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suffering-and-happy-about-it · 5 years ago

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Mount Everest Ain't Got Shit On Us (Fezco x fem! reader, Part 4.)

Description: You were always told that your life will be as you wish it to be if you’ll study enough. That it will pay off if you work hard. And some people were given you like the scary example of what will happen when you don’t obey. But sometimes it feels good to disobey.

A/N: None really.

Word Count: 2.8 K

Warnings: Some really harsh history being uncovered here, some trans history, some drug addict history, OD mentioning.

Read the rest here, babe: PART 1 PART 2 PART 3

Masterlist and declaration: H E R E

Everyone has a secret. That's a thing you need to understand before you befriend someone. Everybody needs to have a secret to be a whole person. People who don't have secrets usually have the worst. Those who tend to say that they are completely secret-clean do the worst things in private.

Some secrets can be deep, shocking and complex. Some of those deep secrets can not be ever understood by you nor any other person. Some secrets were more funny than serious. But you should know one thing before anybody will tell you their secret.

If they do, they love you deeply. You should remember that. Whatever they tell you, whatever shit they will make you listen to, you should keep it to yourself. They trust you. This is the biggest lever of trust that someone can show you.

Usually, it starts "when I was little" or "I need to tell you something". When this moment came to you and Jules, you looked at her with a weird look. What tremendous could she have in mind?

"I need to tell you something that maybe changes everything you think about me and Rue. It's really hard for me to start this conversation. But we talked through it a lot with Rue and we decided to tell you.” - Jules caught both of your hands into her palms and smiled sadly. You decided to stay under the tribunes next to the football field during your lunch break; it rained heavily, but you managed to find a dry spot, yet you kept your jackets on.

“I wouldn't say so, you can tell me whatever you want. We are friends.” - You encouraged her with a kind tone and a big smile. She nodded and exhaled loudly, giggling nervously.

“I will start with the thing I wanna say. Then I will tell you something Rue wants you to know and probably needs you to know. Her life depends on it.” - Jules looked deeply into your eyes and you nodded.

“So... I am a trans-woman. I look like a girl, I feel like a girl, I am a girl. But at some point of my life, I was a man and I want you to know it because you are a really important person to me right now and I don't wanna think about me not telling you and taking as living in a lie because I would feel ashamed.” - She was talking in a quiet tone and hurriedly, but you got what she tried to say.

“You are a beautiful young woman, babe. That is not a thing to be afraid of.” - You smoother her chin slowly and smiled at her. She sighed out loud loudly and smiled as well. But by the tone of her look, you somehow knew that she will continue.

“I was sleeping with older men to feel like a woman. There was a time where there was... A lot of them. I am not proud of it at all. But I am glad that I've told you. I hope you will not see me like some... Bitch. I just can't deal my shit since I was fucking eleven. I was on psychiatry, I discovered that I am a girl when I was thirteen... My life was not the simplest, baby. But since I found Rue and you, it was a lot better.” - She began to cry and you watched as her blue eyeshadow dripped off the corner of her baby blue eyes.

To be honest, you were shocked a bit. Jules, sweet Jules, was a boy at some point. But she was who she was - she had a long path behind her and that was a thing that was unimaginable for you.

To say that you understood why she did what she did in her past was hard. You didn't understand heer completely, of course. You never got through her experience. Okay. She had some shit in her head and she thought that to sleep with some strange older man, you deduced it was in private and never personal, was the cure she needed.

It was not the best thing you have ever heard. But she was your friend and you loved her the way she was - and since the way she went through was what made her the way she was with you, you were not the one who should judge her.

Slowly, you rose your hand and smoothed the hair out of her face in pain. You smiled sadly, smoothing her shoulder.

“You wanna like... Talk about it? Have you told it to anyone?” - You hugged her as the tears fell out of her eyes. Those things were seriously hard to say out loud to yourself and even harder to say to someone else. You needed some bravery to do it and you secretly respected Jules for her courage.

“Only Rue. Rue knows it. I stopped with it, it does not make me feel complete anymore. It was a fucking waste of my time. Now it all took a new wind, I have some people to live for and who live for me.” - Jules sat up again, smiling at you sadly. You nodded. The eyes shined as she told you, you were sure she means you and Rue. No bad things could come back to hunt Jules down while you were together.

“Okay. Tell me what Rue would tell me if she could.” - You patter an empty place next to you, kissing Jules on her cheek. She smiled at you with heavenly grace.

“This isn't an easy thing to say as well, okay? Just listen to me, she has my help, Leslie is watching over Rue and she would be glad if you help us with controlling her... States.” - Jules said in a serious tone. It was so serious that you were sure that you haven't heard this tone from Jules ever before.

“The summer last year was a pretty dark place for Rue. She doesn't like talking about it, but she took too much and almost OD herself. She was in rehab for the bigger part of summer.” - Jules gulped and her stare drifted off to the distance. - “She was a serious junkie, starting with her dad's med pills, then she leveled up, up, and up, before Gia found her passed out completely on the floor.”

The words felt suddenly too out of place to say. You thought about Rue, her anxiety and BPAD, all the shit she was going through... Would it be better if she did not start to play around with drugs?

Just as you took this option as considerable, other idea crossed your mind. What if this was Rues own style of fighting? But logically, she became more and more numb to her weapons, so she needed more and more. And one time, she took too much. It almost cost her her very own life, but she was one of the few lucky ones - she got through and from what Jules told you, she was clean for a few months at the time.

Everyone had their history and secrets - they came through some shit before getting to know you. The horror your girls passed through were the things that made them the proud and strong women they were now. Most probably it was their destiny to go through some shit and be a better person when it all has ended up.

“That's a lot to say and to think about, Jules.” - You said quickly. - “I knew you were special... You're you and Rue has some big shit anxiety... Then there is ADD and the possibility of having a BDAP. Which she clearly has. But to hear what you did and what Rue did... That is some shit to think about.”

“You think we're terrible people, don't you? I can't blame you and neither can she. If you would rather stop to be friends with us, we will understand, but we just wanted you to know.” - Jules said almost voicelessly as her gaze was slowly breaking with fear and sadness. She looked like she was feeling the fear of losing you a bit too much. Jules was just a gentle little rose, as you would say.

“Hey. Everyone has done some shit back here and there. Yours is maybe bigger than mine, but some people have done way, way worse. I will tell you my secret. I blew up a boy when I was fifteen. I was curious. It was at nine p.m. by the chapel, he is pastors son. We have not spoken since then. Fran has a serious weed addiction which has a hold on her... The others did shitty things too. I am not the one who should judge.” - You said with a cheerful tone, laughing about the pastor's son.

It was true - you loved him, or so you thought, and he was begging you for what seemed like an eternity. So you did it in the church. And it was the biggest cringe in your life. Neither of us enjoyed it and you were underages to add on, so you just agreed not to talk about ever again.

But it made you and Jules laugh now, so it was only fair to tell when she told you the shit she had.

“You feel better now?” - You winked at her, eating your lunch slowly and taking the hood over your head because your head and ears were freezing. Jules didn't say a word, but she nodded with a big smile, just eating her lunch.

“Nobody is perfect. And I can tell you one more secret if you want?” - You teased with a laugh and Jules nodded instantly. - “I like one boy here. Talked with him a bit yesterday, I saw him a lot of times when Fran takes me to school. he seems to be chill, and he has a nice clothing style.” - You tried to describe that man from the store in the best way you could, but Jules gave you a huge smile.

“Okay girl.” - Jules said when she finally gulped. - “That was fast. Is he a lot older? Can teach you something about those ones.” - She joked and had a totally serious face.

“Older? Most likely. But not too much. It would not be socially awkward.” - You guess confidently, playing with the tomato in your sandwich.

“That's great! What about a girlfriend?” - She leaned closer to you and you could watch just as her face turns into a huge, almost creepy smile.

“I need to ask him about a girl. We will see, give me some time, Jules.” - You giggled in response. - “Not like I am about to marry him. I don't even know your goddamn name.

#euphoria #jules vaughn #jules euphoria #rue euphoria #rue bennett #euphoria hbo #euphoria series #transgender women are women #transmen are men #that is just the way it is #fez x reader #fez imagination #fezco x reader #fezco imagination #fezco #fezco euphoria

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leapintothevoid · 7 years ago

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The Magic behind the Mundane

A QUIET LIFE

by Baron Wormser

What a person desires in life is a properly boiled egg. This isn't as easy as it seems. There must be gas and a stove, the gas requires pipelines, mastodon drills, banks that dispense the lozenge of capital. There must be a pot, the product of mines and furnaces and factories, of dim early mornings and night-owl shifts, of women in kerchiefs and men with sweat-soaked hair. Then water, the stuff of clouds and skies and God knows what causes it to happen. There seems always too much or too little of it and more pipelines, meters, pumping stations, towers, tanks. And salt—a miracle of the first order, the ace in any argument for God. Only God could have imagined from nothingness the pang of salt. Political peace too. It should be quiet when one eats an egg. No political hoodlums knocking down doors, no lieutenants who are ticked off at their scheming girlfriends and take it out on you, no dictators posing as tribunes. It should be quiet, so quiet you can hear the chicken, a creature usually mocked as a type of fool, a cluck chained to the chore of her body. Listen, she is there, pecking at a bit of grain that came from nowhere.

There’s so much we thoughtlessly take for granted, and in his few simple, humble lines Baron draws our attention to the incredible complexity and wonder, which attentiveness can reveal in even the most ordinary of everyday things.

When the poem begins it almost seems as if its going to be funny and ridiculous. A boiled egg, for goodness sake! But such a hasty dismissal, the “yeah, whatever” is precisely the attitude that Wormser is taking up arms against, and thus by opposing, aiming to end it.

And so, by just paying thoughtful attention to the most humble object, we begin to see the labyrinthine complexities that prop up our everyday lives and experiences. The poem peels back layers of causality, from gas pipelines to men with sweat-soaked hair laboring at copper factories, to water towers and tanks and pumping stations, even the political climate.

Eventually, we get to those essentials only attributable to God. Like salt, the chicken, the grain. Whence came these? “Only God could have imagined from nothingness the pang of salt.” And Wormsmer’s notion of God in the poem isn’t the traditional interpretation of the patriarchal provider, but rather the inexplicable yet undeniable fountain of creative proliferation that propels into being all that exists.

By the time we finish the poem, after being confronted with an exhausting array of intricate interdependencies that allow even the most ordinary experiences, we arrive at the inescapable humbling conclusion that it all “came from nowhere.”

We humans can be so ungrateful, every day enjoying the fruits of wonders we know nothing of, not even whence they came. Most of us simply consume and gratify our appetites, never for once pausing to think that all of the myriad trappings of modern life are ultimately inconceivable in their extravagance and givenness.

This poem, like a candle of hope in the night of ingratitude, reminds us of the magic behind the mundane.

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frustratedcastingdirector · 8 years ago

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Review: Danny DeVito the standout in 'The Price' on Broadway

Chris Jones - Chicago Tribune March 16 7:00pm Anyone who has cleaned out a deceased parent's stuff will tell you that the worst part of the process is listening to a dealer denigrate the prized possessions of one that you have so deeply loved. And any dealer in old furniture and bric-a-brac will tell you that the worst part of the job is dealing with people who are emotionally connected to stuff that actually is worth only a fraction of what a traumatized heir typically believes. Especially now. Millennials generally prefer phones and tablets to harps and bureaus. As the 89-year-old Gregory Solomon, the most entertaining character in Arthur Miller's 1968 play "The Price," especially when played by Danny DeVito, succinctly puts it: "Anything Spanish Jacobean you'll sell quicker a case of tuberculosis." DeVito is offering a spectacularly funny performance in director (and Steppenwolf Theatre co-founder) Terry Kinney's resonant if not wholly satisfying Broadway revival of, to my mind, one of Miller's bleakest and most personal plays. Consider the trajectory of the most sympathetic character, a police officer named Victor Franz, as played in this Roundabout Theatre production by Mark Ruffalo, an actor who specializes in low-status characters with natural affinities for sadness and for whom snapping out of something is pretty much an impossibility. In "The Price," which opened here Thursday night, Victor starts out trying to sell Solomon his late father's detritus, alternately scolded and jollied by Victor's wife, Esther (Jessica Hecht). By Act 2, poor Victor now has had to deal with only the stark realism of his truth-telling used-furniture dealer, who actually is the least of his worries. (Most of us-who-have-been-bereaved come to see that another thousand bucks for the lot, more or less, will change nothing.) Far more significant for Victor is his fight with his more successful, more condescending brother, Walter (Tony Shalhoub), who is on a quest to convince his brother, who has sacrificed his own dreams for his dad, that both boys grew up in a house with no love. Shudder. The family Franz is not far removed from the family Loman of "Death of a Salesman" — or from the family Keller of "All My Sons," both more famous Miller plays that offer a juicier and less talky theatrical experience and thus have eclipsed the popularity of "The Price" over the years. Economic trauma undercuts all three of the fathers in these plays, even through the patriarch with all the furniture has already met his maker and, perchance, paid his price. It is not hard to extend Miller's family metaphor to America itself — the difficult birth, the volatile trajectory across the generations, the power of the emotional ties it long has wrought. Most of Miller's works are really about the paradox of living vulnerably under capitalism, a system that requires you to better your sibling, even though you so badly want to be loved by your fellow human. Even your furniture dealer. DeVito, who is truly on fire here, takes a role that often is played with far more dour severity and turns it into a savagely comic bit of truth telling, laden with self-interest, as all truth telling to others tends to be. Kinney's production features a haunting set by Derek McLane (richly lit by David Weiner), wherein stuff hangs pointlessly in the air, just as your stuff probably hangs over the heads of your kids. I think Kinney's direction fundamentally understands the currency of this play. Hecht, for example, clearly gets the quiet trauma of what is being bought and sold, and both Ruffalo and Shalhoub have individual vulnerability, even if you don't always believe they are in this, for better or worse, as brothers. It's in the long, late-in-the-play argument that things are rougher: Shalhoub, in particular, feels prepackaged and overly slick in his admonitions and truisms, which is a reasonable approach to this character, but a choice that impacts the spontaneity of what we are watching. In Act 2, you don't get enough of a sense of a building crisis, of things being said that are exploding these relationships in real time, extracting their price, changing things forever. It is, as Solomon observes, never good to get emotional about used furniture, and that includes the contents of your own life. ----------------------------------------------------- This may have been posted by me already. If so, my apologies. It's VERY late, and I'm VERY tired! Lol!

#mark ruffalo #danny devito #jessica hecht #tony shalhoub #terry kinney #arthur miller #the price

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frustratedcastingdirector · 8 years ago

Text

Review: Danny DeVito the standout in 'The Price' on Broadway

Anyone who has cleaned out a deceased parent's stuff will tell you that the worst part of the process is listening to a dealer denigrate the prized possessions of one that you have so deeply loved. And any dealer in old furniture and bric-a-brac will tell you that the worst part of the job is dealing with people who are emotionally connected to stuff that actually is worth only a fraction of what a traumatized heir typically believes.

Especially now. Millennials generally prefer phones and tablets to harps and bureaus. As the 89-year-old Gregory Solomon, the most entertaining character in Arthur Miller's 1968 play "The Price," especially when played by Danny DeVito, succinctly puts it: "Anything Spanish Jacobean you'll sell quicker a case of tuberculosis."DeVito is offering a spectacularly funny performance in director (and Steppenwolf Theatre co-founder) Terry Kinney's resonant if not wholly satisfying Broadway revival of, to my mind, one of Miller's bleakest and most personal plays. Consider the trajectory of the most sympathetic character, a police officer named Victor Franz, as played in this Roundabout Theatre production by Mark Ruffalo, an actor who specializes in low-status characters with natural affinities for sadness and for whom snapping out of something is pretty much an impossibility.

In "The Price," which opened here Thursday night, Victor starts out trying to sell Solomon his late father's detritus, alternately scolded and jollied by Victor's wife, Esther (Jessica Hecht). By Act 2, poor Victor now has had to deal with only the stark realism of his truth-telling used-furniture dealer, who actually is the least of his worries. (Most of us-who-have-been-bereaved come to see that another thousand bucks for the lot, more or less, will change nothing.) Far more significant for Victor is his fight with his more successful, more condescending brother, Walter (Tony Shalhoub), who is on a quest to convince his brother, who has sacrificed his own dreams for his dad, that both boys grew up in a house with no love.

New musical 'Come From Away' has warm Canadian memories for our dark times

Shudder. The family Franz is not far removed from the family Loman of "Death of a Salesman" — or from the family Keller of "All My Sons," both more famous Miller plays that offer a juicier and less talky theatrical experience and thus have eclipsed the popularity of "The Price" over the years. Economic trauma undercuts all three of the fathers in these plays, even through the patriarch with all the furniture has already met his maker and, perchance, paid his price. It is not hard to extend Miller's family metaphor to America itself — the difficult birth, the volatile trajectory across the generations, the power of the emotional ties it long has wrought. Most of Miller's works are really about the paradox of living vulnerably under capitalism, a system that requires you to better your sibling, even though you so badly want to be loved by your fellow human.

Even your furniture dealer. DeVito, who is truly on fire here, takes a role that often is played with far more dour severity and turns it into a savagely comic bit of truth telling, laden with self-interest, as all truth telling to others tends to be.

Kinney's production features a haunting set by Derek McLane (richly lit by David Weiner), wherein stuff hangs pointlessly in the air, just as your stuff probably hangs over the heads of your kids. I think Kinney's direction fundamentally understands the currency of this play. Hecht, for example, clearly gets the quiet trauma of what is being bought and sold, and both Ruffalo and Shalhoub have individual vulnerability, even if you don't always believe they are in this, for better or worse, as brothers. It's in the long, late-in-the-play argument that things are rougher: Shalhoub, in particular, feels prepackaged and overly slick in his admonitions and truisms, which is a reasonable approach to this character, but a choice that impacts the spontaneity of what we are watching.

In Act 2, you don't get enough of a sense of a building crisis, of things being said that are exploding these relationships in real time, extracting their price, changing things forever.

It is, as Solomon observes, never good to get emotional about used furniture, and that includes the contents of your own life.

"The Price" plays at the American Airlines Theatre, 227 W. 42nd St.; 212-719-1300 or roundabouttheatre.org

Chris Jones is a Tribune critic.

[email protected]

Twitter@ChrisJonesTrib

Chicago Tribune

#the price #mark ruffalo #danny devito #jessica hecht #tony shalhoub #terry kinney #arthur miller

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