concept of linguistic immersion wherein a person learns a foreign language more quickly by surrounding himself with it. I believed this was happening with Mike although I didn't know for certain. I did know that in this case English was the "foreign" language to Mike and he was surrounded.

One day after a couple of weeks, I noticed that Mike was taking "notes" of what I was saying. I couldn't imagine what Mike's notes looked like so I casually made my way to his desk to sneak a peek. Mike's "note" was a surreal and photographic drawing of a rose. As I looked at the rose, I was amazed as much by its sensitivity of  rendering as I was by its virtousity.

Near the drawing, I wrote the word "rose."

Then I said the word "rose"

I spelled the word "R..O..S..E"

Mike smiled and said "rose"

I took a risk. I had a feeling the risk would be approved by Mike.

I announced to the class. "Check this out, everybody. Mike can draw."

Everybody crowded around Mike's desk.

Everybody look at the rose.

Everybody flipped out.

Everybody started saying "Mike can draw"

Eventually Mike got the message.

He spoke his first English sentence in English class.

This is what he said.

"Mike can draw"

He smiled.

Time stood still.

I'm here to tell you, Mike could draw.

Many scholars praise the efficient linguistic style of Julius Caesar, how much he could say with how few words. All of France is divided into three parts. Has anyone ever said more with fewer words at the beginning of his story.

This is the beginning of Mike's story.

Mike Can Draw.

Mike not only continued to draw but he also continued to listen with purpose and intention. Mike observed not only with his eyes but also with his heart and mind. Mike's vocabulary began to grow as he listened and observed. Nouns first then verbs then adjectives.

Here's the story of the first adjective I can remember.

One day, I walked over to Mike's desk and noticed that he had been sketching a portrait of himself.

On his portrait, I wrote a bunch of nouns with arrows like "mike" and  "nose" and "eyes" and "ears"and "head" and "neck" and "body".

I pointed to each word and said it. Mike repeated the word with me.

Then I added the adjective.

I wrote "famous"; drew an arrow to the picture of Mike and said the word.

Mike hesitated a second and then asked "Mike famous?"

I said "Yes, Mike is famous"

Mike startled me with his reply.

"No, Mike not famous. You, Mr. Rivers...you famous."

I realized that Mike's language skills were blossoming with as much beauty as his drawing skills.

From that day on, every time I saw Mike I would always say.

"Here's the famous Mike."

And Mike would always say, "Mike not famous. Mr. Rivers famous."

We would laugh.

We were connected.

Sure enough, Mike WAS becoming famous, at least in my class. I was running the school newspaper at the time. I asked Mike, still using arrows, objects and printed words if he would draw a comic strip for the paper. He drew the strip. The school read Mike's comic. His character was a lion, The school loved it. Mike's fame grew. His audience expanded.

By this time, everybody in my class knew something rare was happening with Mike and his art, kids were always crowding around his desk to see what new drawings were coming alive.

About this time, Mike develped a crush on Kathy.

I discovered this when Mike showed me a picture of Kathy that he had been drawing.

Mike was stylizing Kathy rather than photographing her with his rendering. I immediately recognized Kathy even with her stylized, over sized Disney girl eyes. I wrote "Kathy" on Mike's paper and drew an arrow. Mike blushed and smiled.

I could tell Mike wanted another word  from me, an adjective perhaps so under Kathy, I wrote "beautiful" and drew another arrow.

Mike put the drawing away. His portrait of Kathy was not an image that he intended to show to the class. Not only were we connected; we had a secret.

A couple of weeks passed and Mike's language skills kept growing.

One day, he took out the picture of Kathy and showed me something new that he had added. He showed me that he knew how to change and adjective into a noun.

Under my printing of "beautiful", Mike had printed a word of his own.

This is the word that Mike had printed in painstaking calligraphy.

Beauty

Beauty is truth and truth is beautiful.

I was facing a beautiful truth in my professional life as well as a crossroads. I was given the opportunity to write a grant under the auspices of the Federal Career Education Incentive Act Grant Program, the purpose of which, as the name suggests, was to help secondary education become a better link to careers.

I proposed my very first grant.

The proposal was funded for $500,000.

In my proposal I visualized the creation of an intern program. The idea was radical at the time. I was chosen to be the administrator for the project. I would have to leave the classroom.

Leaving the classroom was the crossroads and a difficult factor in the decision.

When the kids heard what I had done. They were proud of me. Mike came to me and said "Mike not famous, Mr. Rivers famous."

I left the classroom.

I left Mike in the capable hands of the Art. Dept.

The day that I left, Mike showed me his private sketchbook.

In his sketchbook were dozens of drawing of Kathy.

Underneath each sketch; a single printed word:

Beauty.

By the time I got the Intern Program running smoothly, moving it from dream to imagination to realization, Mike was back in my life.

Mike had made breathtaking progress in language and art and had begun to crystallize his dreams. Mike had grown to love classic Walt Disney cartoons and wanted to become an animator.

I had heard that fantasy from other students before and I would hear it again but with Mike...well he had a dream, spectacular discipline and dedication. I had an intern program.

Uh, let's put two and two together and see if it comes out four, twenty two or five.

I contacted the only artist in town who specialized in 16 millimeter matte animation, a guy by the name of Brian. I told Brian about Mike. I told Mike about Brian. I brought the two of them together at Brian's downtown studio. With Brian's  encouragement and equipment along with the ongoing help of the high school Art Dept, Mike created his first animated cartoon.

He had even learned to play the guitar well enough to supply his own music to the animation. In Mike's cartoon one of the characters was a lion. Mike asked me, because I was "famous" to provide the voice for the lion.

Mike's cartoon was eventally selected in an extremely competitive national cartoon contest to be shown on Nickelodeon.

Mike's cartoon was one of the best student cartoons in the country. Little ol' famous lion voice me was roaring on television sets across America.

Mike was only a sophomore in high school but he was already thinking about college and colleges were thinking about him.

Anything was possible including truth , beauty and fame.

Mike was most interested in beauty.

He had discovered that the Disney studios regularly hired interns from the California Institute of the Arts. Mike knew about internships. He had completed four of them in high school.

In the meantime Mike had taken all the art courses at the school plus four more at Rochester Institute of Technology and had aced them all.

Mike spoke a lovely version of the English language, the direct, clear, soft and kind versionrarely used by native speakers.

Mike could draw

Mike could talk

Mike could write, words and music.

Mike could play the guitar.

Mike had a resume full of A's, internships, art work, awards and a cartoon that had played nationally on Nickelodeon. Mike applied to the California Institute of the Arts. We were all happy but not surprised when Mike was accepted and scholarshipped.

Mike was ready for another journey.

I was on a bit of a journey myself. My first marriage was breaking up although I didn't realize it or perhaps  was denying the realization.

Mike had never been to a rock concert in his life so at the end of the school year, the night after his graduation I invited Mike as our family guest to see the Moody Blues at the Canandaigua Performing Arts Center. Mike acceptd the invitatiion.

You'll hear more about THAT later.

After the concert, Mike left for California. I haven't seen him since.

Here's the last few things I heard about Mike.

In college, his skill and interest continued to blossom. As an undergraduate, he applied for and completed an internship at Disney Studios.

Upon graduation from college, Mike was hired as an animator by Disney. His first screen credit appeared at the end of the LIttle Mermaid, listing Mike as an animator of Ariel. Apparently Disney liked Mike because his next assignment was a substantial promotion. Mike would be one of the main designers for Beauty and the Beast

Mike was helping to create Belle.

By now, everybody knows WHAT Belle looks like. Only a few of us know WHO Belle looks like. Beauty, if you will, looks exactly like the sketches of Kathy that Mike labored over so mightily, so beautifully, so passionately, so innocently and so truthfully during his junior high days.

Kathy is Belle.

Kathy is

Beauty.

Some stories are so lovely that I hesitate to write them. Some legends are so fragile and delicate that I am afraid to relate or reveal them.

Remember?

Well, I tried.

As I tried, I kept flashing back to the writers who brought us the legends of the Old west, those scribes who turned big nosed, shiftless, violent, alcoholic William Hickock into the great Wild Bill, the  handsome hero who died, shot in the back while playing poker and holding the deadman's hand...a pair of aces and a pair of eights. .

A cardinal rule for those writers was, according to John Ford in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, "if  you come to a crossroads between truth and legend, write the legend."

The legend of Mike and Kathy is the loveliest local legend, I've ever personally encountered. I'm part of it; a small part but yes I was there in the very beginning.

I can vouch for everything until Mike left for California. I can vouch for the similarities between Mike's sketches of Kathy and the rendering of Beauty.

Every once in awhile, when I reminisce about my teaching days, I like to think that I was the guy who had something to do with the inspiration for the creation of Beauty.

And ya know what?

It's a beautiful feeling

Maybe even true.

Next time somebody you know mentions truth, beauty or Beauty and the Beast tell 'em this story.

That's how legends grow.

AFTERNOON ANGEL

I know for sure it was a Tuesday afternoon. I don't know if it was the first time I smoked weed, such moments are hard to pinpoint. Today is also a Tuesday afternoon. Today I found out that Ray Thomas, the flautist for the Moody Blues has passed away from prostate cancer. I know something about cancer.

The beauty of metaphysiction is its ability to go flash forward and backward at the same time while flirtting with the eternal and the imaginary.

The Tuesday afternoon that begins this story happened fifty years ago. I was shooting footage for a film that I was making in graduate school. My idea was to simply walk around and shoot whatever came into my lens on this Tuesday afternoon and call whatever came out "Tuesday Afternoon" It was during this activity that I might or might not have smoked a joint because I know the guy with me was a "weirdo" at the time who definitely smoked the rope. I had shot enough weird footage so I was confident that within the images, I could find 10 solid minutes that would represent what a Tuesday afternoon looked and sounded like and that it would probably be interesting to watch in say 50 years so that I could clearly remember what fifty years ago looked and sounded like.

Yeah, maybe I was loaded as I recall this thought process.

We were driving back to campus. We turned on an FM station. By this time I was an album guy and FM was the album station. I was trying to figure out what music I would use in the background of the film when on the radio came "Tuesday Afternoon". I had never heard anything like it before. When the song was over, the announcer said "that was Tuesday Afternoon by the Moody Blues from their new album Days of Future Passed"

Days of Future Passed might as well have been the name of my mind set on that Tuesday afternoon with Tuesday afternoon playing. I hoped that I would see the Moody Blues in the Future and at that time, remember the past which would naturally include the moment I was living in.

I knew the Moody Blues. I knew of their hit "Go Now" which I wasn't crazy about. I didn't know that the personnel of the band had changed and they had gone from THAT to THIS. Ray Thomas was in both versions, I learned later.

Shocked, stoned and stunned by synchronicity, I became a Moody Blues fan. In other words, I too was a weirdo. At the time you had to be a little weird to like the Blues. They were hanging with LSD guru Timothy Leary and proud of it.

I couldn't believe that "drug music" could be so beautiful or that a simple Tuesday afternoon could be so profound.

I had the music for my film.

I found my film in the music.

Now let's fast forward 15 years.

My first marriage was breaking up although I didn't realize it or perhaps was denying the realization. I know I felt like I had a ton of bricks on my back.

The "famous" Mike had never been to a concert before and he loved the Moody Blues. I invited Mike and a couple of friends to join my family at the Moody Blues concert at the Canandaigua Performing Arts Center.

Mike accepted my invitation.

The night of the Moody Blues arrived.

I had purchased a dozen tickets for the show.

The day of the night of the Blues was very hot. I ran ten miles that afternoon trying to lighten my load.

My brother, my sister, my wife, a few of our friends, my son Beau, Mike and I made the short trip. We walked to the gates. I took out the tickets. I only had eleven tickets. Everybody was looking at me. I counted the tickets only eleven again. I was going to have to exclude someone from the concert. I looked around at the faces. I knew I would exclude myself. I looked at the tickets again. I counted the tickets. I looked at Mike. My marriage was falling apart. Mike was on his way to California. I had screwed up the tickets. I had ruined Mike's first concert. I could feel the earth spinning. I said something incoherent to my brother. He looked at me with concern and said "whaaa?" I spoke again and once again sounded like Gregor Samsa after his metamorphosis. I started to stumble. The tickets fell out of my grasp. I looked directly into my son's eyes as the weight on my shoulders flew off and I fell in slow motion towards the ground. As I looked into his eyes, I realized that I was watching a son watch the death of his father. I wondered how this would affect him him. I heard my wife scream "he didn't go to his physical"

I hit the ground

I knew I was dead.

When I opened my eyes some time later to see what heaven was like I saw two faces. One face was of a beautiful, elderly woman. The other was Mike. This was Mike's first minute at his first concert.

In the background Moody Blues music was playing.

The elderly woman whispered her phone number in my ear. It went right into my permanent memory She told me to call anytime and that the more I called, the more I would want to call. Eventually I wouldn't even need a phone.

I still remember the number. I call it everyday.

The number is/was a prayer.

I called it before I started writing this, seeking help to get this right.

Phone? I don't need no stinken phone.

They wanted to call an ambulance.

I didn't want that

I wanted to go where the music was, where the angel was.

Somebody picked up the tickets and found all twelve.

We went inside the Shell and heard the Blues.

The woman had disappeared once it became clear that I was going to live.

The last time I saw her, she was listening to the show. The Blues may or may not have been playing Tuesday afternoon when our eyes met.

Flash forward

Today, Tuesday,  I learned that Ray Thomas had died. Ray was 76 years old. I'm 71.  How could all of those future days have passed.

I'm calling the number.

IN THE PACKAGE

Mr. Baseball remained in his coma for months.

It was the bottom of the ninth and his team was behind by 100 runs and there were two out and two strikes on Mr. Baseball. One more strike and he was out.

Game over.

That was the situation the last time that I visited him at the Community hospital.

Time passed. Mr. Baseball kept fouling off pitches, his faithful loving wife Rosie by his side.

Rosie figured that maybe things would improve if they moved Baseball to his home ball park. Still in his coma, Mr. Baseball was transported to his home.

Home plate.

His home plate was far away from my homeplate.

We didn't visit in person, overwhelmed as were with our own ballgame.

When he got home, minus a few tubes and some drugs that hadn't worked, Mr Baseball out of nowhere, hit a homerun. He came out of the coma but remained bedridden.

We didn't know about the rally, we had left the game a little early.

We knew that he was home and we had his phone number. One day, Lynn called the number and Rosie answered.

The rally was still going on. Therapists were pitching now and Mr. Baseball continued to swing away always encouraged by Rosie who was as encouraged as she was encouraging. She told Lynn that a speech therapist was pitching at the moment. She whispered to Mr. Baseball that Lynn was on the phone. He understood; another base hit. Rosie put the phone up to Mr. Baseball's face. Lynn said "Hello, Mr. Baseball."

Lynn's 'hello' was like a hanging curve ball. Mr. Baseball took a mighty swing and said in a slow, soft, labored voice "Hi Lynn."

Home run. Grand slam.

Rosie took the phone back and explained the progress Baseball had been making.

He was scoring on the coma. His therapists were amazed. 

He scored 200 runs and beat the stroke.

Meanwhile he had developed cancer.

It was the cancer, not the coma that finally got him.

We went to the funeral. Mr. Baseball looked good almost as good as he looked the time he caught a foul ball barehanded at Frontier Field. In my dreams, he shows up at his funeral and he, Rosie, Lynn and I go off to dinner as if nuthin' had happened. He even makes fun of me for imagining that everything wasn't perfect.

We paid our condolences to Rosie.

A week later, we got a package in the mail with Mr. Baseball's address as the return.

In the package was the fiber optic bear.

DEAD, ALIVE or DREAMING

We thought we had located heaven but we had to pass through Indiana first. I was wondering why the hell somebody decided to name this state Indiana when we cruised into a blind spot.

The first moment that I realized we were in a blind spot was when I saw the front fender of a semi smashing through the driver’s side window. We were going 70, I don't know how fast the semi was going but somehow the driver never saw us when he attempted to change lanes.

I remember flying up in my seat and hitting my head against the roof of our vehicle.

Then the swerves began as the semi hit the brake while it pushed us down the road. For a moment we were perpendicular with the eightyeen wheeler and taking up both lanes. I remember thinking to myself….I can’t die here. I’ve got to teach next week. Nobody will know who the hell we are….our friends back home will never understand how we came to crash and burn in this weird place.

This can’t be the end but it must be. Nobody ever lives to tell this story.

We disengaged from the semi and the high speed spin began.

The laws of physics must be obeyed.

The swerve into spin continued forever. I lost consciousness. When I came to a second or a minute, an hour or a lifetime later, our totaled van was in the median between the lanes of a four lane highway.

I figured that I had just learned how to die. It was simple really. You hit your head and the video tape called life goes dark for an undetermined time and when you wake up, you’re in a median in Indiana.

Slowly, I got the impression that I might be alive but what about Lynn? She.was driving She must be dead. I saw the fender smash through her window. I saw the flying glass Her head was against the steering wheel.

There was blood.

She had to be dead.

The whole goddamned thing was my fault.

I was the one who thought we could find heaven.

Whatever this was; it didn’t look like heaven. I had a lot to learn about heaven. I had a camera. Soon I would use it. In my dreams, the camera never works. The camera worked. Whatever this was, it wasn't a dream.

to my mortal amazement, Lynn was as alive as I.

To my immortal wonder, perhaps she was as dead as I.

I saw the truck coming through her window.

No way that she could have survived that collision as long as there were laws of physics that governed force, mass, speed and velocity.

If she was alive…these natural laws had been circumvented which put us in the realm of the supernatural where we have remained ever since.

And the blood?

We both had slashes above our right elbow from the shattered glass….nothing serious.

We were able to exit the vehicle without much trouble.

I went to check on my cameras. In my dreams, my camera is always broken at times like this.

My camera was shattered.

That suggested, I might wake up so I decided to go with the dream a little further to see what would happen.

I went to my video camera. It seemed to be working.

Uh Oh.

This might not be a dream.

Whatever it was, if I could tape it…it might help.

I turned on the camera. It worked. The semi had come to a stop about 150 yards in front of us. The driver was still in the cab

I pointed the camera in the other direction and noticed a person coming towards us.

I kept the camera aimed at his face so I got a closer up look than I would have without the camera.

I focused on his eyes.

His eyes told me that he thought he was looking at a couple of ghosts.

When he got within speaking distance, I put down the camera.

“I saw the whole thing. I thought you guys were goners? Are you okay?”

I wasn’t sure.

We walked around to the side of the van. Lynn was leaning up against it.

I kept the video running.

The tape would later be seen at least three times on national teevee.

Moments later, the police arrived.

Lynn explained the collision with astounding calm and clarity.

I was no longer taping.

They arranged for our totaled van to be removed from the median.

They gave us a ride to a nearby hotel.

They explained our situation to the folks at the front desk who set us up with a room although all of our belongings were still in the van.They gave us a room pro-bono. Everybody told us not to worry.

We found out that we were in La Grange, Indiana.

All we had was the clothes on our backs.

And the aid of better angels.

I was teaching summer school.

I was a teacher all the way. I taught twelve months a year. No house painting for me.

I had been going twelve months a year for ten years with only one break in between. I didn't teach in the summer of 87, the year that I met Lynn.

Lynn was a single Mom when we met. She was raising three daughters. I was a single Dad raising a son and a daughter. Her kids liked me and my kids liked her. We spent a lot of time together especially on the weekends when I had custody of my two.

Lynnn was working part time at First Federal Bank.

She was good with change. She balanced every day. She could find the errors when someone else failed to balance.

She didn't stand for a lot of bullshit that's why she was checking the boat when I suggested a road trip test.

My prior experience as a road warrior had convinced me that you don't really know a person  until you've been on the road with them. I had made the trip from ocean to ocean three times before I got married the first time. I regretted the fact that I hadn't road tripped with my first wife before we got married. Although two children had to be born, we might have saved ourselves some nightmares. I had rushed into that first one and wasn't gonna rush into this one.

Two years had already passed with Lynn and me....our bodies were at rest and would tend to stay at rest unless acted upon.

Times of indecision.

We had both already been married. We both carried the scars.

We had met one enchanted evening when she walked up to me and asked me if I wanted to dance.

The first song we danced to was “Hurt so Good”....John Mellencamp.

The second was “Loving You” by Elvis.

The third was “It’s All in the Game” by Tommy Edwards. When Tommy was about to sing the words “then he’ll kiss your lips” I decided to take the chance.

I kissed her lips. She kissed me back

We had been together every day since and it was going on two years. Two wonderful years. Time to clarify.

Lynn made a decision.

She said we should get married at the local justice of the peace.

She called it to question one afternoon when we were having lunch at Mario's on East Avenue our favorite Italian restaurant.

Justice of the peace was no place for me or for us as far as I was concerned.

She took it as a rejection of her love which was the opposite of my intention

For the first time, we began to wonder about the future of the relationship.

Yet, we had booked a trailer for a weekend at Darien Lake. We decided to make the trip.

We had a couple of our kids with us.

They were having a lot more fun than we were. They were outside the trailer when Lynn handed me a tiny article from the Democrat and Chronicle.

The article said “The Field of Dreams is a real place.”

All of a sudden it was clear to me.

I am a person of intuition which means I have a tendency to say out loud exactly what is flashing through my mind at the exact time that it flashes.

The flash came on.

“ Hey Lynn, If we were ever to get married, it would have to be at the most beautiful place in America. Our love deserves it. If you’re willing to travel to Iowa and if we can find this place and if it's real we could get married on the spot....right at home plate.”

She made a face that I couldn't decipher so I didn't take it as a rejection.

Then she said "Great idea. I'll call up Iowa and tell them we need a marriage license to get married at an imaginary place at an undetermined time."

I found out later that she thought I was nuts and bullshitting her at the same time.

We had seen the movie together earlier in the year. we both thought it was great. In one scene, Kevin Costner (Ray Kinsella) asked his wife Amy Madigan “is this heaven or is this Iowa” as they relaxed one starry evening on the diamond that he had carved into his cornfield.

The location was so exquisite that I thought perhaps it was the most beautiful place I had ever seen.

This was the place for us.

Plus we would give the relationship the test....a test that I firmly believed had to be taken by any couple in the  tentative situation that we occupied.

I enjoyed teaching summer school because I got a chance to pay attention to the kids who had been lost along the way during the regular school year. I was always amazed with the progress they made when given that second chance.

So the question would be, if we were going to take a road trip when would it be. Lynn had her schedule at the bank and I had mine at the high school. During the regular school year, I taught twelfth grade English as well as Creative Writing. I also taught an elective called Cinematic Literacy. I created that one myself and it was a great success. I was approaching the peak of my teaching career.

I had ten days at the end of August, beginning of September.

Lynn had a week of undefined vacation saved up.

We had  originally met on July eleventh 1987 or as we called it 7/11. On our two year anniversary, we went out to dinner at the very restaurant where Lynn had made her first proposal a month before. Midway through the meal she said "I sent away for a marriage license in Iowa. The field is located in Dyersville which is near Dubuque. We have a license waiting for us in Dubuque."

Of course I was surprised but since I hadn't been bullshitting her about the road trip idea, I said "that's great. Good job."

I didn't know if she had actually procured a license or if she was reality testing

I was mystified when she said "so if we break up this summer at least we can always say that at one time we had a marriage license in Iowa when we tell our story".

All through the month of August, we came up with reasons to take the trip and those reasons were roadblocked by objections, obstacles and realities. If Lynn wasn't exactly rocking the boat during the previous couple of weeks, she was damned sure checking for leaks.

One night, we watched Close Encounters of the Third Kind. We loved the flick and mixed it into our plan. If we headed west we would go as far as Devil's Tower in Wyoming and if we hadn't made up our mind to get married by that time, we would head back and know that we had tried goddamn it, we had tried and we had a Iowa Marrigae license to prove it.

It was also becoming clear that if we hadn't made up our mind to try the road trip this before school started, it meant that we probably should wrap up the relationship as painlessly as possible.

On August 25th, I called  Lynn from my apartment and said "I was ready to go if she was''.

She wasn't ready and she hung up sorta pissed off.

This was the last possible day to make the trip and be back in time for school.

A couple hours later, I heard a knock on the door. It was Lynn.

She told me the van was in the parking lot, packed and ready to go if I was serious.

I ran into my house, packed a few things.

I climbed into the van.

"Let's go" I said.

"I'll drive"

I drove the first leg. We found rest area deep in Ohio.

We napped for a few hours. Then we went into the rest area and washed up. Lynn came out first and went behind the wheel. I started to climb into the van when an impulse struck me. As I was leaving the rest area, I saw a machine selling bio-rhythm cards. I dec ided what the hell...I went back and bought a card for that day.

It only took maybe an extra thirty seconds. I didn't like what the card said so I threw it out.

That thirty seconds would be crucial as we were headed for a blind spot that we might have missed if not for the card.

Yeah, the whole crazy pilgrimage was my idea. I talked her into it, yet it was her van that was smashed to bits.

One way or another, the journey was over.

We were alone together in a motel in LaGrange, Indiana not far from Touchdown Jesus and the Golden Dome of Notre Dame. I was beginning to get a grip on death. As we traveled from the wreckage to the hotel, I asked what time it was. When we got to the hotel, it was a half hour before the time it was when we were on our way to the hotel.

Someone explained that we had crossed the line separating one time zone from another. We had left Eastern Daylight Savings Time. That’s when I began to realize what death is/was. This was eternity. When you’re dead, you’re in Indiana and you keep crossing between time zones and Touchdown Jesus forever.

Time stabilized for awhile in the hotel. I was expecting hysterics, blame or disassociation from Lynn. Instead, I got calm, composed, courageous capability.She started working the phones.

She had a handle on what happened. She called her auto insurance company back in New York. She explained the situation.....car totaled, hotel in Indiana, etc. They wanted to know what her plan was.

To my astonishment, Lynn told them that she wanted to continue on with her journey. She outlined what she needed and what she expected to make that continuation possible.

Following that she called the American Automobile Association and got from them what we needed to continue the journey.

A few minutes later, a rental car appeared at the motel.

We drove around a bit, looking for a place to eat. We lost and gained two or three hours in that fifteen minute search.

After “lunch” we made our way to the junkyard to take a look at the van.

“Yep, it’s totaled”, the junkman asserted.

We gathered our belongings from the van and loaded them in the rental.

I could not have been more impressed by any companion.

Even though I wasn’t sure whether we were alive or not, it was clear that we were inhabiting the same realm. It was a realm, I wanted to remain in for the rest of my life/death.

I got down on one knee in that junkyard and asked Lynn to marry me.

She accepted.

August 26, 1989.

What a day.

What an eternity.

And the pilgrimage was still on.

We didn’t know if we were dead or alive but we knew we were getting married. We didn’t know where. We had a marriage license in Iowa. We had been looking for the Field of Dreams which we heard was in Dyersville. We drove through that town. There’s a lot of farms in Dyersville and a lot of corn. We couldn’t find the farm that we were looking for. We were hungry, tired, not sure if we were alive and headed for a place that might not exist. We were in a rented van. 

We saw the driveway to yet another farm and turned into it, past yet another corn field. When we got to the farm itself, it was most definitely not the Field of Dreams farm, it looked more like the Cujo farm. We got the hell out of there but not before some giant thing flew out of the corn, through my open window and onto my chest. I don’t know what the hell it was a bird, a locust, a demon grasshopper? I don’t know, I just grabbed whatever  it was and threw it out the window toward the cornfield or the hell from whence it came.

When we reached the end of the driveway safe from Cujo and the flying thing, I pulled the van off the road. I realized that I had gone crazy. Here we were in the middle of Iowa for God sake. We were lost. We might be as totaled as was our original van. All my fault, all part of yet another crazy dream that I had dragged Lynn into.

We turned right at the end of the driveway. We drove about a hundred yards. And then...we saw a paper plate.....nailed to a tree....on the plate two words and an arrow.....Movie site....arrow pointed right.

We took that right turn and a half mile down the road, there it was....The Field of Dreams. No doubt. Right exactly out of the film and out of my dreams.

Perfect.

We drove down that long driveway and met a man who was working in the yard. I asked him if he was the owner of the place.

He said that he wasn’t but that the owner was out in the cornfield on his tractor.

I saw the man on the tractor in the corn and walked towards him. He turned his tractor to meet me. 

When we were about ten feet apart, he turned off the tractor and turned his blue eyes on me.

“Can I help you?” asked the man on the tractor.

I said, “I believe you can. We’ve traveled from Rochester, New York. We had a terrible automobile accident yesterday. I’m not sure if we’re alive or dead so tell me, is this heaven or is this Iowa?”

He looked at me and realized that there was something going on here and he wasn’t sure what it was.

Then he answered in the most perplexing way possible.

“It’s whatever you want it to be.’

I said, “whatever it is, it’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. I want it to be the place where we get married.”

He said “You can do that.”

I asked “Would Friday be all right.”

He said “that would be fine.”

We shook hands.

On that Friday, he would be our best man. His name was Don Lansing.

I told Lynn the great news.

We got in our car and drove to Devil’s Tower. We had originally said that we would go as far West as Devil’s Tower and if we hadn’t made up our minds by then, well we’d head back home and take a break. Of course, we had already made up our minds thanks to the junkyard proposal.

We returned Thursday night.

Don greeted us warmly and invited us into the house. Yeah, the house in the movie. Don wanted to know what we were going to wear. All we had left were our jeans. Don went to the phone and called the local tux shop. They had one tux left. Don asked if we wanted a cake. We said yeah. He got on the phone and called the local bakery. He asked Lynn how big the cake should be. She said big enough for fifty. I laughed out loud. We didn’t know a single person in Iowa aside from Don and the guy who originally greeted us, a guy named Butch who was a caretaker for the field and his wife Annie.

Then he asked Lynn if she needed a wedding gown. He knew a dressmaker in town. He called Anne Steffen, the local dressmaker. He described our dream and asked Ann if she could help out. She said that she could.

That evening, we drove into town. The only tux in town fit me perfectly. Next we met Anne. She and Lynn got together and designed a wedding dress. That night we slept at Butch and Annie’s house and the rain poured down ending a drought.

The next day, we went back into town. The dress was made. Beautiful like in a dream. We drove to the town office to pick up our wedding license. Lynn had sent away for one before we left on our pilgramage. By the time we got to the office the word had already spread. We got our license. They told us that they had heard all about the plan and so had the local television station. They wanted to interview us. 

We met the reporter and she seemed very interested in our story. She had a full camera crew with her. We told them that we had arranged for a justice of the peace to do the honors. We told them about the car crash.

The town barber had heard about all of this and volunteered to give me a haircut while Lynn tried on her dress.

By that time it was getting late. We stopped at a restaurant to have our last meal as single people. We looked up at the teevee and there we were on the local news. We watched ourselves telling our story.

We made it back to the house. By this time, a bunch of neighbors had gathered.

I went into the room where in the movie Ray’s daughter looks out the window and says “something’s gonna happen out there.”just before the ghost shows up.

I had the same view of the field and I knew that indeed something was gonna happen out there. We were gonna get married. The ghosts were gonna show up.

I made sure I had the wedding ring which we had bought at Wall Drugs in South Dakota. The rings were made from genuine Black Hills gold.

By this time about fifty people had gathered.

I left the house and walked into the corn in left field. I figured that since I still wasn’t sure that I was alive that I should come out of the corn like the ghosts did.

I made my way to the pitchers mound where I met Don. I was on the mound for a few moments when the fifty people started to ooh and ahh as Lynn emerged from the house. Suddenly everything was in transcendent five dimension. I couldn’t have dreamed of a more beautiful bride.

She made the long walk past the bleachers and crossed the magical first base line. She didn’t disappear. She met me on the mound and we walked together to home plate where the magistrate awaited. We took our vows with Don standing right behind us. The witnesses cheered.

After the ceremony, we went back to the porch. The towns folk had brought fixings. We ate the cake together. They all wanted pictures so we posed for awhile. We drank some champagne that somebody had provided. We bid them farewell.

The next day we were home. On the flight back, we told the  stewardess our story and she put us in first class. Sitting right next to us was Maury Wills, the ex-Dodger shortstop who had once stole a hundred bases in a season. She told Maury the story and he congratulated us.

We made it home in time for the Ring of Fire around Canadaigua Lake.

We’re going to be celebrating our thirtieth anniversary next week.

We’re still going the distance and easing each other’s pain.

[violetsystems]

 #personal

I don’t think anybody expected me to go out last night.  I’m not really connected enough anymore on social media to know what there was to do really.  There were a full set of keys to my apartment and facilities.  I started off the New Year three loads of laundry lighter.  The laundry room is directly below the stairs to my apartment.  I’ve been walking three blocks with a suitcase for months to do my wash.  Back and forth.  I got really good at rolling that suitcase around.  Ironically I’m not bringing much of any baggage to New York next weekend.  Metaphysically speaking or otherwise.  I spent most of last night thinking about what I was going to wear.  I bought a lot of nice clothes this year on the low mostly from resellers.  The fact I have two options for a jacket is a focal point for me.  I was wearing that Nike Puffa on a particularly warm day last week.  I caught up with a friend who is a bike messenger on a leisurely long walk home from work.  They commented how my jacket must have been warm on a day like this.  It didn’t feel hostile but more a matter of fact.  I looked at the weather yesterday.  I look at it every day mostly from when I used to fixate on whether I could take the weather outside enough to run.  It’ll be in the mid forties all next weekend.  The last thing I want to do is walk around New York looking overheated and thirsty.  The thirstiness at this point is inevitable.  But these are the minutia I have the luxury of stressing about when it comes to a weekend getaway by myself at the turn of the year.  My dad texted me at nine with one of those fireworks messages.  That was about the only text I got.  Everybody knows I only pay attention to my dash here when it comes to meaningful social engagement.  I definitely didn’t wake up this morning regretting much of anything other than my choice of gym routine yesterday.  I decided to take today off maybe much in the same thought process as that Puffa jacket.  It’s kind of a tired look under the circumstances of today.  My apartment is the cleanest and most organized it has ever been.  I spent all yesterday filing vinyl from my collection.  It sounds more pretentious than it was.  But I was alone and it was peaceful.  Imagine if you were away from someone you loved and it tore you apart every minute.  Now imagine if it tore you apart for an entire six months.  I’ve never heard of the opposite being true until it occurred to me.  I’m the one sitting here six months later at a very different point of my life.  At least all my DNA is present and accounted for as we start the new year.  I am very much the same Tim with the same feelings on the Internet.  Let’s give it up for consistency.

I have been watching a lot of movies over vacation.  Mostly just purchasing stuff I’ve wanted to see.  A lot of modern and contemporary science fiction lately has been favorite.  I watched Annihilation last night.  A larger mystery has been why I enjoy that specifically in my own home.  How I got a couch in here in the first place?  How I have a larger tv to watch them with?  How I have time set aside to enjoy them without feeling like my life is spiraling out of control?  I have a job.  You would think people would understand that is how you afford all these things.  That you actually have to put in work to receive the money to make those purchases.  There’s probably other ways.  But mine is fairly predictable with a fair amount of benefits.  Particularly a whole week off and six more weeks of vacation to take before July.  Last year around April I went to Asia probably for the last time in awhile by myself.  I learned a lot from that trip.  More than I particularly bargained for maybe back then.  But knowing what I know now, maybe I learned how to better focus myself.  I know now at least how many years I’ve been trying to get back to center.  I know how much at peace I am when I close the door.  Now that I have keys.  All of them.  How did I lose them in the first place?  Why did it take so long to get them?  Why did I get hustled out of my Christmas and Birthday money to get a copy?  Was it worth it?  All of this?  Does anybody really know at the end of the day how much I sacrificed this year let alone the last two?  The answer is yes.  Many people do.  One person in particular probably knows it much clearer than anybody else.  I care about that person enough to know they understand the weight of that.  Why I act like I do?  Why I make these decisions and move quietly.  Why people who think they understand me never have a clue.  The heaviness that follows me everywhere I go these days.  I haven’t really suffered all that much under the weight of it.  Sometimes it’s like an invisible pressure around your shoulders nestled deep into your neck.  You stretch with it.  Stand up straighter against it and it coils around you tighter.  You can’t escape your fate this much we’ve come to know from life.  When something mirrors everything you do out of sight like a shadow.  How much of it is planned and how much of it is magic and chaos?  It depends on the environment.  And home alone on New Year’s Day there’s a lot of things I can control without leaving my house.  Particularly how positive I am about how hard I try and how disappointed I am nobody within a fifty mile radius has the capacity to care.

Maybe it isn’t all that unlike being trapped under a dome.  There’s a lot of subtext to that movie I enjoy very much.  The fact that the main character manages to hold it together literally and why.  The echoes of relationships in the movie that are both human and inhuman at the same time.  The blur between people’s acceptance of their fate being positive or negative.  When Tessa Thompson’s character vanishes in such a nuanced way, you understand that fate and change is inevitable.  At the end, who is facing who exactly.  Who is the real enemy?  What will we be remade into post Annihilation?  I swear I’m not trying to make this post a parable for you to quit drinking or anything.  What people turned into was largely based on the chaos of evolution through a prism.  The scene where they are being hunted by something that has the power to throw their friend’s voice  is particularly disturbing poetry.  How we can’t be sure if that’s a memory, a part of their friend, or a manipulation to evoke a reaction from it’s prey.  In the end, what holds us together in this nightmare world is our consistency.  Our love for each other and our capacity to understand the subtext in this blur.  In an era that flaunts the term post truth like it’s a revelation, we all know reality is subjective.  People lie.  People warp their own narratives of people, places and things.  History vanishes and mutates.  Scenes fade out and in like passing tides.  What keeps pushing me forward has been my own account of events.  My own narrative.   One largely here that has been pretty open and transparent to a point.  My own dreams and desires that I refract out into the world much like a prism and all the mutant and alien perspectives form therein. But there’s a wall of intimacy there nobody seems to be able to cross.  It’s intentional.  It’s how I express my love and intimacy.  And it’s behind a physical door where I sleep and dream every night.  One where the peace and quiet speaks volumes to me.  My apartment is much like this blog sometimes.  I’m trapped in an echo chamber.  Being alone this year with my thoughts and dreams didn’t feel so far away at all.  I spent a lot of time making coffee here in the kitchen every morning thinking about what it would take.  To be good enough.  Whether or not I was happy resigning myself to this fate that’s already been in motion nearly half of 2018.  I’ve held it all together pretty well.  I’ll keep holding it together here at the lighthouse.  At least my DNA is all present and accounted for.  That’s a really positive way to start 2019.  It means my love for you is just the same as it was last year.  And it’s locked behind these doors for the foreseeable future.  And I have the keys.  Only you have the keys to my heart.  I’m going to keep my genomes in a safe place for the time being.  Off the internet, out of public and safe here under the dome.  If you can’t follow the light.  Just be the lighthouse.  I hear they have some crazy dance battles in there.  <3 Tim

[dwestfieldblog]

2018 - NEW YEAR RESOLUTIONS

(Solve et coagula)

Untying the Not and Never Was...back from Britain...Hello pagan heathens, welcome to the 14thyear of the blog and variations on the theme of transcendental dystopia in the key of F sharp. Feeling positivelypriapic today...with a private new list of  ancient sins that would make even a priest blush...in joyous celebration of Bacchus, Aphrodite and Apollo... I have my own morals, but morals they are and are followed as such. I don't remember what I am taught, I remember what I learn.

Within two minutes of walking past airport customs into the English speaking world, see a display of Newsweek magazines with the front cover blarting 'Putin is preparing for World War 3 -is Trump?' So good to be back so fast into the feculant nightmare. Great to hear the baldhead is running for yet another presidential term and barring his most serious rival from taking part in the lip-service of democratic process. And threatening him with imprisonment for daring to suggest the polls be boycotted. Wonder who will win? Here's hoping today's pig is tomorrow's bacon.

I watched no TV news at all but of course read the Daily Horrors with my breakfast every morning for three weeks...The Golden Reptile in the mickey mouse white house...he doesn't believe in exercise because it is unhealthy for the body and has a Very busy working day from 11am to 5pm...with 'executive time' between the hours.... a separate bedroom with 3 TV screens and cheeseburgers to lull him to sleep until he awakes to tweet his dawn chorus of mindless excremental bilge. Direct quotes from his twitter feed –'My two greatest assets have been mental stability andbeing, like, really smart'... 'a very stable genius...' America....truly serving as a genuine example to the world. How does it feel to be pitied by those you despise and despised by those you pity?

Trump has a 'much bigger and powerful' nuclear button on his desk than Cheese Boy in North Korea... 'and my Button works!'. (How would he know? Hard to test.) Penis measuring across continents. Mentally unstable is a very generous description of these child presidents....And speaking of dumber than paint leaders with bad hair (nice segway eh?) I heard a wonderful description of the lying wannabe UK prime minister Boris Johnson... 'like an arsonist pretending to be a fireman', returning to the Brexit crime scene to save the day...

Another foul/fowl pretender to the throne of PM in the UK, Mr Gove, coming out in sudden favour of chlorinated chicken from the USA and GM crops via the ever popular Monsanto corporation. Follow the lobbyists, follow the money trail. Ignore (or defenestrate) those who speak for corporate interests until you have checked whether their words are actually an opinion based on long running verifiable tests of good health or sound bites paid for by a wedge of serious wonga/moolah/cash into their bank accounts... and/or a future job when they leave politics. Shameless filth. Eg. David Cameron now accepting a role with the Chinese government's one and a half billion pound infrastructure programme.

China said recently that the 1989 British ambassador's claim that 10,000 students were murdered in Beijing is a little extreme. Well it was. Running tanks over unarmed students cannot said to be anything else. 200 has been given as a more realistic death toll. It took them 28 years to come up with this number.

'Oh Lord make my enemies ridiculous'. (Voltaire) Thank you lord...thank you lord.Hallelujah, to coin a phrase...

Pope Francis used his Christmas message to advise his masses to drop 'all sorts of useless baggage'...'the banality of consumerism, the blareof commercials, the stream of empty words and the overpowering waves of empty chatter and loud shouting'. This is the sort of stuff which should indeed be spoken by spiritual leaders but shame he didn't mention talking snakes, pregnant virgins, burning bushes, self inflicted guilt over original sin or the endlessly Unchristian behaviour by his flock. (And there is a special circle in Hell for priests of any faith who rape children.) 'Useless baggage' almost covers it all. As Francis said; '...rediscover what really matters'... Or discover what reality matter is made of..

.'A cross on every hill, a  star, a minaret, so many graves to fill, Oh love, aren't you tired yet?'Cohen, The Faith. Why not not eat pigs together?

The same evil government shit as ever after a massive storm destroying homes... Hurricane Irma wiped out almost every home on Barbuda (Caribbean) and as in New Orleans and dozens of similar cases after a force of nature, the greedpigs move in fast. Deals between the politicians and land developers overpower the rights of those who lived there, such is the freedom of a life without morality. Rebuild and replace communally owned land with dwellings for the wealthy and push aside all former residents. If ever a group of men deserved the force of nature/an act of the Goddess against them and their property, it is these swinefeed.

The West and the East, the East and West, condemning each others' subversions... What came first, the pot or the kettle?

Demonstrations in Iran by the lower classes of all generations across more than 100 cities and towns against the endless drift of power upwards to Khameni and the mullahs...and money outwards to various non charitable organisations (fill in the blanks with live ammunition, missiles, rocket launchers, suicide bombers etc.) the lack of hospitals and social support, the lack of aid after natural disasters, corruption and price rises. 40 percent of young people are unemployed and starting to wonder where the billions are going...or else knowing where. Most, if not all of the above bullet points (ha) are strong factors in the West too...but in America the tension implodes and is directed against ethnicitiesrather than those actually responsible.. and in Britain/ Europe... hmm...Civil unrest is contained in blaming foreigners, thus encouraging Nazi opportunist populists to manipulate the easily persuaded angry mass into voting for them. And the suckers fall for it everybloody time.

Issues of utterly irrelevant social media opinion, autistic entertainment saturating the global human mind to applaud the lowest common denominator, rocking back and forth with glee at the latest exploits of the hollow kardashians and their foul ego stroking ilk, famous only for being famous...a mass debate on the meaningless, billions of people being trained to focus their tiny, blurred attention deficit spans on a multitude of soul numbing emptiness. All looking in the absolute wrong directions while meanwhile....

The strong and immoral arise and laugh their arses off, stirring, provoking, initiating... and they prepare...America and Europe are weaker and weaker. A few computer viruses here and there, shared passwords, blackmail via disinformation,  man made disasters, plenty of random shocks, a constant underlying panic, threats and needling rhetoric result in.....on one side, an aggressive focused mobilisation of forces with intent and on the other, half a billion people with the spiritual bravery and intelligence of a pillow. At some Rubicon of a breakpoint, paranoia becomes common sense. The clock is now at two minutes to midnight. Be aware.

BE AWARE.

'The universe is a total construction of waves and vibrations whose inner content is 'Meaning', and Man is a micro system of the same vibratory nature, floating at some depth in the universal and meaningful wave system. The universal wave system is qualitative or value structured according to its vibration rate spectrum (faster frequencies have more informational capacity).David Foster

'Information is not knowledge, knowledge is not wisdom, wisdom is not truth, truth is not beauty, beauty is not love, love is not music, music is the best'.... speaking of which...Sufferers of schizophrenia with audio and visual hallucinations could be aided by learning an instrument or by listening to music, says new research... Musical aptitude has a strong effect on 'the white matter integrity of the corpus callosum', which protects against the disorder. Quite tempting to comment on the plethora of musicians of all creeds who are obviously unbalanced, unstable and dangerous to themselves and others. Maybe too much music eh? Arf. Never. Anyway, Love IS music and music IS love Sorry Frank.

'All lovers young, all lovers must, consign to thee and come to dust'. Shakespeare -Cymbeline.

'Micro dosing' is one of the 'new' trend things...(as opposed to non functioning overdose situations) brought to you all the way from Silicon valley. That's right... just one tenth of 150 micrograms of LSD will aid you in your chosen field (no pun intended, almost) to break through, focus, go within, go OUT and open neural pathways blocked by the mundane and logical. I have not tripped on acid since 1985 (and that last trip was just over 21 hours long before I took sleeping pills to make the galaxies stop flowing through my brain.) Have been very tempted over the years but truly didn't want or need such an eternity of multidimensional senses while still in flesh...(once the doorway is opened, it stays opened.) This micro dosing is highly interesting however and I will do this this as soon as the first possibility appears. Still think I prefer October mushrooms....Where the Heart Is, in a Halo of Stars.

Picked up a leaflet yesterday...Non stop erotic massages and hotel escorts in Prague... 'Your imagination has no limits'...ermmm...ahhh..hmmm...probably not, but there are laws and only so much available cash this evening..Or, as Alien Sex Fiend sang, 'Everybody's got what everybody wants and everybody wants what everybody's got.' Well, almost.

If liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.' So sayeth (saideth?) George Orwell. Doesn't seem to apply to British and American universities where the mind fecking 'Safe Space' ethic is rigidly enforced by the twenty something brain police. Anything which could be offensive or disagreed with, is banned.....That comedian who once made a joke ridiculing transgenders... REMOVE him from the list of those who should speak... that woman who said the holy land is bollocks because the old testament was just some non verifiable book which told the Hebrews what they wanted to hear? No platform for her, no stage for them unless it has a gallows pole upon it. (Yeah, self fulfilling propaganda works like a dream every time. Bullshit is half of the charm.) You university morons. You MORONS, working for the enemy, for ones who seek to bring YOU down. Who seek to cage and contain thee. To limit the horizons of creative expression and put a sterile tank around truth. Poor little fragile youth, too delicate to be offended, WHY AREN'T YOU ANGRY? The ancient schools of Sumeria and Greece would be disgusted at your level of human intelligence. 

You cannot make up your own mind until you have exposed yourself to all shades of opinion and distilled all. Read what you disagree with with, it is a fascinating comedy...and very often reveals that what you thought you know, you do not Feel.

The man of the crowd is a weakling; people who need people are the stupidest people in the world. Evolution requires individuals, a union of outsiders working in random harmony...or...'Talent hits a target no one else can hit. Genius hits a target no one else can see'. Schopenhauer. I know some of this may seem like nonsense. But it's a discipline and I do it with purpose.

Meanwhile, remaining emotional attachments to the socially acceptable drugs...I Want a cigarette or a Strong Drink, or at least, at long last, a painkiller that actually works. Arnica Montana and DL-Phenylalanine don't quite cut the mustard. Thirty minute pause while I go for a walk in the cold dark park, come back home and cut my own hair for the second time in my life. (Not bad at all, just as good as all my last cuts by semi professionals...) One side is half an inch longer but WT actual F? Who cares? Fate is gonna find you with a glass of champagne? Make it a triple espresso and half a bottle of good whisky and then we can talk. And a cigarette...my lack of smoking is making me want to claw and bite this wood table into splinters. There...a normal paragraph of usual life...just in time for the end of a page.

Favourite depressing headline from the new year...'Couple who left son to drown in lake were poor parents, judge concludes.' The wisdom of Solomon. My favourite headline from last month has to be ;A fried egg has no place in the nativity, say 77 percent of parents”\ My first thought was, uff, so 33 percent think it is ok?? My second thought was, well, why not eh? Makes as much sense as anything else in that twisted story....I read a useful column in a newspaper last month, called 'Failsafe ways to spot a Liar'. Glad to see my instincts were right according to researchers and clinical psychologists. Some humans are bereft of as much emotional intelligence and morality as AI machines. Blame it on childhood trauma,always an easy way out. How was the first year of your life? Use trance hypnotism recall, recall and release.

'The key task of a muse is to allow the artist to see his own feminine aspect that is otherwise invisible to him and to be a screen that fits the artist's projections. What completes the artist isn't the intrinsic qualities of the romantic interest but the artist's own feminine archetype. So, to the extent that the artist's projections dominate or replace the muse's own qualities, the muse's soul is dissipated.' Allan Showalter, psychiatrist.

Time to go back to being oblivious to the 'news' again, in the two minutes which are left, there is space to become plenty of nothing and locate your Will. See you in a few weeks after my probable final birthday, which falls upon an Easter Monday this year. Too late for a resurrection (well, there are pills for that anyway) but in time for the beauty of rising Spring with the binary healing of cabala chakras...every man and woman is a star...Stay well....

[mousetaur]

Rules: once you have been tagged you are supposed to write 92 truths about yourself. At the end, choose 25 people to tag!

I got tagged by @gin-no-yuki and just copy pasted so I think it’s all messed up.....

LAST… [1] drink: apple and camomile tea [2] phone call: taxi... [3] text message: my Grandma [4] song you listened to: I can’t remember [5] time you cried: Yesterday, watching Serenity, when River saves Simon

HAVE YOU EVER…. [6] dated someone twice: nope [7] been cheated on: I hope not [8] kissed someone and regretted it: Not at the time.... [9] lost someone special: yes [10] been depressed: yes [11] gotten drunk and thrown up: nope

LIST THREE FAVORITE COLOURS: [12] purple [13] yellow [14] blue

IN THE LAST YEAR HAVE YOU… [15] made new friends: yes [16] fallen out of love: In a major way [17] laughed until you cried: So, so much [18] found out someone was talking about you: I think so [19] met someone who changed you: Not changed me, but allowed me to be me again [20] found out who your true friends are: I think I was good to begin with [21] kissed someone on your Facebook list: Yup

GENERAL… [22] how many of your Facebook friends do you know in real life: all except my cousins [23] do you have any pets: two cats and a rabbit. [24] do you want to change your name: No, my name is amazing [25] what did you do for your last birthday: had people around for food and board games [26] what time did you wake up: around 8:30 [27] what were you doing at midnight last night: That was the time I went to bed [28] name something you cannot wait for: meeting Billy Boyd at Armageddon [29] when was the last time you saw your mother: Physically, January, but I saw her on Skype this afternoon [30] what is one thing you wish you could change about your life: I want full-time work [31] what are you listening to right now: Bojack Horseman [32] have you ever talked to a person named tom: a bizarre question, but yes [33] something that is getting on your nerves: my boss [34] most visited website: YouTube, Tumblr, Netflix, Facebook [35] elementary: Do I need to say the name? I went to a few. They were nice, although that last one might have been dodgy [36] high school: suffering, but not the worst thing ever.  [37] college: glorious stress, I loved it [38] hair color: brown [39] long or short hair: I don’t mind [40] do you have a crush on someone: My boyfriend is pretty cute, I might crush on him a little [41] what do you like about yourself: Quite a lot, when I don’t feel terrible about myself. I’m pretty cute and funny. My butt is nice. I’m aggressively nice [42] piercings: my ears [43] blood type: O+ I think. Or O-. O something [44] nickname: Helz, lenny, smelly, buttface  [45] relationship status: happily in a relationship [46] zodiac sign: Aquarius [47] pronouns: she/her [48] fav tv show: hmmmm, not sure. Battlestar Galatica. Boueibu [49] tattoos: maybe when I’m old and have found something that means enough to me [50] right or left handed: right

FIRST… [51] surgery: none [52] piercing: my ears, and they’ve been done twice, and have always gotten infected so no more, thank you very much [53] best friend: same as in primary school, we live together now haha [54] sport: I think it was football, and it was hell. My team actively hated me [55] vacation: I recall a trip to a pier, cold and windy, somewhere in England [56] pair of trainers: how and why would I remember this?

RIGHT NOW… [57] eating: I have been trying to eat this apple for some time (I am sick) [58] drinking: nothing [59] I’m about to: Probably go for a wee [60] listening to: my best friend cooking us dinner [61] waiting for: dinner, to get up and wee [62] want: to not be sick [63] get married: Nah [64] career: Oh lord, any full time work would be a blessing

WHICH IS BETTER… [65] hugs or kisses: all hugs, all the time [66] lips or eyes: eyes [67] shorter or taller: we’re looking pretty short if you’re getting below me, but it is the only time I feel grand and tall so shorter [68] older or younger: in terms of what? I don’t mind in any regards, really [70] nice arms or nice stomach: think I’m an arms gal, but as long as you a cutie patootie I don’t care what physical attributes you have [71] sensitive or loud: probably sensitive, but I am both [72] hook up or relationship: relationship [73] troublemaker or hesitant: I am very hesitant, and prefer less troublesome individuals

HAVE YOU EVER… [74] kissed a stranger: the fact I am not sure is probably a giveaway [75] drank hard liquor: I do enjoy whiskey from time to time, and have cocktails which contain rum and the like [76] lost glasses/contact lenses: lost my prescription sunglasses, that was a blow [77] turned someone down: Ummm, I don’t think so. Not directly, at least [78] sex on first date: nope, I’m not that comfortable with that for myself [79] broken someone’s heart: I think so, and that is sad but I didn’t do it maliciously [80] had your own heart broken: quite a bit. Recently, even [81] been arrested: nope [82] cried when someone died: yes [83] fallen for a friend: yes

DO YOU BELIEVE IN… [84] yourself: I’m pretty cool, so yeah, I’ll do the things I want to do and probably some surprises too [85] miracles: in a non-religious sense, things can work out in spectacular ways, yes [86] love at first sight: not really [87] Santa Claus: I am 23 and will leave out milk, a mince pie and carrots. Fight me. [88] kiss on the first date: I would prefer not to [89] angels: flesh and blood people who are lovely? Yes.

OTHER… [90] current best friend’s name: I ain’t telling you that [91] eye colour: (why wasn’t this with hair colour?) dark borwn [92] favorite movie: Nightmare before Christmas

Tagging: Ummm I don’t normally do these but I hope you don’t mind @ryoseirui, @amateurcatalyst