#I’ll refrain from making any further judgment though because AGAIN I’m not trying to be hostile

[no1ryomafan]

Another very specific tangent but I had another very specific realization.

For awhile I was so indecisive on whether or not I’m a “mecha” fan because there’s so many shows I haven’t watched, or just the fact I have a preference for sentient robots even if mecha has a handful of those, but I think I finally come to a conclusion: I *am* a mecha fan because I enjoy the genres history and do want to watch a lot of shows even if they don’t fall under my personal robot preference, since I’m okay with a robot being used to metaphorically represent the pilot as robots or the robot can be characterized through fights even if it’s not in universe sentient- But I still don’t like to be called a “mecha fan” because people will assume “oh you watched this/these shows, your bound to like this one!” Because I am not a fan of having recommendations shoved in my face.

This is a general issue in a lot of fandoms-or quiet honestly, just a people issue lol-so I don’t put the blame on mecha fans specifically, but I noticed this mentality a lot which has turned me off from wanting to watch certain shows. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being passionate about liking a show and encouraging others to watch it, but the issue I tend to see a lot of the time is people just say a show is good without specifying *why*. Not every person will eagerly get into something unless they really have no preferences and will try everything, but if your going to recommend something make sure you *know* why someone likes something and than rec it if you think it’s similar enough.

But even then, I’m not really huge on “oh this show inspired this other show so you HAVE to watch it” because it’s taking away the identities of both individual properties. I see this happen a lot with getter and gurren, the latter becoming a huge turn off for me next to a few other minor factors. I’m sure the show is great, but I don’t like a factor of it’s identity is tied to getter because of its influence when visually it already seems like a different show from Getter. Just because something took a lot of inspiration from something doesn’t mean it’s a carbon copy, so someone is not bound to like one or the other even if they share similar elements because to one person one show might’ve just did it better than the other. (And I have seen this happened with the gurren and getter debate funnily enough, but I also say this from having personal experience with this happening with something else recently)

I also don’t like how with this mindset your assumed you like a show when you actually don’t. I can’t even get into the specifies with this one because I always fear of judgement of which mecha I couldn’t click with given its positive reputation but if the point above wasn’t clear: just because all mecha shows share at least the element of robots fighting and some were direct influences, does NOT mean someone is bound to like or wanna watch every single one. I personally have a lot of mecha I still want to watch but I’m keeping my taste to very specific choices. Mecha as a whole is a niche group as is, but if I can’t find individual communities within mecha I’m less likely to want to try a show. That doesn’t mean I can’t like a show that doesn’t have a fandom-I arguably pioneer the getter fandom in the last two years-but do I really wanna watch a random obscure 70s mecha that only one country remembered and will probably not get a new show if it didn’t get one during the mecha 2000s boom? Not really.

Also I’m just- at a point where I need to watch more 20+ ep anime as is so my ass is NOT gonna be able to stomach larger mecha’s which is why gundam and braves been out of my radar, even if the latter I would probably like a lot. I’m honestly so spoiled with fast pacing that I need to mentally prepare myself for slow burns since I understand some stories need to actually take their time and draw things out because there’s a lot they need to cover-though a lot of the time with longer anime it’s just a product of filler… albeit it’s not the case with mecha given how I don’t think there’s a single accurate manga to anime adaptation besides ig getter arc but more so specific longer mecha’s are episodic-but at the point I am I cannot do that so that limits my options.

But a tldr since I know a lot of people aren’t gonna read this: please do not recommend me mecha unless I ask or your someone I consider a close moot/friend. While I care a lot about the genres history so I want to be as knowledgeable as I can and I plan to watch a lot more shows for potentially years to come, I personally like choosing what to watch since I know more than anyone what I like. Much appreciated.

[wondernimbus]

crash landing — harry potter

pairing: harry potter x female!reader

request: Wow, just wow. Your blog is absolutely phenomenal 😍 Can i request Harry Potter x reader where he accidentally injures the reader who isn't even playing quidditch and smth happens? Thank you 💓💓💓

requests are closed for now. please refrain from plagiarizing my work!

Harry isn't the brightest wizard of his age. He's not especially favored by any of his teachers, nor is he known for being a social butterfly—and he's not exactly one to strictly abide by the rules, either. But what Harry has established so far five years into his time at Hogwarts is this: he's good at Quidditch.

Scratch that, he's bloody great at it. If he were to brag about one thing (which he wouldn't, necessarily, but would if he needed to), it wouldn't be the fact that he survived a killing curse from one of the most powerful darkest wizards in history, nor that quite literally everyone in the wizarding world knows his name, but that he's a damn good Seeker. The youngest in a century.

He's been playing the team for five years now, so if there is one thing that is engrained into his mind, it's this:

When he sees a snitch, he catches it.

So when Harry hovers above the pitch during Quidditch practice and catches a glimpse of a winged golden ball fluttering just to the right of his peripheral vision, he doesn't hesitate. Just swerves around on his broom and makes a bee-line straight for the snitch.

Harry zooms towards the tiny ball, hand already outstretched, gaze fixed entirely on it, not even pausing to register the fact that it's hovering above the head of someone sitting in the stands—

His eyes widen, darting from the snitch to the Slytherin girl sitting just underneath it, whose eyes are wide in terror.

Harry's better judgment wins, in the end, but it's far too late; even as he tries to pull his broomstick to the left, he fails. Miserably.

Harry crashes into the stands—into the girl, sending both of them flying into the benches. Harry's head smacks against something hard: one of the seats. Miraculously, he manages to hang onto his broom, but it's at the cost of whoever unfortunate soul he'd crashed into, because he hears the undeniable smack and the resounding "ow!" that follows the broom's bristles hitting someone's face.

One moment Harry's day is going perfectly well, and the next he is half-laying on the benches of the Quidditch stands, dazed, a mere foot away from the Slytherin girl who had landed on the floor next to him, clutching her head in pain.

Harry blinks, groaning as he pushes himself up slowly.

The girl is muttering curses under her breath; she meets Harry's gaze as soon as it lands on her and shoots him a scathing look. "Bloody fantastic. Really," she says, voice dripping with harsh sarcasm as she massages her head. "Yes, of course, just barrel into a harmless spectator minding her own business. Really good job."

Harry starts to blubber out a string of apologies, but then Wood yells, "Harry!" from where he's hovering next to the goalposts. "Are you alright?"

Harry swallows, looking away from the girl. "Yeah, I'm okay, just—just give me a second!"

"I'm not," the Slytherin grumbles. "I've been concussed."

Harry's first instinct is to flush red. "I'm really sorry, I just—saw the snitch and went for it, I suppose, I'm really s—"

"Help me up first, why don't you?" replies the girl, still obviously irked as she looks up at him.

Harry stands up quickly despite his suddenly sore limbs groaning in protest. He sticks his hand out to the girl, who takes it in her own and lets him pull her up so that she can sit down on one of the benches.

"I'm really sorry," says Harry again. "Do you need me to take you to the hospital wing?"

Scrunching her nose, she looks up at Harry.

Harry realizes that this is definitely not the time to be thinking such things, but bloody hell, she is pretty.

She stares at him expectantly, still scowling a little, brows raised as though waiting for a response. Harry clears his throat and wills himself to stop thinking about things that don't need to be thought of (or at least not right now—he has a feeling that a face like hers, albeit one that's glaring daggers at him, won't leave his head anytime soon).

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" he says, swallowing.

She huffs. "S'pose I'm not the only one who hit their head," she mutters. Bluntly, she repeats, "I asked if you were alright."

At this, Harry's brows jump up in surprise. It's an interesting thing to hear, and not just because she's a Slytherin; she doesn't exactly look like the friendly type.

"Er," he stammers out, a little confused but not entirely against her unexpected concern. "Uh, yeah. I'm doing.. doing peachy."

Out of all the things he could've said. Peachy.

Harry doesn't know if he's imagining it—if he has hit his head and this is the result of a concussion—but it almost looks as if the corner of her lips tugs up into a slight smile.

It disappears quickly, that faint hint of an amused smile, but Harry swears it was there—or was it?

She sighs, dropping the hand that's massaging her head back to her side. "Well, go ahead and get back in the game," she says, tone losing some of its scorn but not all of it. "Wouldn't want you missing out on practice, do we?" She side-eyes him. (Harry ignores the way his heart skips a half-beat.) "Best seeker of the decade and all."

Harry stands there a little awkwardly, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as he looks to her and to the broomstick lying at his feet. "Are you sure you don't need me to take you to the hospital wing?" he asks hesitantly, wondering if he should pick up his broom and fly away, save himself from further embarrassment.

But it doesn't feel right. So even as she glares at him and mutters, "I'll survive a smack to the head", Harry doesn't leave. Instead, scuffling his shoes against the ground, he looks at the rest of his teammates, who continue practicing without him, and then back to the girl.

And maybe it's because of how breathtakingly beautiful she is (under normal circumstances, Harry would say pretty, but that word isn't quite enough to capture how she looks)—but Harry clears his throat and gestures with his hands to nothing in particular, then decides to say, "Can I make it up to you?"

She stiffens just the slightest bit in surprise. Harry's sweaty palms form fists as he tucks them behind his back. "I mean," he begins quickly, just to fill in the silence, "I just. I feel bad—and I don't want to, you know, go around flying around the pitch while you sit here nursing a headache. Doesn't sit right with me, you know?"

The girl purses her lips before turning her head to look up at him. Harry finds himself looking away. Out of all the bloody people he could've flown into, it just had to be the prettiest one.

"Make it up to me with what, exactly?" she asks, flicking her brows up at him.

Harry shifts on his feet. "There's a Hogsmeade trip coming up this weekend," he says. "I could—we could—I'd love to buy you a butterbeer." He pauses, then adds, "Or something."

She stares at him, eyes narrowed just the slightest bit, and then—no, that's definitely a smile. Harry's sure of it. (Unless he hit his head far harder than he thought he did.)

His heart stammers inside his chest as she tilts her head to the side and shrugs. "Suppose it wouldn't hurt as much as a broomstick to the head, would it?"

Harry breaks out into a grin, but then realizes that it probably isn't a good idea to be smiling at the mention of her being hit on the head, so he quickly stops and says, not for the first time that day, "I'm really, really sorry. The snitch was right next to you and—"

"You said bugger all about safety and went straight for it," she finishes, but this time she doesn't sound quite as exasperated as she did before. She doesn't sound very happy, either, but still—Harry allows himself to breathe properly.

"Sorry," he says bashfully.

"It's fine," the girl says, and this time she sounds like she means it. "If I end up fainting in the hallway either today or tomorrow, you'll be the first to know. And then you can start feeling bad."

Harry just barely manages to stop himself from grinning again. Even then, his lips tug up at the edges against his will. "So.. um," he leans down to pick up his broomstick. "I'll meet you at the Great Hall this.. um.. Saturday?"

She eyes him somewhat curiously, lips still pressed together into that almost-smile. "Is this a regular thing?" she asks. "Crashing into girls and asking them to dates?"

Harry's eyes widen. He shakes his head quickly. "No. No way. I wouldn't risk y—"

"Only joking," she cuts him off, and does something that has Harry's heart turning into pure mush inside his chest: she laughs. Harry pauses, relaxing, and wonders if he could somehow go all the way to the Muggle village near Hogwarts, find himself a tape recorder, dash back here, and ask her to laugh again so that he could record it and listen to it over and over.

"You should probably—" she gestures to his broom, then to the pitch. "I don't think your captain would take well to you talking to a girl instead of practicing."

"He'd understand," says Harry, grip tightening on his broomstick. "I mean, especially if it's a pretty girl, but. Er. Yeah." He burns bright red at his own words, scratching the back of his neck and looking away, but not before spotting the smile on her face. "I'll get going now."

"Try not to crash into me again. If you do I'm going to start thinking you're doing it on purpose." She sweeps her arm out in a welcoming gesture, inclining her head as though curtsying. "Fly free, Harry Potter."

Harry swings his legs over his broomstick and kicks up into the air, back into the pitch, and then zooms away.

"About time, Harry!" yells Wood.

But two minutes later, he's whizzing back towards the Slytherin girl, although not as fast as before. This time he means to.

"I didn't catch your name," he says, hovering in mid-air in front of her.

She shakes her head as though in disbelief, then says, loudly, "It's [Y/N]."

"[Y/N]," Harry repeats, grinning. "Has a nice ring to it."

And then he flies away, before Wood kicks him off the team.

[realityhelixcreates]

Beta, Theta, and Me Chapter 9: Magic Carpet Ride

Chapters: 9/?

Fandom: Thor (Movies), Avengers (Movies) Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Relationships: Loki x Reader (But not right now),Drug Use

Characters:  Loki(Marvel) Additional Tags:  A/B/O, Sorta, More Of An Exploration Of  Life And Self Expression Within An A/B/O Framework, Loki Does What He  Wants, But Loki Does Not Actually Do What He Wants, Antagonistic Bosses,  Loki Has A Throne Now, But It’s Not What He Wanted

Summary:  Loki, paragon of self-sacrifice, must face down a cultural taboo.

Loki stared ruefully at the little bottle of pills on the table in front of him.

“You've got to be kidding me.” he said, “Your weak mortal medicine will have no affect on me.”

Tony Stark shrugged. “Works on Cap.”

“I am not your Captain Rogers. We are worlds apart.”

“The guy's a never ending science experiment. We had to develop insanely strong meds for him because, in the event that he actually managed to get hurt, our strongest stuff couldn't help him. But I have it on good authority that this'll do the trick. That authority being your brother. King of Asgard.”

Loki glared in scandalized disbelief. “You are telling me Thor actually took one of these?”

“Took some persuading, but yeah. After he came back down, he was pretty sure they'd work on you too, despite your differences.”

Loki's eyes flicked to you, then back to Stark, then to the bottle. “Hold your tongue. We don't need to discuss this any further. I will not poison myself at your command.”

“It's not poison!” Stark insisted. “It's a painkiller and anti-inflammatory. It will help you heal.”

“You cannot expect me to degrade myself for your convenience.”

“No, I expect you to lie for your convenience.” Stark shot back. “Though I don't see how hiding this from me,” he gestured at the chair, the neck brace, “actually helped you at all. You don't get anything out of it. Anyway, you really need to start cooperating if you want to stay. I'm trying to be lenient, but the more you complicate things, the more likely it is you'll be discovered. I think we all agree that would be bad.

As for you, if you want to come back downstairs and rejoin society, we've always got space for you” he said to you. “The baristas have been asking after you.”

“No!” Loki burst, “If I must befoul myself with your medicines to retain my lodgings, then I require her assistance to oversee things while I am...impaired.”

It had been an accident. Or rather, a lapse in personal judgment. You had left Loki after dressing him one morning, to fix breakfast, and Stark had shown up. And because he was your boss, and owned the building, you had just let him in. That's right, you had helped out the landlord. Your parents would be ashamed of you. You were ashamed.  

And the silent fury Loki had been radiating when he wheeled out into the seating area and Stark had gotten a look at him as he really was made you surprised that he wanted to keep you around at all.

Stark had given him an exasperated earful, and then left, coming back this morning with a bottle full of small pills. You couldn't even come close to pronouncing the complicated name on the label, but from what Stark was saying, they were the kind of thing that should never be taken by a normal person. Not if they had been made with Captain America in mind. Not if they were powerful enough to string out Thor.

You were surprised Loki was even pretending to go along with this, considering the cultural attitudes to chemical medicines in Asgard. Really, you fully expected him to order you to throw the pills away once Stark left.

When you brought him his tea, he sighed deeply, his expression a mask of utter melancholic resignation.

“Crush one of those accursed pills into a powder and add it to the tea.” he said woefully. “Stay by me as I suffer this indignity. Be forgiving of any upcoming transgressions, I implore you.”

“Hey, I'm sure it won't be that bad.” you said, grabbing a cooking spoon, and carefully breaking the pill down into a fine powder with the handle. “It won't stay in your system for very long. Your body will filter it out and flush it away, and you'll be clean again.”

You brushed the powder into his teacup, and stirred until it dissolved. Then you handed it over to Loki, who stared into the cup morosely.

“Won't it be good to not be in pain, even just for a little while?”

“I thought that many times, when I was in the clutches-” He stopped abruptly. “I've thought that many times. It is always denied to me somehow. There's always a catch.” He took a long sip of the tea, and sighed again. “And so I am tainted. At least the tea doesn't taste any different. You are getting better at that.”

“Here, have a muffin.” you offered him your freshest creation. “It says on the bottle that you're supposed to take it with food.”

He accepted the muffin with all the graveness of a prisoner at his last meal, but he thanked you graciously, and stopped you when you started to leave his side.

“I will be rendered a senseless fool by this foul poison. You must stay close, so that I do not do something utterly moronic, like throwing myself from the balcony on the assumption that I can fly. I might not actually survive in my situation, and I dislike long falls anyway.”

“You're scared of heights?” you asked, scarcely able to believe it.

“No,” he said haughtily, “I dislike long falls. It is different.”

“Why do they bother you?”

“That is personal.”

“I've seen your dick.” you pointed put.

“You would not be the first.” he said, matching you for vulgarity.

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever. Do you want more tea?”

Loki glanced into his empty teacup, bemused to see the bottom.

“Yes, I suppose I would.” he said, setting it down for you.

He had tried to teach you the fine art of pouring tea, and you had finally managed to do it without dribbling, but, as Loki put it, you also did it without grace. He didn't say anything this time, just tightened his lips in a sarcastic way, and took a sip.

At least you knew how to make tea to his specifications. It wasn't difficult, once you had figured it out. Just measurements and timing.

He had devoured his muffin, so you brought him another. Loki was extremely particular about flavors; not adventurous at all. Even banana nut offended his senses. But cream cheese met his approval in every application so far, even if he did complain about the texture of bagels.

“You'll have to get me an Asgardian cookbook, if this keeps up.” you said. “I might be able to whip you up something that reminds you of home.”

“I do not necessarily always want to be reminded of home.” Loki said. “And some of our dishes take many hours, even days to make. I need you for more than that. You cannot be in the kitchen at every moment.”

You would never admit it to anyone, but you got a surge of secret pleasure every time Loki said that he needed you. You'd always enjoyed hearing it from others, but it was so much better coming from a god.

Though it did make you wonder if the isolation up here was messing with your head a bit.

“Besides,” he continued, “enough cheese, bread, and meat will approximate the diet well enough. Asgardians have high metabolisms, and require many calories, and so do I. Our active lifestyles tend to make us big eaters as well, although I do not get my usual exercises these days.”

“If you would actually give yourself the time to relax and heal, you might be able to get back to that sooner.”

“Yap, yap, you nag like a bratty lapdog.” He scorned. Your eyebrows skyrocketed.

“Well gee,” you said with exaggerated shock, “if you don't want me here, just go ahead and say so. I'll go downstairs and be a barista.”

“No, you cannot leave me!” There was a distinct waver in his voice. “I will be polite. You won't leave me, will you? I didn't mean it.”

“Loki.” you said, suddenly feeling guilty. He sounded like a scolded little boy, on the verge of tears. “I'm not going anywhere. Don't worry about that. You should be more polite though.”

He reached out gracefully and took your hand.

“Dear lady...” he began, his words slightly slurred, and you finally realized that the medicine was taking effect.

“How are you feeling?” you asked, filling his tea again.

“Strange.” he said. “I feel light, but like there is a weight upon my eyes. Light, but like I cannot lift my limbs. One with this chair. Melting into the floor. I do not hurt...it's been so long...”

He really was starting to tear up.

You took his tea from his trembling hand and grabbed up a tissue.

“Here you go.” you said, dabbing his eyes gently. “Go ahead and enjoy it. Pain shouldn't be an everyday thing for you, if it doesn't have to be. You don't have to feel bad for enjoying a little bit of peace.”

“No, you don't understand. I don't deserve this. The pain was at least something familiar. I don't recognize this feeling. This lightness. It doesn't feel real.”

“Well, you are real, and I am real, and the medicine is real. The feeling is the medicine acting on your perceptions, so it's kinda real, it's just different than usual, that's all.” you patted his hand, and he grabbed for yours.

“Will this feeling go away?”

“Of course!” you laughed, “don't worry, this is just temporary. It will help your neck, and when you're healed, you won't have to take it anymore.”

“What if I can't stop?” he asked. “I am...not good at refraining from...indulgence.”

“If no one brings you anymore, what could you do about it?”

“If I am healed enough to remove this brace? To move about freely? What could I not do about it?”

“You know, that's a good point. I think we'll have to find you some of that ultra-powerful super weed the cops keep saying totally exists, but no one else seems to be able to find.”

He gave you a sideways stare. “More poisons?”

“It's to help free you from the other poison. But there are multiple strategies for getting clean, if that really becomes a problem. It's not like I've never seen addicts before; I'll help you if you need me.”

He reached for your hand again, and missed.

“Blessed thing.” he blabbered. “You are a draught of Alfar wine, brewed under the starlight. The fresh breeze through the forests of Vanaheim, just after sunrise. You are the faithful moon, pure as gold.”

“And you are high as balls.” you teased, bashful about the flowery praise. You really shouldn't be pledging any more of yourself, but the allure  of being needed-wanted even, was as addictive as any drug.

“You are the only once who may see.” he said. “I want no one else to see me like this. Stark especially. None save you may witness my dishonor.”

“Loki,” you mock-scolded, “if you keep looking at it like that, you'll impede your own progress. You'll fight it subconsciously, and just slow your healing down.”

“How, pray tell, should I look at it then?” he asked.

You took his hand, which was still waving around after yours.

“Look at it as permission. Permission to relax, to let the guard down and just exist for a while. You have everything you need right here, you can just be. It's okay to take some time to just be.”

“Just be what though? What is worth it for me to be?”

You shrugged. “A prince?”

“In exile.”

“A god?”

“Blasphemed rather than worshiped.”

“How about...my master?”

He squirmed a little in his chair.

“I could perhaps do that effectively.” he said quietly.

[buzzdixonwriter]

Trigger Warnings

Recently on my Facebook page someone took me to task who was triggered by a political cartoon I shared.

The cartoon showed the symbol of Justice being held down and muffled by the arms of a male figure. 

Before we go further, let me state there is no judgment to be passed on the person who was triggered.

They have a personal history that explains why the image would trigger them.  Their reaction is not to be evaluated:  It happened, and it needs to be acknowledged.

And while I don’t think the image crossed the line and serves a greater good as a warning against an onrushing authoritarian mindset (elsewise I wouldn’t have shared it), to the person in question my motives and rationales don’t matter.

They saw something that reminded them of trauma in their past and it hurt them.

To have caused that hurt, even unintentionally, is something I regret and apologize for.

. . .

I belong to a writers’ group that meets once a week at a local bookstore.

It’s a good group, although last year it was an even better group.

I’ll explain.

While no one is compelled to participate, those who bring something to share with the group typically read it aloud at the table.

Mind you, we’re literally in the middle of the bookstore as we do this.  They’re open for business and customers of all ages are coming and going until the store closes and the writers’ group ends at 8pm.

While the group’s membership has always been elastic, with new members joining and old ones leaving for whatever reason, our core group numbered around ten, divided roughly evenly among those who identified as female, those who identified as male, and those who identified as non-binary.

[SIDEBAR: At this point I have lost those who read the first block above and decided I was an unrepentant sexist because I didn’t retract what I posted even though I expressed regret for causing hurt, and now those who assumed I was going to stand up to what they consider “political correctness”.  

So be it.

I am a writer, and a writer faces two primary charges:  Know thyself and To thine own self be true.

To know one’s self means to constantly be questioning and re-examining one’s presumptions, weighing them against new knowledge and experience.

To be true to one’s self means not to compromise that self-knowledge in a desire to please others.

I write for an audience of one, and if I am not satisfied with what I write, of what value is your opinion?

You may very well challenge what I write after the fact and you may indeed convince me to change my mind -- it has happened -- but unless I believe in the veracity of what I write when I write it, it’s all bullshit.]

The group was very diverse in opinion / style / skill / politics.

We tacitly agreed that politics in any work read aloud would not be commented on.  

We would assess the style and technique, but never challenge a writer’s personal beliefs directly.  (See above “to thine own self be true”)

We carefully and respectfully critique style and technique.  No one ever says “Your story is stupid” though they might say “It was hard to follow the characters’ motivations”.

We support other writer’s efforts even when not in our wheelhouse, and seat writers who specialize in sci-fi of a libertarian bent, old school horror, gender-bender romances, and my own off the wall material.

(The other writers are unfailingly polite and never once say, “What the hell were you thinking, Buzz?”)

And we respect of the fact not all of us write at the same skill level or the same stage of our careers; no matter, if you’re there to hone and improve your craft, we’re there to help.

But while we set no preconditions on what can / can not be read at the table, we realize a few practical real world concerns need to be addressed.

First, as mentioned we meet in a working bookstore during business hours.  Everybody from elderly retirees to grade schoolers could come in at any hour.  Being aware of our venue, if one’s material might be considered edgy, we wait until the store seems less crowded to read it or skip over the more adult / violent / gruesome parts.

(Here’s where style and technique come into play.  A traditional monster story can get away with fantasy carnage that would redline a contemporary crime story.  A non-binary romance written by someone from that background is more palatable than a similar tale written by a heterosexual for titillation.  A skillful writer can describe something in a manner that creates a vivid impression in their audience without using any explicit language.)

Second, among the table itself sit those not comfortable with certain types of stories or scenes.  We consider it good manners to offer a heads up before reading a story -- “This one is a little risqué” or “This is a crime story with some gruesome details” -- so that those who might be triggered by such material can either prepare themselves for it or, if they know they would respond poorly, leave the table while it’s read.

(Acceptable table etiquette states if one feels triggered by a story one may leave the table until it’s finished.  We view this not as a reflection on the story or writer but simply an acknowledgment of the effect of the story on the one who heard it.)

As I said, as good as the group is now, a year ago it was even better.

But then the Turdmonger showed up.

. . .

I’m going to refrain from describing the Turdmonger.  I will limit my comments on their writing to this saying it was a contemporary crime thriller.

No, I’m lying, I’ll comment further: While there certainly are real life parallels to the story being read, I personally found the style and technique laughable, sounding much more like something a 12 year old boy would write than a person my age or older.

And by this I don’t mean that the sentence structure and story flow felt awkward (though that argument certainly could be made) but that the crimes were described at a 12 year old’s level of sophistication and titillation, not the way a mature adult would be expected to approach the material.

Soon-ok watches murder mysteries and crime documentaries and shows like Forensic Files all the time and I know there are myriad means of conveying brutal / explicit information without raising a typical audience’s “ick!’ factor, much less actually triggering someone susceptible.

The Turdmonger triggered quite a few people their first time reading at the table, but despite being upset those writers felt willing to count it as simply the Turdmonger’s ignorance of the table guidelines.

We clued the Turdmonger in and asked for warnings in the future; the Turdmonger agreed to do so.

Next time the Turdmonger read, same problem.  No warning, then =boom!= -- really rough stuff.

People looked visibly distressed when the Turdmonger did this.  Again, we requested the Turdmonger give a warning or better yet, bring copies for those of us willing to read their work and provide feedback.  (IIRC, mostly the male readers volunteered to expose ourselves to this, though one or two female or non-binary writers may have done so as well.)

So, problem solved, yes?

No.

The next time the Turdmonger appeared, back to their old tricks.  Now people looked more than a little upset.

They saw this not as a simple mistake, but a deliberate pattern.

The Turdmonger got cautioned yet again on appropriate for table read etiquette.

Despite that, the Turdmonger seemed unable to grasp female and non-binary writers writing about their own traumatic experiences could do so with far greater authority than the Turdmonger.

First off, they always prefaced their reading with a trigger warning, and they always kept an eye on the venue, careful not to continue reading when children or people who might be offended came within earshot.

Second, they wrote from the point of view of someone who actually suffered significant trauma in their past, and wrote not so much to titillate or entertain as to exorcise demons of their own.

Because of my personal schedule, I’m frequently the first person to bolt out of the bookstore when the table ends at 8pm.

As a result I wasn’t privy to discussions some table members had after the store closed.

While I knew the Turdmonger’s readings upset many of them, I wasn’t aware how deep and how painful their trauma went.

Events conspired against me and I missed a couple of meetings.  When I returned, the table felt on edge.  

The Turdmonger returned the previous week and read a new story, one that by all accounts sounded deliberately crafted to spit in the face of those who asked for trigger warnings.

The Turdmonger appears to have gotten their jollies out of tormenting those who felt triggered.

That’s why the Turdmonger never brought more copies for volunteers to read; by and large we were somewhat older, somewhat more seasoned, certainly less likely to be triggered by their clumsy attempts at provocation.

(I mean, geeze, I was an editor at Penthouse Comix and wrote for The Little Clowns Of Happy Town; there are no horrors left to make me blanch.)

I’ll spare the he / she / they said of that meeting, mostly because it would not be fair for me to try to summarize the various divergent opinions, but also because it serves no purpose in this narrative.

The Turdmonger achieved their desired result.  The writers’ group split up, with roughly a third staying with the original group, and the bulk of the rest -- mostly female and non-binary writers -- forming a new group.

Which is a pity, because several of them were among the best and most insightful writers in the group.

. . . 

The bookstore writers’ group still meets, and we’re slowing rebuilding our ranks.

We lost many of our best members, and I’m saddened by that:  They truly contributed great insights to the table.

The Turdmonger, achievement unlocked, never came back.

I would love to have the Turdmonger return…just once.

At the table and at other venues such as conventions, etc., I am very judicious in my feedback.

Not everybody operates at the same level, and while I might point out areas where a writer or artist can work to improve their craft, I will never be cruel or dismissive.

But if I am being paid as an editor and you are being paid as a writer and you turn in a sub-par piece of crap, I will rip out your heart and shit in the hole.

Promise.

That’s what you get for disrespecting my craft.

And oh, dear Turdmonger, how I hope you come back just one time.

One time is all that I will need.

. . . 

Last week a writer who is a mom came to our table for the first time with her 14 year old daughter in tow (I’m guessing 14; definitely under 16).

The story I planned to read that night featured a 14 year old schoolgirl getting comeuppance on an obnoxious boy her age.

Some might call it risqué’ but I carefully avoided anything explicit and kept the style and tone down to a PG-13 level.

But still…the daughter’s first visit to the table, and she’s subjected to a story she might find (a) embarrassing if not (b) creepy?

So I said I would shelve the story until a later time.

Fortunately, that later time turned out to be just two hours when mom and daughter needed to leave early.

Once they left I read the story to the rest of the group.

They laughed.  They found it entertaining.  They agreed I didn’t cross any lines.

But they also thought I made a damn good choice in not reading it in front of the girl and her mom.

Now it’s not impossible that after I sell the story and it’s published, the girl may find it and read it herself, and in the privacy of that read (as opposed to being trapped at a table with a bunch of adults) find it cute and funny and get a kick out of it.

Or she might ask, “What the hell were you thinking?”

To which I would say:   “Child, get in line…”

. . .

So back to my Facebook post, the one that unfortunately triggered a person through no fault of their own.

A few days ago I posted on colonialism, and how it affected our storytelling over the last five centuries.

I approached the topic from the angle of old pulp magazines, citing with deliberate vagueness how they frequently featured damsels in distress and / or the evil “Other” on their covers.

When I wanted to find art to highlight the post, I realized I couldn’t use any actual pulp covers.

Doing so would undermine the very argument I was making.

Instead I posted a Carl Barks’ Scrooge McDuck painting that spoofed the old style pulp covers.

It’s anthropomorphic ducks and pigs parodying the tropes of old adventure pulps.

You can’t successfully argue that it carries the same meaning as the original pulp covers because it displays those tropes and ridicules the reasons for them.

I mean, how seriously can you take a dance hall dame when she’s a DUCK?

(From my tenure at Penthouse, I know some people out there most certainly do get off on anthropomorphic ducks; nonetheless, they remain outliers, not the standard.)

The point of art in whatever form is to get the audience to look at something afresh, to see connections and meanings previously hidden.

I can’t fault and certainly would never blame the persons who felt triggered by the image I shared for what they felt.

That’s a wholly legitimate reaction.

It’s unlikely I’ll post something that might produce this particular trigger in the future; it’s just too specific to the political comment in question.

If I do think an image might trigger this person, I’ll make an effort to see that it doesn’t pop up on their Facebook feed.

As a writer, I keep a lot of references handy.

I’ve got a large number of medical photos that would upset a great many people.

Those will never be shared with the public at large.

I’ve got a few crime and war photos I will never share.

But you will see some old comic book and pulp covers I use for fictoids (i.e., add captions and dialog to), as well as old time magazine ads and illustrations from less enlightened eras.

You’ll also see almost everything I post along those lines either deconstructs or ironically comments on the image depicted.

I never present it as is.

So while I will take care in the future, I make no promise never to post or say things that may trigger people without warning.

What I find acceptable and appropriate clearly is not what everybody finds acceptable and appropriate.

I will promise to listen to responses, and try to learn from them.

That’s the only way I can be true to myself.

  © Buzz Dixon

[zombies-apocalypse]

My final thoughts on The Lizzie Bennet Diaries

For those that don’t know, I’m a big fan of Pride and Prejudice. It’s one of my all-time favourite stories and while I always tend to like the adaptations, I’m not completely blind to the flaws within them.

So sit with me a minute while I go into my thoughts and opinions of this series as well as a bit of comparison to the original source material.

This will be a bit long, so I’ll tuck it under a read more.

Spoilers below in case you haven’t seen it. Then again, I don’t think I thought to tag any of my liveblogging about this show with my spoiler tag so... 

For the same of brevity, not that this post will have much of that, I’ll refrain from being too longwinded on ALL the characters and try to keep it together as much as I can. I’ve already rewritten several sections of what’s below long before I scrolled up to add this bit.

Mr and Mrs Bennet 

We never get to see the both of them, though we catch a glimpse of Mrs Bennet at the very end. Most of our view of them is slanted, portrayed through their biased daughter but they felt legit. We still got a good sense of who they were as people and it felt like they were the Mr and Mrs Bennet I’ve always known.

Jane 

Sweet cinnamon roll. Jane has always been a favourite of mine. Sweet, kind, sees the best in everyone, and forgiving. Jane is always this beacon of bright and the portrayal of her in TLBD is on point. Supportive, bringing tea, offering advice and companionship, and sending care packages even if she’s hurting. That’s Jane, alright, through and through.

And then intro new Jane. In the novel Jane does rise above her pain of Bingley’s departure, but not quite like this. In TLBD we see a Jane come out of her heartache that could have lived happily without him. A Jane who better knew herself and despite knowing that sometimes things don’t always work out, still had hopes for the future. I really loved getting to see the post-breakup Jane and watching her from there until the very end.

Bingley (Bing Lee)  

The show’s portrayal of Bing is charming and funny and sweet. Everything that Bingley is and should be. Even when he left, you never once doubted that he was a great guy and a complete sweetheart but let’s face it - Bingley has always been a wee bit of a dumbass. He, like Jane, sees the best in people and as such can be a bit naive and that comes true with his belief that the dairies were letters to Charlotte for so long along with him letting Darcy and Caroline step inbetween him and Jane.

But the whole storyline with him quitting med school, deciding that was not what he wanted in his life. I loved that added touch. I loved seeing a Bingley who decided to stand on his own feet, to make his own decisions. He was still a cinnamon roll and a hopeless romantic, but he was wiser by the end.

Lydia 

Ahh, Lydia. In the book we see Lydia as a bit of a dumbass - a girl naive of the truth of men, of the world. A girl distracted by music and dancing and parties and vanity. In this series we see this too. Lydia who barges in and tries to steal the spotlight. Lydia who goes out partying whether she’s old enough to or not. Lydia who flirts with all the boys 

We see that and then we see her grow in the webseries. We see her anger and pain when Lizzie tries to tell her to grow up. We see her barely holding herself together when she finds out the truth about Wickham (something she never did in the original) and the dam falls to show the truth - to reveal a girl who never felt like she was good enough for anyone and who hurts because the one person she believed thought she was good enough, someone she thought loved her, betrayed her so horribly. Then seeing her cling to her sister sobbing, seeing them work on their relationship, culminating in her consideration before barging into frame and the final gift to her sister. 

And one of the greatest things is that Lydia didn’t end up married to an asshole who never loved her. <3 YAY!

I have to say, I loved what the webseries did with her. 

Kitty

In the novels Kitty is Lydia’s shadow. Lydia 2.0 who follows in her slightly older sister’s footsteps. Honestly, it doesn’t bother me one bit that Kitty is an actual cat in the webseries. The only thing we really lose is Kitty backing up any of Lydia’s schemes and whims.

Mary 

Mary was pushed further into the background than she was in the books and that’s not saying much. I’m sure I’d have more of an opinion on her if I had watched Lydia’s vlogs. (Which I likely will soon enough.)

I did like what I saw of her. Serious Mary given some depth so that she was more than just a somber figure. 

Charlotte

I gushed over Charlotte a bit with this series. Okay, I did it a lot. Charlotte was always such a footnote in the original novel - her only bit of importance being that she was Lizzie’s friend and later Mr Collin’s wife. We don’t even get much time with her in there and, well, her friendship with Lizzie hardly compared with Lizzie and Jane’s friendship.

But in this show. THIS SHOW. Charlotte was given depth, her simple ambitions (to marry well so she could live well) expanded. Her talent. Her nuances. The fact that we actually got to see her, time and time again, be a friend to Lizzie. The fight between her and Lizzie, the discomfort in being treated as a sidekick, in Lizzie’s selfishness... Them making up and her showing up in the rain for their birthday. Also I loved that instead of her marrying Mr Collin’s she ended up taking over C&C, something which she rightfully deserved.

I just... I loved it. I loved this portrayal of Charlotte and I don’t think I’ve ever loved a portrayal of Charlotte before.

I considered giving Caroline, Fitz, Catherine, Mr Collins, and Annie their own section but I decided against it. Although tweaked to fit with modern times, each character felt like they fit their original roles and really did not deviant that far from their original characterization save for offering Caroline some depth by pointing out her actions were partially motivated by fear of losing those closest to her. 

Wickham

Wickham gets his own section so I can say, once more, that I hate him. 

The webseries did an excellent job adapting him to the modern story and still making him charming and, at heart, a complete jerkwad. God, do I hate him.

Gigi

We don’t get that much time with Darcy’s little sister in the book, but what we do fits with what we know of her. Darcy praises his sister, who he practically raised, and it’s well-earned. She’s just lovely and quiet and...

And this version isn’t exactly quiet and I love it. Not only did they age her up, but they levelled her relationship with her brother. They actually feel like siblings, especially with her ploys to push him and Lizzie together. She is every bit the accomplished and kind girl we knew in the book, but she’s young and excited and clever (and not very good at hiding that she has ulterior motives) and I adored her.

And this brings us to Darcy and Lizzie themselves. My favourite pair. My favourite gentleman and my favourite lady. One of the things I have always loved about Pride and Prejudice is reading and seeing the growth of these two characters and this show delivered on that. 

I also loved that Darcy was still the Gentleman I knew him to be. The one who took Lizzie’s scathing rejection with as much grace as he could, who gave her the letter to tell his side of the Wickham story, and then left her in peace to make her own choices about it. The same Darcy who came to Lydia’s rescue out of love for Lizzie without ever expecting anything in return - not even her thanks. The same Darcy who expresses his love once more, but leaves the power in Lizzie’s hands to decide.

I just... That was always something I loved and still love about Mr Darcy. It’s something that keeps me returning to the same story over and over and over again. A gentleman who puts the needs and wants of the people he cares about over his own needs and wants. A gentleman who does the best he can for the people he cares about, even if that was a mistake (like with Jane and Bingley). 

And then we have Lizzie. Judgmental, rash, intelligent, and stubborn Lizzie. Another character portrayed so well. The added storyline of her own personal growth in her life, her finding out what she wanted to do with her life, her own relationships with her family and friends being given more thought... I enjoyed that quite a bit. I’ve always loved Lizzie’s wit and backbone.

I’ve always loved reading and watching the pair grow more thoughtful, more empathetic towards others. Seeing them grow to see people beyond the wall of their prides and and prejudices. 

So TLDR; The Lizzie Bennet Diaries are a delight to watch and a wonderful adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. While it may not be a hundred percent faithful to the novel, it’s faithful at it’s core and heart. I dare to say this is one of the best versions of Pride and Prejudice that I’ve ever had the pleasure of watching.

[friendshipcampaign]

Journaling

I’ve been keeping some of the downtimes between Ditto and the Tome secret but this one had some plot information that the others might be interested in. (Ditto will probably tell the others about this in character once there’s a quiet moment, but given where we left things off last time who knows how long that will be?)

While Voski prepared for bed, Ditto sat down in the hall, opening the Tome of Mysnkay on her lap and writing.

"Okay! So, first things first, we're all okay. It looked a little scary there, but we got away from the shadows. Also!! There was something outside the town that you might be interested in. I think the local wizard summoned it to guard the town? That's what it sounded like from talking to the innkeeper anyway."

She described the wraith in as much detail as she could remember, adding a couple illustrations to really drive the point across.

"This town has a necromancer?" the Tome said. "Do ask them about their techniques."

Ditto made a face at that. She didn't want to judge the wizard without really meeting her, but . . . after talking to her assistant she wasn’t sure how much she wanted to talk to her at all. Besides that, the others would probably want to move on right away in the morning.

Then again, Voski did say how she wanted to support anything that might help them understand the magic they were bound by. And even if Lakaphai didn't know anything about that, maybe she had a book or something on the subject. But still. Ugh. Maybe. If Mynskay really wanted to hear about necromancy, fine, maybe. Maybe they'd find a necromancy book in the boarded up room instead, and then wouldn't have to talk to the wizard.

She looked down and realized she'd been tapping the tip of the pen on the corner of the page, making a series of nervous little dots. She pulled her hand back and said "sorry," out loud, fully aware the Tome couldn't hear her.

"I don't know if necromancy is her main thing. Her assistant said she was into conjuration, but they had to learn a bunch of other stuff to deal with some of the problems plaguing the town," she wrote. "But even if that's true, necromancy is probably a big area of study for them with all the shadows around. There's something else, too. The guard at the gate who let us in? Doesn't have a shadow. I mean, doesn't have a regular shadow. Isn't that a heck of a thing?"

". . . One always hesitates to jump to conclusions," the Tome replied, "But a gatekeeper with no shadow in a town surrounded by swarms of shadows seems unlikely to be a coincidence."

Ditto smiled at that. "Heh, yeah, I was thinking the same thing. You think their shadow turned into one of those shadows? The bitey ones?"

"It's certainly possible. Tell me more about this town and its wizard. Does it seem like the sort of place that would try to raise an undead army, or one so beholden to those in power that it wouldn't raise objections?"

"Well...talking to them it sounds more like the wizard is protecting them from the shadows. I can tell you for sure the townsfolk don't want the shadows around. The whole town seems to be doing...bad. I'm pretty sure everyone would really rather have them gone.”

“I guess it's possible the wizard is still behind the shadows, but if they are the townsfolk sure don't know about it, they're pretty sure the opposite is going on. And the inkeeper...she seemed scared out of her mind when she was talking to us. I think she might be worried that we're outsiders who are gonna go sticking our big noses into their business. (She's right to be worried. There's a locked room down that hall that definitely has some secrets in there and we're totally gonna break into it later.)"

"I didn't meet the wizard, but she has a tower in the center of the town just for her, which seems awfully fancy to me.  She's clearly worth a lot to the people here. And her assistant seems--" Ditto hesitated, looking for the right word. "Confident in how valuable they are to the town. I guess I can't blame her if the wizard is the one who summoned the wraith that keeps the shadows out, though."

"I nearly asked if you made it a habit to break into other people's property on a whim, but you're an adventurer. Of course you do,” the Tome wrote. “If I was still alive you'd be exactly the sort of person I'd go out of my way to avoid. But no, go on, enjoy your breaking and entering. And if you haven't been driven out by morning do try to ask about the wraith. It's an unusual guardian; I'd be interested to know how they did it."

Ditto's brow furrowed as she read. She licked the tip of the quill and began writing her reply.

"Okay first of all: fair. Fair. That's fair. I'll take that criticism. I wouldn't call myself an adventurer but I am...pretty much acting like one here. So...fair. But second of all...wait. You used to be alive? You didn't mention that...I just...sort of assumed you were always a book."

The Tome rustled its pages in a gesture that Ditto was pretty sure is the closest it could get to a sigh. "You really know very little about necromancy, don't you? If you'd met your elf friend when he was dead would you have assumed he'd always been a ring?"

"Well, I mean...If he'd introduced himself as The Ring of Erwyn I just might have.” Ditto replied. She was so full of questions she could almost feel them piling up behind the quill in her hand, eager to be written out. “Was Mysnkay your name before? Or is that just your book name?"

"I was known as Mynskay before I took this form, yes," said the book.

"So what happened? Or is that too personal a question to ask?” Ditto hastily added. “If it's too personal or if it's upsetting to talk about that's okay, just tell me to shut up and I will."

"I died. It was terribly inconvenient, but fortunately I'd had the foresight to set up a contingency. I'd prefer not to discuss the matter further."

"Gotcha. Sorry that happened." Ditto fiddled with the end of her quill. In the back of her mind she wondered if Erwyn and Mynskay might want to talk to each other about dying sometime. Maybe it would be nice to speak with someone who'd been through a similar thing? That sounded like a really hard conversation to set up, though. "Well, anyway...I'll let you know if we learn anything. And I'll try to talk to the wizard about necromancy stuff."

She paused, biting her lip. A part of her didn't want to write this next part, but . . . . "Actually, if you want...I could try to introduce you? You'd probably have a much better conversation with them writing in you than going back and forth through me."

"True, true.” The Tome wrote out. “You seem suspicious; is there anything about you or your companions that I should refrain from mentioning if you do set up a conversation? Or any intelligence you wish me to gather?"

"Ooh, that's a thought. Probably don't mention anything about us being in service to the fey. We're just traveling through town. And I mean...obviously don't mention us breaking into a room at the inn. And maybe don't mention Erwyn dying? Not because I think it needs to be secret, just, I think it might be kind of personal for him? It might be better to let him bring it up with other people, if he decides to at all."

Ditto considered whether she should add not mentioning that she was a wizard. But that wasn't an important lie. She just...really hadn't wanted to talk to Hayel. Or for Hayel to be too interested in her. Or for Lakaphai to be too interested in her. But she also didn't want to build up elaborate lies around it, that seemed more trouble than it was worth. She decided to just let Mynskay use their own judgement.

"Intelligence-wise . . . I mean, you did say those shadows might be caused by an academic type up in a tower.” She wrote, “and now there's an academic type up in a tower. And obviously I have a WHOLE lot to learn about necromancy and for all I know wraiths just keep shadows away, but...well, it occurred to me that if you make a bunch of shadow creatures that everyone's afraid of, and if you don't want people to get pissed at you over it, and if you have some ability to bend them to your will you could just have them stay outside the town and put a guard there to make it look like that was the reason why?"

She paused and fiddled with her quill. "And maybe that's not what's going on at all, and I'm just jumping to conclusions and being judgmental because of personal reasons? But . . . yeah, I am kind of suspicious. At least a little. So. I wouldn't say there's especially any intelligence I want you to gather but that's why I'm suspicious. And if you think I might be onto anything . . . well, that's just something to keep in mind I guess." She paused. "Oh! But...if they seem nice? Maybe you could ask them if they know much about fey magic, or if they have any books on it? Because if so I might want to talk with them too."

"Noted. I'll see what I can learn, should the opportunity present itself."

"Thanks. Oh! And...if you can figure out why the guard doesn't have a shadow? That seems like something worth knowing too." She paused. "Hopefully they're nice."

"Even if they aren't, I'll do my best to investigate.” The book wrote. “I have extensive experience dealing with writers who are less kindly than you are."

Ditto smiled at that. As the letters swirled away to make room for her reply, she dipped her pen in the red ink and drew a great big heart, with smaller hearts doodled around it. The book didn't seem to know how to respond to that. Its ink swirled around the heart for a long moment, and then it slowly sunk into the page.

[triedmybestyouknow]

This is my official “done with it” sendoff letter.

This is the last thing I ever want to write to you, whether or not you ever see/hear about it.

Mary,

I am sitting here, looking into my phone. Typically, I know exactly what to type here, am totally sure of exactly what I need to get off of my chest so that I can feel like I’ve said my peace. Usually, I have all four rhetorical cylinders engaged. I’m full throttle. Usually I’m all in.

These days, though, as I become more open about my private feelings and become more publicly transparent. I feel a kind of reactive internal backlash against speaking fully my mind and my heart. I have become painfully aware that the emotion of a day or a week or a month (or a minute) may not be ultimately representative of me or how I’m really feeling. My recently espoused confessionalist-style public persona has been an experiment in social bravery and a concerted effort to weed out the people in my life who aren’t doing due diligence as my purported friends. This has been working very well, but that’s not necessarily a happy development. I recognize that sometimes this can even give me the appearance of— well— not being self-aware, and maybe the idea of such social self-immolation seems excessive and necessarily the product of poor judgment to those at the periphery of my life. One way or another, I have to face the fact that I wake up every single day with myself and only myself. I have to accept that these are my thoughts, my feelings and that often, verblizing them can feel very much like stripping down naked in front of a crowd. Holding steadfast in my resolve to demonstratively love the emotional form within myself by making no endeavor to mask it has been a means of tempering my high self-monitoring in the interest of developing relationships in which I feel as though I have real emotional breathing room, where I can be what I see to be my authentic self, so that maybe (just maybe) I can learn to accept and love even the parts of me I think of as impurities.

Wow, that was a long explanation for that.

I am sitting here, still staring at my phone. I am trying to think of how I would want to address you if I knew it was the last time, how I would want to talk to you if I was sure I never would again.

I think I would want to be gentle, despite all my justified anger at you.

No amount of talking will ever properly outline our relationship, its impact upon me, or the damage it ultimately did to me (and why). No amount of talking can create an adequate facsimile of my feelings inside anyone else, and I’m not even 100% sure what they really are.

The ugly thing out of the way first, though. I do not like who you currently are at all. But I think explaining that would be redundant. You have a working memory and a conscience, should you feel motivated to use them. It serves little purpose to wave the things about yourself that you hide from in your face so that you can better resent and deride me. I’ll refrain. But the point must be made: the fact that there is no longer any home here in my life or heart for the current you needs to be communicated, gotten out of the way, before I can keep writing. I want nothing to do with you anymore. Nothing at all.

Okay.

Did that now.

And again I’m sitting here, looking at my phone. Eight years of memories are passing through me. What could I say that could even approach sufficient? I don’t know. I feel like there’s absolutely no way to fit such a seminal, foundational, substantial chunk of my life and emotional development into one letter. I am diminished in the face of such a monumental task. So often it feels like the right thing to say is hanging in the air just above my head. But I can’t seem to catch it.

Rather than swinging with open palms at the air, then, let me instead tell you about me seven months ago editing and cutting hours and hours of footage on my computer. I had decided to make a movie. You know what happens when I get something in my head. It was intended to be an inquiry on love, on why we do it even though it essentially guarantees our eventual misery when we are severed from the object of our love.

I ran around the city, filming location after significant location: my basement, RPL, the stairwell at edgebrook where we first kissed. I endlessly drank coffee and kickstarts. My eyes were chronically red. I slept poor. I ate in huge caloric bursts followed by long fasts. I wrote down ideas for my narration and execution of shots with an intense, passionate fervor. I was creating something dynamic, something compelling. I was creating the largest love letter I’ve ever seen or heard of. I captured old footage of my family from a vhs player, did many interviews. I thought only of making something to externalize my love, to further align myself with the role I had played since before I met you: the hopeless romantic, the soldier of passion, the last bastion of beauty in a barren landscape of what I saw as cynicism touting itself as pragmatism. I was nearly halfway done with a full feature-length film created solely with my cracked up iPhone seven with the dubious battery and a tiny Samsung microphone for narrative purposes only. I resuscitated my very first flip phone and pulled up old footage and messages from you. I wanted to be the miracle worker I had always been, the ace, the impossibly deniable force, the magic boy who could always and had always won you over with his unbelievable dedication to whatever it was he believed in, my legs shaking as I insisted on getting up off the canvas floor of the boxing ring one more time to prove to the world, through sheer grit, that love wins, that one voice can drown out a fucking hurricane if it tries hard enough.

You know what I’ve been thinking about a lot? That phrase “when does a collection of sticks turn into a pile?”

I don’t know when. And I don’t know when this romantic interplay of you telling me no and me just believing a little harder to endear you to me a little further turned into you exploiting my love and using me for momentary sexual satisfaction or comfort at an emotional expense to me so deep that I was never able to talk about it... But I said this letter wouldn’t be about that...

I’m so used to knowing: knowing what to say, knowing things other people don’t, knowing what’s right, knowing how to make something right. I think I always knew that I would eventually be at capacity, but looking back my capacity was so large. I forgave you so many times over in my heart. And that’s because, wow, did we ever have a story. All those years are a blur to me these days, with so many special and unique highlights. You were the first piece of what I can only accurately describe as “bliss” I encountered in my life. The limerence and the explosions of discovery of oneself within another, those moments were potent and poignant. I still have such a clear memory of me laughing at myself in the mirror feeling young and attractive and loved as I waited excitedly for you to come over for the very first time. That was my very first significant life victory and it stood to me as proof that my modality of living was the right one. Loving hard and working hard and believing hard and manifesting my reality every single day was going to be the mechanism by which I would enrich my whole life. In so many ways, our love made me, Mary. It helped me form my identity. You kept refueling the tank, kept showing me that love was about dedication and you kept filling my life with things to be happy about. I really believed that the feelings I felt about you were you. For whatever reason, it took a few romantic encounters for me to fall in love and my heart landed so hard on you. Everything about you was just another reason to be in love, even the way you moved could stir within me such an outpouring of attraction and appreciation. This revelatory feeling sustained me for years. Doing drugs had made me reimagine my view of the world, but romantic congress with you made me reimagine myself, my capacity to feel something, suddenly there was music inside me everywhere, fireworks exploding within me. I externalized all this energy and that was my art. Even pieces that had nothing to do with you were fueled by what you had given me, be it motivation to get you or the joie de vivre having you created for me.

Again, I could go into a lengthy anamesis of all the different significant moments between us, but you know them. I am only talking about you, the force, you, the space in my life and mind. You were oxygen, you were gasoline, Mary. It is so strange to me, then, that the coda of our relationship was marked by behaviors that some might go so far as to color emotionally abusive.

I am sitting here, looking into my phone.

I am sitting here, staring into your face.

And in it I see myself.

I see myself discovering that the world could be meaningful and exciting beyond the expectations that had been propped up for me by my parents and teachers. I see myself figuring out that sometimes emotions are physical feelings. I see my preserverance. I see my idealism. I see my capacity to experience joy. I see myself here on this couch wondering if I could have done a better job, wondering if it’s okay to allow my fatigue with writing this letter to take over now, if it’s okay to close this chapter on these words knowing full well nothing would really feel sufficient, and just like when I had the realization I had while working on my film, deciding to no longer push myself because sometimes a person is no longer worthy of your effort. I see me in you. I see myself growing into you, through you, and, now, out of you.

In the letter to me that you wrote at Kairos, your eighteen-year-old fingers actually scrawled out the words: “the best days of my life are the days I believe you love me as much as I love you.” But, Mary, that’s never been true. The truth is, I loved you so much more than you could ever love anyone, at least as you are. For everything you gave me: the meaning, the drive, the focus, the laughter, the happiness, the depth of feeling, and of course the love, whether it was illusory or not, whether a contrivance or not, I thank you sincerely and wholeheartedly. Thank you for the support and the insight throughout those years, too. Thank you for everything you chose to share with me. Thank you for entwining your life with mine for such a long time.

Go be a better person. I’m gonna try, too. I don’t know why we love, for the record. I just know I couldn’t avoid it.

I knew I’d feel like this wasn’t enough,

but it’s not worth it to me anymore.

Goodbye, Mary.