#I can ask myself if Thing is ''beautiful'' (subjective! does it spark joy?) and ''true'' (existence is true. have I experienced it?)

[lemememeringue]

"now say something that is beautiful and true" is doing a lot of heavy lifting rn

[thesmalltowngal]

Snowbaz 23- Golden Days

Otp Prompt #23: There’s a fair in town, and all of Watford attends. Everything in Simon and Baz’s lives has gone to hell… they deserve one night of forgetting everything. What will happen on their last day of freedom under the neon lights of the carnival? (Before the defeat the Humdrum, after everything else except Baz and Simon aren’t together yet.)

*Baz’s POV*

My father is an arsehole. After everything that’s happened this year, of bloody course I felt it horrifically unnecessary to go to a carnival. Crowley, we should still be focused on the war with the old families and the Humdrum, for fucks’ sake! When I told my father my plans of sitting it out, he for some reason felt the need to fight me on the subject.

“Basilton, you’ll regret it if you don’t go, you know.” He had said to me, looking bored. (Although I knew that he wasn’t bored- he was fully alert and intent on giving me hell.)

“Father, in what world would I regret not going to a silly party for children where all they serve is…” I visibly shiver as I lace  disgust into my tone. “Fried.” He rolled his eyes then, as he does so often. 

“These are the good days, my son. You should make memories- you’ll regret it later if you don’t go tonight.” Well that was the biggest bloody load of shit I had ever heard. The good days? Yes, yes, the good days in which I spent pining over my enemy that was destined to kill me, loathing myself to a point of insanity, and trying to find my mothers’ killer. What wonderful memories. 

I tried to keep my composure as I said, “But, father, I really see it more fit to-”

“Basil. Enough. This is non-negotiable, I’m afraid. You are to go to the carnival and that’s that.” We didn’t discuss it further. I knew I could have simply skipped, but no doubt that he’d find out somehow. I promptly huffed (with dignity- I’m not a troll) up to my room and stayed there for the rest of the afternoon, playing mournful songs on my violin.

I’ll be damned if I, Basilton Grimm-Pitch spend the whole carnival moping because father dearest told me I had to go. I was just going to sit on a wall smoking with Dev and Niall, but apparently their parents couldn’t make sense of why they should go, either. They’re currently at their respective homes, preparing for the inevitable war. 

The carnival is already loud and large, and it’s not even noon yet. Most of Watford attends, which explains the mysterious floating popcorn all around. There are people everywhere, their pulses beating unbearably loud. (I had to drain two deer before this, just to make sure I wasn’t tempted by all of the flowing blood around.) Looking around, I see people I know, but I’ve never talked to. (Mostly because they’re inferior.) I don’t want to go in. I don’t want to make ‘memories’ with people who would like to see me dead, and I most certainly don’t want to be here watching Snow and Wellbelove cozy it up on the Ferris Wheel. 

Startling me from my thoughts, I feel a finger tap me on my shoulder. I whip around, expecting to see Dev or Niall after all, but instead, I’m face to face with Simon Snow himself. (Well, not face to face so much. More like his face to my jaw.) Speak of the devil. He looks beautiful, as always. His bronze curls are a halo of gold around his face and his (extra)ordinary blue eyes. He looks nervous, but determined. 

“What do you want, Snow?” I sneer. 

*Simon’s POV*

I wish he wouldn’t sneer at me so much. I came over to him because honestly, he was the only familiar face I could find. Not much time to socialize with anyone but your bloody roommate, (ex) girlfriend and best friend when you’re the chosen one. 

I roll my eyes, but speak nonetheless. “Well, er… where are Dev and Niall?”

“Currently unavailable,” He pauses for a moment, thinking. “Why, Snow?” To be quite honest, I don’t really know why I’m doing this myself. Maybe because there’s no one else I know here. Maybe because I know this is the last time I’ll see Baz until one of us kills the other. Maybe because he just looked so alone standing there in front of the carnival.

“Well, because, um… Well, I-”

“Spit it out, Chosen.”

“Penny and Agatha couldn’t come tonight and I don’t know anyone else. And I just… well, I just need a night away from everything.” I look at him with what I hope are pleading eyes. He scoffs and begins to walk away, but I reach out for his arm. He stops, looking back at me, and quirks an eyebrow. “Listen… Baz, please. This is our last day of freedom. It’s the end of the year, the end of Watford, and right now, I just want to forget everything. Just for one night. Do it with me, Baz.” He looks mildly disgusted, but I can tell that he’s thinking about it. 

“Everything?” He nearly whispers. I know he means everything that’s happened with us in the past. The fighting, the threats. I nod my head, sure of myself. “Okay. Deal.” I let his arm go and we walk side by side into the carnival (we’ve never walked side by side; it’s weird) that has a large neon sign at the top of the gates. ‘Golden Days’. Must be the name of the carnival. I look at Baz with uncertainty, but he just smiles at me. Merlin, is that what Baz’s smile looks like? Crowley, I could get used to that. 

I grab his hand and start running into the crowd, dragging him behind me. I hear what I think is Baz laughing behind me and it gives me a jolt of ecstasy. His laugh is so carefree… like he’s got nothing but everything to live for. I love it. I keep dragging him behind me until we get to the line for a rollercoaster. I let his hand go and I see that he turns pale. (Well, paler than usual, that is. He must’ve eaten before this because he has a bit more colour than he usually does.) 

“What’s wrong?” I frown. He gulps and I watch as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down.

“Nothing, Snow, I just…” He’s trying to maintain his composure, but he’s failing. It’s bloody odd seeing his nervous. Baz is a lot of things, but nervous is not one of them. “I’m not a fan of rollercoasters.” Oh. 

“We can ride another ride if you-”

“No. No, it’s fine, Snow. I can do it,”

“Why are you afraid?” He glares at me but doesn’t correct my word choice. 

“When I was younger I went on one with my aunt Fiona. I… well my stomach didn’t react well.”

“Vampires can get sick?” I mentally slap myself, but instead of glaring at me, he just nods absentmindedly as he stares at the rollercoaster. He must really be scared if he’s admitting to being a vampire. Although I suppose it doesn’t quite matter now that we’re not in Watford anymore. I grab his hand and give it a squeeze, not letting it go this time. His hand is cold and calloused but it’s a nice break from Agatha’s warm and smooth hands. I think I see his breath catch, but I ignore it. 

We don’t talk again until we’re seated in the ride, climbing up to the top before the drop. Baz’s breath is fast and his leg is shaking, so I hold his hand even tighter. “It’s gonna be okay Baz,” I laugh. He rolls his eyes, but I see the smile playing on his lips. As we drop, I look over to see Baz screaming, but laughing all the same. His hair is flying all around his face and he looks absolutely perfect as always. The bloody wanker never looks bad even as he’s terrified on a rollercoaster. As we lurch on the turns, he looks over to me, his face alight with joy. (It occurs to me now that I don’t think I’ve ever really seen Baz happy. It’s… well it’s bloody lovely.) I smile back and we keep holding hands all throughout the ride. 

*Baz’s POV*

Snow seems to be keen on torturing me. On all of the rides so far, he’s held my hand bone-breakingly hard. (Although it doesn’t hurt because I can’t really feel the pain. All I feel is his warmth in my cold hand.) He only lets go once we’re off the rides, and even then it seems reluctantly. After all these years of fighting, being friends with him seems so natural. I try not to think too hard about how it will all go back to normal by morning. Aleister Crowley, I wish we could stay this way forever. 

The sun is setting now, but the carnival goes on until sunrise. Well, I suppose that’s not totally true. The Normals leave around 11 and then the Watford students spell the gates unlocked after, staying in until daybreak. Only four more hours until the Normals leave.

Simon turns to me, smiling a lopsided and bashful smile. “I’m kind of hungry…” He mutters, a grin on his face the whole time. I roll my eyes good naturedly. (Who would’ve thought that was possible?) 

“You’re always hungry, you git,” I sigh and prompt him to walk forward. “Go on then, Snow. Let’s get you some atrociously fried food.” Somehow, his face lights up even more as he grabs my hand again (I feel sparks every time we touch) and drags me to the nearest food stand. (Can you even call it food?) Simon orders one big ‘funnel cake’ and a corn dog. Both fried. Both bound to make him sick on the rides. When we get the food, he drags me along to an open bench to sit down. He places the corn dog in front of me and the cake in front of him. I simply shake my head and push the dog to sit in front of him. (What I would give for a real dog right now. I’m not very hungry for blood, but I wouldn’t pass it up.)

He furrows his brow and pushes the food back to me, along with some ketchup. “Eat.” He says it simply, like it’s a command. I roll my eyes, but (reluctantly) dip the corn dog in ketchup and then take a bite. It’s… well it’s not the bloody worst thing I’ve ever had. Crowley, it might actually be good. I suppose I’ve never had anything fried. It’s frowned upon at the Pitch manor. But this isn’t half bad. I cover my mouth as I take another, bigger bite. When I look up from my plate, Simon is smirking to himself while absolutely shoveling food into his mouth. 

I must look disgusted because he looks up at me and asks (with his mouth full), “What?” I laugh and roll my eyes again. It’s like watching a dog eat. A dog that I’d like to slip the tongue. 

“You’re disgusting,” I shake my head and look away from his face before I do something stupid. Like spit on him and then lick it all off and kiss him. Yes, that would most certainly not be smart. I cover my mouth with my hand again as I take another bite, trying to chew around my fangs. But before I can even swallow, Simon gently (I never thought Simon could ever do anything gentle to me) pulls my hand away from my mouth and holds it there. There aren’t butterflies in my stomach. Vampires don’t get butterflies. We’re immortal and dangerous and badarse. I have bats in my stomach.

“Baz, you know you don’t have to do that here. No one else is paying attention,” Does that mean that he’s paying attention? “It’s just me. Eat how you want.” He shrugs, pulling his hand away from mine after a moment, blushing furiously. He is so bloody adorable when he blushes. Damn it all to hell.

I don’t cover my mouth again as I keep eating and he smiles at me. I can feel his magic wrap all around me as we eat together in silence. Not in a threatening, burning way like usual… it’s warm. Safe. 

“What ever is the bloody appeal to that fried… mess that you’re eating, Snow?” I break the silence. He looks up at me, eyes practically bulging out of his head. “What?” I inquire.

“You’ve never had a funnel cake?” I shake my head.

“Um, no. I don’t fancy getting vampire diabetes anytime soon.” He lets out a laugh (I realize too late that I’ve just admitted to being a vampire… but he doesn’t seem to care) and pushes his plate to me, gesturing at the powdered mess. 

“Try it! It’s delicious, Baz. Just one bite,”

“I, um… I think not,” He rolls his eyes and gets a small bite of the monstrosity on his fork. 

“Open.” He commands.

“Er, Snow-”

“Open!” He commands with a laugh. I sigh, because I know that he won’t relent anytime soon. I open my mouth ever so slightly. I know he sees my fangs because his eyes go a bit wider and he mutters, “Wicked…” I try to ignore the urge to snap my mouth shut as he puts the food in my mouth. It tastes like… well it tastes like right diabetes, doesn’t it? But powdered sugar covered, fried to perfection diabetes. 

“Crowley, Snow! This is delicious!” I snatch the plate from him and start eating at a Simon-Snow-pace, manners well from my mind now. He frowns, so I quirk an eyebrow at him.

“Well, Baz, since we’ve decided to put everything behind us… I ‘spose you shouldn’t call me by my last name anymore, yeah?” He fidgets with his fingers as he says it. Calling him Simon seems so… personal. Too personal for enemies-turned-one-night-friends. But I suppose I could have a bit of fun with this. Before I can say anything, he blurts out, “And not Chosen, either.”

“Right. Well then… where to next, love?” He takes in a breath and turns bright red, tripping over every other word. For a moment, I think I’ve done the wrong thing, but once he gets a hold on himself, he just smiles at me and nods. 

“Okay, Baz. Very funny. ‘Least it’s better than Snow or Chosen.” I can’t believe he’s letting me call him love. 

*Simon’s POV*

I can’t believe that I’m letting him call me love. I can’t believe that I liked it when he called me love. I don’t know why I want him to do it again. I get up from my seat and throw our trash away, trying to calm myself down away from Baz’s watchful eye. When I get back to our table, he’s standing up and waiting for me while adjusting his jacket. 

“Come on then, Sn-” He stops himself before he can finish, turning a little pink. “Love. I’ve got the next place to go to.” I smile and grab his hand, letting him lead me to our next adventure. In some ways, I’m happy that Penny and Agatha couldn’t make it. I’m glad that I get to spend time with Baz alone. (When did I start wanting alone time with my enemy?) 

When we finally stop, he takes his hand back. (For reasons I’m not willing to think about right now) I feel my heart fall when he does. We’re in the line for the Ferris Wheel. It’s nearly time for the Normals to start heading out; they’re walking out of the carnival and the Magicians have started spelling the workers to keep the place up and running after the Normals leave. When we get up to the front of the line, the man working the ride let us on in the two seater. The Ferris Wheel is so tall that the seats should probably be enclosed, but it’s a carnival, so no one is surprised. 

Baz and I squeeze in next to each other, and not one single part of our bodies other than our heads aren’t touching. From our toes to our shoulders, I can feel an electric current running through my veins. My heart is beating wildly. I don’t exactly know why- it’s just Baz. My enemy/friend for one night. Although, I’m trying not to think too hard about the one night part. In fact, I’m trying not to think about anything right now, really. Just how safe I feel at the moment, and how lovely Baz has been tonight. It almost hurts, knowing that this is how we could’ve spent all those years. As friends instead of mortal enemies. Then again, that wasn’t really our choice in the first place. 

But it is tonight. As we slowly climb higher and higher, the carnival gets much quieter. Much calmer than when the Normals were here. The air is filled with magic. I can feel Baz’s magic wrapping around me, and the night sky is thick with everyone else’s. Everything is flying every which way and sparks from wands are everywhere. But what might be most beautiful is the neon lights all around us. Once it got dark, everything started lighting up, but not so bright that we can’t see the stars at the top of the Ferris Wheel. It’s beautiful. I can’t help but lean into Baz, resting my head on his shoulder. 

Maybe it’s just me, but I think I can hear his heart beating. It’s not long before I feel his head resting on top of mine. His hair tickles my ears, but I can’t find it in myself to mind. I don’t mind anything right now. Crowley, I think that the Humdrum himself could pop up right now and I wouldn’t give a bloody rats’ arse. 

I slowly bring my head up, and when I look over at Baz, he’s blushing. “Sorry, Snow- er, Simon. I mean, um…” He sounds like me, tripping over his words. Ignoring the way that my heart leapt into my throat when he called me Simon, I stop him. 

“Baz, no. I just… well I was wondering why we were never friends like this before.” I feel my face burn, but I just need to know the answer. I need to know why we weren’t ever like this when Merlin it’s been so wonderful tonight.

He looks at me with his stormy eyes as he says, “You know why. My family, they… well, you know, Simon.” There he goes calling me Simon again. He looks away, but I catch his face with my fingers. We’re stopped at the top now; we can see everything from up here. But all I find myself wanting to look at is Baz. 

“Screw your family.” He looks taken aback, and I must admit, I’ve surprised myself, too. I don’t know where this courage came from. I’m not drunk. (Well, maybe a bit. Maybe drunk on Baz.)

“Simon, I-”

“Stop calling me Simon.” I state simply. Stop calling me Simon or I’m going to do something stupid. 

He pauses for a moment, looking into my eyes like he wants to memorize every ordinary colour there. 

“Simon.” He whispers.

*Baz’s POV*

I don’t know why I called him Simon again. Maybe because he’s looking at me hungrily, and Crowley, I want to know what he’ll do. Maybe because if it makes him mad… I’ll get to kiss him before he sends me flying. Maybe, if he screams at me for calling him by his name, I’ll finally get what I want. 

Then he kisses me. I don’t waste any time floundering or pulling away. Instead I automatically pull him closer, deepening the kiss. Merlin, Methulusah and Morgana nothing has ever felt this nice. He’s doing this thing with his jaw, and his hands are roaming under my shirt and in my hair and I can barely even think, and-

Someone clears their throat loudly. “The ride is over, gentlemen.” Simon and I spring away from each other and look at the ride operator. I just got into trouble for snogging Simon Snow on the Ferris Wheel. Aleister Crowley, I’m living a charmed life. I feel Simon shaking with laughter as he clambers (really clambers- he’s as graceful as a hippo) out of the seat and extends his hand out to help me up. 

“Coming, love?” I smile at him so hard that my cheeks hurt. (Probably because I’m not used to smiling.) I nod and grab his hand, letting him help me out. Instead of pulling his hand away this time, he laces his fingers through mine and takes off running with me as we shoot down the nearly barren walkways. Magicians all around look at us with curiosity, but I can’t find it in me to care. As we run, my jacket billows behind me and Simon keeps tripping… but it’s perfect.

It’s like a slow motion scene from those movies. The one where the couple is running away from their troubles together, like nothing else matters. They’re smiling and laughing, and the one in front turns back to look at the one behind them, all of the love in the world in their eyes. It’s like that, but so much bloody better because it’s gay. And anything with Simon Snow in it is infinitely better in my book. 

We finally get to a man with a large old-timey polaroid camera stood up and Simon places two pounds in his hand. He drags me up in front of the camera and pulls me down to his level and smashes his face against mine, as though we were in a photo booth. The camera snaps. For the next one, he presses his lips warmly against my cheek and waits for the camera to snap again. Then, he (without my knowledge or permission) (although he could kill me now, and he’d have my permission) jumps up into my arms and nuzzles his face into my neck, closing his eyes. I’m supposed to be looking at the camera, but I can only keep my eyes on him. Finally, for the last picture, he hops down from my arms. As he goes to do a pose beside me, he (somehow) trips over himself and ends up grabbing onto my jacket collar, pulling me towards him. We land in a breathtaking kiss, him still pulling me ever closer, and me too stunned to do anything but let him. 

When the camera snaps, he springs away and  goes to retrieve the photos from the man. Simon has more energy than a labrador right now. I’d like to think it was from kissing me, but it might just be from the overall craziness of the night. For a moment, he slows, taking my hand and pulling me close so that I can see the photos, too. They all turned out lovely, even if he did nearly knock me over in the process multiple times. He looks up at me now, and he walks backwards, taking me with him. (He tucks the photos away in my jacket pocket.) 

When we get behind a tent, he pulls me to him again, snogging me like there’s no time left. There is no way that things will ever go back to the way they were after this. 

*Simon’s POV*

We’ve been having a proper snog now for at least twenty minutes. My heart is… well it feels like it’s been lit on fire, doesn’t it? (In a wonderful way, that is.) His mouth is soft and cold and I can’t help it when I lean back and tell him something that I’m not even sure I knew myself. “I love you, Baz.” His face glows and he looks at me as though he’s always been hungry for my touch. (And my touch only.)

“Crowley, you dolt. I’ve loved you since fifth bloody year.” He laughs before pulling me back in to get lost in him again. 

…

We spend the rest of the night on a hill near the back of the carnival either snogging or talking. He’s laying down right next to me, and I’m practically on top of him. We should’ve been like this all these years. It only took us until graduation to figure it out.

“Hey Baz?” He traces the moles on my face while I run my hand on his stomach. (In just a short time, I’ve learned that it’s one of his favorite places to be touched.)

“Yes, Simon?” I smile when he calls me by my name again. So much better than Snow or Chosen. (Although ‘love’ might be a close second.)

“Thank you,”

“For what?”

“For… for giving me a night away from everything. For escape,” He frowns. 

“What?” I ask as I place a kiss to his jaw. 

“Is that all this is? Are we… will this be over by tomorrow?” I can’t help but let out a laugh.

“Not by a long shot, my love… not by a long shot.” 

*Baz’s POV*

I understand now why my father wanted me to come to the carnival. This will undoubtedly be my favorite memory in years to come. I also understand the name of the carnival now. ‘Golden Days’.

The definition of Golden Days is “a period of great happiness, prosperity, and achievement.’ These are the golden days, the bad and all. Simon Snow is my golden day. 

Fourty Years Later

“Simon, love!” I call down to him from the attic. In a few minutes, he comes climbing up the stairs as fast as he can. He may not have his magic anymore, but he’s still fit for an old man. I suppose we’re both old men, now. He’s just an old man with a tail and wings. 

“Yes, Baz?” I stand up (not as agile as I used to be) and walk over to him, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of his face. 

“Look at what I found, dear…” I give him the pile of polaroids that I found in a crate. “From the carnival so many years ago.” He smiles wistfully at the pictures. We were both young, then- no wrinkles or worry lines. (Although he is still dashing in his old age.) In the polaroids, we were at a carnival called ‘Golden Days’, I believe.

“Yes, I remember…” He mutters more to himself than me. I know he doesn’t remember. Dementia does that to a person. But that’s okay. As the years went on and the colours of wanderlust started fading… so did Simon. But there are some things that have remained. The memories will never change, for one. We’ve stayed absolutely drunk on each other, throughout our lives. I’ve stayed pale, and Simon has stayed bloody handsome. The love has remained the same. And even though Simon doesn’t remember half of our memories… I’ll keep them alive. I’ll keep him alive. The him that was so alive and so full of wonder. 

I will never forget the golden days that changed my life forever.

[dailydoseofbeautiful-image]

1) IT’S OKAY TO FAIL

I’m not sure how other 34 year olds feel when their 35th birthday is coming up. As for me, I felt like my failures grew more apparent. Celebrate what you HAVE accomplished and be grateful for another day.

2) CRAVE TO BE A BEGINNER AGAIN

I’ve been wanting to try something new for a good minute. Like point number one, it’s okay to fail at something! This goes hand in hand with being a beginner. I strongly believe in being a student of life. I always wanted to learn a new language.

3) LOVE YOUR PARENTS

We are often so busy growing up, we often forget they are also growing old! If you needed a reminder to call your parents, this is it. Do it now! My mom is my world. She was my worst enemy as a teenager but now my best friend as an adult <3

4) MOVE AT YOUR OWN PACE

Fuck what everyone is doing on Instagram. Fuck what your high school friends are doing. Fuck what your college friends are doing. Live your life at your own pace. If you had kids or want kids before marriage, fuck it. If you chose your career before a man, FUCK IT. You will move at the pace that is meant for YOU.

5) SO LIVE THE LIFE AND TAKE EVERY CHANCE TO BE AS HAPPY AS YOU CAN BE..

Being true to yourself takes guts. First, you’ve got to face everything around you and figure out what is important; what you think really counts ;). second, you’ve got to interact with a lot of people who may see things differently.

6) RELATIONSHIPS

No relationship is perfect, ever. There are always some ways you have to bend, to compromise, to give something up in order to gain something greater... The love we have for each other is bigger than these small differences. and that’s the key. it’s like a big pie chart, and the love in a relationship has to be the biggest piece. Love can make up for a lot.

7) SOULMATE

A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah.. too painful. soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then Leave.

8) 30S ARE BETTER THAN YOUR 20S

It’s the same! Except we’re still young enough to have fun without making dumb decisions. We’re also more mindful financially! We always have experienced and seen things and know what not to repeat. I feel a little more at ease at 30. I’m caring less about what other people think. I really don’t have energy for it anymore!

9) WEAR THE FUCKING SUNSCREEN

My mom always told me to wear sunscreen on my face. I never listened. I have a lot of sunspots on my face now! Wearing sunscreen helps protect you from skin cancer, wrinkles and sunspots/freckles. If you aren’t listening to ya mama, listen to me! lol I wear Glossier’s Invisible Shield, but they’ve been sold out for a good minute. So, I’m currently using Super Goop’s Sunscreen Moisturizer. So far, it hasn’t made me break out!

10) TAKE OFF YOUR MAKE UP BEFORE BED

At the very least, keep some make up removal wipes beside your bed! I know we’re tired af at the end of the night, but you’ll be doing your skin a huge favor in the long run. Just know that make up wipes don’t take off everything, you’d be surprised how much is still on your face! So always try to go further and do your skin care routine.

11) LIFE

This Life is what you make it. no matter what, you’re going to mess up sometimes. it’s a universal truth. But the good part is you get to decide how you’re going to mess it up. Girl’s will be your Friends - they’ll act like it anyways. but just remember, some come, some go. the ones that stay with you through everything- they’re your true best friends. don’t let go of them. As for Lovers, well, they’ll come and go too. And i hate to say it, most of them - actually pretty much all of them are going to break your heart, but you can’t give up because if yoi give up, you’ll never find your soulmate, you’ll never find that half who makes you whole and that goes for everything. just because you fail once, doesn’t mean you’re gonna fail at everything. keep trying, hold on, and always, always, always believe in yourself, because if you don’t, then who will? so keep your head high, keep your chin up, and most importantly, keep smiling, because life’s a beautiful thing and there’s so much to smile about.

12) GIVE YOURSELF CREDIT

Everyone on social media posts their highlight reels but only a few share the grit and grind behind it all. Don’t forget to give yourself credit even for the smallest things that you don’t think is “post worthy”. Pat yourself on the back!

13) BE MORE SELF AWARE OF HOW YOU REACT TO OTHERS

I strongly believe in the butterfly effect. How you treat others can leave a positive or negative effect on them. I always try my best to be kind to others. If I can’t be kind, I’m very quiet! Even if people are mean to me, I think deeper like are they having a bad day? Maybe my kind act can help them change their mood.

14) BE NICE AND EXPECT NOTHING IN RETURN

Best recipe to live by. So many people offer a lending hand but expect so much in return.

15) DON’T FORCE THINGS – LET IT FLOW ORGANICALLY

Someone who forces shit to happen is ignorant & aggressive. You can’t force relationships or friendships to work out. It doesn’t work that way if it’s ONE SIDED. Sometimes, TIME helps a situation out. Let it play out, what’s destined to be yours will be yours!!! All relationships should be bloomed organically. Always try to understand one another. Some people don’t move like you and that’s okay.

16) YOU DON’T TOLERATE PEOPLE OR SITUATIONS LIKE YOU USED TO

Enough said. Ain’t no body got time for that.

17) IT’S NORMAL TO SEE A THERAPIST

You don’t have to be “crazy” to see a therapist. I did and it was life changing. There’s a huge stigma with mental health, but it’s actually more common than people think. People struggle with it daily but hide it because of the stigma. I also found out that students who are trying to become a therapist offer free or very affordable services to those who don’t have insurance! Check out any college and I’m sure you’ll find something fitting!

18) MEDITATE.. DO THAT SHIT PLS

Practice your breathing too! Headspace is really helpful app that concentrates on various subjects: anxiety, depression, stress, etc. I don’t meditate long! It can be as little as 3 minutes. Taking a moment to find yourself again can help you in the long run.

19) NOW’S THE TIME TO SEE THE WORLD

BITCH, you better be planning to travel!!!!! I can’t emphasize this enough. If you’re a woman reading this, we MUST DO IT NOW. Before you have kids, just do yourself this favor. You won’t regret it. Seeing parts of the world has broaden my perspective immensely!

20) MARI KONDO THE SHIT OUT OF YOUR LIFE: CLOTHES, BOOKS…PEOPLE

I’m at this point in my life where I’m looking at everything and everyONE and ask myself, does this spark joy?! It’s completely necessary for you to start fresh and say thank you to things and people who no longer serve a purpose in your life.

21) IF YOU DON’T HEAL WHAT HURT YOU, YOU WILL BLEED ON PEOPLE WHO DIDN’T CUT YOU (@THEASLAYWAY)

You can’t rely on someone else to fill the void you were supposed to heal yourself first. Don’t be selfish and make sure that you are completed healed when moving on to the next partner!

22) DO WHAT YOU WANT, POST WHAT YOU WANT, LIVE HOW YOU WANT!!!!

WE AINT GIVIN A FUCK IN 2019 & MOVING FORWARD. Go ahead and post what you want. We’re not living for the validation of others.

23) DON’T LIVE SOMEONE ELSE’S DREAM

Currently trying to get through this right now. lol

24) MENTAL HEALTH IS JUST AS IMPORTANT AS YOUR PHYSICAL HEALTH

This goes with 17 & 18. If I sound like I’m repeating myself, then it’s because I really am adamant about it! I didn’t always have GAD, but when I realized I had it, I learned to take the necessary steps to control my anxiety. I realized working out in the gym is not the only “exercising” I should be doing. I should be practicing affirmation, gratitude & meditation.

25) BE CAREFUL WHO YOU GET CLOSE TO

Some people really just in it for the gossip. Keep your circle tight and you’ll be aiite. For me, being in the social media industry has led me to meet several people. It’s rare to meet someone genuine, so I always make sure I keep my distance but still always show respect and give them an opportunity to open up.

26) OTHER PEOPLE MAY BE TOXIC IN YOUR LIFE, BUT MAKE SURE YOU’RE NOT THE TOXIC ONE

As you get older, accountability will help you grow. Owning up to your actions towards others can help you realize how you react towards others or situations. Before pointing fingers, make sure your hands are clean. I’m a strong believer of what you give this world is gonna come back to you.

27) PLEASE DON’T WORK OUT ON ONLY BOOTY AND ABS

I remember signing up for the gym and telling the membership counselor my goal was to grow a bigger butt and get abs. I’ve learned that your body works as a whole unit, not in isolation! Overall strength over aesthetic is the wave! I love being strong <3

28) RESEARCH HOW YOU CAN IDENTIFY PERSONALITY DISORDERS

You’ll come across people in your life that you can’t see eye to eye with. It could be family, your partner or your friends. I think it’s important to grasp a better understanding of personality traits/disorders such as narcissism, bipolar, emotional abusers, psychopaths, etc. They come or are in your life more often than you think! Not only do I suggest to gain insight on it, but also I recommend researching how to DEAL with it. I promise you things will come to light once you do.

29) LOVE YOURSELF – YOU CAN’T SERVE FROM AN EMPTY VESSEL

Your 20s are your selfish years. Remember to put yourself FIRST. We cannot love someone successfully without loving ourselves first. Our first love should be ourselves to know how WE want to be loved. We must feel secure before stepping into anything serious. Live life for yourself, be gracious and love yourself wholeheartedly.

30) BEFORE YOU ARGUE

Before you argue with someone, ask yourself, is that person even mentally mature enough to grasp the concept of different perspectives? Because if not, there’s absolutely no point.

31) NEVER TAKE RESPONSIBILITY

never take responsibility for ppl not seing your worth. There was nothing u could have changed them. No perfection would have made them loyal. No sacrifice would have them made committed. Stop taking blame for decisions that aren't yours

32) Success is never owned.. it’s rented, and the rent is due everyday. -pacman

33) SOMETIMES

I care too much, I trust too much, I think too much, I love too much, everything about me is just too much. But even so I wouldn’t want to change that about me. Just holding onto the hope that one day my “too much” will be everything someone could ever want.

34) FROM GOOD THINGS TO BAD THINGS

From good things, we learn to be a thankful person. From bad things, we learn to be a strong person. Remember that everything will not go the way you want it to. It's a matter of learning that life isn't handed to you. Stop worrying about what others want. Think about what you want, if you listen too much to what people say about you, you will never be who you really are.

[emospritelet]

TLG 45: "Why does it look like it snowed in here?"

This prompt was sent before this was a fic and before it had a title XD

Anyway, chapter 7 is up, in which Belle gets her first look at the library, and Alice is hiding something.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6]

AO3 link

By the time they got back to the house, the clouds had covered the sun, and the first flakes of snow were beginning to fall.  Mrs Wolfe remarked over the weather as she took his coat, and Ogilvy could see Belle shiver a little as she took off her boots.

“There’s a fire lit in the library, sir,” said Mrs Wolfe.  “Shall I have some tea brought through?”

“Thank you.  Where’s Alice?”

She hesitated before answering.

“I believe she’s in the kitchen, sir.”

“In the kitchen?” he said, bewildered.  “What, did she decide to learn to cook?”

“I don’t believe so, sir.”

She didn’t elaborate, and he shook his head.

“Well, I wanted a word with Mrs Potts, anyway,” he said.  “Don’t worry about the tea, I can tell her myself.”

He nodded to Belle, who had taken off her hat and was patting her hair back into place, and headed to the kitchen, whereupon he stopped, frowning.  White powder covered the table and most of the floor, and Alice looked as though she had been buried in it up to her elbows. She was gazing at him with a stricken look on her face and a white smudge on her nose, her curls held back off her face with one of the kitchen maids’ caps.  There was a sharp scent of vinegar in the air, which Mrs Potts often used to clean things, and Ogilvy shook his head at the devastation.

“Why does it look like it snowed in here?” he asked.

“Oh!”  Alice looked vexed, dusting powder from her hands as she hurried over.  “You weren’t supposed to come in here! I’m helping the children to make sweets.  Which you don’t know about.”

“And the children are where, exactly?”

Alice hesitated.  There was a loud, protracted yowl from the scullery, and Ogilvy frowned.

“What on earth was that?”

“That was Ivy,” said Alice, after a pause.  “She burned her arm on an iron. Mrs Potts is tending to it.”

“Sounded like a cat.”

“Yeah, we keep telling her that,” said Alice, unconcerned.

“Bloody fleas!”

Mrs Potts’ aggrieved tone floated out from the scullery, and Ogilvy frowned as Alice sent him a disarming smile.

“Papa, wouldn’t you like some tea?” she asked sweetly.  “Why don’t you go and sit in the library and I’ll get Ivy to bring some out?”

“Well, as long as her arm’s alright,” he said, deciding that whatever secrets she was keeping, he didn’t especially want to know.  “Yes to the tea. I think Miss Marchland might join me. Where’s Doc?”

“Lying down in his room, I think,” she said.  “He said he had one of his headaches.”

There was another plaintive yowl from the scullery, and Alice’s eyes grew wide with feigned innocence.

“Right.”  Ogilvy shook his head.  “Please tell Mrs Potts that she can serve supper at seven this evening.  And remind her that we’re not expecting anything extravagant, just an informal meal.  She has enough to cope with preparing tomorrow’s dinner, and I’m sure they all want to go to church in the morning.”

“Can I go?” asked Alice.  “I thought I’d take the children.”

“You may go if you wish.”

“I’ll ask Miss Marchland if she wants to go.”  Alice hesitated. “Papa, do you think I might call her Belle?  I hate that we have to be so formal all the time.”

He hesitated.

“I think that would be up to her,” he said.  “She may not be comfortable with it, especially at this early stage.”

“I suppose.”  She looked disgruntled.  “She’s agreed to teach me etiquette.  I promise to try to learn all these silly rules, I don’t want to embarrass you in front of your fancy friends and acquaintances.”

“You could never do that,” he assured her.

“That sounds like a challenge,” she said pertly, and he grinned.

“The tea, then,” he said.  “And then you should all get cleaned up and see about getting that tree.  The snow’s coming down again and I don’t want poor Hatter to be dragging the thing back through drifts.”

“Alright.”

Ogilvy nodded, giving her one last, suspicious look before heading to the library.  Belle was already in there, gazing up at one of the shelves, a finger running along the spines of the novels that he kept there, and he stopped in the doorway, smiling as he watched her.  Light coming from the tall window highlighted her form, the curves of her figure in its neat blouse and skirt and the pale smoothness of her skin. Dust motes danced in the air, drifting like tiny sparks as her fingers bounced from one book to the next, her eyes scanning the titles on the spines.  She selected a book, pulling it from the shelf with the tip of a finger, and opened it up, gazing avidly at the pages. That lone strand of chestnut hair was still curled by her ear, and he wanted to walk up behind her and place a kiss there, to press his lips to the soft skin of her neck and breathe her in.  He pushed the feeling away, fearful that it would show in his face, in his eyes. Impossible as it was to completely hide his feelings, the last thing he wanted to do was make her uncomfortable.

Shaking his head, he pushed away from the doorway and made his entrance.  The fire was sending out a pleasant heat, almost too hot for the three-piece suit he was wearing, and Belle looked around with a smile as he approached her.  She slid the book back onto the shelf, turning to face him and folding her hands at her waist.

“I see you’ve found the novels,” he said.  “I swear there is some logic to the way in which the library is arranged, but sometimes it feels as though I’ve forgotten what that is.”

She giggled a little, a wry lift of one brow suggesting that she agreed with him.

“Then perhaps you ought to be my guide,” she suggested.

“With pleasure.”  He gestured to the shelves in front of her.  “As you’ve seen, the majority of novels can be found here.  There are children’s books in the little alcove next to us.”  He walked on, hearing her follow him with a rustle of skirts. “The two stacks here mainly contain volumes on history and politics.”

“I noticed the encyclopedias on the bottom shelves.”

“Yes, the set should be full.  Alice has a tendency to take one from time to time, and doesn’t always return them, so if one’s missing, just ask her.”  He walked on. “Classics are here. Atlases and natural history here. And over here we have the shelves devoted to scientific works.  I’ve tried to group them into subjects as much as I can but there’s some overlap, as you might expect. The astronomy texts are on the right hand side.”

Belle had stepped forward, bending at the knees to look them over.

“I shall have to study a map of the heavens before I use the telescope again,” she said.  “Perhaps you can test my recollection the next time the skies clear enough for us to look at the stars.”

He smiled at her enthusiasm.

“I’ve no doubt you’re an excellent scholar, Miss Marchland.”

“We shall see,” she said, straightening up.  “What’s through here?”

She had walked on ahead, around the corner that led to his study, and as he followed her she stopped in the doorway, making him step back before he could bump into her.

“That’s my study,” he explained.  “I really only use it for my business papers, or to think; the light in the main library is better so I tend to sit in there if reading anything substantial.”

“There’s a - a spinning wheel here,” she observed, sounding confused, and he smiled.

“Yes, it’s mine.”

Belle turned on her toes to face him, looking puzzled.

“Yours?” she said.  “You can spin?”

“Yes.”  He moved past her, rounding the spinning wheel and reaching up to trace the sweeping curve of it with the tips of his fingers.  “A - a hobby only.”

“A most unusual one,” she observed, and he smiled, eyes meeting hers.

“It’s not exactly something I share with those outside the family,” he said.  “They already think me somewhat eccentric.”

“Well, I must confess that when you said you had an interest in textiles, this wasn’t my first thought,” she remarked, and he smiled again.

“Something I learned as a child north of the border,” he said.  “I suppose it kept me out of mischief in those early years.”

“A useful skill, though,” she said.  “I had to learn piano. At least this has some practical application.”

“The pursuit of beauty is never time wasted,” he said, and Belle pursed her lips, looking amused.

“You haven’t heard me play,” she said teasingly, eyes gleaming.

“No, but perhaps you’d favour us with your talents this evening,” he said, and she smiled.

“I’d be delighted, but I warn you, I have no true talent.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It takes a great deal of practice and self-discipline,” she said.  “Unfortunately I always much preferred to be reading.”

She took a step closer, reaching out to touch the spinning wheel, her hand a fraction of an inch from his.  Fingertips traced delicately over the smooth wood, and her eyes flicked up to meet his gaze, clear blue pools ringed with dark lashes.

“Why do you spin?” she asked.

Her voice had lowered a little, its tone almost hushed, as though they were speaking of something secret.  Ogilvy traced the edge of the wheel with his fingertip, flashes of his past rippling through his mind, love and loss, joy and anguish.

“I like to watch the wheel,” he said quietly.  “Helps me remember.”

“Remember what?” she asked curiously, and he sighed.

“The things I need to be thankful for,” he said.  “And that no matter how dark life may seem, there is always the certainty of light returning, of a new dawn.”

“That seems a fine thing to remember,” she said softly, and he smiled a little.

“There’s a comfort in the repetitive motion, in the rhythmic turning of the wheel,” he said.  “I suppose it’s almost a meditative state.”

“I can understand that, I think.”

“I use it when I’m being particularly melancholy and irritating,” he added, and Belle giggled.

“Then if I ever see you using it, I’ll know not to disturb you.”

“No, please do,” he said quickly.  “Sometimes I let myself dwell on things I have no control over.  It’s annoyingly self-indulgent and I wholeheartedly give you permission to interrupt.”

Belle opened her mouth, but the sound of china clinking made them look back towards the fire.

“Ah, that sounds as though our tea is here,” he said, gesturing.  “Shall we?”

She smiled, ducking her head, and he followed her out to the library, where Ivy was setting a tray of tea things on the little table near the fire.

“Thank you, Ivy,” he said.  “I see Mrs Potts has made some of her excellent almond tarts.  Delicious.”

“Yes, sir.”  She set the dish of tarts next to the teapot and straightened up.  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“How is your arm?” he asked, and she frowned.

“My arm, sir?”

“Miss Alice said you burned yourself,” he prompted.

Ivy opened and closed her mouth, looking confused.

“Yes, sir.  I’m well, sir, thank you.”

“Good.”  Ogilvy decided not to bother thinking about what Alice was really up to.  “Well, thank you, Ivy. That’ll be all.”

“Yes, sir.”

She hurried off, and Belle took a seat, smoothing her skirt over her knees.

“Is the Professor joining us?” she asked, and he shook his head.

“Alice said that he was complaining of a headache and has gone to lie down.”

“Oh, I am sorry.”

“He has a tendency to suffer from them, every now and then,” said Ogilvy, reaching out to pour the tea.  “He’ll be well by this evening, I’m sure of it.” And he may have some information.  That would be a relief.

He handed her a cup, and she nodded her thanks and added milk, accepting an almond tart from him.  Ogilvy poured his own tea and sat back in his chair.

“You mentioned that you wanted to take a trip into town,” he said.  “I need to go myself, so I thought we might take a cab, if you’ve no objection.”

Belle took a sip of her tea, setting the cup back in its saucer.

“Thank you, that would save me a walk.”

He took a bite of the tart, rich, buttery pastry and soft, chewy ground almond filling above Mrs Potts’ homemade raspberry jam.  Belle was tasting her own, and nodded approval. He dashed crumbs from his fingertips, picking up his cup.

“I have a few business matters to attend to in town,” he said.  “If you have an idea of how long you might be, we could arrange to meet to travel back.”

“Well, there’s a haberdasher’s I wish to visit, and a few other places,” she said.  “I should think a little over two hours in total.”

He nodded.

“Very well.  I’ll get Hatter to hail a cab once we’re ready.”

x

The trip into town took a little longer than she had expected, as the streets were crowded with hansom cabs and omnibuses, their occupants purchasing Christmas gifts, food and wine.  There were even motor cars on the streets, more than she could remember seeing, and it all made for something of a slow procession. Eventually the cab let them down outside the cathedral, and Ogilvy helped her out with a firm grip on her gloved hand.  Belle shook out her skirts, brushing them off, and thanked him. The air was bitingly cold, the wind whistling down the street and making her shiver, and Ogilvy gestured ahead of them.

“If you need me to accompany you, I’m more than willing,” he offered.

“Oh no,” she said quickly.  “You’re very kind, but it’s not necessary.  I don’t have far to go, and you have your own business to attend to.”

“Indeed.”  He glanced around.  “Well, shall we meet back here at three-thirty? That should get us back to the house in time for tea.”

She agreed readily, and he touched his hat to her, giving her a tiny bow before making his way across the street.  Belle went in the opposite direction, away from the more affluent part of town and into one that was still respectable, if somewhat more suited to her pocket.  She found the shop she was looking for easily; she had bought pre-worn items from the shopkeeper in the past, and Miss Darling always had excellent suggestions on how an item might be adjusted in the easiest or most flattering way.

Lady Ella had given her a generous severance payment, and as she had found work so quickly, and therefore had no need to live off the money, she saw no harm in spending some of it.  She purchased three dresses, along with some cheaper blouses and skirts for day wear, and arranged to have them sent to the house. She then went to the haberdashers for the purchase of ribbons, lace trimming and buttons, tucking the packages into her bag.  Christmas gifts were next on her list. It wasn’t proper to buy anything for her employers, as much as she might want to, and so she limited herself to buying something for each of the children, and small gifts of sweets, soap and handkerchiefs for the servants.

The snow was falling faster as she made her way back to the cathedral, and to her relief Ogilvy was already waiting for her, a tiny smile making his mouth quirk when he saw her moving through the crowd.  He stepped forward, reaching out to take the packages tucked under her arm.

“Excellent timing,” he said.  “Do you have everything you need?”

“I think so,” she said.  “Just in time, too, from the look of the weather.”

“Indeed.”

He stepped forward to hail a passing cab, taking her gloved hand to help her inside before giving the driver directions and climbing in after her.  She took her packages from him, setting them on the seat beside her, and the cab set off with a jolt. Belle shivered a little, rearranging her skirts and smoothing them over her knees, pleased to be out of the cold wind.  Ogilvy sat opposite, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with his handkerchief before putting them back on. He glanced across at her as the cab moved slowly along.

“Town was busy today.”

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It seems to get busier every year.”

“Did you spend much time here when you were in Lady Ella’s household?”

“Only during the season, really,” she said.  “And really only in the last year or two, before Lady Aurora came out.  She enjoys the parties, but gets a little fatigued by the end of July. We always headed back to Furton Grange before the grouse shoot.”

“Having attended many of those society gatherings I can understand her desire to leave,” he remarked, and she tilted her head a little, curious.

“Well, I never attended myself, of course,” she said.  “I’d hear all about it the next day. I - I wouldn’t have thought it was the sort of thing you would enjoy, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”

He looked amused, his eyes glinting.

“Indeed not, but they serve their purpose,” he said.  “Allows one to see and be seen in the right places, as it were.  A tedious, but necessary inconvenience. Champagne helps.”

Belle giggled.

“That can be true of many things, I’m told.”

“When things are really dire I recommend whisky,” he said, and she bit her lip, amused.

The cab rattled on, the traffic easing somewhat as they cleared the main streets, and Belle shifted on the seat a little.  The cushions could use more padding, and she was thankful they didn’t have far to travel.

“I suspect Lady Ella misses her daughter,” said Ogilvy.  “Lord Deville spent most of his time in Italy, as I understand it, and Lady Aurora always was a comfort to her mother.”

“Her Ladyship has a new companion, a Miss Ursula Waters,” said Belle. “They seem to get along very well.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

The cab jounced from side to side a little as it turned a corner, and Belle squeaked, grabbing for one of her packages as it tumbled from the seat. Ogilvy caught it first with an outstretched hand, and she almost fell into his lap as she overbalanced.  She found herself gazing into his eyes, the concern in them making her breath catch and her heart thump.

“Oh my goodness, I’m sorry!” she gasped, putting a hand on his knee to push herself upright, and flinching back as though she had been burned.  “I’m so sorry!”

“It’s quite alright,” he assured her, taking her hand to give her some support as she sat back.  “These roads get worse every year. Are you well?”

Belle nodded, blushing a little as she took the package from him, and he glanced out of the window, giving her time to compose herself.  She felt her blush fade as she studied him. The silver hairs at his temples shone in the light, and the fine lines around his eyes gave him an expression of weary resignation.  She wondered what it was that had made him unhappy in life. Ivy had said he looked as though he had lost someone, and she thought she could see it now. Not a wife, though, for he had told her he had never married.  She found herself curious to know more about him, to know everything about this strange little family.

Ogilvy glanced around, smiling as he caught her eye, and his expression changed entirely to that of a man who couldn’t quite believe his luck.  It was strange indeed, and she was curious as to what it might mean. He sat back in his chair, nodding towards the window.

“We’re here,” he said.  “Time to see if Hatter let the children bully him into getting a twelve-foot monster or whether he stood firm.”

Belle returned his smile, and the cab drew to a halt.  Ogilvy got out first, reaching up to help her down as Hatter trotted down the front steps.  He paid the driver, giving him a curt nod, and the cab pulled away, Ogilvy offering his arm to Belle for support as they mounted the steps.  Hatter followed them into the house, closing the door behind them, and Belle set down her parcels and took off her hat, coat and boots, sighing in relief as the warmth of the house seeped into her.  Hatter had Ogilvy’s coat, and was handed his hat, gloves and scarf in turn

“How went the tree-purchasing expedition?” asked Ogilvy, and Hatter let out a grumbling breath.

“I managed to restrain the excitement of my young charges, sir,” he said gravely.  “The tree will fit in the living room with a little room to spare.”

“Excellent.”  Ogilvy showed his teeth.  “And the greenery?”

“It’s all awaiting your attention, sir,” he said.  “Miss Alice has distracted Miss Ava and Master Nicholas with a book, but I think they’re desperate to start hanging ornaments.”

“We’ll have tea first, I think,” he said, running a hand through his hair.  “When it’s dark we can decorate the tree and light the candles.”

“I’ll inform Mrs Potts that you’re ready, sir.”

“Good.  Miss Marchland?”  He turned back to her with a warm smile.  “Welcome to what I hope will be the first of many celebrations with this family.”

She returned his smile, following as he led her through to the living room.  I hope so, too.

[penis-parkerss]

Persephone retelling

For y’all to read. PLEASE comment with suggestions, this is for my school application, so every comment is appreciated. Reblogs are LOVED, pls spread this around. Yikes here ya go.

She was the first petal to fall from the first flower when autumn was chased away by winter. She was the subject of all the songs the Muses sung, their voices resounding through the mountains of Olympus, singing of her glory; her beauty; her light.

They say she was kidnapped, her soul broken from the things she saw.

They say she was a fool; ignorant enough to get tricked into eating that cursed fruit that would be her damnation.

They say she didn't intend to fall from the heavens, for who would be the fool to turn their back on Olympus?

I hear the echoes of the songs sometimes. They are known as the great symphonies now. The songs will be immortalized as they always are; they will become stories spoken softly from edges of beds as the intended recipient drifts off to sleep. Someday a poet will write a great epic about it and will become world renown for their glorious retelling of such a heartbreaking story. A story of love, loss, betrayal, and in the end, grudging compromise.

And the gods can live their petty, immortal lives not ever knowing the truth.

For who am I to tell them?

After all, lies are ever so much more exciting than truths.

Persephone was beautiful. Her father was Zeus; lord of thunder, king of gods, most absent of fathers. Her mother was Demeter; goddess of harvest, reaper of wheat, protector of corn. Together, Persephone was all and none of them. They thought she was delicate (which was not strictly true), that she was easy to satisfy (which was not strictly true either), and they thought she was mild and ambitionless (which was downright wrong).

Persephone was loud. She was a hammer cracking down on an anvil. She was all the sparks that flew from the impact. She was the water that hissed and crackled as it doused the fire. But she was loud in a quiet way. In the way that you could only see if you looked very closely only to find that the goddess of spring didn’t necessarily like prancing through the fields all that much. And so, Persephone was trapped.

But everyday Demeter would ask, “Are you happy, my love?”

And everyday Persephone would smile and answer, “Of course.”

But the colours had long since faded into grey for the young maiden. She looked like she could use an adventure, so one night, I leaned in and whispered in her ear,

“I can give you an adventure. Follow me.”

And I told her what she had to do.

Hades was trapped. Hades; brother of Zeus, brother of Poseidon, lord of the dead. He ruled the spirits alongside me, deciding where they got to spend the rest of eternity. Elysium: the place for the blessed souls, who have lived truly fruitful and good lives. Fields of Asphodel: For the souls who haven't done anything extraordinary, doomed to walk mindlessly around in a field for all existence. And Fields of Punishment: For all the wicked souls; corrupt businessmen, politicians, abusive family members all given a different punishment depending on their crime.

I watched Hades wither away. He sat on his ebony throne, with nothing to live for. But he couldn't die, he was immortal. His sanctuary had become his prison. So one night, I leaned in and whispered in his ear,

“Persephone.”

And he knew what he had to do.

Persephone walked to the clearing in the middle of the meadow. The grass was spotted with plants, like a paint splattered canvas. She walked, collecting flowers, weaving them into the thousands of tiny black braids that made up her hair. Lilies for innocence, irises for purity, gardenias for joy. Persephone was quite a skilled liar. The bright colours stood out in contrast to her dark skin, making her look out of place. A sheep in a pack of wolves.

But the voice had told her what to do, and the voice never lied, so she stood in the middle of the meadow, waiting. It was high noon. Nothing had happened yet. Maybe the voice that spoke to her when she was asleep was a liar. But the voice couldn't be a liar. It told her that it could save her.

So she waited.

And then she felt it. A rumbling, a tremor that rattled the ground around her. Then, as she watched, earth fell inwards, and a cave opened up in the mountainside across from her. The darkness welcomed her, beckoned her. And who was she to ignore the darkness? So she walked, smiling, into the abyss.

At first it was all darkness, but she wasn't afraid. I guess that's what being immortal does to you. Makes you reckless and conceited. But I've been alive since the beginning of time and I'd like to think I haven't acquired those distasteful dispositions.

As the goddess of spring walked, the land of the living got farther and farther away. She heard screams of agony, tears of regret, and voices whispering to turn back. But she walked on. After all, the voice told her to do it, so how could it possibly be wrong? She watched as the air became a red haze, almost palpable around her. It hung dry and heavy, reminding her of the sins she had committed.

She reached the end of the tunnel and watched as an entire world became visible around her. She saw a river of flames in the distance, lost spirits moaning by the banks of it, moaning to go home. She saw trees with jagged black trunks that led to misty grey clouds at the top. Faint barking emanated from the distance.

Persephone shrugged and walked on.

She reached a grey-blue river that spanned the distance of this new world. A man shrouded in cloth came to her and said,

“Welcome to the Underworld, milady.”

He stretched his hand out to her as if he was leading her somewhere. Persephone closed her eyes and breathed the acidic air in.

The Underworld.

The realm of Hades.

The realm of the dead.

Persephone opened her eyes and smiled savagely. Oh, this was going to be great fun.

Hades waited.

The voice had told him what to do, so he had listened. Of course, he was not aware that I, his most trusted advisor, was the voice that whispered to him that night, but who was going to tell him? Then Charon, the ghoul that guided the spirits across the river Styx walked into the throne room, Persephone by his side.

Of course, back then, Hades didn’t know it was Persephone. All he saw was a women with ebony skin and ebony hair, flowers crowning her head.

“The living don’t belong here.” Was all Hades said.

Persephone blinked and smiled, as if she couldn’t believe his insolence.

“Oh, but surely my lord,” I interjected from beside his throne, “You know of Persephone. Daughter of Demeter, goddess of spring, harbinger of light?”

Hades blinked. “Persephone.”

The young goddess in question smirked and simply asked, “Where do you keep your guests? Surely you have a spare place to rest.”

I led Persephone to a room and returned, bracing myself for the worse.

I came back to Hades pacing the marble floors.

“Thanatos,” he said, turning to me, “Who is this woman? We can’t her stay with us, she’s one of the living!”

“Be calm, lord. All in due time. I think you should give the goddess a chance.”

He looked at me warily. His perpetually pale skin looked sickly in the red light.

“Okay.” He sighed.

It went on for six months. She stayed with us, each day adamantly refusing to eat, for she was smart enough to know if she ate the food of the dead, she could never return to the land of the living.

Over time, she became his queen.

They fell in love, and Hades worshipped her. He built her a throne, next to his, so they could pass judgment on souls side by side. He grew her a garden, filled with poisonous flowers and medicinal herbs and sulfurous trees.

A corrupt garden for a corrupt queen.

In the middle of this garden, grew a spiralling pomegranate tree. How she loved that tree. How she loved everything that this new life had given her. She did not long for Olympus, with the arrogant gods or the pompous kings. She did not long for her mother, Demeter, with her overprotective views or strict rules. So Persephone was sad when her mother came to the Underworld to take her daughter back.

Demeter had marched in, accusing Hades of kidnapping her daughter.

Hades had said nothing.

Demeter had told Persephone to come back with her to Olympus.

Persephone had said nothing.

She only marched to her garden, grabbed a pomegranate, and ate it; damning herself to an eternity in Hell.

Persephone consented to return with her mother to Olympus, but by eating that pomegranate, had to return every six months to rule the Underworld with Hades.

So when she returned the next winter, she asked me, “Who are you?”

I said nothing.

“How did you know?” She whispered. “How did you know I would be happier here?”

I sighed and answered, “I am Death. I deal in dead souls. If you spent another day in Olympus, you would be gone. You’re more alive in the realm of the dead than you were in the realm of the living.”

And so goes the story of Persephone.

But the gods can think whatever they want.

After all, who am I to tell them?

[pebblesandjamjam]

Critical Jam #12: An Unflinching Look

Welcome to the final Critical Jam, J.A. Micheline’s monthly column on criticism.

This series began by positing itself as “an attempt to take an unflinching look at what we do,” so it is only fitting that it ends with an unflinching look at what I have done with it across the last year.

As an artist--and really, as a thinker--I have generally been interested in art as a method of self-discovery. My fictional work and my criticism, at their best, have both invariably revealed fears, joys, concerns, and beliefs that I was hiding from myself. Criticism is partially enthralling as it seeks to unearth truths and solve mysteries: What does this text mean? Why does it mean this? How did it mean this even if that wasn’t its intent? I use these questions to understand the world, myself, and texts in similar fashions. So it follows that occasionally it becomes necessary to turn my sights on my own criticism and learn.

Though I appear firm and certain on this particular angle in the column’s inception,  “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”, the implication of criticism as its own artistic endeavor that runs through the text is not a belief I realized I had until the piece itself was written. This is perhaps most evident in the fact that I never actually say so. I get as far as the idea of criticism as existing its own end, but I don’t take this all the way to its obvious conclusion: that I view this work as art, with its own aesthetics and performances. It’s not a massive loss, but at the same time, the piece would have been stronger if I’d known exactly where I was arguing from. I wasn’t quite sharp enough to see what I was doing at that point. I couldn’t See that in myself, just yet.

The thread continues in the fourth installment, “On True Criticism,” in which I very uncharacteristically hedge about the notion of criticism as art--a tepid ‘could’ instead of strong ‘is’--but it wasn’t until two months ago, in the tenth piece “We Must Be Better,” that I was able to stand firm about this idea. Amazingly, it happens so quickly, in a piece that focuses more on the political responsibilities of criticism than the nature of criticism itself, that if you blink may miss it:  “[...] as much as criticism is art,” I say, “–often some mystifying combination of eloquence, delicacy, and brutality–it is also, as you know, work.” It took nine months (and nine pieces!) for the strength of my rhetoric to evolve from subtextual premise to frank statement.

I’m particularly satisfied that this formal declaration snuck its way into “We Must Be Better,” as one of my main critiques of the column is the seemingly wide gulf between my discussions of the form as art versus as a political tool. If criticism is art and art is politics and criticism is politics, then my attempts at bringing these elements together as a critic of criticism especially could have been more rigorous. A third of the pieces address criticism as an interrogation of systemic injustice--but they seem more externally responsive than cohesive to the larger body of work. That is, it is evident to me that I have written them in response to particular emotions or events rather than, as I have done in the other set of pieces, simply exploring an idea that is interesting to me. There’s a sense of urgency or despair that is fitting to the material, but not quite fitting with the other eight texts.

It may be that this is just the reality of criticism involving systemic injustice. These are matters of life and death, so their writings will inevitably be fraught with emotion. But I remain generally dissatisfied by how lacklustre some of this work feels, rhetorically speaking. “All Rhetoric Matters,” does not feel particularly moving because it is basic. The first portion--All Lives Matter and Not All Men as a critical unit--is passingly interesting as I don’t think I have seen it elsewhere, but on the whole, the piece didn’t bring me anywhere new. Instead, it just saw me repeating the same things I’ve said on Twitter in a more cohesive fashion. It is nice that I have written this all together in one place, but it is more akin to an FAQ response than robust criticism that I feel truly proud of. This is in part because I am constantly having to repeat myself on this score and am therefore bored. This is also in part because the discourse surrounding marginalized issues is so low that it’s impossible to get into, say, the deeper possible emotional significance of a numerical value. But some of it must also be my own shortcomings.

Looking over many of these pieces, they feel necessary but neither inspiring nor critically fascinating. There’s no swagger. I didn’t stunt. I didn’t dance. I can push myself harder, even if what surrounds continues to try to drag me to their level. I could have done so. I should have.

There are angles available to me that I could have taken more time to parse, angles that touch upon art, injustice, and criticism all at once. For example, I mention “sovereignty” in what is likely the best of my pieces on injustice within this series, “It’s About Ethics in Marginalized Criticism.” Here, at least, I have done well to meticulously walk down several of the ethical quandaries of criticism involving a fellow marginalized person and, not unlike this piece, to criticize my own criticism. But sovereignty is an idea that crops up in the work somewhat unexpectedly. It’s an idea I remember floating at the time of writing, but never really digging into. A quick Command-F reveals that the notion of sovereignty within marginalized politics and issues appears five times within the essay. But at no point do I actually draw out the idea of sovereignty, what associations that word has, and how it has functioned politically. Instead of making the same old furious and basic motions, I could have completed a critical assessment of sovereignty and marginalized people/critics as nations living within nation-states. I have to demand more of myself. I read most of these overtly political selections and feel not just exhaustion but also regret about my performance as an artist. I can barely look at “A Right to be Hostile in 2016.” Despite their being the most important pieces, they also feel the weakest. It’s disappointing that, with the stakes as high as they are, I did not also have it in me to make something beautiful. It’s disappointing--but I suppose it also does make sense.

By now it is quite evident that I spend a lot of time asking for higher performance from myself--so the discovery of calm and optimism as a theme in this column has been pleasant. Much of the work comes from a place of warmth, an attempt to tell my peers that they’re working very hard, that they’re doing just fine where they are. Of course, I can See now that I was only telling myself. I view myself as a pessimist/realist, but this column seems to land me firmly on the optimist/idealist spectrum, which is very peculiar. After defining criticism as art, I go on to defend 10/10 reviews, welcome anyone and everyone into the critical field, celebrate critical positivity in the face of pressures to be negative, and present conflicts of interest as a weak challenge to our prowess. It’s a very unexpectedly “believe in me who believes in you” line of criticism and not too different, actually, from a line of criticism that treats the work as sacred, and therefore critics (artists!) as such.

My favorite piece, both in this vein and overall, must be “Psalm for the Newly Anointed.” In truth, it  feels like the natural conclusion for the column. My writing on scanlations, which follows it, was interesting and asked a great many questions--but I did not feel that it truly belonged with the rest of the work, much in the same way that the more political pieces felt discordant. Perhaps because there were too many questions and not enough confidence. Or maybe simply because the subject was manga, rather than Western comics. As a whole, this column seems to suffer on the fronts of tone and pacing. But the psalm!

I cannot deny feeling that the psalm is almost perfect. I regret, perhaps, linking to some old writing about postmodernism that I now think could have stood to be more rigorous and precise, but otherwise the piece seems quite strong. What I like most is that it pulls on themes of previous pieces as well as itself--criticism as a grassroots endeavor, Seeing, the creation of a critical canon by citation of a peer. But it takes all of that and shapes them into a narrative that first, is consideration of capitalist and postmodernist hierarchies, and then evolves into one of the spirit, commenting even on the function of the spirit itself. The language is good, the frameworks are good, but what is really good is that this, more than anything, is representative of how I think and feel about criticism. There’s an element of spirit and holiness that comes into the work--evidenced by the evocation of religious language in the piece, certainly, but also scattered in the language I have chosen to use here.

The connection between the coldness of the work and the warmth of its love, even in anguish, is the key to everything that I do. I show affection to myself and to others by criticizing. I see better for myself, better for us all. I expect more. I insist, truly, on being my own god.

A year on, I can largely look on these works without despair. This may change in two years or three, but for now, the work still feels good. I’d hoped, I think, to spark conversation among my peers and was only successful once or twice--but still, what little I’ve done here has been an interesting experiment and largely worth it, if only for creating one piece that I love deeply. Critical Jam ends here, but the need for self-improvement and self-examination from myself and my peers and my field does not.

Thanks for coming.

I appreciated all of you and all of this.

I’m sure I’ll see you again very soon.

  Previous: What We Talk About When We Talk About Scanlations

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this piece, feel free to click here and buy me a coffee or follow me on Twitter at @elevenafter. 

[simplynotexpected]

Why do we go to school? Why do we complete all the assignments that are given to us? Why do we pay attention to lectures in class? Why do we take exams? These questions seem simple and obvious but you would be surprised to see the look in your face right now; the majority of us does not ask him or herself these questions not even once in the entirety of his or her school career, and this is why I am addressing this right now.

The main reason why I ask myself these questions is that I love to picture things, and what makes me ask all of these important questions is when I picture what all schools, what our school should be. It should be considered as our very own home of knowledge, a safe place where time stops, where outside matters cannot come in like a camel cannot fit through a needle, a place free of corruption, where only the purity of knowledge and learning thrives through the classes and the hallways. A place where students feel free to explore every subject they desire, where they learn and distribute their energies towards what they feel is right and just, where homework is allowed, not imposed. A place where there are no grades, no numbers to measure the worth of a student; an actual human being. You see, school should not be a workplace, it is not made for that, schools are microcosms of what life is: work, friends, social interactions, learning, constant learning.

This is what I see in my head, through the collaboration of my brain and my heart, but what I see through my eyes is very different: reality is sadly different. What I see instead is a place where kids don’t want to go, where fear and anxiety are the leading emotions that rule each and every square meter. I see students struggling to finish their assignments because they made the “careless mistake” of falling asleep instead of working. I see students falling asleep in the middle of a class, their closing eyes showing nothing else but emptiness: the result of countless hours of constant work, without any sign of interruption, page after page, essay after essay, problem after problem, the exhaustion reaching its limit, where we suddenly forget to breathe for how much we have to do. After having seen this I keep questioning myself: Why? What is the point of all these sacrifices? Anybody could answer saying that it’s just a preparation of what life is after college, but I don’t agree, life does not have to be like this.

School being a preparation of life is an argument that is widely debated upon, not for its reality, but for its application. As I was stating before, the wide majority deems school to be a preparation for all the work and the sacrifices that life contains, the grades represent the money that a job gives, but is that really it? Do I really believe in this? Do you really believe in this? I personally do not, I think that the role of schools is still to be a preparation for life, but not for those empty, grey aspects. Schools should prepare us students to make choices, it should teach us the beautiful value of learning, of eliminating ignorance from our minds, it should teach us to rise up from the usual rules we are taught, it should create strong, free, pure human beings, set free into the world to seek nothing other than beauty and happiness, not money and greed. I say this because it’s sadly what we are taught these days. We are taught that hours of constant work bring good grades, good grades bring to a good university, good universities bring good jobs, and good jobs bring more money. We are taught to live step by step, all following the same tracks, with the illusion that we can choose our own, but we are all brought to life with the sole purpose of filling gaps in society so that we can make money or have others exploit us to make their own.

Imagine what schools could be if only everybody could open their eyes and open themselves to beauty and the pure joy of knowledge. Just imagine how that could be, the hallways full of students beaming with happiness, a student's relaxed eyes maybe reflecting the walk they took with their lover in a far meadow displaying the countless shapes and colors of recently blossomed flowers. Then another student that could be carrying the dark marks of a night spent awake reading, learning, but a smile showing that it was a choice, a good choice. Imagine the courtyard, a science teacher bringing his class outside to observe the nature that constantly and endlessly surrounds us and that never ceases to amaze us, what if in that very moment a spark lights up in the eyes of one of the students, having just realized what she wants to do in her life? Why can’t that be allowed? Why don’t I see more subjects like philosophy in our hallways? Are they trying to impede our thinking? Are they trying to stop us from asking questions?

To these questions I have one answer: it does not matter. We will still question everything, we will still rise up and think, we will not let them take any decision for us ever again. Listen to these words and follow them, for they will bring peace and happiness to our minds if you only let them seep in and fight for what you think is right and true. Never do something just because somebody told you so, for you will never do that thing well. Do something because you questioned it and found the meaning, and do it only if you agree with that meaning. Do what you need, not to impress your parents, your teachers, or your friends; impress yourself, be your own hero, for nobody will never make you prouder than yourself. Reach the university you dream of in order to reach the job you dream of, don’t work to make money, work to make happiness, live to make happiness and to feel love, live until you will reach your very last day where at last you will relax, for you have no regret, for you have nothing else to do, because your life has been complete.

[mrmichaelchadler]

Brian Tallerico's Top Ten Films of 2018

It’s that time of year when critics take a look at dozens of different pieces of art and try to put them in the same box. There’s something inherently odd about pitting films against each other, but it’s also a way to draw attention to things you love and want to share with more people. It’s often a way to consider themes in art, but I was struck more this year by what my top ten says about my personal taste more than overall motifs in the world of moviemaking. I spoke to Barry Jenkins earlier this month, and he commented on how he’s attracted to what he calls genuine filmmaking. That’s clearly a through-line in my picks too, none of which were made purely to garner awards or fatten wallets. They are deeply personal films from masterful filmmakers, across the spectrum of genre and style. What do Boots Riley and Debra Granik have in common other than a deep passion for what they do? They share that passion with us, and lists like this, at their best, amplify it just one step further. I saw around 250 films released this year. This list could be different with rewatches or even just over time. It’s always subject to change. But, as of today, these were my favorites of a very good year:

Runner-ups: “Black Panther,” “Blindspotting,” “First Man,” “First Reformed,” “Hereditary,” “Lean on Pete,” “Mission: Impossible - Fallout,” “Spider-Man: Into the Spider-verse,” “Wildlife” and “Zama”

10. “Sorry to Bother You”

It’s the rare film that can feel both completely current and ahead of its time. Boots Riley’s incredible social satire, anchored by a performance from Lakeith Stanfield that is only getting a fraction of the year-end attention it deserves, is the best debut of the year (and it was a strong one for debuts with this, “Hereditary,” “Minding the Gap,” “Eighth Grade,” and more). Riley’s film echoes his music in its blending of different styles and influences into something that feels both defiantly new and classically funky. It is often hard to tell when you’re in a year what movies from it that people will be watching five or even ten years from now. I would bet money they’ll be watching this one.

9. “You Were Never Really Here”

Lynne Ramsay’s award-winning “thriller” (the quotes because there’s not really one genre appellation that feels like it captures everything this movie does) is such a perfectly calculated work of art that it’s easy to take for granted the first time you see it. Every choice here has been carefully considered by a master craftsman, but that attention to detail is offset by an organic, emotional, borderline dangerous performance in the center from Joaquin Phoenix, doing what I consider the best acting work of the year. Phoenix is mesmerizing, capturing a man who has to access his trauma to do his very unusual job, and someone who dives deeper into his own nightmarish abyss each time. It’s a challenging, unforgettable film, and a testament to the overall quality of the year that it’s this far down the list.

8. “Shoplifters”

Hirokazu Kore-eda is one of our best living filmmakers, a man who personifies the Ebert principle of cinema as an empathy machine. He makes movies about real people, using them to encourage conversation about complex issues like masculinity, justice, and the definition of family. His Palme d’Or-winning latest is arguably his masterpiece, a film that reconsiders so many of his previous themes, but also works purely as heartbreaking melodrama. He spends 90 minutes getting his viewers deeply involved in the life of a family on one of the lowest rungs of society, and then challenges how we feel about them with stunning revelations in the final act. Directing some of the best performances in his catalog (Ando Sakura’s work here may be the most underrated of the year), this is an example of a master working at the top of his form.

7. “Annihilation”

What’s the cinematic equivalent of an earworm? You know those songs, or even ad jingles, that burrow their way into your brain and don’t go away? You think of them at random times, humming them to yourself without even knowing you’re doing so? Alex Garland’s latest is the movie version of that, a movie I saw early this year that will not go away. The images, the themes, the faces, the horrors—there’s something about "Annihilation" that has lodged itself in my memory in a way films rarely do. Part of the reason for that is how open the film is to interpretation, relying on imagery instead of plot twists. Those are the movies that last. We may remember a line or some shocking twist from films we like, but it’s the images from the movies we love that sneak up on us. “Annihilation” will be doing so for decades.

6. “The Ballad of Buster Scruggs”

I smile every time I think of Joel and Ethan Coen’s latest Western anthology, which is somewhat ironic given it’s a movie about death. Maybe that’s part of the game. After all, the final segment in Netflix’s film is about bounty hunters who distract their targets with stories. We’re all just distracted by the stories of life, many of my favorites told by the Coens, on our way to shuffling off this mortal coil. These stories work on their own or taken as an entire piece, elevated by the Coen’s incredible attention to detail in every element of the production, including Bruno Delbonnel’s stunning cinematography, one of Carter Burwell’s best scores, and a simply perfect ensemble. I wrote more about the excellence of this film here, and I’m still smiling.

5. “Widows”

Every once in a while, there’s a movie that gets dismissed as pulp by the critical Illuminati. What’s funny is those pulp movies more often find their way into the cinematic firmament than the most buzzed Oscar bait. I'm not worried about the future of "Widows." It didn’t help Steve McQueen’s masterfully entertaining and enlightening examination of corruption and agency in Chicago that it was horrendously advertised, leaving viewers who might like it at home and those who probably wouldn’t angry in their theater seats. Suffice to say, “Widows” was mishandled, but I am as confident in anything on this list that “Widows” will find a loyal, devoted audience over time. Great movies always do.

4. “Burning”

My top 2-4 are relatively interchangeable, all films that did what is so much harder and harder to do every year—broke through our increasingly diffused attention span. With the amount of distractions in this tech-heavy world, it’s getting more difficult even for film critics to “give themselves over” to a movie. For me, I’m often distracted by the other work I have ahead of me—pieces I have to write or editorial duties at this site. Our brains seem to increasingly be asking “what’s next?!” And so there’s something breathtaking about a movie that is powerful enough to push out the “next” with the “now.” Lee Chang-dong’s masterful thriller does exactly that, weaving a mesmerizing tableau for over two hours and then throwing you back into the world, dazed and marveling at what you just watched.

3. “Leave No Trace”

I had a similar reaction to Debra Granik’s poignant drama when I saw it in Sundance. All the other films in Park City faded away as I became deeply invested in the lives of two strangers. Granik’s compassion for these two people is contagious. We feel for the young Tom (Thomasin Harcourt McKenzie) and her PTSD-afflicted father Will (Ben Foster) in ways that is rare in cinema. We want Tom to be happy. We want Will to find stability. We want them to be their best selves, and yet Granik doesn’t even remotely judge Will for his trauma or Tom for her increasing need to leave him. It’s that rare subgenre of the character study that isn’t designed to make some grand statement about all of humanity but fully capture the lives of the people in its center. Will and Tom feel real. We know them and we root for them. And we don’t forget them.

2. “If Beale Street Could Talk”

I couldn’t possibly capture why I love Barry Jenkins’ adaptation of James Baldwin’s “unfilmable” novel more completely than Odie Henderson did in his brilliant review, so just read that first. My top two films of the year—and this clearly reflects a personal preference in what I’m looking for lately—blend the lyrical and the realistic. The story of Fonny (Stephan James) and Tish (KiKi Layne) is tragically real in its injustice and examination of broken dreams. And yet there’s also a poetry to Jenkins’ filmmaking that’s simply beautiful. There is poignant tragedy here, of course, but there’s also overwhelming joy. The joy of a family, of love, of hope, and of filmmaking artistry. It’s the rare movie that I feel will shift ever so slightly every time I watch it, offering me something new to appreciate and adore.

1. “Roma”

That last sentence also holds true for Alfonso Cuarón’s masterpiece, the best film of 2018. So many movies lately feel like they “take” from their audience, whether it be with lazy filmmaking or CGI extravaganza that leave you more exhausted than exhilarated. “Roma” gives and gives. I put so much of myself —what I value in both film and criticism—into my review that I’m not sure what else I could say other than I walked out of this movie on a high that films rarely give me any more. Perhaps it’s a reflection of the state of the form or just getting older and busier, but that “spark,” that “movie magic” doesn’t come along like I wish it would as often as it did when I was younger. I was floating after “Roma.” I still am.  

from All Content https://ift.tt/2RWVbaF

[heatharoseee-blog]

Passion & compassion

There are so many things in this life that set my soul on fire. My list of passions could go on for miles. As of right now, I’m unsure of what specific form I want this blog of mine to take on, however, I know that I want to continuously gain and share knowledge. So for right now, I’m just going to write. Since we’re speaking on the subject of passion, my first entry will be about someone who walked into my life unexpectedly and swept me off of my feet. This man has changed my life, and my perspective on life in so many ways. This man is laying next to me, gently snoring, completely unaware of what wondrous things that he has done to me.

I had given up, I had little to zero faith in men. I attracted the ones who targeted my vulnerabilities and preyed on them. I unknowingly wore a ‘victim’ sign upon my head, and in return I was assaulted mentally, verbally, physically, and sexually. I’ve always believed that what you are is what you attract. Though, I’ve also learned that this is not always true.

By the time I was 19, I was chemically dependant on prescription opioid pain killers. I was bright, I was beautiful, I was radiant inside and out, until, that is, I let a substance set my worth. Throughout high school I steered clear from monogamous relationships, I struggled internally with my sexuality that I was then ashamed of, my barely-there parents, and most of all, a lack of trust and innocence that was stolen from my 8 year-old self by your friendly neighborhood rapist.

I learned early on that this world can be an evil place, but I was never shown how absolutely breathtaking it can be as well. I spent so much of my childhood hating everything that tortured me, that I never stopped to appreciate all of the things that soothed me. So instead of seeking genuine peace, I sought after artificial peace with the use of mind altering chemicals. Cannabis, jockey-boxed bottles of wine, and opioid pain killers joined me in my pity party when I was twelve years old, and they held my hand through my darkest hours.

At 20 years old, I found myself detoxing from opioid PK’s on the cement floor of a cell. I’d spent the past two years nodding out on the couch, partying all night on ecstasy, avoiding my probation officer, and stealing from people who adore me, all simply because I was too afraid to look myself in the mirror with a clear head. Then all of a sudden, there I was, orange jumpsuit, no substances to alleviate my emotional throe, and a metallic plate to serve as the mirror that opened my eyes to the monster that I had become. My cell door opened to reveal the nurse who collected my urine sample during the booking process. I was pregnant.

9 months and some inpatient rehabilitation later, I was finally free from the cage of the mind that is active addiction, and I was on my way back to Susanville with my precious baby boy and a near 6 months in sobriety. We moved into a place with my son’s unpredictable father, and the six months that I spent learning to love myself again came crashing down in one swift motion. For three weeks, I dealt with gaslighting, insults, criticism, all the while he used my addiction as his way of controlling me. He fed me the very drugs in which he proclaimed that he hated me for using.

Right when I felt as hopeless as ever, a miracle happened. It was a blessing in disguise. Our hot water heater began leaking propane, and with the tiniest little *spark* our trailer caught ablaze. I stood outside of that burning house, watching my life go up in smoke, and all I could do was let out a sigh of relief. In less than two weeks after the fire, my son’s dad had decided that he wanted to pursue his dreams, and swiftly moved to Yuba City.

I embraced his absence and found warmth, and serenity in it. I colored my hair a vibrant blue, I began to rebuild the broken relationships with my family, and I craved a new social scene. A certain somebody that I used to know offered to take me out to eat to celebrate my newfound independence, and my need for sociability accepted thr offer with much excitement.

We had a few drinks with dinner, and as we were leaving he inquired about having a few more at the TNA Lounge, and again, I was just thrilled to get a break from my motherly duties, so off to the bar we went.

It was a Monday night, and unbeknownst to me, Monday night is Open Mic Night. With joy in my larynx I sang along to live covers of Sublime, and listened to original songs written and performed by local artists. The way that the guitar strums has always spoken to me so profoundly, it’s almost as if each string spoke in a language that only I could understand.

This certain somebody that I used to know had consumed too much booze, and his true intentions were beginning to bleed through his seemingly friendly disposition. It was surrealistic, like watching the Hulk transform, he abruptly became a Tough Guy. He saw that I was making conversation with a man at the bar, and he demanded that I get in his vehicle and allow him to take me home. To avoid a scene, I agreed that it was time to go home.

Except home was not the direction in which we were headed, first he stopped by Beacon and purchased even more alcohol, and then when he flew by my turn, I asked him where we were going. “We’re going to go drink in the woods,” although I was barely tipsy, I became belligerent. Rage pulsed through my veins like a shot of heroin. “I’m not going into those fucking woods with you! Take me back to the bar. Now.” It was not a request, it was a demand. He disputed this, but to no avail. I had forgotten how empowering it was to assert my dominance, and I remembered that I don’t need to seek validation for my feelings because they are valid. I had every right to be livid, and something about the atmosphere that night begged for me to be as raw as I had the capacity to be.

I returned to the TNA Lounge still precipitating with fury, but with a different demeanor, somehow I became a stronger woman that night. I sat down at the bar next to the handsome man who caught my eye the instant I saw him, and he bought me a shot of tequila. I was so elated to be in that dark and dingy bar, but only because he sat on the stool beside me. My intentions were to ask the bartender to phone my father for a ride, but his exquisite eyes kept me glued there, almost hypnotized, so intrigued I could hardly look away. Then Tough Guy swiftly storms in, grabs me by the arm, and attempts to force me off of my barstool. That’s when my tequila drinking Knight in Shining Armor stepped in to defend my honor. Tough Guy pushed my Knight, my Knight pushed Tough Guy, and then they wrestled on the floor for a moment before it was broken up and Tough Guy was escorted out of the bar. I was incredibly embarrassed, maybe he could tell, but what he doesn’t know is that small act of chivalry was the source of the most compassion I’ve ever felt radiate onto me, and we had only just met that night. I was a stranger, but he respected me, which was something that I had never recieved before.

What he doesn’t know is that I love him more than I’m capable to convey with mere words. He brings out the parts of me that I forgot were even there. What he doesn’t know is that his words of encouragement (as well as his constructive critisms) have pulled me out of the rut that I was stuck in. What he doesn’t know is that he turned a scared and anxious pussy cat into a gallant and dauntless lioness with prowess in her eyes. What he doesn’t know is that when I look up at the stars I’m thanking the universe for gracing me with his presence in my life.

What I hope he does know is that I’m all in. Rise or fall, through the good, the bad, and the ugly; I’ll be there to help pick up the pieces when shit goes sour, and I’ll be there to share in our successes when it’s just too damn sweet.

❤

[clubofinfo]

Expert: How dreadfully depressing life has become in almost all of the Western cities! How awful and sad. It is not that these cities are not rich; they are. Of course, things are deteriorating there, the infrastructure is crumbling and there are signs of social inequality, even misery, at every corner. But if compared to almost all other parts of the world, the wealth of the Western cities still appears to be shocking, almost grotesque. The affluence does not guarantee contentment, happiness or optimism. Spend an entire day strolling through London or Paris, and pay close attention to people. You will repeatedly stumble over passive aggressive behavior, over frustration and desperate downcast glances, over omnipresent sadness. In all those once great [imperialist] cities, what is missing is life. Euphoria, warmth, poetry and yes – love – are all in extremely short supply there. Wherever you walk, all around, the buildings are monumental, and boutiques are overflowing with elegant merchandize. At night, bright lights shine brilliantly. Yet the faces of people are gray. Even when forming couples, even when in groups, human beings appear to be thoroughly atomized, like the sculptures of Giacometti. Talk to people, and you’ll most likely encounter confusion, depression, and uncertainty. ‘Refined’ sarcasm, and sometimes a bogus urban politeness are like thin bandages that are trying to conceal the most horrifying anxieties and thoroughly unbearable loneliness of those ‘lost’ human souls. Purposelessness is intertwined with passivity. In the West, it is increasingly hard to find someone that is truly committed: politically, intellectually or even emotionally. Big feelings are now seen as frightening; both men and women reject them. Grand gestures are increasingly looked down upon, or even ridiculed. Dreams are becoming tiny, shy and always ‘down to earth’, and even those are lately extremely well concealed. Even to daydream is seen as something ‘irrational’ and outdated. ***** To a stranger who comes from afar, it appears to be a sad, unnatural, brutally restrained and, to a great extent, a pitiful world. Tens of millions of adult men and women, some well educated, ‘do not know what to do with their lives’. They take courses or go ‘back to school’ in order to fill the void, and to ‘discover what they want to do’ with their lives. It is all self-serving, as there appear to be no greater aspirations. Most of the efforts begin and end with each particular individual. Nobody sacrifices himself or herself for others, for society, for humanity, for the cause, or even for the ‘other half’, anymore. In fact, even the concept of the ‘other half’ is disappearing. Relationships are increasingly ‘distant’, each person searching for his or her ‘space’, demanding independence even in togetherness. There are no ‘two halves’; instead there are ‘two fully independent individuals’, co-existing in a relative proximity, sometimes physically touching, sometimes not, but mostly on their own. In the Western capitals, the egocentricity, even total obsession with one’s personal needs, is brought to a surreal extreme. Psychologically, it can only be described as a twisted and pathological world. Surrounded by this bizarre pseudo reality, many otherwise healthy individuals eventually feel, or even become, mentally ill. Then, paradoxically, they embark on seeking ‘professional help’, so they can re-join the ranks of the ‘normal’, read ‘thoroughly subdued’ citizens. In most cases, instead of continuously rebelling, instead of waging personal wars against the state of things, the individuals who are still at least to some extent different, get so frightened by being in the minority that they give up, surrender voluntarily, and identify themselves as ‘abnormal’. Short sparks of freedom experienced by those who are still capable of at least some imagination, of dreaming about a true and natural world, get rapidly extinguished. Then, in a short instant, everything gets irreversibly lost. It may appear as some horror film, but it is not. It is the true reality of life in the West. I cannot function in such an environment for more than a few days. If forced, I could last in London or Paris for two weeks at most, but only while operating on some ‘emergency mode’, unable to write, to create and to function ‘normally’. I cannot imagine ‘being in love’ in a place like that. I cannot imagine writing a revolutionary essay there. I cannot imagine laughing, loudly, happily, freely. While briefly working in London, Paris or New York, the coldness, purposelessness, and chronic lack of passion and of all basic human emotions, is having a tremendously exhausting effect on me, derailing my creativity and drowning me in useless, pathetic existentialist dilemmas. After one week there, I’m simply beginning to get influenced by that terrible environment: I’m starting to think about myself excessively, ‘listening to my feelings’, instead of considering the feelings of the others. My duties towards humanity get neglected. I put on hold everything that I otherwise consider essential. My revolutionary edge loses its sharpness. My optimism begins to evaporate. My determination to struggle for a better world begins to weaken. This is when I know: it is time to run, to run away. Fast, very fast! It is time to pull myself from the stale emotional swamp, to slam the door behind the intellectual bordello, and to escape from the terrifying meaninglessness that is dotted with injured, even wasted lives. I cannot fight for those people from within, only from outside. Our way of thinking and feeling do not match. When they get out and visit ‘my universe’, they bring with them resilient prejudices: they do not register what they see and hear, they stick to what they were indoctrinated with, for years and decades. For me personally there are not many significant things that I can do in Western cities. Periodically I come to sign one or two book contracts, to open my films, or to speak briefly at some university, but I don’t see any point of doing much more. In the West, it is hard to find any meaningful struggle. Most struggles there are not internationalist; instead they are selfish, West-oriented in nature. Almost no true courage, no ability to love, no passion, and no rebellion remain. On closer examination, there is actually no life there; no life as we human beings used to perceive it, and as we still understand it in many other parts of the world. ***** Nihilism rules. Was this mental state, this collective illness something that has been inflicted on purpose by the regime? I don’t know. I cannot yet answer this question. But it is essential to ask, and to try to understand. Whatever it is, it is extremely effective – negatively effective but effective nevertheless. Carl Gustav Jung, a renowned Swiss psychologist and psychiatrist, diagnosed Western culture as ‘pathological’, right after WWII. But instead of trying to comprehend its own abysmal condition, instead of trying to get better, even well, Western culture is actually made to expand, to rapidly spread to many other parts of the world, dangerously contaminating healthy societies and nations. It has to be stopped. I say it because I do love this life, the life, which still exists outside the Western realm; I’m intoxicated with it, obsessed with it. I live it to the fullest, with great delight, enjoying every moment of it. I know the world, from the ‘Southern Cone’ of South America, to Oceania, the Middle East, to the most god-forsaken corners of Africa and Asia. It is a truly tremendous world, full of beauty and diversity, and hope. The more I see and know, the more I realize that I absolutely cannot exist without a struggle, without a good fight, without great passions and love, and without purpose; basically without all that the West is trying to reduce to nothing, to make irrelevant, obsolete and ridiculous. My entire being is rebelling against the awful nihilism and dark pessimism that is being injected almost everywhere by Western culture. I’m violently allergic to it. I refuse to accept it. I refuse to succumb to it. I see people, good people, talented people, wonderful people, getting contaminated, having their lives ruined. I see them abandoning great battles, abandoning their great loves. I see them choosing selfishness and their ‘space’ and ‘personal feelings’ over deep affection and inseparability, opting for meaningless careers over great adventures of epic battles for humanity and a better world. Lives are being ruined one by one, and by millions, every moment and every day. Lives that could have been full of beauty, full of joy, of love, full of adventure, of creativity and uniqueness, of meaning and purpose, but instead are reduced to emptiness, to nothingness, in brief: to thorough meaninglessness. People living such lives are performing tasks and jobs by inertia, respecting without questioning all behavior patterns ordered by the regime, and obeying countless grotesque laws and regulations. They cannot walk on their own feet anymore. They have been made fully submissive. It is over for them. That is because the courage of the people in the West has been broken. It is because they have been reduced to a crowd of obedient subjects, submissive to the destructive and morally defunct Empire. They have lost the ability to think for themselves. They have lost courage to feel. As a result, because the West has such an enormous influence on the rest of the world, the entire humanity is in grave danger, is suffering, and is losing its natural bearing. ***** In such a society, a person overflowing with passion, a person fully committed and true to his or her cause can never be taken seriously. It is because in a society like this, only deep nihilism and cynicism are accepted and respected. In such a society, a revolution or a rebellion could hardly go beyond the pub or a living room couch. A person, who is still capable of loving in such an emotionally constipating and twisted environment, is usually seen as a buffoon, even as a ‘suspicious and sinister element’. It is common for him or for her to be ridiculed and rejected. Obedient and cowardly masses hate those who are different. They distrust people who stand tall and who are still capable of fighting, people who know perfectly well what their goals are, people who do and not just talk, and those who find it easy to throw their entire life, without the slightest hesitation, at the feet of a beloved person or an honorable cause. Such individuals terrify and irritate those suave, submissive and shallow crowds in Western capitals. As a punishment, they get deserted and divorced, ostracized, socially exiled and demonized. Some end up getting attacked, even thoroughly destroyed. The result is: there is no culture, anywhere on Earth, so banal and so obedient as that which is now regulating the West. Lately, nothing of revolutionary intellectual significance is flowing from Europe and North America, as there are hardly any detectable unorthodox ways of thinking or perceptions of the world there. The dialogues and debates are flowing only through fully anticipated and well-regulated channels, and needless to say they fluctuate only marginally and through the fully ‘pre-approved’ frequencies. ***** What is on the other side of the barricade? I don’t want to glorify our revolutionary countries and movements. I don’t even want to write that we are the “exact opposite” of that entire nightmare that has been created by the West. We are not. And we are far from being perfect. But we are alive if not always well. We are standing, trying to advance this wonderful ‘project’ called humanity, attempting to save our planet from Western imperialism, its nihilist gloom, as well as absolute environmental disaster. We are considering many different ways forward. We have never rejected socialism and Communism, and we are studying various moderate and controlled forms of capitalism. The advantages and disadvantages of the so-called ‘mixed economy’ are being discussed and evaluated. We fight, but because we are much less brutal, orthodox and dogmatic than the West, we often lose, as we recently (and hopefully only temporarily) lost in Brazil and Argentina. We also win, again and again. As this essay goes to print, we are celebrating in Ecuador and El Salvador. Unlike in the West, in such places like China, Russia and Latin America, our debates about the political and economic future are vibrant, even stormy. Our art is engaged, helping to search for the best humanist concepts. Our thinkers are alert, compassionate and innovative, and our songs and poems are great, full of passion and fire, overflowing with love and longing. Our countries do not steal from anyone; they don’t overthrow governments in the opposite parts of the world, they do not undertake massive military invasions. What we have is ours; it is what we have created, produced and sown with our own hands. It is not always much, but we are proud of it, because no one had to die for it, and no one had to be enslaved. Our hearts are purer. They are not always absolutely pure, but purer than those in the West are. We do not abandon those whom we love, even if they fall, get injured, or cannot walk any longer. Our women do not abandon their men, especially those who are in the middle of fighting for a better world. Our men do not abandon their women, even when they are in deep pain or despair. We know whom and what we love, and we know whom and what we hate: in this we rarely get ‘confused’. We are much simpler than those living in the West. In many ways, we are also much deeper. We respect hard work, especially work that helps to improve the lives of millions, not just our own lives, or the lives of our families. We try to keep our promises. We don’t always succeed in keeping them, as we are only humans, but we are trying, and most of the times we are managing to. Things are not always exactly like this, but often they are. And when “things are like this”, it means that there is at least some hope and optimism and often even great joy. Optimism is essential for any progress. No revolution could succeed without tremendous enthusiasm, as no love could. No revolution and no love could be built on depression and defeatism. Even in the middle of the ashes to which imperialism has reduced our world, a true revolutionary and a true poet can always at least find some hope. It will not be easy, not easy at all, but definitely not impossible. Nothing is ever lost in this life for as long as our hearts are beating. ***** The state in which our world is right now is dreadful. It often feels that one more step in a wrong direction, another false turn, and everything will finally collapse, irreversibly. It is easy, extremely easy, to give up, to throw everything up into the air, and to land on a couch with a six-pack of beer, or to simply declare “there is nothing that can be done”, and then resume one’s meaningless life routine. Western nihilism has already done its devastating work: it has landed tens of millions of thinking beings on their proverbial couches of defeatism. It has spread pessimism and gloom, and a general belief that things can never improve anymore. It has maneuvered people into refusing to ‘accept labels’, into rejecting progressive ideologies, and into a pathological distrust of any power. The “all politicians are the same” slogan could be translated clearly into: “We all know that our Western rulers are gangsters, but do not expect anything else from those in other parts of the world.” “All people are the same” reads: “The West has been plundering and murdering hundreds of millions, but don’t expect anything better from Asians, Latin Americans or Africans”. This irrational, cynical negativism already domesticated in virtually all countries of the West, has successfully been exported to many colonies, even to such places as Afghanistan, where people have been suffering incessantly from crimes committed by the West. Its goal is evident: to prevent people from taking action and to convince them that any rebellion is futile. Such attitudes are brutally choking all hopes. In the meantime, collateral damage is mounting. Metastases of the passivity and nihilistic cancers which are being spread by the Western regime are already attacking even that very human ability to love, to commit to a person or to a cause, and to stand by one’s pledges and obligations. In the West and in its colonies, courage has lost its entire luster. The Empire has managed to reverse the whole scale of human values, which was firmly and naturally in place on all the continents and in all cultures, for centuries and millennia. All of a sudden, submission and obedience have come to vogue. It often feels that if the trend is not reversed soon, people will increasingly start to live like mice: constantly scared, neurotic, unreliable, depressed, passive, unable to identify true greatness, and unwilling to join those who are still pulling our world and humanity forward. Billions of lives will get wasted. Billions of lives are already being wasted. Some of us write about invasions, coups and dictatorships imposed by the Empire. However, almost nothing is being written about this tremendous and silent genocide that is breaking the human spirit and optimism, throwing entire nations into a dark depression and gloom. But it is taking place, even as these lines are being penned. It is happening everywhere, even in such places as London, Paris and New York, or more precisely, especially there. In those unfortunate places, fear of great emotions has already been deeply rooted. Originality, courage and determination are now evoking fear. Great love, great gestures and unorthodox dreams are all observed with panic and mistrust. But no progress, no evolution is possible without entirely unconventional ways of thinking, without the revolutionary spirit, without great sacrifices and discipline, without commitment, and without that most powerful and most daring set of emotions, which is called love. The demagogues and propagandists of the Empire want us to believe that ‘something ended’; they want us to accept defeat. Why should we? There is no defeat anywhere on the horizon. There are only two separate realities, two universes, into which our world had been shattered into: one of Western nihilism, another of revolutionary optimism. I have already described the nihilism, but what do I imagine when I dream about that better, different world? Do I envision red flags and people forming closed ranks, charging against some lavish palaces and stock exchanges? Do I hear loud revolutionary songs blasted from loudspeakers? I actually do not. What comes to my mind is essentially very quiet and natural, human and warm. There is a park near the old train station in the city of Granada, Nicaragua. I visited it some time ago. There, several old trees are throwing fantastic shadows on the ground, providing a desirable shade. Into a few big metal columns are engraved the most beautiful poems ever written in this country, while in between those columns stand simple but solid park benches. I sat on one of them. Not far from me, a couple of ageing lovers was holding hands, reading cheek to cheek from an open book. They were so close that they appeared to be forming a simple and totally self-sufficient universe. Above them were the shining verses written by Ernesto Cardenal, one of my favorite Latin American poets. I also recall two Cuban doctors, sitting on a very different bench, thousands of miles away, chatting and laughing next to two goodhearted and corpulent nurses, after performing a complex surgery in Kiribati, an island nation ‘lost’ in the middle of South Pacific. I remember many things, but they are never monumental, only human. Because that is what revolution really is, I think: a couple of ageing peasants in a beautiful public park, both of them in love, holding hands, reading poetry to each other. Or two doctors travelling to the end of the world, just in order to save lives, far from the spotlight and fame. And I always remember my dear friend, Eduardo Galeano, one of the greatest revolutionary writers of Latin America, telling me in Montevideo, about his eternal love for his wonderful lady called “Reality”. Then I think: no, we cannot lose. We are not going to lose. The enemy is mighty and many people are weak and scared, but we will not allow the world to be converted into a mental asylum. We’ll fight for each and every person who has been affected, and drowned in gloom. We’ll expose the abnormality and perversity of Western nihilism. We’ll fight it with our revolutionary enthusiasm and optimism, and we will use the greatest weapons, such as poetry and love. http://clubof.info/

[thebibliophagist]

   Goodreads   Amazon

When I checked this book out from my library, I was dead set on learning something from it. “TEACH ME HOW TO BE ORGANIZED,” I thought. “SHOW ME HOW TO GET RID OF ALL THE STUFF I DON’T NEED!” After finishing this book (six days later, an incredible length of time for a book so short) I have to confess that I know no more about cleaning and organizing than I did last week. I am, however, considerably more irritated.

First, let me say that this book is translated from the original Japanese, so some of the quirks in language may be due to translation issues. Some of the suggestions that seem weird might just be due to cultural differences. But come on, the word “tidying” shows up about thirty times per page and Kondo is just. so. judgy.

Now, let me say that for a book that praises downsizing and has the main goal of getting you to trash everything in your life that you don’t absolutely need, it is so much longer than it needs to be. On how many pages, and in how many ways, can Kondo rave about her process? Yes, I understand. I must quickly, all at once (over six months), get rid of everything that does not spark joy in my life. Then I must properly store what’s left over in a way that is respectful to the item, and respectful to my home. It’s really not a very complicated method. Honestly, it could have been summarized with a few gifs in a Buzzfeed article. But for some reason, this book is more than 200 pages.

Much of the book is dedicated to little anecdotes about Kondo’s clients. Imagine paying this woman some obscene amount of money to come into your house and tell you everything you’re doing wrong. “Does it spark joy?” she asks you. “Yes, absolutely,” you say. “Are you sure? It’s kinda ugly…” she responds. At this point, I would find myself showing her the door.

But that’s not all. Kondo won’t let you keep excess anything. One client has a toothbrush stash. Another person stockpiles toilet paper. “Get rid of it all,” she says. “You don’t need it. It’s fun to see how long you can go without it!” Um, we are talking about toothbrushes and toilet paper, right? I can’t say that a toothbrush or a roll of toilet paper has ever sparked joy in my heart, but I certainly miss them when they’re gone.

Oh, and don’t forget about that time you invited her into your home to help you purge your unnecessary possessions and got diarrhea. That’s now immortalized in her international bestselling self-help book. Congrats! (Don’t worry, it’s just a side effect of cleansing your home of toxins.)

Prepare to be judged about your wardrobe:

The worst thing you can do is to wear a sloppy sweat suit. I occasionally meet people who dress like this all the time, whether waking or sleeping. If sweatpants are your everyday attire, you’ll end up looking like you belong in them, which is not very attractive. What you wear in the house does impact your self-image.“

You know what? I don’t even wear sweatpants, but I am tempted to go buy some just to spite Marie Kondo. Let people wear what they want. Life’s too short to worry about whether some random author thinks your pants are attractive.

And then the heresy. The blasphemy. The worst paragraph I have ever read in any book:

"Books are essentially paper – sheets of paper printed with letters and bound together. Their true purpose is to be read, to convey the information to their readers. There is no meaning in their just being on your shelves.”

But, Marie, what if beautiful bookcases spark joy in my heart?

This woman really has some kind of grudge against books. I mean:

“If you missed your chance to read a particular book, even if it was recommended to you or is one you have been intending to read for years, this is your chance to let it go. YUou may have wanted to read it when you bought it, but if you haven’t read it by now, the book’s purpose was to teach you that you didn’t need it.:

She has clearly never done a #killingthetbr challenge.

And she’s super into wasting money. Everything about this book is wasteful. But especially this:

"Only be discarding it will you be able to test how passionate you are about that subject. If your feelings don’t change after discarding it, then you’re fine as is. If you want the book so badly after getting rid of it that you’re willing to buy another copy, then buy one – and this time read and study it.”

Or, you could, y'know, not throw away the original? By the way, she also advocates disposing of “tangles of cords” (because it’s too hard to find the one you need in that mess, so you might as well throw them all out and rebuy) and pennies (so they don’t get moldy, and since no one has ever used a penny ever).

You’re also supposed to wipe off your shampoo bottles and store them outside of the shower so they don’t start dripping with serratia (since your shower is that dirty) and hang your sponges to dry on the veranda (because everybody has a veranda, and it’s not like it’s ever winter).

I mean, I guess the book does make some good points. We can all use a little downsizing. This book, unfortunately, isn’t for everybody. And it certainly wasn’t for me.

Final rating: ★★☆☆☆