#I’ve always been spontaneous but I lived within what I imagined for my future. I charted all my extracurriculars

[cassandralexxx]

yknow I suppose I truly was delusional

I kept being like I’ll know in (count down of 5 years) whether my condition is monocyclic, chronic/polycyclic. Bc all the literature I had read mentioned 5 years as the bench mark of when it’s like certain for the most part. I had such high hopes I’d be lucky. I hadn’t really considered that since my condition acts in a refractory manner (when getting off medications it comes back) that implies that I’m part of the majority.

im in the 2/3 of the population of people with my condition who don’t ✨get better ✨ and I will probably have to deal with medical treatment for the rest of my life.

it sucks yknow I have so many plans, Had so many plans. To hear that it really is only downhill from here (even if not explicitly said) is painful. It’s disappointing

I often imagine who I would have been had I not gotten sick. And I can only think that I would have been Better. Better than I am now, still following my life plan I had so carefully crafted at 14, 16, 17 years old. My plan for the future that I kept charting along when I was 18 and beginning to be sick. All of my choices carefully selected in view of the future, My future. I like my life I truly do. But I will always live in what ifs, picturing a past and future where I am who I always strove to be.

if you showed me two years ago how i would be living now (my uncertainty for the future, my struggles). I don’t think I would have recognized myself. Not even just my mentality and progress being changed but also my actual appearance sometimes I hear someone use a descriptor for my appearance and I’m caught off guard because a year and a half ago I was different.

people often write about change and u agree it’s hard to accept and realize change when it is thrust upon you not as a choice but as reality.

[chatonne-rousse]

Great Minds (and Kind Hearts) Think Alike

Written as a gift for my sweet friend @sketchy-panda to celebrate a bunch of happy things in her life, as well as just because she's awesome. Inspired by this adorable piece of her art.

During a rooftop discussion about superhero merch while relaxing after patrol, Ladybug and Chat Noir each decide to share their favorite items with their partner. What results is an impromptu gift exchange that just might open the door to a whole lot more.

Read it on Ao3 here.

"My parents put us on the Christmas tree last year, Kitty! I had to see myself in the living room every day."

He bumps her shoulder with his. "And me, apparently."

"Yes, but your ornament was cute!" She flails her arms comically and he tries not to focus too much on the fact that she called his likeness cute. "Mine didn't even look like me."

"Would you have liked it better if it had?"

"That's not what I..." Ladybug scowls, but there's no real heat in her expression or her voice. "It was just weird."

"No, the baby onesie that I saw on an actual baby that said 'Meow, My Lady' was weird," Chat mutters. "I didn't even know any civilians had ever heard me say that."

Ladybug's surprised laughter rings out across the rooftop they're perched on tonight, loud enough to be heard from any nearby open window until she muffles the sound with her hand over her mouth. "And whose fault is that, you tomcat?" she asks through her remaining giggles.

He tries to pout, but her laughter is contagious and his smile breaks through. He chooses to ignore the jab at his vain attempts at flirting. Wooing is difficult business.

"The baby was cute, though. I had to take a picture with him."

"You had to?"

He shrugs. "That's a very small request, Bugaboo. I've encountered way worse. A few pictures? I don't mind."

She stares at him for a long moment, something unreadable in her gaze, before looking back over the horizon. "Have you ever bought any Chat Noir merch? You strike me as the kind of guy to have a bookshelf full of action figures."

He is the kind of guy to have a bookshelf full of action figures, and he definitely does, but he thinks of the drawer in his closet that's full of red and black, reminders of his beloved partner. There are far fewer items in black and green.

"I...have a few things. The action figures of us are really cool, actually. Didn't you always want to be immortalized in plastic as a kid?"

"Can't say I did, Minou." She bumps his shoulder this time. "I'll bet you had your supersuit all planned in your head already, didn't you?"

Not quite, but only because he never imagined himself as a cat-themed superhero. He has no intention of ever divulging the fact that his first real transformation sequence was anything but random. That secret is between him and Plagg, and he's not telling. Plagg probably will, but that's a problem for future Adrien.

She laughs again. "I'll take your silence as a 'yes'."

"I'll have you know, My Lady, that I have a carefully curated display of collectibles that are very valuable. And no, this—" he gestures from his cat ears to his steel toes, "was all spontaneous. Can't help it if I've got cat class and I've got cat style."

Ladybug shoots him a deadpan look that dissolves into giggles once more when he wiggles his eyebrows.

Success. He loves to hear his partner laugh, loves to make to his partner laugh. These are moments he wouldn't trade for the world.

"Well," she finally says after her laugher subsides, "the Chat Noir doll I saw in the market did not have cat style, so I made my own."

"Really?" His voice is soft with wonder.

"Yep! And a Ladybug doll, too." She casts him a sidelong grin. "They're a duo, you know. I couldn't have Chat without his Lady, could I?"

He wills himself not to cry. It takes three blinks and one shaky breath before he can respond. "You made them? Yourself?"

"Sure. It's not hard. All it takes is felt and thread and buttons for eyes. They're simple, but—" she shrugs, "I think they're pretty cute."

"Wow," he breathes. "You really are amazing, Bugaboo. They sound incredible."

His Lady seems to amaze him anew with each revelation she allows. He could count on one hand the things he knows about her, really knows, and those facts are tucked away and treasured. She's a whiz at video games. She babysits. She has a loving family. She listens to Jagged Stone. She loves animals.

"Thank you, Minou," she says softly, as the barest hint of a blush spreads to her cheeks beneath her mask.

His heart beats a little faster. His tongue feels heavier. He falls just a tiny bit more in love with her.

Ladybug fills the silence again. "Better than mass-produced action figures, for sure. More cuddle-able!"

That startles a laugh from him. "Is that a word?"

"It is now." She shrugs, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

"I'm telling you, Bug, those action figures are cool. I can't believe you don't have a set."

"Guess I need to go shopping."

"Yup," he responds with a decisive nod.

When they make eye contact, it sets off another giggle fit, Ladybug's shoulders shaking with mirth and Chat having to wipe the tears from his eyes. It's not even that funny, but it doesn't have to be.

Paris is quiet tonight, and his heart is light as he relaxes against the rooftop and laughs with his best friend.

*****

Four days later, when they meet up for patrol again, Chat Noir is surprised when his partner joins him carrying a gift-wrapped box. Especially since he himself is hiding a gift bag behind his back.

He sweeps into a bow as she approaches, straightening with an exaggerated wink. "Something for me-ow?"

Her expression morphs into one of longsuffering annoyance. "Well, it was, but I'm reconsidering."

"You wouldn't!" He gasps, one hand clutching his chest over his heart.

Her lips twitch into the beginning of a smile and soon the stillness of the nighttime rooftop is broken by their shared laughter again.

"For you, Chaton," she finally says with a grin, holding out the box.

He produces the gift bag from behind his back and presents it to her, the tissue paper fluttering in the night air. Her eyes widen with delight, and his heart sings.

The handoff is a quiet affair, a hushed silence of surprise settling over the moment as they sit cross-legged, facing each other.

Even the box is beautiful, he notes, wrapped in shiny black paper and adorned by a giant bow of vivid green with black paw prints. He knows, of course, what's in the bag she's holding in her hands. Could this box contain...? He doesn't dare to dream.

He looks up and nods at the bag. "Go ahead, Bug."

The tissue paper rustles as she removes it, trapping it under her foot to keep it from drifting away on the breeze. She takes one look inside, sees the label on the top of the box within, and bursts into laughter. "You didn't!"

Chat grins. "I did."

She pulls out the box to take a closer look. There are several options when it comes to Ladybug and Chat Noir collectible figurines, but this one is his particular favorite. They're sold separately, but he's always been partial to the 1st Anniversary Special Partners Edition, boxed together as a pair and made to wield his baton in his left hand and her yo-yo in her right, leaving them free to hold hands in the middle. Which the figurines' hands are molded to do, and how they're currently posed in the box. They can also stand alone, but there's just something special about the fact that joined hands are an option.

"Okay, Kitty, you were right. They really are cool." She points at the Ladybug figure. "This looks so much better than that Christmas ornament!" Squinting at the box to examine his figurine, she suddenly snorts a laugh. "Your hair looks like a bunch of bananas!"

"Hey!" He pouts, but he knows she's right. When he bought his own set last year, Plagg had made the same observation and laughed so hard he nearly choked on his cheese. He then proceeded to call him Bananoir for days, until Adrien threatened him with a month of Velveeta. The ribbing didn't really bother him that much - honestly, he had to concede the resemblance - because it was an action figure...of himself. No matter how many were produced, that fact would never not be incredible, and no amount of banana hair or cat god snark could diminish his excitement.

"Oh, Chaton, I'm just teasing. I love them." She beams at him, cradling the box with both hands. "Thank you so much."

"You're welcome, LB. I just...I thought it would be fun."

"Great minds think alike, it seems. Your turn!"

He glances down at the box in his lap and back at his partner. Her smile is bright, but her eyes betray a nervous anticipation.

"Bug, you know I'm going to love whatever this is, right?"

"I hope so. I made them myself."

His heart in his throat, he carefully slips the ribbon from the box and slices the paper with his claws. He can barely breathe as he lifts the lid.

His hunch (his dream) is confirmed when he finally sees the contents of the box. Nestled in a bed of tissue paper, side by side, are two handmade plush dolls, opposite in configuration to the action figures but with their soft little hands touching in the center just the same. Tears spring to his eyes unbidden, and he wipes them away quickly, partially out of embarrassment but mostly because he wants to see every detail with clarity.

The seams are pristine, the limbs symmetrical; the dolls are simple, but crafted with a skilled, sure hand. He picks up the Ladybug doll first, lifting it reverently from the box. Red felt with carefully-painted black spots form the doll's body, and her little black button eyes gaze up at him from a matching spotted mask. A sweet smile is the only other adornment on her face, but the doll is perfect without anything else. This is his beloved partner, created by his beloved partner herself. That alone is perfection to him.

He returns the Ladybug doll to the box and shifts his attention to his own likeness, resolutely ignoring the lump in his throat.

Equal in craftsmanship, the felt Chat Noir in his hands smiles the same sweet smile and looks at him with shiny button eyes from a black domino mask. Perched on his blond felt hair are two black cat ears, and a real bell is sewn at his neck. He gives the doll a gentle shake and the golden bell rings with a jaunty jingle. It's adorable.

Chat Noir is helpless to the grin that lights his face, looking up from the doll to his partner just in time to see that same joy reflected back in her own dawning smile. Warmth suffuses his chest, elation and love and an overwhelming gratefulness bursting firework-bright and making his breath catch.

He has never received such a heartfelt gift in his life. This eclipses the fine blue cashmere scarf his father gave him on his fourteenth birthday, folded in his closet and placed where he can see it every day. It's a treasure to him, and it always will be. But this, handmade just for him with obvious care by the person he loves most in the world? Nothing could come close.

"I don't know what to say, LB," he begins once he can finally speak, "They're...they're amazing. Adorable. Perfect." He takes a deep breath. "I'm fumbling this, but...thank you isn't enough."

Ladybug reaches out to place her hand on his knee. Even through two supersuits, the contact sends a shiver up his spine. Her expression is one of warm relief, clearly pleased with his reaction. "Thank you is more than enough, Kitty. It was nothing."

"Nothing?" he splutters. "These are far from nothing!"

"Oh, Minou," she laughs. "I meant that it was my pleasure. It wasn't difficult, but even if it was, you're worth it."

Do. Not. Cry. He thinks. He's been fighting tears since she handed him the box. Once he gets home, he's absolutely going to give in and sob while clutching them to his chest. He's man enough to admit that...to himself.

He takes several deep breaths and swallows against the lump in his throat as he arranges the dolls back in their tissue paper nest, making sure their hands are touching before replacing the lid on the box.

"Thank you, Ladybug," he says softly. "I love them. Us."

She pats the box still held on her lap. "And I love this version of us, too. Thank you for making sure I have the coolest action figures in Paris." After placing the box and the tissue paper back inside the gift bag, Ladybug stands and offers her hand to Chat to help him up. "Now, let's go stow these treasures and patrol. Last one to Sacre-Cœur has to buy the other an ice cream cone."

Still clutching the gift box under one arm, he watches her throw out her yo-yo to snag a distant chimney before she zips off with a giggle. He grins, shakes his head, and reaches behind him for his baton.

"That's my bug," he murmurs to himself, before setting off for home to secure the gift safely.

In a few minutes he'll rejoin his partner in a merry chase across the rooftops. He hopes the night remains quiet.

Chat Noir can't wait to buy ice cream for his Lady.

[moonlit-imagines]

Writing Challenge! (1)

So, I finally decided to start a writing challenge, it’s actually my first time creating one of these so bare with me please! Read ALL of the rules before entering. (These prompts are NOT for requesting my own fics, but may appear on several prompt lists in the future!)

Let’s start with how to enter:

Send me up to 3 characters and up to 3 prompts (DMs or askbox, MUST be off anon)

Put your most desired options first

Tell me if you’d like to use one prompt or two

Your url and the character you choose will be added next to the prompt(s) you chose

If you post early, you’re welcome to enter again!*

*you’ll only be able to have one entry at a time, you have to post your first one before re-entering

Post whenever you’re done! Don’t forget to tag me (@moonlit-imagines) , if I don’t interact within 24 hours, shoot me a message to make sure I’ve seen it!

They’ll be reblogged to @moonlit-ficrecs with my feedback!

Now to the rules:

First come, first serve!

Only write for characters from my fandom list (if you don’t see the one you want listed, you might still be able to use that one. just ask!)

Reader insert only, please!

Any POV (1st, 2nd, 3rd person)

Any type of fic, whether it be a gif imagine, one-shot, headcanon, whatever fits!

3 people per character

3 people per prompt

^None of your prompts can match someone elses with the same character

You can’t use the same character when you re-enter

Fluff, angst, familial/platonic, smut, AUs, etc. are all welcome!

There’s no set word count, do as much as your comfortable with!

Signups start: September 28, 2020

Signups end: October 9, 2020

Fics due: November 1, 2020 (or sooner!)

Prompts below!

(Note that if you feel the need, you can alter the prompt slightly for the correct pronouns, add names/nicknames, change it the past/present/future tense, or fix it so it fits a character’s accent!)

“You thought you could get away with this?” - (@emcon-imagines//Wanda Maximoff)

“I won’t let them hurt you.”

“Call me when you get home.” - (@unnuevosoltransformalarealidad//Tony Stark)

“Are you even trying?” - (@imaginesbymk//Edward Nygma)

“Can we get something to eat?” - (@writerdream22//Joey Tribbiani)

“Give me a kiss, please and thank you. I’m serious.” - (@alwritey-aphrodite//Diego Hargreeves) EXT.

“That’s my s/o. I would die without them.”

“Look at/talk to them that way one more time and I’ll break your nose.” - (@frostedimagines//Peter Parker)

“We’ll make it out of this, I promise.”

“I made you breakfast in bed!”

“Please come pick me up.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Can we go out tonight?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“You know where to find me.”

“If it’s meant to be, it’ll be.”

“Oh, my god. That’s sick.”

“I’m begging you not to do this! Please don’t do it!”

“It’s late...we should probably head back.”

“Is that blood on your sweatshirt?”

“Do you love me? I have to know.” - (@locke-writes//Arthur Curry) EXT.

“Say ‘cheese!’”

“Are you done yet?”

“Let’s take a walk. Just you and me.” - (@myriadimagines//Robin Buckley)

“Don’t sit there and apologize like you mean it. We both know you’re full of it.” - (@ofthedewthesunlight//Peter Parker)

“Keep it down, they’re sleeping.”

“We really are the worst, aren’t we?”

“Can we pretend like that didn’t just happen?”

“I like you, alright? Is that such a crime?” - (@isaiahdurag//John Shelby) EXT.

“You make me crazy.”

“I can’t keep running from my problems and neither should you.”

“You seem happy, what’s up?”

“Cry me a goddamn river.” - (@ofthedewthesunlight//Peter Parker)

“Where did they go?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, they’re gone.”

“I could paint/photograph you, if you’d like.”

“Look me in the eye and say it! Say it!”

“We aren’t made for each other, you know that.” - (@thereagles//Betty Cooper)

“Lay with me. Just for a minute.” - (@dannyboy-writes//Thomas Shelby)

“Does that feel good?”

“Dude, if you say that one more time, I’m going to give you a black eye.”

“Remember what I told you: crotch, ribs, nose. In that order.” - (@frostedimagines//Peter Parker)

“What’s that noise?” - (@dannyboy-writes//Octavia Blake)

“Make it stop.”

“You’re the one I’ve heard so much about!”

“Bring it in, you need a hug.”

“Nobody talks to you that way, got it?” - (@unnuevosoltransformalarealidad//Tony Stark)

“I like your poster. Interesting pick.”

“No, I did not get any sleep last night.” - (@dannyboy-writes//Raven Reyes)

“That’s absolutely none of your business.”

“I’m hanging up now, goodbye.”

“You are the most perfect person on this planet, I swear.”

“I wouldn’t change a thing about you.”

“Look at what I just posted.”

“You have got to listen to this song, it reminds me of you.”

“Dear, God! What have you done?”

“We make a pretty good pair, you and me. We should try this more often.”

“I know this isn’t your dream or anything, to end up with someone like me, but I hope you know that I’ll love you more than anybody else could.”

“I’m not one for sweet, sweet romance, so I’ll be getting straight to the point: will you go out with me?”

“I don’t know who you are anymore. You need to leave. Now.”

“You’re what’s getting in the way of my happiness.”

“I don’t believe for a second that we’re not meant to be together.” - (@thereagles//Diego Hargreeves)

“Where did you learn to do that? Can you teach me?”

“I’m sorry that I hurt you, but I’m begging you to forgive me.”

“Don’t you see? It’ll never be that easy.” - (@dannyboy-writes//Qi’ra)

“I’d like to do something spontaneous. Let’s get out of here.”

“They’re out of town, won’t be back for a while...” - (@alwritey-aphrodite//Diego Hargreeves) EXT.

“Do you even hear yourself?”

“Oh, sorry. Did I wake you up?”

“Is that the best you can do?”

“You can’t just fight anyone that upsets you.”

“Is that for me?”

“I got you a present! And it’s expensive!”

“Turn on the lights, I want to see you.”

“You’re all that’s on my mind.”

“I wish we could do this every day.”

“That’s what friends are for.” - (@wolfish-willow//Steve Harrington)

“We’ve got to do this more often.”

“I literally don’t think I could live without you.” - (@vansmaybeonthewall//Cal Kestis) EXT.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. Please don’t ever let me go.”

“Wow. You look nice...”

“Fuck’s sake, you again?”

“Play a song for me.”

“Just checking on you, you sure you’re okay?”

“Wanna go for a ride?”

“Keep going, it’s just a little farther.”

“You can’t get everything you want. Give it up before you get yourself hurt.”

“We make a really good team.”

“You’re not acting like yourself.”

“It’s time to overcome our differences.”

“Put the baseball bat down!”

“They are so badass. I think I may be in love.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? Stop using your powers for that!”

“Look at the big picture here. At least we’re together again.”

“My parents said I have to be home by nine.”

“That is a lot of candles.”

“Someone got dressed up tonight, what’s the occasion?”

“Oh, my god. Did you change your hair again?”

“I found your diary...no, I didn’t read it.”

“I told you not to mess with my knives. I know they’re cool, but hands off.”

“Can I get a round of applause? “

“I will never be like you.”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“Five minutes, that’s all I ask.”

“You remind me of the stars.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re beautiful.” - (@vansmaybeonthewall//Cal Kestis) EXT.

“What was that noise?”

“Put the mug down! No, not like that!”

“I won’t leave them behind. I will never leave them behind.”

“Who the hell let you in here?”

“You used to play [game]?”

“Let’s get a round for the table.”

“I got you a blanket and a pillow, make yourself comfortable.”

“Nothing will ever be the same.”

“Let’s get out of here. They’re not worth our time.”

“I really like your accent, what is that?”

“You’ve always taken care of me. It’s time to let go.”

“Woah, you made this yourself?”

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

“You keep a picture of me in your wallet?”

“Call me that again. I just wanna hear it one more time.”

“You just never stop flirting, do you?”

“Do I smell cookies? You know me so well.”

“I would never, ever give up on you.”

“I hate seeing you cry. I just want everything to be okay.” - (@emcon-imagines//Wanda Maximoff)

Submission Masterlist

[doomedandstoned]

Lowen Return with Stunning EP, ‘Unceasing Lamentations’

~By Reek of STOOM~

Art by Hervé Scott Flament

London-based Doomters LOWEN return with an incredible, stripped back-to-bare-bones release next month. "Unceasing Lamentations" consists of 3 evocative, alluring tracks based on ancient Middle Eastern texts and highlighting Nina Saeidi's incredible vocal talent.

First track, "The Exalted One Who Walketh" shimmers with the arid heat of the desert, vocals soaring, plaintive and mesmerising, like a melding of Ofra Haza and Diamanda Galas, backed throughout by Shem Lucas' soulful Oud-style playing. Indeed, the lone vocal combo stretches across all three tracks, bringing a sultry and beguiling presence as powerful and majestic as the heaviest Doom out there.

Lowen have encountered many issues over the last 12 months, and this EP has been cathartic, heartfelt and deeply reconnecting with their roots. A Triumph!

I spoke with both Nina and Shem and posed some questions about the last year and their new release, out June 4th.

The new EP is obviously an accumulation of recent trials and tribulations for the band. How have you coped with such an acrimonious split?

Shem: It was a difficult situation but the core of the band has always been Nina and myself. The music is about her background and Lowen is a vehicle to explore that and always has been. Anyone that is unable or unwilling to accept that simply does not have a place within the band. There are many wonderful musicians that have approached us eager to work with us and that has been very touching.

Nina: As Shem said, it was a very difficult and sad situation that shocked us to our cores when it happened. The extreme nature of having a racially motivated hate crime directed at me by our ex-drummer has in a way allowed us to view it as a clean break from which we can move on without looking back. Shem and I have felt so much more positive and driven now that we can plan and write completely new material together and look to a much brighter future.

The support from our friends and fans in the immediate aftermath was really touching and we are so excited to work with some insanely talented new musicians this summer!

LISTEN: Unceasing Lamentations by Lowen

I'm also assuming that lockdown has played a part in the stripped-back sound? To what extent has this process changed the way you look at and create Music now?

Shem: Unceasing Lamentations is a result of Nina being invited to perform on a Solo basis by the Brighton Doomsday collective as part of their efforts to raise funds to keep the Green Door Store venue in Brighton open in the face of the pandemic. We were so happy with the results that we decided to have Magnus Lindberg of Cult of Luna master the audio so that we could release it.

The songs don’t represent a new direction so much as a pivotal moment in time for the band, we’re still writing our next album to feature big distorted guitars, drums and bass, though I would say that it was wonderful to finally release something that was a lot more eastern in terms of musical composition. It’s a nice bridge between the first album and the resulting musical studies we have undertaken to bring our sound closer to what we both hear in our minds.

Nina: It was so freeing to be able to improvise and really embrace the more Iranian and Eastern aspects of our sound and influence. It’s something I’ve been pushing to do more since we released our first album and I am so excited that we will now be fully putting that into the second one. This EP is more of a captured moment where I expressed the anguish and longing that I was experiencing at the time.

Due to the improvisational aspect of the performance we went in with no plan at all. Apart from the lullaby what you hear are musical choices that were made in that very moment. It can magical to simply give up all control of a creative situation and see what the body spontaneously produces musically.

LISTEN: A Crypt in the Stars by Lowen

The lyrics were based on folk tales or Eastern myths. How did you come to choose them?

Nina: The lyrics for the first two songs are directly taken from cuneiform tablets. The Exalted One Who Walketh is an arrangement of transliterated lines taken from a Sumerian city destruction lamentation referred to as “e-lum didara”. Against Evil Done by the Serpent is a transliteration of Akkadian from a clay tablet that directed the tuning of an instrument through metaphoric comparisons between gods and each string.

I met with renown museo-archeologist Richard Dumbrill and talked with him for several hours on how the words may have been pronounced and sung in the context of ancient music and modern interpretation. Though we will never know how ancient music and language sounded, it is thought that some of it has been preserved in folk music of the areas in which it originated when it comes to the music of the Middle East.

The third song is an Iranian lullaby that embodies the sorrow of war and abandonment felt by many children during the Iran-Iraq war and is still sadly apt for many children in the Middle East today. The lullaby centres on a child who has experienced the trauma of war being comforted by a mother who promises that she will not abandon them as they tread dangerous ground even in their dreams.

I chose all these because I am deeply interested in the history of language and culture in the Middle East. It moves me that music and lyrics that are thousands of years old can be resurrected and performed once more in a context where the sorrows and joys of multiple cultures that were geographically close can be viewed millennia apart.

How is the new line-up going? Any major differences or effects on the dynamic?

Shem: Lowen has always revolved around Nina and myself, but Richard Stevenson (our live bass player) is still very much a part of the band. We have been approached by other musicians who would like to work with us and we are excited to move forward with an array of incredibly talented musicians.

Nina: Our dynamic is stronger than ever as Shem and I are able to write and move forward with much greater speed and productivity than before. We always wrote the music in the past, but now we feel that we are able to be a lot more free creatively.

We are so grateful that we have Richard Stevenson, our live bassist, with us for what will be a very exciting summer in terms of shows. He always brings amazing energy to the stage and has been a dedicated member and friend for years now.

Soon we will be able to reveal who we will have drumming for us live and we can’t wait.

You have always been vocal about political and social issues in the East. What are your hopes for the future?

Nina: My greatest hope will always be for peace. War and political savagery has felt never-ending in the Middle East, and much of it is because of interference and backing from non-Eastern countries that profit from terminal instability and conflict. For example, we’re currently seeing horrendous atrocities in the news with the state of Israel attacking and tearing apart even more innocent lives and I hope that those who are actively campaigning for ceasefire and recognition of what is truly happening in Gaza and Sheikh Jarrah succeed. I’d like to clarify that my criticism of the state of Israel is not tied in with Jewishness or the nature of Judaism, I think it’s important not to veer into anti-semitism and anti-muslim sentiment when noting political matters in Israel.

My personal hope is to be able to go and see my family, who live in other parts of the Middle East, without fear of arrest and execution. I would be overjoyed if women were able to sing in public again and for the LGBTQ+ community in Iran to live without fear of death and persecution.

Will you be planning a tour or appearances at any festivals in the coming year?

Shem: we’re very excited to begin performing live again, the performances prior to pandemic had begun to feature increasing intensity, so we can only imagine what a renewed and focussed line up will add to that, as well as the prospect of playing new material.

Nina: We have a few more shows to announce in what is already feeling like a packed few months of shows around the UK but I can’t say anything yet.

What was the last thing you had to kick to get working again?

Shem: there was nothing to kick per se, but the many many hours of study into eastern music, rhythm and maqam are certainly paying off and the music we are composing now is focussed and features many techniques and devices not widely seen within western music, there’s also a lot of double bass drum!

Nina: A few cobwebs and a couple of boxes in order to find my stage mic after so long.

Follow The Band

Get Their Music

[graces-of-luck]

My Aro “Happily Ever After” (Carnival of Aros, December 2020)

The past two years or so, I’ve been thinking a lot more seriously about my future and what I want it to look like. While I’ve had a rough idea for some years now, it’s been much more concrete and salient lately. Perhaps it’s because I’m nearing my 30th birthday and I realize that for the first time I’m not sure what comes next. I’ve always been focused on school and education, but I’ll be finishing up my PhD in two years… and then what? I’ve also spent most of my life in survival mode, but I’ve been fortunate enough to slow down and dream more freely the last couple of years. So what comes next? What kind of life do I want to build for myself?

Theme: Happily Ever After

My aro “happily ever after” consists of a having a web of meaningful relationships and activities in my life. My dream is to share a home with one or two friends who are my family or with a (queer)platonic partner. My most ideal living situation is that I would have my own little space, such as a half-studio or bedroom with kitchenette, within a larger home. That way I can have alone time, necessary for my introvertedness, while also sharing a space with people I love. I desire domestic intimacy: making a home, cooking, cleaning, running errands together. I also require daily, regular physical affection and one of my preferred ways of interacting is “spending time alone together” rather than having full on conversations all the time, so having people in close proximity is necessary for that. Living together also means to me more spontaneity, more readily receiving support and intimacy, and enjoying the small unplanned things in life.

Found family is very important to me. Whether it be with one or two partners or a couple of friends, I want my found family to consist of individuals who are committed to me and would prioritize me. They would be my foundational support group and we would plan our lives with each other in mind. If such a thing were possible, they’d be the ones I’d share healthcare and financial benefits with. I don’t want my own children, but if they want to have children, I’d like to be an aunt or parent-like figure.

I also want to be involved in my community, such as helping grow a local in-person aromantic community, participating in community service, and engaging in grassroots movements. I would like to have the time and resources for hobbies old and new, such as fencing, archery, or growing mushrooms. It’s been some time since I’ve been part of a local orchestra, so I’d hope to find a nice one and join. I personally don’t find a job or career as something meant to give purpose or meaning, but it would be nice to have a job that I tolerate and can derive some basic enjoyment from. Something that allows me to have good work-life balance and can challenge me positively without emotionally and/or physically draining me. I’d be excited to do research in social psychiatry and perhaps work on mental health in community care and policy.

I must admit that trying to imagine a future as an aro can be difficult at times. There are no roadmaps for the kind of relationships I want, and sometimes I feel like I may never have my “happily ever after.” I’m nearing my 30s and I feel that my life is a big blank after I finish my PhD. I know what I want, but amatonormativity makes it so that I feel like I cannot ever breathe it to life. I’m not in a rush to reach certain “milestones” by a certain age, but I find myself craving more and more a different life, and I worry that I won’t be able to have it. Forming committed and stable platonic relationship with allo people is a challenge. Those who are in romantic relationships will most likely prioritize their romantic partners (even if they deny it) and those who aren’t in romantic relationships may end up dumping our friendship when they enter a romantic relationship. There aren’t many aros out there, though. Infrastructure, institutions, and legal systems are also often amatonormative, which presents challenges around things, such as sharing healthcare benefits or who is legally considered family. It can be liberating to be a relationship-anarchist polyamorous aroqueer person. It opens up a different world of possibilities. I find that I think about my relationships more deliberately rather than following pre-scripted narratives. But it can also be incredibly challenging, suffocating, isolating, and lonely when most of society prescribes to the pre-scripted narratives and ideas of different types of relationships as neat boxes with concrete boundaries. I don’t know what the future will bring. But I can still hope for my “happily ever after.”

[somegirlsnerdywords2]

Anime i’ve Watched

That begin with a F (Part 1)!

Yep this is how i’m going to bring over all the anime and manga i’ve watched and posted about on the old blog. It’s not so detailed but it will have to do. Anything new I watch or read from this point on will have their own posts.

Fire Force (Enen no Shouboutai):

Genres: action, supernatural, shounen

Synopsis: Spontaneous Human Combustion: a chaotic phenomenon that has plagued humanity for years, randomly transforming ordinary people into flaming, violent creatures known as Infernals. While Infernals make up the first-generation accounts of Human Combustion, the second and third generations became known as pyrokinetics—people gifted with the ability to manipulate and control their flames while remaining human. To combat the Infernal threat and discover the cause, the Tokyo Armed Forces, Fire Defense Agency, and Holy Church of Sol produced their answer: the Special Fire Force. Young and eager third-generation pyrokinetic Shinra Kusakabe, nicknamed Devil's Footprints for his explosive ability to ignite his feet at will, becomes a member of the lively Special Fire Force Company 8. Upholding the brigade's duty to extinguish the blazing Infernals and lay their souls to rest, Shinra is determined to become a hero who will save the lives of those threatened by the flame terror. However, this is not the hero's game Shinra imagined. The Fire Force is a fractured mess of feuding brigades, abnormal Infernal sightings are increasing all over Tokyo, and a shadowy group is claiming to have answers to the strange fire that caused the death of Shinra's family 12 years ago. Faced with many obstacles within and outside the Fire Force, Shinra fights to uncover the truth behind the burning mysteries that have kept him in the dark. [Written by MAL Rewrite]

My Rating: 7/10

Finished airing in 2019 with 24 episodes. 

My Thoughts: Awesome art and animation with some killer themes but ultimatly dissapointing. Had a few moments of deep feeling but mostly fell flat. To be fair I will probably still watch the second season though so really it wasn’t all that bad! It was fun... so there’s that! 

Free!:

Genres: slice of life, comedy, sports, drama, school

Synopsis: Haruka Nanase has a love for water and a passion for swimming. In elementary school, he competed in and won a relay race with his three friends Rin Matsuoka, Nagisa Hazuki, and Makoto Tachibana. After claiming victory at the tournament, the four friends went their separate ways. Years later, they reunite as high school students; however, Rin couldn't care less about returning to the way things used to be. Not only does he attend a different school, but the sole thing important to him is proving that he is a better swimmer than Haruka. After the bitter reunion, Haruka, Nagisa, and Makoto decide to form the Iwatobi High School Swim Club, but they will need a fourth member if they hope to take part in the upcoming tournament. Enter Rei Ryuugazaki, a former member of the track team whom Nagisa recruits. As the time to compete draws near, the four develop a close bond while training intensely to come out on top and settle things between Haruka and Rin once and for all. [Written by MAL Rewrite]

My Rating: 6/10

Finished airing in 2013 with 12 episodes. 

My Thoughts: THE swimming anime featuring pretty boys that swim.... That’s it, that’s all I can remember about this anime. Not a glowing review to be sure and the rating isn’t promising either. Take this all as you will.  

Free!: Eternal Summer:

Genres: slice of life, comedy, sports, drama, school

Synopsis:  Even though it has been a year since the Iwatobi High School Swim Club has been created, new members have yet to join the club. Now that Haruka Nanase and Makoto Tachibana are senior students, along with their younger friends Nagisa Hazuki and Rei Ryuugazaki, they have to find a way to attract new members. If not, the club will be forced to close the following year due to a lack of membership. Meanwhile, with impending graduation, it is also time for the seniors to decide their plans for the future. Unlike their friend Rin Matsuoka, the new captain of Samezuka Academy Swim Club who is determined to fulfill his dream of being a professional swimmer, Haruka and Makoto are unsure about what career path they want to take. Further problems arise when an old friend of Rin's, Sousuke Yamazaki, comes to the city to study at Samezuka Academy; the recently scouted swimmer's arrival causes tension in the relationship among him, Rin, and Haruka. [Written by MAL Rewrite]

My Rating: 7/10

Finished airing in 2014 with a total of 13 episodes. 

My Thoughts: Despite the rather pitiful rating of the previous season they managed to pull me in for the second. How you ask.... well really your guess is as good as mine at this point. Apparently I liked it slightly more than the first season so I mean that’s great! 

Fruits Basket:

Genres: slice of life, comedy, supernatural, drama, romance, shoujo

Synopsis: After the accident in which she lost her mother, 16-year-old Tooru moves in with her grandfather, but due to his home being renovated, is unable to continue living with him. Claiming she will find someone to stay with but also fearing the criticism of her family and not wanting to burden any of her friends, Tooru resorts to secretly living on her own in a tent in the woods. One night on her way back from work, she finds her tent buried underneath a landslide. Yuki Souma, the "prince" of her school, and his cousin Shigure Souma, a famous author, stumble across Tooru's situation and invite her to stay with them until her grandfather’s home renovations are complete. Upon arriving at the Souma house, Tooru discovers their secret: if a Souma is hugged by someone of the opposite gender, they temporarily transform into one of the animals of the zodiac! However, this strange phenomenon is no laughing matter; rather, it is a terrible curse that holds a dark history. As she continues her journey, meeting more members of the zodiac family, will Tooru's kindhearted yet resilient nature be enough to prepare her for what lies behind the Souma household's doors? [Written by MAL Rewrite]

My Rating: 9/10

Finished airing in 2001 with a total of 26 episodes. 

My Thoughts: The art style makes me want to cry just looking at the cover. Great series though with amazing characters and a great story.

 Fruits Basket 1st Season:

Genres: comedy, drama, romance, shoujo, slice of life, supernatural

Synopsis:  Tooru Honda has always been fascinated by the story of the Chinese Zodiac that her beloved mother told her as a child. However, a sudden family tragedy changes her life, and subsequent circumstances leave her all alone. Tooru is now forced to live in a tent, but little does she know that her temporary home resides on the private property of the esteemed Souma family. Stumbling upon their home one day, she encounters Shigure, an older Souma cousin, and Yuki, the "prince" of her school. Tooru explains that she lives nearby, but the Soumas eventually discover her well-kept secret of being homeless when they see her walking back to her tent one night. Things start to look up for Tooru as they kindly offer to take her in after hearing about her situation. But soon after, she is caught up in a fight between Yuki and his hot-tempered cousin, Kyou. While trying to stop them, she learns that the Souma family has a well-kept secret of their own: whenever they are hugged by a member of the opposite sex, they transform into the animals of the Chinese Zodiac. With this new revelation, Tooru will find that living with the Soumas is an unexpected adventure filled with laughter and romance. [Written by MAL Rewrite]

My Rating: 10/10

Finished airing in 2019 with a total of 25 episodes. 

My Thoughts: My eyes have been cleansed. The artwork is quite clearly a step up from the original... the entire series is actually. The character and story are just as amazing but this time wrapped in a more lovely picture. Tons of feeling and life lessons to be learned. An instant classic and a must watch in my opinion! 

[aphrodites-law]

The Clarke Show

(A take on The Truman Show)

Nia Reign is as imposing as Lexa imagined. Her suit is a dark green with silver cuffs, nothing that Lexa could ever hope to afford. 

"Why Clarke?"

She isn’t the only live show, but she's certainly the most popular in the nation. Arkadia's darling. Arkadia's golden child. Lexa has never had the time or luxury for escapism, but everyone knows that even the nation's prince, Lincoln, trails Clarke in views by millions.

"Because Clarke is getting restless. It's a phase I'm sure you're familiar with––the yearning for the world you've never been a part of. She wants spontaneity. Adventure. We've scripted something that’ll show her the grass isn’t always greener. It'll make for a thrilling story arc."

Lexa looks at the hundreds of screens, each one a frame of the town built for Clarke and the twelve other Selected. The grocery store she shops at; the movie theater she goes to; the streets she walks on; the beach; the offices; the coffee shops; the parks; the neighborhood––every single place ready to spring to life should the Selected decide to take the trams there. It's an exceptionally well-oiled machine.

"What role would I play?"

"You'll be the dark horse. The wild card Clarke never thought she'd hold. You'll take her places she's never been­––new sets we've built. You'll win over her heart and then you'll break it, right in time for us to introduce Finn."

"Finn?" Lexa asks, still gazing at a screen where a bird briefly flits in front of the camera. She wonders if its species is native to the area or if it's even real at all.

"Clarke's future husband if all goes according to plan. Finn is a perfect match for her in every way. Your opposite."

Lexa turns to the control room below the glass panels. There are hundreds of employees in headsets pressing hundreds of buttons, rushing from right to left, biting into sandwiches and yawning while they craft the details of Arkapolis. There are workers in shirts designing objects on large screens; workers in lab coats testing liquids in vials; workers with grease smears tweaking the settings of androids. There is so much energy and talent being poured into a fake world. Lexa wonders why these people couldn't better their real world instead. Lexa’s neighborhood in Arkadia is crumbling apart, the infrastructure rusting and rotting, and yet here she is watching engineers design sets with swimming pools and amusement parks.

"No offense meant," Nia says behind her.

Lexa shakes her head. "I'm no princess."

"But you can be charming.”

Lexa turns to her. "I'm not a good actress."

Nia sits in her leather chair, utterly in control of the room and the conversation.  "I've seen the women you seduce. They don't hold a candle to our Clarke. Surely it won’t be difficult for you to muster some passion."

What Nia means is that prostituting herself for entertainment should come easily. Lexa knows that's exactly why she was picked for the role.

"Clarke made a whole nation fall in love with her the moment she opened those blue eyes onscreen for the first time," Nia reminds her. "Right now there are millions of souls watching her and yearning to spend time with her. Time you'll be afforded. You don't need to be a good actress, Ms. Woods, you need to be exactly who you are: a lowlife drifter who seduces lonely women to get something out of them. In this instance, more money than you've seen in your entire life."

Anger boils inside Lexa, but the words aren't all lies. "You think you know everything about me based on police records?"

Nia chuckles at Lexa's naïveté. "I don't care to know everything about you. I know what's necessary. You need the money and you’ll do anything for it. Am I wrong?”

Lexa thinks of her sister Anya and the medical bills sticking out of drawers; the leaks in her apartment; the skittering of roaches on their floor. She thinks of her nephew and niece––Aden's gaunt face and Marla playing with dolls made out of cans and wires. She thinks of the floor she sleeps on in the corner of Anya’s room, cold and damp.

"When do I start?"

Nia smiles victoriously. "You’ll go through scrubbing and fitting first. An implant will be placed in your ear canal; it’ll be used sparsely but I will be communicating with you when needed. It’ll also track your location. Training will take three weeks––you’ll need to know Arkapolis like the back of your hand, not to mention your new profession. You’ll spend time with your new best friends, Raven and Costia, for familiarity purposes. We’ll have Clarke meet Lexa in a month’s time.”

Lexa’s eyes flash at her own name being used so strangely, as if she isn’t the one being referred to. As if she will exist separately from the character they have made up for Clarke, the Lexa who’ll take pleasure in seducing and using and discarding the nation’s sweetheart. She wonders how hated she will be coming out of it. 

"I want the money, a weekly stipend, sent to my sister," Lexa tells Nia, looking at her with a set jaw. "You control so much of the media––I want a guarantee my family will be kept out of it. No one bothers them. No one even mentions them.”

"We can do that." Nia looks up and smiles, the once cruel curve of her lips turning tender. "Look."

Lexa glances back at the screens, watching as Clarke walks out of her small house with her dog. She waves at her neighbor and grins. Her life is so simple that Lexa feels some anger toward her. Why couldn't Anya have been one of the Selected? Why did Aden and Marla know more about suffering than Clarke did? All she will know of pain is an orchestrated heartbreak before true love swoops in.

Lexa doesn't pity her. If it keeps her family safe and fed, she'll lift Clarke Griffin to unimaginable heights before dropping her. She'll be the villain her story needs; take her heart and crush it with a smile.

"Do you stream everything live?" She asks Nia.

Nia seems bored now, the formality of convincing Lexa over and done with. "Clarke's channel is family friendly, with a slight delay in the feed. We expect you to alert us at the beginning and the end of explicit footage. The public knows Clarke is only broadcast live for eighteen hours a day. It'll make our lives easier if you'd ensure physical intimacy happened within the closed window, but if not the delay gives us time to cut to our planned programming. Obviously you won’t start conversations that further the storyline within those six hours either. There is nothing more frustrating to the public than missing out on milestones.”

Lexa rolls her eyes as she watches the ants hard at work in the control room. "How romantic," she drawls. "Bet those guys enjoy the show when it goes offline."

Nia hardly contains her disdain at Lexa's crassness. "We have a number of protocols in place for private scenes."

Lexa vaguely recalls that bathrooms have no cameras, but ‘private’ has an entirely different meaning for the Selected. Surely it was private when Clarke’s father passed away onscreen, followed by a close up of Clarke’s sobs. Surely it was private when she kissed a girl for the first time and embarrassed herself with a sneeze, not knowing the entire nation was laughing at her clumsiness. 

But if it bothers Lexa that Nia talks about someone's reality as footage and scenes, she reasons she should get used to it fast. Soon she'll be a part of the show too, and her life will be nothing more than snapshots stitched together for the purpose of entertainment. Nia suddenly stands by her, surveying the control room like a Queen would survey her land from her castle's highest tower.  

"Believe me, the novelty of working behind-the-scenes wears off quickly. These people aren’t different from you. All they want is to get the job done so that they may go home to their families. Surely you understand that."

Lexa looks at Clarke again, her body in a medium shot as she walks her pet with no worry in the world. In a month things will change for her. For both of them. Lexa takes a deep breath and nods, knowing exactly what she would sacrifice for her family’s sake.

[pumpkinpaix]

9, 13, 14, 20? :O

9. Are you more of a drabble or a longfic kind of writer? Pantser or plotter? Do you wish you were the other?

ALAS I AM APPARENTLY A LONGFIC WRITER,,,, or like, a very short tiny vignette, no in-between.  I used to be incapable of writing anything long (all my shit from like 2007-2012 was under like 5k pretty much), but now it’s like. fuck! every story i want to write ends up spiralling out into like 50k+ projects /o\ I’m definitely a plotter. I wish I could be more spontaneous, but I do much, much better when I have some kind of endgame in mind. I can kinda fudge the middle, but the beginning and end have to be set :/

13. Do you share your writing online? (Drop a link!) Do you have projects you’ve kept just for yourself?

yep! here’s my ao3, which is pretty much just mdzs right now, but I’ve got some Saint Seiya stuff planned 👀 truly getting ready to return to my roots. saint seiya was the first fandom i wrote for! :D if you’re looking for my tumblr ficlets, I believe the tag is #myficlet

however, in terms of original prose and poetry, it mostly all just stays in folders on my hard drive. :’D I’ve entered some poetry and prose into local writing contests and won before, so my work exists out in the ether, but one day I’d like to have published books :’) I have so much poetry that kind of just sits around, and i’m like maybe?? it would be cool to share some of it? but all of it needs more editing and refining, I almost never edit my poetry it just kinda comes out in a mess and then I don’t look at it for years, so none of it is like good. a lot of it has potential, I think, but I have like, maaaaybe one poem that I would say is almost good lol.

I have like five nano novels hanging out as well, so just like. hundreds of k of words stacked up over the last decade and a half :’D

14. At what point in writing do you come up with a title?

depends! sometimes I think of a title and a concept at the same time and try to weave them together. sometimes it comes in the middle, and sometimes I’m scrambling right at the end. sometimes I’m struggling for the whole fucking time (me with lxc fic right now good god this title has been eluding me for MONTHS)

20. Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)

okay, since you’re the one asking, I’m going to talk about my painting selections in this little tumblr not-fic i wrote about hyoshun even though I know you don’t really do the classic series, but hey.

I’ve seen both Aivazovsky’s Ninth Wave and Repin’s Sadko in person, but I’ve studied all of the paintings that were included. I’ve never been to the Tretyakov, so I haven’t seen any of those in person, but GOD i want to. All of the paintings that I talked about are some of my favorite 19th century russian works except Sadko, which is nice, but not like, one of my favorites. I just like it.

here is why I chose those works in particular:

1. Aivazovsky’s Ninth Wave is a fucking experience to witness. It’s impossible to convey the presence of it, the size of it, on a computer screen. you feel swallowed up by the ocean and the light and the terror and the beauty of it--even as you face death, you also face the sun. you know, just like. peak sublime. I really think Shun would find the concept of the sublime very moving, given what we see of his character in canon: he cares, deeply and viscerally about the inherent value of life, but sees himself as small within it. And I don’t necessarily think that scares him so much as it awes him sometimes. He knows his own value and strength, respects risk, and respects sacrifice. I think would relate a lot to the Romantic artists who looked out at the vastness of the world and reacted with wonder and terror.

I think Shun very much feels a deep sense of wonder at being alive, of existing, and that he takes that very seriously. idk, there’s that moment at the 12 temples, when he stops to smell the roses at Aphrodite’s temple. it’s like, yeah, we’re in the midst of fighting for our lives, but god. there is such beauty here. facing the sun even as you face death. I think he would like that painting a lot.

2. Knowing Repin’s other work, I find the Sadko really beautiful and charming and surprising! It’s such a fun subject for a painting--instead of painting a religious scene, it’s a scene from a bylina, about a man named Sadko. I believe here is the scene where he’s asked to choose a wife from a line of beautiful sea maidens, but all he wants is to return to the surface and live with his human wife that he loves so much. and it’s okay! he does! the painting is lovely and just really visually stunning. and there’s something really moving about the way that sadko has eyes only for his wife on the surface, dressed in plain clothes, out of reach, even as these dazzling women laden with jewels parade before him. aaaaaaaaaa. anyways, I think Shun would like this painting too, for those reasons!!

3. Now the Tretyakov paintings that I’ve never seen, but GOD they just. they get me right in the heart. first, Conscience, Judas, by Nikolai Ge. it’s hard for me to describe exactly what I’m feeling when I look at it, but that really vicious white on Judas’s robe, the coldness of it, the alienation of a traitor. I want to weep for judas. I am not christian, so my interpretations of the bible are largely moot and uninformed, but I’ve always been intrigued by the thought that like--without judas’ betrayal, christ could not have risen. without the fall, there cannot be a triumph. that doesn’t mean that judas was acting for that reason, i certainly don’t know enough about biblical studies to make any kind of interpretation, but in the sense that like--christ had to fall and judas was the instrument of it. imagine the remorse of knowing. there’s something very human and sad about watching everything you loved and betrayed walk away from you into the darkness while you are left behind. without you, it could never have happened. i don’t know. there’s something about the nature of unforgiveable sins in there. i think about Shun’s speech to Balron Lune and I think he would feel some kind of way looking at this painting.

4. Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane, by Perov--this painting kills me every time i see it. again, not christian, but like. the agony of christ. god. the nature of sacrifice. knowing that you must suffer and die, but oh! you would rather live, please if only you could live. let this cup pass me by. that on its own is already so much to sit with. and I think Shun, as well as the other saints, for very obvious reasons, probably have a lot of complicated emotions surrounding the concept of sacrifice and doubt. and idk, whenever there’s a moment when you feel like you are reaching through time and space to realize that someone out there has felt the way you are feeling, it’s like. that’s a lot. it hurts.

5. The Demon Seated, Vrubel: aaaaaaaaaaa. one of my favorite paintings!!! the demon is beautiful, and the demon is terribly melancholic, and the demon is alone, and the demon is powerful sitting amidst the blooming flowers and the setting sun. the gentle face in contrast with the muscular body. the inherent negative aspect of a demon in contrast with the subject’s heroism. I think that this would remind shun very much of his own brother, who is so angry and violent and dark, but whom he still sees as gentle and loving still. i think shun would look at this painting and see ikki sitting there, alone, watching the sunset on some distant shore. as for hyoga, I think it would be hard for him to see this without seeing shun after the hades arc: a kind and beautiful man, a demon by nature not by choice. someone soft made unwillingly hard. a murderer who would ferry even centipedes out of the house to safety.

ANYWAYS. I LOVE ART and i project all my feelings onto shun thank you for coming to my ted talk

writing asks

[j-j-ehlby-writes]

Loved You First (s.s.)

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Summary: Sebastian hasn’t healed from his break-up, but apparently she has. When his girl starts to date someone new, he can’t accept it. He loved her first. Based of “Loved You First” by One Direction. Sequel to “Love You Goodbye”

Warnings: Angst, fluff, tears, happy ending

A/N: For some reason I keep getting inspired by 1D songs so here’s another one. I do NOT own the song or the picture. Again, lyrics should be in bold but mobile probably won’t adhere to what I want.

My Masterlist

I knew moving on from her would be the most difficult thing in the world to do. She was supposed to be my forever. We talked endlessly about our future: where we wanted to get married, how many kids we wanted, where we would settle down when the time came… I imagined it all with her.

But life had a different plan for us.

Four months after she left, my phone started blowing up with the news I had dreaded the most: she started dating someone else. She started posting pictures on her Instagram of them on fancy nights out, warm nights in, him surprising her with lunch while she’s working, spontaneous dates, and her saying she’s “the luckiest girl.”

Girl, that should be me drivin’ to your house Knockin’ on your door, kissin’ you on the mouth Holdin’ on your hand, dancin’ in the dark…

I wanted be happy for her. She was finally able to get everything she deserved in a relationship: someone who was around all the time who she could spend more than a few days with at a time; someone to take her on spontaneous dates and not have to worry about it being all over the internet within the hour; someone who could surprise her by bringing her lunch in the middle of the day; someone who knew how to communicate with her…

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t be happy. I couldn’t be happy knowing someone else was making her smile until her cheeks hurt, someone else was holding her late at night and kissing her until she was breathless… that should be me.

‘Cause I was the only one who loved you from the start…

I wanted to be angry. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs. I wanted to punch holes through the nearest wall. I wanted to cry hot tears of rage… How could she have moved on so quickly? While my heart was still shattered, missing her every moment of every day, she was out with someone else. She filled that void that I couldn’t keep filled.

I want to, but then I remember that this was my fault. She was with him because of me and because of my lifestyle. She was with him because I let her walk out of my life without truly fighting for her…

When she said she couldn’t be with me anymore, I shut down. I never expected to lose her. I thought we could get through anything as long as we were together. I knew we had hit a bump in the road since we were fighting constantly and my filming schedule was busier than it usually was, but I thought we could get passed it. I have a break after filming wrapped for this movie and was planning on taking her to Romania. I was going to surprise her when I finished this movie, but she made up her mind. And once she makes up her mind, there was no changing it.

The last time I saw her, I almost told her of my plans. I almost begged her to wait a few more months and then I would make everything up to her. But I knew my girl. I knew she already felt awful for hurting me, I didn’t want her to feel worse. So she let me love her for one last night and then she was gone. Waking up alone, I felt numb at first, but then I found her cardigan. I don’t think I’ve ever cried so much or felt that much pain in my entire life. I knew I didn’t want us to be apart. I knew it then and I know it now.

But now when I see you with him, It tears my world apart…

As the months went by, I couldn’t help but watch her posts about him. Every picture she looked happier than the last. Thankfully she never posted any pictures of her kissing him. That may have made me vomit. With every picture, with every month that went by that they celebrated together… seeing her with him just fueled my fire to get her back. She’s meant to be with me. And I’m going to tell her that.

Right after we wrapped filming, I flew to where she lived. I know I had no right to barge back into her life again. She’s happy. She’s moved on. She’s given her heart to someone else who probably deserves it more than me. But I had to try. I had to fight, even if I may be too late.

Because I’ve been waitin’ all this time to finally say it But now I see your heart’s been taken and nothing could be worse…

As soon as I land, I drive to her place. I have no idea if she will even be home or if she was going to be with him. She could slam the door in my face and not hear me out. I haven’t tried contacting her since she left out of respect for her, even though I wanted to more than anything. And then I decide to just show up out of the blue, begging for her to take me back when I know she has someone. I wouldn’t blame her at all if she told me to leave. I’m hoping she won’t though. I’m hoping she still loves me enough to listen to what I have to say.

Had my chances, could’ve been where he is standin’ That’s what hurts the most, girl, I came to close But now you’ll never know….

I know I had my chance already and I blew it, but I love her with everything I have in me and I believe we could be great together again if she were to give me another chance.

Girl, it should be me callin’ on your phone Sayin’ you’re the one and that I’ll never let you go…

When I pulled onto her street, she was just getting out of her car. She looked even more beautiful than I remembered, still taking my breath away. She was talking on her phone, smiling from ear to ear. I imagine she’s probably talking to him, telling him about her day like she used to do with me. In the beginning, she would very animatedly tell me everything that went on throughout her day. It was easily my favorite part of the day because it would almost seem like I was there with her through all of it. I wished more than anything that I could. I always held onto the day that we could be together again and I could see her stunningly beautiful smile for myself.

I waited for her to enter her house before getting out of the car. My heart raced as I made my way up to her front door. I rehearsed what I was going to say all the way here, but as soon as she opened the door, my mind went blank.

Her jaw dropped when she saw me. She told her mom that she would have to call her back before she turned her attention back to me. “Sebastian, what are you doing here?”

“Can I talk to you?” I shoved my hands in my pockets to keep myself from pulling her to me. Eight months is the longest we’d been apart since we met and my body was aching to be close to hers again. Having her so close, yet so far, my hands were itching to touch her skin again.

I could see the conflict in her eyes. She was debating on whether or not she should. “Please?” I begged. “I promise I won’t be long.”

With that, she opened the door wider and she stepped aside. I took that as my invitation to come in. Her house still smelled the same, like her. Stepping through the familiar threshold, the feeling of home washed over me as it always did when I would visit her. She ushered us into her living room where we sat in silence.

“I miss you,” I blurted, turning to her.

“Sebastian, please-” She stood up, but I grabbed her wrist to stop her before standing as well. I enveloped her smaller hand in both of mine, pulling her back to me. Her smaller hand was warm in mine, spreading it throughout my entire body. Her touch always did that for me.

“No, please, just hear me out.” I begged before she could say anything else. She looked at me with almost as much pain as she did that night. She’s still hurting, possibly as much as I am.

I remember the first time I looked into her eyes. I knew in an instant that I was done for. I knew that I could fall in love with her. She was different than any girl I’d ever known. In that moment, I knew she was going to change my life forever. Anyone I had been with prior to that day became a distant memory and there would be no one else who could even come close to her. It’s still true to this day.

I never understood what love was really like But I felt it for the first time lookin’ in your eyes…

I continued when she didn’t stop me, “I miss you so much- I miss you so much it hurts.” I tried to convey what I’d been waiting for so long to say, but words were failing. I was so nervous, my heart felt like it was beating out of my chest. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that she was standing in front of me again, holding her hand.

But now when I see you with him My whole world falls apart…

“And I know that you’re with him, that you’ve given your heart to him, and that kills me. It kills me to see you with someone who isn’t me. I hate knowing that I made the worst mistake of my life when I let you go. You’re,” I could feel my emotions coming to the surface. The emotions I’d kept buried for months were threatening to explode now that I was here, looking into her eyes, confessing everything to her. I took a deep breath before continuing, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” I choked out as the tears filled my eyes, even when I was trying to be strong. But I can never hide how I feel when I’m around her.

The first touch, the first kiss First girl to make me feel like this…

“From the first touch of your hand saying hello to our first kiss later that night, you were the first girl to make me feel love from the moment I met you. I knew I could love you for the rest of my life if you let me. I’m so sorry for screwing it all up. If you could just give me one more chance, I know we could make this work.” I felt like I was rambling on but the words just kept coming. All of the things I’ve wanted to say to her since she left just come spilling out.

Heartbreak, it’s killin’ me...

She remained silent while listening to me, tears in her own eyes starting to form. I finally got up the nerve to pull her into my arms, all caution thrown out the window. “Please, baby,” I whisper against her forehead as I kiss it, “please baby, I need you.” I rest my forehead on hers, trying to calm myself down, “I Loved You First, why can’t you see?”

I finally pulled back after what felt like hours. Her hands held tightly onto the back of my shirt like she never wanted to let go. Her eyes were shut but her lip was quivering. She was trying hard to stay strong, but I could see her slipping. I cradled her face in my hands, “Baby, look at me.”

She shook her head, taking in a shaky breath, “I can’t.”

“Please,” I beg again, but she pulled back from me completely.

A sob escaped her lips before she finally opened her eyes. Tears fell from both as she glared at me. “No, I can’t do this.” She ran her hands through her hair in frustration. “Why are you saying all of this to me? Now of all times?”

“Because baby, I Loved You First. And because I’m afraid that if I waited any longer, I would have lost you forever.”

“God damn it, Sebastian.” She whimpered, wiping her eyes.

We stand in her living room in silence. Neither of us knowing what to say now that everything is out there.

I sigh, “I know I’m asking a lot and I don’t expect you to have an answer for me right now.” I know her mind. I know she will be going back and forth with this decision for days, if not weeks. She’s never been the type of person to just jump in with both feet. She needs time to think about it and I will give her that. I reach into my pocket and placed the plane ticket I have for her on her couch. “I’ll give you as much time as you need. If I don’t hear from you by this day and time, I’ll never bother you again.” My heart hurt saying those words, but if she doesn’t choose me, I will let her go. She deserves to be happy even if it’s not with me.

With that, I walk out, leaving my heart in her hands.

For the following weeks of reshoots and press for the new movie, I don’t hear from her. I stay off all social media because I don’t want to know her decision until the day the plane leaves for Romania. I know it’ll either be the second greatest day of my life or the second worst.

I’m anxiously bopping my knee and tapping my fingers on the door as I ride to the airport. In the other hand, I fidget with a little box I bought a year ago, opening and closing it as the minutes ticked by. After nearly tripping up the steps to the jet, I’m floored by what I see waiting for me.

She’s here.

I’m frozen in the doorway as she notices I’ve arrived. She’s dressed in her signature leggings and long-sleeved white t-shirt for traveling. Her hair is in a messy bun, she’s wearing her glasses, and she has zero make-up on. She’s never looked more perfect to me.

“Took you long enough,” She smirks.

Without missing a beat, I reach into my backpack, effectively storing the little box away and pulling out something even more meaningful to both of us. I hold out the cardigan she left, a smile forming on her perfect lips as she approaches me. I slide it up her arms and onto her shoulders where it was always meant to be. She turns around and wraps her arms around my neck, bringing her body to mine where it was also always meant to be.

I pull away slightly but only to capture her lips with mine. Happiness flows through my body as my love embraces me with as much love as we can fathom.

I loved her goodbye once and I will never let her go again because I loved her first and I will be the last.

~*~

Tags: @the-marvel-wars @elusive-beauty @im-a-slut-for-an-accent @fantasy-is-my-reality @drakesfiance

[hillywooddestiel]

The Retreat Epilogue

Characters: CEO!Bucky x reader, Wanda, Steve, Peggy

Warnings: fluffy fluff

Word count: 1.4k

Description: Y/N Y/L/N: determined business woman, sought after by most businesses, creative visionary for advertising. She has it all. Or so she thinks. Life has a way of kicking you sideways when you least expect it, want it or are in anyway prepared for it. Numerous times. How can Y/N remain from cracking under the pressure when her career isn’t the only thing on the line and everything isn’t all that it seems?

A/N: This is it. The final part of The Retreat. It’s all over. The end. No more. It is done!!! I’m so proud of what I’ve managed since this is the length of a small book. Thank you to everyone who has loved this series as much as I have, thanks for the love for it. This part is set about 6 months after the last chapter just for reference xx Series Masterlist Marvel Masterlist

Story:

Wanda and Vis walk into the club hand in hand, joining Bucky and I at the bar. I give Wanda a big hug and compliment her gorgeous midnight blue dress.

“Yours is amazing too! It looks familiar…” she studies it closely.

“Yeah… Bucky got it for me as an early birthday present. All I said was I thought it was pretty in the window. Next thing he was dragging me inside to try it on.”

“Wait, is this from that boutique on West 20th we used to look at every lunch break?”

“The one where all the rich people take their kids for prom dresses yeah.” I confirm her suspicions, smoothing out the fabric.

“That is so sweet.” Wanda grins, reaching to the bar to pick up her cocktail.

“Not as sweet as that dinner date Vis took you on. Sounds like things are getting serious.” 

“They are! Our apartment allows pets so we went to the shelter last week,” she pulls out her phone and shows me a photo of a caramel-coloured cross breed on a strays website, “He's called Cosmo and we're going to pick him up next week.”

“Oh my gosh, he's adorable! A shared pet, big step.”

“It is… but I can really see this going all the way and I think we should take the leap.”

“That's great! I'm happy for you, Wanda.” I hug her again.

“Thanks! What about you two, how are things?” Wanda asks. I look over to Bucky- he's laughing at someone’s jokes, his smile making me smile.

“Thing are good, really good. We've both been super stressed with this launch but it's been nice having each other to talk to about it.” And help with stress release. Of course, it's more than that. I'm happy. I'm really happy right now and Bucky is the reason why. He'll surprise me with a coffee in the office when I don't have the chance to leave my desk. We'll go on spontaneous dates from picnics in central park to rooftop dinners at Michelin star restaurants. I'll cook and we'll have a chill movie night together. Then there's the little things: the way he'll rub my feet when I have to take work home; the kisses he leaves when he thinks I'm sleeping; his smile that I always find myself reciprocating; the way he will always make sure I'm okay (he magically always knows when I'm not). Every day I fall more and more in love with him- it's crazy really.

After bumping into Clint and Natasha behind one of the electronic billboards and Thor and Jane in the ladies toilets, I decide it's safest to stay within the main crowd- I don't want to be cracking out the eye bleach tonight. Bucky keeps one hand on my knee nearly the entire time we spend sitting in the booth.

“And how is Joey? I feel like it's been ages since I got a cuddle from that little squish.” I ask Peggy and Steve. Joseph James Rogers was born exactly two months before the scheduled launch date for our new AI making this time extremely stressful for Steve. Stressful but also amazing.

“You two babysat for us just last week!” Peggy laughs, “He's fine with his Nana and Papa making friends with all of the dogs.” 

“We don't mind babysitting when the kid is just so darn cute.” Bucky's hand gets a little tighter on my knee; whenever the topic of kids comes up he gets quite broody. Don't get me wrong, it's really hot and I love the idea of having kids but not yet. Definitely not yet.

“No leaving the party early then.” Bucky jokes, clinking his glass with Steve's.

“We wouldn't dream of it.” Steve raises his glass in turn.

“Mum and Dad are staying up late tonight!” Peggy laughs. We all start making toasts to anything and everything, the alcohol helping with the joyous mood we're all in.

~~~~~

“Official public sales start tomorrow and I couldn't be prouder of all the work we've done in the past months.”

“Yes, thank you every single one of you here tonight, in every department. We couldn't have done this without you.” Bucky and Steve stand on a small raised stage making their joint thank you speech.

“A toast to Barnes and Rogers and our continued bright future in the market.” Bucky raises his glass of champagne followed by everyone else as a chorus of cheers.

“Also,” Steve gestures for us all to quieten down, “as a special treat for you all, we'd like to announce this year's company retreat- an all-paid-for spa weekend away. You all deserve a bit of relaxation.” I catch Bucky's eye and he shoots me a wink. I wonder if the spa will do couples packages. 

“Now enough of the serious talk, let's get this night started properly.” The lights turn purple and loud house music starts, all controlled by the DJ who comes amped up into his booth. Bucky steps down from the platform and comes over to me, kissing me gently on the cheek and squeezing me with a hug.

“Someone's happy.” I grin, reaching up on my toes to kiss him on the lips.

“Because I am happy. Come on, I want to show you something.” he takes my hand, and leads me out of the crowd.

We emerge from dark corridors out into a balcony. There's a cute little bench, a bucket of ice with champagne, fairy lights around the perimeter and beautiful plants everywhere. But the view… the view is the real star. Being in a bit of a club district, there's neon signs about every way you look. The skyscrapers in the near distance are all lit up like Christmas trees creating the classic New York view. The sky is an inky blue with the occasional plane passing over. It's truly stunning.

“Wow…” I wander up to the railing, marvelling at it all. 

“It's even more beautiful now you're up here.” Bucky says. I scoff, wrapping my arms around his neck.

“You're such a sap.” I giggle, kissing him freely without the eyes of every single one of my co-workers.

“But I'm your sap.” He kisses me back, hands holding me close by the waist.

“Is this the surprise then, cos it's really really pretty.” I look out to the city.

“Sort of. What can you see from here?” 

“Well, lots of buildings…” I look for something to stand out to me, “I can see the top of the zoo over there so that must make… that building your apartment.” I point to my answer.

“Mhm. How would you like it to be our apartment?” 

“What?!” I look at Bucky, is he kidding?

“Move in with me. We can move into mine or find a new place together. You're over a lot of the time, I'd love for it to be all the time. What do you say?” Wow. Okay. Wow. This is huge! I’m being too quiet, I need to say something.

“I love your apartment.”

“You- Is that a yes?”

“Yes!” Bucky laughs as he picks me up and spins me around. When he puts me down he kisses me passionately.

“I love you so much.”

“I love you so much more.”

Bucky pops the champagne and we sit up there on the terrace talking and occasionally making out (not that I’m one to kiss and tell). He gives me his jacket when the evening chill sets in like a true gentleman. I take this as the perfect opportunity to snuggle into his side, he needs to keep warm too after all.

“Thor tells me he’s been thinking about maybe buying a ring.”

“Wow! They’re so sweet together. She’ll say yes for sure.”

“They’re a cute couple. Not as cute as us, but cute.” I jab him in the ribs for the cheeky joke but can’t help laughing.

“It’s not a competition.”

“No… but if it is we would win.”

“Really? Not even the one couple who are married with a baby?”

“Well, yeah, if we’re counting married people then maybe they just beat us. Only just.”

“You’re such an ass!” I tease him, giving him a kiss so he knows I’m joking.

“An ass you just agreed to live with. No backing out now!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” And I really wouldn’t. Bucky is the most amazing part of my life and I couldn’t imagine it without him. Obviously it hasn’t been all that long, not for thinking about marriage and kids yet anyway, but I really think we could be endgame. And it’s all thanks to that darn retreat.

The Retreat Tags:

@jsmith509 @meowchickameow

[thepandemicinterviews]

Mikki, July 11 2020, Melbourne

During the course of my interview with Mikki, I realised eight minutes too late that half of what had been said so far had not recorded. This lost section illustrates for me two things: 1) the fallibility of technology, and 2) the irrecoverable nature of speech. Thinking about the former, I consider phone calls that cut in and out, one friend lagging behind the others. For a short while, whenever Mikki and I called, only one person could be heard at a time, so I had to make sure not to “mm” in response or I’d risk cutting her off. This meant monologuing and not interrupting, something akin to the interview form.

I’ve always been attracted to the interview. I think teenage magazines, which I read religiously (often standing in the supermarket aisle with the magazines and stationery and greeting cards), were the first indicator of this love. A decade later, recently, I reflected on the unique beauty of speech in written form in Rachel Cusk’s “Outline” trilogy, which are written almost entirely through her characters’ monologue-style speech. I then read her interview in the Paris Review, in which she says the following:

I suppose I recognised that certain worlds could be almost prepared for me by other people, that other people had abilities to perceive their experiences in ways that I found really useful. That sounds a bit like I got other people to do the work for me, but I just thought, Actually you can just use that particular narrative gift for narrative form in speech. […] I think what I was looking for in writing these books was almost a sound frequency. I think I’m very aware when these passages of life occur—when people are able to give voice to themselves. One of the things that is said about these books is, People don’t talk like that. But I think they probably do. Maybe not all the time, but I think they do. The people that I tend to have speaking in my books have a momentary emergence, like someone getting out of the sea and standing on a rock for a minute and sort of looking around, and for whatever reason they can see where they are.

Like Cusk, I wish to glean from others’ experiences, to pay attention to them, and in doing so, give rise to that “momentary emergence.” Interviews allow speech to be consecrated. One can give voice to oneself, then see spoken words turned into black text. The transcriber imagines commas and full stops, moulding the chaos of speech into tidy sentences. The speech is exalted.

Perhaps what makes an interview so daunting, and so singular in its form, is its promise of structured spontaneity. More structured than a conversation, less structured than a piece of writing. Inside it, operating within a space of pure question and response, subjective experience can resound and stand alone.

I wanted to begin this project with Mikki because she is, in every way, brilliant, but also because she has had to experience Covid-19 after moving to Melbourne in February, away from family and friends. Basically, very alone (alone being almost synonymous with the experience of the virus). Now, as cases in Melbourne continue to rise again, she’s moved into a new house, and has entered week one of their six-week lockdown. We discuss existential versus tangible stresses, our displaced visual landscapes, and the limitations of empathy within collective – and yet, so individual – suffering.

C: Mikki, you found out that you tested negative for Covid today. How did you feel when you saw that text?

M: I was really sleepy because it came through before six in the morning and so I felt slightly relieved but also just felt very silly for having worried so much. But also felt very justified for having worried. Then just thought about all the possible timelines and the things that could have happened. So it was overwhelming but in a nice way.

C: When you say the possible timelines, what would have happened if you had tested positive?

M: It would have changed the way this month plays out. So I was working out how it would change my housemates’ plans for moving today, and then how it would then affect all the things that need to happen in the next few weeks. It would mean that I would need to isolate here, so I would need to do my assignment here and wouldn’t be able to leave to my new place, and just change the whole future of July 2020 for me personally.

C: I felt that way when it was March and I felt like every decision I made was contingent on every other thing that happened which was often not in my control. Do you feel like this week has been the most intense week during this period in terms of personal stresses?

M: I think so. It’s been the most actively intense week I guess. Like I felt stressed about tangible real things that maybe didn’t necessarily require the level of stress I was experiencing but still were very real and very scary in practical ways. Whereas, the stress and intensity I felt in March and April was much more existential and about my emotions, I guess, for different reasons. Whereas this felt so tied to real, terrifyingly tangible stresses.

C: When you say that it felt existential back in March, can you elaborate on that?

M: I’m never a hundred percent sure if I’m using the word properly [laughs]. But I think I just felt very aware of literally living and existing and how I was experiencing being alive and all the ways that I could feel throughout a day, or a week, or a month. I was just so aware of every tiny experience and so obviously questioned every aspect of my experiences, I guess. Partly because I had all this time to do that and was so intensely alone that I was forced to do that. This time felt really different to that because things don’t feel as abstract.

C: And with all that time alone, other than thinking, how did you pass that time?

M: I watched so many music videos. I discovered that I can just lie down and watch music videos with my headphones on and feel so much. What else did I do… I called people a lot and I went on walks and for brief periods I’d read and watch movies and feel really good about that. Obviously write my essays, but really slowly. And started drinking tea so, so frequently throughout each day. And I guess just made a lot of plans, just solidified ideas – I guess that kind of comes under thinking. But just, I guess, restructured how I think. It felt like I could just intensely feel an emotion and embrace that feeling and work out which other senses I could use to further feel that feeling and ride it out and just experience it fully. And that was like an activity, and a thing that I could be doing in a way that it never has been before.

C: It sounds very therapeutic. A mindfulness guru we have in our midst. Daphne’s volunteering for this mindfulness group at the moment where they just slowly eat raisins. I guess just having the lack of external influence to allow you this space to drink tea and watch your music videos. Do you think that’s something you’ll hold with you when you do get busier – that experience?

M: Yeah, absolutely. I feel like the only other time I’d understood that was the one week at the end of January when I smoked weed each night and just enjoyed feeling really good in all these ways. But that was so short-lived and so brief, and I feel like I’ve extended that now, but without needing any kind of substance, just fully enjoying being comfortable…

C: So this new lockdown – six weeks – having that set timeframe. How do you feel about that and is there anything you hope to achieve in the second lockdown?

M: Yeah, it definitely is quite a set time. I was talking about that just earlier today, about how that’s different psychologically to being told that something’s happening indefinitely and that would change how you think about it. I am kind of seeing it as a second chance in a way, like Lockdown: Take 2 [laughs]. Like a time to do all the things that you hoped to do the first time round, but obviously were never going to accomplish. This feels like the chance to do that. So part of me does want to end up becoming a runner by the end of it, or someone who does yoga all the time. But I also just hope that I’m someone who’s a bit more solidly in the real world by the end of it. And feel a bit more able to engage with the external world more comfortably and feel like a real person who exists in a tangible world that’s external to me and my own mind. Because I think at the start of it, so the next few weeks, I definitely will keep being very gentle with myself and move with whatever mood or feeling needs to happen and just try to ride out the next few weeks, I guess. And still try to achieve the things I have to do but without any real world pressures because it doesn’t feel like I’m back in the real world yet. I think I do hope by the end of the six weeks I am a bit more solidly in the world and able to interact with people without feeling like it’s all a bit imaginary. And be ready to be doing uni subjects a bit more seriously, and start looking for a job, and be a bit more down-to-earth, be solidly on the ground kind of vibe.

C: Do you feel like it gives you a bit more time to realise what you want before feeling fully settled? Do you feel like it’s kind of a good thing for where you’re at to have this extra time?

M: Yeah, I think it is. It feels a bit sad to have started to have these nice things, like seeing people occasionally and being able to relax a bit, not feeling that stress. It was nice just feeling like life was picking up in that way. But I think for me, still kind of feeling like I am quite alone, and I do want to take all this learning and growth, becoming different and new in all these ways out of this time I have, where I am forced to be alone. In that sense I think it does feel like a nice bit of extra room to do that comfortably.

C: You mentioned moodboards before, when I think it wasn’t recording. What images come to mind when you think of this year? Not January, of course, because that was a very different time.

M: This is super obvious and has been the case for nearly everyone I love, but the sky at dusk has been a really clear daily chance to really feel something. Something that changes all the time. I think just striking visuals in general have been something I’ve been able to appreciate more. It’s as though colours and images or videos of people in really good or interesting outfits carry so much more weight and power in a way. I feel like I can appreciate them so much more. So those are some of the images that I’ve been much more struck by than usual, I guess. I feel like the things I look at in real life are so limited, you know, like I just look out the same few windows, and walk the same couple of parks, and go to the same shops. But then at the same time, the things I’m looking at online are so much more varied and diverse and I’m giving them so much more attention and time that it feels like they’re all more powerful. Oh, and also just my big blue jumper has become such a staple and all my bed sheets and pillows are different shades of blue, but the jumper just typifies that soft, comfy, homey – soft colours, but also warm soft cosy overall sensation. I think it represents that all in itself.

C: It does. So you’ve learnt a lot about yourself of course, but do you feel like you’ve learnt a lot about other people, people in general, specific people?

M: Hmm. I don’t know if I’ve really learnt about other people. I think I’ve seen more of certain parts of different people I know, because our relationships are obviously really different, and it brings out new dynamics and certain aspects of everyone’s personalities are amplified in different ways.

C: In terms of different opinions towards the whole situation or?

M: In terms of how people think and feel. I guess because I’m in a new place, it’s kind of been a really specific way of highlighting how different people think and act. There’s just been such clear divides between people who are partying recently and out in bars and stuff, and people who are following the rules because they’re the laws but aren’t necessarily super invested in the reality of the health crisis and your responsibilities in your communities and so on. And then the people who are most disadvantaged by this and are just in such a completely different world to the people who are out dancing, happy they can do that. So it’s kind of been really stark seeing those differences play out, and mainly through my phone or laptop as well, like not in person. I guess also seeing people respond to stuff, like with the public housing hard lockdown, seeing people really quickly working out ways to donate stuff and help with various things. I think that kind of brought out people’s opinions especially starkly. In so many ways. Obviously, seeing the government’s responses has also been super informative, and feels like it all lines up with the last essay I did, which was all about incarceration in Victoria and how indigenous women are disproportionately affected. And seeing that conflict between a fairly progressive government in a lot of ways, but then a really harsh, tough crime, law-and-order focused, criminal justice agenda. And that’s come out really clearly again recently.

C: Like you can’t be both.

M: Yeah, well it just kind of feels really extreme how it somehow goes so hand-in-hand in this state.

C: I think at the beginning of everything, just speaking on a very vague global level, I thought everyone is kind of going through the same thing worldwide. You never get to experience that level of – like I could talk to anyone in the world and say, “How’s it affecting you?”, “Same.” But then I think as the months progressed and different countries went different directions. And on a local level, different types of people had different experiences and it reinforced existing hierarchies.

M: Totally. It was such a shift from we’re all in this together to realising that just couldn’t be further from the truth, basically. And how false it was.

C: Yeah, and all the blaming of people and outrage. I think in particular, in Australia and New Zealand, it’s been a big part of the conversation around outbreaks. Blaming people for not being perfect and not having the empathy to understand why someone might be more likely to pass it on due to living conditions or just personal situations.

M: It’s been so extreme seeing that play out. Especially with the recent Victorian spike, I feel like the discourse has become so much more about blaming people who are doing the wrong thing. Even where government policy failures are also a huge part of that story as well. Yeah, it’s so interesting in terms of empathy, actually. It’s kind of helped people develop empathy in some ways, in terms of unemployment for some people and what that’s like, or what poverty is like, or social isolation or being lonely or being anxious or not having access to the same food or resources. But then also seeing how limited that empathy is in other ways. That’s such a strange conflict I think.

[moksharpg]

Hi all! I hope everyone is having a great day! Below the cut you will find my sample application for the role of MANTRA! I’ve mentioned it before, but this application is meant to be super low-stress, low-pressure, which I hope I was able to capture in the sample app below. My sample app is by no means “the only way to do things” and is merely a snippet of me diving in my own character! I hope you all find this helpful and if you have any questions at all, please let me know! 

Ｉ． ＴＨＥ ＰＬＡＹＥＲ

name/age/pronouns/timezone: Rach / 20 / She/Her / PST

approximate level of activity: 8; I intend to be on at least once a day.

triggers: n/a

writing sample: @ziadewans​

anything else you’d like me to know?: nope!

ＩＩ． ＴＨＥ ＣＨＡＲＡＣＴＥＲ

desired skeleton: Mantra

full name: Aesha Khanna

faceclaim: Kelly Gale

age: 25

gender/pronouns: CisFemale; She/Her

occupation: Seamstress

are they a competitor for the throne?: No.

The more I dug into Aesha, the more I realized that she lacks a distinctly competitive spirit, one that may have drawn her to such a competition. Yes, she enjoys success and covets praise, but not in a way that is all-consuming. In many ways, this lack of explicit drive and motivation is what stands between Aesha and true success. Aesha is far more of a follower than a leader and certainly doesn’t seek out power as much as she seeks out her own independence and freedom. She’d much rather be part of a rising movement, than become the actual revolutionary that sets forth change. In many ways, becoming a participant in the competition would merely sidetrack her from her goals and desires, which Aesha has no interest in doing. Additionally, Aesha is so young. I think she lacks a lot of the tact, diplomacy, experience, and discipline it takes to be a strong leader and is still learning how to take care of herself, much less take care of the world around her. For the most part, Aesha likes her life and sees no reason to uproot it for a position she doesn’t even necessarily want. Still, she finds the entire prospect of the competition to be exhilarating and will no doubt be drawn into it as an avid onlooker.

bio/headcanons:

A baby girl is brought into this world; the identity of her father is completely unknown. Her mother remains tight-lipped on the topic and Aesha never presses out of love and respect for the woman who raises her and gives her the world. It’s a cruel fate to only ever know half one’s history, but she relents to the mystery of the past, having faith that when the time is right, the truth will come out.

Aesha lives a bright childhood, doted on by her mother and the other palace courtiers and dancers who are all too thrilled to have a baby girl in their midst. As Aesha grows older she’s often asked if she intends to follow in her mother’s footsteps, which she can only respond to with a hearty laugh, as her feet fail her far more often than her hands. She loves her mother and what she does, but it’s never been the life for her and she’s always known it. 

Aesha learns to sew from her mother who had been hand-stitching her own costumes for countless years. In the hopes of alleviating some of her mother’s work, Aesha takes on the job of creating her mother’s costumes in its entirety and grows a passion for the work, forging leftover scraps of fabric into entirely new designs. Her stitchwork gains notoriety within the palace walls and before she knows it, she’s hemming garments for the wealthy and fixing torn fabric for nobility. It’s particularly humble work for the daughter of a temple dancer, but Aesha doesn’t mind, so long as the end result of her work is something of beauty.

Eventually, her workstation begins to sprawl beyond reason and for her twentieth birthday, Aesha’s mother purchases her a stall at Mahi Haat, with enough room for a small workroom in the back. It’s a kind gift that marks the beginning of a new chapter as Aesha’s adult life finally begins to take shape.

One afternoon she’s selling her wares when she catches a glimpse of a foreign man wandering through the market. She sees him and knows exactly who he is, because every time she looks in the mirror, she sees those very eyes in her reflection. They make eye contact and she thinks he knows too, but for one reason or another, she can’t bring herself to speak to him, and he disappears into the crowd of people. Still, there’s a part of herself that keeps a lookout, knowing that if she ever has a chance at seeing him again, she’ll be ready.

Aesha is quite adventurous to the point that she worries her mother greatly. She’s been known to travel to the edges of Parakram to find unique fabrics or deep into the jungles of Lasgarh to find berries to make dyes. In many ways, she lacks a real sense of responsibility and accountability, which allows her to be so spontaneous. While Aesha would like more stability in her life, her actions often contradict and she refuses to fully commit herself to the work and passions that could provide that stability. 

para sample:

An easy gust kisses her skin, the breeze catching upon yards of bright fabric that dance in the wind. There’s a bright and lively chatter in the air as Aesha waits in front of the palace gates for the oncoming special announcement. In passing, Aesha’s mother had mentioned catching wind of a rumor regarding the Maharani’s future, but Aesha couldn’t help but sense that something a little more wondrous in the air. 

Pargazi was always bustling and crowded, but the prospect of an important royal announcement always seemed to ignite the city with new fire. While she had initially intending on keeping to herself, one of the strangers who stands beside her turns to Aesha, unable to keep her excitement to herself, “Are you from Pargazi?” she asks, making friendly conversation as her impatience visibly mounted, “Or merely here for the announcement?”

“I’m a Pargazi native-- born and raised right here,” Aesha replies, as a tentative, but warm grin forms on her features,  “Where are you from?”

“I’m actually just over from Lalitpur,” the younger woman replies, nodding her head in the direction of the coast, “But I convinced my mother to let me come. I simply couldn’t miss the chance to see the Maharani speak in person...I really like your dupatta,” she adds, cementing the broad smile to Aesha’s lips.

“Well, I can promise that you won’t be disappointed. The Maharani is a rather impressive woman, though I can’t begin to imagine what she’ll have to say today,” Aesha muses in response, “And thank you-- I actually designed it myself,” a hint of pride slipping into her words. “If you’re ever at Mahi Haat you should stop by my stall sometime.”

“I certainly will…” the girl nods as the sound of creaking signals the opening of the gates. Aesha’s eyes flash upwards and it’s as though she’s experiencing the palace for the very first time. She’s walked through these very halls and gardens countless times, but the energy of the crowd behind her inspires a whole new perspective-- a bit like looking at an old home through new eyes. 

Her newfound companion interlocks their fingers and pulls Aesha forward, a flash of excitement striking through her veins as the pair of girls excitedly lay eyes on their queen. “Are you ready?” the younger girl asks her, giddily. 

“Oh, I’m always ready.”

ＩＩＩ． ＯＴＨＥＲＳ ＆ ＥＸＴＲＡ （ＯＰＴＩＯＮＡＬ）

Pinterest Board

Personality Breakdown:

Myers-Briggs: ISFP -- The Adventurer - They tend to have open minds, approaching life, new experiences, and people with grounded warmth. Their ability to stay in the moment helps them uncover exciting potentials.

Temperament: Sanguine 

Enneagram: The Enthusiast 

[discolipton]

Since Gene is from the south and it never gets cold enough for anything to freeze could you do something like Gene experiencing snow for the first time and Babe is already used to snow but enjoys being with Gene and basically dies from the cuteness. Thank you and your blog is super cool btw

sorry, this took a turn towards “angsty.” if it is any consolation, i really really liked this prompt and i’ll probably beef it up and add more cute “what the fuck heffron why is it so Gd Damned Cold” bits when i inevitabely make an ao3 post for the drabbles i get.

and while we’re on the subject of angst: i reference bastogne a few times so bear that in mind, kids.

————

Gene’s face gets pink when it’s cold. Babe knows this from Europe, and now he’s grateful that he has the luxury of looking at him for as long as he pleases. He’s so close that Babe can touch him, and if he wants to, he can. When Babe’s mind pulls him down into that greyed out memory of Bastogne, he can clearly remember Gene’s silence. How he worked that blue bandana back and forth between his fingers, turning the fraying edges into ribbons as he stared at nothing. And Babe remembers watching him do that, and wishing that he would stop looking so damn far. He remembers thinking that he would give anything to hear Gene speak then, just so that Babe could know if he was still there. If he was still within reach.

Of course, Gene hadn’t been talking because of a lot of shit entirely unrelated to the cold, and also because he is usually quiet under normal circumstances. Which is probably why he is being aggressively and uncharacteristically Not Quiet now.

“Jesus Fucking Christ, Heffron,” Gene barks as they barrel through a snow filled South Philly, “why did you bring me up here?”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Babe yells over the howling wind, his hand closed tight around Gene’s as he pulls them along, “we’re almost there, I swear.”

He hadn’t planned on there being an honest to Gd blizzard when he bought Gene a train ticket. Winter in Philadelphia may not be home to particularly pleasant winters, but they also don’t come by a lot of snow storms. It figures that the second Babe gets Gene to visit they have a record breaking cold front that would make even the most grizzled northerner say “holy shit it’s fucking cold.”

Babe has Gene wearing at least five layers, not counting the hat, scarf, gloves, and two coats he loaned him in an effort to send Gene back to Louisiana in one piece. Babe wraps his arms around Gene as they lurch closer to his building, feet sliding in the grey slush kicked up from the street and over the thin layer of ice coating the sidewalk. He can barely see right now, and the snow cuts into him like shards of glass. He almost doesn’t see the red brick of his building through the tears in his eyes.

“Come on,” he yells until his voice cracks, pulling Gene over, “don’t fall.”

“Thanks for the tip, Heffron.”

Babe manages to drag Gene up the steps and into the entryway with minimum casualties. They stomp their boots out with a few melodramatic huffs and a little blustering before making the walk up three flights of stairs. Babe has to peel his soaked gloves off to unlock the door. It takes a few tries for his cold numbed hands to finally unlock the door, and when he does they practically fall into his kitchen. Gene throws himself across the room to the radiator besides Babe’s run down mattress, shaking like a leaf as Babe fills the kettle with water and puts it on the stove. He strips off his coat and scarf. When he looks over, Gene is still bundled up and gasping against the radiator.

“Stop humping the radiator and put on some dry clothes,” Babe grits out through chattering teeth as he pulls off his sweater and pants.

His undershirt is still dry, and he finds the pair of pajama bottoms he threw across the room the night before. Gene begrudgingly strips until he’s down to his skivvies before pulling over his duffle bag and putting on the sweater and pants he takes out.

“How you survived your childhood is a mystery to me,” he groans from the floor.

“I didn’t know you could bitch so much about a little cold.”

Babe looks out the window and sees only white. And his mind does that thing, where all of a sudden he’s thinking about Europe. Or, in this case specifically, Bastogne. Where it’s loud and cold and he’s only a few feet from Julian, but he can’t quite reach. It must be the snow that’s got him like this, because all he can think about is blood, and his helmet getting pelted with slugs, and the way that the bullets didn’t stop coming even though Julian was right there and needed him. His body always gets a different kind of cold when this happens. Like the cold is coming from inside him.

“Hey,” Gene calls from the floor, “Heffron.”

Babe blinks down at him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Babe blinks back at his reflection in the fogged over window panes. “Why?”

“You’ve been staring outside for a few minutes now.”

“Have I?”

As if to answer his question, the tea kettle starts screeching. Babe turns his head a fraction to the left, blinking slowly.

“And you’re rubbing your neck,” Gene whispers.

“What?” Babe realizes that his hand is clamped down around his throat, and he lets go. “Well, ain’t that fucking weird? Water’s boiling.”

He wonders if Gene gets like that too as he pulls down a tin of tea and goes about filling mugs and dumping in leaves. Bill does. He does. But Bill, Gd love him, is insane, and Babe isn’t entirely sure what it says about him if he’s constantly getting thrown back two years every time it snows. Or when a loose manhole cover gets run over in the street. Or when he opens the register at work and smells pennies.

He sets the mugs down on the milk crate beside his bed before shucking back the covers and crawling in. Gene follows close behind. Babe stares at the chipped paint of his beige ceiling, his mind plagued with thoughts that he’d be more than happy to never have again.

“Babe.”

That gets his attention. Babe blinks and turns to look at Gene. He pulls Babe into his chest and shoves an arm under his shoulders to scratch at the back of his head. Babe rolls further into him, tucking his head under Gene’s chin. They both look up at the window next to them, watching the snow come down.

“Never thought I’d see snow like that,” Gene mumbles, “s’nothing like Bastogne.”

“Cold like it. Just as miserable.”

“Still.” Gene holds him tighter, and kisses his forehead. “Nothing like Bastogne.”

The fine knit of Gene’s dark blue sweater presses into his cheek, soft and skin warmed. Gene breathes easily above him, his fingers scratching lines down the back of his head that send a few not unpleasant shivers down his spine.

“Got a warm bed. Got hot water. Got some kids downstairs that don’t know when it’s time to go to bed.”

Babe snickers and wraps his arms around Gene’s waist, pulling him onto his side so that they can lay nose to nose. Gene’s arm is still trapped under his head, although his gentle ministrations drift from his head to his back.

“I was gonna show you around Philly,” Babe laughs, placing a hand on Gene’s cheek, “make Bill play nice and come have lunch with us. I was gonna have you meet my parents.”

“Well, damn,” Gene deadpans, “looks like we’ll just have to hole up here while we ride the storm out. Too bad.”

“Don’t sound so down about it.”

“I’ll try not to,” Gene says as he kisses Babe’s cheek, “it’s gonna be a struggle.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

Gene kisses his jaw, then his chin.

“Don’t go crying yourself to sleep over it or anything,” Babe replies as Gene slots into place over him, arms on either side of his head, “I’m sure Bill would have Frances bring him over in a wheelbarrow if need be.”

“What a relief,” Gene mumbles into Babe’s neck, kissing down to the base of his throat.

“Until then, we could probably live off of what I’ve got here,” Babe says, wrapping his arms around Gene’s shoulders, “hope you like Spam.”

Gene lifts his head and leans in so they’re nose to nose again. Forehead to Forehead. He kisses just under Babe’s eye, then down to the corner of his mouth.

“I’ve got you,” Gene hums against his lips, “and that’s about all I need.”

Call Babe a hopeless romantic, but if that isn’t music to his ears. He kisses Gene until they’re chest to chest. Gene pulls away with a breathy laugh and rolls over onto his back, Babe going with him. They rearrange the blankets around them before Babe lays his head down on Gene’s chest.

“And I do not like Spam,” Gene says.

Knobby ankles jab into Babe’s as Gene sinks deeper into the pillows. He kisses Babe’s hair.

“I think I could get used to the snow,” Gene muses.

Babe smiles so hard that his cheeks hurt. With Gene’s arms around him, Babe looks out over the quiet apartment and imagines what it would look like with both of them sharing it. Is there room on his bookshelf for Gene’s textbooks? Can he stomach all the spices Gene would absolutely foist on him under the claim of being good for clearing his airways? How the fuck would he manage to fall asleep in Gene’s arms every night and not spontaneously combust? Could he even handle being that disgustingly happy?

A future like that seems so close that Babe can practically touch it, and it makes him feel damn near toasty.

————

do you have a random fluffy prompt that you want me to ruin with angst? just hit up my ask box!

[swisscgny]

MEET NEIL ENGGIST

We recently interviewed Swiss-American painter Neil Enggist to talk about his life, work and how he is coping with self-isolation. Neil’s exhibition The Practice of the Wild was supposed to open at the Consulate General of Switzerland in New York last month as the 8th edition of Art@The Consulate but was postponed due to COVID-19. 

Hi Neil, thank you for taking the time to talk to us. Where are you right now? It is my pleasure. I’m in New Jersey. I have a backyard studio near Princeton, in the old house where I grew up. I’m staying put as much as I can.

Tell us about yourself, where did you grow up? My mother is from Taiwan and my father was born and raised in Luzern, both coming for graduate studies in 1969 to Buffalo. I was born and raised in Princeton Junction in an old stone house near a small forest and the train station. My father was teaching in the Bronx and Connecticut, then trying his hand at importing Swiss Chocolate, but at some point in the 1970s, he turned to stained glass. I remember him cutting, wrapping, and soldering in the backyard. My mother worked for the state of NJ, and drew from the model in her spare time. I drew dinosaurs like a maniac, not very well I may add, but at some point around age 7, my father asked me to draw a dinosaur that he made into a stained glass panel. As a family we traveled to Luzern about every 2 years, and I still remember the smell of Birenwecken and lightning over the Vierwaldstättersee. I drew all the time but wasn’t precocious, as a youth, I was shy, quiet, hot tempered, diligent with school, perfectionist, and mostly played soccer and saxophone and you know, did my math homework.

When did you know you wanted to become an artist? I went to art school at Washington University in 2000, but it wasn’t until studying abroad in Florence in 02 that I had the feel of becoming an artist. There is a laminated portrait from first grade, age 6, where I put into writing that I wanted to be an ‘Artist.’ But in Florence my life felt like it shifted from art student to artist, 3 dear friends and I shared an apartment on Piazza Independenza, learning photography, printmaking, illustration, bookmaking, Italian and art history at a tiny art school called Santa Reparata. My future Love lived up the street and sometimes the cheap red wine would flow. Behind every door were Renaissance frescos, leaping off the walls were Donatellos, and it was the beginning of my explorations as a painter. I would paint plein-air small landscapes and cityscapes with oils, but by the end my ambition grew into a very large Kandinskyesque abstract rendition of Michelangelo’s Final Judgment fresco from the Sistine wall. A year later, back in St. Louis I declared painting as my major, and in the words of Joe Campbell, began ‘following my bliss.’

Neil Enggist, Sea on Earth, acrylic and stain on wood, 2011

How would you describe your style? Has it changed over the years? I would say it’s an Organic Abstract Expressionism, or Nature Action Painting. Over nearly 20 years, YES it has changed! Like a photon going from point A, painting the Ponte Vecchio, to B, dancing on a piece of steel with turmeric and ocean water, taking every single possible path! To say it’s moved linearly would be wrong, but there is a sequence of transformations or leaps, in the Ozarks, Mysticism, Heartbreak, Dylan, New Mexico, Traveling Europe, The Mir, snow painting, India, Brooklyn, Voice and Veil, Gardening, going cross county, yoga, India again, the dance, steel, the tides, The Tao and the Yellow Mountains, devotion. I’m very interested how Dylan’s work has transformed and shifted, beyond expectation, without calculation, yet somehow almost always in line with his poetic essence. My paintings have changed like dinosaurs and birds, from a common source, many branches, some seemingly from different worlds, some becoming bones and fossils, some soaring through the sky.

Tell us about your artistic practice, where do you paint, what inspires you? Well we can start with Highway 61.. music of the American vernacular, jazz, blues, country, rock, folk, hip hop.. from Louis Armstrong, Strange Fruit, Charlie Parker, to the early Bluesmen of the Mississippi Delta, Robert Johnson, folksingers like Woody Guthrie, onwards and outwards to Wutang and Nas. Basquiat inspires me. Ana Medieta, DeKooning, Paul Klee, David Hammons, Polke, Mel Chin, James Turrell, Richard Long, Kerry James, Doig, Ofili, Wangechi Mutu, John Akomfrah, Bonnard, Matisse, Puryear too. Gary Snyder's brilliant collection of essays 'The Practice of the Wild,' from where the title of the exhibition comes, has helped me attune to the wild systems at play in nature and within, and continues to evolve my way of thinking, seeing, and creative being. Taking a journey into nature, not just a dip into nature, but really feeling the connections, the web that runs through the forest and is woven into your own nature. The Redwoods, the Swiss Alps, the Coast of California.. I lose and become myself here. In my practice, nature is welcomed into the process of artistic creation. The imagined line between artistic intention and the creative functioning of wilderness is blurred, or more accurately, these spheres merge into a unified moment. It’s a spiritual practice, a kind of Taoist exercise, merging with the changes of the natural world, not holding, not fixing, listening to what the painting wants to become, and finding the color to enable the beholding. I paint outside and on the road, sometimes inside.. anywhere..

Neil Enggist, Odyssey III, acrylic, dye and turmeric on canvas, 2020

What role does Switzerland play in your life/art? My family has a house in Luzern, with a balcony opening to a view of Mount Pilatus that I would call perfect.. at least on the days where it’s not obscured by Nebel! Since 2012, I’ve been spending many springs / summers living there, in the bohemian remodeling of our chalet attic called the Macolette. I have painted and drawn our view of Pilatus so many times, it is ingrained in my mind’s eye. I’ve explored and hiked the mountains surrounding the Vierwaldstättersee, Grindelwald, Engadin, and Zermatt, finding places on and off the path to paint. When I am in the mountains, alone with my pack, in the quietude and breathtaking beauty, I feel something akin to being home, being one with myself, being on my true path. This feeling is fleeting and eternal. Also, during many of the summers, I have worked with my great friend and mentor, garden designer, Andre Ammann, constructing and maintaining gardens around Luzern. Working with him has taught me in so many ways, to notice the minute changes of spring, to work with contrasts of nature and culture, to understand placement of boulders and trees, how to create a riverscape, to dissolve into the consciousness of the river. When we are done with the work, all cleaned, raked, and hosed down, Andre and I look at our work, and he’ll say, ‘Now, the garden starts, try to see how this will look in 10 years, in 50 years..’ This has been a major influence in my own ‘Practice of the Wild’ and painting. It has also taught me how to shovel!

You have traveled all over the world, how has the nomad life shaped your art? As a traveler, painting becomes the act of experiencing and processing place; the painting becomes an archive of experience. Traveling serves to connect the painter with the uncomfortable and uncalculated, which forces a spontaneity and body-memory response. I aim to paint as one would do battle and dance and play jazz at once. In traveling, the painter becomes the abstraction, inhabiting transient and visionary territory. Materials from places of special significance, white gypsum sand from New Mexico, pigment from the Holi festival of India, black sand from Kanyakumari, gravel from Highway 61, layer into the topography, giving the painting a personal geographic context, while opening formal and textural possibilities. On the road, I explore the spiritual territory of color, and natural occurrences of unearthly blues.

With the COVID-19 pandemic, travel is no longer possible, in what ways has the pandemic shaped your practice / life? I just drove from California to NY in 5 days to install the Consulate show, just before the Covid situation hit the fan. I am supposed to be in India right now, doing a residency in the Himalayas! I’ve had a number of shows postponed and it just really doesn’t seem like people are buying many paintings right now.. But, really compared to people who are sick, caring for loved ones, and risking their lives to care for others, my sacrifices are minuscule. And I can most surely still paint! But I’m trying to use this time to do things I would have done in ‘normal’ times, but there are no normal times anymore. I’ve been making sculptures out of half rotten wood using an ax and a handsaw. I’ve been learning some Tai Chi from my Ma. I’ve started reading the Mahabharata. I’ve been texting whole a lot of hearts to California and writing love songs, and staying out of the bar.. 

Neil Enggist, That Great Mysterious Storm, acrylic, ink, oil and sand on canvas, 2010  

What important lessons do you think we can learn from the impact of the pandemic? Well, first and foremost gratitude for life, health, and for the things that we used to take for granted. To be grateful for the people who are dear to us. This may sound cliché, but the pandemic has shown us how connected we are, for better and for worse. We are interdependent, and what affects one region affects the global community. I hope that people can stop and reassess their personal and collective relationship with the planet.  In a profound and dire way, humans and our socio-economic systems have entered an unbalanced, virus-like relationship with this Earth. Humans seem to need wake up calls to affect changes, I hope this pandemic serves as a paradigm shift for enough of us. We are in this together. Yes when this is over, it will be great to go to a yoga class, an Indian restaurant, and to toast with friends, but we each need to use this time to reaffirm our commitments to each other and to all beings of this planet, and not go back to business as usual.  

What advice do you have for people stuck at home? Can you recommend something to read, listen or watch? Well I’m a Liverpool fan, and we were just about to WIN the premier league, so I’ve had to go back and watch Liverpool highlights to cope. There’s a lovely interview with the legendary skipper Steven Gerrard in conversation with Gary Neville on youtube. I’m a very lazy television watcher, meaning I don’t really watch new things, so it’s The Sopranos, and very little else. Peaky Blinders is good, violent, but solid. Kurosawa’s ‘Dreams’ is a ravishing movie.  I just saw ‘Purple Rain’ again, EPIC. When I drove across country I listened to Toni Morrison’s own reading of her novel ‘A Mercy,’ and it took my breath away, literally every sentence .. I don’t know how I even made it!  She’s a true master in telling a harrowing story in pure poetry. Also reading ‘An Indigenous People’s History of the United States’ and Leonard Peltier’s ‘Prison Writings.’  Musically I needed a lil rock, so I went back to the Black Keys ‘Brothers’, Brittany Howard’s solo ‘Jaime’ is good, JS Ondara, Black Pumas, Valerie June’s ‘Love Told a Lie,’ AM!R’s ‘Parachute, ‘ and the syrupy ‘Cigarettes after Sex.’ I’ve been listening as well to Gann Brewer’s most recent ‘Absolution.’ I made the video for his ‘River Song.’ Tracy Chapman’s first album is incredible. Springsteen’s ‘The River’ is like his White Album and sometimes I need to hear the Boss sing ‘Heart and Soul’ over and over.. and hear that ‘Drive All Night’ sax solo by the late great Clarence Clemons. I am from Jersey, don’t forget. Listening to a lot of John Prine too, and with his recent passing, his music shines like a diamond ring. ‘Christmas in Prison’ is one of my favorites of many. Oh and Bob Dylan just released a 17 minute song about the assassination of JFK, and it’s .. indescribable.

Thank you Neil! 

To find out more about Neil Enggist go to www.neilenggist.com, contact Neil at suisse17@gmail.com and follow him @neilenggist 

Scroll down for more information about the exhibition The Practice of the Wild which will open to the public as soon as it is safe to do so. Please note that all paintings depicted in this article are featured in the exhibition. 

NEIL ENGGIST

THE PRACTICE OF THE WILD 

8TH EDITION OF ART@THE CONSULATE 

THE PRACTICE OF THE WILD by Swiss-American painter Neil Enggist is comprised of a series of abstract mixed media Nature Action Paintings, a method by which nature performs an integral part in the artistic process. 

Neil Enggist, The Storm Ends, acrylic, ink, dye and sand on canvas, 2019

“My work seeks to embody the random precision through which life and spirit intersect. Within a liminal environment, I present set of conditions where the form can be born through an unfolding of natural currents. The nature of water, marks of evaporation, melting, freezing, burning, gravity, animal tracks, traces of dance, time, storms, tides and all manner of seasonal and emotional weather coincide to transform the canvas into a terrain in flux. Whether I am dripping ink into a melting tuft of snow, pouring the ocean on burning ink, or slashing the surface with a fallen pine branch, each action is composed within a system of nature. The result is a site of becoming where oceanic, emotive, and mystical stories interplay” 

Raised in Princeton, New Jersey, Neil Enggist studied fine arts at Washington University in St. Louis and Santa Reparata in Florence. He earned his MFA at San Francisco Art Institute in 2016 where he made paintings on steel in the tidal zones of the Bay Area, searching for a language between art and nature, incorporating ideas of performance and sculpture imbedded in the earth art movement. Enggist has participated in a number of art residencies including the Lucid Art Foundation in Point Reyes, CA, and most recently journeyed to the land of his grandmother to paint the City of Shanghai and the Yellow Mountains of China. Through his extensive travels in Europe, the Americas, and Asia he developed a body of painting and poetry shown in New York, Milan, Mumbai, Luzern, and Paris. Enggist lives and works between New York and Luzern, Switzerland.

Neil Enggist, The Schreckhorn, acrylic, ink, pigment and oil on canvas, 2007 

THE PRACTICE OF THE WILD is the eighth edition of Art @ The Consulate, a curatorial initiative by the Consulate General of Switzerland in New York to showcase the work of Swiss artists living in the United States. Follow Art @ The Consulate on Social media #SwissArtNYC

Neil Enggist, A Candle Burns at Night,  Acrylic and ink on canvas, 2008

[annoyingfirecoffee-blog]

Literacy Narrative

 I was born a perfectionist and grew up to be a realist the hard way. Clearly, when I threw baby food at my parents, it formed little perfect circles when it landed. However, life is far from perfect and reading and writing is no different, so I never made things very easy for myself. This meant that it would take longer for me to read a book than my peers, but I’d get far more out of it than any them did. As a writer, this made it incredibly difficult to write anything at all. Nothing I wrote seemed right to me and so I would often stare at a blank page for longer than I care to admit. Thankfully, I had a caring mother that would allow me to dictate my thoughts to her and she would put it on paper for me. It was far from a perfect system. Quite a few of the essays I wrote would magically change into the essay equivalent of the winning pinewood derby car clearly made by the boy’s father. However, even if it took me a few more years to achieve the same level of comfort in my writing abilities as everyone else, it helped me get through elementary school.

It wasn’t until my adolescence that a harmless desire for perfection evolved into OCD, making both my life and subsequently just about everything regarding literacy to become quite a bit more difficult to manage. I was diagnosed with a subcategory of OCD called moral scrupulosity, or in other words, I had a palpable feeling of guilt from my beliefs. Now, it should be noted that it is not uncommon for a person to obsess over their beliefs. However, it becomes scrupulous when their beliefs begin to hinder their basic living functions, as it did for me. It felt as though I had a short circuit in my brain connecting nearly anything and everything imaginable to this one fear I had. The fear of eternal damnation. Hell, I couldn’t write, type or even look at the first letter of this sentence for fear of being sent to that very word. Everything, especially tasks involving literacy became impossible for me, but thankfully it was my inability to complete the simplest tasks that drove my parents to seek better help. After having dealt with this conundrum for over a year, my parents (with my consent) sent me to the looney bin. Whom had me drugged up and sent out right as rain within a month. If this were a movie, I’d go on with my life, leaving those experiences behind as nothing more than memories, but that’s not how life usually works out. My father, whom I can thank for giving me a good sense of morality before it turned against me, would always recount the saying from Nietzsche, ”that which does not kill us makes us stronger,” but it just never felt like that was the case for me. I was able to read and write again without hindrance, but my once perky self, became hollow and jaded and my skills in literacy were getting worse, not better. The experience had left me with my wick burned to the bottom and the drug I was taking at the time didn’t help with that whatsoever. While I continued to ace mathematics, every other class involving an inkling of attention was lost on me and this was again quite the case for my English class.

By my senior year of high school, I finally bit the bullet and decided to get off my medication in order to pursue a degree as a transfer student. Within the next year all the symptoms I remembered started coming back. New fears and compulsions I didn’t know I had, brought themselves to the surface. Making any tasks that involved extended periods of concentration, mainly reading and writing, incredibly difficult. I had to push myself more than the majority of the class to produce the same amount of work because my mind was being constantly bombarded by thoughts and compulsions. For writing this new form of thinking with constantly intrusive spontaneous thoughts was incredibly beneficial towards my creativity as a writer but at the cost of time, once again, taking ages to get anything done. Aside from textbooks and articles, I quit reading altogether, because it felt like nothing more than an exercise in futility. I might only progress through 10 pages before I became mentally exhausted from the barrage of thoughts and compulsions that I felt I needed to commit too. It wasn’t until about a year ago that I started to read again. I started to read Alice in wonderland in January of last year and finished it somewhere around October. Whenever my little brother’s girlfriend (who was a teacher at the time and knew I was trying to get back into reading) would ask me what I’m reading. I would just tell her I’m reading the hungry hungry catapiller to keep her from realizing that I’ve been reading the same children’s book for 8 months.

By the end of last year, I had achieved something many with OCD never do, I had grown to accept the thoughts that plagued my mind, I know crazy right. So, I’ve been able to read at about 3 minutes per page but by the end of the hour I still feel like my brain ran a marathon. My writing skills still need a lot of work, but I can at least type it out at the rate that I think. All in all, I’m looking forward to the future of this Literacy Narrative and how I hope the ending of it may only get better and better as time goes on.

Update: Reading this essay 10 weeks later and seeing just how much I have improved in such little time has me quite a bit shocked. I chose to attend UC Davis because I wanted to improve myself in ways that engineering classes alone could not provide. It has taken a long time and there have been times when I felt like I couldn’t make achieve my goals but here I am. Reading, writing and speaking effectively in all the ways I had dreamed of. For reference, I have began to read at a pace somewhere between a minute to 2 minutes per page, depending on the book, and I can write a rough draft effectively at 500 words per hour.

[theonceoverthinker]

"Can You Deny Us the Triumph in Store?" (Rumbelle) (1/?)

Summary: The lifeblood of Belle’s very existence is the opera. Since her mother introduced it to her at five years old, she’s loved it with all her heart. Now, as a grown woman with dreams of writing the Paris Opera House’s next great success and a magnum opus nearing its completion, she’ll need to contend with obstacles almost more dramatic than the work of fiction she pens. Things take a turn when two men take an interest in her work, and suddenly, Belle finds herself on a journey of trust, forgiveness, and perhaps even love. 

AO3           Fanfiction.net

A/N: Hi! This is my first ever Rumbelle fic -- happy to be here with all you lovely folks!

I started this idea from the jumping off point of “Could a Rumbelle ‘Phantom of the Opera’ AU work in a scenario where Rumple was Raoul?” As a longtime Phantom of the Opera fan (All versions), I feel like over the years, I’ve grown to not only like, but really respect and admire the Christine/Raoul pairing and that’s something I wanted to play around with here. And what I came up with ended up feeling pretty true to Rumple and Belle’s characters as well as a fun mix of OUAT, Beauty and the Beast, and of course, The Phantom of the Opera, all alongside a different, more shorthand-based writing style that I’m really excited to try out here. I hope you feel the same way about it too!

Tagging @mrs-stiltskin! If you want to be tagged in future installments as well, please let me know!

()()()()()()()()()()

CHAPTER ONE: MELODIE DE PARIS

The year 1890 exists within an age of discoveries, an epoch that sheds light on all manners of beauty. From walks of human life across the world’s surface, possibilities of exactly what people can create with their hands, minds, and hearts are explored in a way they’ve never been before. And of all the lands that this age touches, few places capture the modern ideals of this time better than the city of lights. Paris is experiencing a renaissance of art, music, vibrancy, and knowledge, and the epitome of the city’s progress and lust for life and love is the Paris Opera House. What lays inside the doors of this majestic theatre is a bustling community in itself with all manner of singers, dancers, designers of every kind, stagehands, business people, and others who rush across halls, stages, and balconies as they go about living their lives. 

It is in this palace of music -- where the creative people of Paris come to make magic a reality -- a woman, underestimated in all that she does, but exceptional in what she brings life into spends her days.

Her name is Belle Ébréché.

Belle Ébréché, a woman of twenty-three years, is a dancer at the Paris Opera House. For hours upon hours every day, whether at the behest of an audience or not, she and ten other girls work their feet to the bone as they further strive to perfect their craft. However, her dream is not fulfilled -- not completely in any event. While talented on her feet, definitely enough to earn her keep in the ballet, her ambitions don’t lie with her toes to the floor of a stage. Instead, they reside with a quill that’s as much a part of her body as her lungs to a sheet of parchment...for you see, Belle wishes to write an opera.

Belle’s love of the opera began relatively early, though not through her eventual chosen avenue of expression itself at first. No, the seeds of her love of stories and storytelling were originally planted by her mother, Colette. Night after night starting from her first evening wails, Belle was sent off to the realm of dreams with passages from books that soothed and lulled her to sleep just as well as the very cradle that held her form. And as she grew, Belle’s love of books created an equal love for the imaginations of men and women and their many artistic achievements. Finally, when she was five, as if the heavens themselves arranged it to forever cement that love, Belle was introduced to something that would forever change her life -- The Opera.

While Belle had always loved stories, operas were stories taken to a new level. They were windows to lives she could never dream of that not only painted vivid visions in her mind of stories, characters, and lines, but allowed those visions to exist in a way even her imagination couldn’t accomplish. As Belle took in all the opera had to offer, she was entranced by the sets that took her to foreign lands, the sweeping tales of romance, history, and adventure, and the music that made her heart swell and unlock emotions never before known to her. By the time her first opera, “Béatrice et Bénédict” was through, Belle knew she wanted nothing more in life than to be a part of the experience that opened her world to new possibilities.

However, such happiness, as happiness tends to be, was too good to last. After two years of bi-annual trips to the opera, following the death of the very source of that happiness, they stopped. Collette’s passing left Belle crushed and while grief overtook most of her headspace, her determination to become part of the opera was still as present as ever. Now, it was her deepest wish -- no, more than that. Now, it was her destiny, one Belle knew her mother would want for her.

But Belle found herself quite alone in that mindset. 

As her convictions and desires for a life in the opera grew ever stronger, her father, Maurice’s patience for her passions only weakened. In truth, complications between Maurice and Belle weren’t uncommon even when Colette was still alive, but with a mother and a wife taken from them, a crucial part of their bond went with her.

And part of that waning bond was a disregard for Belle’s passion for the arts, which he deemed as ‘flights of fantasy.’ Maurice was never won over by operas to begin with, but grief turned his indifference into a means to mock his daughter. For years, that misery is how they went about their days, and while Maurice had fully succumbed to feelings of bitterness, Belle fought them off in the name of achieving her life’s purpose.

But even the strongest of resolves could grow weary under the constant duress of those without faith in them. Eventually, after years of enduring such constant belittling, Belle understood that her only hope for peace and a true chance at following her dream was to leave home. So, with only some scant essentials and a few mementos of her mother, Belle took off for where she knew her calling would be: The Paris Opera House. 

The night Belle arrived at the Opera House was cold and damp, the product of a miserable storm. With wet clothes and shoes that plopped against the charcoal-colored rain, she stepped towards the building. It was only than a feeling of unease set in Belle’s heart. Apart from a love of opera, she had no experience in performance -- just a few pages of ideas for operas. 

What would The Paris Opera House of all places want with her?

Had she made a mistake running from home?

Struck by fear, Belle drifted towards a curb by the eastern side of the building, huddling her shoulders close to her for the first time since the rain fell, but for reasons she knew had nothing to do with the trickling water. She sat down on the curb and looked ahead at the dream that was now so close to her, but quite possibly impossible to ask for.

As Belle started shaking in fear, a door opened, glowing Belle and the curb she sat on with a hue of oak. And from out of that door stepped a girl, no older than Belle, holding a bag of what looked to be garbage as she looked towards a disposal bin not far from where Belle sat. The girl wore a rose-colored dress and upon seeing Belle, concern overtook her features. 

She came over to Belle, and offered her hand, introducing herself as Ruby. With a gentleness Belle hadn’t truly felt since she last saw her mother, Ruby asked what she was doing in the rain. Upon hearing Belle’s story, Ruby took Belle’s shoulder into her hand and invited her inside The Opera House, saying that she would take care of her.

And take care of her is exactly what Ruby did. 

Ruby was a young dancer-in-training, and her grandmother Madame Lucas, a dance instructor. And she just happened to know of an opening that needed filling for another new dancer.

It was late at night when Belle met Madame Lucas. While originally grouchy at the prospect of a spontaneous visitor, Madame Lucas quickly came around upon seeing Belle’s fragile and wet form, welcoming her into the room where the ballet dancers slept. The following morning, after Belle had the chance to explain what brought her to the Paris Opera House, Madame Lucas invited her to train alongside Ruby and the other dancers. There, she would live, train, and work under her care. Madame Lucas warned Belle that it would be hard work, but it seemed that even her attempts to appear tough on Belle seemed to only be a facade, she seemed to immediately know that Belle would be up to the challenge. 

And Belle, to this day, makes her living at The Paris Opera House, practicing and performing alongside Ruby and some of Paris’ finest dancers, a population that now includes them. Belle and the others work Madame Lucas’ regimen as if it were second nature. And through years upon years spent perfecting her craft and furthering her studies, she’s grown far more experienced in the ways of The Opera House. She now knows what it’s like to work from dawn to dusk and retire for the evening with barely the ability to speak. She now knows what it’s like to repeat the same moves dozens upon dozens of times and still see Madame Lucas unsatisfied. She now knows what it’s like to wait in anticipation of the latest reviews of the newest operas, understanding that her very way of life could be on the line should things go sour.

But Belle still loves all things having to do with the opera. In fact, she loves it even more than she did when she first heard those opening orchestral notes all those years ago. 

Now though, her dream is more focused. She’s not about to give up her work in the ballet so soon, but Belle knows her destiny is to not dance in operas, but to pen them. 

She’s the only one who thinks so either. Ruby and Madame Lucas know she’s talented, too. Whether intentional or not, Belle’s made it rather easy for them to follow her work. They hear her comment on the stories and compositions of the operas they perform with the intelligence of Paris’ most talented writers. It’s impossible for either of them to not notice Belle stay up well past curfew most every night scribbling and tossing away pages of filled sheets of music and scripts, and ones that are already pretty good at that. The way Belle hums invisible notes only to excuse herself from dinner and rush to write them down in one of her notebooks is predictable to the point of mundanity. 

And she’s only getting better.

Lately, fewer and fewer pieces of paper are being thrown away. Complete lyrics and melodies are being muttered, hummed, and sung under Belle’s breath. Story threads are finally starting to come together and make sense. One night, Madame Lucas sneaks a peek at the notebook Belle’s been frequenting the most lately as an excited Ruby -- who may or may not have told her where it was -- waits just outside for details. 

Yes, Belle’s shaping up to be quite the talented composer -- a stand out creator of her era.

However, nothing’s that simple.

No matter the year nor all the undiscovered wonders of this world that entice those who yearn for them, the brilliant ideas of women are fought every step of the way for their day in the sun, if they’re even listened to at all. Belle’s works, unfortunately, are no exception. She’s regularly brushed off by the managers every time she requests that they so much as look at or listen to one of her songs.

But fuel is only added to the fires of Belle’s difficulties as she’s forced to not only compete for the management’s attention with the operatic composers of the past who haunt her like ghosts with their established renown, but with a modern composer who haunts her present. For all she knows -- nor cares -- he knows not of her existence, but she’s more than familiar of his. His operas have been performed four times in as many years. He oversees each and every one of them, combing over details and punishing anyone he finds to be subpar and vulnerable, like a hawk waiting to snatch up his prey. Those who toil to meet his almost impossible demands consider him a manager in his own right, one to be avoided and feared beyond either of the two actual yielders of the title. But for as utterly charmless as he is to all beneath him, nothing is done to hinder his merciless mission for perfection at any cost. This is because in addition to being the Opera House’s rising star, he’s also its most generous patron.

So despite Belle’s talents with a quill, through no fault of her own, this game of patriarchal superiority and wealth leaves her outmatched to the point of making her naught but an obscurity in the grander scope of the Opera House.

After all, just how can she compete with the likes of Bertrand, the Vicomte de Friper?

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Bertrand de Friper isn’t a people person. 

His personality is often deemed as “testy” at best, his appearance is rather unconventional, and his ancestry leaves a lot to be desired.

It’s a multi-layered problem.

That’s not to say that there exist no advantages to being him. After all, what does a Vicomte have if not money, and all the power, influence, and sometimes freedom that money can grant?

An Opera House isn’t an easy place to spend one’s days when they’re not a people person. However, when one’s chosen to dedicate their life to creating operas, where else could they go?

Composing operas does something for Bertrand that nothing else finds itself able to do -- it gives him something that’s all his own. It gives him something clean of his family’s influence — apart from the money used to finance it — and a chance at a legacy that might not be as tarnished as it would be without it. 

Opera speaks to Bertrand -- its blending of performances, sets, design, and musical numbers allows room for complexity. His works aim for that same complexity, as it’s a complexity he sees in himself, and because of that, he acts as if it’s a mirror of the very person he wishes he could be. And that inspires his every flick of the quill.

He’s more hands on than most other composers. Bertrand knows that to be true. In his own defense though, most other composers are no longer around to see their work come to life. 

So why should he waste his time as nothing more than a silent creator when he can do so much more to make them as majestic as he knows they could be? He’s written and paid for these operas and damnit, he’s going to make sure his vision sees the light of day in the exact way he wants it to! And if that means he’s gonna sit in on every rehearsal and talk the managers’ ears off and nitpick the lighting whenever he finds the slightest flaw, then he’ll do it with all the gusto of a late December’s snowstorm. And he’ll fire anyone who refuses to meet his demands without the backbone to tell him why they can’t be so.

But understandably, it also does no good for Bertrand because that work is the closest thing he’s got to any manner of a real social life, and that cruelty does little to better himself as something even resembling a people person. And his family is of little help in breeding any genetic social charisma, whether through genetics or renown. His parents are rather cutthroat and it’s given them a bit of a reputation that’s followed Bertrand socially. 

Things have never been easy with his family. They’re rich and have a status of nobility, but that status has come from means that were...less than admirable. There are rumors -- some true, some not -- of deals made under the table with much of the city’s criminal underbelly, raises in savings at their bank that line up just too closely with news of a robbery at a bank not two miles down the road, and price gouging at legal firms that the patriarch of the Friper family just happens to own. But money is money. Their titles were granted more out of obligation because of their wealth than any interest in making them part of high society, and it shows to this day. They’re often shunned, but never directly -- kind of in that indirect way that the upper class tend to do. They’ll always be invited to a party, but tables had a way of never having enough space for one of them and invites for other gathering to elude their grasps.

However, Bertrand’s parents liked to show that right back in the most passive aggressive and manipulative ways.

...And maybe he did too.

Okay, he definitely did.

And that’s why, for all his success in business and art, Bertrand de Friper is not a people person.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

The Paris Opera House is often bustling, but never has it been as bustling than the week following the managers’ abruptly announced retirement. 

What kind of long-standing managers only give a week’s notice before retiring?

Well, they’ve never been the greatest communicators -- that’s what Belle’s grasped at least over her tenure here -- and so now, thanks to their rash decision, the entire Opera House drops everything and scrambles to arrange some sort of send off for them. Madame Lucas has them up early every day practicing to put on a dance from one of their favorite operas. The breaks aren’t plentiful and by the end of the day, Belle has to find the strength to eat dinner before she falls asleep. Outside of their space, Belle can hear stringing and tuning of instruments most everywhere she goes and stagehands arguing with each other and gossiping about who's taking over. It’s all quite hectic. 

Everyone’s relieved when the change is finally made and the new managers take up their posts. Those not forced by their positions to socialize with the new management take off for desperately needed breaks and those unfortunate enough to need look like they’re in need of a nap as they push themselves towards their new bosses.

The new managers seem okay. Belle’s not overly optimistic that this management team will be any more receptive to her ideas than the old ones were, but she’ll take a gamble on that in due time. For now, though, it seems like everyone and their mother who holds a higher position than a dancer, a chorus girl, or a stagehand wants to talk to them, so Belle’s content waiting. 

As a matter of fact, Belle’s more than content waiting. In all the business of the past week, she’s had to neglect her opera. But now, there’s time to work on it, and Belle’s not about to waste even a second of her newly recovered free time.

Melodies swim through her mind like guppies in a school. Things have been coming together on one of her final uncompleted pieces so nicely. She almost can’t stand how proud she is of her own work.  

In her excitement, Belle allows a few bars to escape her lips and movements leave her feet as she casually makes her way back to her room.

But all the while as she lightly sings and moves through her trip, Belle, for the briefest of moments, finds herself unaware of the fact that she’s not the only member of her impromptu performance’s audience.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Bertrand’s not sure what to make of the new managers. They don’t seem too different than the old ones, but appearances are nothing but deceiving -- though if he’s to believe the opinions of most everyone he’s ever known, he’d likely believe that to be a lie.

He tries not to believe it himself.

Not one to give himself an air of brown nosing, Bertrand watches the new managers’ introductions from afar. While in truth, he’d wanted to wait a few days to further acquaint himself with his latest opera’s opening night on the horizon and nagging at him with the force of the sunlight on a hot summer’s day, Betrand knows he doesn’t have the luxury of delaying his introductions. So as soon as the company at large is dismissed for the day, Bertrand moves past stagehands, chorus girls, and ballet dancers alike as he sets out towards his new coworkers. At the very least, he wishes to find a later time when they can talk further, but he imagines that his status as The Opera House’s biggest patron will immediately garner himself the lion’s share of their attention. 

It’s by no means a fun way to spend an afternoon, but Bertrand focuses on how after today, he’ll be able to work to further perfect his opera once more.

And that is what’s going to get him through the day.

As Bertrand passes through the groups of gossiping men and women, something catches his ear -- something that makes him stop dead in his tracks. It’s a lone voice, within yet at the same time somehow distant from the crowd of dancers. Bertrand’s hearing is strong. It has to be for him to do his job as well as he does, but right now, the talent is being used to hone in on strings of notes and lyrics.

The melody he hears from that voice...Bertrand’s utterly captivated by it.

It’s exciting. 

It’s memorable.

But most of all, it’s different from everything he’s ever heard before.

Bertrand knows how rare compliments like that are. While he’s personally been no stranger to them, he’s well aware that so few composers in this age of discoveries have but only longed for words even close to them to be directed their way. 

And Bertrand himself -- by his own admission -- is a man of few compliments to spare on a good day. 

So for him to describe naught but a scant number of bars and lines in such a way, they are bars and lines that are truly something to behold.

He needs to know where the voice that produces such notes is yesterday.

Bertrand follows his ears like a leaf follows an autumn breeze’s path until he’s able to latch onto one woman. Her back is turned, but the fact that it’s her voice making such music is unmistakable by the way her feet move in time with her bursts of singing.

There’s no hesitation in Bertrand -- not an oddity, but also not a regularity by any means -- as he taps on the woman’s shoulder. She practically jumps in her spot, surprised, before turning around to face him.

If Bertrand is to describe his initial impression of the woman who stands before him during those first few seconds before they’ve exchanged a single word, it would be ‘soft.’ She seems surprised, but a residual happiness from her music is as clear as day on her face, creating a soft sense of contentment all around her. Soft dark brown curls cascade just below her soft shoulders deprived of nearly all manner of tension. A dress of a soft pink shade -- one that matches those worn by the other women of the ballet -- covers her form, giving her something of a heavenly air about her. Even as her sky-shaded eyes turn curious and almost dark whilst she takes him in, there’s still an unexplained softness to them.

And just like that, before he’s even talked to this woman, Bertrand de Friper’s absolutely smitten with her.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

If there’s anything that can absolutely ruin Belle’s day, it’s a reminder that Bertrand de Friper exists.

That said, seeing him appear before her, smiling of all things...is strange. 

Belle’s been lucky to have never had direct contact with him thus far in her opera career. Most of his critiques towards the ballet have been made through Madame Lucas. Belle, Ruby, and the rest of the ballet have seen many a heated debate between them over choreography, schedules, and positions. Yes, Madame Lucas may answer to him on some level, but he does not by any means control her and she’s not at all afraid to stand up for herself. Belle admires that.

Bertrand de Friper, however, is someone that she does not admire.

“Can I help you, Monsieur le Vicomte?” she asks, her tone perfectly even as to not show fear, but also to keep any sass on her end at bay. 

Scenarios play in her mind over what brings his attention to her of all people. Was her dancing off during the old manager’s send off performance? Is there an issue with her costume?

There’s an interesting glint in Bertrand’s eyes. He looks almost bewildered by her.

Belle can only hazard a guess at what that could possibly mean.

But if she’s honest, she’s beyond curious to find out.

“That music -- what you were singing and humming to -- what was that from?”

Out of all the questions Belle expects him to ask, that’s just about the last one on this Earth that she can think of.

She’s speechless. There have been times, she’ll admit, where she’s fantasized about what it would be like to be approached about her opera. Usually, they involve the managers, sometimes, it’s a singer, and rarely, it’s a director of another Opera House who then takes her to a far off exotic land where she can spend the rest of the days writing masterpieces with all the creative control she could ever ask for.

Never though have a single one of those fantasies involved Bertrand.

...Well, apart from a bit of gloating at him whilst reveling in her success, that is.

Despite preparing speeches and pitches in her mind right before she’s gone to sleep every night since she was twelve, she’s not sure how to answer now that a similar inquiry’s been thrown at her feet by the very last person she would expect it to come from.

It’s mostly a fear of a response, she reasons. Apart from the family she’s made with the Lucas’, most everyone involved in her life has mocked her dream in some way, shape, or form. She has a hard skin for it these days, but laughter still hurts and with the new managers having just started, it could be detrimental to her hopes of her work ever being heard out. 

But Bertrand has asked her a question and he’s just persnickety enough to bother her to the point of insanity if she lies or tries to dodge it.

Belle takes a sigh and speaks.

“I wrote it,” she says carefully. “It’s part of an opera I’m writing.”

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

An opera. 

This woman, a woman whose name he hasn’t even learned, is writing an opera.

It’s as if God above hasn’t already given Bertrand enough of a reason to fall for her.

She truly is a woman after his own heart.

And dammit, she’s succeeding in the endeavor. 

Bertrand feels himself smile. It’s been a while since he’s done that for a reason outside of his own success in quite some time. His face crinkles to reflect his bewilderment.

He’s simply amazed.

She’s written an opera, and by those bits of music he’s been blessed enough to hear, it’s one that may very well have no rival.

“I can’t believe it.” An innocent laughter bubbles under his throat. “Th-” 

The words he’s about to say die on his lips.

Her expression has changed from skeptical to enraged in a single heartbeat.

Crap. 

Bertrand’s never been the most straightforward man when it comes to communicating his approval of others and their works -- a rarity in its own right. 

And unfortunately, the meaning behind his words has been once more betrayed as a result of that.

He rushes to elaborate on his intentions, but he’s not offered the chance.

“Excuse me!” the woman interrupts, a fire in her speech that matches the flames that burn behind her ice-colored eyes as she all but shouts her protest. “How DARE you imply that it’s somehow unbelievable for me to write an opera?” A finger points directly in the direction of Bertrand’s nose, unwavering and menacing. 

Fear isn’t an emotion unfamiliar to Bertrand. He’s afraid of many a thing, but never would he have imagined that a pointed finger of all things would halt a mouth he’s seldom ever bereft of a voice when one has been wanted.

While Bertrand wants nothing more than to stop this rant before it can continue, the words refuse to come out.

And unfortunately for him, the woman’s words are more than happy to compensate for his silence.

“I’ll have you know that I’ve been studying opera since I was five years old! I’ve worked here for over ten years, read dozens of operatic pieces ranging from Shakespearean adaptations to “Ghiselle,” talked with most every person in this Opera House at length about their jobs -- probably to the point where I could do any of them upon request -- and personally tested out every bit of my opera too many times to count.”

“Bu-”

Bertrand’s cut off before more than even one more syllable can escape him, only stopping out of fear that his intrusion will only make things worse. 

“I am MORE than qualified to write an opera and I won’t have yet ANOTHER aristocratic man whose likely worked HALF as hard as me for double the accolades telling me that I can’t out of some chauvinistic mindset! So instead of believing those ideals of the past, start believing that I’ll be the one selling out this theatre instead of you soon enough. I promise you, I won’t be the only person happy to see you overthrown.”

The woman then turns away and starts walking in the opposite direction for him.

Bertrand follows her, keeping at somewhat of a distance to prevent bringing her fury to a head once more.

“Please, wait!” he half cries, though only to prevent a scene. “I didn’t mean it that way. I-I’m sorry! Your work’s good -- better than good, great!”

She doesn’t seem to spare him a thought as she retreats back to the ballet’s quarters. Bertrand stops as she goes beyond where he could respectfully follow. 

In an Opera House full of people -- even those that don’t particularly like him -- never has Bertrand felt so alone.

But right before she escapes his vision, Bertrand sees her hesitate. She almost looks like she’s about to turn back, like she’s accepted his apology and corrections as truth, but she seems to decide against it, walking through and closing the door closest to her.

Bertrand��s about to throw respect to the wind and go after her when suddenly, he hears a scream. It’s blood curdling and sounds like it’s coming from the stage.

Though somewhat reluctant due to the woman now running through his thoughts like a wolf in a forest, Bertrand does go to the stage to investigate. A girl who Bertrand can tell by her costume is part of the chorus lays on the floor. Her foot is crushed underneath and mangled by a sandbag that’s at least twenty-five pounds in weight. According to her cries as two stagehands attempt to remove the obtrusive menace, she heard a snap upon the sandbag’s contact with her foot. The cries are given evidence by an unnatural appearance her ankle presents as it once more meets the lights of the stage. Whispers emerge with the ankle, and there’s an all-to present fear amongst those who’ve responded to her wails that she may never walk wholly again.

A rope suddenly falls from atop the rafters, clearly one that once held up the sandbag. Most present on the stage not helping the chorus girl look up to the apparent scene of the crime for some semblance of a clue as to what happened. There’s no one above there, but light specks of dust fall like snow.

While the ‘why’ of the matter remains unsolved, the ‘who’ is as clear as day, for this is not a crime that’s new to The Paris Opera House.

Over the past few months, things like this have had a tendency to occur. Sandbags untouched for years as evidenced by the dust they’ve accumulated have been falling around and now on unsuspecting workers. Costumes have been mangled with scissors practically starving for fabric. Grand set pieces have been made hazards by artificially faulty support beams.

And just as with any dangerous oddity, they find themselves the subject of rumors, and The Paris Opera House has taken all of these incidents and made a demon of their own. 

This latest of crimes is the work of the culprit that those in The Paris Opera House have dubbed as “The Phantom of the Opera.”