#I need to regain some whimsy for myself

[swampthing07]

Im goin to go to bed and save being gay for tomeuaorw. Tomorrow

[prodigiousvisions]

To ▒▒▒▒,

You’re likely off investigating the current crisis. This message isn’t a pressing one whatsoever and you’re under no obligation to respond to this. Yet, I have to stress the importance of getting through it entirely, even if I wound up having to hunt you down and read it to you personally. Do not force my hand and make me do that. Both of our time is much more valuable than that. But I guess I won’t really be able to confirm if you did or not if you choose not to reply.

Well, whatever.

Worry as everyone will, they’ll ultimately be fine. As respectfully as I can say this, none of the people who have congregated in this shared space are normal. The masses are talented in their own rights, with a rather frightening amalgamation of abilities and powers. And for those who aren’t, the others will do what they can to protect them. There is power in leadership, and there is also power in community. Some prefer one more to the other. This is okay; ideal, in fact, to have such versatility in carrying out their day-to-day lives.

We, as respective leaders in some fashion of the people we govern and oversee, work tirelessly even in inactivity for the sake of our people, driving ourselves to insanity to do what’s right for them. You’re forced to work in the face of budding distrust despite your best efforts to work for the unionized interests of everyone. I’m not implying you’re so fragile or weak-minded that this sudden turn of dreary events will be your utter folly. In fact, I won’t ever be able to understand the full scope of your responsibilities, but I sympathize with you and refuse to lie dormant in a time when you are most certainly struggling. It takes no forensic psychologist to notice the difference in your disposition lately. Whimsy and eccentricness were discarded for a more formal authoritative voice. But perhaps, this is also you?

“What could we have done to prevent this?” “How can we prepare for something that is so utterly out of left field that we have no basis to even anticipate a need to prepare for it?” “How do we move forward and regain the confidence of those underneath us?” These are age-old questions that even I have found myself sprawled over a beat-up wooden desk, all but tearing my hair out over. You provide a voice in the darkness, yet it’s not enough to extinguish the fire without a resolution. You don’t update and opt to busy yourself with the matter at hand directly, and then you’re questioned about your efficiency and pathos.

As you continue to strive to find an answer to this murky puzzle, know that you are permitted a moment’s rest yourself as well. There are people who support you and believe in your efforts. Time, too, acts as a factor in the journey we take into our own hands. If the solution isn’t found readily, then there must be an effort to find an alternative. Adaption and change; don’t forget the will and strength of us humans to overcome diversity and strife.

Yours,

Keqing

[tuliptiger]

Absolutely thrilled with the Inaturalist app honestly. I can see how it could lead to some people being really nasty or know it all but I'm 100% absolutely ecstatic to be learning about my area.

The subalpine fir and the ponderosa in my region are subspecies!!!! This whole time! My god I need to regain my sense of wonder and whimsy so I can look into this myself instead of accepting what I knew as the present truth. I wasn't wrong but there are so many extra layers. I feel like I know these trees better and more personally :)

I can't wait to get out and greet them again when spring thaws my area. I can't wait to add more to the public realm and get feedback from people.

[shadowturtlesstuff]

Enchanted

finally finished this!!! im so happy with it, and will be writing it in thomas’s pov as soon as possible and perhaps part 2? 

Sleep evades me. My mind keeps returning to last night, specifically to a certain person I had met last night. I pull the covers higher, burying my head as I finally gave into my wandering mind.

~

I stand alone, needing a break from my aunt Amelia. The music was beautiful, a soft sound that filled the entire room. The party itself was decorated in a magical way, the columns in the building encompassed in vines, the tables with floral centrepieces. It was a mixture of whimsy and magic, yet no one seemed happy to be here. Everyone I spoke to was forcing smiles, men faked laughter as they believed this was not a party but a way to make business deals and enforce their own reputation. It was absurd how no one was just admiring the effort people put into making this perfect. It was the same every month, I'd walk to the edge of the room and watch. To calm my nerves, to explore the different flower pieces, the musicians and the flickering candles from the chandelier. The gowns women wore only once to try and show their wealth, whilst I tended to wear the same, as it fit the magical atmosphere this room desperately tried to make people see, yet they were too blind by their greed, the need to prove themselves to everyone to just simply stand back and enjoy themselves.

My cousin Liza seemed to be in conversation with Dacina, the host of the party, someone I had spoken to a few times, each being more enjoyable. Her calming demeanour and charm always lifted my spirits. Her family organizes this ball once a month, her father hates it but makes a lot of business so it is always left to her to plan and design it. With the help of Illeana and lots of their servants they always make this place ethereal. Her brother, Thomas Cresswell, only ever shows up for a few hours then leaves, only being able to handle the faking niceties for so long. Dacina told me of his tolerance, or lack thereof, to society. She speaks highly of her brother, as I once did, yet I have never met Mr.Cresswell. 

The varnished wooden floor slowly gathers marks as couples danced. How I longed to be one of those dancers, being swivelled by someone I loved. They would look at me as if I was the most magical thing in the room, with a soft smile and adoration in every word he whispers to me. I would be his equal as we spun around, the world fading into nothing as we held each other. Alas, those dreams are not likely for someone cruel enough to carve the dead. 

I snap out of my fantasy as a group of older men walk towards the buffet near me. They talk loud enough so everyone can hear, shockingly talking about work. I roll my eyes at them and look away back to the dance floor. The lights above cast shadows, making the scene feel like my imagination as I sit by a fireplace to read a romance novel. If this was a novel, there would be my love interest here, watching and finding the courage to say something. There are families at the table, children clinging to mothers as the men sit and discuss whatever. My father, uncle and aunt sit together in a seemingly civil conversation. I look for Liza again, deciding I should probably stop brooding in the corner but as I look for her my attention keeps going back to the men at the buffet. Not by choice, but by their obnoxious decision to shout their conversation. 

“A woman led the strike, ridiculous, she had to go,” I heard an oldish man say, followed by murmurs of agreement, “these strikes are out of hand, demanding we pay more, absurd notions.” The man is none other than Mr. Birling, a notoriously cold hearted man, much like dacianas father apparently, both of whom value money rather than people. Even their own families. The group of men who looked the same as him, slightly wrinkled face, greyish hair, miserable faces with hints of conniving schemes being plotted against each other. Friends until one of them was earning more money and was more successful, then they were enemies again. 

The men were in a heated discussion about their business and from what I can dissect from their ramblings is that they fully believe themselves to be hard working men, a rarity these days, and they must do what is necessary for their companies. Meaning, budget cuts, strikes from workers, firing people, and any horrible decision in the name of money.  I refrain from rolling my eyes, or going over to berate them. 

“Mr. Birling would not know what a hard day's work is.” someone says quietly behind me. His voice is smooth, confident, and whilst I agree due to what I have learnt about the birling family and the conversation I had just overheard, I still wouldn't say it aloud with him being this close. Not that he pays any attention to anyone but ‘hard working men’. 

I turn my head slightly, the man behind me is tall, a smirk playing at his lips. His suit is finely tailored in a dark grey, with a peach tie. He takes a step forwards and stands at my side, staring out into the crowd, a glass of half drunk champagne in his hand. I return my gaze to the crowd. “Whatever makes you think that, surely you heard him talk about how much he works,” I try to suppress my own smirk and I also sneak a glance at the strange man. He merely takes a sip of his champagne. 

“Right of course, his words, I shall listen more closely next time.”

“As you should. You wouldn't want to misinterpret someone's work ethic and make a fool of yourself in front of a stranger.” 

“You consider me a fool now?” he turns to me now, hands pressed against his chest in fake offence. His brown eyes meet mine as I face him. His sharp cheekbones feel familiar, but I can't place where from. 

“Yes. how could you consider someone such as Mr Birling, a man with such talent and tolerance of others, a man who clearly built his company and was not handed it by his father, how could you with a straight face imply he doesn’t know hard work.”  we stare at each other for a few seconds, then burst out laughing. He has such a pure laugh, we seem to be the only sound in the room. People around us stop and stare, upset two people are having fun at a party. The stranger leans against one of the columns, disrupting the vines slightly. Yet he doesn't seem to care, as he slowly starts to regain his composure from our outburst. 

Mr. Birling is one of the men looking at us with full disdain. He perceives us as two kids who do not understand life, he specifically tells his accountant that there is something wrong with us if the rumours are to be believed. Children of science. Outrageous. Especially a girl. A girl, not a woman. I ignore his pathetic whining, intent on not letting him ruin my night and return my focus to the stranger. Who, I realise, is someone who enjoys science. His face is more solemn now, having also overheard Mr.Birling. He quickly recovers and plasters a smirk on his face, a spark shines in his eye and I can already tell this won't be good.

“I want to meet this ‘girl’ who led the strike, perhaps she could use some help. I mean, all they ask is fair pay,”

“But fair pay is absurd. Completely and utterly absurd. Why should the wealthy share their wealth to those who ensure it.” he finishes for me. The men that run this world will end up being the reason it fails. We share a look, full of understanding and he lets out a sigh. Now we're talking about work and politics at a party. 

“Aside from those charming men, how are you enjoying the party?” He gestures to the men around us and I snort. Charming was one word for them. Being with him and trading remarks felt like passing notes to each other, telling secrets during class even though we are meant to be listening to the teacher. I can't help but think I know him, and by the look in his own face he knows me. Perhaps we met but didn't have time for a full conversation like we are now. 

“Mostly entertaining, the place is spectacular as always, the people are..” I searched for a word to describe the people, as well as my family. I love them dearly but they can be insufferable. “An interesting mix. My family is dramatic, so I escaped to the edge to peace and quiet, which apparently isn't possible. "I give him a pointed look but he takes no notice. 

“My family is also dramatic, and I came for peace myself but found myself captivated by you, specifically how you watched the crowd, listening, and how you curled your fists in an attempt not to go and publicly humiliate the poor man. Which, by the way, I think you should've. Would've made the whole thing worth it.” He takes a sip of his champagne and I nearly roll my eyes at him. Of course he'd want that. From what I can tell he isn't someone who enjoys society and has no problem saying it. I also think about the families in attendance and which of those are dramatic. The only person I can think of is Darci's brother, whom I've not met but heard about his nature over wine with her. 

“If I was merely standing here minding my business would you still have found me captivating enough to talk to me? Or is my appeal in my anger?”

He downs the rest of the drink and straightens himself taking a step towards me. I cross my arms, impatient but he gives me a soft smile. “I've been trying to get the courage to talk to you for months, I always see you here at the edge, always. My eyes find you instantly in any crowd. Transfixed, captivating. It was an added bonus to me when I saw the fierce nature in your eyes up close, I knew I was right to want to befriend you.” 

Silence falls as we both take in his words. I feel bad, not being able to figure out who he is. His honesty is admirable and makes me smile, as well as blush. I can feel heat rise to my cheeks. Just as I begin to rectify the situation by asking for his name, a man comes behind 

me, he’s around 40 probably, and looks at me horrendously in an attempt at a smile. I recognised him from earlier, he's one of the men that spoke with Mr Birling and that alone makes me instantly want to recoil. 

“Can I help you sir?” I asked and I can hear my own clipped words, yet somehow he does not. The smile widens and he looks me up and down. Then he offers his hand to me and I realise he wants to dance. With a woman half his age, that he has never met. 

“Miss Wadsworth, dance with me?” more of a common than a question. Since I am already highly aware he doesn’t like when females have opinions or say no, I refrain from rolling my eyes and just walking off from him. Instead I take a step back, so I'm by my new friend’s side and smile widely. 

“I'm afraid I already promised the darling Wadsworth a dance, we are just finishing our drinks first.” As if to prove my point he drinks the last of his drink, mostly to hide his smirk. Something else the man doesn't seem to notice. His face drops, but his pride makes him believe he can stand there, waiting for me to run to him. There is an awkward silence until I feel hands reach down and take mine, they are warm and make me jump slightly at the contact. Not in a bad way, not in the way I would have if it had been the man in front of me with his gaze like fire as he looks at our joined hands as though he has a right to be mad about it. I feel my own fire burn as he stares, so I tug his hand away from the man. I need to just escape into the dreamlike nature of the dancefloor, as well as thank my saviour and learn his name.

He leads me to the dance floor, nearer the edge and his hands slip down to my waist as I find his shoulders. His touch is hesitant but reassuring. Somehow he looks calm and terrified, as though he never expected to dance with me but never wants to stop. I can't help but feel the same as we begin to move. My skirt swirls around us and we say nothing for a while as we both calm ourselves and let the music envelope us. In a way, this is as close to my daydreaming as I might ever get. Being here on the dance floor with someone who isn't twice my age and the definition of misogyny. We dance as equals, neither of us truly leading but letting each other float around each other. We're sure of our movements and demand nothing from each other. It is a weird calmness that settles. We are strangers as far as i know, and yet we dance as though we have known each other our entire lives. 

“You are a delight, miss Wadsworth.” he breaks the silence, somehow louder than the music for me, yet it's quiet. Almost like he didn't mean to say it aloud. 

“How do you know me?” my voice matches and i feel bad asking, but i need to know. My tone is not accusing, and his face only burrows in confusion for a second before he smirks at me. A smirk I'm seeming to become familiar with.

“My sister Dacina speaks highly of you.” my eyes must expand as he laughs softly. That's why I recognized him. He has the same structure as Dacina, sharp cheekbone and soft skin. Perfect complexion. 

“So you are the infamous Thomas cresswell?” this time I smirk and his eyes widen. 

“Infamous? What on earth have you heard of me?”

“Your sister has lots of opinions on you.”

“Of course she does. Whatever she has said is most likely not true.” He blurts out and I laugh at his relationship with his sister and him wanting to impress me. “Unless she told you I am utterly irresistible, charming, quick witted and incredibly smart.” winking at me he sends me into a surprising spin and my hands land on his chest. We've sped up slightly, yet our heartbeats are both faster than necessary and I can see a hint of a blush creeping up on his cheeks. 

“She did mention you have an overly large ego. She'll be happy to know I agree with her.” I feel his hands tighten at my waist slightly and I watch his curls fall down in his face as he shakes his head. I'm delighted by this turn of events. Daci is wonderful, and if this is the Thomas that I get to see, not his reputation, then I shall try and keep this in my life for as long as possible. His spark in his eyes shows how he may think the same. Also, if daci, liza and ileana are with Thomas, then i might have the most fun I've ever had in my life.

His voice slides through my thoughts, but also reinforces them. “I am sure she failed to mention how big of an ego she has. Honestly, Darci is worse than I. Have you met Illeana? She will surely agree with me on this.” 

“I'm sure she would, I've also heard you are a scientist, what do you study?”

“The dead. Much like you and your uncle.” There is so much certainty in his voice, no resentment or the usual tone I hear so I gift him an earnest smile. 

The song ends, and we stand, hands still on each other for a second longer than we should. Just as I go to remove my hands from his chest I feel him pinch my sides lightly. Then his warm hands slip from my waist and I wish more than anything to dance again. 

We go to return back to the column near the buffet, where we first spoke, and as I take a step I feel him move so he's pressed at my back, his hands finding mine. Even though we are gloved, even though no one can see our hands due to how close we are, and how many people are moving about, my heart pounds at his bold nature. I adore it, so I squeeze him and keep my head facing forward as I lead him off the dance floor. We settle back, Thomas letting go of my hand to pick up two glasses of champagne and hands me one. We both take a long sip, perhaps settling our brains or making it worse. Well see. 

“You look,” he pauses, as if trying to find the right words, brows furrowed slightly as if he was reading a dictionary, “enchanting.” he finally finishes, gifting me a rare smile it seems. No longer does he smirk at me, but shows me a genuine look that I want to have painted as it is the best thing I have witnessed. Heat rises to my cheeks as I look down at my dress. Someone at least understood what I was going for, with a pale peach colour, sparkling bodice that runs along the length of the skirt. The long sleeves adorned with tiny gemstones, golden to match the accented colours of the hall. In response to Thomas I look back up at him with my own genuine smile, perhaps some of the only true smiles to be shared this evening. His suit fits him perfectly, showing off his defined features, his tie a pale peach as well. I assume Dacina helps him, as her dresses always astound me with the details. There are tiny, miniscule gems on his tie, that snake down and remind me of vines.

“You look,” I act the way he did, scanning my brain for something that fits, handsome or charming doesn't do justice but I'm sure whatever I use will only boost his ego and be used against me, so I settle with: “bedazzling.” 

“Bedazzling?”

“Thomas, I study the dead, I have to look closer than one should at things, so of course I noticed your tie. Henceforth: bedazzling.” The air shifts back to our teasing tone and he smirks once again.

“You are the only one to notice, except Daci of course, nothing gets past her. Am I correct in assuming you like the tie?” Despite his teasing I feel a hint of worry as if I wouldn’t like his tie. 

“I adore the tie cresswell, everyone here should be weaning ties with tiny jewels.”

His face falls as he scans the crowd, eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the groups of men. “I cannot tell if you are being serious with me or not, but I agree nonetheless. The men here are awfully drab, boring, plain. It's insulting to us really. Daci puts so much time into making this beautiful and these people do not see it.” He is shaking his head. I agree, I have heard how much work goes in and despite my effort to help she insists that I do nothing but enjoy the party. I have a sneaking suspicion though that Liza helps. The flower centrepieces are her favourite, and whilst that might be a coincidence I know how stubborn and convincing she can be. 

“I do. I love her parties. I always find myself standing here, watching and noticing all the changes from the month prior. Like, last month she went for more of a red theme, with red roses as the centrepieces, little red accented chairs and carpets. Whereas this month is more of a forestry vine, hence the vines around the column.” I point as though they are a secret thing you need to search for even though they are obvious. Yet he turns anyway and runs his finger down the length of it with his adorable face set at a soft smile. Thomas might have been there when she got the idea, or placed them or he might have placed them himself and is now remembering it. 

My gaze finds Thomas and he looks at me, baffled, and I feel the blush creeping back up. It is not the same confused look that I get when I tell people my love of science, but one of intrigue. As if he could listen to me talk forever and not get bored. It's as if he has never thought anyone would notice such things about his family's party. “Enchanting.” is all he whispers to me. Then he clears his throat, an ever so soft shake of his head as though once again the words were meant for him and not us both. 

I stare out at the crowd again. I'm sure my family will want to know where I've disappeared to, I normally do not leave them this long. Liza I'm sure will want to know why I danced with Thomas. Yet the thought of leaving him makes my legs leaden and my heart sink and anchor me right next to him. Im completely wonderstruck, and feel ill have a permanent blush, especially when i look at his stupidly handsome face, his quick smirk and small smiles that feel special. It is odd, I've only heard stories, spoken to him briefly and danced, yet I have enjoyed his company immensely and hope this never ends. I want more dances and to steal more smiles to keep forever. I want to make fun of people together, and dance. 

I go to steal a glimpse of him, expecting to find him staring at the crowd like I was but his eyes are on me. “I have to leave,” his abrupt words anchor me in an entirely different way, “I mean,  I want to stay and I'm sure you want my amazing presence always now Wadsworth but I have to wake early. New job. So, my darling, I shall see you tomorrow.” Thomas hesitates for half a second and begins to walk away. I watch him go and say goodnight to his sister and then leave. His words fill my head. It’s reassuring to know he enjoys my company as much as I do.

~

I bolt upright in my bed, the lights, music and memories falling away as I focus on the last words he said to me.

I'll see you tomorrow. 

What does tomorrow mean? Does it mean he has a job where he thinks I visit? Will he be making an effort to befriend me? Does he know my family? I am so confused. How had I not caught these words sooner? Perhaps he wants to tell me he had a terrible time, that he doesn't like my presence. I'm on my feet without realising, pacing back and forth, the cold air hugging me close. I wish he was in front of me now. I wish he would whisper the words enchanting again. I wish I knew what was happening in a few hours that warranted him saying those four words. I run my hands over my face, untie my hair and let my curls fall over my shoulder, brushing away the colder ever so slightly. I'm ridiculous. Four tiny words sent me spiralling. I climb back into bed, my hair fanning out around me and the blanket returning warmth back into my system. Immediately my mind returns to Thomas, his face forever in my mind. Even if tomorrow could be the last time I see him, there is a chance that it is just the start. 

Enchanting…

Those words fill me with confidence that yes, Thomas might become someone special to me. That perhaps our dance sparked something and now all I wish is that I can tell him how enchanting he is.

@fangirling-again @kittycat2187 @goatahoan @city-of-fae @purplecreatorhorsewagon @boredbookwormgirl @goddess-of-writing-wars @loveyatopluto @lovecakeandmore @yikesitsmaddie @bookscressworth @androgynousdeputylawyershoe @fandomtakeover @throneoftsc @the-hoofflepooff

[bananaofswifts]

BY: JILLIAN MAPES JUL 27 2020

POP/R&B

Made from afar, primarily with the National’s Aaron Dessner, Swift’s eighth album is a sweater-weather record filled with cinematic love songs and rich fictional details.

The phantom pang of missing someone before you ever meet them is an emotion worthy of its own word. That fated feeling of love and the passage of time is the theme that runs between Carly Rae Jepsen’s smash hit “Call Me Maybe” and the National’s antisocial romance “Slow Show”; it’s also the kind of thing Taylor Swift might write about. One of the loveliest tracks on folklore, the surprise album the singer-songwriter made primarily with the National’s guitarist Aaron Dessner, stands out for a strangely similar reason: a thread connecting two strangers that exists long before either realizes it’s there. “And isn’t it just so pretty to think/All along there was some/Invisible string/Tying you to me,” she sings on the delightfully plucky “invisible string,” simultaneously recalling famous lines from Jane Eyre and The Sun Also Rises.

folklore will forever be known as Taylor Swift’s “indie” album, a sweater-weather record released on a whim in the blue heat of this lonely summer, filled with cinematic love songs in search of a film soundtrack. There are those who already dislike folklore on principle, who assume it’s another calculated attempt on Swift’s part to position her career as just so (how dare she); meanwhile, fans will hold it up as tangible proof that their leader can do just about anything (also a stretch). While it’s true that folklore pushes the limits of Swift’s sound in a particular, perhaps unexpected direction, her reference points feel more like mainstream “indie” homage than innovation, taking cues from her collaborators’ work and bits of nostalgia.

At its best, folklore asserts something that has been true from the start of Swift’s career: Her biggest strength is her storytelling, her well-honed songwriting craft meeting the vivid whimsy of her imagination; the music these stories are set to is subject to change, so long as it can be rooted in these traditions. You can tell that this is what drives Swift by the way she molds her songs: cramming specific details into curious cadences, bending the lines to her will. It’s especially apparent on folklore, where the production—mostly by Dessner, with Jack Antonoff’s pop flair occasionally in the mix—is more minimal than she typically goes for. Her words rise above the sparse pianos, moody guitars, and sweeping orchestration, as quotable as ever.

After years as pop’s most reliable first-person essayist, Swift channels her distinct style into what are essentially works of fiction and autofiction, finding compelling protagonists in a rebellious heiress and a classic teenage love triangle. In “the last great american dynasty,” she tells the story of eccentric debutante Rebekah Harkness, who married into the Standard Oil family and once lived in Swift’s Rhode Island mansion, as a way to celebrate women who “have a marvelous time ruining everything.” Filled with historical details and Americana imagery, you can see the song play out in your mind like a storybook, but it also effectively makes a point about society’s treatment of brash women. Swift cleverly draws a line between Harkness and herself at the end, an idea she fleshes out in a more literal sequel, “mad woman.” Out of all the songs on folklore, “the last great american dynasty” is the all-timer, the instant classic. It sounds like the latter-day National/Taylor mashup you never knew you needed—textural and tastefully majestic, with Fitzgerald-esque lines about filling the pool with champagne instead of drinking all the wine.

With folklore’s teen heartbreak trilogy, Swift circles the same affair from each party’s differing view. “betty” is the story of 17-year-old James trying to win back his girlfriend after cheating, a familiar crime rendered new by the narrator’s genuine remorse and belief in a love regained. It has the youthful hope of a song like “Wide Open Spaces,” yet is noticeably wiser (and queerer) than the high school romances Swift wrote as an actual teenager. First single “cardigan” is told by Betty, whose disillusionment with James results in a sad, sensuous sound reminiscent of Lana Del Rey, down to the vocal style and casual lyrical quotation of another pop song. But the songs’ overlapping details and central framing device—of a cardigan forgotten and found without a second thought—are pure Swift, an instant memory portal not unlike the scarf in Red’s “All Too Well.” (The cutesy marketing angle for “cardigan” is reliably Swiftian as well.) And even though “august” is considered to be the third in the trilogy, the record’s most tender, saccharine love story plays out during “illicit affairs.” “You taught me a secret language I can’t speak with anyone else,” she sings. “And you know damn well for you I would ruin myself.” The scenes and perspectives evoked by these songs alone speak volumes about Swift’s evolution as a songwriter.

The theme of folklore is a very different way of acknowledging that people will talk, an idea that animated 2017’s trap-tinged work of minor villainy, Reputation. Swift knows her own mythology like a model knows her angles, and that’s part of what makes folklore fascinating if you maintain an open mind: a kind of reverse-engineered “mindie” project, it sonically situates her closest to Lana and chamber-pop belter Florence Welch, but may also occasionally remind you of Triple-A radio, Sufjan Stevens if he killed his more ambitious tendencies, or Big Red Machine, Dessner’s duo with Justin Vernon (see: the sparse and soulful “peace”). The album’s actual duet with Vernon, “exile,” is a little like a Bon Iver take on “Falling Slowly,” the centerpiece of the 2007 folk musical Once: awkwardly dragging until the clouds slowly part to allow something beautiful to build. Swift is playing the long game here, and while there are no wild missteps, the album could use some selective pruning (see: “seven,” “hoax”).

It’s worth pointing out that folklore isn’t a total outlier in Swift’s catalog either, or even her recent work. The tracks with Antonoff shift away from the ’80s electro-pop of 1989 and onward, but they lean into the Mazzy Star swoon of Lover’s title track, Swift’s ongoing fascination with Imogen Heap, and a twinge of the Cranberries. There are interesting images, indelible hooks, and real signs of maturity. In the dreamy “mirrorball,” Swift likens the relatability trap of fame to a disco ball, singing of fluttering on tiptoes and trying hard to make it look effortless. “august” is a great, lusty Swift summer anthem about forbidden love, where the up-close, white-hot heat of songs like “Style” or “Getaway Car” is traded for wistful reflection in the rearview. Like the rest of us, Taylor Swift knows she’s had better summers before and she’ll have better summers again. At least she’s made thoughtful use of this one.

[sophisticated-creepy]

Love is Stranger than Fiction by: Melissa Sain

         She loved his hands the most. They were strong, confident, and long of finger; firm in the ways of an artist, and masterful in the ways of a lover. Her sight trailed from his hands up to his forearms where she lingered her half-lidded gaze on the tight planes, watching as he turned the pages of his book, causing the muscles to shift and flex ever so slightly in their movements. Her heart skipped a beat at the image and a smile began to curl the corner of her mouth. From his forearms she watched his bare chest. The steady rise and fall of his breathing was gentle. Lying there, stretched out on the bed as he was, with sheets pulled up to his waist and pillows supporting his broad shoulders, Lola drank in the appearance of her husband. Of all the places her eyes drifted, however, she daren’t cast a look upon his face. An unsound fear gave her pause, believing if she were to take in his countenance, the comforting spell of tranquility would be lost.

         “Lola, my love, is there something I can help you with?” her husband asked. He closed his book, letting it rest in his lap as he turned his head towards his wife with a mischievous smirk upon his lips. Lola blinked, startled from her reverie. She stared at his impish grin and cocky eyebrow before blushing violently and burying her face into the pillow next to him as she shyly giggled at being caught staring.

         “You were thinking awful loudly,” he continued playfully. “Care to share with the rest of the class what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” Lola regained her composure, peeking over the pillow before turning on her side, propping herself up on her elbow to answer him.

         “Well, I was thinking of you,” she replied.

         “Perfect.”

         “And us,” she continued.

         “Go on,” he encouraged roguishly, turning on his side to mirror his wife.

         “And how lucky I am to have you in my life,” she concluded with a sigh. “Sometimes, I can’t believe that you’re real, that you’re here, with me. It feels like a dream, and I find myself trying to memorize you in case I wake up.” Lola stared deep into her husband’s passionate, sapphire colored eyes. “Raphael,” she breathed, “promise me I won’t wake up.” Raphael smiled warmly at his wife and leaned into her so their foreheads touched.

         “I hate to break it to you, my sweet, but you are awake, and I am here, with you, and I am most assuredly real.” His warmth was infectious, and Lola melted under his words while nuzzling closer to him. He assisted her towards him, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, embracing her against his firm body. He placed his chin on top of her head as she rested against the side of his neck contentedly. “You know, if it’ll set your mind at ease, I could prove to you how real I am,” Raphael suggested, feigning innocence. Lola grinned as she felt his deep voice vibrate from his throat on the top of her head.

         “Oh? And how would you go about proving something like that?” Lola inquired.

         “For starters, I could kiss you,” Raphael stated, and to prove his point, softly kissed her forehead in the place slightly above the spot between her eyebrows. “I could touch you,” he added, and began to lightly tickle her over the sheets. She girlishly squealed and swatted him away. “Or,” he continued, “I could do this.” Raphael sat up in bed, placed his hands on Lola’s hips, and gently positioned her to sit directly across from him so they were eye to eye. Once settled, he scooped up his wife’s left hand and placed it so her palm rested on his chest over his heart.

         “This is how you will know I am real,” he tenderly spoke. “My heart is your heart. You need never doubt that it is the beating heart of a man who shares his life with you, who will protect and keep you as your husband, as your lover, and as your friend.”

         Lola stared at her hand concealing Raphael’s heart. She could feel the soft rhythm beneath her palm, the consistent thrum of the muscle reassuring her that the man before her was real and loved her. She felt wrapped in a blanket woven of honey, hypnotized from the warmth of her husband’s speech and intimate gestures. She knew she was being silly in thinking her husband wasn’t “real”, but the fact that he indulged her whimsy revealed the depth of his love for her.

         “My heart is your heart,” Lola repeated. She mimicked his actions and led his own hand to splay between her breasts. His massive palm covered the vulnerable surface and then some, and feeling him pressed against her chest made her heart flutter with the beginning stirrings of passion. Husband and wife met one another’s gaze as an unspoken yearning began to manifest. Lola felt Raphael’s heart quicken. His eyes betrayed his thoughts of desire. Her own heart was quick to join him, and the two became in sync with the thrill of feeling the other’s response to the growing heat between them. Lola’s breath caught short with eager expectancy as Raphael began to lean towards her, a sultry grin playing on his lips for what lay in store for his beloved. With his free arm, he encircled her waist while getting to his knees, and dipped her backwards, lowering her to the mattress, hovering over her. The hunger of wanting the other was maddening.

         Raphael came to his wife, breathing in her aroma, the lingering notes of vanilla and roses of her perfume wafting towards him as he gently pressed feather light lips to her neck. Her skin prickled pleasantly at the touch. She closed her eyes, absorbing his lips explore her neck, her ears, her jaw, until finally, her lips. The spark that ignited whenever they kissed went beyond predictable amorous description. It was the kiss of a soulmate; a sensation of true love’s purest form. Eventually, they parted. There was no sense delaying what they craved. Raphael took his man tool---.

         “Eww. ‘Man tool’?” Lola glared at her computer screen, scrutinizing the last paragraph in the middle of the word document. “’There was no sense delaying what they craved’,” she read aloud. She gave a short, critical laugh of derision at her own poor choice of words. “If that doesn’t kill a mood, I don’t know what will.” She shook her head in disappointment, the harsh clack of the back space key erasing any trace of the husband character’s unfairly ill-described lower anatomical region. Lola sighed, leaning back in her desk chair, tapping her forefinger impatiently against her laptop as she debated on how to handle the scene in front of her. Should she expound upon the interplay of the lovers or just go straight for the sex?

         “Come on, brain,” Lola encouraged herself. “Don’t quit on me yet.” She could feel the writer’s block beginning to cloud underneath her forehead, slowly crawling its way towards her temples, blooming into a full blown fog of nothingness. Too little too late, she knew the creative muse was gone. “Damn. And just when it was getting good.”

         A breeze rustled the trees outside Lola’s window, sweeping through the leafy foliage, causing the little chickadees to alight from the dense crowding of branches. The springtime sunshine warmly lit the area where Lola had set up her writing space, and with a slight turn of her head, she had a perfect view of the lush greenery of the historic city park just below her eaves. The old train station was across the way, and behind that, a river cut through the land, its banks dotted with willow trees. The old Catholic church’s bell tower began to sound the hour, its deep tenor resounding boldly through the town. Lola blinked away her daydream, the peal startling her back into the present.

         “How is it already one o’clock? I’m gonna be late!” Lola shot up from her chair, her hip colliding with the edge of her desk causing her to jostle her half-finished cup of coffee, sloshing lukewarm liquid over scattered pieces of scrap paper. “Shit,” she cursed. “I’ll clean that up later,” she mumbled with annoyance, dabbing at the puddle with a nearby potholder from lunch. She saved her work then closed the lid of her laptop while turning towards the main living portion of her tiny loft. “Okay, babies, Mama’s leaving,” Lola called out to her sleeping cats. They were used to her frantic movements and so stayed comfortably dozing on blanketed dappled chairs or patches of sunbeam on the carpet.

         Lola grabbed an oversized denim button front and an old linen backpack she used as a purse before calling out to her babies once more. “Behave, my honey bunches. Mama loves!” And with that, she was out the door, skipping down the fire escape. She rounded the railing towards the side of the house, found her bike, and quickly hopped on, pushing off with a spurt and began gliding down the sidewalk. She gave a final wave to her home before riding away. Lola lived in the heart of historic Main Street, the epicenter of antique shopping and restaurant-ing, in a renovated loft above a quilting shop. Like the little shop she lived above, the town was quaint and charming, embodying the nature of a quilt: diverse, close knit, and with a story at every turn.

         This pie in the sky town was perfect for a young woman such as Lola. At the end of the historic district, the night life came alive with popular bars and coffeehouses.  Up the street were more modern accommodations such as the Cineplex and highways to local malls, shops, and other normal day-to-day activities, but for this one strip of road, all of that noise faded away. What was left was a peaceful park, a murmuring river, and the clattering of footsteps on cobblestone walkways as shoppers visited one store to the next. Or, as Lola simply called it: magic. Lola fully believed magic encompassed the town. The buildings, the trees, even the wind itself bore magic, and for the enthusiastic dreamer that Lola was, she thrived in that type of creative atmosphere.

         Even now, as she rode her bike to her job at a high-end lotion and bath boutique, Lola was lost, yet again, in another daydream. She perpetually lived in a state of dreaming, which often got her in trouble at work for accidentally ignoring customers. She was the cliché character who stopped to smell the roses, but where she differentiated from others, was to then follow the bee she found in the fragrant blooms, and thus become its companion, and accompany him on the journey of its winged flight, getting lost in the adventures and mysteries of a new dream.  Most would call her weird.  Some, naïve, but for what truly mattered, was that Lola called herself happy.

         Usually, she was happy. There were times when Lola found herself unbearably lonely. Yes, she had friends and family to keep her occupied, yet when the day had ended, and all had gone his or her separate way, she was left alone, in a tiny renovated apartment above a quilting shop, with no one aside from her cats and her writing. Lola turned to writing when her soul yearned intimacy the most. At first, she wrote little paragraphs of made up characters doing made up things, and though that helped to stem the void, she still felt lacking. Her characters were flat, her “plots” laughable, until one day she decided to place herself in her stories, and there with her side by side was the figure of her heart’s desire.

         Raphael was literally everything she wanted in a counterpart because that’s how she wrote him. It was odd the way he fit into her life. His persona flowed onto the page in ways Lola found unexpected, and going where her pen led her, let his words challenge her. His actions strengthened her, and his romance filled her. Lola was able to explore with Raphael all aspects of their fictional life in a numerous variety of genera. She placed them in fantasy, the supernatural, adventure, it made no difference. When the two of them were together, it simply worked. In the heart of her stories was just that: her heart. And this character, Raphael, had hers.

         Lola sighed, her mind elsewhere as she rode through the town. The boutique she worked at was near the end of the historic district next to the start of the coffeehouses. With the wind at her back she made good time and reached the boutique with ease. She gave the bike one final push of the pedal before kicking her left leg over to join the right so she was in a side-saddle position the remainder of the distance, gliding to a smooth and, in her opinion, fashionable stop. After hopping to the ground and chaining up her transportation, she turned to face the park, not wanting to part with the beauty of spring placed before her. She breathed in the honeysuckle drenched air before finding the doorknob to the back of the store, and with a final glance at the splendor of spring, turned, and went inside. 

~~~

[recurring-polynya]

Hi! thank you so much for all of these stories! I was wondering if you could write a one shot about the day Touma Kuchiki was born?

I can!

For those of you who don’t follow my every whimsy, Touma is Hisana and Byakuya’s toddler son in my lightweight, Austen-influenced Hisana-lived AU, a little in love, now and then.

I wasn’t sure what to do with this, whether to throw it in my pile of drabbles or what, but I decided to go ahead and put it right into the story proper and pretentiously call it an interlude, which of course, means that now I have to write more of them. I def plan to do at least one flashback to Rukia’s (surprisingly competent) rescue, but if you have any particular things you’re dying to see, hmu, you know I have no saving throw vs. reader requests.

Anyway, here you go, or if you prefer, you can find it on ao3 or ff.net, for convenient bookmarking and comment-leaving purposes (wags eyebrows). You don’t have to read any of the rest of the story to understand this.

“You should rest,” the 28th Head of the Kuchiki Clan informed Rukia, regarding her with his cold, grey eyes. She had found him sitting in the library, Hisana’s favorite room. It was dim and chilly. The shoji that led to the gardens were shut tight, and the shutters as well, but Rukia could feel the snow swirling roughly in the wind that battered the house. She could feel it in her heart.

“How can I rest now?” she tried to keep her tone measured.

“I did not say you should sleep,” Byakuya responded, nodding to the zabuton on the floor across the table from him. “I should hope that the Fourth Seat of Squad Thirteen would know how to rest her body while keeping her mind alert. It is the essence of tracking Hollows.”

Grudgingly, Rukia sank into seiza. The normally uncomfortable sitting position was a relief after hours of pacing the floorboards, the weight of her exhausted sister heavy against her shoulder.

“Tea?” Byakuya offered. “I am afraid it is a bit bracing.”

“Bracing is good,” Rukia nodded. She tried to look at his face without staring. Purple shadows limned his eyes. How long had Hisana labored, anyway? The hours of walking up and down the hallways had blurred together. Singing rowdy old Rukongai songs, mostly together, with Rukia taking over when Hisana needed to lean into the pain of a contraction. Breaks to rub Hisana’s back or feet. Holding bits of crushed ice to Hisana’s lips. Both Hisana and Rukia’s maids hovered nearby like loyal lieutenants, ready to fetch things or take over, should Rukia falter.

Rukia appreciated their presence, but she would never falter, not in this duty. She had held strong right until that stupid, noble doctor had declared that Hisana was “in transition” and ejected Rukia from the room.

Byakuya carefully poured her a cup and passed it over. Rukia couldn’t remember her brother-in-law ever pouring her a cup of tea before. Hisana was the one who poured the tea. “How does she fare?” he asked. “And you need not lie to me.”

Rukia wiggled her fingers around the cup. It was too hot to hold, really, but she didn’t want to put it down. “She is tired,” she replied. “But fierce. You underestimate her.”

“I do not. I merely trust your frankness over that of the doctor.”

“I do not trust the doctor, either,” Rukia was quick to announce. “He said that she has moved into the last stage. It is the shortest, but the most dangerous. He told her to lie down and said I could not stay.”

Byakuya’s grey eyes bored into her. “Have you assisted at a childbirth before?”

Rukia’s cheeks flushed red. “No,” she admitted, her voice defensive. In this, as in so many things, she had fallen down as a sister. All her life, she had thrown in with the boys instead of the women. She could gut a squirrel, climb a tree, purify a Hollow, heal or break an arm as the situation called for. She didn’t know how to braid hair or perform a dance or talk a sister out taking foolhardy risks with her precarious health.

“You resent me,” Byakuya said suddenly, and Rukia’s shoulders went stiff. Byakuya took a sip of his tea. “Believe me, you cannot harm me with that blade; I have cut myself with it enough already.”

“I didn’t…” Rukia started, and suddenly had nothing further to say.

What would it be like, she wondered, to live in this house, with this man, without Hisana’s warmth? She would like to think that she had nothing in common with him, but in fact, they shared a number of terrible personality traits: stubbornness, pride, cynicism, a tendency to close themselves off. Hisana was just as stubborn than either of them, though, and her brilliant, teasing humor brought color and joy to the household. Rukia knew that she and Byakuya would protect Hisana against a thousand enemies, but what could they do in a situation where swords were of no use? And where would they turn their swords, if there were nothing left to protect?

“She is a difficult person to love,” Byakuya broke Rukia from her reverie. “She does what she will. I could no sooner forbid her from this than I could dissuade her from scouring the Rukon for you.” He was silent for a moment. “I thought she would never regain her full health, but having you back again has given her strength. I cannot imagine how unstoppable she will be after bearing my son.”

Rukia wrinkled her nose, indignant at his presumptuousness. “It could be a girl.”

Byakuya contemplated this briefly. “I am sure she would take great glee in my being further outnumbered, but I feel that her desire to spite my aunts outweighs her love of exasperating me.”

Rukia narrowed her eyes at him. Do you even know how this works? she wanted to ask him, but instead, she sipped at her tea, which was just barely approaching a drinkable temperature. It was very strong, but delicious, floral, with a light, natural sweetness.

“The fool doctor said it’s taking so long because the baby is big and healthy and Sister is so small,” Rukia finally said. “If I had been around, I would have told her not to marry someone so stupidly tall.” Her mouth snapped shut in horror. Rukia did not say such things to her noble brother-in-law. Rukia hardly ever said anything to her noble brother-in-law. Hisana might tease him, but she was his Lady Wife, his best beloved. She knew where best to aim her blunted arrows to provoke a smile or a rejoinder without prodding the sleeping beast of his legendary pride. He’s going to kick me out, Rukia’s heart seized. Out of this room, possibly out of his house entirely.

But instead, the Kuchiki Clan Head snorted softly. “Your absence was very fortunate for me. I am sure she would have taken your advice to heart,” Byakuya replied, and Rukia had absolutely no idea if he was being serious or not.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “That wasn’t nice. You’ve always been very kind to my sister, and to me.”

Byakuya stared back at her, curiously. Finally, he said, “I am also sorry. Your presence here is always appreciated. Thank you for staying with Hisana.”

They sat in silence, sipping their tea, Rukia unsuccessfully willing her muscles to relax. Had he gone strange and punchy out of tiredness and concern for his wife? Had she always overestimated his coldness, too fearful of provoking his wrath to see past his fierce reputation? Or perhaps… perhaps, though she never would have guessed it, he did harbor a tiny bit of familial affection for her. He had lost most of his immediate family long ago, and she gathered that he was not truly close to the other stern, powerful men he called friends. He had been sitting here, alone, for hours.

“It’s cold in here,” Rukia finally observed. “Is the kotatsu out of charcoal?”

“I keep throwing the servants out,” Byakuya admitted. “I am sure they are needed elsewhere. If you are cold, I will have it relit immediately.”

“I don’t get cold,” Rukia replied. “But Sister will have my head if she finds out I let you sit in here being cold and moody.”

Byakuya gave off another little snort.

Suddenly, there was a shuffle of feet outside the door, and Byakuya and Rukia both sat up straight.

“What is it?” Byakuya demanded, on his feet before anyone even had a chance to knock.

The shoji slid open, Seike, the head of household staff entered, joy overwriting the age lines on his face. “Lord Byakuya,” he choked out. “Your Lady is delivered of a son.”

 🌸    🌸    🌸

Hisana was sitting up in bed. Her face was a bit pale, but she otherwise looked as fresh as a daisy. Her eyes flickered upward as what sounded like two water buffalo tried to jostle their way into her room, but her face remained tilted down toward the bundle of white silk blankets in her arms. “Here is the moment of truth,” she hummed in a little sing-song. “As to who is more interested in you and who cares more about me.”

Rukia, jammed into the doorway by Byakuya’s elbow, was momentarily dumbfounded. Obviously, her sister was of the utmost importance, but how could she ignore her sister’s glory, this crowning achievement that Hisana had wished and worked for over so many years?

Byakuya evidently had no such compunctions. “You,” he gasped thickly, pushing past Rukia to fall at his wife’s bedside and press her hand to his face.

Hisana looked shocked, not having expected her sallies to have such an effect. “What did that doctor tell you?” she asked. “You weren’t worried for me, were you? Women have babies all the time, you know.”

“All women are not you,” Byakuya replied, softly.

Rukia hung back in the entrance, unsure of what to do. Should she leave? She should have waited, this moment was for her sister and brother-in-law. Just as her feet started to shuffle backwards, Hisana called out “Rukia! Come take this lump of lead with your big shinigami muscles! This child is too heavy to hold in one hand, and Byakuya won’t give me back my other one!”

Pulling herself together, Rukia dashed to her sister’s side, and took the bundle of blankets into her own arms. “Some people have no appreciation of all your hard work,” she announced boldly. The baby seemed mostly asleep, although he scrunched his wrinkly little face as he was passed over. “I have never seen a more perfect child, truly,” she went on. It was true, of course, in the sense that she had never actually seen a newborn before. “He has both your strength and good looks, Sister!”

“I should hope not, he looks rather red and smushy to me,” Hisana replied.

“A future Gotei captain!” Rukia went on. “Head-Captain, possibly! Probably a poet, as well and an artist, surely! A very credit to the Kuchiki!”

“Byakuya, please go admire your son before Rukia proclaims him the next Soul King,” Hisana ordered dryly.

“He could be,” Rukia protested as Byakuya rose to his full height on the other side of Hisana’s bed, and regarded her icily. Unwilling to give in to her brother-in-law’s theatrics, Rukia gave the baby a last cuddle and a kiss on the forehead. “I am your auntie,” she informed him. “I will teach you everything I know. Everything.”

As Rukia finally passed the baby over to his father, Hisana grabbed her arm and tugged her down onto the bed. Her older sister pulled her close, burying her face in her hair. “Ah, Rukia, thank you so much. I could not have done it without you.”

“I rather think you would have,” Rukia informed her. “But I am glad I could be with you. I will always be here for you. And him.”

“I know,” Hisana whispered back to her.

A bit embarrassed at all this emotion, Rukia chanced a look up at her brother-in-law, who had been strangely silent. Not that he wasn’t usually silent, but this was the sort of occasion he would usually take to pontificate a bit. He was examining the baby, a look of utter bushwackedness on his face. Rukia stifled a laugh. Byakuya reminded her of nothing so much as the time her childhood friend, Renji, had unexpectedly speared an absolutely massive carp-- the way he had stood there in the river, mouth slack, eyes wide, arms wrapped around a flopping two-foot long fish, unable to believe his good fortune.

Rukia was fairly certain Byakuya wouldn’t appreciate being compared to an Inuzuri street rat any more than he would appreciate his son and heir being compared to a carp.

“Well?” Hisana demanded in her rudest voice, the one she used when she was trying to get Byakuya riled up. “Did I do it right? Did I make a Kuchiki? Or is it back to the drawing board?”

“Rukia is correct,” Byakuya managed, his voice rough and low. “I see much of you in him. He is perfect.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Hisana sighed dramatically, as if she had really been worried. She shot Rukia a conspiratorial glance and wagged her eyebrows slightly. “Remind me again, the name you picked out? Do you think it’s fitting?”

“You will find out,” Byakuya replied, in a gentle tone more directed at the baby than at his wife, “in seven days, at the naming ceremony, as is tradition.”

Hisana sighed. “It was worth a try. Well, I’ve got to call him something until then. Rukia, what shall it be?”

“Chappy,” Rukia replied automatically.

“Chappy, it is,” Hisana nodded curtly. “Seven days, or until we get a real name.”

“We must put up with them,” Byakuya solemnly informed his heir, “because we have no choice. But at least there are two of us against two of them, now.”

Rukia saw her sister opening her mouth again, so she slipped her arm around Hisana’s back and gave her a quick squeeze. “Let him have this,” she whispered, “we both know it won’t last long.”

Hisana just laughed and leaned back into her sister’s embrace.

[dawnsaber]

i am regaining a sense of whimsy… i’m one of those people who needs some kind of fictional escape and yet i continue to find myself in periods where i don’t do any of that really. if i’m not reading, gaming, watching fun shows, and in turn being inspired for my art and writing, my life gets very uhhh myopic and sad.

on the flip side i think there have been times where i leaned too heavily into it when i could have been putting more work into my mundane life. still trying to find a balance i guess

[thetravellingvagrant]

Day 4: Lima-Iquitos - In Which I Am Accidentally Quite Racist

We were due to fly from Lima to Iquitos today. Under normal circumstances an 11am flight may just be dancing on the peripheries of being a bit of a faff, what with transportation times to the airport and Sam's absolutely rigid insistence on arriving no later than exactly two hours before flight time under any circumstances, meaning that alarms would generally need to be set for around 8am. This wasn't an issue today, however, as due to the magic of time-zones and the whimsy of sporadic insomnia, we were both wide awake, fully ready to go and honestly, even a little bored by quarter to five.

When the approximate time to leave did finally roll around, we made the short, ten minute walk to the vague location of where the airport express bus was supposed to depart from and then, as is apparently customary in lima, spent a genuinely silly amount of time looking desperately for its exact stopping point - because honestly, even after having now actually caught the bus, I'm still not exactly 100% sure of where that is. According to the website, the pick-up point was outside 'Hostal Torreblanca', a place which, for the life of us, we could not find. Google maps told us that we were standing at it, but there was absolutely no sign that we could make out that we actually were. It wasn't until the bus had arrived to drop passengers from the airport off, before making the circuit around Miraflores to eventually come back and pick us up that we noticed that Hostal Torreblanca was actually right next to us, though had apparently long since either shut down or just stopped maintaining its signage, and allowed all of its letters to erode away, leaving only the faintest outline of the name on its banner. Still though, basically found it first try, even if entirely by accident, so I guess in a way, I win twice?

Passing through airport security was...not a difficult experience. We breezed straight through the security metal detectors, despite me still having a fistful of coins, which I had forgotten to remove, still jangling around my exceptionally cool security-bum-bag, which was thoroughly reassuring and Sam even received a lovely compliment on her bottom from a charming Peruvian security guard, who made a kissy face at her and called her a pretty lady as she bent over to re-tie her shoe. They really do go all out to make you feel special at Jorge Chavez international. Take note, Gatwick.

We boarded yet another fucking flight and were soon whizzing off to the tropical paradise of Iquitos, which to be honest, I was shitting myself over. I decided to spend the lion's share of the flight time working on a blog entry, as, even then, I had fallen quite badly behind schedule – a habit which has clearly only worsened in the following days. I didn't manage to get very much vitriol down on paper, in the end, however, as I was distracted by the genuinely quite impressive view from the window as we cruised over, what I assume was the Pacaya Samiria national reserve.

...It does make writing about being served a plate of squid that you didn’t really want seem a bit silly, I suppose...

After around an hour and a half in the air, staring moon-eyed at the scenery like some giant man-sized bush baby we landed in Iquitos and walked directly into the airport and also a torrential tropical downpour. I've got to say, I enjoy the rain at the best of times - to an almost freakish degree, it has been said - but this jungle deluge really was absolutely choice rain. Premium drizzle, it was. Premiere sprinklage. I walked as slowly as I could without looking properly fucking mental into the airport, with Sam shooting me a look back at me the entire time, as if to say that I'd have to walk a little faster than that to convince her. Once inside, we looked for a stall for the company Taxi Green, which we had been informed by the never-ever-wrong-about-anything Tripadvisor forums were the safest bet in order to not get ripped off or killed and have your still twitching corpse dumped in a storm-drain. We could not, however, actually find any trace of Taxi Green in the airport and so Sam, being the patient and measured person she is, immediately asked the first vaguely trustworthy looking person (i.e. one with a badge) to take us to the city, proper, after – of course – pre-agreeing a price (Which was, as it turned out, double what we should have paid, anyway, so fuck even trying, I guess.). We were whisked away through the storm to his taxi immediately and, crucially, before I could connect to the airport's WiFi to regain my google maps signal, so we really were at his mercy, which was nice. Sometimes it's good to relinquish any control in a scary and unfamiliar place. Keeps you on your toes. Or perhaps dead in a storm drain. It can really go either way

Driving through Iquitos in the rain was pretty cool, though. It's very unlike anywhere I've ever been (because it is) and travelling during a torrential downpour really did make the place seem immediately very tropical (because... it is).

I'm sure you've figured out by now, that the taxi driver did not murder us and leave our still twitching corpses in a storm-drain; instead he delivered us right to the front door of our hostel an even unloaded our bags for us and everything. If he hadn't ripped us off, I might even have called him a gentleman. But he did, so he isn't. Prick.

We buzzed the door of The Amazon Within; the hostel in which we were due to stay a single night before venturing into the actual, for real jungle which would definitely be great and not at all scary. Around a full minute later, a shirtless, gruff man, who looked a bit like a brown Jerry Stiller answered. He said nothing. Unsure if I had buzzed the right place, I told him I had a reservation. After a brief moment- although still far too long a pause for it to have been comfortable, given that I didn't know if I was talking to the right person – he answered back

“Ah, si, reservation, come inside!”

Phew.

He unlocked the door and ushered us in to the building. As it turned out, brown, shirtless, gruff Jerry Stiller was named Julio and he was actually a treasure of a man. He was affable, helpful and welcoming beyond any expectation I would normally have had while checking into a hostel and we spoke for around thirty minutes about the twenty five years he had spent living in both London and Bournemouth (which he pronouncd Baown Mut). Not once did the conversation feel particularly forced, or awkward, or like he was putting on heirs for his guests, it was just very nice and very genuine (A bit of a rarity out here, I feel, as it does seem a little bit like everyone is either trying to get you to give them money for something, or hamming up basic Peruvian culture to a ridiculous degree in order to impress the gringo, usually.)

However lovely Julio was, though, the room he had given us more than ...whatever the opposite of made up (made down? Surely not) for it. It wasn't by a very long way the worst place I have ever stayed (that crown still goes to the Bosnian fire ant palace), but it was certainly not among the top either. It was sparse; four plain white walls and a single, half-broken fan plugged into a crackling socket was all that we had to play with in the bedroom. The bathroom sported a little more colour in the form of brown tiling and with a shower that seemingly was only ever designed to pipe out cold water. Given how absolutely maddeningly hot and humid it is in Iquitos, I suppose a cold shower wasn't the worst thing in the world but still, a little heat, purely so I didn't have to acclimatise each part of my body individually to being under the shower head, would have been nice.

Seeing no great reason for us to hang around in what was definitely starting to remind me of a Colombian prison cell, we ventured out to the hostel's patio, to soak up a little sun, before heading out to a supermarket for some toiletries and a restaurant to eat some food.

We hadn't been sat for more than a few minutes before we were approached by an American lady, whose name I instantly forgot. She spoke at us for a while about her experiences in Peru and how long she'd been travelling and how life-changing doing Ayahuasca, the hallucinogenic peruvian drug tea, had been and so on. All very friendly, yet still somehow utterly intolerable. Eventually though, she got bored of us after realising that we didn't really want to talk about drinking a mind-breaking soup with her and toddled off to sing Tom Petty songs to herself, whilst occasionally loudly affirming just how good Tom Petty is. Again, to herself.

With her out of the way, the coast was clear for us to be bothered by some of the other guests. A chap from Edinburgh and his Irish girlfriend struck up a conversation; him having overheard that we were from Glasgow. He asked what part of it I was from and I told him. He didn't know it. We briefly discussed how it was hotter in London a few days ago than it was in Iquitos and then he told us all about all the travels he had been on, continuously for the last year and a half; only ever venturing back to Scotland once every few months to get his mum to do his laundry for him or something. It was all incredibly boring and nearly exclusively an excuse for him to talk about himself; a subject about which I categorically did not care. Soon, again, the conversation fizzled out. I turned to Sam and asked if she wanted to head out, she replied in the affirmative. As I did, Edinburgh man turned to his own girlfriend and loudly exclaimed “fucking people, man...”. Now, I have no idea why he might have said such a thing, nor to be honest, if that was directed at us or not at all, but if it was, I would very much like to use this blog as a tool to reach out to that man to apologise for not single handedly, artificially keeping the deeply tedious conversation you were having at me, about all the places you've been and drugs you've done afloat. That was wrong of me. If you're reading this, please email me a list of both of those things and I will make sure I read every single entry. Namaste, brother.

Now slightly perplexed, but with a quiet confidence growing that we had accidentally booked ourselves into a proper wank-hostel, we left to go to the supermarket. Neither the heat, nor humidity of Iquitos was sitting well with me. I immediately began to feel quite woozy, though, now I think about it, inhaling the exhaust fumes of about a million tuktuks, all driving around on any bit of the road (and sometimes off it) they damn well pleased and honking their horn non-stop as if trying to appease a giant, angry goose god, probably wasn't helping me feel any better, either. Either way, I was sweaty and unhappy (which you'd imagine I'd be used to by this point in my life, but somehow it still came as a surprise)

After a quick traipse to the supermarket, via the main square (which, while lovely, I did not take any pictures of for fear of having my phone snatched off me by a crime man), we doubled back and walked along Malecon Maldonado; the very, very very touristy little riverfront boulevard, wherein we found the restaurant Dawn On The Amazon, which Sam had heard was highly recommended and was- and this is just a little flavour here-founded by an English man, who had since died in a flood. The food was delicious, though, as was the banana, coffee and chocolate smoothie I accidentally ordered and the view across the Naney river (not quite the Amazon river, but probably close enough to count)

...Acceptable...

Was a genuine delight to eat across from, even if I did end up losing eleven of my twelve pints of blood to mosquitos in the process of sitting outside to look at it.

During our meal, we were approached by (and I swear this is pertinent to the story) a brown man. He asked us if we were going into the Amazon jungle. It being Peru and both Sam and I being on edge about everyone trying to sell us something or steal our money, we told him politely, yet firmly that we had already booked our excursion, thank you very much. He looked baffled and asked

“...So you're going, right?”

We again told him we were so we didn't need to book anything with him. It was only then that I noticed that his accent was very clearly quite Indian. Sam had apparently noticed as well.

“Oh, no, I'm not trying to sell you anything. I just wondered if you had any advice about what we should take into the jungle?” he gestured to his wife, sitting at the table directly behind us.

Fuuuuck. Is that racist? Pretty sure that was at least a little racist. I'm not totally sure what a micro-aggression is, but I was pretty sure I just committed one.. regardless, he took it in good stride, laughing it off and telling us he was proud that he could pass for a local, which, if anything, only made me feel worse. Sam, as helpfully and politely as she could explained to them what they might need in the jungle and then we quietly finished our meal as quickly as humanly possible and left, to pull our own skin off in embarrassment. The only solace that either of us could find in the entire situation was that we would definitely, definitely never see either one of them ever again in all our lives. This is foreshadowing. Did you get it? It was terribly clever.

After a warm, sticky walk back to the apartment, during which my low ebb of health somehow ebbed even lower, we took a couple of lovely ice cold showers and, excited for the adventure the following day (Sam) and/or positively shitting ourselves at the thought of sleeping in the spider capital of the world (me), headed straight to bed.

...For about two hours.

I woke up, coughing. My head was spinning, my body aching, I was drenched in sweat (like, an unusual amount of sweat, even for being in the amazon) my throat glands were inflamed, swallowing was painful and my sinuses were jammed up to all buggery. There was no denying it any more; what I thought was some innocent run-downedness (Which, unlike anality is definitely not a word) was actually something far more sinister. I had the flu. The jungle flu... (Note: not malaria; just a regular flu that I happened to catch in the jungle; calm down, mum.).

The rest of my night consisted of getting around two hours of sleep at a time, followed by my getting up to refill and then completely consume the entire contents of my water bottle from the communal supply, take another freezing cold shower and empty the frankly unusual amount of effluvia that had collected in both my sinuses and bladder, over and over again, before finally my alarm went off and it was now basically fine for me to stop pretending that I was able to sleep. Good thing I had nothing strenuous planned for the next day...